Thurman rode up on the opposite side of Herschel from the sour-looking Thompson as they left the drive and turned south. He reached down in his saddlebag and produced a pint of whiskey. He cut the seal and took the cork out with his teeth as they rode.
“Here, have some,” Thurman said, handing Herschel the pint and then letting out a deep breath. “That was the toughest deal I think I’ve ever been through to come out unscathed.”
Herschel nodded, took a pull, and handed the bottle back. “It ain’t over yet.”
Thurman tried a snort of it, then reined the dun in beside Shultz and handed him the bottle. After Shultz gave it back, Thurman rode in beside Bailey and handed him the bottle. “After you get some, give it to Black Feather. He needs some, too.”
Last time Thurman saw his pint, Black Feather’s woman was emptying it. She tossed it aside and never missed a beat, leading the packhorses in a short lope.
That evening when they made camp, Hershel talked to them about not finding Hatch. “I hate that he wasn’t there.”
“We never checked around there very good for him either,” Thurman said.
Shultz laughed out loud. “I was about to crap in my pants anyway. I’m glad you didn’t send me to look for him.”
“I’m glad, too. That whole deal at Thompson’s was damn spooky for me, too,” Bailey said.
“He wasn’t there.” Thurman shook his head.
“I wonder where he went.” Herschel got up and walked over to where Thompson sat on the ground. “Where’s Roscoe at?”
“Roscoe who?”
“My star witness against you.”
“I don’t know any Roscoe.”
“You will in a short while.”
“He don’t know him, my ass,” Shultz said under his breath.
Thurman agreed.
Sunday morning, Herschel and his posse arrived in time for church services at Soda Springs. The new structure was framed in fresh lumber and looked commanding. The folks left the new schoolhouse, and several came over to congratulate Herschel. Others stood back and talked behind their hands about his prisoner.
“Who are you looking for?” a man asked.
“Hatch.” A quiet wave went over the crowd. Even the children fell silent.
“His days are numbered,” Herschel said. “We’d stop and share your services, but our horses are jaded and we’ve not been home in five days.”
“Then, Sheriff,” Preacher Green said, “let us thank God for handing over these criminals to you so we may again live in peace.”
They all removed their hats. Shultz booted his horse over and jerked off Thompson’s hat.
“Our Dear Heavenly Father, we thank—” The prayer was lengthy, and Green even prayed for the outlaws’ souls.
Herschel thanked them, told them the schoolhouse framing looked great. He and the posse had ridden out of the schoolyard and come off the long hill to cross the creek when he noticed what he thought was a man swinging in the breeze by his neck from a tall cottonwood.
Thurman rode in close beside where Herschel had stopped in the road and said, “Thou shall not ever burn down a schoolhouse.”
Herschel shook his head in disapproval.
Shultz checked his horse and twisted in the saddle to look back before he said, “And the meek shall inherit this earth.”
“Damnit to hell, I still don’t like it.” Herschel rode over and cut him down.
They wrapped his corpse in a blanket, and it required Herschel, Thurman, and Shultz to load his heavy body over a packhorse.
Hanging a man even as bad as Hatch was not the way to make Montana a place to raise your family. They had laws to handle his kind. They had courts and prisons. Herschel slapped his leg hard with his reins. They had lawmen to enforce those laws. He was one of them.
THIRTY
MARY carried little Cheyenne in her left arm, and smiled at the sight of the mule Ira when the liveryman brought him out to hitch him to the buggy. Blacky was making excited circles around them.
“Mrs. Baker,” Thurman said to her. “We can still sell Ira’s worthless hide and take the train back to Texas.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “This is fine. I want to go home on my honeymoon like we came.”
He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Why are you so damn stubborn?”
“I enjoyed the ride up here with you. I want to enjoy it going back.”
“Fine, fine, just don’t complain about the buffalo-chip fires.”
“Oh, my man will find lots of wood for me.”
“Maybe he will.”
She hugged his arm. “I am lucky to have you. Those girls about stole you from me. Especially over that bald-face horse you gave Kate, and the Welsh pony for Nina.”
He laughed. “That’s what grandfathers are for—spoiling them.”
“Do you think that Herschel and his family will ever come to Texas and help you run the ranch?”
“I don’t know. Montana is a great place. He’s such a dedicated lawman now, it would be hard for him to ever leave both the county and the job.”
“Who else do we need to find?”
“My daughter Rosie.”
“I figured that. What do we do first?”
“Go find my boys and take over that ranch.”
With her on the buggy seat, he paused to look off at the hills north of Cheyenne and the wide azure sky as he hitched the dun and the bay horse on behind. He’d sure never regret this trip—coming or going.
They had a long ways to go. Hell, he’d better stop thinking about all that sentimental stuff and go back to chasing sundowns.
The Sundown Chaser Page 23