by Ralph Hayes
‘I smell ammonia,’ Foley complained. He touched his metal nose to settle it in place. It was put on every morning with candle wax.
‘I wouldn’t never picked this place to meet,’ Purvis said. ‘But McComb always did have big-city taste. What do you suppose he’s got planned for hisself? I know he robbed a couple stages before he decided to actually get a job and work for somebody. I heard it was a hide company.’
Purvis and Foley had also taken part in illicit activities in their past and, since the days when Purvis had known McComb, in this town too. They had recently returned to Billings after enjoying a rather successful period of armed robbery in Utah, where Foley had killed an uncooperative store owner in Provo.
‘Only a damn flea-brain would hunt buffalo for a living,’ Foley grunted. ‘You sure you want to tie up to this bird?’
‘McComb ain’t no flea-brain,’ Purvis told him. ‘He was running from something when he done that.’ He’s got more upstairs than the two of us put together.’
‘We’ll see,’ Foley grunted again, as the waiter delivered their unopened bottle of rum. Foley looked at the label and nodded.
‘This is OK.’ They were just pouring the rum when Purvis looked up and saw McComb come through the swinging doors, with Navarro just behind him. Purvis rose.
‘McComb! Over here,’ he called out, a big grin on his face.
McComb and Navarro arrived at their table. McComb and Purvis embraced for a moment.
‘You old scallywag!’ Purvis said, grinning. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’
‘Well, fate takes its twists and turns,’ McComb said, patting Purvis on the shoulder. ‘You’re looking a little thin, boy. You been riding too hard.’
‘I don’t stop often enough to eat,’ Purvis said. ‘This here is a riding partner of mine, Fin Foley. Some folks call him No Nose. Don’t pay no attention to his looks. They kind of grow on you.’
McComb went over and shook Foley’s hand. ‘We met a thousand years ago. Before the nose.’
Foley nodded, looking McComb over. ‘I remember.’
A moment later they were all seated at the table and swigging the rum. After a couple of swigs, McComb turned to Purvis.
‘You carry heavy. Can you shoot all them weapons?’
Purvis downed his last swig of rum. ‘I’ve won prizes.’
McComb looked over at Foley. ‘Can you shoot straight with that eye?’
Foley’s face colored. ‘I don’t have to prove nothing to you, McComb.’
‘Yes you do,’ Navarro told him flatly.
Foley gave him a burning look. Purvis caught McComb’s gaze.
‘He’s fast, McComb. Faster than me.’
McComb studied the bizarre face across the table, and finally nodded.
‘Sorry about the questions, boys. But this is a kind of interview, you see. I’m going to need a couple of boys that can shoot.’
‘Ah,’ Purvis said. ‘That’s what I been thinking.’
‘I asked around,’ McComb said. ‘Before we come over here. I’d guess you two haven’t exactly been law-abiding citizens in the past.’
Purvis nodded. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, what Navarro and me are planning could get us shot or in prision. Would you be up for that?’
Purvis and Foley exchanged a look. ‘Sure,’ Purvis finally said. ‘What are you thinking about? Stagecoaches?’
McComb looked around them to make sure of privacy. ‘No. No stages. No trains. Banks, boys. Just banks.’
‘Hmm. Banks,’ Purvis mused.
‘Banks are where the real money is. And there’s no ambushes on the trail, no explosives laid on tracks. You walk in, show your guns, and load up bags with silver and gold.’
‘You make it sound real easy,’ Foley said acidly. He was slightly retarded and was dull-sounding when he spoke. McComb met his look.
‘Sometimes there will be guns. If the feds get involved, there could be ambushes. But the rewards are high, and the doing is simple. All it takes is guts.’
Purvis smiled. ‘I thought you liked buffalo hunting.’
McComb made a face. ‘That was just a hiatus, a hiding away for a while.’ But he thought of Molly, and knew he would have stayed if he could have had Walcott’s daughter and, eventually, all that Walcott owned.
‘Well, Foley. I’m in,’ Purvis said. ‘What do you say?’
Foley looked from McComb to Navarro. ‘For now. Sure.’
‘Good,’ McComb said. ‘Four of us should be just right. Now, there’s one thing I want to make clear. I’ll be running the show. Any objections to that?’
Purvis and Foley exchanged more looks. ‘I reckon that suits us right down to the ground, McComb,’ Purvis told him.
‘You going after the bank here? The Western Union?’ Foley asked. McComb met his dull look impatiently.
‘We all live here, Foley. You don’t crap in your own bed. No, there’s four or five banks worth our attention within a day’s ride from here. I been checking that out with locals. My plan is to hit one of them at a time, masked, so they can’t trace us back here. When we’ve got us a big pile, then as our last hit we’ll take the Western Union. And then take off for parts unknown. We’ll split at that point. Navarro and me will ride south to Mexico. You two can run to your liking.’
Purvis nodded. ‘How do you figure a split of the loot?’
McComb took a breath in, and Foley leaned forward on his seat.
‘I’ll be taking half as my cut,’ McComb said deliberately. ‘The rest of you will split the other half.’
Foley frowned and looked over at Purvis. ‘What the hell!’ he complained. McComb narrowed his hard eyes on Foley.
‘The whole idea is mine. I’ll pick the banks we take. I’ll be directing the hold-ups. I’ll keep us safe between the jobs. All you’ll be doing is pointing your gun at scared tellers and stuffing gold into canvas bags. Now, do you think I deserve less, or you should have more?’
Foley looked down, frowning.
‘It’s fair, Foley,’ Purvis told him quietly. Foley hesitated, then nodded.
‘OK. I can do it.’
McComb turned to Navarro, who already knew everything.
‘Are we ready to select our first target, then, compadre?’
Navarro grinned widely. ‘This beats busting our butts for Elias Walcott, amigo. A few months from now, we could be richer that him, si?’
McComb nodded. ‘Exactly. Now, I’ll give this some more thought in the next day or two, boys. Then I’ll tell you where we’ll start our little business. But from now on we should be billeting together.’
‘The boarding house would be too public,’ Navarro said.
Purvis rubbed his chin. ‘We should have our own place. There’s a cabin out on the edge of town. It would be just right. But there’s an old man living in it. Used to be a prospector.’
McComb arched his brow. ‘Sounds like just what we want.’
‘What about the old man?’ Foley said.
McComb gave him a look. ‘What about him?’ He grinned crookedly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
O’Brien was still two days’ ride from Billings. At the end of a long day of riding he and the appaloosa both needed a rest badly. It was just dusk when he found a suitable campsite where a small creek would provide water for both of them. When he picketed the mount to a cottonwood sapling near the water it guffered at him. He touched its flank. He was becoming fond of the horse.
‘I get it. You’re glad the day’s over. Me too.’ He watered and fed the appaloosa before he did anything for himself. Then he cleared a space from leaves a small distance from the stream. He laid down a buffalo robe from his bedroll, as a ground sheet, before putting his bedroll down. After gathering some firewood, he started a fire with a chunk of flint and his Bowie. Soon he had the flames crackling in the growing dark. He was preparing to fry up an antelope steak in a small pan when he heard the sound in the creek. There was a dull splashing of water, then another so
und, a grunting noise, and he recognized it immediately.
In the next moment a grizzly bear, one of the biggest he had ever seen, came splashing out of the water. It leapt onto the side of the appaloosa, which whinnied and bucked to avoid the attack.
O’Brien swore loudly. Both he and the horse had been distracted by their food and had missed the smell of the bear as it approached across the water. O’Brien’s rifles were still on the appaloosa’s irons.
The bear raked long claws across the horse’s flank, trying to bring it down, but the big stallion turned and bucked. It smashed a hoof into the grizzly’s chest, busting a rib and throwing the bear onto its back. Then the horse broke free of its tether and ran off into the darkness.
The bear regained its feet, turned slightly, and remembered O’Brien. He was a second choice, but good enough. It felt some pain in its side, but it wasn’t enough to slow it down. It rose up on its hind legs and roared out its warning to him. It meant business. O’Brien would be its next meal.
The fire was still between them, and the bear began circling around it. It was obviously afraid of the fire, but only minimally.
The only weapon O’Brien had was the skinning knife on his right boot, but it was not much against a half-ton of bear. That would be his last resort.
The bear came around the fire to his right; the look in its eyes was deadly. There was no point in running: the bear could run faster. And it could climb trees better than he could. There was little choice. He had to stand and fight.
He had killed his first bear when he was very young, but it wasn’t a grizzly. He remembered his Scots father telling him that if you’re caught without a gun when a bear comes, there’s one thing left to do. Improvise.
He looked down at the fire as the bear came around it, and picked up a thick piece of firewood only burning on one end. The bear was moving toward him, just fifteen feet away. It stopped when it saw the firebrand and roared angrily at him.
Instead of backing up O’Brien yelled out a growling roar of his own, and waved the firebrand. It burned wildly, and made kaleidoscopic patterns of light across the darkness.
The bear was impressed, but not cowed. It rose up on its hind legs again, and roared its blood-chilling message into the blackness. In that moment O’Brien took a big chance: he gave up his weapon by hurling it at the bear’s chest.
What he hoped would happen, did. The fire caught the bear’s chest and forelegs and took hold of him. In just a half-second the animal was ablaze along its front. It swiped at the flame, and then went back down on all fours, turned and ran for the creek. The fire was extinguished there, but the bear didn’t even look back. It kept running off into the trees.
O’Brien slumped onto the ground. He had been lucky. He couldn’t have counted on the knife. His father had also told him once that a bear isn’t dead until you get it skinned and the hide cured.
It took him most of an hour to find the appaloosa. It was downstream a half-mile, skitter and jumpy. It was glad to see him.
‘All right, I know. Here. Let me see that.’
There were two long gashes in its flank, on the left, but they weren’t very deep.
‘Hell, you’re all right. I been scratched worse than that with prickly pear. I’ll rub some grease on that, I won’t tell you what kind or you’d run another mile. Come on, you’ll be ready to ride at sunup.’
It was another hour before he had the steak on the fire and the appaloosa was settled down near by. This time his saddle supported him on the ground, and his rifles were beside him on his groundsheet. He had dressed the appaloosa’s wounds with bear grease, and it seemed comfortable now. You never knew what little surprises you might get out on the trail, and maybe that was what he had begun liking about it.
He had two corn dodgers with the steak, and real coffee, which was more expensive than chicory. When he had cleaned up after himself he sat on his saddle and let thoughts fly through his head like bats in a cave. He had no good evidence that McComb had actually ended up in Billings, or even Montana. He had no idea at this point how much time it would take to find him. But he knew that he would keep looking, no matter how long it took. Somebody had to take McComb down. He was a killer, and it appeared that O’Brien was the only one with the motivation to stop him.
He scented the air for a moment, he could smell things other men couldn’t, and Wells Fargo drivers told it around that he could hear a man’s arm swinging in its socket at a hundred yards in a windstorm. O’Brien only shook his head at such stories, but no man had ever drawn on him from behind when he hadn’t heard it in time to react.
He sniffed again; there was no scent of the bear coming back at them. The fight with O’Brien had probably been its only real experience of fire.
Molly Walcott, he mused now, was probably sitting on her front porch with Matt Dawkins, firming up wedding plans. The boy had been brash as a flour peddler running for governor in his pursuit of the boss’s daughter. But it had all paid off when two of her wooers had abandoned their suits. Persistence pays, O’Brien thought, sitting there poking at his fire. It was a lesson not to be lost on him.
Actually, he had misgivings about Molly. What man, he thought, wouldn’t want Molly to cuddle up to on a cold winter night, or to fry his eggs for him in the morning. A small part of him felt he had been a little loco in pushing her away. But the bigger part, the part that determined who he really was, told him that he had to school himself on the trail, and know the great wilderness around him as well as Chief Gray Hawk. He sensed that there was an adventure out there, just waiting for him, experiences that would make him into a mature man. He could not give all that up at this age to tie himself to a life of domesticity and predictability. It was something in his blood, something that had brought his Highlander Scots father over the sea to a new world, escaping from some indiscretion he had never talked about.
‘But I do miss you, Molly,’ he said aloud to the fire. Then he thrust a stick rather fiercely into its flames.
The rest of that night was uneventful. He awoke to a redstreaked sky and a wide-awake stallion, which nickered at him when it saw him stir.
‘OK. I’m up,’ he replied.
He went and examined the horse’s wounds and applied a new layer of bear grease. The horse shied slightly when the grease was applied, and a muscle in its flank twitched. But then it settled down.
‘That ain’t what you think,’ O’Brien lied.
Within an hour they were under way again. O’Brien rode hard all morning, and paused just briefly under a plane tree to down a muffin dry. He didn’t like to waste any time because he had no idea how long McComb would be in Billings even if he was there.
He rode steadily that afternoon, thinking about McComb. Thinking he had to uncover more evidence that he was on the right trail to eventually confront that killer.
He had killed twice already in his young life, but always to defend his own life. He had never gone after a man to seek retribution for a wrong already done. He had no interest in enforcing the law, though, or in arresting McComb. He was going after him to make it right for Uriah Cahill, O’Brien’s hunting partner. The man whose life he had saved from wolves. The fellow who had been going to teach O’Brien to read.
He was going to Billings to kill.
In late afternoon, O’Brien crested a ridge and saw a small cabin set in hilly terrain, with smoke lofting from its chimney. He looked around, there was no horse in sight. The doorway was slightly open.
‘Let’s check it out,’ he said to the horse.
He reigned in just outside the cabin, dismounted, and picketed his mount to the ground. He walked around the back of the small structure; there was no horse there, either.
He came round to the front again and looked past a leather-hinged oak door into the cabin. ‘Hello! Anybody here?’
Silence.
He stepped inside. There was nobody there. A fire burned low in a fireplace on his left. There was a double bunk in a corner, a crude ta
ble, and two straight-backed chairs. An empty bottle of whiskey stood on the table, and there were scraps of hardtack on a tin plate.
‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘I’ll get nothing on McComb here.’
The unwritten law in the wild was that a traveller might help himself to another man’s coffee in the owner’s absence. So O’Brien, seeing a pot of coffee hanging over the fire on a hook, took it off and poured himself a half-cup of the warm liquid. He was just taking his second sip when he heard a sound outside. His movement at the fire had obliterated any earlier sounds.
He turned with the cup still in his hand, and saw a wild-looking man come through the door, followed by a second one. They were brothers, and trappers. The first one wore no hat and his hair was wild and long. His cheeks were sallow on a wind-burned face. His brother was a bit taller and had an ugly burn mark all across the left side of his face.
The first brother raised a Remington shotgun to O’Brien’s chest level. His hard eyes narrowed down to slits.
‘What the hell you think you’re doing, mister?’
O’Brien sighed. If it wasn’t bears it was half-wit strangers.
‘Just having a cup of your coffee, till you got back,’ he answered, eyeing the cannon-like shotgun. His rifles were still on the appaloosa. ‘I wanted to ask about a couple of men.’
The second brother came around to get a better look at O’Brien.
‘What are you? A goddam buffalo-hunter?’
O’Brien hesitated. Yes.’
‘Tie him up, Lem,’ the first one said, holding the gun steady on O’Brien.
O’Brien frowned. ‘Look, you see I’m unarmed. I didn’t come in here to cause trouble. I’ll just be on my way.’
‘You aint going nowhere, rawhide,’ Lem told him. He retrieved a length of rope from a wall nail and went over to O’Brien.
O’Brien’s first impulse was to send Lem across the room with one punch. But then he was likely to be torn literally in half by the shotgun. So he let the scarred man push him onto a chair and tie his wrists behind him while his mind worked on alternative defences.