this is part 2 of the story. though i abandoned it 16 years ago it was for me an exercise in researching actual places and events to interject into an otherwise fictional account. I never got around to writing part 3 or beyond
Part II
The Westward Wanderer
There was a great commotion in the streets of the Cherry Creek settlement of Denver that sunny afternoon in the summer of eighteen-sixty-four. Men were gathered outside one of the four gambling houses shouting agreement as someone argued the elimination of the Arapaho and Southern Cheyenne Indians that were said to be, “…. murdering and scalping men, women, and innocent children, along the trail from Big Bend to Plum Creek.” They took little notice of the stranger that rode slowly into town. If they were to ask, he would have told them that he had been wandering those same hills and trails for months and had seen little evidence of Indians, or anyone else for that matter.
The bearded, hollow-eyed wanderer made his way past the mob, down California Street with its fine two-story frame houses, and stopped in front of St. Mary's Church. Brushing the dust from his shabby clothes, he entered the windowless and unfinished structure, lit a candle, and knelt in silent prayer.
While Father Machebeuf went about his daily duties, he watched the man. There seemed no difference between him and the hundreds of other would-be millionaires the French priest had seen passing through Denver before. They came to the church to pray for luck in the gold fields, or for a handout. As night began to fall and the man still had not risen from his prayer, Father Machebeuf went up to him, as was his way, and asked if he could be of some help.
“There can be no help for me,” the man said in a whisper, “ For I have killed my beloved Martha, with my greed and foolish dreams.” Ezekiel then collapsed from exhaustion and lack of food.
Ezekiel spent the next few weeks helping Father Machebeuf around the church in return for board and a place to sleep. One of Father Machebeuf's pet projects was St. Mary's Academy. He had purchased the home, a block from the Church, from a prominent businessman. Three sisters from Santa Fe had agreed to come to Denver to teach in the school. Ezekiel helped ready the building for the sisters’ arrival. It was while working on the house that Ezekiel decided he owed it to Martha’s memory to continue on with his journey and “.. to make a name for himself in this vast new frontier,” as he told the other workers.
By August, the school was ready to open and Ezekiel was ready to move on. Father Machebeuf urged him to wait till spring because of the early snows that had already made many of the known mountain trails impassable.
“I reckon if the good Lord has a plan for me, he’ll find me a way through those mountains, or take me to my Martha which ever he seems fittin’ to do,” Ezekiel said, tying his bed roll to the back of his saddle.
“If you’re sure this is what you want to do, my son, then I want you to have these,” Father Machebeuf said, handing Ezekiel a rosary and an old six-shot colt revolver with holster that someone had left in the collection plate. “May each protect you on your long journey,” he added.
“Thank you, Father,” Ezekiel said, putting the rosary in his pocket, and strapping the gun-belt to his waist. He then mounted his horse and set off down the road out of town.
“I will offer a special prayer for you at mass on Sunday,” Father Machebeuf called out to him. He then made the sign of the cross and offered a blessing for safe travel.
Ezekiel headed southwest along old mining trails and Indian routes, avoiding higher elevations where he could see snow had already fallen. As he traveled, he was also careful to avoid areas that showed signs of native hunting or war parties, where an unexpected visit could lead to sudden and sure death. The farther he traveled into the mountains, the easier it became to avoid human contact, for soon he reached a point where not even the trees dared to go.
A frigid wind blew continuously in his face as he began to realize just how foolhardy he was to think he would ever find a pass through the mountains. He camped that night between two eruptions of rock, making a small fire with twigs and sticks he gathered from the trail below.
Sheltering himself and his horse as best he could, he clenched the rosary Father Machebeuf had given him, and slept huddled by the fire. That night, he dreamt he heard Martha calling. He followed her voice to a large rocky bluff. Looking down, he saw a trail that followed a stream as it grew into a river leading to a green valley below.
Ezekiel woke with a shiver. A heavy blanket of snow had fallen overnight covering the mountainside and probably saving his life. Alive, but wet, cold, and hungry, Ezekiel looked over the frozen mountainside, wondering what to do next. He was about to give up and try to make it back to Denver when he saw a rocky bluff in the distance.
Ezekiel descended the mountainside along a strangely familiar stream which eventually turned into a river leading to a lush green valley. “Here’s where I’ll make my home,” Ezekiel said to the trees, and that’s what he did. He built a small cabin along the riverbank, partly cut into the side of a hill. There was plenty of fish and game to see him through the winter. He figured when the spring thaw came, he could look for a settlement, or some friendly Indians with whom to trade furs and dried meats for whatever supplies he would need.
One day, while washing his clothes in the still water of a nearby mountain stream, he spotted a small shiny stone near the bank. Ezekiel took the small stone in his hand, bringing it to his lips. “Gold,” he said, biting down on the nugget, then holding it up to the light. “GOLD!”
This truly is an interesting tale, and I would encourage you to continue to write it. I also would encourage you to team up with someone with a good knowledge of Western history so that you do not veer far from the truth of the matter like a 1950s singing cowboy picture.
You would need to describe in more detail how, in the face of winter in Colorado, Ezekiel could build a log cabin. Perhaps he was able to, struggling with cold and snow, to build a small shelter (more like a doghouse) into the side of a hill or small cave. Log cabins were difficult to build if you only had an ax and took months to build if you had a saw. There are no green valleys in Colorado in the wintertime.
Renowned Arizona lawman Jacob Golden is having terrible nightmares. He dreams he’s locked in a battle to the death with a demon from hell that consumes human flesh.
Golden’s a man who fears little, yet this haunting vision terrifies him to
Story inspired by life of the author's great grandfather, a Black Cowboy who kidnapped his Native American bride after a cattle drive from Waco, TX to Dodge City, KS. Their story, him a master horseman and her a trained to be a healer with herbs and
