Heller's Canal

Prologue

December 4th, 1870 dawned much like any other winter day in the Colorado Territory.

An old mountain man, on the way to Denver to peddle animal skins, hunkered beside his pack mule to take a drink in the clear waters of the South Platte River. He tossed back his deerskin cap, cupped his hands and splashed his black-bearded face. He breathed in the sweet, clean air and he smiled. Tranquil beauty, glorious serenity –– words he didn't know –– but conceive their meaning he no doubt did.

After satisfying himself and his mule, the mountain man stood and readied himself to resume his journey.

After several strides, he stepped upon a small mound and felt the impression of it on the sole of his soft moccasin. Another step and he felt a sudden quiver in the earth. His dark eyes sharpened and his pulse quickened. His instincts rang true as he understood what followed. He yanked hard on the reins of his mule, dropping the bewildered beast to the frozen grass, and he fell fast onto his stomach beside her.

The earthquake shook the ground beneath the old man's body. His trusted mule bellowed and quivered in fear. Together, they rode out the shaking and as soon as it began, it ended.

With nonchalance, the old man raised himself to dust the frost off his elk skin cloak and gathered his mule back to her legs. Together, they ambled on as the Pueblo-Fort Reynolds Earthquake entered the geological record as the first event of its kind in the colorful history of the vast and varied region of the Colorado Territory.

* * * * *

One

It never crossed his mind he would welcome the occasion, but the sight of a new town on the heated plain stirred Sam Claiborne’s imagination and filled his spirit with a strange and powerful yearning.

At first, he saw the buildings as notches on the horizon, angular forms he passed off as heat waves playing with his tired eyes. But as he rode closer, the lusty ripples gave way to definite shapes –– wooden facias and pointed roofs –– obvious constructions of civilization.

Soon, he came upon a road and he followed it with reservation. Sam Claiborne found most towns foreign, places to bypass in the growing dim of evening. Yet once he came to the doorstep of the unwanted place, he considered backtracking, but something caught his attention and his curiosity got the better of him.

Reining in his weary roan horse, Sam lifted his well worn boot out of his stirrup and swung out of the saddle. Easy, Cactus, he said in a soothing tone. Ain’t no call to fuss now.

Cactus smacked his thick, dry lips as Sam drove a boot heel into the fine dust along the empty road leading into the small town of Littleton, Colorado Territory. The lone road off the eastern hills, it appeared more a wide trail scarred by wagon wheels and horses’ hooves than an actual byway. Real roads, after all, lived east of the Big Muddy –– many of them bricked and most of them leading some place consequential. Out West, rutted trails defined the ordinary, and by Sam Claiborne's reckoning, rutted trails often ended in a heap of disappointment or downright misery.

With a lift of his narrow chin, Sam exhaled and filled his lungs. The wicked summer heat scraped at the back of his throat. Cactus, there's water ahead, so hold on now. You'll be drinking soon.

Cactus shook his head and fluttered his nostrils, so Sam ran a gloved hand down his sleek neck to soothe him. A horsefly came out of nowhere to land on Cactus’ cinnamon and sugar coat, setting him to quiver. Unperturbed, the large insect circled a few times on quick legs and flew off with a harsh buzz. Sam watched the large insect loop a few times before it disappeared.

Yawning, Sam took a tired step forward and raised his arms to stretch as much Colorado Flatlands out of his lean frame as possible. Straightening tall, Sam's bad rib creaked and he set to kneading the pain away.

When the irritation quit, Sam took off his black derby and slapped it against his brown leather chaps. A cloud of trail dust sprang loose to join distant cousins on the roadbed. With a smirk, Sam popped his derby back on his head and gazed at a prairie falcon floating on a blister of July heat in the pale, blue sky. Death, quick and merciless, loomed certain for some unwary rodent out on the yellow, rolling plain.

With a notch of his head, Sam inspected the reason he had dismounted in the first place. Hanging by a single rusty nail on a crooked persimmon post, a crude sign stuck out of the parched dirt along the roadside. Sam studied it for a moment, cleared his throat and read it aloud in a brazen voice, as if uttering the very proclamation himself:

NO FIREARMS ALLOWED IN THE FINE TOWN OF LITTLETON.

Beneath the edict, scrawled in the same flaky red paint, the words URIAH JERSEY, SHERIFF lent the notice credence. Two broad strokes of a gnarled paintbrush underlined SHERIFF.

Sam smirked. Two underlines in red. I'd say the fella must be pretty darned important.

Sam stuck his boot into a stirrup and swung back onto Cactus. The familiar creak of his saddle comforted him during moments of consternation. As much as he hated civilization, sometimes civilization had a nasty way of forcing itself on the most wary. You see, water proved scarce as womenfolk in the central part of Colorado Territory, during good seasons — and this season played out worst than most. So Sam figured he had to visit The Fine Town of Littleton. He hoped his stay would prove short. Towns and trail dust mixed bad like cow's milk and turpentine, so Sam planned to buy provisions, spell Cactus and his dog awhile and set out for the mountains where he felt most comfortable.

Ballou, Sam said to his Anatolian shepherd. Let them prairie dogs be and let's get.

Ballou took a final snap at a prairie dog hole, barked twice, and sauntered back to where Sam stood near the road sign. Had he his druthers, Ballou preferred flushing the dryness in his gullet with warm blood rather than hot, gritty water. But his master held other notions, so prance back he did, like the obedient servant he most times was.

At the pace of a funeral procession, the weary trio entered the new town of Littleton. Sam had never crossed trails with this farming community before, because Richard Little founded it that very year – 1872.

Sam heard tell of it from a plainsman he chanced upon down the South Platte River a piece, who like Sam, searched the riverbed for water to no avail, but unlike Sam, refused entering Littleton or any other town of its sort, claiming that farm towns choke off the land like milk cows.

Now Sam rode his pride as hard as the next drifter, but he could no more stop the settlements and the farms and the fences anymore than the next saddle tramp. That's why he preferred the mountains. Snow, bitter cold and steep, rugged trails keep flatlanders at bay and Sam's disposition a good deal more amiable.

With trepidation, Sam seized the moment to scrutinize the new town. Clap-boarded walls with lean-to roofs stood feeble, as if Richard Little had hastened to build the town on a hot summer afternoon to escape the angry sun.

Extending namesakes, the dry goods store served as the town hall and the saloon as the hotel. The jailhouse remained the one building in sight that received more than a lick and a promise, and its cell keeper, Uriah Jersey — that's "SHERIFF URIAH JERSEY" with two broad underlines in red — might well prove a mud stick, judging by the stoutness of his brown–bricked hoosegow.

So, knowing the routine well, Sam nosed Cactus to the hitching post and swung into the drab, dusty street. Slapping Cactus on his broad rump, he said, Be right back, boy. Water’s on the way.

With Ballou at his boot heels, Sam stepped onto the wooden porch and opened the jailhouse’s heavy, gray door.

A thick man, about 35 — rough as a cottonwood knob with a shock of ruddy whiskers — sat behind an old, black-painted desk. A steel-blue hogleg rested close. His green eyes glanced at it for emphasis. Help you, stranger? he said with a half–sneer.

Come to check my Colt. Name's Sam Claiborne. In town to wet my whistle and resupply. Won't be but a few hours. Sam gave the man the rundown to win him over, because experience long since taught him that enemies in high places can prove a tad sticky.

That your dog? the man said under a dark brow.

Sam nodded.

Well keep him outside. This ain't a barn.

Deep down, Sam's ire rumbled like a thunderclap. But he hid it well, preferring a weak hand rather than a long shot played for meager stakes. Hey, Ballou, you heard the man. Get on outside. Now.

Ballou raised his ears, turned his long snout and pranced through the open door to sit haunches on the porch. Sam clicked his tongue and shut the door before loosening the lash over his Colt and placing it on the desk.

The man closed one eye and said, Gun belt, too. Like to keep things tidy.

Sam bounced his chin and unbuckled his holster. You the sheriff? he said without concern. Sam made purpose of ignoring the shiny brass badge on the man’s soiled, tan shirt.

Why? You got some dealings with the sheriff?

Sam's patience evaporated. No … I was trying to be accommodating. Don't rightly give a damn. Sam sharpened his gaze and stared hard into the sheriff's blunt eyes.

The sheriff measured Sam's point and found it stout enough. My name's Uriah Jersey and best remember it. I'm the sheriff of Littleton and I'll have you know this is the newest and shiniest town in all of the Colorado Territory.

Sheriff Jersey narrowed his eyes and cracked a grin. Well, you look genuine enough, Sam Claiborne. Sorry if I came off a hair testy. Don't want no trouble in my town, that's all.

Sam stiffened his brow. Don't expect trouble from me. Like I said, I'm passing through.

Fair enough. Fresh water’s at the livery stable down the street. Got to pay though, because it’s dry as a sand hill around here nowadays. If you change your mind and want to stay a spell, the New Capital Hydraulic Company is hiring good men. They're out dredging the High Line Canal west of town right now. You look sturdy enough to toss a shovel for a full day's pay.

Sam smiled. No thanks. I prefer an ax.

Sheriff Jersey raised his bushy eyebrows. Like the high country, do you? Suit yourself, Sam Claiborne. Offer stands if you change your mind.

Sam tapped the brim of his derby, turned and strode from the jailhouse. At the edge of the porch, he glanced up the street and spotted the livery stable this side of the railroad station. It stood the third to last building in town. The railroad station stood second and the church house stood last. White as a dead man's face, the Deacons' House appeared more a funeral parlor than a place of worship. The good brethren had whitewashed the shingles too.

With a wry grin, Sam grabbed Cactus’ reins and led him along the street.

Further along, a man and his wife stepped out of the hardware store. Sam smiled and tipped his derby. The couple smiled back and nodded as they passed. Amused, Sam looked at Ballou and said, Either this town is welcoming or there goes the mayor and his bride.

Ballou plodded along raising small puffs of dust with his large paws.

At the livery stable, Sam made arrangements for Cactus.

Half oats and half alfalfa, Sam said to the stable boy. Don't want my horse coming down with colic. And hey, my rifle better stay put or Sheriff Jersey will pay a visit.

Sam noticed the kid staring down his prized Sharps .50-90 with covetous eyes. Heck, nothing around here to shoot but plow mules, anyway, he thought.

In the street again, Sam and Ballou soon came upon a yellow-fronted eating-house named Emma's Kitchen.

At the door, Sam glanced at Ballou and said, Wait here, boy. I'll be right back with a cut of beef and a bowl of fresh water.

Entering, Sam sat at the first table to the left so he could watch Ballou through a blurry window.

At the counter, an old man with a full head of shiny skin slurped his coffee from a saddle-brown mug. Sam waved hello and the old man lifted his hazel eyes. A photograph of James Buchanan — the one American President to remain a bachelor during office — hung by its lonesome on the rough sawn back wall.

Soon a woman exited the kitchen with a fire-blackened coffee pot in one hand and a cleaning towel in the other. More coffee, Levi? she said of the old man as she stopped at the end of the counter.

No, had enough for today, Emma. Levi gave a weak toss of an age–spotted hand, tipped his cup to his weathered lips and finished his last gulp.

Tomorrow then, Levi, Emma said in a reassuring tone and she turned. Noticing Sam, she set the coffeepot down, wiped her attractive hands on her cleaning towel and smiled as she approached.

Such beauty brought a sparkle to Sam's eyes. Early-twenties and fresh as a spring blossom, Emma filled out her rose-printed dress to perfection. Her spotless white apron hung to her thin ankles and her lustrous black hair gathered at the base of her dainty neck. To Sam's eye, she appeared the part of some doting father's privilege, and she looked as fine as her kitchen smelled.

Howdy, stranger, she said as she stopped to Sam's front.

Ma’am, Sam said, dropping his derby onto the planked floor.

"What'll it be? Something for you first … or your dog?"

Sam chuckled. Got to take care of who takes care of me. Give Ballou some raw beef and plenty of water. Pour salt on that beef, too. I'll take a steak, cooked half through with some greens, black coffee and bread.

Want water? You look pretty dry.

You bet.

Here to work on the High Line Canal? Emma's question bristled with hope, anticipation shining in her soft brown eyes. Company foreman's hiring, you know.

That'd be the New Capital Hydraulic Company? Sam said.

Yeah, it's the big project around these parts. The original canal was excavated before Father and I moved here about ten years ago. Over time, the canal’s grown shallow so some local financiers decided to dredge it. You know, no water … no crops … no crops … no money … no money...

No town, Sam said.

Emma smiled, showing straight gleaming teeth. You got it.

For Sam, the logic was simple. Colorado Territory often dealt in absolutes, yielding little cushion between success and failure. Sorry, dredging canals ain't in my blood. I'm passing through.

Emma tilted her pretty face. Heading for the tall country? The question came out with a lighthearted lilt more than a hard-nosed invasion.

Sam widened his eyes. It's where my derby hangs best.

Well, it's dry all the way to the Continental Divide. Been the worst spring for rain in memory. Bad winter, too. Might have some problems getting where you're going.

Sam studied Emma's stunning eyes. Your man the company foreman?

Emma blushed and ducked her chin. No, it's true. Shoot, ride on out to the South Platte and check. Best days it's a trickle. Right now, it's dry. Don't mind saying, the town's getting mighty worried.

Where’s Littleton finding the water to survive … prairie ponds?

Yeah, but there aren't many and all of them are pretty puny except for Harland Heller's. He's the big rancher around here. Some say he's got a couple thousand head of Hereford … some buffalo, too. He's got big ponds on his range, though they're drying up pretty fast as the Chinooks blow over them. So dredging was part his idea, I'm told.

Where's his spread?

Triple-H is about ten miles south. Harland Heller's been hauling water to town by freight wagon for months now. Costing the town a pretty penny, but it's better than moving east and leaving Littleton to the rattlers. We got high hopes for this town … might rival Denver one day.

Why not use the railroad? It'd cost less and be quicker. But I'm no businessman.

Because most of the ponds, above all the bigger ones are in the Latigo Bolson. The railroad spur there isn’t finished.

"Then the Triple-H brand stands for Harland H. Heller?" Sam asked the question to carry on conversation. Talking to Ballou and Cactus was a sight easier than conversing with a pretty young woman.

Emma shifted her fine mouth. No, Middle 'H' stands for his son, Hank. Blood runs thicker than water.

Sam frowned. Runs more plentiful too, I'd say.

Emma cocked her head. Bet you're starving. I'll quit jawing now and fix your food. But feed Ballou first, right? She gave Sam a playful wink and smiled.

Sam returned the smile as Emma sashayed away as only a woman can.

When Sam left Emma's Kitchen, Ballou laid in a tight ball of snores, sleeping off his meal in the spotty shade of the single-layered porch roof. Sam clicked his tongue and Ballou lifted his heavy eyelids. Sam clicked again to raise him off the porch. Late afternoon, hot as fire, the two-click kind of day continued.

Walking east, Sam headed for the dry goods store.

Inside, he inspected the layout. Shelves hung the walls like a schoolhouse, but empty filled most of the space.

Sighing, Sam approached the counter and paused, wondering if the store stood open for business.

Soon, a short man stepped out of the storeroom wearing blue overalls and a gray clerk's hat. He lifted his brow at the sight of a stranger. Sorry, mister … busy moving all my crates of nothing back there. Sleep hung heavy in his weary, dark eyes.

Sam chuckled. Waiting for the Denver Great Plains Railroad to build a line straight to your front door?

The man's face brightened with the play. More like waiting for this town to blow away so I can strap my mule and get on back to Kansas City. Weren't it for the financial panic of 1857 … danged speculators cost me everything and sent me and my daughter out here … we'd still be living high on the hog in Missouri.

Guess you're not part of the town council, are you? Sam said as he recalled the Town Hall sign hanging off the roof out front.

The man set a wry grin. Guess so … I'm Littleton's mayor.

Sam slapped a hand on the counter and heehawed. Above all, the trail served men humility. A town, on the other hand, served men arrogance, making them think they stood at the pinnacle of existence. It did Sam good to see a paragon of such misconception facing reality. "Got anything for sale?"

No, but I'll trade my store for your boots.

Sam chuckled again. His boots hung nine parts worn out and appeared no better than the back-end of the good mayor's strap mule.

What'll it be, mister? If I got it, I’m selling it.

Sam wiped a hand across his grin. Say one thing, Mr. Mayor … bet you keep the town council in stitches at your meetings.

The mayor chuckled back. Funniest part is, people seldom show up.

Sam searched the mayor's face. Rugged furrows traveled his brow like washed-out gulches. In his later years, his gray hair stood his head, thin and frazzled, and his tired face showed signs of hefty loads of broken expectations. Like his eyes, his chin drooped and his acorn-skull teetered forward and threatened to topple off his slackened shoulders. Yet, he cast an air of inner strength that made Sam want to know him better. Claiborne's my name … Sam. How 'bout you, Mr. Mayor?

The man accepted Sam's outstretched hand. Eli Garrison … Mayor Garrison to all the townsfolk who have lost interest.

I take it Littleton’s having a tough time?

Takes more than a few planks of pine and a fist of five penny nails to make a town. This is my first run as mayor. Most say I would have done better counting profits than leading a town. Darned little profit to count anyway. Drought has all but choked Littleton to nothing.

Sam studied the shade of Eli Garrison's face. Well, all’s not lost, Mr. Mayor. Your daughter cooks a real tasty beef steak.

Mayor Garrison's eyes flashed. Ah, you know Emma . She sure does at that. Like her ma in that regard, but more independent than Lorraine ever was. Eli Garrison gazed away as if Lorraine's memory cast a long shadow.

When he faced back, Sam said, I'd say a sweet daughter is a sight better than some watered down profits. But who am I but a drifter?

"Yeah, Emma is something special. I'm a lucky man when it comes to that. And heck, you got the watered down part right, too. Whoever heard of building a farming town on the banks of a fickle