The Legend of Perley Gates Page 3

  * * *

  Nathaniel Gates was buried on a grassy slope fifty yards behind the main ranch house, just beyond the two small cabins that his married sons lived in. The funeral was short and simple, just as her husband would have preferred, according to the grieving widow. The three sons dug the grave and built the crude coffin their father was to spend eternity in, using some of the lumber bought to repair the bunkhouse.

  On the day after Nathaniel was laid to rest, the family gathered to discuss the management of the ranch from that day forward. It was assumed that Rubin would inherit the role of overseeing the operation of the cattle ranch, with no objection from either of the two younger sons. There was no one better qualified. Near the end of the family meeting, another item was brought up for discussion by the widow.

  “There is one wish I know your father would have,” Rachel said. “He talked to me many times about his father and his desire to make amends with him. He came to forgive his father for leaving him with his grandparents after his mother died. His grandma who raised him had always told Nathaniel that his father couldn’t help himself for his desire to wander.” Rachel paused to brush away a tear. “Well, your papa never found time to search for his father and tell him that he had named Perley after him. So now I think we should try to find your grandpa and let him know that his son has passed away. I think he should know this.”

  “I don’t see how we’re gonna do that,” Rubin said, “unless we go lookin’ for him. And we’ve got too much work to do here this time of year.” All hands on the ranch were preparing for the spring cattle drive, planning to start out for the railroad in Ogallala in two weeks’ time.

  “One of you boys can go,” Rachel insisted. “I think we owe your father that. He wanted so much to make things right with his father, so we can at least let your grandpa know about his death.”

  Rubin still looked uncertain, so Rachel continued. “I think Perley should go look for him. You and John have wives to take care of. Perley doesn’t, so I think he should go.”

  “Mama’s right,” John said. “We oughta at least tell the old man about Pa’s death.” He looked at Perley then and asked, “Whadda you think, Perley? You wanna ride up in Indian Territory to see if you can find Grandpa? If he’s still up there in the Sans Bois Mountains, you oughta be able to get up there and back before we start the cattle out for Ogallala.”

  Perley shrugged indifferently. “I reckon, if he’s still there and if Mama thinks that’s best.”

  He didn’t express it, but any chance to get away from the routine of the ranch was always welcome, even in unhappy circumstances like these. When there were no objections from anyone, he shrugged again and announced, “I reckon I can start out in the mornin’.”

  Rubin walked out of the room with him after the family meeting. When out of earshot of the women, he spoke to Perley.

  “I think it’s important what Mama wants to do, and I hope you can find the old man up in those hills. But Perley, if you can’t find him in a week, come on home. We need you on that cattle drive.”

  “I will,” Perley said.

  * * *

  Since no one in the family knew for sure how to find his grandfather, Perley determined to start out on his search the next morning. He’d follow the Kiamichi River up into Indian Territory until reaching the Kiamichi Mountains. He figured when he struck those mountains, he would head north of the river, hoping to find the Sans Bois Mountains, where his grandfather supposedly had his camp. Once he knew he was in the Sans Bois Mountains, his plan was to find someone who might know his grandpa and be able to tell Perley how to find the camp.

  “If that doesn’t work,” he told his brothers, “I reckon I’ll just comb those mountains till I stumble on Grandpa.”

  “Well, don’t keep lookin’ for him forever,” Rubin repeated. “If you don’t find him after a week or so, come on home. He mighta moved on to God knows where.”

  Perley nodded in reply.

  “You got everything you need?” John asked. “You’re gonna be gone for a while. Make sure you’re takin’ enough bacon and hardtack and coffee. I reckon you’ve got plenty of cartridges for your rifle.”

  Perley couldn’t help chuckling. His two older brothers were fretting over him like a couple of worried parents. “I reckon I’ll make out all right,” he said. “I think I’ve got everything I’ll need, and as long as I’ve got my rifle and cartridges, I reckon I won’t starve.”

  With everything ready, he threw his saddle on the big bay gelding he favored most. Working cattle, he used many different horses, but the bay was his personal horse. He was named Buck after Perley’s brother John bet him a dollar he couldn’t saddle-break the horse. Perley not only won the bet, but in the process, gained a four-legged friend that bucked off every other rider who climbed on his back. It didn’t take long before all the crew at the Triple-G Ranch learned that it was no use cutting Buck out of the remuda, because they wouldn’t stay in the saddle for long before the horse came back to the barn looking for Perley. His brothers chided him for making a pet of the horse, but they could not deny the big bay’s strength and stamina.

  On hand to see Perley off, one of the older ranch hands, Fred Farmer, was there to offer his help. Fred had spent a great deal of his life in the mountains of Oklahoma and suggested the best way for Perley to start looking for his grandfather was to go to a trading post he knew about in that part of the country.

  “What you oughta do,” Fred advised, “since you don’t really know that country, is to follow the Kiamichi River up through the Choctaw Nation. It’s gonna be about sixty-five miles or so after you cross the Red, but if you stay on the river, you’re bound to strike that store. It’s run by a feller named Russell Byers—I reckon he’s still there. If he ain’t, his son’s most likely runnin’ the tradin’ post. There ain’t any other places up that way for folks to buy supplies, that I know of.”

  “’Preciate it, Fred,” Perley said. “That’s just what I’ll do.”

  Ready to ride, he held up when his mother came out on the porch and called to him. She walked down the steps to stand at his stirrup.

  “Here,” she said and handed him a small velvet pouch. “This is the locket your grandfather gave your grandmother when they were married. Your grandfather might not believe you if you tell him you’re his grandson. Show him the locket inside this pouch and he’ll know.”

  She stepped back then, and he put the pouch in his inside vest pocket.

  “And son,” she said, “you be careful and come back home safely.”

  “I will, Ma.”

  He said good-bye then and rode out of the yard on Buck, leading a sorrel packhorse, heading north toward the Red River, two miles from the ranch. Once he crossed over into Oklahoma Territory, he would start up the Kiamichi for about twenty miles or so before resting his horses. Behind him, his brothers stood watching him until he passed through the front gate.

  “Damned if that ain’t a waste of time,” John commented after Fred Farmer had left them to return to his work and their mother went back inside. “There ain’t nothin’ up in that part of the country that woulda kept Grandpa there for very long.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Rubin replied, “but if it’ll bring Ma some peace, I reckon it’s worth wastin’ a little of Perley’s time. I don’t know if that old man is still alive after all these years. If he was, he mighta come back to Texas before now.” He shrugged and said, “Maybe Perley can at least come back and tell her that Grandpa’s long gone from there.”

  “I hope he’ll be all right,” John said. There was a definite hint of concern in his remark.

  “Grandpa?” Rubin asked.

  “No, Perley,” John answered. “He’s got a natural knack for walkin’ right in the middle of trouble, when nobody else even comes close, and he’s been actin’ kinda quiet the last few days.”

  His comment brought a chuckle from Rubin. “He didn’t tell you?”

  When John looked puzzled, R
ubin continued.

  “He thought that little gal in the diner in town was shinin’ up to him, and he found out she’s been shinin’ up to every other bachelor in the county. So, he’s been feelin’ kinda foolish for thinkin’ about courtin’ her.” He chuckled again. “I told him he just ain’t learned enough about women yet.”

  “Well, I swear,” John chuckled. “I told him that he’s gonna hafta start goin’ to church to find the kind of gal he’s lookin’ for. Hell, Lucy Tate shines up to me every time I go in there.”

  Although his brothers felt a little sorry for him to have been saddled with a futile endeavor, Perley was of no such frame of mind. In fact, he was looking forward to what he perceived as an adventure and a welcome break from the usual mundane ranch chores. He had always held a curiosity about the man he had been named for, so who could be a better choice to go in search of his grandpa? As for the subject of Lucy Tate, he was grateful now that he had found out what a flirt she was before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

  * * *

  It was toward the middle of the second day when he came to the trading post Fred had told him about. A low log structure sitting in a clearing close to the riverbank, the store appeared to have had two additions built onto the back of it. No doubt to accommodate a growing family, Perley thought. He must be doing fairly well.

  As if to attest to that fact, there were three horses tied in front of the store at the hitching rail. In addition, there was a barn to one side of the store with several horses in the corral. Perley dismounted, looped Buck’s reins over the end of the rail, and walked inside.

  He paused at the door to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dimly lit room. A fire in the stone fireplace at the far end of the room was the only light, other than a lamp on the end of the counter.

  “Well, howdy, stranger,” a tall, thin man behind the counter greeted him. “It’s gettin’ a little raw outside, ain’t it? I reckon the Good Lord ain’t ready to call it summertime yet.”

  “That’s a fact,” Perley replied. “That fire yonder looks mighty friendly.”

  He glanced toward a table near the fireplace to see three men seated and obviously warming their insides with the contents of a glass jar. All three paused to take a good look at him. He turned his attention back to the man behind the counter.

  “Would you by any chance happen to be Russell Byers?”

  “No,” he said, smiling. “I’m Bob Byers. Russell Byers is my pap. What can I do for you?”

  “You know a man named Perley Gates?”

  “Pearly Gates?” Bob replied. “Can’t say as I do. Is that really a man’s name?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s my grandfather, and last we heard of him, he was roamin’ these parts—thought you mighta seen him down this way.”

  “Well, like I said, I ain’t ever heard of anybody named Pearly Gates, but maybe my pap has,” Bob suggested. “You wanna ask him?”

  “Yes, sir, I surely would. Is he round about?”

  “He’s settin’ in the kitchen, drinkin’ coffee,” Bob said. “Come on and you can ask him.”

  He led Perley to a door in the corner of the room that led to the kitchen and a white-haired old man seated at a long table.

  When the door opened, the old man looked up quickly and asked, “Bob?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, Pa,” Bob answered. “I’ve got a feller come to see you, lookin’ for the Pearly Gates.”

  “Well, he ain’t likely to find ’em lookin’ in here,” Russell Byers replied.

  “I’m lookin’ for a man named Perley Gates, Mr. Byers,” Perley said. “I’m hopin’ you might know something about him.” It occurred to him that the old man was almost blind, judging from the way his gaze seemed to have trouble finding him. “My name’s Perley Gates, too. The man I’m lookin’ for is my grandpa.”

  “Perley Gates,” Russell responded. “That’s a name I ain’t heard for a while, and that’s a fact. Perley used to show up here every now and then, but not since my boy took over the store. And that’s been over a year ago, ever since I got so damn blind I can’t see what I’m doin’.”

  He reached for his coffee cup, just managing to grab it before he tipped it over. “You want some coffee? I would offer you somethin’ stronger, but I never sold any likker. It’s against the law here in the nations.”

  “I don’t ever turn down a cup of coffee,” Perley replied. He figured that Russell’s son must have branched out into the whiskey business unbeknownst to the old man after he went blind. Thinking of the three men he had just seen in the store, he doubted that was apple juice they were drinking.

  “Ruby!” Russell yelled. In a few moments, a woman walked in from a back room. “Pour Mr. Perley Gates a cup of coffee.”

  Ruby, who Perley guessed to be a Choctaw, went to the cupboard at once to fetch a cup. She filled it and placed it on the table before Perley, giving him a faint smile before turning and leaving the room.

  “Now, about your grandpappy,” Russell continued, “did you look in that camp of his?”

  “No, sir,” Perley replied. “That’s my problem. I ain’t ever been to his camp, so I’m hopin’ to find somebody who can tell me where it is.”

  He went on to explain why he had never seen his grandfather and the purpose of his search for him after so many years. “I need to tell him that his only son, my father, just passed away. We heard he had a place up in the Sans Bois Mountains, but I ain’t got no idea where in those mountains. To tell you the truth, I ain’t sure how to find the Sans Bois Mountains. I don’t know much about the Oklahoma Territory this far east. The only time I’ve ever been in Oklahoma is on cattle drives up through Indian Territory on the Western Trail up to Kansas.”

  Russell slowly shook his head and scratched his beard thoughtfully before responding. “Well, I ain’t never been to ol’ Perley’s camp, myself,” he said. “But I reckon I can tell you how to get to the Sans Bois Mountains.”

  “That’s a start,” Perley said. “I’d appreciate it—save me a lotta time.”

  “It’s a pretty far piece from here,” Russell started, “about fifty miles, but it’s an easy trail to follow. Just make sure you take the right one, ’cause there’s quite a few trails branchin’ off from the river track that brought you to my store. They’re goin’ to different little settlements and farms, but the one that runs straight north to the Sans Bois is easy to find, if you know what to look for.”

  He went on to tell Perley to continue following the river trail for about another four miles until he came to a long, low ridge running parallel to the river. “There’s a gap in the middle of that ridge, and the trail you want runs right through it. You’ll know it; there’s a big old cottonwood bent over almost to the ground right next to it. At least, there was. I reckon it’s still there.”

  They talked for another twenty or thirty minutes before Perley took his leave, because Russell was happy to talk about Perley Gates. Listening to much of what Russell remembered, Perley learned that his old grandpa was somewhat of a character.

  “I surely do appreciate your help, Mr. Byers,” Perley finally declared, “and I thank you for the coffee.”

  “Not a’tall, Perley,” Russell said, extending his hand. “You stop back to see me—let me know if you found your granddaddy.”

  Back in the store, Perley thought to thank Bob Byers as well on his way out. Before he reached the counter, he heard the taunting call of his name.

  “Pearrrrleeee,” one of the three sitting at the table called out, sounding close to a birdcall, causing his two companions to chuckle.

  This was not the first time Perley had encountered someone mocking his name, so he ignored it and kept walking.

  “Pearly Gates,” one of the other two called out then. Evidently finding it to be hilarious, they all laughed heartily.

  With no desire to rise to the bait to defend his name, especially with three drunks, Perley continued to the bar to thank Bob for his help. He was a little irritated to see
Bob with a wide grin on his face and knew at once that he had informed the drinkers that his name was Perley Gates.

  “Wanna thank you for your help,” Perley said anyway. “I enjoyed talkin’ to your pa.”

  Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of chairs being shoved back from the table, and he knew he was going to be unable to avoid a confrontation. He turned to face the challenge, relieved somewhat to see that there was only one man walking toward him. The other two had just pushed their chairs back in order to more comfortably watch the fun certain to come.

  A fairly tall man, although gangly in his build and walk, favored Perley with a drunken grin. It was easy to guess he and his friends were most likely small-time outlaws, maybe cattle or horse thieves. Aided no doubt by the courage found in a jar of whiskey, the man strode up unsteadily, stopping almost in Perley’s face.

  “Is your name Pearly Gates, like them gates up in Heaven?”

  Aware then that the man was even drunker than he had first appeared to be, Perley took a step back to avoid his breath. “Yes, sir, it sure is, only it ain’t spelled the same,” he answered. “What’s yours?”

  This seemed to confound the belligerent drunk for a moment. “Ain’t none of your business what my name is,” he finally slurred.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Perley said, favoring him with a friendly smile. “It was mighty neighborly of you to come over to say howdy. I’d like to stay and chew the fat with you, but I expect I’d best get along.”

  “What’s your hurry, friend?” The drifter took a step closer.

  Forced to take another step backward, Perley was still determined to avoid the trouble the bully was just as determined to provoke. “I’ve got a ways to ride today, so I’d best get started. Otherwise, I’d enjoy hangin’ around and jawin’ with you and your friends.”

  He took a step to the side, thinking to walk around his antagonist, but the drunken drifter stepped in front of him again. Seeing he was not to have a choice, Perley exhaled a long sigh of resignation and said, “All right, friend, you’ve had your laugh makin’ fun of my name, but I’ve wasted all the time I plan to on the likes of you. Now, if you’ll step outta my face, I’ll get on my way and you and your partners can get back to suckin’ foolishness outta that jar.”