The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  “I want to ride him before I even say any more.”

  “I’ll have him here in the morning for you.”

  “Good, I’ll look for him then.”

  “Yes, sir, Cap’n. I wondered a lot about where you went after the war and all. You go home and ranch in Texas?”

  “I did that for a while.” He scratched Blacky’s ears. “Traded cattle and horses. Took some herds to Kansas.”

  “Your children grown up now, ain’t they?”

  Thurman nodded. “That’s who I’m going to Montana to try and find. My oldest son, Herschel.”

  “Oh, both my two boys are dead, Cap’n. One got killed in a gunfight over in the Nation. The other drowned. My daughter, Effie, married an outlaw and Parker hung him. She takes care of me—got a couple of kids. You never knew, of course, but my wife, Eleanor, died before I got back home from Mississippi. I just always somehow figured you and your family was doing good at ranching in Texas.”

  Thurman nodded. “Been some bumps in the road for all of us since that time.”

  “Sure have, sir. I’ll have that good hoss here in the morning.”

  Thurman told him thanks and went to see about Mary. The day was warming up and it had the muggy feeling of a storm building. Grateful he wasn’t worried about holding a herd in the face of one of the furious storms that could sweep across the Indian Territory, he moved along the busy sidewalk toward the hotel.

  “Baker. Baker, wait up.”

  He turned and saw a face that looked familiar. A man in his forties dressed in a cheap suit was hurrying to catch him.

  “How have you been?” The man stuck out his hand. “Nelson Manner. You remember me from Fort Worth? I set up the Carlille Cattle drive you ramrodded.”

  The man’s face appeared tired, and from the look of his dress, he must have fallen on hard times. His gaze even appeared hollow.

  “Yes, I remember you now. What are you doing here?”

  “Working on a contract to sell beef to these Indian agencies. Man, the red tape!” Manner glanced up at the saloon sign. “You have a minute? I might have a deal that would interest you.”

  When they stepped inside, Thurman noticed the saloon was empty save for two grizzly swampers cleaning up. The bartender drew them two drafts, and Thurman paid for them. Manner guided him over to a side table where enough light came in from outside over the short curtain that kept the street passersby from having to look into the sin pot.

  “At last I have a valid contract for delivery of a thousand head to each of three Injun agencies.” He spread the papers out on the table. “Now, before I go to Fort Worth and find me a partner, I wanted for you to take a look at this opportunity. It’ll make us both rich.”

  Thurman glanced over the papers, set them back down, and took a sip of the beer.

  “It’s a deal, ain’t it?” Manner said.

  “If the roads were open and there was no barbed wire in the way, yes, you could make some money. But the only way to get those cattle up here anymore is by rail, and that will kill this deal.”

  “Oh, no. No, you have it all wrong. Some tough hands and a good trail boss could drive a thousand head up here, say, from San Antonio.”

  “I wish you luck, my friend. I just covered that country. There is no way to get a thousand head up here. The trail’s closed to cattle. It’s a freight route. Jessie Chisholm would turn over in his grave if he knew that—his namesake reduced to a freight road and all the Indians he used to trade with now on reservations with nothing to swap for but government handouts.”

  Manner drew his head back in shocked disbelief. “You’ve lost all your nerve?”

  Thurman looked over at the man mildly. “I’m not the man I was ten years ago. But I just rode up here from south Texas. The western routes are all that’s left to drive cattle over.”

  With the back of his fingers, Manner rapped the contract on the table. “There’s twenty thousand dollars in this deal. I’d split it with you. Having a professional like you in charge, I can raise the money and then we can buy the cattle—buy them cheap in Mexico.”

  Calmly, Thurman shook his head. “I ain’t going back there either.”

  “Aw, hell, where’s your guts? I’m offering you over ten thousand dollars to head up this deal.”

  “Gawdamnit, it’s not there. The cattle ain’t down there in Mexico anymore. The roads are fenced. There’s not any free range to drive them over. I can’t help you.” He rose over the chair and then downed his mug of beer. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he asked, “You need some money?”

  Red-faced, Manners looked up at him. “I didn’t come to beg money off you. I have a valid deal here.”

  “I’ll stake you to thirty bucks. That’s more than the train fare to Fort Worth. Maybe there’s men there more foolhardy than I am.” Thurman tossed the three tens on the table. “Good luck, but I’ve warned you.”

  Collapsing in defeat, Manners slid the bills between his fingers, not looking up. “Thanks, Thurman.”

  With a nod, Thurman left the saloon.

  Out in the warm daylight, he felt free. He had a deal of his own. A project he wanted to complete. He stuck his head in a delicatessen and spoke to a square-shouldered, blond Dutch woman. “I want a picnic basket with fried chicken, fresh bread, butter, some sweet rolls or pie, silverware, plates, and two bottles of good wine. I’ll bring the basket and silverware back.”

  “I have it ready at eleven o’clock,” she announced. “And what is dee name?”

  “Thurman Baker.”

  “Fine, Mr. Baker. It vill be delicious.”

  “I’m counting on that.” He waved and went back on the street. Outside in the bright sunshine, he caught an older street urchin by the sleeve. “Can you drive a horse and buggy?”

  The youth swept the dark lock of hair back from his face and looked hard at Thurman’s hand holding his sleeve. “Sure. Why?”

  “Go to Dearborn’s Livery and talk to Sarge. Have him hitch Captain Baker’s mule to the buggy, put my dog in back, and drive him down here to the Palace Hotel. You park in front and wait for me.”

  The boy’s brown eyes bugged out when Thurman tore a dollar bill in two, giving him half of it. “You get the other half when you deliver my buggy.”

  “Yes, sir, Cap’n Baker, sir.”

  The brat did have manners. Thurman nodded and looked at the sun time, then spoke again to the boy “Walk, don’t run. You have an hour to get back there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Repeat what I told you.”

  He flipped back the hair. “Tell Sarge at Dearborn’s that I am to drive Captain Thurman’s buggy down to the Palace Hotel for him—and get his dog.”

  “Not bad. See you in an hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” And the boy was gone down the crowded sidewalk.

  Thurman went into the hotel and up to their room. Mary sat on the bed, sewing on the new dress material he’d bought her for the more loosely fitting dress she’d need on the trip. He removed his hat and placed it on the dresser, crown side down.

  “I have a surprise. We are going on a picnic,” he announced.

  “A what?”

  “Lunch on the ground.” He went to the window and looked down at the traffic. Poor girl, she had no idea what a picnic was. For his part, he hadn’t been on many. The better ones were with that other woman in his life on the river outside San Antonio. Maybe she’d taught him picnic etiquette.

  “We’re going over to the free ferry side of town and spread a blanket on the ground, eat some lunch, sip some wine, and watch the paddleboats go by.”

  “That sounds nice. What about the saddle horse?”

  “I am supposed to look at him in the morning. Today is your day.”

  She nodded, gathered the dress-to-be from her lap, and scooted off the bed. “Would I look less like a squaw if I cut my braids?”

  He hugged her by the waist and rocked her. “Don’t cut your braids. You’re fine for me. Where we are go
ing, it won’t matter anyway.”

  “The horse?”

  “My old sarge says he’s a helluva horse.”

  “Picnic?” She looked up at him. “Are they fun?”

  “With you along, it will be heavenly.”

  She laughed aloud, then hugged him.

  Long past noontime, the toot of a riverboat going past accompanied him as he sliced the hard-crusted French bread. On her knees, she was eating a crisp fried chicken leg and laughing. “Now I know what a picnic is all about.”

  He buttered some bread and fed her a bite. “This tastes good with wine.”

  “The wine tastes good anyway. All I ever had before was made from possum grapes, and it wasn’t near this good.”

  “We could get on that boat, go to Memphis, and ride a riverboat clear to Montana.”

  “No. It would be too much like a ferry.” She tossed the bare white bone in the bushes and Blacky ran to recover it.

  “Fine, we’ll drive Ira, lead my new horse, and go across country.”

  “You aren’t mad at me for not taking the boat?”

  “I get mad, you’ll know it.”

  She looked at him and then she nodded. “I’ll try not to do that. Make you mad at me.”

  He raised up and kissed her.

  When he released her, she nodded and smiled. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “If your son won’t join you in this ranch business, what then?”

  He tossed some pinched-off grass in the air. No wind. It was growing hotter. He put his index finger inside his collar for some more room to swallow. “I’ll deal with that when it happens. Do you know anything more from your visions?”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

  She nodded, rose on her knees, and threw her arms around him. Her sobbing pulsated in his tight hug and tears ran down her copper face. “Thurman Baker, where have you been for all my life?”

  Off chasing elusive sundowns like Manner was today, but not anymore.

  ELEVEN

  WHEN they arrived home from Soda Springs in the late evening, Herschel let Marsha off at the house, kissed her, and promised to be back after he checked on the jail. With her waving after him, he drove the buckskins the four blocks to the courthouse and hitched them out in front.

  To his dismay, he found Art half asleep in his chair. He cleared his throat and Art sat up. “You back?”

  Herschel glanced over at Phil, asleep on the floor. “Can’t you guys go home? Your wives mad at you?”

  “No, sir. We’ve had some problems last night, but they’re all wound up now. We think.”

  Phil sat up cross-legged and rubbed his sleepy face with his palms. “About ten o’clock—” He yawned and covered his mouth. “Last night, we had some folks that wanted to swing the store robber and anyone else in the jail.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We did what we thought you’d do. We went down to the Antelope Saloon and shot a hole in the ceiling to get their attention.”

  Art nodded. “We told ’em to disperse and go home or we’d jail the whole lot of them.”

  “Must have worked.”

  “It did, but there’s still rumors going around they’ll be back for the necktie party.”

  “You boys go home. One of you needs to get Marsha word on the way that I’m staying up here. Oh, and take my team home as well.”

  “Hell, this was supposed to be your weekend off.”

  “You’re both worn out. Go home.”

  Art stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “You learn anything up there?”

  “Yes, there may be more than a murder going on up there.”

  “What else?” Phil asked.

  “They say this Roscoe Hatch is butchering other folks’ cattle and selling the meat in Miles City.”

  “How do we catch him at that?”

  “I’m working on that. I also learned that, when someone told him I was at the dance, he tucked tail and ran.”

  “Sounds like he’s acting guilty to me,” Phil said.

  Herschel shook his head. “No telling, but there’s lots of small folks upset over his bullying them out of reporting anything.”

  “What do we need to do?”

  “I’ll take the stage to Miles City and talk to Don Harold, the new sheriff. He may have some ideas on Hatch’s operation. Oh, Phil, did we get a description out on the other two store robbers?”

  “Yes, sir, but it’s so vague, you could find six other guys in this town fit it.”

  “I suspected that. What about money—did Hamby have any we didn’t know about?”

  “Seven hundred dollars was wired here from Michigan to the Cattleman’s Bank.”

  “When?”

  “He picked it up the day before you found him dead.”

  “He spend any of it in town that we know about?”

  Art nodded. “He spent some of it the next morning in Madame Shiner’s Parlor House.”

  “Who was with him?”

  “Some Dane lives up there near Soda Springs.”

  “Olsen his name?”

  With a questioning look, Art nodded. “You know him?”

  Herschel made a face. “He’s the one that warned Hatch I was there, according to Shultz, and then took a powder himself. Who’s the loudmouth caused all the lynch problems last night?”

  “Link Colter,” Art said.

  “Was he acting on his own?”

  “Some folks think he’s being paid by those big ranchers that’s left. They like quick justice—it scares out all the criminal element, they think.”

  “You two start watching and listening. I want to know who Colter works for.”

  “He don’t have a job and he always has money to buy beer,” Phil put in.

  “Why not give Joe Black Feather ten bucks? He could tell us everywhere Colter goes in a week,” Art said.

  Herschel looked out at the darkening street bathed in the fiery sundown. “I may do that. Thanks. Get some rest. We need to settle some of these cases.”

  After the two left, he went back to talk to his jailer, Wally Simms. The big man was cleaning and oiling some of the rifles out of his armory. The smell of gun oil hung strong in the office.

  “About a half hour from now, I want to slip out the back door. I won’t be far from the jail in case anything breaks loose or if I learn anything.”

  Simms nodded. “You want me to let you out and then lock the door again, right?”

  “Yes. And bar it.”

  “I will. I thought them deputies did a great job last night.”

  “They did. But I figure it ain’t over yet.”

  Simms nodded. “It’s in their blood, ain’t it?”

  “The lawlessness in Montana caused a ground swell, I guess. Now it’s going to be hard to go back to the right ways of handling the law. Hanging a man without a legal trial is anarchy. And as we’ve learned around here, some men are hung because they got in someone’s way.”

  “Aye, Hersch, but you be careful. Them boys are good, but they ain’t like you out there. This county needs you.”

  “We’ll see, Simms, come the next election.”

  “Why, if you don’t get reelected, there’s a bunch of damn fools running around out there.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need every vote I can get.” He headed into his office to look over his paperwork to kill some time—it would be dark outside in thirty minutes.

  Forty-five minutes later, he slipped into the alley, thanked Simms in a low voice, and headed west. He liked checking saloons from the back door. Slipping in and out the same way caught people off their guard. He needed every edge there was in times like these when trouble from the public threatened to erupt. Maybe, he thought as his boot soles ground on the gritty surface and alley cats accompanied him, the boys had done a good enough job to shut it down. In that case, he could go home and go to bed with Marsha.

  The Sunday
night crowd in the Red Horse was thin, and there was no trouble in sight. Patrick, the burly, red-faced bartender, gave him an all-clear nod, and Herschel went back out to join the alley cats. The Antelope was next, and he eased inside the back door. Standing at the end of the dark hallway, he listened to two men talking to each other at a table in the back.

  “. . . that don’t make any sense.”

  “You . . .” The man lowered his voice so Herschel couldn’t hear him.

  “Ah, hell.”

  “I swear to God, he told me that—”

  “What’s Anton doing?”

  “He says he ain’t going. But I know he don’t want to sit in prison again.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “He’s the damn sheriff, I guess he can.”

  Herschel eased out the back door and closed it quietly. In the next half hour, he found nothing happening in any of the saloons—Sunday night and all. So they were worried about his authority to evict Pleago. All he really cared about in that deal was that the gentleman better be packing his bags.

  He checked in with Simms, then walked under the stars the four blocks to his place. At a distance, he could hear the bench swing creaking in the shadows of the porch.

  “Past your bedtime,” he said to his wife from the bottom of the porch steps.

  “I was just letting the wonderful time we had this weekend simmer into me. You settle the lynching situation Art told me about?”

  “Art and Phil must have. It gets worse and the troublemakers figure out that wounded man is over at doc’s and not in my jail, I might have more problems.”

  She nodded and patted the place beside her. “Join me.”

  He sat down, put his arm around her shoulder over the shawl she wore against the night air. Then, with his feet on the porch floor, he shoved off for a swing.

  “I love this place. The house, the whole setup. We have everything so nice here, I don’t want you to think I’m upset in any way, but—” She snuggled against him. “Is this where we’re going to be forever?”

  “You restless?”

  “No. Herschel, I want to be where you are. You know I’d support you in whatever you wanted to do. I just wondered if you ever thought of anything else you wanted to do.”

  “Not really. I like this job—today.”