Chapter 34: Donovan and Goliath

For the first time in over a year, Paul Donovan was a happy man. He had spent far too long riding the grub line, seeking work, following a planless path from West Texas, through New Mexico, Arizona and Colorado, finally reaching the Powder River country of Wyoming, where he’d arrived at the Halford ranch. The timing was fortuitous, as he appeared the day after one of the riders had been obliged to quit, to return to his parents’ home in Arkansas, where he was needed to deal with a family emergency.

Joe Halford was an unusual character. A tall gaunt bachelor of sixty-four, he had spent many years carving out a niche for himself. Now, a little bowed, with lined face and thinning grey hair, he was largely resting on his laurels, leaving the day to day running of the spread to his foreman, Walt Sadler. But nobody underestimated Halford. A man who had made his mark in such harsh conditions was not one to be taken lightly, and there were those who could remember the days when few would have wished to tangle with him. Gun or fist, it had all been the same to Joe Halford. These days, life being more settled, he was making good what he had neglected in earlier times. He was getting himself an education. Books of all kinds had arrived by mail order at the ranch in the last five years and he’d devoured the lot.

During that half-decade, Halford had changed markedly. Once a fairly sociable man, he had become reclusive. He hadn’t visited the nearby town, nor had he either called on or received any of his neighbours. Each day, he rode to the southern edge of his own range, walked for an hour, then returned to his reading. He ate and drank sparingly and involved himself in the daily round only when there was hiring or firing to be done. He correctly considered himself a good judge of character, which accounted in part for the low turnover of men at his spread. That had nothing to do with money, for Halford paid no more than the going rate. However, he did provide his men with superior accommodation – and there was the legendary food. Halford’s cook, Abe Gibbons, was fifty-eight years of age and chronically cantankerous, but his culinary skill would have landed him a top restaurant job, had he been inclined to seek one.

Then there was the moral attitude. Even under financial pressure, Joe Halford would keep his men, when some other ranchers took a more casual view of such matters. Consequently, when a rider secured a billet at the Halford spread, he was usually reluctant to leave. Apart from Gibbons, the man most senior in years was the foreman, Sadler. Now forty-six he had, like the cook, been with Halford for nearer two decades than one. The other riders ranged from nineteen to twenty-eight, and with the exception of Donovan, had served the rancher for at least three years, most of them much longer.

One November morning, Paul Donovan was tending to his chores when Sadler told him that he was wanted by the boss. Entering the ranch house, Donovan found Halford in one of the twin armchairs before the stone fireplace. “Take a seat, Paul,” said the chief, waving a hand at the other chair. Donovan sat.

“You’ve been with us for two months. You seem to fit in here.”

“No reason not to,” Donovan replied. “I like the place.”

“Good. I’m not often wrong about men. I hope you’ll stay.”

“I hope so, too. This beats wrestling longhorns in the Texas brush country.”

“Well, you seem to know the cattle business. Ever done anything else?”

“Yes. I’ve been around a bit. Did some logging, worked on a paddle steamer, spent a year in a circus and a few months on a railroad.”

“Must have been interesting. Now, I’d be grateful if you’d run a little errand. John Collingwood at the freight office in town has a package for me. I’d like you to collect it. Take your time. Have a beer or two if you like.”

“Well, maybe just one. Wouldn’t mind taking a bath while I’m there.”

“Do that. Nothing special about the job. Just my tobacco supply. Parcel about a foot square and three inches deep, so you won’t need the wagon. Give you a chance to exercise that fine mount of yours. Have you had him long?”

“Since last summer. I reckon he carried me over fifteen hundred miles until I got here.”

“Well, give him a run. See you this afternoon.”

Donovan left, saddled his bay gelding and headed for town – a loose term for the small scatter of buildings that made up Farnham’s Cross, six miles east of the Halford ranch. Still, that was the only spot with anything approaching township credentials for a long way around. Every Saturday evening, the local cowpunchers who had enough money would ride in, drink their fill, play a little low-stakes poker and get back to their places. Donovan, who cared little for drink and less for cards, had so far joined the others only once. He was interested in replenishing his depleted cash resources.

No one knew who Farnham was, or what he had crossed. Some said it was the local stream. If so, the name was more than a little fanciful, for as often as not, an active man could have taken a short run and jumped the narrow waterway. The place would probably have died without a name, but for the fact that it was well-positioned as a stop on the stagecoach line, so it had to be formally identified. Having given his horse a workout, Paul Donovan reined the animal in to a walk as he entered the settlement. Reaching the freight office, he stopped and was about to go in when the manager, Collingwood, emerged. A short chubby man of about Halford’s age, he stepped forward to meet the new arrival. “Morning. You’re Joe’s new man, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, don’t tell me. It’s Don ... Donnelly, right?”

“Donovan.”

“Well, I was close. You’ve come for the package, I guess.”

“Right, but I aim to wallow in a hot tub first. I’ll come by in an hour or so, if you’ll be around.”

Collingwood grinned. “Oh, I’ll be around.” He spread his arms, to take in the few buildings and the great open space beyond. “Where else would I be?”

“I see what you mean. Okay, an hour.” Donovan turned and strolled along to the barbershop, established that it would take twenty minutes for hot water to be ready, then crossed over to Jim White’s saloon.

From his single earlier visit and the comments of the other Halford hands, Donovan had no notions of scintillating conversation with the saloon owner. Jim White was a notoriously taciturn man, never using two words where one would do, and none at all if a gesture would suffice. His attitude was an odd one for a fellow in his chosen line of work. But then, everything about Jim White was a mystery. He’d drifted in, lounged around for while, then bought the saloon from a fellow born and raised in Farnham’s Cross, who had wanted to sell up and go off to see something of the world.

Apart from not having worked since his arrival, White had given no indication of being a man of means, but he had paid the high asking price without demur. Rumour had it that he had lived a different and more colourful life under another name. If that was so, he clearly intended to keep it to himself, for when he spoke at all, he never referred to his past, except in the most general terms.

Donovan, whose Celtic antecedents predisposed him to gregariousness, curbed himself, simply ordering a beer, which he carried over to one of the half-dozen tables, all unoccupied. For a moment, he thought he was he was the only customer, then he noticed that there was someone else. At the far end of the bar, where it angled at ninety degrees to join up with the rear wall, he saw both extremities of another patron. At one, there was a mop of black hair and a sliver of forehead, at the other, two feet, encased in hobnailed boots, caked with mud and dust, stuck out beyond the bar corner. Evidently the man was sprawled in a chair.

Donovan concentrated on the boots. It wasn’t their condition or style that caught his attention, so much as their size. Even at a distance of twenty-five feet, he could see that they were abnormally large. What manner of man would have footwear that looked twice the size of Donovan’s own?

The young cowpuncher was not left wondering for long. Within two minutes of his arrival, a hand reached out, depositing a glass onto to the bar top. Then the man himself appeared. He got up, and up, and up. It was an impressive operation. He straightened out his various hinges, like a carpenter unfolding a jointed wooden ruler. Finally, with a stretch of his arms, he stepped around the end of the bar, revealing himself as by far the biggest man Donovan had ever seen. He was not only remarkably tall, but also well-built. There was about him nothing of the lankiness often evident in exceptionally lofty men. He was simply very large all round. Even without his hat on, his head was not far short of the rafters. He grunted some monosyllable at Jim White, getting an equally short reply, then headed for the doors.

Donovan sat staring open-mouthed as the big man strode across the room, seemingly intending to pass by without comment. Then, when he had almost done that, he turned, looking down at the cowpoke. “Something bothering you?” he said. The mighty basso profundo voice emerged from the man like the sound of a cave-in rumbling up a mine shaft.

Donovan realised that he had been gawking. “Er, no, sorry. No offence intended. I guess I was just –”

“Doesn’t matter,” said the giant. Maybe you just want the figures. Most folks do.”

“Figures?”

“Six-ten and two eighty-five.”

Donovan was surprised, but like many Irishmen, was quick on the uptake. “Six-ten ... oh, I get it. Well, I’d have figured you for an even seven feet and the full three hundred pounds.”

The faintest trace of a smile appeared at the corners of the man’s mouth. “See, it’s like looking up at a mountain,” he said. “You can’t tell how high it is.” Now they were into conversation, where Donovan was at home. “Or like being on a lakeside,” he said. “At eye level, you don’t know how wide it is.”

“Right,” replied the behemoth, then he turned and started away again. But his progress was halted once more. He was still a few feet short of the doors when they swung open, admitting two young cowpunchers, one talking loudly, the other laughing. The instant they saw the giant, both stopped, like a couple of dogs at point. They were both short wiry men, one wearing a six-shooter, holstered at his right thigh, the other unarmed.

The gun-toter looked up at the big man. “Well, well,” he grinned. “If it isn’t Mister Bristow. “We were just hopin’ to meet you.”

“Fancy that,” said the mammoth. “What would you want with me, Carter?”

“Oh, nothin’ special,” said the cocky youngster. “Fact is, we were wonderin’ if you could dance.”

“Dance?”

“That’s right. Only, we had a big shindig over at Colonel Dumont’s place a while back. You didn’t show up, so we figured maybe you couldn’t dance. Jack here was bettin’ me that you could an’ I said you couldn’t. I reckoned maybe if I put a slug or two around your feet, we’d find out. I guess now’s as good a time as any.” His hand dropped towards his gun.

Donovan couldn’t work out whether Carter was joking or not, but the big man’s reaction was prompt. The hat he had been holding in his right hand was instantly flung at the young cowboy’s face, impeding the threatened gunplay then, with the left hand, Bristow whipped up a chair, hurling it at Carter, sending him stumbling back against the wall. Leaping upon the startled cowboy, the man mountain hauled him into the air, resting his midriff on an enormous right hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he heaved Carter out over the batwings. Sailing and flailing, the mouthy cowpuncher not only cleared the doors, but also the sidewalk, his scrawny body thumping onto the hard ground. His companion rushed outside to check the damage.

Without a further word, the giant walked out to his loaded mule and led it off. Donovan looked over at the impassive Jim White. “Who’s that?” he asked. White allowed himself one his rare fits of conversation. “Dick Bristow,” he said. “Prospector. Comes once a month for supplies. Lives in the mountains, south of here.”

“He seems a regular Samson. What possessed the little fellow to act like that?”

“Carter’s a fool. Fancies himself as a firebrand but he’s just plain stupid. Since he got that gun, he’s never stopped seeking trouble. Serves him right.”

Donovan finished his beer and returned the glass. “Well, glad I got here in time for the show. Be seeing you.”

When a man lives alone in vast open spaces, he experiences more than one kind of solitude. That may affect him in any of a number of ways. Some take to it like ducks to water. Some like it for a time, needing to reflect. Others succumb to cabin fever or to extreme lethargy. There are no hard and fast rules, but the one certain thing is that loners rarely have anybody with whom to discuss their thoughts, so there is usually nothing to moderate their more extreme notions.

Big Dick Bristow trudged westwards from Farnham’s Cross to his shack, fifteen miles from the town and well up in the hills. He had been prospecting for eight years, his efforts netting him the bare minimum needed to keep body and soul together. He was no intellectual, but it was getting through to him that this might not be the best way to pass a human lifetime. Always intensely introspective, he became even more so as he walked. That was unfortunate, as he began to dwell upon the peremptory way he had dealt with young Carter, and to wonder what other consequences his attributes might have. He took stock of them.

Bristow’s size alone set him apart from others. When it came to physical confrontation, no normal man would take issue with him. Still, this was the land of that great equaliser, the gun. With the exception of his ancient hunting rifle, the prospector had limited experience of firearms. Maybe he should do something about that. It might also be a good idea to look into the matter of mobility.