Bohanin's Last Days Read Online Free

moments of terror. Patrol duty was a daily drudging of men and horses under a harsh sun constantly exposed to strength sapping winds. Brutish endurance in search of an enemy that would hit and run, never choosing to take a stand unless numbers or conditions were greatly in their favor. His men would become frustrated and short-tempered after long periods of searching for an opponent that would most likely be miles away. It seemed odd how the presence of a few struggling saplings held a promise of a different, more docile land especially now that the Indian was gone, replaced by the occasional homestead of freshly-worked farm ground.
    Bohanin tugged the brim of his hat to draw it closer. He adjusted himself in the buggy seat and straightened the folds of his light brown tweed traveling suit. The casual fit of the civilian fabric presented an odd contrast to the heavy cavalry blue. After thirty years of service, it would take a while to condition himself to his new status and dress.
    Tucked in a simple cross-draw holster at vestline on his left side was his .44 cartridge conversion open framed Colt revolver. Bohanin had not purchased a new .45 Colt Army, which was an officer’s choice, when they began being issued in ‘73.’ He had converted his 1860 percussion Colt several years before and preferred its balance. He had a local gunsmith shorten the barrel from the issued eight inches to a more manageable five. Bohanin never considered himself to be a gunman. He wore the revolver because it was the fashion. He favored the model ‘66’ Yellowboy Winchester lever action carbine resting in a scabbard on the seat. Bohanin was a rifleman and the carbine had been his first choice since he had purchased it.
    Bohanin held up his mare at a particularly nice spot along the river and gave her some time to blow. He stepped from the buggy to stretch his legs. Watching the water he thought of the farewell reception. Only a few officers attended. Farewell toasts, a fine dinner and easy conversation had been much to his favor. More than an hour had been spent after most of the guests had left in conversation with the Lysters. He had always been fond of them and envied his friend for his fine family. Mrs. Lyster teased Bohanin about starting a family of his own now that he was free from the service. Bohanin knew he was too old to ever be able to conform to the demands of a wife and children. He would live out his days as a bachelor in modest comfort.
    Bohanin stepped into the buggy and urged the brown on. There was a trading post a few miles on at a new town called Kinsley and he wanted to spend the night there with his old friend Buck Gunnison. There would be plenty of nights on his trek to California when he would have to sleep on the ground. He had seen enough of that sort of life in the service. A good cigar, a quiet glass of whiskey, a friendly card game with Buck and a soft bed would be an excellent way of celebrating his first night of retirement.
    Gunnison’s Trading Post was built along the river several years before the railroad settlement. The business sat apart from the rest of the town that twisted along the open area between the old Santa Fe Trail and the new AT&SF rail line. The old soddy had been replaced by a more modern frame building Gunnison had erected to service railroad workers. The establishment was a place to get a room, a decent if not extravagant meal and a few supplies. There was also a corral for the mare and the original soddy for a stable.
    Bohanin drove his buggy to the soddy and asked a stable boy if he knew whether there were any rooms available for the night. The boy only pointed toward the house and mumbled like a half-wit. Gunnison, an old spike hunter who had given up chasing the beasts stepped from the back of the building.
    â€œYou don’t need to worry. He understands you,” Gunnison said.
    Bohanin smiled. “Got any rooms?”
    Gunnison sat on the steps, wiped his