Follow this Hunter story only here.
It's dawn, somewhere in the Nations. Frank Hunter has finished his coffee and is packing up his camp gear for another day on the trail. He walks relaxed and easy. He's been trailing outlaws in the Indian Nations for goin' on 20 years.
His gunbelts creak as he fills his canteen from the little stream he camped by. His big quarter-horse gelding is already saddled. His day begins where the last ended. Looking at a distinctive spot on a horseshoe print in the dirt along the well worn trail. He's 1 day ahead by the looks of the print. Hunter didn't want to catch him out in the open. He wanted to wait till he got to Walner. The talk was the railroad was comin' through here soon.
Frank Hunter was sad to hear it. Whistles and black coal smoke had a way of drawing people. This was about the last of the un-populatd places in the country. The railroad would end it. He quietly mounted up and got on the trail.
He was twenty miles or so south of a settlement called Walner up in what is call the Arbuckle Mountains. Jagged granite outcroppings lined the winding trail Hunter was on.
"I get over these hills and I'll camp on Wild Horse Creek tonight." Hunter said to himself as he picked his way up the steep slope of the south side of the pass. He'd try to noodle a catfish for supper.
His gunbelts creak as he fills his canteen from the little stream he camped by. His big quarter-horse gelding is already saddled. His day begins where the last ended. Looking at a distinctive spot on a horseshoe print in the dirt along the well worn trail. He's 1 day ahead by the looks of the print. Hunter didn't want to catch him out in the open. He wanted to wait till he got to Walner. The talk was the railroad was comin' through here soon.
Frank Hunter was sad to hear it. Whistles and black coal smoke had a way of drawing people. This was about the last of the un-populatd places in the country. The railroad would end it. He quietly mounted up and got on the trail.
He was twenty miles or so south of a settlement called Walner up in what is call the Arbuckle Mountains. Jagged granite outcroppings lined the winding trail Hunter was on.
"I get over these hills and I'll camp on Wild Horse Creek tonight." Hunter said to himself as he picked his way up the steep slope of the south side of the pass. He'd try to noodle a catfish for supper.
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Bobby
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Jul 27, 2017 07:19AM
The view from up here was breathtaking. The rocky hills (Hunter thought they were too small to call mountains) in the fore ground giving way to Blackjack, and Cottonwood trees. Then the plains in the background stretching away as far as you could see. Hunter rode at a slow walk watching the trail, stopping every now and then to look at a track. There was a chipped spot on the horse's left rear shoe that was leaving a distinctive print. As long as the horse didnt throw that shoe Hunter could track him to Canada if he cared to ride that far, and Hunter would do it. He never gave up on a bounty.
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Hunter headed down the north side of the hill following Honey Creek. There was a waterfall up ahead a little to the east of the trail. It ran cold and clear all year long, fed from a spring at the top of the hill. Hunter planned to bath in it if nobody was around. he picked his way down the winding trail through the rocks, and scrub bushes that were trying to be trees. When he reached the falls there was a family of skunks watering there, but no people. Hunter made a little racket so the skunks would know he was there. They finished their business and headed back to the bushes.
Hunter hung his clothes on a limb and eased into the cold spring water. He got in almost up to his privates and the fell backward. "No use puttin" it off." he said. After his heart stopped fluttering it felt great. He lathered up from the soap he had in his saddlebag. and relaxed there a while. He sat on a rock and dried in the sun afterward. He wasn't worried about the lead the killer had on him. He'd stop in Walner and drink.
Hunter camped that night on Wildhorse Creek. It's about ten miles north of the base of the Arbuckles. He caught a nice channel cat about fourteen inches long in a hole along the bank. After he skinned the catfish he went hunting. He shot a fat 'possum and skinned it along the creek bank. He fried the 'possum to render the fat, then he salted and peppered the cat fish and fried it in 'possum fat. It was a fine supper he thought as he sipped his coffee, the fire guttering down. He'd catch the killer tomorrow in Walner. He'd get his mind around what he had to do between here and there. He knew this one would fight, just like all the rest. They'd rather take their chances with a gun than swing on the gallows. Hunter didn't blame them either. The poster said Dead or Alive. That meant dead to Frank Hunter... He didn't want to talk.
Hunter woke up the next morning built the fire back up enough for coffee. He filled the coffee pot and his only canteen for the trail. He'd thought about it enough. It was twenty miles into Walner from here and he'd get there this evening. He knew the killer didn't suspect anyone trailed him from Texas. They always convince themselves they've gotten away with it. If he didn't run into trouble he'd take him in the morning.
