by Jake Logan
“I’ll give you the final details on Saturday morning,” Valenti said.
He looked at his men. They all nodded in agreement.
“Now, let’s get that fire started and break out the fry pans. I could eat a southbound horse headin’ north.”
The men scattered, each to his own task. Cochran struck a match and touched it to the squaw wood they had gathered to put beneath the kindling. The flames spread fast and the squaw wood crackled.
The sun lit the distant peaks, turning their snowy tips to a golden radiance. Jays perched on the roofs of the log cabins, watching the activity in the camp. Some distance away, buzzards circled in the sky on invisible carousels and wolves gulped down the innards of the dead elk, snarling at the swarm of flies that attacked all the bloody parts.
The Crow cut up the mutton. One or two scraped the hides and fashioned willow withes for curing. They looked over at the fire and grunted their approval.
They, too, were hungry.
15
Slocum and Jenner were surprised when someone began pounding on the sheriff’s door. Dusk’s gray shadows seeped through the edges of the pulled shades.
“I wonder who that could be,” Jenner said. He arose from his chair, walked to the door, lifted the latch, and opened it.
Slocum saw a woman, her sandy hair cut short but visible under her flat-crowned gray hat, standing there holding a Crow arrow in her hand. She wore a light denim jacket over a red-and-black-plaid shirt tucked into faded denim trousers.
“Dave,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here. They killed my sheep.”
“Hello, Evelyn,” Jenner said. “Come on in.”
She thrust the arrow at him and Jenner took it.
“Slocum, this is Evelyn Stark. Evelyn, do you know John Slocum?”
“No,” she said, “I haven’t had the pleasure. How do you do, Mr. Slocum.”
Slocum stood up and offered her his hand. She shook it. Her grip was strong and he saw working hands, with visible veins coursing beneath sun-tanned wrinkles.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Slocum said.
Jenner examined the arrow, handed it to Slocum.
“Tell me what happened, Evelyn,” he said.
“Some redskins with bows and arrows shot four of my sheep. They made off with three of them. I took this arrow out of another. Injuns. Can you imagine?”
“Crow,” Slocum said.
“I don’t know if they was Crow, Sioux, or Cheyenne,” Evelyn said. “They was ridin’ paints and wore quivers and had bows. They plumb kilt three of my sheep. The other one is crippled and I’ll probably have to butcher it come morning.”
“There are some renegade Crows in the mountains,” Jenner said. “Slocum and I are going to go after them.”
“I want payment for my sheep,” she demanded.
“I doubt if you’ll get any money from the Crow, but we’ll sure try and see that they pay for sheep stealing and murder.”
“Murder?”
“Didn’t you hear about the stage robbery?” Jenner asked.
“Hell no. I been tendin’ my flock.”
Jenner told her about the ambush and the deaths. She cringed when she heard the names of the dead women.
“I guess my troubles are small compared to what happened to them poor women,” she said. “Well, you can keep the arrow. Let me know if you catch them renegade redskins.”
“I sure will, Evelyn. You better keep an eye out in case some of those Crow get hungry for mutton again. I hope we catch ’em before that happens.”
“Good night, Dave. I swan, what’s this world comin’ to? I thought all the Injuns was on reservations.”
She left and Slocum handed the arrow to Jenner. It did not have a flint arrowhead, but one made of thin tin sharpened to a surgical edge. The blade was covered with dried blood.
“I wonder where the Crow got these arrows,” Slocum said. “I doubt if they made them on the reservation.”
Jenner examined the arrow, sliding his finger up the shaft and touching the feathered fletching.
“These were made in Billings,” he said. “Wood lathe, manufacture glue, dyed turkey feathers. The markings were added later. Someone sold or bought these arrows for the Crow.”
“I agree,” Slocum said. “Probably Valenti.”
“Mmm. Could be. He said something today that might clear up that matter. But look, it’s getting late. I’ll buy you supper at the hotel and tell you what I overheard at that outlaw camp. We can talk to the Lorraines about going into hiding while we’re there.”
“You mean you’ll talk to them,” Slocum said.
“I mean, we’ll both talk to them, John. You know ’em better’n I do.”
“I don’t know them at all. I just happened to find them up that logging road.”
“They probably trust you, then. Come on, let’s walk to the hotel. I’m starving. And I want to tell you more about what I overheard when Valenti and Pettibone were talking today.”
“I’m all ears,” Slocum said.
Jenner blew out the lamp. The two men left the darkened office. Jenner locked the door behind him. They walked down the street to the hotel with its windows glowing yellow and the night descending like a dark shroud over the street. The air was crisp and cool, and the sky filled with billions of dazzling stars.
There were people lounging in the lobby. Some waved to Jenner, who rushed past those entering the dining salon.
“Let’s get a drink before we try and get a table,” Jenner said. “Maybe the saloon’s not so crowded.”
“Who are all these people?” Slocum asked.
“I guess the Lorraines are a big hit, John.”
They entered the saloon. All of the tables were taken, but there were stools at the bar. The two men sat down and Jenner ordered a whiskey and soda for himself.
“What’ll you have, John?” he asked.
“Kentucky bourbon.”
While they waited for the barkeep to pour their drinks, Slocum looked around the room. Most of the patrons were men, but he saw two women in fine clothes at one of the tables. Big Timber, he decided, was democratic, at least. Refined women did not usually frequent saloons. But, he supposed, since this one was in a hotel, it was really part of both the lobby and the dining salon.
The bartender set their drinks on the bartop and Jenner handed over some crumpled bills.
“Keep the change,” he said. Then he turned to Slocum and raised his glass. “Luck,” he said.
“Luck?”
“We’re going to need some, I fear. Valenti strikes me as pretty smart.”
“In what way?” Slocum asked.
“Well, when Pettibone brought up the matter of the Crow wanting white men’s weapons, Valenti said he would not give them rifles, especially repeating rifles. When Pettibone asked why, Valenti said that as long as he and his bunch had rifles, the Crow would take orders. If he gave them rifles, they might turn on them.”
“Sounds like Valenti’s not sure of the Crow.”
“He’s got them under his thumb. For now.”
“What else did you hear, Dave?”
“Valenti’s got something planned, but he wouldn’t tell Pettibone or any of the others I saw there. They were all griping about living up in those log cabins and wanting soft beds and loose women.”
“Any hint of what Valenti’s going to do?”
“One man, Macgregor, griped about Valenti’s ex-wife, saying that it didn’t get them any rewards.”
“What did Valenti say to that?”
“He said the women were part of the deal and he would see to it that their pockets were filled with cash.”
“Do you know what he meant by that?” Slocum asked.
Jenner shook his head.
“No town, no plan, was mentioned. Valenti keeps his cards close to his vest.”
They finished their drinks and walked to the dining salon. There were few tables left, but the head waiter showed them to a table that was far from the st
age. The small stage was lit up with lamps, but the candles for the footlights had not been lit. On stage were two guitars on wooden stands and a large poster announcing that night’s performance by the Lorraines.
“Looks like Jasmine and her daughter will have a full house tonight,” Jenner said.
“Are you going to them before or after they sing?” Slocum asked.
“Afterwards. Why ruin their evening and ours?”
A waiter took their order after he handed them one slate between them.
“Pork chops,” Jenner said.
“Beef stew for me,” Slocum said.
“Tomorrow we will have elk meat on the menu,” the waiter said.
“Well cured, I hope,” Slocum said, a sly curl to his lips.
“Oh yes,” the waiter lied.
Jenner laughed.
“Nothing wrong with fresh elk meat, John.”
“Nope. There were times when I would have eaten raw elk. I have eaten raw deer meat and a lizard or two.”
“You must live an interesting life,” Jenner said.
“If by interesting, you mean hard, yes.”
“Seems to suit you.”
“It interests me,” Slocum said.
There was a hush in the dining room and several heads turned toward the entrance.
Slocum turned his head to see what caused the room to go so quiet.
Jasmine and Lydia, both dressed in pastel organdy gowns, blue for Jasmine and yellow for Lydia, entered the dining salon. They were trailed by Fenster, who preened and strutted like a gamecock. He waved to the patrons and stopped to speak at a table. The women walked slowly down the center aisle, then veered off in Slocum and Jenner’s direction.
“Looks like they’re headin’ our way,” Jenner said.
Slocum removed his hat and set it on an empty chair. When it seemed that the women were coming to his table, he stood up.
“John,” Jasmine said, “I heard you were here. I’m so glad to see you.”
“Me, too,” Lydia said.
“Won’t you sit down?” Jenner said as he rose from his chair.
“No thanks,” Jasmine said. “We want to tune up and start the evening’s entertainment. I just wanted to thank you both for coming.”
“Our pleasure,” Slocum said.
Jenner appeared to be suddenly tongue-tied.
“See you after the concert?” Jasmine said to Slocum.
“Why, sure, Jasmine. Matter of fact, Dave and I came to see you and wanted to talk with you after your performance.”
“How very nice of you,” Jasmine said.
Lydia’s eyes brightened when she looked up at Slocum. He towered above her so that she looked smaller than she was.
“I hope you like our singing,” Lydia said.
“I’m sure we will, Lydia.” Slocum smiled at her and her eyes twinkled with pleasure.
“Until later, then,” Jasmine said.
They walked to the stage amid whispers and admiring looks from the patrons. Soon, all the tables filled, and Slocum saw Fenster take a seat at a table near the stage.
“Fenster must be their chaperone,” Jenner said as he sat down.
“A paid chaperone,” Slocum said.
The women tuned their guitars. The audience fell silent.
Then they began to play, softly at first, then more loudly.
Jasmine began to sing and was joined in harmony by Lydia.
They looked like two angels, Slocum thought, and their voices blended perfectly, sweetly, as they sang “Dixie,” then changed to the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The audience cheered and the women smiled and segued into another tune, “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.”
The audience erupted in a thunderous round of applause when the women finished and bowed.
“It would be easy to fall in love with them women,” Jenner said. “Just watchin’ them sing.”
“Yes,” Slocum murmured. He was deep in thought.
It was hard to imagine that there was a man out there who wanted to cause them harm, who wanted what he could not have, Jasmine. Valenti, he thought, must have a heart of iron, not to mention a diabolic soul.
Yes, he thought, he could fall in love with either woman.
Or both.
16
Slocum and Jenner were among the last to finish their suppers. Waiters cleared the tables and many of the patrons ordered cordials and aperitifs as after-dinner drinks. Jasmine and Lydia had the audience enthralled. They sang “Greensleeves” and other folk songs to thunderous applause at the end of each number.
Just then, another sound burst over the applause. The crowd stopped their clapping and went silent. Slocum stood up. Jenner stared at him, a look of surprise on his face.
“What’s that?” Jenner said.
“Gunshots,” Slocum said.
Two more gunshots rattled the windows in the room and people slid from their chairs to crawl under the tables.
Slocum started toward the lobby, his right hand gripping the butt of his revolver.
A moment later, a man screamed.
“Help me, help me!” he shouted.
The voice came from the hotel lobby.
Jenner rose from his chair and ran after Slocum.
Slocum saw a man stagger into the lobby. His left arm dripped blood.
“He’s still out there,” the man said, and collapsed to the floor.
Slocum drew his pistol and rushed outside. He bent over in a crouch as he hurried down the front steps. He saw two horses in the middle of the street. Nearby, there was the figure of a man.
Just as Slocum cleared the last step, another shot cracked the night with a stream of orange flame. Slocum ducked down as a bullet plowed a furrow inches from the step. He cocked his pistol and pulled the trigger, firing at the afterimage of the glowing spume of flame.
He heard footsteps on the boardwalk across the street. Fifty yards away, he saw another horse standing hipshot under a streetlamp. Slocum recognized the horse, a buckskin with cropped mane and tale, part Arab and part Morgan.
It was one of the horses he had sold to Bruno Valenti in Billings.
The man lying on the street groaned in pain. Across the street, Slocum saw a large man duck into a space between two buildings. He fired another shot, then heard the sound of retreating footsteps.
“I’m bad hurt,” the man on the ground moaned.
Slocum, still in a crouch, went to him.
“Who shot you?” he asked.
“I don’t know. We been chased for miles. I think I’m bleeding to death.”
“You hold on,” Slocum said.
He saw blood pouring from a hole in the man’s side, and another from his leg.
Jenner came down the steps, his pistol drawn.
“Dave, can you help this man? I know where the shooter went. And keep your eye on that buckskin down the street. It’s under that streetlamp.”
Jenner looked over and saw the buckskin horse.
Slocum stood up.
“The man inside is shot, too,” he told Slocum. “He and two other men were hunting a cougar and stumbled onto Valenti’s camp. Valenti killed one man up there and then someone chased these two back here to Big Timber.”
“This man needs a doctor, Dave.”
Slocum ran off to the corner of the block, bent on finding the man who had shot at him. He heard Jenner talking to some people who had come out of the hotel.
He passed the buckskin and turned the corner at the end of the block. He stopped and listened, flattening himself against the frame of a wooden building that housed a fishing tackle store. While he waited, he ejected the hulls of the two bullets he had fired, pulled fresh cartridges from their belt loops, and thumbed them into the empty chambers of the cylinder. He spun the cylinder and pulled the hammer back to half-cock. Then he crept along the building to the next street over, stopping every few steps to listen.
He heard the crunch of a boot on the next street as he reached the corner. There
, he leaned against cold bricks and waited.
Someone was walking his way. And the person was very careful. One step, then another. Stop, and then another step.
Crunch, crunch.
Slocum ducked down and craned his neck to see around the corner.
The street was not lighted. It was dark and filled with thick shadows, some bulging, some thin and rectangular, some triangular or trapezoid-shaped.
One of the shadows moved. There were no boardwalks in front of the stores with their dim false fronts or obscure glass windows. As the shadow moved, it made another crunching noise. The shadow moved toward him, one step at a time. In the dim light of the stars and the streetlamp on Main Street, Slocum saw the gleam of a pistol, just a brief and momentary glint of light as the man moved his hand when he took another cautious step.
Slocum measured the distance in his mind, estimated the yardage between him and the approaching man.
No more than thirty yards, he figured.
Still too far for a certain shot.
He knew that combinations of light, low light, and darkness, played tricks on a man’s eyesight. If he fired his pistol now, he might shoot high or low. Or he might be off to one side or the other. Better to wait.
The man was probably trying to sneak back to the other street and climb onto his horse. He had no other place to go, and few ways to get there.
So Slocum waited. He pulled his head back and stood up straight. He gently squeezed the trigger and hammered back to full cock.
He slowed his breathing, listened for another footfall.
Crunch. Crunch.
He could hear barely discernible voices coming from the street in front of the hotel.
Crunch, crunch.
Voices fading and rising, fading again. Muffled voices. Distant chatter. Low tones.
Then, no more voices.
Just a long silence.
Again, the crunch of a boot on sand and gravel.
How much closer? Slocum wondered.
Time ticked away in Slocum’s mind. Like a clock. A pendulum swaying. A faint tick, tick, tick.
The waiting became a heavy weight on Slocum’s shoulder, a weight that ticked and drew sweat from his pores.
Close and closer the man came, his footsteps growing ever louder. The crunches seemed to be so close that Slocum had to restrain himself from leaping out of hiding and blasting away at the ghostly presence only a few yards away.