“You telling me I’m facing a stacked deck?”
“Yup, I’m telling you that. And I’m also saying we only have your word against Len Swinton’s that you shot Johnny Gibbs while he was trying to steal your cattle.”
“That’s exactly what happened,” Garrett said, anger tugging at him. “My herd is scattered to hell and gone and my hired hand is out right now trying to round ’em up. You said yourself Gibbs was a big spender. Maybe he was running out of money and saw the herd as a way to fatten his bankroll.”
Carter nodded, doubt plain in his eyes. “Could be. And maybe that’s how the vigilante committee will see it.”
“But you don’t think so.”
Carter shook his head. “Hell, boy, I’ll say it plain. I like you. I like you just fine, but I got the feeling I’m going to end up hanging you.”
Garrett’s trial was a foregone conclusion and the verdict seemed to surprise no one.
The committee voted seven to none, with one abstention, that on the evening of July 13, 1876, Luke Garrett, drover, had murdered John F. Gibbs, wagon guard, after accusing the said Gibbs and the deceased’s friend Len Swinton of trespassing near a cattle herd with mischief in mind.
Sentence: death by hanging, said sentence to be carried out by vigilante Simon Carter and certain others one hour before sundown on the day following.
Freshly shaved and barbered, Garrett was later confined to his cell—where he was assured a last meal of steak, eggs and biscuits—to be purchased out of petty cash by the Fort Benton Honorable Vigilante Committee. Then he would keep his appointment with the noose.
Chapter 3
Garrett rose and ground out his cigarette butt under the heel of his boot. Restlessly he stepped to the bars of his cell and tried them again, but they were as immovable as before.
He crossed the concrete floor and sat on his bunk and rolled another smoke from his dwindling supply of tobacco. He studied the slim sack, calculating if he had enough to last until the hanging. That much was doubtful, so he decided to roll them thin and hope the makings held out.
Garrett knew he’d been railroaded—and the trumped-up murder charge by the vigilantes would do nothing to make his dying easier.
It seemed that Johnny Gibbs had been a well-liked man around Fort Benton, would-be rustler or not, guilty or not. The four hundred men who worked for the Diamond R freight company wanted to see his killer hanged—a fact of life that had not gone unnoticed by the alert vigilantes.
Garrett looked up at the changing light streaming through the small window into his cell. He had no watch and wondered how close it was to sundown. A couple of hours maybe, no more than that.
When a man is facing death, his perceptions sharpen. Garrett watched the dust motes swim in the light slanting into his cell and heard the creak of wagons on the street outside, the yells of “Hee” and “Haw” from the bullwhackers as they guided their teams of fifteen oxen through drifting clouds of yellow dust. From somewhere close by a saloon piano played “The Hills of Mexico” and a woman laughed, a harsh, strident shriek empty of humor, then fell silent.
Garrett realized that in a few hours he’d be gone, but the noise would continue, the world going on its way without him, as though he had never been. It was a depressing thought that the young man forced from his mind. He rose and stretched, but froze in that posture, his arms above his head, as he heard a voice at the tiny cell window.
“Pssst . . .”
Garrett slowly turned his head and looked up at the window. He could see only a pair of bright, intelligent black eyes and a single thick eyebrow.
“Come closer,” a man’s voice ordered.
Garrett stepped to the window and the man thrust several fingers through the iron bars and waggled them at the young rancher. “Sorry I can’t get my hand through,” the man said. “The bars are too close together.”
Garrett reached up and took the proffered fingers. “Name’s Charlie Cobb,” the man said. “Pleased to meet you, Luke.”
“Likewise,” Garrett said, puzzled. “What are you doing here?”
The young rancher caught a glimpse of white teeth and a pencil mustache as Cobb smiled. “Going to bust you out of this here hoosegow. You’re too good a man to end up doing the Texas cakewalk at the end of a rope.” The teeth flashed white again. “Got that puddin’ foot mustang of yours all saddled and ready to go over by the front of the livery stable. A Winchester is in the scabbard and I hung a gun belt and holstered Colt on the horn.”
“Cobb,” Garrett said, “I appreciate the help, but this place is built rock solid. How are you going to bust me out of here?”
“Gunpowder,” Cobb answered. “Got me a keg of the stuff—small keg certainly, but big enough, I’d say. It’s right up against this wall.”
“When are you planning—”
“Oh, judging by the fuse, about ten seconds from now. This whole damned jail is about to blow a thousand feet into the air. See ya.”
Cobb’s face vanished—and in a panic Garrett ran to the cot, yanked off the thin straw mattress and covered his head.
A split second later, with an ear-shattering roar, the Fort Benton jail blew sky-high.
Logs, dust and debris clattered and crashed around Garrett, shattered shingles and one heavy beam thumped onto the mattress over his head. His ears ringing, he warily removed the mattress and glanced around him.
The entire wall opposite his cot was gone, and so was the roof. A few flames fluttered like scarlet moths on the ends of the remaining logs and a thick cloud of brown smoke rose into the air.
Garrett staggered to his feet and hurled himself toward the opening. He heard a man yell and a gun bang; then he was running. The livery stable lay across a hundred yards of open ground, mostly soft sand with patches of prickly pear growing here and there.
A bullet split the air near Garrett’s right ear as he reached the stable and saw the saddled mustang in the doorway.
The man called Cobb stood in the gloom of the interior and yelled, “Get on the hoss and ride. Head north and you’ll come up on the Teton River. Hole up there.”
“What about my herd?” Garrett asked.
“I’ll bring it to you,” Cobb said. “Now get the hell out of here. Don’t try any shooting. You’ll have plenty of time to look tough when you’re out of sight.”
“Thanks, Cobb,” Garrett said. He set spurs to the mustang, rounded the livery stable and swung north at a gallop as guns roared behind him.
The mustang was game and stretched out, the bit in its teeth.
Garrett glanced to his rear and saw armed men clustered in the street. A few were running toward the stable for their horses. He saw Simon Carter look after him, then throw his top hat to the ground in frustration, his face flushed with anger.
A bullet burned across Garrett’s left shoulder, drawing blood, and a moment later he felt the mustang stagger, then regain its balance, running as hard as before.
Ahead of Garrett a steep-sided dry wash angled away from the Missouri. He headed the mustang into the wash, its hooves pounding on sand and scattered rock. Garrett followed the wash for several hundred yards, then clambered up a section of bank that had been broken down by the passage of a buffalo herd. He cleared the wash and swung the horse due north, riding between a pair of shallow hills, their slopes covered in Indian grass made bright by streaks of evening primrose and Rocky Mountain iris.
The young rancher turned in the saddle and studied his back trail. A dust cloud rose in the distance and that could only mean that the Fort Benton vigilantes were still coming after him.
Garrett glanced at the sky. Heavy violet clouds were rolling in from the west as the sun dropped lower and the late-afternoon light was slowly dying around him.
If he could stay clear of the vigilante posse until dark, he might have a chance of living through the night.
Drawing rein on the mustang, Garrett scanned the land ahead of him, gently rolling hills cut through by arroyos where dark
blue shadows were already gathering. An errant gust of wind spattered a few drops of rain against his face as he stepped out of the saddle and walked the mustang toward a break in the hills. Behind him the rain had not yet settled the dust on his back trail and it looked like the posse was starting to crowd close.
But the mustang had been running hard and badly needed a few minutes’ rest.
Garrett buckled on the gun belt Cobb had left for him—and only then saw the blood dripping from the skirt of the saddle and the slender scarlet fingers that ran down the horse’s left flank. After a few moments’ search he found the wound. A bullet had plowed under the bottom of the saddle and had ranged across the pony’s back, cutting deep. He could see that the bullet had not exited and had to be buried in the animal’s back.
Garrett swore under his breath as he patted the horse’s cheek. “It’s a sorry cowboy who’ll ride a sore-backed hoss,” he said, trying to make the animal understand. “But right now, little feller, I have no choice in the matter.”
The mustang tossed its head, the bit jangling, and seemed as eager as ever for the trail. It was a small animal, with a mean disposition most of the time, but it was tough and hard to kill.
Shaking his head over what he had to do, Garrett swung into the saddle and sat back in the leather as gently as he was able. He glanced once again at the dust cloud behind him, then set spurs to the mustang’s flanks.
The little horse bounded forward and Garrett swung toward an arroyo between the nearest hills and entered its shadowed floor at a gallop.
He rode through the narrow gulch, then over the crest of a low saddle-backed hill, coming upon a wide meadow streaked by wildflowers and a scattering of tall white spruce.
Garrett found a stream near the pines, a shallow brook bubbling over a pebbled bed, and he let the mustang drink, then drank himself.
The rain was falling heavier now, settling the dust behind him. Where was the posse?
He had ridden fast and far, but Garrett had no idea how determined the vigilantes were. Rain or no rain, darkness or not, they might keep on coming. The mustang was still losing blood and suddenly seemed tuckered out, its ugly hammerhead hanging, the reins trailing.
Garrett had no slicker and he was getting thoroughly soaked. He brushed rain from his mustache and with a pang of regret for the horse stepped into the saddle again.
No matter what, he had to keep moving. He must be close to the Teton where Charlie Cobb had told him to hole up. Could he trust the man? Cobb had saved him from the hangman, so it was unlikely he’d planned to lure him into a trap.
Garrett shrugged. Faint heart never filled a flush, so he would trust Cobb, at least for now. Studying on it, as he did as he urged the horse forward, he knew he had no other choice in the matter.
He rode up on the river an hour later, just as the day was beginning to shade into night and the raking rain relentlessly cascaded from a ragged sky.
Garrett was pretty sure the vigilantes would have turned back by this time. No matter how badly they wanted to hang him, riding through a rainstorm chasing shadows was nobody’s idea of fun. He was willing to bet that Carter had headed the posse back to Fort Benton and the saloon. They could always catch him another day when the weather was more obliging.
Still, he decided to take no chances.
He led the mustang into the thin shelter of the cottonwoods along the riverbank and slid the Winchester from the scabbard before unsaddling the horse. What Garrett saw shocked him. The bullet had done much more damage than he’d thought. It had burned along the horse’s back, then hit a bone and gone deep into the mustang’s chest, leaving a raw, nasty entry wound.
The little horse wheezed with every breath and showed no interest in the grass at its feet. There was blood on the animal’s lips and teeth and it seemed too weak to lift its head.
Garrett walked to the river and filled his hat with water. He returned to the horse and poured water on the wound, then used his fingers to wash away most of the crusted blood. Normally the mustang would not have stood for this kind of treatment and would have kicked out at the man, but it seemed to be beyond caring, its eyes showing white arcs of pain, its breathing becoming even more labored.
The vigilantes might be close, but after Garrett examined the wound again he made a decision. The mustang had done well, but now it was in pain. It was a tough, enduring little cow pony with plenty of sand, and that was the reason it was dying so slowly, much too slowly.
Garrett led the horse away from the cottonwoods and drew his Colt. A single shot shattered the quiet of the night and the mustang’s suffering was over. The young rancher stood, the smoking gun in his hand, and stared down at the animal’s body, now looking even smaller in death.
“Thank you, little feller,” he whispered aloud. “Thank you for everything.”
Then he holstered his gun and sought the lean shelter of the trees, a sad kind of hurt in him. In all his life he had never seen a critter, tame or wild, feel sorry for itself, and the mustang had been no exception.
Tonight the little pony had taught him something about living and dying. It could be he’d lost his herd and maybe there was a necktie party on his trail, but life isn’t about holding a good hand, it’s about playing a poor one well.
Garrett had been dealt some bad cards, but he decided right there and then to make the most of them. Come first light, he’d backtrack toward Benton and find Zeb Ready and the herd. Then he’d trail the shorthorns to Fort Whoop-Up like he’d planned.
Afoot, in a country where every man’s hand was turned against him, it wouldn’t be easy, but it had to be done. The little mustang had shown him the way.
In the teeming rain, Luke Garrett sat soaked and miserable at the base of a cottonwood, wishful for hot coffee but wanting only tomorrow.
Chapter 4
Luke Garrett slept as the night fell around him, rain pattering through the leaves of the cottonwoods and the distant voice of the thunder the only sound. In the early hours of the morning, in deep darkness, coyotes were drawn to the place by the smell of blood. On wary feet, the little animals nosed closer to the dead mustang but then caught a human scent from somewhere among the trees and backed off into the gloom, their eyes glittering.
Garrett slept on, undisturbed.
Just before dawn, the rain stopped, the clouds parted and a weary moon vanished over the far horizon.
The light brightened and was starting to banish the night shadows as a lone horseman approached the river. The man dismounted, slid his rifle from the scabbard and stepped purposefully toward the trees.
A kick on the sole of his boot instantly brought Garrett to full wakefulness. He saw the dark silhouette of the man towering over him and his hand dropped for his holstered Colt.
“Don’t shoot! It’s Cobb!” the man said. He stepped closer, and as his body emerged from the gloom it took on shape and form. Garrett saw a grinning face under a dripping hat, a glistening yellow slicker falling to the figure’s ankles.
“Maybe a little too quick to go to the draw there, Luke,” Cobb scolded, his smile taking the sting out of it.
“I’m a hunted man,” Garrett said. “And a hunted man trusts nobody.”
“A hunted man without a hoss,” Cobb said. “Saw your mustang over there.”
“He was shot as we left Benton. Carried me all the way here, and then I had to put him out of his misery. That little pony was as game as they come.” Garrett rose to his feet. “Why did you save my life, Cobb? I’m a stranger to you.”
The man shrugged. “I figured if I did you a favor, you’d do me one in return.”
“You only have to name it.”
Cobb’s smile was suddenly sly. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I will.”
Charlie Cobb was as tall as Garrett, but slimmer in the shoulders. He had lively brown eyes that missed nothing, and his mouth under a black pencil-line mustache was thin and hard, arcs showing at the corners of his lips when he smiled. The man took off his hat
and slapped it free of rainwater against his legs, revealing slicked-down hair, parted in the middle, carefully arranged curls lying on his temples.
Garrett decided Charlie Cobb looked like a cat-house pimp. Then, suddenly ashamed of the treachery of his thoughts, he smiled and said, “I never did thank you properly for saving my life. If it wasn’t for you I’d be lying in Boot Hill by this time.”
“That’s a natural fact,” Cobb said. “And nobody sheds tears at a Boot Hill buryin’.”
“You said you’d ask a favor of me,” Garrett said. “What is it?”
“Later. I’ve got coffee in my saddlebags and some grub, on account of how I know a man who ain’t exactly on speaking terms with the law travels light. Let’s see if we can rustle up some dry wood.” Cobb grinned. “Oops, Luke, sorry about that word—rustle, I mean. It can’t be settin’ too well with you about now, can it?”
Garrett laughed, rose to his feet and went about the task of gathering firewood around the roots of the dripping cottonwoods.
After a meal of broiled salt pork sandwiched between thick slices of fresh sourdough bread, Luke Garrett sighed, poured himself another cup of coffee and began to build a smoke.
“Here.” Cobb grinned, throwing the younger man a sack of tobacco. “You can roll ’em a mite thicker with that.”
Garrett nodded his thanks, rebuilt the smoke, then dragged luxuriously on the cigarette.
“First one of the day is always the best,” Cobb said. He studied Garrett for a few moments, then asked, “Feeling better now you ate?”
“Fair to middlin’,” the young rancher answered. “I’m still worrying considerable about Zeb Ready and the herd.”
Cobb waved a negligent hand. “Then worry no more,” he said. “I spoke to your hired hand early this morning before I headed this way.” Cobb shook his head. “He ain’t exactly a trusting man, had a Henry on me the whole time.”
The Tenderfoot Trail Page 3