Montana Territory

by Charles G. West

  Startled, Hawk took a quick look at Booth to determine he was dead. Then he moved quickly up the steps and through the kitchen door, in an effort to get there before there was time to reload the shotgun. His haste was unnecessary, however, for he was met with a now-frightened Loretta, still seated on the floor, the shotgun lying several feet away. She started explaining before he said a word. “I killed that son of a bitch before he could shoot anybody else,” she uttered excitedly. “I saw him pull that gun he had stuck in his pants, the same way he killed Fred. He shot Mutt, and Mutt and Fred were the only men who ever gave a damn about me. And that son of a bitch killed everybody who took care of me. Now what am I gonna do?”

  “What are we both gonna do?” The voice came from the pantry door, which had been firmly closed until that moment. Cora walked out of the hiding place she had chosen when the shooting started and walked over to comfort Loretta.

  At a loss for something to tell them, Hawk came out with the first thing he could think of. “I reckon the two of you are partners in this saloon now.”

  His suggestion struck a chord in Cora’s brain. “Hell, why not?” She helped Loretta to her feet. “Anybody can run a business better’n Mutt Crocker.” The idea was already taking wings in her mind. “Hell, Loretta, Billy was Mutt’s only heir, so that means he’s left the saloon to me and you. Too bad about poor Fred, though, we coulda used his help. Whaddaya say we give it a try?”

  “I don’t know,” Loretta answered. Nothing could be farther from her mind. She looked at Hawk. “I reckon it has to do with what he has to say about it.”

  “Ain’t none of my business what you ladies do with this place,” Hawk said. “My business is with Booth, and it looks like that’s been pretty much taken care of. I will take charge of his possessions, because he’s got some money that belongs to a church group up at Fort Benton. That’s the only interest I have here. I wish you luck in your new business.”

  While the women were talking seriously about the possibility of the two of them operating a saloon, Hawk went back to the porch to pick up Booth’s belongings, dropped there. With no interest in anything but the saddlebags and a canvas bag, he left the personal items for the women to deal with. He was relieved to find the saddlebags filled with money and the canvas bag carrying what cash couldn’t be stuffed in the saddlebags. He didn’t take the time to count it but took it to the corner of the corral and tied it on his horse. He admitted to feeling a small sense of fulfillment of a promise he made to himself. But he knew his mission was not complete until he returned the money to Donald Lewis and his church.

  Ready to depart, he went back inside the kitchen. “You said Mutt Crocker was killed, too. Where is his body?” Loretta said it was upstairs, so he went upstairs to find it sprawled on the floor in the hall. Lucky, he thought, he ain’t a big man. He managed to stand the body up long enough to let it fall across his shoulder. Then he carried it downstairs and out the back door and continued on to drop it by the stable door. He made a second trip with Fred’s body. As he walked back to the porch to get Booth’s body, he thought about the two women already planning for their business. Ain’t much chance, he thought, but miracles happen. It was difficult not to think about the large sum of money he had just recovered and how much the two of them needed money. He couldn’t in good conscience donate any of that church money to help them get a saloon started. In the first place, it was for a saloon, and in the second place, it wasn’t his to give. When he got to the porch, he stopped and looked at the body of the man he had come so far to kill. It gave him an idea. On your way to hell, I hope you can help out a couple of desperate women.

  He looked inside the kitchen door and called out, “You ladies wanna come on out here for a minute?” They promptly came out the kitchen door, both looking somewhat concerned. “I’m fixin’ to drag his body over by the stable with the other two. It’s kinda late now, so I expect I’ll have to see Fred Carver in the mornin’ to have him pick ’em up. I’ll pay him for it, so don’t you worry about payin’. Before I drag this one away, you might wanna go through his pockets to see if he’s carryin’ anything valuable. I expect you’re gonna need some cash if you’re really gonna run this saloon.” They eagerly jumped to the opportunity. As Hawk expected, Booth was carrying several hundred dollars. He figured the Quakers could spare that contribution. As the women were gleefully counting the money, Hawk said, “I think he’s got a pocket watch. That’ll be worth something. I’m gonna take one of those horses in the corral for a packhorse, but I’m leavin’ the rest of ’em with you. They oughta be worth a little money, especially that big black one he rode. The saddle oughta bring a good price, too.”

  * * *

  He walked in the dining room soon after it opened in the morning. “Good morning, John Hawk,” Martha greeted him. “Looks like you’re getting an early start.” She had glanced out the window when he rode up and noticed the packhorse. “You leaving town again?”

  “I expect so,” Hawk replied, “after I make a few stops here this mornin’.” He gave her a smile and added, “The first one, and most important, was to stop here for some coffee and the best breakfast in the territory.”

  She left to fetch his coffee, passing Sophie on her way out of the kitchen with a stack of plates. “Well, good morning,” Sophie sang out. “I wondered who Martha was talking to.” She placed the plates on the long table in the center of the room, then came back to visit with him. “Whatcha got good to say for yourself?” she asked playfully.

  “Nothin’ much,” he answered, “except I’ll be leavin’ town after I make a few stops after breakfast.”

  The smile on her face seemed to freeze in place and she shook her head as if perplexed. “Gone again, skip to my Lou,” she slowly recited the words to a popular children’s song. “You think you’ll be back this way anytime soon?” This time her tone was serious. At least, it seemed so to him, but he wasn’t sure. He never was about her.

  “To be honest, I don’t know for sure. I get up this way every chance I get. I just don’t get as many chances as I want.”

  The smile returned to her face and she said, “John Hawk, I don’t reckon you’ll ever land in one spot and stay there, will you?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “It doesn’t look like it, does it?” He would like to have told her that he was quitting the army and settling down, but he didn’t know what he could do to support a family.

  “No, I guess not,” she answered his question. “Well,” she sighed, “I’d best see if Martha has your breakfast ready.” With that she turned and went to the kitchen.

  Martha read her face when she took Hawk’s plate from her. “You don’t look too happy to see him,” she couldn’t help commenting.

  “He’s not ever gonna settle down in one spot,” Sophie said. “No use wasting time thinking he will.”

  “A man like that might be a lot better than one that’s hanging around under your feet all day. If you’re giving up on him,” Martha joked, “can I have him?”

  Sophie shook her head. “Not quite yet.”

  * * *

  After a quiet breakfast, Hawk reported to Porter Willis at the sheriff’s office and told him the whole story about the happenings of the prior night. After that, he went to the undertaker and paid him to pick up the three bodies behind the Capital City Saloon. It was well after noon when he bought the supplies he needed and settled up with Grover Bramble at the stable. But he started back up the Mullan Road to Fort Benton, anyway, anxious to make this final journey to finish this quest. A journey of over one hundred miles, he planned to make it in two and a half days, barring any trouble along the way. There was none, and he made his camp on the Missouri River just twenty miles short of Fort Benton at the end of the second day of travel. He rode into the town of Fort Benton shortly before noon and went directly to the First Baptist Church. At first, he started to pull up in front of the church, but upon noticing a small collection of army tents behind the church, he rod
e around behind it. As he had thought, it was a temporary camp of the survivors. One of the men recognized him and ran to fetch Donald Lewis.

  “John Hawk, right?” Lewis asked as he walked to meet him. “I didn’t expect to see you again. Lieutenant Sessions told us the Fort Ellis patrol had returned to base without finding the outlaws. What brings you up this way again?”

  “I just wanted to drop off a little something you and your folks lost,” Hawk replied. He went to his packhorse and untied the extra saddlebags and the canvas bag. “I know this ain’t all of what you lost, but I think it’s most of it.”

  Not certain what Hawk was talking about, Lewis untied the laces holding the canvas bag closed and peered inside. His knees almost buckled when he saw what the bag held. “My Lord, My Lord,” he uttered, thinking it couldn’t be true. Hawk opened one side of the saddlebag, so Lewis could see that, too. It was almost too much for him.

  “Brother Lewis!” the man who had first greeted Hawk, cried out. “What is it?” Seeing Donald in distress, or so he thought, he ran to help him.”

  Lewis waved him off. “It’s a miracle,” he said, then shouted it out for all the tent camp to hear. “It’s a miracle!” Soon the little group of survivors of the massacre were gathered around them. Lewis held the sacks up for them to see. Remembering Hawk standing watching the celebration then, he said, “You must have caught the men who did this. I hope they did not have to be killed.” When Hawk made no comment, Lewis asked a direct question. “Did you kill David?”

  Knowing the Friends’ position on the taking of another man’s life, Hawk answered truthfully, “No, I didn’t, but him and the rest of his gang have all gone where they won’t bother anybody no more.” That seemed to satisfy Donald’s conscience.

  Although eager to start back to Fort Ellis, Hawk agreed to stay and share a meal with the overjoyed Friends. He figured they might be hard up for food, but Donald told him the people of Fort Benton had been more than generous in supplying them. During the dinner, plain but filling, there was much talk about going on with their original plan to journey to Helena to find the land to start their own congregation of Friends. At one point, Donald asked Hawk if he would be available to lead them there. “Ah, I don’t reckon so,” he started. “I’ve gotta get on back to Bozeman and Fort Ellis to see if I’ve still got a job. You shouldn’t have much trouble gettin’ there without a guide, just follow the Mullan Road. But thanks just the same.”

  “Well, it’s gonna take us a while yet to get organized again,” Lewis said. “This time, I expect we’ll go in wagons, instead of a mule train. Is there some way I can get in touch with you when we’re ready—just in case you change your mind?”

  Hawk shrugged, not wishing to be rude. “I reckon you could wire a message to me at Fort Ellis. I expect I’ll be there.” If Lieutenant Meade hasn’t got me fired again, he thought.

  “Good.” Donald beamed. “The Lord has been most gracious to us when he sent you to cross our path. Who knows? He might have one more miracle in store for us.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Hawk stammered, “but I wish you folks all the luck in the world. Thank you for the dinner, but I best be on my way.” He nodded good-bye to them all as they followed him out to his horses. Aboard Rascal, he wheeled the big buckskin away from the hitching rail and headed for Fort Ellis. He had to pick up his pay for the patrol just finished and he had work to do on his cabin. He didn’t get a chance to plug that hole near the back door and the last time he was away for a while he found a raccoon in the cabin. If the critters kept working at that hole, he might find a bear in the cabin one day. After he crossed the river and pointed Rascal toward the Big Belt Mountains, he caught sight of a hawk as it flew across his path and lit on the limb of a tall pine. The sight brought a smile to his face and he thought about Donald Lewis’s interest in having him lead the Quaker survivors to Helena. You ain’t trying to tell me something, are you? He reached up and touched the feather Winter Flower had exchanged with him. Trying to be sensible about the possibility of accepting Lewis’s offer, he thought, I’ve got a lot of friends in Helena. But when he concentrated on it, all his mind could conjure was the image of Sophie Hicks, and that brought another smile to his face.

  Keeping reading for a special excerpt . . .

  MASSACRE AT CROW CREEK CROSSING

  A COLE BONNER WESTERN

  by Charles G. West

  FIRST COMES BLOOD

  Cole Bonner will never forget what happened

  to his family at Crow Creek Crossing.

  His wife, her parents, and their three young

  children—brutally slaughtered by outlaws.

  The horror of the massacre drove him into the

  wilderness. Drove him nearly mad. And drove him

  to seek an equally brutal revenge . . .

  THEN COMES CARNAGE

  Now, against his better judgment, Bonner is

  returning to the place that almost destroyed him.

  While hunting in the mountains, he discovers that a

  man has been murdered and his wife abducted.

  He manages to track the killers and free her. But to

  bring the widow to safety, he will have to face his

  own demons. Return to his old homestead.

  And relive the violence—and the vengeance—

  of another massacre at Crow Creek Crossing . . .

  Look for Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing

  on sale now.

  CHAPTER 1

  Cole Bonner stood up again after having put the mortally wounded deer out of her misery. He looked back when he heard Harley Branch pushing through the willows beside the busy stream behind him.

  “I swear,” Harley offered, “she got farther than I thought she would.” He was breathing heavily from his efforts to catch up to the deer and his younger friend. “Fine shot, though,” he continued as he walked up beside Cole and peered down at the doe. “Right behind her front leg—you’re gettin’ pretty good with that bow. I reckon that’s what you were aimin’ at, tryin’ for a lung shot.”

  Cole snorted, amused. “Hell, I was just aimin’ at the deer. It just happened to hit her there.”

  Harley snorted in reply, knowing Cole had hit the deer exactly where he had aimed. His young friend seemed to be handy with just about any kind of weapon, so Harley had not been surprised by the short time required for him to become quite efficient with a bow. Cole had deemed it important to learn to use the weapon since money for .44 cartridges was not in great supply.

  “I reckon we’ll butcher it and smoke it and pack it if we’ve got any more room on the horses to tote it,” Harley said. “If we run up on any more deer, we’re liable to have to train some of ’em to use as packhorses to tote the rest of the meat.” He paused to chuckle at the thought of it. “I reckon old Medicine Bear will be surprised to see us show up with all the meat we’ve cured—happy, too. He ain’t lookin’ for us to come back before spring.”

  “Reckon so.” Cole had not planned to return to the Crow village on the Laramie River before spring, and maybe not until summer, depending on how he felt. The time he and Harley had spent in the mountains had served to entice him to push on to explore the ranges beyond the Bighorns. It was a period in his life when he needed to find a peace in his soul, and the high snowy peaks seemed to speak to him. There were things he would like to forget, and people he would always remember. The solitude of the Rocky Mountain ridges and valleys came to him as a place to heal. But as winter deepened, he realized that Harley was past the point when the mountains spoke to him. Cole owed a great deal to the short, bowlegged little man the Crow people affectionately called Thunder Mouse. Harley had come along at a time when Cole needed someone who knew the country and would stand with him when the going got rough.

  Although Harley never complained about the rough dwelling they had fashioned at the bottom of a long narrow ravine, Cole decided to pull out of the snowy Bighorns and take Harley back to a warm ti
pi. “This oughta just about do it,” he said, nodding toward the carcass. “We’ll start back in the mornin’.”

  “Whatever you think best, partner,” Harley said as casually as he could manage, still trying to disguise his eagerness to return to the Crow camp. They worked the rest of that day, smoking the largest portion of the fresh kill to preserve it, while keeping a generous amount of it to eat on the way back to the village.

  * * *

  On the second day of travel about a mile short of the South Fork of the Powder River, Cole pulled his horse up short when he discovered a thin column of smoke rising on the far side of a treeless ridge up ahead. He waited for Harley to pull up beside him on the low rise before commenting. “If I had to guess, I’d say that oughta be comin’ from beside the river.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Harley agreed. They both studied the smoke that etched a thin dirty yellow line on the cloudy gray sky. “About right for a campfire, providing there’s a sizable party campin’ there,” he added.