Montana Territory
Page 1
Pinnacle Westerns
by Spur Award–Winning Author
CHARLES G. WEST
THE JOHN HAWK WESTERNS
Hell Hath No Fury
No Justice in Hell
Montana Territory
THE COLE BONNER WESTERNS
Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing
MONTANA TERRITORY
A JOHN HAWK WESTERN
CHARLES G. WEST
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2020 Charles G. West
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-4560-0
Electronic edition:
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4561-7 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4561-2 (e-book)
FOR RONDA
CHAPTER 1
Army scout John Hawk stood on the bank of Sweet Grass Creek, waiting for the fifteen-man cavalry patrol to catch up to him. While he waited, he poked with his boot at a scorched bone from the ashes of a campfire. It required no scouting of the creek bank to tell him this was where the party of Indians had camped the night before. He knew it was the night just past because digging with his fingers in the ashes told him they were still warm from that morning. He could easily form a mental picture of the small party of Indian hunters gathered around the fire, enjoying a breakfast of fresh beef. His guess was Blackfoot, because he knew that his old friend Walking Owl and his village of old men and women were still trying to survive in this area below the Musselshell. His small band was all that was left of his village after the young warriors headed north to escape the army’s efforts to send them to the reservation. The village must have been desperate for food to have come down this far to butcher a cow from one of the ranches in the valley. In Hawk’s mind, the problem was that the ranchers had gotten to the point where they contacted the army at Fort Ellis every time they lost one cow to a group of starving Indians. And when they contacted the fort, that stolen cow was reported as a large part of their herd.
Hawk wasn’t enthusiastic about riding scout for these patrols, and Lieutenant Meade knew it, so he was surprised that Meade had assigned him to scout on this one. Meade was commander of all scouts, so he could pick anyone he wanted. He and Hawk had already established a condition of mutual dislike that had resulted in Meade being openly opposed to working with the tall scout with the hawk’s feather stuck in his hatband. They had had a couple of disagreements in the past, the last of which took place about twenty miles south of where Hawk presently stood. The incident came to mind now. It occurred at the Big Timber Hog Ranch when Hawk had tracked three outlaws to that compound on the Yellowstone River. The soldiers searched the cluster of small houses next to the main saloon but found no trace of the outlaws. Meade ordered the patrol back to Fort Ellis over Hawk’s argument that the three outlaws were there. Meade informed him that he had done a poor job of tracking and the patrol’s mission was impossible to complete. Hawk, in turn, informed the lieutenant that he knew damn well the three outlaws were in the compound, and he was just too anxious to call it quits and go home. Recalling it now got Hawk’s dander up. The fact that it was later found that he had been right was of no solace. In view of all this, he had to again wonder why Meade had assigned him to a patrol he was commanding. His thoughts on the matter were distracted then when he saw Ben Mullins emerge from the screen of trees beside the creek. The patrol was not far behind.
Sitting tall and erect in the saddle, as if on parade, Lieutenant Harvey Meade led his patrol into the clearing where Hawk waited. “Like you figured,” Ben commented when he pulled his horse up beside Rascal. He stepped down while Meade gave his men the order to dismount. “One bunch of poor-devil Injuns dropped down to get some fresh steaks,” Ben continued. “Where you reckon they’re headin’?”
“Yes, Hawk,” Lieutenant Meade interrupted. “Where do you think they’re driving those cattle?”
“Like I told you from the start,” Hawk answered, “they ain’t drivin’ any cattle. There ain’t any tracks of anymore cattle.” He nodded toward the ashes. “You’re lookin’ at the cow they stole, and it ’pears like they ate a good bit of it right here. To answer your question, though, it looks to me like they headed toward the Crazy Mountains with what they’ve got left.”
Meade considered that for a few moments before commenting, “I suppose that could be, or it could be a war party that just happened to stop here to eat before they swung south to raid again.”
Hawk shrugged. “It could be,” he said, “but it ain’t. They ain’t lookin’ to raid nobody. They ain’t in any shape to raid anybody. They’re just hungry, and there ain’t no more buffalo to hunt, thanks to us.”
“If they’re hungry, they should report to the reservation,” Meade snapped. “It’s our job to drive them there, if they don’t go willingly.”
“That’s one way of lookin’ at it,” Hawk allowed. “But it ain’t always turnin’ out for ’em like that. Judgin’ by what’s happened to some of their brothers, the reservation just gives them a place to sit around while they starve to death.”
Meade fixed on him with an expression of disgust. “Sometimes I forget your love for your Blackfoot friends. I was willing to give you the opportunity to demonstrate your loyalty to the people who pay your salary as a scout. But I can plainly see that your loyalty continues to ride with the Indians. In view of that, I’m telling you, as of this instant, you are no longer employed by the U.S. Army.” He waited for Hawk’s reaction, half expecting to have to have him restrained.
Hawk didn’t say anything for a long moment. He was not really surprised, but somewhat stunned by the incredibly simple excuse to fire him. He had known for a long time that it was Meade’s desire to fire him. But because of Hawk’s popularity with all the other officers, it had been difficult for him to find good reason. When Hawk finally responded, it was
to say, “Well, you’re the boss. I figured you’d come up with something sooner or later.” He turned to Ben Mullins, who appeared to be more in shock than Hawk was. “There are tracks on the other side of the creek where they headed back west toward the Crazy Mountains. They’ll most likely give you a good time tryin’ to find ’em up in those mountains.” With that, he turned, took Rascal’s reins, and led the big buckskin gelding toward the rear of the column, exchanging nods of good luck with several of the soldiers as he passed. Behind him, he heard Meade giving orders to rest the horses. Rascal deserved a rest as well, so to avoid any further conflict with the lieutenant, he walked a few dozen yards upstream before letting his horse go to water.
Hawk’s firing caused an awkward silence among the troopers. John Hawk had proven himself the most capable scout at Fort Ellis in the estimation of every soldier who had ever ridden with him. That opinion was shared by most of the other scouts who rode out of Fort Ellis. Soon the silence was breached by several whispered discussions about the unexpected firing, as several small fires were built to boil coffee. Off in his exile, Hawk decided a cup of coffee would taste pretty good right then as well. He gathered some dead limbs and soon had a fire going. He was down by the creek filling his coffeepot when he heard Ben Mullins behind him. “Put enough water in it for me.”
Hawk looked over his shoulder and smiled. “All right, I’ll fill it up, but ain’t you worried the lieutenant will see you drinkin’ coffee with me?”
“Well, he didn’t order me not to,” Ben said, “and me and you share a campfire most of the time, anyway.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe he’ll fire me, too. Then he can scout for himself.” He picked up a few sticks for the fire on his way back with Hawk and the coffeepot. Getting serious then, he said, “Damn, Hawk, that was a raw deal that son of a bitch just gave you. What the hell did you do to deserve that?”
“I don’t know, Ben. Some folks just have a natural dislike for other folks. Meade and I ain’t ever got along real good.” He paused to think about it. “And there was that time on the Yellowstone when I told him he was a damn fool for givin’ up on a patrol.” The thought of that brought a chuckle from him. “Meade don’t take criticism too well.”
Ben shook his head, still finding it hard to believe. “Can he fire you from your job like that? Without goin’ through Major Brisbin or anybody?”
“I reckon so,” Hawk said, placing the coffeepot on the edge of the fire, so it wouldn’t boil too fast. “He’s in command of all the scouts at Fort Ellis, so you’d best mind your p’s and q’s when you ride with him.”
“Maybe you can still scout at one of the other forts,” Ben suggested, genuinely worried for Hawk.
“Maybe I could,” Hawk allowed, “but I ain’t sure I even want to. I might just decide to give up scoutin’ for a livin’.”
“And do what?” Ben scoffed, thinking Hawk was born to be a scout.
“I don’t know, rob banks, I reckon.” He appreciated Ben’s concern over his loss of a job, but he was not greatly upset about it. He’d find something else to do—he always had.
* * *
When the horses were rested, the fires were put out, and the troopers were ordered to mount up. Hawk stood upstream and watched them move out as they crossed the creek and started toward the Crazy Mountains. He hoped that Ben would point out to the stubborn lieutenant that there were no tracks to support the rancher’s claims that the Indians were driving a sizable portion of his herd away. He gave a little whistle, and the buckskin came up from the edge of the creek at once. Hawk climbed on board, already thinking about some things he hadn’t gotten around to doing back at his cabin on the Boulder River. He would have time to replace some of the mud chinking on his stone chimney now that he was a free man. And he would need to do some hunting to make sure he had enough meat smoke-cured. First, however, he would have to return to Fort Ellis to get his packhorse and pick up the possibles he kept in one of the stables there. It was a day and a halfback to Fort Ellis. Rascal could make it in a day if he had to, but now, with all the time in the world at Hawk’s disposal, there was no need to push the buckskin.
As he rode, moving comfortably with Rascal’s easy rhythm, he thought about the patrol he had just left, and it occurred to him that he was relieved to have been fired. Old Walking Owl and his people had long been friends of his, and he wasn’t really comfortable leading a patrol to capture him. In fact, he sincerely hoped the old chief successfully escaped into the mountains. Ben Mullins was a good scout, but Walking Owl was a pretty shrewd old bird, and he had been avoiding army patrols for quite some time. Hawk was glad to be relieved of the task of finding the small village of Blackfeet, because he was confident that he could have tracked them down. Unlike Ben, he had lived with the Crow and the Blackfeet. He knew how they thought. He also suspected he knew Lieutenant Meade’s lack of determination. And if Walking Owl could manage to stay ahead of the cavalry patrol, he thought there was a good chance Meade would call it quits. It had been Hawk’s experience that Meade wasn’t comfortable when he reached the exhaustion of the rations drawn for an estimated number of days and would recall the patrol. So, with the chance of that possibility in mind, Hawk headed southwest, intending to strike the Yellowstone west of Big Timber and follow it in to Fort Ellis.
* * *
Over 150 miles northwest of Hawk’s position as he rode toward the Yellowstone River, an important meeting was taking place near the Missouri River at the farmhouse of Donald Lewis. Lewis, a quiet young man, was the pastor of a small religious community of the Society of Friends. The meeting today was not the usual weekly meeting for worship, as they called their church service. This meeting was called to discuss the final plans for the entire church to leave their farms and homes in this uncivilized territory downriver from Fort Benton. Just two nights before, Brother William Boston’s farm had been struck by the same raiders who had struck several of the other farms, running off stock and destroying gardens, even setting fires in some of the outbuildings. The little group of Friends had decided to migrate to more peaceful lands close to Helena, land enough to parcel off tracts for all of the seven families who had decided to go. A recent convert to the society, Brother David Booth had been instrumental in locating the new land near Helena and had volunteered to lead the party west along the Mullan Road. Everything the Friends owned, primarily their farms, but everything else other than their basic possessions, had been sold, the money from which would be used to buy what they needed in their new home. There had been some objections to selling their wagons, but Brother Booth had persuaded them to go by mule train and leave the cumbersome wagons behind. That way, he said, they could get to Helena much quicker with fewer stops for rest.
It had taken some time, and quite a few Indian raids, to persuade some of the Friends that this exodus was a sensible thing to do. But the promise of a nonviolent land at a very attractive price was enough to finally bring everyone around. Brother Lewis was convinced that David Booth had been sent to help them as a result of their fervent prayers. Though not a man of violence, he was obviously a strong man, and he was very familiar with the land they would buy near Helena. One of the purposes of this meeting tonight was to announce it was time to start out to their new homes. A general sum of cash had been accumulated through the sales of everyone’s property, enough to buy a tract of land large enough to accommodate every family, with enough left over to build a meetinghouse. It was time to go. As was their custom, at the end of the meeting there was a period of quiet contemplation, during which an occasional member voiced an inspirational thought that had come to him. On this night, all of those who saw fit to share their thoughts spoke in favor of going. And everyone agreed, all signs pointed toward a new beginning in the territory Brother Booth had suggested.
* * *
Half a day’s ride found Hawk at the Yellowstone, where he turned Rascal to the west. Riding about three miles to a spot where the river bowed around a rocky area, he left the road to co
ntinue straight ahead. Hawk had camped there before and found that, once past the rocky crags, there was a grassy clearing in the trees that lined the river and provided a secluded campsite over a hundred yards from the road. After pulling Rascal’s saddle off, he released the buckskin to go to the water, then he gathered some limbs to start a fire. With jerky, bacon, and hardtack enough to last him for a ten-day patrol, there was no shortage of food.
So, when he got his fire going, he went to the edge of the river to fill his coffeepot. “What are you snortin’ about?” he asked Rascal when he walked down the bank where the buckskin was drinking. The horse issued a few inquisitive whinnies as Hawk walked past him to fill his pot upstream from the spot where Rascal was stirring up the water. The horse whinnied again, causing him to stop and take a good look around him before deciding Rascal must have seen a muskrat or something. Thinking it was nothing, Hawk squatted on his heels and reached out to fill his coffeepot. It was then that he discovered what Rascal had been trying to tell him. Kneeling close to the ground, he could see a small moccasin under the low-hanging branches of a large chokecherry bush. He was surprised but gave no sign of having seen whoever was hiding in the bushes. If it was an ambush, he figured he’d be dead by now, so he continued filling his coffeepot. When it was full, he stood up and said, “I’m fixin’ to have me a cup of coffee and something to eat here in a few minutes. If you want some, you’ll have to come outta that bush to get it.”
There was no response from the owner of the moccasin, even though it was drawn quickly back when Hawk spoke. Judging by the size of the foot, he figured it to belong to either a young boy or a woman. From the glimpse he got of the beaded design on the moccasin before it was suddenly drawn back in the bushes, he guessed it to be Crow. “Suit yourself,” he said, after another few moments with no response. “I’ve got an extra cup and some food to cook. If you change your mind, come on out.” He turned and walked back toward his fire, which was burning nicely now.