Montana Territory

by Charles G. West

  “Whoo, boy!” one of the three men drinking at the next table taunted. “How ’bout that, Lige? Those two old ladies have been playin’ high-stakes checkers and the prissy one is holdin’ thirty-five cents in prize money.”

  “He best be lookin’ out for somebody wantin’ to rob him, if he leaves here totin’ all that cash,” Lige responded. All three at the table enjoyed a big laugh. The two checkers players ignored the taunting, but Lige was liquored up just enough to amuse himself by intimidating two men who were obviously old enough to be his father. “How ’bout it, old man? You need somebody to walk you home, so no booger-bears don’t get you?” He paused after he said it when he wondered, “Where the hell did you ladies come from, anyway? There ain’t no houses around here.”

  It was obvious that the taunting wasn’t going to stop, so Earl decided to respond. “All right, mister, you and your friends have had a little laugh, so why don’t you get back to your drinkin’ and mind your own business? And we’ll mind ours. We’ll be leavin’ in a little while, anyway.”

  His response seemed to make Lige mad. “Did you hear what that old fart said, Clell? Told us to mind our own business.” He turned a menacing frown on Earl and demanded, “I don’t want you hangin’ around in here where men are drinkin’, so I reckon you’d best get your scrawny behind outta my sight right now. That’s my own business.”

  Hawk, an interested observer to that point, said nothing, hoping for Earl and his friend’s sake that it would amount to nothing more than talk. He looked back toward the general merchandise side of the store to see if Peavy was aware of the trouble. If he was, he showed no evidence of it. Although painfully outmatched, it was apparent that Earl Belcher was not one to slink cowardly out of a saloon. And judging by the determined look on his friend’s face, neither was he. This could be trouble, was Hawk’s immediate thought.

  “Mister,” Earl began, “I understand that the likker is doin’ most of the talkin’ comin’ outta your mouth. But I’ll decide when I wanna leave this place, and it won’t be when some drunk tells me to.”

  Taken aback by the feisty little man’s refusal to be intimidated, Lige paused a moment to make sure he had heard him correctly. “Well, old man, that’s even better.” He looked at his partners. “Ain’t it, boys? I reckon we’ll just have to throw you two out.” He and his two partners got up from the table, prompting Earl and his friend to get up as well, preparing to stand their ground. Their show of resistance caused Lige to laugh, then remark, “Too bad for you that’s it’s gonna be three of us against two of you old sodbusters, ain’t it?”

  That was about as far as Hawk was willing to let the confrontation progress. “It’ll be three against three,” he said as he stood up. There was an immediate silence as both sides of the squabble were taken by surprise. Hawk took a couple of steps over to stand beside Earl and Jack, his imposing stature seeming to dwarf his two partners. “We might as well make it a fair fight,” he said to Lige.

  The third member of the troublemakers, Pete Whalen, had been a silent participant to that point. Of the three, he seemed to be the only one who recognized the lethal aura of the man with the feather in his hat. “No need to get stirred up over a little japin’ here,” he said. “Lige and Clell were just funnin’ with you two old fellers. Ain’t no need for this to go any further, right, Lige?”

  “That’s right,” Lige said as he took a closer look at the tall man in the buckskin shirt. “We was just funnin’ with these two fellers.”

  “I think we was about ready to go, weren’t we, Lige?” Pete asked, just noticing Alvin Peavy, finally aware of the potential for trouble, and standing at the doorway, shotgun in hand. When Lige looked toward him, he nodded in Peavy’s direction.

  “Right,” Lige said at once. “I ain’t got no reason to hang around here any longer.” He glanced at Clell. “Let’s get the hell outta here.” Pete started for the door and Clell followed. Lige couldn’t resist a side remark to Hawk as he followed his partners out. “Next time, stranger.”

  “Look forward to it,” Hawk returned.

  When the three walked out, Earl turned to Hawk and extended his hand. “Mister, I think you just saved me and Jack from gettin’ our butts kicked at best, and maybe a shot in the head at worse. What is your name?”

  “John Hawk,” he said, and shook Earl’s hand, then shook Jack’s as well.

  “Well, John Hawk, I’d like to buy you a drink, if we can get Alvin to put his shotgun down and pour us one.”

  “Much obliged,” Hawk said, then asked, “You ever see those fellows before?”

  “No, never seen ’em in here before. Have you, Jack?” Jack said that he had not, and Earl went on, “Me and Jack are tryin’ to raise cattle back down the river a few miles from here, and if you’re not in a hurry to get somewhere, you’re welcome to rest up at our place.”

  “That’s mighty decent of you,” Hawk said, “but I am in kind of a hurry. Thank you just the same. And I expect my horse might come in here after me, if I don’t get out there and take care of him pretty soon.” He stayed long enough to have the drink that Earl wanted to buy him, then he took his leave. He wanted to find a spot to camp, so he could rest Rascal before much longer, so he stopped at the front counter only long enough to pick up a sack of oats and pay for his supper.

  “Much obliged,” Peavy said when he took the money for the oats but gave his supper money back. “Supper’s on the house. That was a helluva thing you done for those fellers, and you likely saved me from gettin’ mixed up in some real trouble with those three jaspers.”

  “I ’preciate it,” Hawk said. “Seem like two nice fellows. It wouldn’t have been a fair fight.” Peavy looked puzzled when he drew his .44 from his holster and cocked it as he walked out the door. He stopped as soon as he was outside and stood for a few minutes in the shadow of the porch, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gathering darkness. He stepped down from the porch just as Lige popped out from behind a tree at the corner of the building. With no more than an instant to react, Hawk fired a shot that caught Lige in the shoulder, causing him to yelp in pain and send his shot into the dirt at his feet. Hawk dropped the sack of oats and sank to one knee, his Colt cocked, and aimed at the corner of the store, but neither one of the other two appeared. In the quiet after the two shots, he could hear them frantically imploring Lige to hurry. So, he moved cautiously toward the corner of the store but arrived just in time to see the three of them galloping away. One of them was slumped over, hugging his horse’s neck. He guessed that to be Lige. He thought about taking a couple of shots at them but figured a bullet in Lige’s shoulder was enough to settle it.

  He walked back to pick up his sack of oats just as Peavy, Earl, and Jack deemed it safe to stick their necks outside. “Hot damn!” Earl exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

  “Yep,” Hawk answered as he tied the sack of oats on his saddle horn. “I keep loadin’ this horse up with supplies and I ain’t gonna have room to sit in the saddle.”

  “We heard two shots,” Peavy said, then waited for an explanation.

  “Yeah, one of ’em was waiting to take a shot at me when I walked out. I figure it was most likely Lige. I put one round in him, got him in the shoulder, I think. I kinda thought he might try something like that, but I expect that’ll do it for him.” He nodded once and smiled. “Well, maybe I’ll be back this way sometime.” He climbed up into the saddle. “Tell your wife she makes the best beef stew in the territory.” He wheeled Rascal away from the hitching rail and rode up the path, back to the wagon track.

  “I swear, I never thought that jasper would try to shoot that Hawk feller,” Peavy remarked as the three of them watched him till he rode out on the road.

  “He acted like that was the sorta thing that happened every day,” Earl said.

  “It’s a damn good thing he showed up here for supper,” Jack declared. “I was fixin’ to stand with you, but I was surely expectin’ a real ass-whuppin’ from the likes of those three.�
��

  Hawk followed the road to the river and was relieved to find a shallow crossing, so he didn’t get his meat and other possibles wet. Once across, he left the road and set out along the riverbank until he came to a spot that suited him. Before doing anything else, he pulled the saddle off Rascal and let him go to water. Then he built his fire.

  CHAPTER 10

  He passed a peaceful night on the bank of the Sun River, waking with the first light of morning. He had taken the precaution of making his bed in a gully, away from his campfire, in case he’d guessed wrong about Lige and his two friends. He had felt that the three roughnecks were more accustomed to bullying people like Earl and Jack, and that the wound Lige suffered would be enough to discourage any more trouble to come his way. And since there was no visit from them during the night, he figured he was done with them. According to what Alvin Peavy had told him, it was about thirty miles from his store to Wolf Creek, not even a day’s journey on horseback. But Hawk decided to delay his breakfast until he had ridden about halfway. It would be easier on Rascal, and he should still get there before very late in the afternoon. The big buckskin had enjoyed a hearty meal of oats the night before, so he should be ready to ride.

  It was a clearly defined road leading to the Missouri at Wolf Creek, with plenty of tracks in both directions. When he started out that morning, he had walked a little way, so he could take a look at those tracks. But he soon decided they could tell him nothing, except that a good many horses had traveled south on the road. He could not be sure he was looking at Booth’s tracks or somebody else’s. So, he stepped up into the saddle and started for Wolf Creek, thinking maybe someone might tell him which way Booth went from there. That thought automatically brought to mind one Rufus Bodine, and he had to wonder if Rufus was still alive. He couldn’t help thinking that there was an awfully good chance somebody had shot the ornery son of a bitch. The last time he had been in Rufus’s trading post was probably at least four years before. He and his Blackfoot friend Bloody Hand had gone there to trade some deer hides, and it had not been a genial transaction. It was the winter before Hawk began his service as a scout for the army, the same year Bloody Hand, along with all the other younger men, left their village to escape life on a reservation. He and Bloody Hand had spent the better part of a month hunting in the Big Belt Mountains. It had been a good hunt and provided a good supply of deer meat and some elk for old Walking Owl’s village. Rufus Bodine’s trading post at Wolf Creek was the closest place to trade the many hides they had collected. Hawk unconsciously shook his head when he thought about it. Bodine was not willing to give a fair price for the pelts. But more than that, he was blatantly arrogant in his attitude toward the Blackfoot hunters, as he thought both were. Before it was over, Hawk had to restrain Bloody Hand from attacking Bodine and adding his scalp to their supply of hides. They managed to withdraw without spilling any blood and took their hides thirty miles downriver, almost to Great Falls, to trade them. “That was before you took up with me,” he told Rascal. “Maybe he’s mellowed a little since that time.”

  * * *

  After a ride of close to nineteen or twenty miles across an open prairie of rolling hills, devoid of any meaningful tree growth, he spotted what appeared to be a sizable creek ahead. “Just about right,” he announced to Rascal. “We’ll find us a good spot and I’m gonna eat some of that deer meat you’re totin’.” When he reached the creek, he saw obvious signs that more than a few travelers had stopped on the banks to rest their horses. He turned Rascal upstream from the road and rode about a hundred yards before finding the spot that suited him. The notion to check the ashes of the old campfires close to the road never entered his mind. There was nothing cold ashes could tell him. He already knew he was a day, maybe a day and a half, behind the four outlaws. So, at this particular point, his interest was directed toward a clean campsite with grass for his horse and easy access to the water. While the buckskin was drinking water, Hawk gathered wood for his fire and soon had his little coffeepot working away. With some strips of venison roasting over the fire, he felt a sense of real contentment, like that he had when he had hunted with Bloody Hand. For days prior to this morning, his mind had wrestled with the question of whether or not it was his responsibility to continue following Booth. He had not been appointed by any authority to follow the four murderers. But he felt that, if he gave up the chase, then Booth and his cutthroats would likely disappear, never to answer for their evil crimes against the defenseless Quakers. So he had made his decision, and now he was at peace with it, so much so that he drifted off to sleep watching his horse grazing close to the creek.

  He was awakened by the sound of Rascal pulling up grass close to his feet. His first reaction was to wonder how long he had been asleep. He looked up at the sun before checking his pocket watch. His watch read half past twelve. He had slept away the morning. His next thought was one of disbelief, for he was never one to sleep in the daytime. Now disgusted with himself for sleeping, he announced to the buckskin, “It’s a damn good thing there ain’t nobody tracking me ’cause I expect you’d have a new owner right now.”

  Ready to ride again, he was pouring water on his fire when he was startled to hear the sound of voices. At once alert, he pulled his rifle from the saddle sling and listened. In a matter of minutes, he heard the voices again, and he was sure they came from the road. His first thought was that Lige and his friends had gotten on his trail, after all. So, leaving his horse where it was, he made his way back down the creek bank on foot in case they were following his trail from the road. When about thirty yards from the road, he could see the source of the voices. It was not Lige and his friends at all. It was a wagon, with one man driving, stopped at the edge of the creek while the horses were drinking.

  Thinking he might get a closer look, Hawk moved up behind a bank of berry bushes and stopped to decide if he was going to announce his presence or simply return to get his horse. While he was deciding, he was distracted by a movement in the bushes several yards ahead of him. A moment later he was surprised by a man’s voice. “If you’re fixin’ to shoot me, just let me finish takin’ this dump, will ya? I ain’t been able to get my bowels to move nothin’ more’n deer pellets for a week, and I’d surely appreciate the time to enjoy this’un when I finally got an honest-to-God call.”

  Hawk couldn’t think how to reply for a second. When he did, he found it hard not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were squattin’ there in the bushes. I just came to see who was talkin’ over here ’cause I didn’t hear you when you first drove up. If you’re just takin’ a dump, I ain’t ever shot anybody for that, so you go ahead and take your time. I’ll go back and get my horse.”

  “Much obliged,” the man in the bushes said. Hawk turned around and went back to get Rascal.

  When he returned, the two men were waiting for him beside the wagon, so he rode up before them and stepped down. The one who had been watering the horses was a young man, hardly more than a boy, Hawk decided. The other one, the one in the bushes, was a gray-haired old man whom Hawk guessed to be the boy’s grandfather. “I wanna beg your pardon for walkin’ in on your privacy, but damned if I knew you were there.”

  “No harm done,” the old man replied. “I finished her off fine and dandy.” He gave Hawk a good looking over, then asked, “What was you doin’ back up the creek?”

  “I just stopped to rest my horse and make a little coffee,” Hawk answered, amused by the old man’s bluntness. “And I wanted to get a little way up the creek, instead of stoppin’ here where everybody else has camped.” He grinned at the old man then. “Why did you go so far back in the bushes to do your business?”

  “’Cause it ain’t fittin’ to do it where everybody camps.” He looked at Hawk as if he couldn’t believe anyone had to ask that question. “Which way you headin’, north or south?”

  “Figured I’d ride down to Wolf Creek,” Hawk answered. “Looks like you fellows are headin’ in the same direction. How far is it fr
om here, say, to Rufus Bodine’s place? That is, if he’s still there.”

  “I hope to hell he is,” the old man replied. “We ain’t been there in a couple of months, and it’s the only place we can buy flour and salt and such as that. Ain’t that right, Thomas?”

  “That’s right, Grandpa,” Thomas replied. Up to that point, those were the first words spoken by the young man. But like his grandfather, Thomas had looked Hawk over, from the hawk feather in his hat, to the toes of his boots. He and his grandpa most always saw drifters hanging around Bodine’s store, and most of them looked to be someone the law might be interested in. He wondered if Hawk was another of the typical saddle tramps who gathered there. Answering Hawk’s question, he said, “Bodine’s is about eight miles from here. And I expect we’d best get goin’, if we’re gonna make it there in time for Mr. Pressley to take care of that loose shoe.”

  “It’s been a long time since I was in Wolf Creek,” Hawk said. “Who’s Mr. Pressley?”

  Thomas seemed reluctant to answer Hawk’s questions, but he politely responded. “Reuben Pressley, he’s the blacksmith. One of our horses is tryin’ to throw a shoe and we was figurin’ on gettin’ Mr. Pressley to fix it while we’re here. Our farm is too far for him to come out there, so we have to come to him. But he don’t charge much, so he might just let us owe him till we get some money.”

  From the look of confusion on the old man’s face after Thomas’s answer, Hawk realized what the young man was thinking. “Thomas, are you concerned that I might be gettin’ ready to rob you and your grandpa?” Judging by the look of alarm on Thomas’s face, he figured he had hit the nail on the head. Thomas didn’t have an answer for him, so Hawk said, “You’ve got nothing to worry about from me. Robbin’ folks ain’t my callin’. I’m a scout for the army, workin’ outta Fort Ellis, down on the Yellowstone.”

  “What’s the matter with you, boy?” His grandpa spoke up then. “I knew right off this feller ain’t one of them saddle tramps that hang around Bodine’s.” He stuck his hand out toward Hawk. “My name’s Jacob Woodley, and that’s my grandson, Thomas.”