THE TAKING OF ALEX GUNDERSON

by

Jack Jeffries

Logan Turner didn't know the name of the man he'd been tracking for four days, but he knew a lot about him. He had robbed the Union Pacific train payroll in Santa Fe of almost $100,000. He was a big man; that was evident from the size horse he rode, and the depth of the tracks he left. He was cautious; three times now, Logan had cut sign of him doubling back on himself. He was shrewd; he avoided open ground, and preferred hard, rocky terrain to soft, easier riding. Whoever he was, he was one of the best Logan had seen, and he'd seen plenty.

Logan was one of the best trackers alive. It was said he could trail a rattlesnake across five miles of flat rock. He had rode scout for the Union Army in Arizona, and, after the war, had been hired by the Union Pacific Railroad as a troubleshooter.

He'd been in Santa Fe when the robbery took place, and had been assigned to track down the robber. He set out to track down a run-of-the-mill outlaw, and soon discovered he'd come up short. The man was obviously no idiot, and Logan began to feel a certain admiration for the man. True, he'd robbed the train of payroll, but somehow, he didn't seem bent on getting away. It was more a game of hide-and-seek. And Logan was "it".

He stopped to give his horse a breather, and watered him from his hat. He thought about water, then. He'd have to find some soon, or be forced to turn back to Santa Fe. He had enough for another day on the trail, and some for coffee, and that was it. He took stock of his location. On the north was miles of bad country. To the east were the Sangre De Christo mountains. Far to the west, he knew, was the Continental Divide. Santa Fe was south. There was water at Jemez Springs, but that was a day's ride away.

He remounted, and followed the dim trail to the Northeast, toward Taos. Suddenly, the trail faded out. Just stopped. Logan looked toward the West, and realized he had less than an hour of light left. Ahead of him, he spotted a small cutback, with a copse of green grass. It was unapproachable from three sides, with a good field of fire covering the only approach.

He thought of making a dry camp, but he reconsidered. He knew that the man he was after had made dry camp for four days, with no coffee, and little food. Maybe a fire would draw him out. He made a fire with mesquite branches and dry wood from a stand of dead trees. He made coffee, and cleaned his guns. He picketed his horse not far from him, in a stand of grass, and made his bed. Then, he drank coffee, and waited.

A coyote howled into the night, and another answered from far away. A night owl hooted from his nest in a cactus not far away. The night sounds continued to build as the desert came alive, as it always did at night. Somewhere, a small creature, probably a mouse, scurried from cover to cover. Crickets chirped a song known only to them. What breeze there was quieted down, and the night became cooler, as heat was rapidly lost from the desert. Logan heard the familiar breathing of his fire, as it ate the stick$ it was built with. He rose, and added fuel, watching the hungry flames lick at the dry wood, then settle into a comfortable burn. Then, it all stopped. The night was quiet--too quiet.

Logan felt him out there. Almost smelled him. But he couldn't see him. He sat far back from the fire, to allow his eyes to see into the dark. Logan then turned his head slightly, to allow the corners of his eyes to see. He knew that slight movements were caught easier on the periphery of vision than looking straight ahead. The quiet, so often comforting and relaxing, was now threatening and malignant.

Then, a slight movement. Like wind in a tree. No more than a shadow moving. But he saw it. He reached slowly down, and slipped the thong from the hammer of his Colt, and checked the draw. The night spoke to him, like the voice of doom.

"You're good, boy. I'd hate to have to kill you. Just leave your Colt right where it is."

Never one to push an advantage, Logan sat still, and obeyed the voice. He didn't like someone having the drop on him. Yet, Logan thought he heard something in the voice he trusted.

"You've been making dry camp for four days. You must be almighty hungry. Walk on in."

"I've 'et, boy, but I could sure go for some of that coffee".

"Come on in, then", said Logan beginning to relax a little, and tossing a cup gently across the fire. The shadow became substance as the reflected light from the fire began to illuminate the figure. The sight that met his eyes when the man stepped fully into the firelight was a shock. He was at least sixty years old, maybe older, with a kindly face, lined with wisdom. His hair was gray, and a little long for that age man. He wore buckskins, and moccasins of Apache design. He also carried a bow and a quiver of arrows, two knives in scabbards, and a Sharps .50 across his arm.

By the way he moved, Logan guessed he could be very fast when he had to be, and yet he wasted no movement. He approached the fire, and got the cup from the ground. Carefully, he lifted the hot pot, and poured a cup of coffee, never lowering the Sharps. He stood across the fire from Logan, and watched him carefully. Finally, he said, "I'd like to put this rifle down, and set a spell."

"Sit down, old-timer. You've got nothing to fear from me."

"You're tracking the person who robbed the train payroll ain't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well that's me. Alex Gunderson."

"You? Mister, I've tracked everything from renegade Apaches to wounded mountain lions, and you beat anything I ever saw. What are you doing robbing payrolls? You should be bouncing grandkids on your knee, and telling stories of wars and victories."

"I've got no sons or daughters."

"Too bad," said Logan, "a man should have a son, to pass on what he's learned. You could teach a son much. Like wrapping a horse's hooves in rawhide to disguise a trail."

"Caught that, did you?" questioned the old man.

"Yes, but not everyone would. My grandfather taught me that trick."

"He must have been a mountain man."

"He was a Shoshoni peace chief, called Medicine Pipe."

"Medicine Pipe? Why, I knew him when I was a pup! Wintered with him once up on Snake River. A good man, boy."

"I always thought so," said Logan. And then, "Would you like to tell me why you robbed that payroll?"

"It probably wouldn't make much sense to you."

"I'm listening," said Logan, "tell me the story."

"All right, boy," he said, sitting down on the hard ground, with the Sharps .50 across his knees. He took out the makings, an began to build a smoke, wrapping the paper with practiced ease. Reaching nearly into the flames, he picked out a burning stick, and lit it, returning the stick to the fire before continuing.

"I came into this country in '39. Living was good. The Indians knew how to live with the land, and I learned from them. Nobody fought like they do now. Oh, some tribe was always trying to take over another, but, usually, people got along. There were buffalo enough for everyone to go around. Then, more white people started coming in, and talking about railroads. They sold the Indian a bill of goods.

"They told them lies about how the railroad would improve their life. They brought it through, and started messing up the prairies and the mountains. Then they started bringing hunting parties of rich white men to kill buffalo by the thousands just for the tongue. They left the carcasses to rot on the plains.

Before long, there weren't enough buffalo to spit at."

The old man tossed his cigarette in the fire, and drew a long breath. His eyes looked wistful. Logan felt a sense of kinship with him. He'd heard his grandfather talk of big hunts, and buffalo so numerous, the plains were black with them. He had told Logan of once in his youth, when a herd of buffalo stampeded across the plains. The herd was so large, it took seven hours for the herd to pass, and it stretched as far as the eye could see. Now, buffalo were rare. The West was poorer for their passing. Alex Gunderson was a good man. Logan knew this, and yet...

"You know, boy--by the way, what's your name, Son?", asked the old man.

"Turner, Sir. Logan Turner."

"Logan," the old man began, "did you ever see an entire Indian village die from eating rotten buffalo meat, because the carcass was left to the buzzards, and its all they could find? I have, and it ain't pretty. I wanted to hurt the railroads. I wanted them to suffer for what they did to the Indian--and to me, and people like me. I wanted to get back at them. And I did. I've watched those damned trains run back and forth, with rich people riding from one pile of money to another. I finally took all I could take. Yeah, I took their money, but for good reason. At least I thought it was good enough. I'm gonna use the money to feed some hungry people."

Logan Turner sat and listened, and thought. The old man was telling the truth, he knew. Railroads were notorious law-users. They used the courts to get what they wanted, and to remove obstacles they couldn't kill or scare off. They bought more sheriffs and judges than any eastern politician could afford to. He poured the old man another cup of coffee, and started some more. The old man asked, "You planning on taking me in, boy?"

"Well that's what they're paying me for."

"And if you don't?"

"They'll find another job for me to do."

"Think you can take me?"

"I wouldn't want to try, sir."

"I can tell you right now, you'd have to kill me, and this desert is full of the bones of men who tried. Oh, I can be killed, I'm just tougher than most."

"The only way I can settle this thing is to take you in, or bury you, Mr. Gunderson. They won't buy anything else. They

want their money back."

"I appreciate your position, boy," Gunderson said, "but I've got a lot going for me. You see, you don't know where my horse is, and even if you found him, the money's not in the saddle bags. So, either way, you don't get the money back. Even if you killed me, and took me in tied to your saddle, you'd have no money. You see, Son, I've got nothing to lose by living or dying. Either way I win, and the railroad loses. You don't live to be my age and be stupid, boy."

Logan considered that, ile sipping coffee, and when he looked up, Gunderson had disappeared into the night, leaving only the empty cup on his side of the fire as proof of his passing. Slowly, the night sounds resumed, and Logan settled down to a fitful sleep, listening to the horse contentedly cropping grass.

While it was still dark, Logan Turner packed his outfit, and turned his horse south, toward Santa Fe. The morning was cooler than most, and the day would be a good one for traveling. The owls retreated into their nests, the coyotes found a place out of the heat, and the mice slept again until the night fell.

When the sun rose over the Sangre De Christo mountains to the east, its first rays fell on the ashes of the campfire of the night before. A little farther away, a cairn of carefully placed stones rose above the desert floor. A crude cross was placed upon the pile, and the name 'GUNDERSON' was burned into an old piece of wood with a cinch ring. A dust devil, stirred by the morning breeze, danced atop the grave before dying out.

To the west, the sun gleamed for a split second on the barrel of a Sharps .50, as its owner rode slowly over a rise toward the Divide.