Left Hand of the Law

by Charles G. West

  Pulling the gelding to a stop, he quickly dismounted, pulled his rifle from the saddle sling, and dropped the reins on the ground. Then he scrambled up to the crest of the ridge to take a look. Below him, at the base of the ridge, a party of four Indians was spread in a half circle before a camp in the trees. Before deciding what he should do, he took a quick moment to look the situation over. Only two of the Indians had guns and they were firing as fast as they could reload their single-shot rifles. Their shots were being answered by one person, but he was armed with a repeating rifle, a Winchester by the sound of it. Ben could not see the man. He could see what looked to be two horses tethered in the trees, but little else. He assumed the person under siege was a white man, and he made up his mind to even the sides in the fight.

  Pulling his rifle up beside him, he cocked it and laid the front sight on one of the Indians with a rifle. Squeezing the trigger slowly as he steadied the rifle, he was almost surprised when it fired and knocked the warrior facedown in the grass. The victim’s friends reacted in alarm, but did not realize he had been shot from behind until Ben’s rifle accounted for another fatality. Aware then that they were possibly surrounded, the remaining two fled to their horses and galloped away in the gathering dusk. When Ben was sure they weren’t coming back, he slid back down the slope to his horse. After replacing the two spent cartridges, he climbed aboard and rode over the top of the ridge and halfway down the other side before stopping and calling out, “Hello the camp. Are you all right?” He could see what appeared to be a squat man approaching the edge of the cottonwoods on short, bowed legs. “Can I come in?” Ben yelled.

  “Come on in and welcome!” the man answered as he left the shadow of the trees and walked toward the fallen warriors. “Can’t be too sure,” he said, and pulling his pistol, pumped one shot into each corpse. “Now I’m sure,” he concluded, and stood waiting, eyeballing his surprise rescuer as Ben slow-walked the buckskin up to him. The grin on the man’s face froze when Ben was close enough for him to get a good look at his visitor, but it was only for a moment before he recovered. “I was in a bad way there till you come along. Those sneakin’ buzzards surprised me, and I caught a bullet in the shoulder before I even knew they were out there. It’s not a serious wound, but it’s in my blame right shoulder, so I had to shoot my rifle left-handed, and I ain’t much of a shot left-handed.”

  Ben hadn’t noticed the wound until he stepped down from the saddle, but there was a round circle of blood on the man’s shoulder and it was about where he would rest the stock of his rifle when firing. Fully aware that the man could not help staring at his disfigured face, even though he was making an obvious effort not to, Ben tried to look as pleasant as he could. “Want me to take a look at that?”

  Judging strictly by appearances, Cleve Goganis was not sure that he had not fallen from the frying pan into the fire. For that reason, he still held his pistol in his hand. “I reckon,” he replied, uncertain. “Wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look.”

  Ben followed him over to the fire and directed him to sit down. “You can go ahead and holster that weapon,” he remarked as he pulled Cleve’s shirt aside. “If I was thinkin’ on shootin’ you, I’da done it when I first rode up.”

  Cleve smiled sheepishly and returned the .44 to his holster. “I plumb forgot I still had it in my hand,” he lied. “I appreciate your help,” he said then, thinking that he had misjudged the man. “My name’s Clever Goganis, but I go by Cleve.”

  “Ben Cutler,” Ben answered as he examined Cleve’s wound. “You’re right. It doesn’t look too bad. I could see a little better if I had somethin’ to clean some of that blood outta there.” Cleve supplied a cloth from one of his packs, and Ben wet it in the stream. After cleaning away some of the blood, he saw that the bullet had not gone very deep into the muscle and had lodged there before it hit the bone. “You’re lucky. I can get that out. There wasn’t much of a charge behind that rifle slug.” After heating his skinning knife in the coals to make sure it was clean enough, he probed for the slug. When it was out, he reheated the knife and cauterized the wound.

  Cleve sat quietly and expressionless through the entire procedure. When it was over, he nodded thoughtfully and said, “Much obliged.” Taking another look at the menacing face, he hesitated before finally making up his mind. “You’re welcome to camp here with me,” he decided. “The least I can do is offer some coffee and grub for fixin’ my shoulder, not to mention them two Injuns you killed.”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” Ben said, “but I was wonderin’ if it might be a good idea to move the camp a mile or so up the stream in case your friends come back to get their dead.”

  “Well, now, you’re probably right,” Cleve replied. “I doubt there was ever more than the four of ’em, but you can’t never tell.” So Cleve packed up while Ben put out the fire. Then they rode north along the stream for a mile and a half until they found a spot they both agreed upon. “This’ll do,” Cleve said. “If they decide to come back for more, they’ll play hell gettin’ across that open flat before we see ’em.” They unsaddled the horses and built a fire, and in short order there was a pot of coffee working away in the coals and Cleve had a frying pan filled with bacon sizzling over the fire.

  Sensing the peaceful disposition of the man with the grotesque scar across his face, Cleve soon ceased to feel intimidated by the solidly built stranger—enough so that he boldly asked, “That’s a right nasty-lookin’ scar across your face. How in hell did that happen?”

  “I ran into a fellow with a big knife,” Ben answered, reluctant to go into details.

  Cleve was studying him carefully now. “That scar ain’t been there very long,” he said. “It’s still a little pinkish lookin’.”

  “A few weeks,” Ben replied, anxious to change the subject. “You said your name was Clever. That’s a pretty unusual name.”

  “Yeah,” Cleve drawled, demonstrating boredom with the question, having been asked about the name so often. “My mama named me Clever. I reckon she was hopin’ I would be the smart one in the family, maybe grow into the name, but I never did.” He grunted a chuckle as he recalled, “My pa used to call me Stupid—said I lived up to that name. He was killed in a gunfight when I was fourteen.”

  “Is that a fact?” Ben remarked. “Who with?”

  “Me,” Cleve replied.

  Now it was Ben’s turn to lift an eyebrow in surprise and wonder if he had reason to keep a sharp eye. He took a longer look at Cleve Goganis. A more harmlesslooking man he could not imagine. “You killed your pa in a gunfight?” he had to question.

  “I did,” Cleve replied succinctly. “He beat my mother up one too many times. But he was my pa, so I called him out fair and square, although he was a little drunk at the time. Course he was most always drunk, so it was more like natural to him.” Cleve’s eyes seemed to mist a bit as he called to mind that fateful day in his young life. “Me and my squirrel rifle, him and that old Colt Navy revolver he was so proud of. He wanted Mama to count to three, but she wouldn’t do it, said we was both crazy and went in the house. Pa said it had to be fair, so he pulled a squash outta the garden and said when it hit the ground we’d fire. Well, he threw it up, and when it came down, that old pistol of his misfired. I didn’t even pull the trigger—just stood there watching him trying to get that old revolver to fire. When he threw it down and took off running around to the back of the house, I reckon I finally woke up. So I took off after him, wantin’ to take my shot. He was turnin’ the corner of the house, headin’ for the kitchen door, when I pulled the trigger—shot him in the back of the head.” Cleve smiled to himself and slowly shook his head. “That was down in the Nations in Osage country. The Injun police didn’t know what to do about it, but I figured I’d take off before they figured somethin’ out. I been movin’ ever since, and that was thirty years ago.”

  Ben was speechless for a few moments following Cleve’s story. “Damn,” was all he could mutter when at last he could comme
nt. After a moment more, he asked, “Where are you headed now?”

  “I’m goin’ up into the Black Hills,” Cleve answered. “I’ve been too late for every gold strike in the country, and I reckon I’m too late for this one, too. But I ain’t got nothin’ else to do.”

  Ben shared Cleve’s opinion on that. It was much too late to cash in on the rich untapped veins of gold of the early days, by a half dozen years. But there were some individuals, like Cleve, who thought it worthwhile to pan the streams running through the Black Hills in hopes of striking the next big payoff. He shrugged. “Maybe this time you’ll strike it rich.”

  “Never can tell,” Cleve commented. “You never said where you’re headin’.”

  “Nowhere in particular,” Ben replied. “Just west, I reckon. Thought I’d go to Dodge City.”

  Cleve studied Ben for a long moment before he asked, “I couldn’t help noticin’ that ever’thin’ you’ve got is new—new saddle, new boots, new clothes. You’re on the run, ain’tcha?” Ben didn’t answer, but Cleve could see that he had struck a sensitive chord. “The law? You rob a bank or somethin’? Or is it the feller that laid that scar across your face?”

  Ben’s hand automatically went up to feel the scar. “The man who did this is dead,” he replied soberly. “And I ain’t never stole anythin’ in my life, if that’s worryin’ you.”

  “Now, don’t get riled up.” Cleve was quick in seeking to calm him. “I didn’t go to get you mad. Your word’s good enough for me.” It was obvious to a man of Cleve’s years and experience, however, that the young man was running from something, and he kept at it until Ben finally confided that he wasn’t sure if he was being hunted or not. But the odds were good that the U.S. Marshal Service might be on the watch for him. Before the coffee was all gone, he told him what his crime had been.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Cleve uttered when Ben told him of the murder of his wife and son by a deputy sheriff. “I’da done the same thing you did. A man ought not be sent to prison for fightin’ for his family, and that’s a fact.” He said nothing for a few moments while he absorbed the story he had just heard. “Makes it kind of hard to lie low, since that son of a bitch left his mark on you,” he said, gazing openly at the jagged scar across Ben’s face. “Why don’t you come on to the Black Hills with me? There’s enough outlaws and rough-lookin’ fellers up in those hills that one more won’t hardly be noticed.”

  Ben laughed. “That may be so, but I don’t know anythin’ more about minin’ for gold than I did about farmin’. I know a little about cattle and horses, but nothin’ about pannin’ for gold. I doubt I’d be much good to you.”

  “There ain’t much to learn about it,” Cleve said. “Either you find it or you don’t. I know enough to tell when there’s color or not, so you might as well come on and go with me. I’ve got the tools and we’ll split fifty-fifty on anythin’ we find—which I doubt will be much—but what the hell?”

  Ben had to laugh again. He couldn’t help admiring the attitude of the gnomelike little man, in light of the fact that Cleve knew practically nothing about the man he invited to be a partner. He had to confess that the notion of joining Cleve held some attraction for him, especially since he knew the odds of hiring on with a cattle outfit at this end of the trail were very slim. “Are you sure you want me to be your partner?” he asked. “All you really know about me is that I killed a deputy sheriff, and I’m wanted by the U.S. Marshals.”

  “I know you’re pretty damn handy with that new Winchester you’re totin’, and I can sure as hell use that. I know you jumped right in when you saw them Injuns comin’ after me. There’s a lot of folks that’da just gone the other way. Besides,” he said with a chuckle, “I ain’t got nothin’ worth killin’ me for right now. I won’t have to worry about you shootin’ me till we strike some color somewhere.”

  “Well, I guess we’re goin’ to the Black Hills,” Ben said, and extended his hand. Cleve shook it and the partnership was formed.

  Chapter 5

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” Harvey Green asked when he glanced up to see the two strangers in his doorway. He didn’t see a lot of new customers in his little store on the south edge of Wichita, and these two weren’t typical of the folks who traded with him for seed, flour, tools, and the like. Taking a closer look, he decided they were either outlaws or lawmen, hard-looking men, one of them big, and the other one bigger.

  Barrett pulled his coat aside to show his badge, causing a sigh of relief from Harvey. “We’re lookin’ for a man who mighta come this way,” Barrett said. “Maybe you’ve seen him—young fellow with a scar across his face.”

  Harvey’s eyes answered the question before he opened his mouth to speak. “Couple of days ago,” he blurted excitedly. “He came in my store and bought some coffee beans. What did he do?”

  “Murdered a deputy sheriff over in Crooked Fork,” Ike replied.

  “Is that a fact?” Harvey responded. “I told my wife that man had a downright mean look about him. He talked nice enough, though. Didn’t cause no trouble. Just bought his coffee and left.” He paused to shake his head as he thought about it. “Murdered a deputy . . . Well, I’ll be . . .”

  “Did he say where he was headed?” Barrett asked.

  “No, but he said he was lookin’ to hire on with a trail outfit. I told him there wasn’t much goin’ on in Wichita no more, told him most of the herds were goin’ to Dodge City. He didn’t say he was goin’ to head for Dodge, but I think he was thinkin’ on it.”

  “‘Preciate your help,” Barrett said. “Was he still ridin’ that buckskin horse?”

  “Yessir, he was ridin’ a buckskin.”

  “When he left your place, which way did he go?”

  “West, he headed west,” Harvey replied. “Like I said, probably goin’ to Dodge.”

  “Step outside and show me exactly where he went,” Barrett said.

  Eager to help, Harvey led them out the door to the front yard. “Yonder,” he said, pointing toward a gully that led down to a creek. “He crossed the creek between them willows, climbed up the bank, and followed the sun toward that line of ridges.”

  “Much obliged, Mr. Green,” Barrett said, and started toward his horse.

  “Glad to help,” Harvey replied. “Anythin’ you fellers need? Short on any supplies? I’ve got a pretty good stock of necessities.”

  Barrett shook his head as he climbed up in the saddle. Ike lingered, however. “I need somethin’,” he told Harvey. He reached in a pocket of his saddlebag and produced a couple of coins. “Lemme have two of them peppermint sticks on the counter back there.” Harvey hurried to fetch the penny candy, and with one in his saddlebags for later, and the other jammed in his mouth like a cigar, Ike followed Barrett to the creek.

  When he caught up to him, Barrett was already out of the saddle, squatting on his heels while he studied the creek bank for hoofprints. “Take a look at this, Ike,” he said without looking around, his finger tracing the outline of a print. “I’ll bet you a month’s pay that wide hoof is that buckskin he’s ridin’.”

  “Maybe so,” Ike allowed, already thinking it was probably Cutler’s horse because of the simple fact that they were the only set of prints leading down between the two willow trees that the store owner indicated. Both men got back on their horses then, crossed the creek, and followed the tracks up the other bank, stopping at the top to gaze out in the direction the hoofprints were leading. “I’d say he drew a bead on that notch in that ridge yonder,” Ike said. With Barrett in agreement, they set their course for the same notch.

  At least two days old, the tracks were faint, but still in evidence, as the two marshals arrived at the notch, although they were forced to search in a wide circle at the top of the ridge before Barrett’s sharp eye found a partial print in the grassy plain. “I say we oughta stay on the same line we’ve been ridin’ on,” Barrett said. “He ain’t geed or hawed from this line since we left that store back yonder.” Ike agreed, so they pick
ed a spot to guide on atop another low ridge in the distance and continued on.

  It was late in the day when they crossed over the ridge and surprised a flock of buzzards dining upon two carcasses. Squawking and screeching, the greedy birds protested the intrusion of the two law officers, refusing to leave their banquet until Ike took out his rifle and shot one of them. Only then did the defiant diners back away long enough for Barrett and Ike to identify the main course as the remains of two Indians. “Wonder if our boy had anythin’ to do with this,” Ike said. “Judging by what’s left of them bodies, I’d say they were probably killed about the time Cutler would have been this far.” Leaving the buzzards to return to their task of tidying up the prairie, they rode on up to the bank of a stream some fifty yards farther, where they found the remains of a campfire. “Looks like this is where he camped. I reckon the Injuns tried to jump him and he picked them two off.”

  “He’s hooked up with somebody,” Barrett called from the line of cottonwoods by the stream. “There were a couple of horses tied here in the trees, judging by these turds. Maybe it was some other feller’s camp and Cutler just happened on it.” This new finding served to complicate their job, for now it was necessary to determine if Cutler actually joined whoever was in the camp, or if they went their separate ways. Which was Cutler and which was the other? Theirs was no choice but to scout the camp carefully, working in a big circle around the camp. Tracks of more than one horse were soon found leading off on a more northerly course. Barrett was inclined to follow that trail, but could not until they were absolutely certain there was not another trail left by the horse they had been following since Wichita. Darkness set in before he could confirm his suspicions, forcing them to wait until morning to continue the search.