The Day of the Drifter

by Ralph S. Souders

“Grandpa, why do you walk like that?” asked Tommy, my eight-year-old grandson. He lived out of state, and we didn’t see much of each other. Being a typical boy, he was curious. Until today, he had never asked about my gimpy leg. I believed that he was old enough to hear.

“I’ll tell you the story,” I replied. “You interested?”

“Sure,” he said as he sat down and leaned forward in anticipation. I couldn’t help smiling. He was a good kid. I sat beside him on the davenport.

* * *

It was a typical afternoon in Cedar City, three weeks before my fourteenth birthday. The summer had been hot and dry. The wind blew a fine dust through the town, and everybody felt warm and grimy. The farmers hoped for rain. The ranchers had already moved their herds north where the grasses were still green and the water more plentiful. Nobody expected the cattle to return before autumn.

Only a few men remained in the area. The ranch hands and the cowboys had left with the herds. The merchants still opened their shops, but business was slow. Except for these businessmen, it seemed as though only women and children populated the town. We young boys were kept busy working in the stores or doing various chores around town. It had not been a fun summer.

Late that afternoon, I heard the horse of a lone rider saunter into town at a very slow gait. Its hoofs made a distinctive noise as they came in contact with the dry, unpaved street. I looked out from the general store where I was sweeping. The rider’s appearance and demeanor frightened me.

The rider was wearing dark clothes covered with dust. He had obviously been on the trail for many days. There were sweat stains under his arms and around the inner rim of his black hat. A faded, red bandana was tied around his neck. His leather boots were worn and would need replacing soon. A Colt .38 caliber handgun hung in a holster against his hip while a rifle in its scabbard was attached to his horse, directly behind his saddle next to the saddlebags. The rider was smoking a wrinkled cigarette.

As the man arrived at the saloon next door, he dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching post. He saw me staring. The cold expression never left his face.

“Hey, kid, come here,” he called.

Obediently, I walked outside and stood beside him. I’ll never forget how bad he smelled. The man was obviously a drifter.

“Can you take care of my horse?” he asked. “He needs water and oats. And a good wiping down.”

“I can do it,” I replied.

The stranger tossed me a five-dollar coin. “Will that cover it?”

“Yeah, this is fine,” I informed him.

“Get right on it,” he said. “I want to leave in thirty minutes.”

“He’ll be waiting here for you when you’re ready to leave.”

“Be sure he is,” admonished the rider.

As I untied the horse and led him to the barn up the street, I saw the man enter the saloon. My instincts told me to service his horse and to have him back in front of the saloon on time. I didn’t want to anger this guy.

Twenty-five minutes later, the freshly fed and relaxed horse was ready for the rider. I was holding the reins in my hand as I stood outside the saloon’s front door. Suddenly, the sound of gunfire erupted inside. Although I quickly counted four shots, my count was immediately lost as a stray bullet exited the building through the swinging doors and hit my right knee. The pain was excruciating. My knee was bleeding badly, and I felt as though I was going to faint. I released the horse’s reins and collapsed to the wooden sidewalk. The horse didn’t run away.

A woman walking nearby screamed and ran for the doctor. He arrived within a few minutes. He had just begun to examine my wound when the stranger walked out the swinging doors. He saw me lying on the sidewalk.

“Take care of the kid,” he instructed the doctor. “There are two others inside. You can’t help them.”

The doctor was horrified. “Somebody get the sheriff!” he shouted to the crowd that had quickly assembled.

“It’s too late,” replied the stranger. “He’s lying on the saloon floor.”

With that, the rider mounted his horse. He sneered at the townsfolk and slowly rode away in the opposite direction from which he had come. With the sheriff dead and few men in town, no attempt was made to form a posse and chase after him. He made a clean escape and was never apprehended.

I lost consciousness. When I awoke, I was lying on a cot in the doctor’s office with my leg heavily bandaged. My mother was there. I knew that my wound was serious when she allowed the doctor to give me whiskey to dull the pain. The doctor was a compassionate man, a military veteran experienced in treating gunshot wounds. He had provided my family with care for many years. He saved my leg and ultimately, I recovered. Nevertheless, my knee was badly damaged, and much of its natural use was lost. I would walk with a limp for the rest of my life. All in all, I considered myself very lucky.

* * *

“Lucky?” asked my grandson. “How are you lucky?”

“If a bullet had come out of the building at a different angle, I could have been hit in the belly. I could have been hit in the chest or the head.”

The young boy nodded. “You are lucky, Grandpa,” he agreed. “You’re lucky to be here.”

“As are you,” I replied good-naturedly.

An expression of astonishment quickly came over his face as he realized the significance of this statement.

“I’m glad the stranger didn’t kill you, Grandpa,” he stated sincerely.

“So am I, Tommy,” I responded affectionately. “So am I.”