The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  “What was there?”

  “Gold.”

  “You find any?”

  “Lord, no, or I’d still be there.”

  She laughed. “What was it like in Deadwood?”

  “Canyons and high mountains. It rained a lot the time I was there, and that turned it all into mud knee deep in the streets.”

  “It was that bad?”

  “It was worse than that.” He shook his head. Deadwood was a hellhole.

  “Was Cheyenne muddy?”

  “No, they had lots of brick streets.”

  “Like Fort Smith?”

  “Yes, but no ferry to cross.”

  “Good.” She laughed while frying the bacon.

  The baby didn’t come that night. The third day, they reached Cheyenne and Thurman checked them in to a hotel. Once in the room, she held her belly and smiled at him. “I may name the baby after this place.”

  “Monarch Hotel?”

  “No, silly, Cheyenne.”

  “He coming tonight?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “We may have to call him Billings.”

  “No. Cheyenne.”

  “Fine. You want supper?”

  “No, I brought some crackers and cheese from the wagon. I am not very hungry. I don’t want to walk those stairs again tonight.” Hands on her hips, she looked uncomfortable.

  “I’m going to check on a few things and I’ll be back.”

  “Promise me you will eat supper while you are out.”

  He raised his right hand. “I promise.”

  She hugged him. “I will be fine. Go out and eat. You are tired of my cooking anyway.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  She pushed him toward the door. He kissed her and left. Outside, he crossed the street and went down two blocks west to the Longhorn Saloon. He took a table where he could see the front door and ordered a steak and some whiskey.

  A man came in dressed expensively, and Thurman wondered as he poured some whiskey in his glass if he didn’t know him. Then the man saw him and recognized him with a small smile.

  “Captain Baker?”

  “Yes. Colonel Feltner?”

  The man nodded. “I haven’t seen you since the war.”

  Thurman rose and shook his former superior officer’s hand. “Have a seat. Waiter, bring us another glass, please.”

  “I thought you were a Texan.”

  “I am, sir. However, I am looking for my son.”

  “Is he up here?”

  “He’s in Montana.”

  “And the rest of the family?”

  “They’re in Texas,” he said to save explaining. “What’re you doing in Wyoming?”

  “Well, there was nothing in the South to do after the war, so I came West and was in some land development.

  There was a large ranch out here owned by some Eastern investors being run very shabbily. I contacted them and offered my services. They made me general superintendent.”

  The glass arrived and he offered the colonel supper, but the man refused. Thurman poured him a drink.

  “So I fired all the crooked help that had been rustling the ranch cattle. Hired new help, and we are making a serious profit. But I could always use a good ranch manager for one of my divisions.”

  Thurman shook his head. “No, I have a ranch in south Texas waiting for me.”

  He noticed two Mexicans walk in and go to the bar. For a moment, he froze at the sight of them. They had never made eye contact with him. Both were dressed like cowboys, not vaqueros, but their clothing was new. It was them—Corrales’s two pistoleros.

  How in the hell did they know he was up here? He must have left some trail behind him. A buggy and an Indian woman weren’t that hard to track.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Two hired guns just walked in. Don’t look. They’re standing at the bar.”

  “They after you?”

  “Yes. They’re pistoleros out of Mexico.”

  “You have their names?”

  “Petrillo and Sanchez.”

  “No problem. I’ll simply have the Cheyenne police hold them for the Texas authorities.”

  Thurman frowned. “I don’t think they have any warrants out for them in Texas.”

  The colonel smiled at him. “They do now. Two weeks a good enough lead?”

  “That’s plenty of time.”

  “Sit tight. They won’t try anything in this place.”

  “That’ll be pretty hard to do, sitting in the same room with two rattlesnakes.”

  “Baker, I can handle it. Trust me.”

  Thurman nodded. But still not that convinced the colonel’s plan would work, he slowly ate his steak.

  NINETEEN

  HERSCHEL and Phil dismounted and held their horses as they rode the ferry across the Yellowstone. The old man wasn’t there, and a pimple-faced boy in his teens cranked the winch that afternoon. Phil called him Shad.

  “He’s Matty Kendal’s boy,” Phil said later.

  Herschel gave him a nod. His mind was set on capturing Pleago and on wondering why the stupid man did not leave when he had the chance. Would have saved the cost of prosecution and prison time as well.

  The day had been nice. A gentle wind out of the south—great springtime weather. They thanked the boy when he docked on the south shore, and they rode on in a short lope. The Sutter place was on the main road and only a few miles from the ferry. Still amused at Nina’s efforts to get Cob to buck, Herschel shook his head.

  They reined up at the pole fence that surrounded the fields and looked at the dark log house, sheds, and corrals that were in a shabby condition. The place was tied up with out-of-state heirs, and except that the hay had been mowed and removed the year before by neighbors, nothing had been done to it in several years.

  “I don’t see his horse,” Phil said.

  “He may have hidden it. Keep in mind he might get desperate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Herschel checked the six-gun on his side and moved it to a more accessible place on his hip. They rode side by side up the driveway. If Pleago was in there, chances are he knew by now they were coming for him. Herschel rubbed his right palm on the top of his canvas pants. He was forced to check Cob, who must have sensed the tension and had began to dance, but his gaze remained on the house for any sign of movement.

  Seconds ticked by and they dismounted at the rack. With his .44 in his fist, Herschel scanned the small windows upstairs and the ones under the porch. Nothing.

  “This is Sheriff Baker, Pleago. Come out hands high or else.”

  No answer.

  “Phil, go around and cover the back door. Watch yourself.”

  “I will.” His deputy took off in a run.

  Under Herschel’s boot sole, the porch board creaked when he stepped up on it. A quick check and he pulled the latchstring and kicked the door open. The revolver ready, he stepped inside. The house’s interior was dark save for the little light coming in the windows.

  He searched around and went to the fireplace. The ashes in the hearth were cold. Too late.

  “I didn’t see his horse anywhere out back,” Phil said, coming in through the back door.

  “He hasn’t been here in several hours,” Herschel said. “The ashes in the fireplace are cold.”

  Phil nodded and squatted down on his heels. “What next?”

  Herschel holstered his gun. “We can hope he left the country.”

  “Lots of dead ends in this business.”

  “There sure are. We better get back to Billings. My wife’ll have supper waiting.”

  Herschel and his man made a sweep of the sheds and pens. From the fresh manure, it was obvious that a horse had been kept in the front pen—the one that had been seen from the road.

  “You don’t sound convinced that he’s left,” Phil said as they mounted up to return to town.

  “I’m not sure about anything concerning him. He stole seventy-five cents
from a woman who’d been keeping him.”

  “He must be desperate.”

  “That’s why he worries me.”

  Phil nodded.

  The sun was sinking fast when Herschel rode into the lot and dropped heavily from the saddle. He tossed up the stirrup and stripped out the latigo. A strong smell of horse sweat leaked out of the saddle and pads when he swung both off Cob’s back. With the kack in the rack and the blankets spread out to dry, he led Cob to the stall and hung a pail of water in there for him.

  He’d given him a measure of oats when he heard the sound of Marsha’s footsteps and her dress swishing. His chores done for the time being, he turned and hugged her, swinging her around.

  “Did you arrest him?”

  “Nope. He was gone when we got there.”

  “So he’s still maybe constipated?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “That Nina.”

  “I have supper in the oven,” she said.

  “Good, the ride made me hungry.”

  “When can’t you eat?”

  He winked at her and set her down. “Aw, I’d rather not say when.”

  She looked at the loft for help. Then they went hand in hand to the porch, where he washed up.

  “We’re going back to Soda Springs, but—” He dried his hands on the towel.

  “The girls are also going. They have reminded me several times about that this week.”

  “Hey, it won’t hurt. There’s a bald-faced horse those rustlers stole somewhere that will soon be up for sale if no one claims him. I’m thinking on buying him for Kate.”

  “Well, don’t tell her or you’ll get ragged to death.”

  He smiled and hugged Marsha’s shoulder. They went inside and Nina came to meet them, “Con-spir-acy means for two or more people to plan to do something together.”

  “Very good.”

  “The other you take prunes for it.”

  Marsha’s shoulders dropped and she looked defeated.

  Herschel snickered and hugged the girl’s shoulder. “Nina, you’ve got that right.”

  Kate read a book to the other girls in the living room while he ate his supper.

  “What next, High Sheriff?” Marsha asked.

  “I need to work on this murder case some more. Tomorrow, I’m going to take the two bullets the coroner got out of Hamby down to Andy’s Gun Shop and see what caliber they are for certain.”

  “He can tell?”

  “Yes. He’s the expert I have to rely on.”

  “What then?”

  “Well, if they match the caliber of the casings Art found, then we have another link. Not a strong one, but a link to the cattle rustlers.”

  “That old ranch was sure well used of late.”

  “Yes, I’d say it set there for years just waiting to become the outlaws’ headquarters.” He cut up some more of the sliced roast beef on his plate. “I still aim to find Hamby’s killer or killers.”

  “No word from Black Feather?”

  “No, but I think he may be on a honeymoon.”

  She frowned at him.

  “He took one of the younger wives with him.”

  She laughed and shook her head in disapproval.

  “He’ll show up one day,” Herschel said.

  “I’ll be ready Friday morning to drive up to Soda Springs, and we can camp out two nights if that’s all right.”

  “Good, I can talk to more folks then.”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted to do.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Your piece of the apple pie is next,” she said, and slid off the chair to go get it.

  Boy, he sure had moved up marrying her.

  The morning sun shone in the gun shop’s front windows. Andy looked hard at the two bullets under a magnifying glass. “They look like 38s.”

  “Anything else?” Herschel asked.

  “I’d say a Smith and Wesson cartridge. That’s the commonest round in this caliber. He was obviously shot at close range, so the bullets are not flattened like a longer shot would be. Most folks have .44- or .45-caliber ammo.”

  “Good. Art found two Smith and Wesson casings not a hundred yards from where they dumped the body.”

  “I can fire a few of them in some material like his body and have them as proof if you want them.”

  “I’d like to have them for the trial. I think the killer will be packing that pistol when I arrest him.”

  “I’ll do it this week.”

  “Thanks, Andy.”

  “Any time, Sheriff. Any time.”

  Herschel left the gun shop and started back to the office. He stopped for coffee at the café and talked to Buster about the Pleago situation.

  “Pleago wasn’t there, huh?” Buster said.

  “No, he was long gone. You know where he might be? Heard any word on him?”

  “If he stole seventy-five cents from that woman down on the river, then he’s too broke to simply leave. I bet he went to find his partners in the robbery.”

  “I’ve got Black Feather down in the Priors looking for them.”

  “Oh, he should find them.”

  “He’s been gone for over a week.”

  Buster grinned. “That’s white man time.”

  “I know all about Indians and their lack of keeping time. He also took his newest bride with him.”

  “See, you answered your own question.” Buster slapped his knees and laughed.

  He left Buster and started down Main Street again, headed for the office. The peaceful traffic of incoming farmers, some freight wagons, a bicycle or two, along with a few ranch hands sure was much less than Miles City’s stampede. But that would soon descend upon him, he knew, and end all the tranquillity of this small town.

  He needed to talk to the county commissioners about what they faced. If he didn’t do something before the situation exploded, the railroad might send in its own regulators. That would be more like anarchy in his book than doing it by the law. Their form of law would revive the big ranchers’ style that he’d ended with his election. Maybe he could convince the railroad to help the county fund some of the expenses. He’d need to see about that.

  When Herschel entered his office, Darby, his deskman, spoke up. “The deputy from North Platte is coming in today to get those two. I got the telegram that he was in Sheridan this morning.”

  “Good, save feeding them,” Herschel said, and shook his head. “Bring both of them in my office. I need to talk to them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  While he was engrossed in his expenses, he heard the leg irons dragging on the floor and looked up from the papers.

  “Have a seat. You two are about to depart my establishment. I wanted to have a little heart-to-heart talk with you. I promise you that you will not be prosecuted for anything in Montana if you level with me. Fair enough trade?”

  They looked at each other and nodded.

  “This Thompson found you down in the Wolf Mountains?”

  “Yeah, we thought he was law. Came wearing a black suit like some badge toter, and Porter held a gun on him for a while.”

  Porter agreed. “Wasn’t no reason other than to arrest us when he came down there.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Hell, he’s tougher than you first think. I figured he’d kill a guy and never bat an eye.”

  “He pay you some money?” Herschel asked.

  “Five bucks to buy food,” Snyder said. “We were busted and except for some deer meat, we’d’ve been starving.”

  “Tell me the deal.”

  “He wanted four good horses. No junk, and he’d pay us thirty bucks a head less the five he’d advanced us,” Porter said.

  “So you got the horses and came up on that date in the letter. He called it Page’s place.”

  Herschel nodded for them to continue—he’d solved one mystery.

  “We had four good ones. I know that bald-faced horse showed out, but he’s solid as a drum. Thompson ne
ver said no fancy ones,” Porter said.

  “You two were set to collect over a hundred dollars?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What was he going to do with ’em?”

  “Damned if I know, but we got them far enough away, they weren’t local horses someone would recognize.”

  “He mention anything else, like work he had for you after the horse deal?”

  They looked at each other and Snyder spoke. “He kinda acted like he was testing us.”

  “He ever mention rustling cattle?”

  Porter shook his head. “He asked the questions and we answered ’em.”

  “Tell me one thing you saw about him that was different.”

  “He must be married—he wears a gold wedding ring,” Snyder said.

  “He carries a pearl-handled pistol.”

  “What kind?”

  “Looks like a Smith and Wesson.”

  Herschel tented his fingers and touched the end of his nose. “What else?”

  They shrugged and shook their heads.

  “Good luck in North Platte. You guard’s coming today.”

  “Hey, Baker,” Porter said, standing up with a rattle of chains. “For a lawman, you’re about as fair as a man can get.”

  Snyder agreed.

  The two were taken back to their cells. Herschel slumped in the protesting chair and wondered how and when he’d meet up with this Thompson. Soon, he hoped, and with enough evidence to convince a jury of his peers the man killed Hamby.

  TWENTY

  THURMAN unlocked the hotel room and looked in shock at Mary’s face in the lamplight. It was laced in rivers of sweat as she sat back on the bed, obviously in labor.

  “Is the baby coming?”

  “It’s—trying.”

  “I’m going for a doctor.” He didn’t wait for her refusal, and raced out of the room, down the stairs. Halfway down, he shouted at the clerk, “Get a doctor at once. My wife is having a baby.”

  “Yes, sir,” the pale-faced clerk said, and ran out the front door shouting for a doctor.

  Thurman had no idea if that would work, but headed back up the stairs. A heavyset woman met him on the second floor. “I can help her.”

  “Good. Heaven only knows if he’ll get anyone.”