“We’ll find his tracks in the mornin’,” Ike said, free of the frustration that plagued his partner. He busied himself with the building of a fire, preparing to settle in for the night.
“He joined up with whoever was here,” Barrett fumed. “I know damn well he did.”
“How do you know that?” Ike asked, not really caring, but merely amusing himself by watching his intense partner stew over the fact that they had not yet run Ben Cutler to ground. Personally, Ike didn’t care how long it took and, unlike Barrett, could live with it if Cutler escaped them altogether. He’d still draw his pay, win or lose. With Barrett, however, it was twisting his soul into a knot every day that Cutler remained free. Ike stirred his coffee with the remaining peppermint stick, a contented smile upon his face as he gazed at Barrett, who sat silently staring into the fire.
After a moment, Barrett answered Ike’s question. “I just know it,” he said. “I can feel it. I know how the man thinks.”
“Well, hell, then,” Ike joked, “why don’t we just go on ahead to wherever he’s goin’ and wait for him, instead of followin’ him all over hell and back?” Barrett’s expression told him that he was not amused. But then, Ike thought, Barrett never was.
As soon as it was light enough to scout the area carefully, they were back working the circle around the camp. There was no evidence of any other trails out of the camp save the one that led to the north. Certain then that there was no single trail continuing west, they followed the larger trail along the bank of the stream as it led through the stand of cottonwoods. They had gone no farther than a mile and a half when they came upon the ashes of a second campfire and evidence of another camp. Another party? There was no increase in the number of tracks, so they finally concluded that they had simply decided to move their camp for whatever reason. After considering all they had found the night before and the present morning, they agreed on a situation as it had probably happened. Cutler had joined another traveler, helped him kill the Indians they had found, then moved the camp before they were attacked again.
“Well, that don’t help us catch up with Cutler,” Ike commented. “So what if he did join up with somebody?”
“One thing we know now,” Barrett told him, “is Cutler ain’t headin’ to Dodge City no more since the only trail outta here is headin’ north, and I was hopin’ he was. It’s gonna be a helluva lot harder to find him if he’s wanderin’ off to God knows where.” He had been quite confident that they would find their man hanging around a saloon in Dodge. “Damn the luck,” he cursed, already hating the unknown partner Cutler had just taken on. “Let’s go,” he hurled impatiently in Ike’s direction. “I want this son of a bitch.”
With a feeling of confidence that any marshals who might have been chasing him had by now given up, Ben rolled comfortably with the steady gait of the buckskin gelding. They were no more than a day’s ride from Ogallala, a town that prompted memories of his life as a drover. With Cleve leading the way ahead of him, he let his mind wander back to the days before his life was violently tossed away. A Texan by birth, he had either been a hired hand or a partner on half a dozen cattle drives of Texas longhorn cattle to cow towns of Abilene, Wichita, and Dodge until he promised Mary Ellen he would stay put in one place. He had also committed to try his hand at raising crops, but in the back of his mind there had always been a plan to start a herd of cattle. Maybe small at first, but with plenty of good grazing land, he could eventually increase the herd to a profitable business.
All the herds he had driven up from Texas had been sold in towns like Wichita, but the big cattle barons who bought them more often than not moved them to Ogallala, where the Union Pacific Railroad had built holding pens. The little town between the forks of the Platte River had become a favorite place to hold cattle. The older ones were shipped out to the markets in the East, while the younger ones were held to winter range on the abundant grass there, even though it was covered with snow for much of the winter. If his plans had not been brutally shattered, he had envisioned raising his cattle a short drive from Ogallala, the town he was about to see for the first time.
“We’ll hit Ogallala before noon tomorrow,” Cleve commented when they stopped to make camp. “I’ll buy some flour. I’ve got a cravin’ for some biscuits, and I’ve been out of flour for three or four weeks now.”
“We could use a few things,” Ben replied, “some dried beans and some more bacon.” The opportunity for wild game had failed to present itself, so a side of pork had been the primary source of meat.
Soon after breaking camp the following morning, they began to pass through vast numbers of cattle long before sighting the outline of stores that would be Ogallala. It seemed to Ben that there were cattle everywhere as he and Cleve moved slowly through the sea of bellowing critters. Approaching the town, he was surprised to see the unimpressive size of it. The main street was no more than a block or two in length, boasting a few stores, two saloons, and a hotel. It was hard to imagine that there were such huge sums of money exchanged there. When he commented on it to Cleve, the wizened little man replied, “I don’t know about that, but I know a man can buy a drink of whiskey at the Cowboy’s Rest, and that’s what I’m thinkin’’bout now. It’s a right lively town this time of year, but if you was to ride through here in January, you’d think the whole town had died.”
Ben had been to a few cow towns before and he knew them all to be wild and lawless when the cowboys hit town after months on the trail. He expected this one to be the same. Cleve told him that was not the case with Ogallala. “Oh, I wasn’t foolin’ when I said it was lively. You can get everythin’ you want here, but Ogallala’s got law and order. It ain’t like Dodge City if Martin DePriest is still sheriff. He’ll let the drovers have their fun. Hell, he came up here from Texas himself, but if the fun starts to get outta hand, he’ll come down hard on you—him and his deputy, Joe Hughes. The last time I was here, two years ago June, ol’ DePriest run some cowboys outta town for takin’ target practice at the lamps on the undertaker’s rig. They decided they was gonna hoorah the town then to show him who was boss. When they showed up in front of the Ogallala House, DePriest was waitin’ for’em. He ain’t a tall man, short and stocky, but he’s hell in a free-for-all. He waded right in the middle of them cowboys, and it didn’t take long before those fellers from Texas decided they’d had all they wanted of Sheriff DePriest.” Cleve paused to laugh at the memory of it.
Ben wasn’t sure if that was good news for him or not. He couldn’t be certain that his description hadn’t been telegraphed all over the territory, so he would have preferred a lawless town at this particular point in his life. “Maybe I’d better lie low outside of town, in case they’re lookin’ for me up here.”
“Hell, ain’t no need for that,” Cleve insisted. “There’s so many cowboys in town, and a good many of ’em probably has scars on their faces, ain’t nobody gonna pay you no mind. Besides, we’re in Nebraska Territory now. They’re most likely just lookin’ for you in Kansas.”
“Maybe so,” Ben replied, still not convinced, but anxious to find out if Cleve was right, and possibly he was not sentenced to avoid all civilization for the rest of his life.
They continued on into town and Cleve led the way to the Cowboy’s Rest Saloon, where they tied the horses out front at the rail. “I’d be proud to buy you a drink,” Cleve said, “but I’m a little short on cash right now.”
Grinning, for he knew Cleve had no money, Ben said, “Why, that’s right sportin’ of you, partner, but I insist on springin’ for the drinks myself.” He knew that Cleve figured he had some money, but he wasn’t sure how much. Ben was afraid that if he told him, he might try to buy the saloon. He tilted the brim of his hat down low on his forehead and followed Cleve inside. Although it was still early in the day, the saloon was crowded from front to back with the trail hands and the soiled doves who were eager to entertain them. Those not crowded around the gaming tables were either sitting at the other tables o
r standing at the bar. With so much to occupy their minds, Ben began to think Cleve was right. No one was going to take the time to notice him. That was not to be the case, however.
“Damn, feller. . . ,” the bartender exclaimed when they found an empty space at the bar. He caught himself before continuing, because of the sinister appearance Ben’s scar gave him. “What’ll you have?” He quickly recovered, although still staring at Ben.
“Whiskey,” Cleve replied gleefully. “Whiskey for me and my partner.” Ben immediately wondered if he had made a mistake in coming in, but he stood silently waiting while the bartender poured. “Here’s to good times and a good partnership,” Cleve said, and tossed it back. Returning the empty glass to the bar with a flourish, he asked, “Does Bill Tucker still own this place?” When the bartender said that he did, Cleve said, “Bill told me whenever I got back in town to come in the Cowboy’s Rest and have a drink on the house.” He then looked at the bartender expectantly.
“Is that a fact?” the bartender replied, his eyes reflecting boredom with Cleve’s obvious attempt to get a free drink. “He’s over there at the poker table. We can call him over so you can say hello.”
“No, no,” Cleve quickly insisted. “I wouldn’t call a man from a poker game. Might give him bad luck.”
Ben couldn’t help laughing. “Pour another round,” he said. “I’m buyin’.”
Taking a little more time to enjoy his second drink, Cleve looked around him at the noisy barroom. The riotous celebration of trail’s end obviously pleased him, judging by the wide grin on his face. At the far end of the room, a fiddler was doing his best to offer some musical entertainment, his efforts all but unnoticed in the steady clamor of boisterous laughter and the voices of the patrons, yelling to be heard above the din. To Cleve, it was the ultimate celebration of life. He looked back at Ben and smacked his hand on the bar. “Let’s have one more for the road,” he suggested gleefully. Ben nodded to the bartender.
The cowboy standing next to Cleve left the bar and a fragile-looking, gray-haired man slid in to take his place. He immediately ordered a drink, gazing at the bottle in eager anticipation as the bartender poured. Placing his money on the bar, he picked up the glass and took a moment to look at the amber liquid before bringing it to his lips. Then as he brought it up to his mouth, a rowdy young cowhand jostled him roughly, causing the whiskey to spill on the bar. The cowhand turned to see the consequences of his roughhousing and laughed when he saw the drink splashed across the counter. Looking back at his friend who had shoved him, he said, “Damn it, Travis, look what you made me do.” His complaint brought more laughter from his friends.
With no particular interest in the incident, Ben watched the reaction of the victim of the horseplay. It struck him that the willowy little man was as out of place there as any man could be, and was obviously not one of the drunken trail hands who had caused him to lose his whiskey. The accident seemed to be of no concern to the two whose rough play had caused it. The man said nothing as he stared at his empty glass, and when he turned to look at the bartender, the bartender merely shrugged his shoulders. Still the man said nothing.
Witness also to the incident, Cleve was a step ahead of Ben in interceding. He tapped the young cowboy on the shoulder. It took a couple of times before the cowboy turned to face him. “Your horsin’ around caused this feller to lose his drink.” His statement was met with a look of indifference. “You owe him a drink,” Cleve said.
“Hellfire,” the young man responded. “It ain’t my fault. He shoved me,” he said, nodding toward his friend, who was watching the confrontation with a foolish grin still in place.
“Don’t make no difference,” Cleve replied. “The right thing to do is for you to buy him another one.”
The young man’s friends were suddenly silent, interested now in what he was going to do, and obviously amused by the situation. “Yeah,” one of them said, “you owe the gentleman a drink, Tom.” The injured party had still not uttered a word, and it was obvious to Ben that he never would.
The man called Tom turned back to sneer at the puddle on the counter, concerned now that his friends were waiting to see what he was going to do. “Well, hell,” he said, pointing at it, “you ain’t lost it. You just gotta lap it up off the bar.” Again, his comments brought a wave of laughter from his friends.
The little gray-haired man turned to leave, wanting no further humiliation at the hands of the cowboys. He didn’t get far before being caught by the arm and stopped in his tracks. Ben had seen enough of the senseless bullying. He pulled the man aside to stand next to Cleve, then roughly spun Tom around to face him. Having paid no attention to the silent man on the other side of Cleve, the cowboy was not prepared to confront the angry visage suddenly before him. The anger in the searing eyes seemed to set the long ugly scar ablaze, causing Tom to think that he had seen the devil in that instant. “You owe the gentleman a drink,” Ben said softly, his tone deadly calm.
His vocal cords paralyzed by a shock of cold fear that raced down his spine, young Tom was unable to speak for a few moments. His voice returned simultaneously with his common sense. “Why, I was gonna buy him a drink all along,” he stammered while digging into his pocket for his money. “We wasn’t lookin’ to cause no trouble.”
Cleve took over then. “Course you wasn’t. Just cowboys havin’ fun, and no harm come of it. I knowed you wanted to do the right thing.” He glanced at Ben, having seen for the first time that violent display of anger, and he wondered what his new partner was capable of if really enraged.
A helpless witness to the altercation to this point, the victim finally spoke. “I don’t want to cause any more trouble,” he said. “I’ll just leave now.”
“You ain’t had your drink yet,” Cleve told him, and slid the now full shot glass before him. Looking as if he had no choice, the man quickly drank it down, turned, and headed for the door. Tom and his friends moved farther down the bar, talking quietly among themselves. “I reckon we’re done here, too,” Cleve said. “We’ll walk out with you.”
Outside, the meek little man turned and waited for them. “I want to thank you for what you did in there,” he said, extending his hand. “My name’s Jonah Marple and I guess I had no business in that saloon. I was just gonna slip in and get a drink of whiskey real quick before I went back to the wagon. My wife will be getting worried. She’s afraid to come into town as long as it’s overrun with these wild drovers from Texas.”
“So you don’t live around here?” Cleve asked.
Marple shook his head and replied, “No, we were just passing through, but we’ve been stranded here for over a week.”
“How come?” Cleve asked.
Jonah went on to explain the circumstances that brought him to be camping outside Ogallala. “We left Omaha a little over a month ago, my wife, our daughter, her son, and me, on a journey to join my son-in-law in Deadwood. My son-in-law, Garth Beaudry, went to the Black Hills to prospect for gold last spring. The last word we had from him was from Deadwood, and he said that he was seeing some success, and is working for the largest mine in the area. My daughter was determined to go out to join him, and we didn’t want to see her make that journey on her own. So I sold my farm, lock, stock, and barrel and went with her. We hired a man named Seth Barnhill to take us out there.”
“And he run off and left you,” Cleve finished for him.
Jonah bit his lip and nodded. “Yes, that he did.”
“He took his total payment, too,” Cleve said. Again, Jonah nodded, looking quite embarrassed to admit it. “Well,” Cleve continued, “you ain’t the first that’s been took by a low-down scoundrel that preys on innocent folks. He’s most likely headed to Dodge with your money, if you’re thinkin’ about lookin’ for him.”
Jonah’s facial expression told them that he was not likely to consider such action. “I don’t want to see the man again,” he said.
“So, now what are you gonna do?” Cleve asked.
&
nbsp; “Well, I’ve been talking it over with my wife and daughter. We certainly can’t stay here, but I don’t know if I could find Deadwood if I just started out over this endless prairie country. So we decided the safest thing for us is to follow the river to Fort Laramie. I’ve heard that the government cleared a road from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie, and on to Deadwood. They say it’s a stage road, and there’s a lot of traffic of all kinds on it, so I think I can follow it to Deadwood without fear of getting lost.”
“That’s one way to get there,” Cleve conceded, “and a smart way for someone who don’t know the country.” He studied the timid little man for a few moments more before asking, “How do you make your livin’, Jonah—farmin’?”
“I’m a teacher,” he replied, and reading Cleve’s expression, quickly added, “I had a small farm near Omaha, though.”
Taking no pains to hide his skepticism, Cleve pressed. “And you’re gonna go up in the Black Hills and prospect for gold?”
Jonah shifted his gaze back and forth between the stumpy Cleve and his ominous-looking partner, who stood silently by. “Well, I don’t know. Primarily, I guess I’m going up there to try to find my son-in-law, Garth Beaudry.”
“Well, Mr. Marple,” Cleve said, intending to end the conversation, “I wish you good luck in finding your daughter’s husband. I hope you have a safe journey.” Turning to go to his horse, he paused when Jonah asked one more question.
“I get the feeling that you two gentlemen are not with one of the cattle outfits in town. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Cleve said. “We’re just passin’ through.”
“Where are you heading?”
“The Black Hills,” Cleve answered reluctantly, guessing what Jonah’s next question would be.
Left Hand of the Law Page 7