After breakfast, we’d ride out from the Bar DD—all except Walter Butler, no longer blind from the snow, but still mending, still weak—and work the cattle, try to find spots where the snow wasn’t too deep. Kept right on working.
Word come of a bad train wreck west of Helena, but nothing more about John Henry. Nothing about the Gows. Tell you the truth, I started to miss school. Oh, Mrs. MacDunn give me a Reader, told me I needed to keep up my education, and Lainie would still come over on Sunday evenings, and we’d practice some from Treasure Island. But I missed seeing all those other kids who had attended school. You grow a little restless, seeing nothing but a white horizon, seeing the same faces, hearing the same voices, the same jokes. December had just started, and winter stays a long time in this country.
When the next storm hit, we bundled ourselves up, and rode out, trying to keep the cows from drifting to the river. All those layers of clothes must have weighed a ton, but the wind still pierced our veins, and snow stung our eyes, about the only part of our bodies not covered with some kind of clothing. The temperature dropped to right at zero, and, after a few hours, you could hardly see anything but a wall of snow.
Ish Fishtorn rode up, yelled at me to turn back, that we needed to get back to the bunkhouse. That man wasn’t about to get an argument from me, so we returned to the Bar DD, waiting for the blizzard to blow itself out.
It did, but not till two, three days had passed.
Another break came, and I got to suspicioning such turns in the weather. They’d get our hopes up, make us believe things would be all right, then winter would blast her chillsome fury again. Snow wasn’t that deep, maybe five or seven inches, but it turned hard and icy, and drifts piled everywhere, and those drifts might reach four, maybe six feet high.
Well, one morning after I had coffee-ed up and went to fork hay into the corrals, I spied a rider. First visitor we’d had since Tommy rode up, and I watched him come, riding a black horse, all hunched over from the wind and bitter cold. Tommy had come up when it was thirty degrees, but on that morning it was right at seven, and the wind just tore through you. Didn’t think anybody would be riding to the Bar DD for no social visit.
The man reined up in front of me, wearing green eyeglasses to protect him from snowblindness, covered in an ice-crusted buffalo robe, and a coyote-fur cap. I didn’t recognize him until he spoke my name, said I was just the fellow he had come to see.
“What you want with me?” I asked Bitterroot Abbott.
“I ain’t talking to you out here, boy!” he snapped. “I got caught in this storm a day out of Helena, and, if I don’t get some coffee and a hot stove, I’m apt to start shooting.”
Pitchfork in hand, I led his horse into the barn, directed Bitterroot to the bunkhouse, said I’d be in directly after I saw to his horse. He studied me a moment. I couldn’t see his eyes through them funny-looking glasses, but I could tell he wondered if I’d run off from him. Crazy notion. Like I’d go anywhere in this weather. Reckon he come to the same conclusion, because he left me with his dun horse, and I put the gaunt animal in a stall with some grain and water. Had to bust ice in the bucket so the poor animal could drink. Threw his saddle and traps on a peg, and walked to the bunkhouse to see what a gunman like Bitterroot Abbott wanted with a cowboy like me.
When I walked into the bunkhouse, Bitterroot had shed his big buffalo coat—about as mangy a thing as I’d ever seen—and coyote cap, and was warming his hands by the stove, talking to Gene Hardee, who stood beside him on his crutches, holding a tin cup. Both men looked at me. My eyes locked on the six-point badge pinned on Bitterroot’s bib-front shirt.
“You a lawman?” I asked.
Bitterroot snorted. “I didn’t steal this badge, boy. Can you read it? It says Deputy U.S. Marshal.” He tapped the piece of shiny nickel. I’d pegged him for maybe a stock detective, but nothing like a federal peace officer.
Walter Butler sat in his bunk, saddle-stitching a pouch he’d been working on, but, noisy like he was prone to be, he put down his needles, deer hide, and sinew thread, and trained all his attention on me and Bitterroot Abbott. I hung my coat on the hanger, removed my scarf, hat, and gloves, working slowly, as unhasty as I could, but Bitterroot wasn’t going nowhere, so at last I joined him and Gene Hardee at the stove.
“Hoped you was here,” Bitterroot said.
“I ain’t done nothing,” I told him. I was defensive and defiant, yet truthful. I hadn’t done a thing except work cattle and try to keep from freezing. I feared he wanted to arrest me for a robbery or murder. “I haven’t been to Helena since . . . September . . . I reckon.”
With a contemptuous snort, Bitterroot put his coffee cup down. “This badge means I got jurisdiction not just in Helena, boy, but all across the district of Montana. I go wherever Marshal Kelley wants me to go, and I bring back whoever he sends me after. That’s my job.” He nodded, and reached inside a canvas bag he’d dropped by his feet, still talking. “Major MacDunn’s letter of introduction proved mighty handy. The major thought I’d be a big service to him in a fight against Gow. ’Course, that war never panned out, but I’m beholden to the major. Pretty good job I got. Or so I thought, till I got caught in that God-awful blizzard. But, here I am, doing my job.” He handed me a folded photograph, which he’d fetched out of his bag.
Slowly I pulled back the cold paper, careful not to rip it, and stared. Felt sick down to my stomach when I realized what I was looking at. A girl, younger than me. Hard to say with her face so cut up, yet I could tell she was dead when the picture got took.
Gene Hardee gasped, and swore at Bitterroot Abbott for showing such a thing, and Walter Butler jumped out of his bunk, and hurried over to see. When Gene started to jerk the photograph from my trembling fingers, Abbott snapped: “No, I want him to keep looking at it. I want him to remember it.”
I dropped the picture to my side before Walter Butler got an eyeful. “What . . . I don’t . . . what’s this . . . got to do with me?” I looked at the lawman, but I couldn’t get that girl out of my mind. Bloody, bashed up, folded hands holding a little old rag doll to her chest.
“Her name was Velna Oramo.”
“I never heard of her. Never seen her before.”
“I know that, boy. I just want you to remember her. She was on that train.”
“What train?”
“The one derailed at the Little Blackfoot. Killed the engineer, killed the fireman, killed a drummer named Kelley, and it killed this here girl. Velna Oramo. Broke both of her mother’s legs, not to mention her heart. Hurt a lot of other people, but it’s the girl’s death that got the Northern Pacific riled, got everyone in Helena wanting blood. She was nine years old.”
“You should run the photographer who took that picture out of Helena,” Gene Hardee said. “Takes one sick. . . .”
“He’s no fiend,” Bitterroot said. “Pictures like that make things personal, shows Montana what . . .”
I’d heard enough. “I don’t know this girl. I don’t know anything about that accident. I. . . .”
“Wasn’t no accident, Hawkins. That train was derailed on purpose.”
Now, I understood. I dropped the photo. Waited for Bitterroot Abbott to finish.
“Your pard, John Henry Kenton was seen. Been identified. He stole a pickaxe from a railroad tool shed. Was overheard at the Crabtown Saloon saying he’d get even with the railroad. Said the N.P. never should have brought in barbed wire. Kenton’s a murderer, Hawkins. A vicious, terrible murderer . . . four times over. A child killer. I’d hang him four times. I’d hang him forty times. He’ll only hang once, but I’m after him, and you know me. I don’t trust lawyers, and judges, and hangmen. And I figure you might know where he is.” He pointed at the photograph by my dripping boots.
“Well?” he said.
I let his words sink in, but couldn’t say anything. I’d close my eyes, and see that girl. I’d imagine the wreck. My stomach got all twisted.
Gene Hardee broke the sile
nce. “Tommy O’Hallahan? Was he seen in Helena? At the Little Blackfoot?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear Bitterroot’s answer. “No,” the gunman said. “Kenton was alone. Nobody knows what become of the other boy. Reckon folks would remember a face like his.”
Abbott told us more. Kenton watched the wreck. The fireman lived long enough to describe him and the big sorrel horse he was riding. Other witnesses on the train and at the Crabtown Saloon gave a judge enough reason to issue a warrant for John Henry’s arrest.
“The N.P.’s put up a five hundred dollar reward for Kenton,” Abbott said, “and the residents of Helena added to that pile another five hundred. I aim to collect it. So I’m asking you once more, Hawkins. Where’s Kenton?”
“Forget it, Abbott,” Gene Hardee said. “Major MacDunn ordered Kenton off this range. Kenton’s not here. Haven’t seen him since Tristram Gow fired him. Jim Hawkins has been here, working hard. Boy helped save my hide when I busted my ankle in that first bad storm to hit us.”
Abbott stared at me, but finally he nodded. “All right. The Bar DD was on my way. Figured I’d ride over to Gow’s place.”
“Gow wouldn’t have anything to do with that!” Hardee pointed at the photograph on the floor.
“Well, I aim to collect that reward. Likely that dead girl’s parents will offer even more than the thousand bucks already on Kenton’s hide.”
“It’s just an arrest warrant, Abbott,” Hardee said. “He hasn’t been found guilty, yet.”
“The man’s guilty in my eyes. But no matter. What about the other one? The one-eyed kid, the boy who helped tear up all that wire by the river. He around?”
Holding my breath, I was thankful that Abbott looked at Hardee when he asked that question, and when Hardee answered.
“He’s not here. You’re welcome to stay, see for yourself. Ish, Melvin, and the rest of the boys should get back before dusk.”
Abbott’s eyes whipped back to me.
“What about you, Hawkins? You seen . . . ? I disremember his name.”
“Tommy,” I answered. “Tommy O’Hallahan. No, sir, I haven’t seen him since . . .” I shrugged. Not altogether a lie, I reasoned, and just hoped Walter Butler would keep his big mouth shut, prayed that Abbott wouldn’t ask Walter anything. He didn’t. Didn’t even look at Walter Butler.
“All right.” Abbott picked up the photograph by the puddle of snow melt, started to put it back in his sack, then walked over to my bunk, found my war bag, and shoved it inside, deep. “I’ll let you keep this, boy,” he said. “In case you see that Texas rawhide again. I might even be inclined to give you a bit of that reward if you tell me something I need to know. Something that helps me find Kenton.”
“He’s probably already in Canada,” Hardee said.
“If he is, I’ll find him,” Abbott said. “Marshal Kelley’s posting me at Great Falls, so if you hear anything about Kenton, you get word to me there. I’ll find him wherever he is.”
* * * * *
“Why’d you lie about Tommy?” I asked Gene Hardee after Bitterroot Abbott rode out of sight.
“Didn’t lie,” Hardee said with sad smile. “O’Hallahan ain’t here. He’s at the Sun River Cañon line shack.” With his pocket knife, he carved off a piece of chewing tobacco, and put the quid in his mouth. “I’m not fond of Abbott,” he said after a moment, “and I’ll give O’Hallahan, after all he’s been through, the benefit of a doubt. For now. But we’ll need to keep our eyes open for Kenton. I’ll ask O’Hallahan a few questions when he comes down for Christmas. But, Jim, if you run across Kenton, you light a shuck. Don’t talk to him, just ride away.
Man’s gone loco.” I think it was the winter.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Christmas came and went, but Tommy never showed. That weighed heavy on poor Mrs. MacDunn. She fretted over Tommy about as much as I did, but Gene Hardee and Ish Fishtorn assured her that he likely lost track of the days. Wasn’t no calendar at that line shack, or he simply had his hands full trying to keep the cattle out of the freezing river. Besides, the weather wasn’t so inviting for a sixteen-year-old boy to ride those umpteen miles through snowdrifts and a miserable wind just for roasted goose and Sally Lunn bread. I hoped Tommy just wanted, needed, to be alone.
On Christmas night, it started snowing again, and it kept falling for two days. The wind wailed, and, when the storm finally broke, Gene Hardee sent Busted-Tooth Melvin up to the Sun River to check on Tommy. He said it was for Mrs. MacDunn’s sake, but I suspect he worried over Tommy, too.
While we were waiting for Busted-Tooth Melvin’s return, we got another visitor, and I didn’t know what kind of welcome Major MacDunn would give Tristram Gow.
Never been much of a hand as a farrier, but Hardee had me shoeing horses with Old Man Woodruff. That’s where I was when the rider come up. Upon hearing the major cussing, me and Woody put down our tools, and walked out of the barn, and into the wind.
“I warned you about setting foot on my land, Gow,” Major MacDunn said.
Mr. Gow sat atop a big brown gelding, and he looked terrible, slumped in the saddle, and, when he removed his goggles—he had cut a little slit in them, protection from snowblindness so he could see—I saw how bloodshot his eyes were, how pale he was.
“Please . . .” he began.
“Gow!” The major gripped the butt of the Bulldog revolver he’d stuck in his waistband.
“Please.” This time it was Mrs. MacDunn doing the begging.
The wind moaned through the cracks in the barn walls.
“It’s Melvina,” Mr. Gow said, choking back a cry of anguish.
The snow started falling, light at first, then steady. I remembered Camdan’s ma, a frail, weak sort, recalled the time we’d spent at the 7-3 Connected, her fretting over the fact she might have to take to the root cellar, her always bothered by the constant wind.
“Come inside, Tristram,” Mrs. MacDunn said, and the major barked a terrible oath, but Mrs. MacDunn ignored him, still speaking to Mr. Gow. “You look terrible.”
“It’s Melvina,” he repeated. “She’s run off.”
Hearing that, Major MacDunn eased his hand from the revolver, took a deep breath, then spotted me and Woody eavesdropping on them. I thought he’d tear into us, but he just barked an order for us to tend to Mr. Gow’s horse, so I come out, hesitant, and took the reins from Mr. Gow after he dismounted. Seeing him up close, I knew he’d been crying. Worrying over his wife. I wondered where she’d run off to. They walked into the house, and I led the heaving, cold brown gelding into the barn.
Old Man Woodruff sadly shook his head.
* * * * *
Lainie told me all about what was said inside the house. Mr. Gow explained to the MacDunns that his wife had run off right before Christmas. He’d been looking for her, half crazy with worry.
“That poor woman,” Mrs. MacDunn said.
“It’s her mind,” Mr. Gow said. “It’s gone.”
I think it was the winter.
He’d tried to deny it, Mr. Gow said, but Melvina Gow just couldn’t cope with the terrible solitude, the wind, a sky so big it stretched toward eternity. Drove her mad. She lost all of her faculties. Took off in the buckboard. Camdan and his pa had been working the stock, with all the other hands, so nobody knew that Mrs. Gow had left the ranch house until much later.
“I have searched all over for her. Followed her trail. Lost it when the snow started.” Mr. Gow kept shivering the whole time he talked, Lainie told me.
“How is Camdan?” Mrs. MacDunn asked.
“He’s all right. Or was. Worried sick. Like me. I left him at the ranch. I didn’t want him to find her in case. . . .” Mr. Gow started crying again. Took him five minutes before he could speak again, get control of himself.
“Gow,” the major said, “your house is a day’s ride from the Bar DD. In this weather. . . .”
“She had the buckboard,” Mr. Gow said. “I found it five miles from here, the horse dead, f
rozen in the traces. So she had to be alive then. I’d hoped . . . maybe. . . .”
“Five miles might as well be fifty,” the major said. “Or five hundred. A woman in her condition.”
“There’s always hope,” Mr. Gow said, “and I had hoped . . . prayed . . . maybe. . . .”
“She isn’t here,” the major told him. “Where was your buckboard?”
“In a coulée. A mile from the dry creekbed. I just. . . .”
Mrs. MacDunn give him a big dose of brandy to help settle his nerves, and looked at Major MacDunn. Looked at him long and hard, the two of them never saying a word.
“You know she’s dead,” Major MacDunn told Mr. Gow bluntly, and Mrs. MacDunn and Lainie closed their eyes.
“I just have to find her, William,” Mr. Gow said weakly. “Please.”
“The weather’s been warm,” Mrs. MacDunn said, looking at the major, her eyes hopeful. “Was warm. Maybe. . . .”
“She’s dead,” the major said.
“Father!” Lainie snapped.
“I have to find her,” Mr. Gow said. He started to rise, but his legs couldn’t work, and he collapsed on the settee.
Another long silence followed. Slowly Major MacDunn rose from his leather chair, and grabbed his black greatcoat. “Your horse wouldn’t carry you another mile,” he said. “I’m not sure you can travel ten feet. I shall go.”
With a determination that matched the major’s bullheadedness, Mr. Gow pushed himself to his feet. “I must ride with you, William,” he said firmly, but, when he spoke again, his voice faltered. “I have . . . must . . . she. . . .”
The major gave a nod of approval. “We will pick out a fresh mount for you. Come, Tristram. We shall find your wife.”
* * * * *
They packed enough supplies for three days, bundled up for the weather, and rode out. We helped the major saddle two good horses, as well as a pack mule, and Old Man Woodruff volunteered to help look for Melvina Gow, but the major wouldn’t hear of it.
Hard Winter Page 14