The Remittance Man by K. B. Ross
Accused of a shooting in his native England, John Stuart is sent to the British owned ranch in America’s Wyoming
territory until his name was cleared. Pursued by British authorities, he finds refuge at a homesteader’s home near
Laramie City. Being unaccustomed to manual labor due to his high social position, John acquires a new respect for
tools and the men who use them. The Norwegian family provides the strength and courage for John to become a
western hero.

THE REMITTANCE MAN

by K. B. Ross

CHAPTER 1

John Stuart stepped from the grimy stagecoach to the dusty street of Hawk Springs, Wyoming.
He did not expect it to be like his native England, but this was beyond his comprehension. The
amber plains seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon and not a single tree stopped his view. 
He grunted disgustedly at the scene.

 “You have anything up here?” the stage driver asked as he eyed the empty luggage rack.
He removed the dusty, sweat stained hat and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his dirty shirt.
The west wind rustled his oily, shoulder length hair and he pushed it back with a gloved hand
then slapped the hat back in place. He stood full length in front of the driver’s seat and
brushed his dusty, brown trousers. “Long hot summer we had,” he said. “October’s here and
it’s still too warm for me.” When his passenger said nothing, the driver checked the luggage
rack again. “You have anything up here?”

John shook his head. “No, I have nothing.”  All he owned had been lost somewhere
between Chicago and Cheyenne. He grunted again, brushed the dust covering his blue
suit, and slapped the Derby hat against his thigh. He ran his grimy hand through his dark
hair and replaced the hat.

Dirt whirled down the street as a dust devil spun through town chasing tumbleweeds
before it. The whirlwind passed as quickly as it came and disappeared at the end of the
dusty street that bordered the edge of town.

The man cursed quietly as he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped
the dirt from his eyes and face. He had seen small towns before, but this was the ultimate,
he thought. His gaze followed the buildings pressed together on one side of the street as
if holding each other up against the never resting prairie wind. The town consisted
of a saloon, general store, and blacksmith shop.

The late October sun felt warm, but the west wind carried a chill announcing the
future days of winter. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and surveyed the wide
treeless plains that were to be his home. His eyes roamed the vastness, the tall grass
bowing in the breeze. Like the ocean, he thought, that separates me from the cool
green lanes of England. He shook the thought from his mind and fought back bitter
memories that ravaged his sleep at night. Then his mind slowed back to the present,
to the immense stillness and the dust of Wyoming. Sighing deeply, he stepped upon
the boardwalk in front of the saloon and waited for the man who was to take him to
the Stuart Ranch.

Music and loud laughter pulled his attention toward the swinging doors. Inside,
he saw the bartender, with garters on his sleeves, pulling a song from the piano that
needed to be turned. Three young men in tall hats and chaps covering their pants sang
off key and raised their glasses.

John chuckled at the sight, remembering similar experiences with his friends in
England. Home sickness crept through him and he turned from the door. The smile
slipped to a frown and the light in his eyes darkened. “Oh, to be in England,” he
whispered. “Oh, to be home in England.” His melancholy was shaken by a horse
drawn wagon pulling up beside him.

“You John Stuart?” The driver asked.

John swallowed a lump growing in his throat then squared his shoulders.
A steady gaze replaced the uncertainty. He cleared his throat and tried to sound
confident. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m Forest Graves, foreman at the Stuart Ranch.” He stuck out a big hand.

John cautiously eyed the tall man from his massive shoulders to the holstered
gun hanging on his narrow hip. Shaking the man’s hand, he nodded and smiled. “It’s
good to meet you, I’m sure.”

Forest smiled from beneath his dirty brown Stetson. He had encountered these
British men before, but could never fully understand the composure they displayed
in difficult times. “Climb on up. We’ve a ways to go.”

A young man watched the proceedings from the swinging doors of the saloon.
He staggered to the wagon and leaned heavily against it. Pushing his hat back,
he studied John and sneered showing tobacco stained teeth. He blinked his blood
shot eyes and gave his attention to Forest. A guttural laugh slithered from his throat
as he glanced at John. “He one of them bad English boys” He chuckled wickedly like
the cackle of a witch. “When are they gonna stop sending these worthless remittance
men to run the ranches?”

John’s head snapped to meet the cowboy’s gaze. His clear blue eyes narrowed
and his mouth became a straight line of disgust. He leaned toward the cowboy and
started to speak, but Forest gave the horses a slap and John grabbed hold of the
buckboard. He glanced over his shoulder and watched the cowboy stagger back
to the saloon. The Englishman knew about remittance men. They lived off the
allowances provided by their fathers or other members of the family. They
were the sons of wealthy families and their backgrounds were tinged with
little wrongdoings. John, himself, fit into this category.

John grabbed hold of the wagon seat as it bumped over a clump of sagebrush.
He looked at the endless miles of prairie and blinked back the memory branded
in his mind. His reason for being here differed from other remittance men who had
come across the sea. A reckless party, a seemingly unloaded dueling pistol, and
the body on the plush blue carpet caused his appearance on the broad Wyoming
plains. He shook the incident from his mind as the rollicking wagon bumped along
the dusty road.

“How much further?” He yelled at Forest above the noisy wagon.

Forest pointed a hand full of leather lines down the road. “Just over the hill,” he c
alled back.

“Just over the hill,” John mimicked in disgust. Then he chuckled and shook his head.
The stage trip from Cheyenne was beginning to show. John yawned and shook the
weariness from his head. He turned in the seat and checked the road behind.
Only the wagon’s dust could be seen. Squinting, he searched beyond the dust.
Satisfied no one was following, he faced forward again.

Forest noticed his fidgeting. “We haven’t seen anyone new around here.”
He motioned behind with a nod. “Those lawmen following you won’t be here for a spell.”

John nodded and relaxed. He sighed and let the air escape in a long, drawn out breath.
“They’ll be here, though. That’s a certainty.” He folded his arms and watched the late
afternoon sun send shafts of light through the clouds hugging the western horizon.

As they topped a hill, John saw the planes give way to a sheltered valley watered by
a sparkling stream. A ranch house stood tall and lonely against the sunset.

As the wagon stopped in front of the two story white frame house, a short wiry man
with thinning white hair hurried from the building. “Step on down. I’m Bill Juston, the
manager here. Supper’s on. Looks like you can use a good meal.” He extended his
hand in welcome.

John jumped from the wagon and grasped the tanned, callused hand. “Thank you.
I’d appreciate that.”

Bill took a step back and studied the exhausted Englishman. He motioned from
the Derby hat to the flat heeled shoes. “We’ll have to do something about this.”

John stretched out his arms and gazed at his clothes. “About what?” he asked
puzzled.

“I’ll fix you up,” Bill chuckled then gave his attention to Forest still sitting on the
wagon. “After John’s had something to eat, have Tuffy show him Thunderbolt. He’ll
need a good mount.”

Forest’s head snapped around to meet Bill’s gaze. “That’s a lot of horse.”

“He’ll need a lot of horse. The wranglers, riding herd to the south, saw a couple
men camped down by the creek. I wouldn’t doubt they’ll be here first light.”

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