Trial at Fort Keogh

by Charles G. West

  “You’re gonna be tickled to hear who ol’ Spence has been talkin’ to,” Curly said as he pulled a chair back and sat down at the table with Yeager. He paused while he watched Simon pour him a drink before continuing.

  Yeager listened to Curly’s report on the meeting between the two saloon owners, making no comment until Curly had finished and sat back, pleased with himself. “I reckon a man’s gotta do what he feels like he’s gotta do,” Yeager said calmly. “Right after sunup in the mornin’, huh? Well, I hope he has a safe trip.” He nodded to himself while he considered the prospect of perhaps going into the saloon business. “You and Blankenship best get to bed early tonight. You’re gonna be gettin’ up early in the mornin’.”

  * * *

  Frank Hudson sat at one of the side tables near the kitchen door, finishing off a bowl of soup beans and ham that Pete Bender had put on the stove that morning. It was difficult to generate much enthusiasm for the beans because of the heavy thoughts on his mind. He pulled his watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. Eleven thirty-five. Spence had most likely already seen the commanding officer at the fort and might be on his way back to Miles City. He wound his watch and put it back in his pocket when he heard Pete call from the front of the saloon, where he had been sweeping dirt out the door.

  “What is it?” Hudson yelled back.

  “Somebody’s got shot,” Pete said, and waited until Hudson came to see for himself before continuing. “Down at the barbershop, looks like Orville, and he’s leadin’ a horse with a body hangin’ across the saddle.”

  Hudson peered down the street to see Orville Johnson, who owned the sawmill, get off his horse in front of the barbershop. In a moment or two, Homer Lewis came out of the shop to help Orville lift the body down from the other horse. Hudson suddenly felt a chill along the length of his spine, and he felt an urgency to see who the unfortunate soul was. He got his heavy coat from behind the bar and followed Pete down the street toward a small group of gawkers already assembled before the barbershop.

  “Billy,” he yelled over his shoulder before leaving, “keep an eye on the bar till we get back.”

  Billy, who had grabbed his coat and hurried to the door after them, answered, “Yes, sir.” Disappointed, he turned around. He was as eager to see the body as they.

  Hudson made his way through the ring of spectators in time to see Homer and Orville lay the body gently on the walk in front of the shop. “Who is it, Orville?” he asked, concerned because of the care they exhibited in handling the corpse.

  “It’s Spence Snyder,” Orville said. “I was over at the fort last night, and I found him on the trail this morning on my way back.”

  “Spence wasn’t much of a rider,” Arthur O’Connor, the postmaster, said. “Reckon he fell off his horse?”

  “I reckon he fell off, all right,” Orville answered him, “with them three bullet holes in his back.”

  Hudson was speechless. He heard a voice he immediately recognized as that of Simon Yeager’s behind him. “What you boys got here?”

  “Somebody shot Spence Snyder,” Orville said. “Shot him in the back, and it musta been early this mornin’, ’cause he’s already stiff as a board. Ain’t that right, Homer?”

  “I expect you’re right,” Homer said. “I wonder what he was doin’ up that way so early in the mornin’.”

  “Ain’t no tellin’,” Yeager answered him. He eased over close to Frank Hudson then. “Whatever his business was, it looks like he shoulda stayed off the trail to Fort Keogh. That’s a dangerous road to ride. I reckon I oughta keep a little closer eye on it from now on, else we might have some other folks gettin’ shot. Homer, I reckon he’s yours now.” He turned to face Hudson then. “Looks like ol’ Spence ain’t got no family to worry about, so I reckon the best thing is for me to take over his business, just so we can keep the doors open. Don’t you reckon?”

  Hudson glanced at Lon Bessemer, who had joined the spectators, but Lon looked away, preferring not to meet his gaze. Yeager’s comment was a warning, clear and simple. Hudson shifted his gaze toward Horace Marshall and was met with the same reaction as Lon’s. Spence Snyder was dead, murdered. That was horrible enough, but even more so than that was the fact that the town’s backbone had been severed as well.

  “I reckon,” Hudson finally answered, and turned away to return to his saloon. It was obvious that none of the other merchants were going to take a stand against the sheriff’s blatant takeover of Snyder’s business. And Hudson lacked the fortitude to stand up to him alone.

  Chapter 10

  Simon Yeager’s acquisition of an established business was surprisingly easy, given the fact that no one had the courage to challenge his right to do so. Although saddled with severely declining patronage from the residents of the town, the saloon still attracted enough customers from the ranches and the fort to keep it afloat. The thought of owning and operating a legitimate business had never entered his mind before. He had never acquired anything of value before, except by means of the business end of a cocked six-shooter.

  There were other things to figure out now. He would have to have money to buy whiskey and beer and all the other supplies needed to operate a saloon. The storeroom appeared to be well stocked at the present time, but he had no idea how long it would be before it would need to be restocked. Spence had to have money somewhere, and that place had to be the safe in his storeroom. That was not the only place, however. After going through Spence’s living quarters at the back end of the hallway upstairs, Simon found another safe. It was smaller than the one downstairs. He decided to wait until he sent Curly and Blankenship on some errand before attempting to break into the safes. It wouldn’t do for those two back-shooters to know how much money he found.

  The eagerness to search for what he felt certain was a substantial sum of money was enough to temporarily slow his thirst for vengeance. He was still determined to find Clint Cooper and settle with him for his brother’s death. But the childlike excitement he derived from suddenly owning a saloon caused him to think of the potential of becoming a wealthy man. He had no intention of giving up his position as sheriff, because that gave him power, and he had Curly and Blankenship to do the dirty work for him. He couldn’t help smiling when it occurred to him that he owed a debt of gratitude to the late Spence Snyder for trying to get help from the army.

  Simon Yeager, businessman, he thought, his smile extending across his broad, cruel face. His reverie was interrupted then by the arrival of Floyd Kelly at his elbow.

  “I’m fixin’ to go to the graveyard now,” Floyd said. “They’re gonna say a few words over Spence. Alice and Bonny said they oughta go with me, if it’s all right with you.” He hesitated for a moment, not certain what he should do. “After we bury Spence, I reckon you’re gonna padlock the place, so you won’t be needin’ us around here no more.”

  “The hell I won’t,” Simon responded. He had no intention of losing his bartender and the two prostitutes. “You’d better get your ass back here right after you bury Spence. I ain’t closin’ this saloon. The only one that’s gone is Spence, so don’t go gettin’ any notions about leavin’, you or the women, either. I’m running this place now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Floyd said, afraid to say anything else. He had a pretty good suspicion about what had happened to Spence on the trail to Fort Keogh, and no doubt that the same might befall anyone else who bucked the sheriff.

  As an afterthought, Simon asked, “Have you got the combination to that safe in the back room?”

  “No, sir,” Floyd answered. “Spence didn’t tell that combination to anybody.” If I knew it, I damn well wouldn’t tell it to you, he thought as he went out the door.

  His mind still humming with visions of conquest, Yeager looked toward the back of the room to the two idle gunmen, who were busy killing another bottle of whiskey. He walked over to stand at their table.

 
“From now on, you boys are gonna do your evenin’ drinkin’ at the Frontier.” Met with blank stares of confusion, he explained, “I want you to be regular customers at the Frontier.” He couldn’t help laughing as he imagined the scene. “That sure as hell oughta drive some of them customers outta there. It sure worked like a charm here.”

  He was already thinking about driving Frank Hudson out of business. And if the gunmen’s very presence didn’t send customers to look for another place to enjoy their poison, then maybe their special clandestine talents might be called upon to thin out the competition another way. He did not forget that Hudson was conspiring with Spence to ask the army for help in getting rid of him. He wondered if there were others who might be in on it. The more he thought about his unexpected opportunity to thrive, the more ambitious he became, so he would deal with anyone standing in his way the same as he had with Spence.

  Yes, sir, he thought, Simon Yeager, businessman. He took a moment to enjoy the image. Wonder what ol’ Mace would have to say about that. The thought caused the smile to fade from his face. That little business ain’t over yet. That son of a bitch will pay for what he did, but right now I’m gonna figure out how to open those safes.

  He felt sure that Spence would not have relied on his memory to retain the combinations to the two safes, so he probably had it written down somewhere. The question was, Where? And it would most likely be hidden somewhere in his living quarters, so he began a search of the two rooms that had been home to the late Spence Snyder. At first, it was almost like a childish game with the excitement of finding a treasure. But as he methodically destroyed Spence’s living quarters without success, he became more and more enraged at the two iron guardians silently defying him. The few tools he found in the rooms were useless in trying to open the heavy boxes, and only served to add to his frustration. In desperation, he went back to his search for the combinations, tearing everything out of the one closet, snatching pictures off the walls, looking for hidden pockets, closely examining the floor, especially under the bed, all without success.

  He finally gave up, and concluded that Spence had, in fact, kept the combinations in his head. In frustration, he picked up the little framed dollar bill that Spence had hung on the wall over his dresser. It had an inscription under it that read THE FIRST DOLLAR EARNED AT THE TRAIL’S END.

  “You son of a bitch!” Simon roared, and smashed the frame against the dresser until it broke and the dollar fluttered to the floor. Still gripped by his rage, he stood there, staring down at the single dollar bill. He turned to leave the room then, feeling the need for a drink of whiskey to calm himself. But on second thought, he turned back and picked up the dollar. As he folded it into his pocket, he noticed a series of numbers handwritten on the back of it, the combination to both safes.

  The feeling of childish anticipation returned as he hurried to open both safes, only to be somewhat disappointed to find that there was no great fortune in the safes, but a more modest sum of just over sixteen thousand dollars. Still, he had to admit, it was a fortune to him. He decided to go downstairs and have the drink he wanted before, but now it would be in celebration instead of frustration.

  * * *

  For the next couple of weeks, a fragile truce fell over the little settlement known as Miles City. The self-appointed sheriff did not appear as threatening as he had in the past, although he still collected a significant payment from each business owner to pay his salary and those of his two deputies. To demonstrate his new spirit of cooperation, however, he reduced the sum slightly, since he stood to gain considerable income from the Trail’s End. As he had figured, he slowly started gaining customers when it appeared a man could come in and buy a drink without fear of being pistol-whipped or shot.

  Most of them came over from the Frontier, preferring not to drink with Curly and Blankenship. And Frank Hudson was afraid to ask the two unwelcome guests to leave. Simon Yeager could envision an opportunity to become a major force in the fledgling town of Miles City.

  It was the first time in his life of robbery, cattle rustling, and murder that he found himself in this position. And were it not for the nagging hatred he felt for Clint Cooper, he might have considered himself content.

  * * *

  Clint picked up his rifle and walked out the door of the cabin when he heard the sound of a horse splashing across Muskrat Creek. He relaxed when he recognized the familiar form of Ben Hawkins. Ben was a figure easy to identify from a distance, because of his distinctive way of sitting a horse. With his hands holding the reins chest high and his elbows slightly out to the side, he looked like a sheepdog, sitting on its hind legs, begging for a bone, Clint had told him. Ben described his riding form as dignified, telling Clint that it made the red sorrel feel proud to be toting him.

  Clint stood in front of the crude line shack and watched his friend ride in. “You lost?” he greeted him as Ben pulled up.

  “You let me ride in awful close before you came outta that shack,” Ben said. “You’d best be careful one of Yeager’s boys don’t come back to check this line camp again.”

  Clint laughed. “All right, Daddy,” he teased. “I heard you comin’ from about a mile away. I could hear the wind whistlin’ through those bullet holes in your hat.”

  Ben took his time dismounting, after a glance at Sam, standing saddled near the shed that served as a stable. “You fixin’ to go somewhere?”

  “Yeah,” Clint replied. “I thought I might take a ride around the backside of that line of bluffs yonder.” He turned and pointed to a rugged line of bluffs, dotted with pines and junipers, about a mile distant. “I think it’d be a good idea to make sure there ain’t no stray cattle back in there that we mighta missed when we moved the herd in closer to the river.” He had no real reason to suspect that to be the case. He was just suffering from cabin fever, and felt the need to do something.

  “You do, do ya?” Ben responded. “You must be feelin’ pretty sassy today. Think you’re all healed up, do ya?”

  Clint shrugged. “Good enough to get off my ass. I’m still sore as hell when I twist too far one way or the other, but not enough to keep me from ridin’. And I’m gonna go crazy if I don’t get outta this cabin for a while.”

  “Well, I reckon you’re the only one who knows if you’re ready or not,” Ben said. “I brought you some more coffee beans and Rena sent you a side of bacon. I was thinkin’ about havin’ a cup of coffee when I got here. Are you so crazy to get outta the cabin that you can’t sit still long enough to have us some coffee?”

  Clint laughed. “I reckon not.”

  “Has your fire gone out?”

  “There’s still some live coals,” Clint said. “I’ll throw some wood on ’em.” He slid his rifle into the saddle scabbard and led Ben into the cabin.

  “Feels good in here,” Ben said as he pulled his heavy coat off. “That little ol’ fireplace heats this place up warm as a mother’s womb.” He watched while Clint stoked up the fire, then turned and handed the coffeepot to him. “Damn,” Ben said. “You coulda give me that before I took my coat off.”

  “I’da had it filled if I’d known I was gonna have company,” Clint said. “It ain’t that far to the creek.” When Ben went out and left the door open, he yelled, “You born in a barn?”

  In a short while, Clint ground up some coffee beans and had the pot on to boil. When he thought it had boiled enough, he pulled it back from the flame and poured a couple of cups. “I was thinkin’ about ridin’ in to the ranch this mornin’. Figured maybe all the fuss had died down so nobody would notice,” he said.

  “Well, I expect it’s a good thing you didn’t,” Ben replied, “’cause you mighta had to have coffee with Lieutenant Landry.”

  “What the hell was he doin’ there?” Clint asked, at once concerned.

  “Hell, it’s Sunday,” Ben snorted, “same thing he’s always doin’ there, courtin’ Princess Hope
.”

  “Damn,” Clint swore. “I didn’t know it was Sunday.” He had lost track of the days while he was lying in his blankets, healing up. “I’d better mark it down so I don’t make that mistake again.” He paused to refill the cups, then asked, “Is there any news about what the army’s thinkin’ about me?”

  “Well, I hate to tell you, but I reckon they’re still lookin’ for you. At least that’s what Rena told me. And that’s all I know about it, just what I hear from Rena—and what she overhears when Landry’s with Hope. It don’t sound like they’re sendin’ out any patrols to try to find you, but they might go lookin’ for you if they had any idea where you were.”

  “You don’t think Justin Landry has any idea where I am?” Clint asked.

  “Nah,” Ben said. “You know Hope ain’t gonna let on to nobody that you’re out here. Ain’t nobody else at Double-V-Bar gonna tell him, either, and he ain’t likely to figure it out for hisself. That boy’s dumber’n a stump.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Clint said.

  They talked on about what Clint was going to do, now that he was almost recovered from his wound and was rapidly becoming fit again. He was a wanted man, and as such, he couldn’t remain there on the Double-V-Bar forever, hiding out in the line shack. Sooner or later, that shack was going to be searched again. The only option for him seemed to be to set out for some other part of the territory, change his name, and perhaps start out on a new life somewhere far from here. The problem with that was Clint didn’t want to leave the Double-V-Bar and the working crew he had helped develop, and the future he had with Randolph Valentine.