"The Man from the Brazos- Audio Book"

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PROLOGUE

The Destiny of a Fast Gun

February 2, 1871

A person’s destiny is next to impossible to see at the beginning of one’s life, for certainly no one can ascertain what he will become as it is not a person’s privilege to see. A “fast gun” was a euphemism that had not yet been established. To become a fast gun would certainly be a turning point in Matt Andersen’s career, a career he had not chosen, and for which he had not prepared himself, and as a man on the run, he called himself, Matt Jorgensen. He would find out that his destiny was determined by a set of circumstances, none of which were under his control. But once he had attained the mastery of his calling, his destiny was sealed and his life took on a totally new meaning. For two men to come together under the umbrella of similar circumstances and forge a re-lationship together in time and space would be an act of God no one could understand or envi-sion. Such was the case with Matt who became famously known as “The Brazos Kid”, and Rod Best, Marshal of Abilene. How they met and became the best of friends, in spite of their fierce competitiveness in a business that called for guts and glory, would plum the depths of their excit-ing and romantic adventures which they shared together as two of the bravest gunfighters in the history of America’s West. One of the most infamous of days in the annals of Western folklore happened February 1, ’71. Matt Jorgensen, also called “the Brazos Kid”, and his friend Steve Andrews, rode into Waco, Texas were bent on spending the night earning some extra spending money playing that famous game of fortune, poker. Matt grew up in Bozeman, Montana and, with his brother, Lukas learned the game well enough to make some spending money. Matt was now a professional hired gunman who, with Steve, his Civil War friend and companion, ran the Brazos Bar M Ranch south of Waco across the Brazos River. Both men were in their thirties. Matt stood six-feet four inches, with broad shoulders. His eyes were steely blue, and he had a gentle smile, which befriended him to the ladies. He wore denim pants, a dark blue woolen shirt and a tanned leather vest. A loose bandanna covered his throat, and a gray Stetson fit his head real nice. Tonight he just wanted to play cards. Steve was a good-looking man with a bushy moustache and a full head of light brown hair hidden under his well-worn Stetson. His dimples let people around him know that he was also a gentle man like Matt, but firm. He was six-foot two straight up and down. He, too, wore a leather vest, but he wore his bandanna a lot looser than Matt, and his Stetson was black. The men found themselves an active table towards the rear of the Green Slipper Saloon, and offered to join in as soon as a certain chair became vacant. The chair the dealer was sitting in was Matt’s favorite seat. He chose never to sit anywhere else, as an early acquaintance warned him to beware of card cheats and killers who walk behind unsuspecting players. Besides, he en-joyed having the wall to lean on from time to time. “You can sit in right now, men,” the dealer offered as he shuffled the cards. “Sit down.” “No rush,” Matt replied, standing at the bar instead. “Two whiskeys!” he ordered. “Suit yourself,” the dealer continued. “Might not get another chance with all the cow-pokes pouring in this time of night.” “The Red Garter’s down the street,” Matt told the dealer. “They can go there.” “Thet one’s filled up already. What are you two waitin’ for, if I might ask?” The dealer started dealing the cards to the other two gentlemen. “You’re sittin’ in my chair.” “Your chair? Your name’s on it?” “Nope,” Matt answered as he paid for the drinks. “Thanks.” “Then why d’ya say it’s your chair?” “I never sit in any other.” “Never seen you in town before.” “I come in once or twice a month,” Matt answered, swigging down his drink. “You’re new in town.” “Been here a few weeks,” the dealer replied, filling out the hands of his two players. “You won’t play unless you sit in my chair, right?” Matt turned and stood with his back to the dealer, but watched his actions through the long mirror that hung behind the bar. Steve sipped his drink as he walked around the table watching the men play. “You’re superstitious, I’ll bet,” the dealer suggested, watching his two counterparts throwing down cards for a draw. “All right, mister,” the dealer continued. “After this hand, I’ll take the other chair.” The dealer gathered his winnings from the two gentlemen players and moved to the other side of the table, taking his money and cards with him. “I’ve never heard anyone being so superstitious in my life,” a player said, as he watched Matt walk over to the table. Steve sat in the chair next to him. “He’s superstitious.” “I have,” a tenor voice came from the far end of the bar. “I met a man up in Abilene thet did. A marshal. Always sat with his back to the wall. Nothing superstitious about it. Just didn’t want anyone to take advantage of him behind his back.” “Thet it?” the dealer asked, tossing a double eagle into the pot for the ante. Without a reply, Matt sat down, threw in his ante, and then took a cigar from his leather vest. “You don’t say much,” the dealer said as he began dealing out the cards. “What about your friend?” “Let’s play,” Matt said, lighting his cigar. “Sure, mister,” the dealer replied, finishing up the deal. “Mind telling us your names?” “Steve Andrews,” Steve answered, peeking at his cards. “Matt Jorgensen.” “Matt Jor . . .” the man at the far end of the bar said, almost spilling his drink. He was short, rather stout, sported a thin moustache and a goatee, and wore a black derby that suggested he wasn’t a cowboy. “The Brazos Kid?” he asked, looking at Matt. “Sometimes called in my younger days,” Matt responded with his eyes leveled to the man’s hands dangling at his sides. He could see he didn’t wear any guns. “Brazos to most, now.” “I hear you’re one of the fastest gun alive.” “I’m a mite slower,” Steve mused and titled his hat forward. “My name’s Kelly Williams, reporter for the Waco Gazette,” the man said as he started to walk over to Matt’s table. “Who’s faster?” the dealer asked. “The marshal this man met in Abilene,” Matt answered, letting out a ring of cigar smoke while he examined his cards. “Not any more, “ Kelly said. Matt took out his cigar, tilted back his hat, and looked straight into the little man’s eyes. “What do you mean, Mr. Williams?” the dealer asked, holding the deck of cards in both hands. “He was killed in a saloon a few days ago. News just came in from the Abilene Journal, ready for the morning edition.” “Who was killed?” the dealer asked again. Kelly watched Matt’s face grow in anger. He shut up fast, and walked back to his seat at the bar. Matt threw his hand down on the table, rose and walked over to the little man. “What’s his name?” “You know who I’m talking about,” Kelly said, taking a nervous sip of his beer. “Who?” Matt demanded. “Rod Best! The Marshal in Abilene.” “The hell he did!” Matt yelled at the little man, turning him around and picking him up by his lapels, almost hiding Kelly’s face inside his coat. “Here,” Kelly said, “I’ve got my notes right here.” Matt turned loose of Kelly’s coat, and allowed him to reach into his pocket. His hand came out with a note pad, which he quickly handed to Matt. The notes were scribbled in Kelly’s own shorthand, so he had to read them for Matt. Put-ting on his spectacles, he took the pad back, and read aloud, “1 February ‘71, about 10 o’clock p.m., Rod Best entered Jason’s Saloon … Abilene, Kansas … became drunk … involved with man’s wife … husband shot Best before he could draw.” Matt stood silent. “I know you were good friends, everyone knows, I suppose. What are you going to do, Brazos?” The Waco and Northwestern Railroad left early the next morning from Waco, and Matt was on it heading for Abilene, Kansas to pay his respects to his old friend. As the heavy black engine chugged along leaving a plume of smoke and ashes strewn across the land abutting the tracks, his mind raced back to the time he had to leave his home in Bozeman, Montana just thirteen years earlier. It was the same year he met Rod Best. It was a cold February evening, 1858, as chilled winds whipped through the Montana hills. Matt turned from just having a serious conversation with his father, walked over to his mother, Annie and said, “I love ya, Ma.” His mother knew he had made his decision to leave. Matt walked into the house for a last look at his brother, Lukas’ body was draped on the floor with that of another man, Jeff Daniels, a killer. Matt’s father Wil, and Anse Peterson followed him in. Anse was the bartender at the Golden Eagle Saloon in town, and Wil’s best friend. Having known Wil for many years, he watched the wild antics of Matt and Lukas as they grew up and often visited the saloon. Matt knelt down and touched his brother’s uncovered hand, and asked, “Can I help bury my brother?” Anse answered him. “Best not, Matt. Sooner you leave, the better.” “He’s right, son,” Wil concurred. His mother sobbed. “Wish I hadn’t shot thet horse, now,” Anse said. “Where’s the carcass?” Wil asked. “I pulled it off to the side, and partially buried it with some weeds. Jeff said he’d finish it. Guess he never did.” Jeff was the no-good varmint who had talked Lukas into join him in robbing the local bank in town. The scheme failed, and Jeff and Lukas were killed. The town minister, riding by in his carriage at the wrong time, was also killed. Because Jeff was dressed in Matt’s clothes at the time, the town folk mistook his shot-up carcass to be Matt. Anse had shot Jeff’s horse earlier because of a broken leg, and in town, Jeff took Matt’s horse. This added to the evidence that it must have been Matt who was the second man killed in the robbery. If the horse’s carcass was seen, it would have given rise that a third man was in-volved, and an investigation into who that third man was could have led to Matt, who was still alive and hiding. “Damn,” Wil said. “Can’t take a chance. At light, you and Matt backtrack, and make sure it’s buried deep.” “Yes, sir.” “And you, son. When thet’s done, you’re gonna head out South.” Matt stood up and felt Annie’s warm embrace. Annie looked over her son’s shoulders towards Wil. “Why?” she asked quietly. Wil put his big hand on Matt’s shoulders and wrapped his other arm around Annie. “Cause, I love ya, Matt. Thet mean anything to you? One son’s dead. I don’t want both my sons killed.” Tears fell from Annie’s cheeks. Matt’s tired body finally felt the pangs of weariness from running scared, the drink, and the beating from Wil’s fists earlier when he first found out Lukas was dead. Wil’s quick temper led to a beating Wil forgot for the moment that Matt had nothing to do with the botched-up rob-bery, and that he could be implicated in it as well if he were caught. Matt was in town only to stop Lukas, but failed, and in all the excitement and gunfire, escaped unseen. Still sobbing, Matt collapsed in his father’s arms as Anse helped keep him from falling. Anse helped Wil carry Matt to the back of the house, and put him down on the bed where he slipped into a deep sleep. Wil lingered over him for a while to assure his safety, and then he returned to the arms of Annie. Together, they kept awake. Anse sat on the porch and kept watch through the night. Daylight was slow to come to the ranch that day, but before the winter sun had peaked its head over the nearest rise, Wil was on a hill digging the graves. Matt and Anse rode down the road that led to town, as the sun had just broken the sheet of night. Annie, dressed heavily with a long brown coat and scarf around her head, climbed the hill to join her husband. Looking out, she watched the shadowy figures of Matt and Anse ride away. “He’ll be back, Annie. Soon.” “I know.” Annie watched Wil. They were burying one son, and watching another ride away, and she never before felt that much pain in her heart. “The cowhands shoulda gotten up by now. They can help you.” “I’d rather do it myself.” Annie stood there, watching Matt and Anse as they disappeared down the road. Wil stopped digging, grabbed her cold hand and held it tight as they watched the two men ride away. A hard rancher, Wil bred and raised cattle as well as horses that earned him a decent liv-ing. His desire was for his sons to follow suit. He felt somehow now that he had failed them. The first of the wranglers crawled out of the bunkhouse. Seeing Wil and Annie on the hillside, they quickly dressed and joined up with them. They had heard about the botched-up robbery before while putting the bodies in the front room. They were not aware of Matt’s return, or of his having left. They believed that the two bodies being buried were those of Matt and Lu-cas. Now, they carried the draped bodies in a buggy to the northern slope of the hill. The men helped finish the digging, in spite of Wil’s resistance. Once the holes were deep enough, the men lowered the bodies gently into each of them, one at a time. “They were shooting at Matt, too,” Wil said softly to Annie as he held his arm around her. “If we tell the townsfolk it was Matt, they’d lynch him. This way, two graves, two crosses. Matt and Lukas. No one will know the better.” He paused on the hillside and looked down the road one last time. “He tried to stop Lukas. That’s good enough for me.” With the last clump of dirt on the graves, he whispered to himself, “I wish he could have stayed.” Then he cried loudly, “Hell!” and threw the spade as far as he could. Annie grasped Wil’s hand and squeezed hard. “Ready, Wil?” “Yeah.” Wil nodded, and returned to the freshly dug mounds. Taking off his hat and bowing his head, he said slowly, “Lord, bless our children. And forgive them their deeds. Both are in Your hands, now. Amen.” One son rested there in the grave, and the other was riding away. The couple left the wranglers and walked down the hill together. At the bottom, they stopped, turned, and looked back at the hill. “They’ll always be with us, Annie, Wil said hoarsely, “sharing a cup of coffee in the morning. We’ll still see them ridin’ the range. They’ll always be with us.” Annie leaned against Wil, wiped her face with her apron, and looked into the morning sunlight. “I know that, Wil.” She sobbed and wiped her tears with her handkerchief. Wil caressed her gently. “You can bet on it.” He looked again at the hill where two crosses stood, and thought, “If there was only another way.” The snow began to fall gently to the ground.

Ermal recently performs a two-man show with Paula Cravens (America's Yodeling Sweetheart) in Branson, Missouri in "For God and Country". For information, you may call 1-417-598-0088. He is the proud owner of Gaines Landing Bed & Breakfast in Branson, Missouri Gaines Landing Bed & Breakfast where anyone who spends the night can have breakfast with "the Duke" with no extra charge.

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