The Hunted

by Ralph Compton

Rafferty stared at the woman for a moment longer, not sure if her story was true. She didn’t look like one of those laudanum fiends, but who could tell? Finally he nodded and opened the door wider.

  “Come inside,” he said. “I’ll get the things you need. Stove’s nearly out, but I’d wager what’s left of the coffee’s still warm. You can take the pot out with you, and two of those cups there by the stove. Just see that you return them in the morning. Speaking of morning,” he added as he picked items from the shelves, “see to it that you’re up early. Those freighters will be loading up and heading out, and not waiting for a soul, I reckon.”

  She nodded.

  “But let me be the one to make your presence known, when the time is right. Else-wise, they will leave you here. And I for one wouldn’t blame them.” He stuffed a loaf of bread in an empty coffee bean sack. “You’re going to need enough food for the trip, you know. Those freighters won’t likely be pleased to share with you.”

  She paused, and it seemed to him he had brought up something she hadn’t mentioned. “You could buy supplies from me, enough to maybe get you by. Especially if the freighters share their meat with you—I daresay they expect to shoot game on the trail.”

  “That would leave us with nothing once we get to Gamble.”

  “Not much of anything to spend your money on there anyway, Miss O’Fallon. There are things a woman can do in a mine camp, I’ve heard tell, to make a dollar. I expect you’d make out all right.”

  She straightened, looked him in the eye, at his half smile, then at the items he had lined up on the shelf, among them two bottles of laudanum. She seemed to come to some inner decision, nodded, and reached in the folds of her clothes for her coin purse.

  Chapter 8

  Charlie woke to the smell of coffee. Still dark, but he reckoned dawn wasn’t far off. He yawned and stretched his full length on the bunk, much of his lower legs dangling off the end, and his shoulders hanging off the side, despite the fact that he’d tried in the night to sleep on his side. The outer door squawked open and in walked the marshal, a cup of steaming coffee hooked in one hand, the key ring jangling in the other.

  “Good morning, to you, Big Charlie.”

  “Morning, Marshal Watt. I sure hope you intend to let me out about now, because as much as I hope that coffee’s for me, I can’t put a thing into this body until I . . . well, you know.”

  Marshal Watt smiled and cranked the keys in the lock. The cell’s iron-strap door swung wide. “Just back there to the right, you’ll find a single-holer. Can’t miss it. In fact, you’d better not miss it.”

  Soon the two men had made their way down to the freighters’ camp. Mist hung low along the river bottom, curling like smoke from a slow fire through the willows and gnarled stubble of bankside scrub brush. The trail, a two-rut wagon path, wound along the Salmon River.

  “What sort of man would take on such a dangerous late-season job, Marshal?”

  Charlie’s question made Marshal Watt stop. Without looking at Charlie, he said, “You take a guess and you’ll be half right. Let’s say they wouldn’t have been my first pick. Come on, you’ll see soon enough.”

  Charlie smelled the tang of an early-morning campfire before he saw the glow of the fires, two or three of them that he could make out through the ground-hugging fog. Presently the dark, bulky shapes of oxen, then a telltale bray of mules. A mixed outfit? Hardly seemed professional.

  “That you, Marshal Watt?” A small man ambled toward them, the mist parting around his bowed legs. Charlie took measure of him as he approached, chest height to Charlie, but lean. He looked to be solid, maybe old enough to be Charlie’s father, with a bristly beard more gray than black, and with quick eyes that seemed to take in everything all at once. He strode right up to Charlie, not something the big man was at all used to, given his impressive size, and especially not from so small a fellow.

  “I’m Everett Meecher, and I’m told you’re a handy man with a fist.”

  Charlie drew in a big breath, dropped the paw he was about to offer up for a handshake. “I—”

  “Normally wouldn’t make no never mind to me, but Dutchy was a decent hand. And now he’s so stoved up he can’t hardly go. Can’t talk, can’t ride, can’t do nothing. I got to leave him here. So I figure you owe me.”

  “Well, now, I reckon I don’t owe you a thing. He’s the one who started it.”

  “Not the way I heard it. Yeah, that’s right, a couple of my boys was there. You’ll meet ’em presently.”

  Charlie rasped a big hand across his beard stubble. He’d about had enough of this situation, marshal or no. “Like I said, I don’t owe you or any man a thing in this life.”

  The marshal coughed, looked at his boots.

  Charlie folded his arms across his chest. “But as it happens, I do need a job. I’m running a little short on seed money just now.” No one said anything. Finally Charlie said, “If you ain’t interested, then I’ll leave you to it.” He turned to go.

  Meecher trod a circle around the campfire, kicking at whatever lay in his path—an empty milk tin, a small frying pan with bacon fat thickening, a last handful of finger-sized twigs. “Hang fire, I need a driver.”

  He beelined for Charlie again and though he only came up to the big man’s chest, and weighed barely what one of Charlie’s legs might, Everett Meecher thrust a callused finger up at Charlie’s face. “I ain’t convinced you’re worth it, but you’re a big enough boy. You’ll do, I reckon.” He turned away, then said over his shoulder, “I don’t suppose you’re handy with a gun.”

  “Don’t carry one.”

  “That ain’t what I asked, is it?” Meecher turned, hustled up to the lawman. “Marshal, this is the best you can do? I got a run to make and you bring me a man who weighs half as much as a wagon and don’t carry a sidearm?”

  “I carry a Green River knife, good enough so far.”

  “Oh, that’s useful. I’ll be sure to look for you when I need a beaver skunned out.” Meecher shook his head and walked away, mumbling to himself.

  Marshal Watt and Charlie watched the little man walk beyond the campfire to the empty wagons.

  “Nice fella,” said Charlie.

  “Meecher grows on you—not unlike a fungus, come to think on it. I had occasion to stand him a drink in town the night they arrived, and believe it or not, I think he’s a straight arrow. Or was at one time. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Meecher used to have quite a freighting firm, made regular runs from Salt Lake on up to Montana Territory, hauling flour, hardware, ore crushers, all manner of mining equipment, as a matter of fact, you name it.”

  “It’s his outfit that worries me.” Charlie eyed the crew, which looked to be made up of four men, in addition to Meecher, roughnecks all, by the looks of them. None of them looked particularly clean, as if scrubbing off in the river would never occur to them.

  Their clothes, from rough-spun cloth shirts and fur vests to buckskins, were slick with grease and sweat stains. They were a hairy, patch-bearded bunch—not things Charlie could hold against them. Life on the trail was always a hard thing. But there was something else there, maybe the looks they shot his way. He seemed to recall a couple of them; might be they were in the bar. He’d been so busy trying to shut up Dutchy that he’d not paid much attention to the other faces around him.

  “Marshal, I count four of them, one of the old man, and me. That’s six, and by my tally, they have five wagons. That leaves but one man for each wagon with one to spare. Now, that’s a tight-to-the-bone outfit.”

  Marshal Watt nodded. “That it is. I’ll be headed back now. See you in town in a while, Charlie. I’ll have your mule ready at the store—unless you’d rather leave her here in Monkton. I’d make sure Skunk took good care of her while you were away.”

  “Thanks just the same, but I reckon I’ll take her along. After this trip I doubt I�
�ll want to wander on back this way. Might be I’ll hole up in Gamble for the winter, see if I can’t make a fortune rooting for gold.”

  “Hmm,” said the marshal, walking away, his voice fading as he headed back to town. “You’re welcome to, of course, though I’ve heard there’s not much promise of gold. . . .”

  Charlie waited a few moments before striding over to meet the others. The first was an average-height thin man with looks under his beard stubble that Charlie knew the ladies would find handsome, something he’d never been, and a trait he’d long ago gotten over envying in others. The man was solid, broad shouldered beneath a once-red long-handle shirt. His hard face and set jaw had the look of a confident man. His quick, flinty blue eyes, ringed with red veins, reminded Charlie of old man Meecher’s.

  “You’ll be Big Charlie, huh? Any truth to the rumor that you’re also Shotgun Charlie?”

  The question pried up a bitter taste in Charlie’s gorge and set his teeth to grind. The man who spoke must have seen evidence of it on his face, for his eyes widened for a moment. “Aw, never mind. Only . . .” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You might have my uncle Everett convinced you’re up to the job of driving for us, but I’m the real boss here and you ain’t nothing but a hired man who ain’t wanted nor needed. You keep that in mind.”

  Charlie felt his face redden and as he opened his mouth to bellow back something that would set the man in his place, Everett Meecher shouted, “Enough of that pissing contest. Rollie, introduce him to the boys and then get to work. We got to finish rigging. We still got to get to town and load up, got a long day ahead.”

  Rollie, who Charlie now knew as Meecher’s nephew, nodded to the three staring dubs behind him. “The one in the buckskins there is Norbert, the fool in the middle with the pretty teeth is Beauregard.” The man smiled wide, revealing pitted black stubs and a mouth black with chaw juice.

  “His friends call him Bo, but you can call him Beauregard.” Rollie smiled as if he’d said something truly clever. “And that bald piece of work over yonder is Shiner.”

  Charlie figured he’d at least try to be civil. He gave them a quick nod. “How do, gents? Good to meet ya.”

  The four of them laughed and headed to the wagons, shaking their heads. Charlie sighed, not for the last time that day, more convinced with each passing minute that he should have made a run for it with Mabel-Mae the night before.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound, Charlie, old boy,” he said as he readjusted his hat and headed for the wagons and the little man shouting orders.

  It took them another twenty minutes to clear the camp and finish harnessing the beasts. Despite the ragtag appearance of the outfit, Charlie was pleased to note that the horses, mules, and oxen all appeared well cared for. One wagon was packed with feed for them. The rest were empty, canvas and ropes piled in the back, ready to cover and tie down the loads from the store in town.

  “Would have left sooner,” said the old man, coming up beside Charlie. He flinched, not having heard Meecher’s approach. This seemed to please the old dog. “But the smithy was busy and some of ’em needed new shoes. I won’t take to the trail without starting my beasts off right on foot. I can do what needs doing on the trail, but I start ’em right.”

  Charlie didn’t know what to say, so he nodded. “Yes, sir. Fine bunch of beasts they are too.”

  That seemed to please the old dog even more. Meecher smiled, rocked back on his heels. “I take it you’re a man who knows his way around a critter?”

  “I reckon so, yeah. Grew up on a farm Nebraska way. Not long ago I drove ore wagons in Colorado.”

  “Good to hear. You’ll be driving the oxen. Seem to suit you.” Meecher laughed so hard he bent double and wheezed. He straightened up, dragged a shirtsleeve across his tearing eyes, and rolled a quirly. “Couple things you got to know about me. I don’t abide drinking on the job, only at night. And don’t let me catch you eating more than your fair share of the vittles. But most of all, I see you abusing my stock in any way, I will personally kill you with these bare hands.”

  He said this last through gritted teeth. And as he said it he shook with a bubbling rage that seemed to come out of nowhere. His face turned a bright red. If Charlie didn’t know better, he would have sworn the man was joking with him—especially since he couldn’t picture Meecher doing much more to him than bruising him. But no, Meecher was obviously serious about his animals.

  “Yes, sir. Sounds fair to me.”

  Chapter 9

  An hour later found them nearly loaded. That part went quickly, with all men pitching in, and Rafferty’s hired help making the job even quicker. Meecher hopped in and out of the wagons, double-checking the positioning of each crate and barrel and sack. His attention to everything going on in his wagons impressed Charlie, and he decided that if there was one person on the crew who might turn out to be decent after all, it was old Everett Meecher.

  It sure wasn’t his nephew, Rollie, nor any of the other three—rough cobs all. Charlie knew he’d better keep his wits about him. They looked to be the sort to gut a man because they felt they might get away with it. And being in the wilderness and all would surely offer them such temptation.

  Soon enough, all loads were tarpaulined and lashed down six ways from Sunday. And about then, Marshal Watt came walking up the street leading Mabel-Mae, Charlie’s kit lashed atop. “Here you go, Charlie. You sure you won’t change your mind? Skunk would take good care of her for you.”

  “Naw, thanks, Marshal Watt. But like I said, I don’t see myself heading back this way for any reason once the job’s through. Might as well take along Mabel-Mae and my gear.”

  “What in tarnation is this, now?”

  Charlie, the mule, and the marshal all flinched as Meecher appeared beside them, his already ratty felt topper scrunched in his fist as if he were trying to squeeze water from it.

  “This here’s Mabel-Mae. She’s my mule,” said Charlie.

  “I can see she’s a mule, but what I can’t see is her on the trail with us!”

  “Then you can call us quits right here and now, Mr. Meecher. ’Cause Mabel-Mae goes where I go, and that’s that. She’ll trail along. You won’t even know she’s here.”

  Meecher circled the animal, running a hand along her side, up her neck, patting her lovingly. “Well, see to it, then. I reckon one more beast won’t harm nothing.” He turned on Charlie, that finger poking in his face again. “But you feed her out of your own stores, you hear?” He stalked off, muttering.

  “I hadn’t counted on that,” said Charlie, looking at Mabel-Mae.

  The marshal cleared his throat. “How much do you reckon she’ll need for a few weeks on the trail, Charlie?”

  “Huh? Oh, a couple sacks of feed corn, some oats would do the trick, but, Marshal Watt”—Charlie’s voice grew quiet—“I only have a few dollars. I don’t have the money to . . .”

  “I know, Charlie. But I do.” He crooked a finger at one of Rafferty’s assistants and told him what to bring. “And make it snappy, boy.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the lad, and scurried off toward the storeroom.

  Watt turned back to Charlie. “As it happens, the shopkeep’s my brother-in-law, as I believe I mentioned last night. So we’ll let him worry about the expense, okay?”

  “I can repay you, or him, just not right now.”

  “No need to, Charlie. You’re doing me a big favor as it is. Consider it a thank-you.”

  Charlie grinned, stuck out his hand, and the two men shook on it.

  “One last thing, though, Charlie.” The marshal stepped back and raised his voice so that all the men heard him. “The trail you’re headed for? I don’t have to tell you how bad it can be at the best of times—she’s carved out pretty well by regular wagon traffic, but it’s still rugged and rocky. And this time of year you have snows to deal with. And an old trappe
r, fella by the name of Pawnee Joe, came down to town from up that way last week. He said the Shoshoni are active this fall. Something’s got them stirred up—I expect it’s the army, or more likely someone found gold on their land again and they took offense. Can’t say as I blame them.”

  “You an Injun lover, law dog?”

  Everyone turned to see who had said it. The only one of them smiling and not looking around was Rollie Meecher.

  “Hush your mouth, boy,” said his uncle. “You’d do well to cut a wide swath around any Injun you find. I’d just as soon take a different trail altogether, but we ain’t got no choice.”

  If the marshal had been offended by what Rollie had said, he didn’t let on. He spoke to the boss of the outfit. “My advice, for what it’s worth, Meecher, is to make it a fast run. As fast as the terrain allows anyway.”

  “I aim to . . . if everyone in this town can quit palaverin’ and telling me how to run my affairs!” The old man crab-walked past the wagons toward the front of the line. “Now climb aboard! We got trail to cut!”

  Charlie looked once more at the marshal, who was smiling and shaking his head. The lawman caught his eye and gave him a quick salute. Charlie nodded, double-checked Mabel-Mae’s lead rope, then climbed aboard the seat on the last wagon, behind the four oxen he guessed he would grow tired of seeing all too soon.

  “Hooooo!” Everett Meecher’s voice rang out loud and clear. As the sun continued to rise, the wagons rolled, hubs freshly greased, loads lashed down tight, and animals fed and rested.

  As Charlie’s wagon, the last in the train, passed by, Jasper Rafferty led a thin roan out from behind the last building at the end of the street. But it was the horse’s load that Charlie had to look at twice.

  Rafferty stared straight at Charlie, his jaw thrust out and eyes flinting sparks, as if daring Charlie to say something. Rafferty shook his head in warning, and then cut his eyes toward the front of the train. “Ho there, Meecher. Hold up!”

  Within seconds, Jasper Rafferty had explained the situation to Meecher, right there in front of Charlie, the other freighters, and what townsfolk had turned out to see the supply train leave. Even Rafferty’s somewhat business partner, the departing Marshal Watt, paused and warily eyed the proceedings.