The Oregon Gun

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© 2009 Lee Franks. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 4/24/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4343-2826-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-6174-4 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

About The Author

To Clyde Jones and Tim Linscott:

Hard Men of Hard Times

Author’s note

The towns and trails I write about are still out there, and I have ridden most of them.

Even though today blacktop may cover the earth where the large wagons once rolled over the land; and the towns have long since gone, they still exist. The readers of western novels, they are the frontiersmen of the West today. My hat is off to them, for they are the ones that keep the west alive, in their hearts and in their minds. For this the writers owe a great thanks.

Lee Franks

For a man to carry a gun out west meant that he was neither a coward nor a brave man, it was a tool as was his saddle. But for Brad Donavan, the gun had become a necessity to stay alive.

Chapter 1

I sat uneasily on the seat of the wagon as it rolled along, always looking and noticing everything around us.

Bob Wilks handled the reins like an old mule skinner. He had taken me in after Pa died. He was a hard man, but I knew that inside of his skinny hard as nails body there was a heart lurking somewhere. Looking over at me, Bob spoke up.

Christ…Donavan, relax! You ride like a man expecting trouble all the time.

Well for that part, he was right. Ever since Pa died, I had been harassed just because I had been orphaned when I was young. It hadn’t bothered me that much the names that the people around here called me or the fights that they provoked. In my mind, it was just being alone. That’s the kind of loneliness that tears at you from the inside.

There had been a few people that had shown me any kindness at all. But Bob Wilks not only showed kindness the day he took me in and gave me a job at the livery stable, he said Brad, if you’ve a mind to, you can set yourself a bunk in the back of the barn there. Make it your home for as long as you care to. If not, I’ll understand.

We were headed back from town with a few supplies. Wilks’ stable was located on the trail, a good mile east of Woodville. The horses just nodded their heads as if they could make this trip in their sleep. The wagon creaked and groaned as it rolled over the rough ground. I still found it odd the way those large Madrone trees scattered along the bank of the river, would shed their bark each year.

As I sat there nodding my head back and forth with the roll of the wagon in the warming rays of the sun, my mind started to wander back to Pa and the farm. Looking at Wilks, I asked him: How did you come to know my pa?

"Well, Brad…I had forged an iron gate for Ben Chapman, the gentleman that your pa worked for who owned the mien in Jacksonville. It had taken me most of the day to hang the gate, and knowing that Roberto could manage the stable; I decided to spend the night at one of the hotels in town.

"After having a couple of drinks and listening to the gossip of a few discontented miners, I headed out the door and up the street toward the hotel. That was when the trouble started.

"Those three miners came stumbling down the boardwalk toward me. They had already drank their share and were now headed for the saloon. I had just left. Not wanting any trouble, for I knew how miners were when letting off steam, I decided to move out of the way and let ‘em pass by. It was plain as the nose on your face, they would find trouble soon enough.

"I stepped to one side, as far as the boardwalk allowed, just as the miner closest to me swung his left, trying to knock my hat off.

Dodging his extended fist, I grabbed it with my right hand. Not wanting to push it any farther. I said: It looks like you boys are having a good time tonight!"

The miner pulled his hand away. With anger in his eyes, spinning around on his heels and thrusting his face so close I could smell the whiskey on his breath. We ain’t had no where near as much fun as we’re gonna have right now and were even gonna let you take part in it too, he said. You old codger".

"I knew right then and there that I didn’t want any part of their fun. But it was too late, for the other two had crowded in on me.

"All three were pretty good sized fellers and now as not the time to show any sign of weakness. By now, the hackles were up on my back.

"Seeing no way out, I lunged forward. My fist slammed into the jaw of the man in front of me. As he rocked back on his heels, I turned, slamming my left into the nose of the one on my right. The fist that ht the back of my head felt like a sack of rocks, sending me down on one knee. Feeling myself being picked up, another fist slammed into the side of my head, then they threw me off the boardwalk into the dirt.

"Gathering myself up as best as I could, I prepared for the slaughter. Figuring on losing, I was going to give it my all.

"Before they could cover the distance to where they had thrown me off into the street, a figure appeared. And hit the miner on my right so hard, his feet cleared the ground. Then he went to work on the second man. As I shook my head trying to clear it; the man I had smashed in the mouth rushed me, throwing a wide swinging left. Blocking it, I have a good punch straight to his chest. As he gasped for air, his mouth flew open and I delivered a right to that ugly jaw. He just sort of bobbed a little, then fell.

"I swung around expecting more trouble. Instead there stood your pa, Mike Donavan, smiling and asking me if I was all right.

"Dusting myself off, I took a closer look at this man who had saved me from getting my head busted.

"He was about six feet tall, with wide shoulders and blond curly hair. As I shook his hand and thanked him for his help, I could feel the strength that had been gathered through years of hard work.

I was just on my way to have a drink before heading on home. Right now, if you’re through having fun, it looks to me like you could use a drink yourself, he said, smiling.

Spitting the blood from my mouth, I told him ‘A drink sounds like a damn good idea.’.

Setting there on that wagon seat while Wilks related his story of how he met Pa, it was easy for me to visualize Pa stepping in when those miners figured on thrashing Wilks.

Mike Donavan was never one to walk away when some poor soul was in trouble.

It was the sudden jar of the wagon as one of its wheels rolled over a large rock and slammed back to the ground that brought me back to what Wilks was saying.

I liked your pa, Brad, he was good people. The kind of man you could trust.

Chapter 2

Pulling the wagon into the stable, there was Roberto to help unload. After doing chores that had to be done, I washed up and headed for the house for supper.

Wilk’s had built a house behind the barn. It was small but comfortable. He had built on a room to the side of the house and this was where Roberto lived.

Roberto was entering the kitchen door as I stepped up to the porch. In his broken English, he commented: Looks like we’re gonna have a good rain tonight, Brad.

Entering the kitchen, we seated ourselves at the table. As we ate, Wilks leaned back to the stove grabbing the pot of coffee and filled our cups. He looked over at me while setting the pot back on the stove.

Brad, your pa believed as I do. People are vain in what they believe to be important. And to hold a place among them, in the towns that they have built, you’ve got to earn it. You don’t buy it with money and you can’t scare it into them with a fast gun. You got to earn their respect to get it.

I heard the words he was saying. But being young as I was, and having all the people of this town look down on me as they did, I figured respect was one thing I would never have. Wilks was respected by most of the men in town and he wasn’t rich, not by no means. I had heard talk from time to time, from different men in town, about how old Wilks, was not a man to be crowded.

I never questioned him about the rumors. I just went about doing chores he would layout at the start of each day. In the afternoon, when all of my work was done and after cleaning up, I would retrieve the old forty-four cap and ball revolver that I had built from parts acquired from here and there.

Standing out behind the barn, I practiced with it until my thumb was sore from pulling the hammer. As I stood there rubbing my thumb, Wilks commented as he was walking by on his way to the house. Fast ain’t important, Brad. It’s the first shot that counts. If it don’t go where you want it, the second one ain’t going to help you at all.

Never knowing when to keep my mouth shut, I would mention those fast guns that I had read about in dime novels that I had managed to lay my hands on. Looking at me, he would just shake his head.

Remember, Brad, fast gets ya dead in a hurry.

It didn’t take me long to figure it out. Every time I would mention fast guns, Wilks always had another job for me to do. It would be shoveling horse shit or stacking feed sacks. Well I’ll say one thing for old Bob, some of the work he would figure out for me to do took my mind off of being fast with a gun. For it’s just God awful to sweat and think at the same time.

There were only two things I cared about at that time, one of them being that old Appy gelding Bob kept in the corral out back of the barn. He looked mighty sour, with his Roman nose and raw boned body. He looked like a devil horse, Roberto said, when he rolled those white eyes of his.

Both of them had watched me work with that horse. It had taken weeks before he would take oats from me. The scars on my hand showed just how independent that Appy was and how determined I was to gentle him down. I liked that horse because he was a longer, depending on this inner strength. The kind I believed I had.

The only other thing I wanted was to see what lay outside this valley.

The stories told me by rawhiders and the occasional drifting cow had filled my head with thoughts of cattle drives and camp fires. The miners had their own stories too, of the wild mining camps and boom towns. It seemed as if they were in a world of their own.

Bob Wilks was a teacher to me. Oh, not of book learning, but of cattle and horseflesh. Being a black smith is not just a matter of strength. You got to know iron and how it reacts in the forge. You also have to be a fair carpenter with dimensions pertaining to the size and the camber of a wagon wheel, as well as the tongue and wagon box itself. And above all, you learn to be smart and stay alert when it comes to bartering for anything.

Chapter 3

It was dark when I returned to the stable. The large white thunderheads to the west of the mountains that I had watched most of the day had now moved in with the coming of the night as the rain started to fall.

I had left long before sunup. It had taken all of this day for me to deliver those two Morgan draft horses to Richard Blysdale in the Applegate Valley that had been shod for him.

Sensing that we were close to the stable, lucky picked up the pace, figuring he was as anxious to get home as I was and out of this rain. As we approached the stable, I reined Lucky to the corral. Here in the corner, I had put up a shed roof attached to the barn. This gave Lucky a place with cover during bad weather.

Dismounting and stripping the saddle off of him, he shook from head to tail as if to let me know he was relieved to be through for the day. As I slung the saddle over my shoulder I headed for the barn, figuring to throw that old Appy some hay.

I opened the door and stepped inside. My hand hadn’t even let go of the door when I felt a crash to the side of my head. The only thing I remember was my face hitting the dirt floor.

I lay there for what seemed like forever before gaining some of my senses back. As I tried to stand, the pain my head seemed to worsen. I began to feel sick to my stomach.

As I stood there trying to steady myself, my legs felt like wet rope. A faint rustling noise in back of me brought me to turn around so fast that I fell flat on my back like a sack of potatoes.

When my eyes started focusing again, the face starin’ down at me was Roberto. Every time he would get mad or excited, he would rattle on in Spanish. He had taught me a great deal of the language.

It took a while for the words he was saying to soak through the pain that was pounding in my head. He was telling me to lay still and not to move. And right then, that was the only thought that was crossing my mind.

I have to get you out of here before they come back, he said.

Get me out of here, why? And before who comes back?

Before I could ask anymore questions, he was gone. When he returned, he was leading the Appy and the old mule that he rode most of the time. Helping me into the saddle, I grabbed hold of that horn with both hands. Even that movement made the pain in my head worsen.

Mounting the mule while still holding the reins of the Appy, Roberto led the way out of the barn. As soon as we cleared the barn door, he was reining his mule around through the corrals. We headed towards the mountains that lay just north of the stable. I rode quietly in the saddle for the first couple of miles.

As the trail started winding up the mountainside through the dense trees and underbrush that covered both sides of the trail, I asked Roberto: What in the hell is going on?

Twisting his body a good half turn in the saddle, he began to unravel the story. At the time, it sounded as though he was reading it from another one of those dime novels I had read.

He went on to say how Wilks had ridden the wild side through Texas and the Utah territory some years back. Roberto , being somewhat outside the law himself, had made a wrong move and got himself trapped by six Shoshoni over at Pilots peak in Utah.

They had me staked out spread-eagle like. Well! Just as they were about to put the blade to me, Bob showed up. He rode that black horse of his right through them. He wasn’t no more than ten steps away from them Shoshoni when he let loose. Two of them just kicked dirt and fell with the first two shots. Turning the Black’s head around, he swung that six-shooter of his, leveling it on the brave that was standing over me with knife in hand. He had plans on cutting my throat before turning his attention to the rider. Bob fired two shots. Both slugs hit that brave in the chest. Before he could hit the ground, those other three Indians scrambled to their ponies and left nothing but dust in the air.

After cutting me loose we made tracks out of there, thinking that those Indians that lit out just might return with some reinforcement."

Throwing a glance back to the trail, he continued, ‘I just sort of drifted with Bob after that."

Nobody asked a man about his past in those days, you either trusted a man or you didn’t. I learned he had scouted for the army. When we rode into Fort Boise, one of the troopers that had been stationed at Fort Kearney recognized him. The rest was campfire talk.

After leaving Fort Boise we drifted down to Boonville. It wasn’t much of a town, just a water hole in the trail. It wasn’t until we headed for Bakertown that Bob started talking about what he wanted in his life. That night, by the campfire, he talked of building a livery stable with a blacksmith shop in it.

It would be nice, he said, to work all day and go to bed at night without having to look over your shoulder first. And by God I’m gonna do it.

The rest of that night we drew designs in the sand of how it would look.

The cold wind that was blowing the next morning told us of the snow that was in the mountains. It being late in the fall, we decided to lay over on the Quinn River near Fort McDermitt. Then come springs we would ride up into Oregon. It was a young land and the best place to start a new life.

We were five days on the trail before reaching the Quinn River. Making camp, we built a lean-to out of limbs and covered it with hides Wilks had traded from the Paiutes in that area.

That was the winter we had met up with Joe Bibbs and Bill Forge. Bibbs was a tall man about six-one, slender, with a raw bone face and dark curly hair. His partner, Forge, was a stocky man, round faced with sandy colored hair and cold, blue eyes.

They made their camp a short distance down river. Most of that winter they shared coffee and camp meat with Wilks and me. Sometimes they even furnished all the meat, but that was very seldom. At night they sat around the warmth of the fire discussing what each of them was going to do come spring. So Wilks and I decided that the following morning we would head out.

As we rolled out the next morning, there was a white blanket of snow on the surrounding hills and on the ground where we had made our camp. The sky was overcast, with grey and white clouds. Flakes of snow were still drifting in on the wind. Well, snow or not, both Wilks and I were ready to ride.

We had chosen the route we were going to take. We would cut across the immigrant and follow it around Klamath lake to where it joins up with the Applegate trail and ride north up into Oregon, possibly as far as Eugene City.

As we were breaking camp, Joe Bibbs rode over and inquired if they might ride along.

You know, out here four guns are better than two. Besides, it’s an open trail, Wilks replied. Come along if you’ve got a mind to.

After Bibbs left, I thought that it wouldn’t hurt to have another gun or two along. That country we were gonna be riding through wasn’t all that cut and dried tame just yet.

It wasn’t too long before Bibbs and Forge came riding up and we headed out. The trail we had laid out was a cold and wet one.

Every night, while warming ourselves over coffee and a fire, we worked up ideas as to what each man wanted to do. Their thoughts varied from night to night except for Wilks. He kept to his plan of going to find a place to build a livery stable and blacksmith shop.

If I starve or don’t, he’d say, I’m gonna stay in one place ‘til they throw dirt in my face, by God. I want more than just a horse and a stable.

Chapter 4

Though Roberto still talked on, my mind wandered back to when Wilks had stopped by our cabin after being to Jacksonville on business. The Donavans always laid out a good meal on their table. And of course, Pa being Irish as he was, would fetch a jug after the meal. Making themselves comfortable out on the porch Pa would fill their cups and make a toast to hard work and Irish whiskey. Then they would discuss a little about everything, but mostly of the values that a man should live by. Pa had always set great stock in a man making a place for himself no matter where he was.

It was then Wilks had asked Pa if we had any family out west.

I don’t rightly know, Pa said ‘The O’Donavans were an adventurous family and proud. In Ireland, we were known for our shipbuilding and our love for a good fight.

At the age of twenty, he stated he was the third son to leave their home in Ireland.

Signing onto a grand ship. The Golden Hyde, he worked for his passage over to this great country. It didn’t take him long however to tire of the East. There was nothing to keep an edge on a man. It was just not in him to stay there, so west he came."

Crossing Missouri to the Indian nation, it was there that he met my ma. Aye! She was the prettiest Indian girl I had ever laid eyes on, he boasted with a broad smile.

Pa always spoke with pride when he talked about Ma and her family. When I was old enough to understand, he told me about the Little Creek woman who was my ma and of Big Hand her father and proud chief of the Osage. He told of the values of their way of life. I was only fourteen and the talk of values and such hadn’t meant very much to me then, but to the O’Donavan clan it meant everything.\

The days Pa spent teaching me the art of fighting I thought to be futile, but he insisted I learn. It wasn’t until he sat me down one day and told me.

Brad, the time we spend here is short, but what we leave behind lives forever. Laying his hand on my shoulder, he said: You are a part of me and your ma’s legacy. Remember it’s not the wealth you leave behind, it’s the memory people have of you after you are gone.

It was those words that stuck in my mind the day Ben Chapman rode up and told me Pa was dead. I had finished replacing a couple of the posts around the hog pen and was admiring the completed job when the sound of an approaching horse made me turn around and I walked toward the cabin.

Howdy Mr. Chapman, I said. Pa ain’t home just yet but I expect him anytime now.

Bend rode up to the front porch and dismounted. He stood there briefly with his arm laying over the saddle and his head hanging to the point that his chin touched his chest. Then he turned and stepped up to the porch. I had never seen him look so down. He looked at me sadly for a moment, then he spoke.

Brad..I am sorry boy, but your pa and another man by the name of Anderson was pulling timbers in a side drift when the whole thing fell in on ‘em. His head was in his hands.

I am sorry Brad, but your pa’s dead.

After a brief moment of silence he asked me: Are you gonna be okay boy?

I nodded as I sat down on the porch.

Maybe you should come into town with me?

No I said. I’m gonna stay right here.

Seeing that there was nothing more he could do, Chapman mounted up and rode off. I just sat there on the porch until the sun drifted down behind the mountains to the west leaving nothing but their gray shadows against the orange-red rays of the setting sun.

As the night crept in around the cabin I just couldn’t force myself to go inside – not without Pa. I felt that if I could jut sit there long enough he would come riding in as he had done every night before. But this night he didn’t.

When the reality of what had happened finally worked its way into my mind, I couldn’t stop the flood of tears that filled my eyes. I kept trying to tell myself that this was not the way a man should act. But the hurt I felt inside made it impossible for me to stop the tears.

Crying as hard as I was, sleep eventually crept over me. It was the cold that sweeps through just before sunrise that woke me from my unrestful sleep. I was still sitting there that afternoon when Wilks rode up.

I was very sorry to hear about your pa, Brad. If there is anything that you need, I want you to know that, I’ll be here. He climbed down off his horse and walked over to the porch and sat down with me.

Brad, he said. Maybe you should come with me to Woodville and stay for awhile?

No, I said. The tears filled my eyes as I choked up with each word. "I’m staying ‘til they dig Pa out and bring him home. Then I can make sure he’s buried back