Montana Revenge

by Dusty Richards

  “Morning,” Lem said, and swung his boots off the desk when Herschel came to the office door. “You’re about a stranger around here.”

  “Been busy.”

  “Come in. I was sorry to hear about Benton.”

  “Damn shame.” Herschel took a kitchen chair and sat down. “I need you to send a hand up there and bring some horses back from his place. We can pay them out of the claims fees.”

  “No problem. But I’ve been surprised that you haven’t kicked that reporter’s butt.”

  Herschel smiled. “Trying to be respectable.”

  Lem scowled. “I’m sure tired of him.”

  “Maybe they can get up a good candidate for sheriff against me.”

  “Hogwash.” Lem cut him a disapproving look. “They can’t field anyone that is electable.”

  “We’ll see. I’m heading for Nebraska to find Casey Ford, probably leave in a few days. I want you and some more men to carry deputy badges while I’m gone.”

  Lem rubbed the top of his legs with his palms. “I’ve never been one, but I’d sure try to back your men up.”

  “Good, think of a few more.”

  “I’ll do that. What else?”

  “Gather those horses in and I should be back in a week or ten days.” He stood.

  “I can handle that.”

  “You ever hear any word about the Billy Hanks lynching?”

  Lem shook his head and made a grim face. “Lots of talk, but nothing real solid about it. Folks speculate a lot.”

  “Listen close.”

  “I’m glad you ain’t forgot him. Someone did that for a reason, and I ain’t buying horse rustling.”

  Herschel stopped in the doorway, his back to Lem, and considered the matter again. “I’m not either. See you.”

  “Any time.”

  He left the stables and headed across the street for the stage office. Jim Brooks was working under a celluloid visor, and looked up from his work when Herschel entered the office of the Yellowstone Overland.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “In the morning I want a seat on the southbound coach.”

  “No problem. Put your money away. Ticket’s on us.”

  Herschel looked hard at him. “I can afford one.”

  “Nope.” Brooks rose and came over to the counter. “Where are you headed?”

  “Ogallala.”

  “When you get to Cheyenne, show that deputy U.S. marshal badge to the train master. He’ll give you some passes.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “My business to know, and I know about the Fargo reward. Brown was really wanted for his activities against Wells Fargo.”

  “He won’t do anything again.”

  “I wish we could tone down the damn paper’s rhetoric.”

  “Guess that’s their right.”

  Brooks gave him a hard glare. “Enough is enough.” “What time does she pull out?”

  “Seven sharp.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  He hiked home from there. The girls were all under sun-bonnets and hoeing in the garden. They looked up in relief at the sight of him.

  “Daddy’s back,” Nina said, and they came marching out of the neat garden with their hoes on their shoulders. Sarah came at the end eating raw green pea pods.

  “Everything at the office all right?” Marsha asked, looking relieved he had come back.

  “Fine. I need to pack a few things. I’m going to Nebraska in the morning and find Ford.”

  She nodded. “I figured that. We’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. But I won’t be satisfied until he and his henchman are behind bars.”

  She put the crook of her arm out for him. “No rock unturned—” Then she laughed and tossed her head back. “I sure hope these folks appreciate all you are doing.”

  “Me, too.”

  They made ice cream with the crank machine and he played music. It was a free day and the girls danced. Herschel forgot about his problems and enjoyed the company. Kate told him Phil was marrying Ida Crowley and he told her that he had heard.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I guess that’s the way things go. Teach them to dance and they leave you.”

  He hugged her. “Oh, he was a little old. A handsome prince will come by and sweep you off your feet.”

  She frowned. “A nice cowboy would be fine.”

  Herschel laughed and ate some more of the rich vanilla strawberry ice cream. With a shared look across at Kate, Marsha nodded in approval over his answer to her eldest.

  “You have plenty of time,” Kate’s mother said, and then looked at heaven for help.

  In late afternoon, he went back by the sheriff’s office and found Art looking sleepy-eyed sitting on the edge of Phil’s desk.

  “Hear you’re going after Ford.”

  “Right. Sorry about the night watchman job. You still look sleepy.”

  “I’m feeling worse about Barley. I know you are. Damn shame.”

  Herschel agreed. He’d tried to sweep the whole thing under the rug, but it wasn’t staying under it well. Every time someone mentioned Barley, there was a lump in Herschel’s throat, and he tried not to see the fresh grave above the Musselshell. That image might follow him forever.

  “I got there too late,” he said.

  Art shook his head. “Some things can’t be helped. Like they were going to happen anyway and there was nothing anyone could have done.”

  “Maybe. I’m headed for Ogallala in the morning.”

  “Phil said so. Can I hire that Kansas lawman?”

  “You all find him?”

  “I sent word. He’s staying with someone south of the river.”

  “Keep an eye on him, this isn’t one of those Kansas cow towns. What’s his name?”

  “Ty Martin.”

  “Never heard of him. Just watch him if you think he’s all right and I’ll be back.”

  “I hope you’re back by the Fourth of July. Things can get rowdy that week.”

  Herschel left the office after going over some small details with Art. The hardest to leave again would be Marsha and the girls. After the nice afternoon of ice cream and music, he’d felt better than he had in days. Maybe when he had Ford rounded up, he could do more of the same.

  The thought of Billy Hanks hanging in the lightning’s flashes reminded him of another pressing matter. Ford needed to be dealt with, but so did Billy’s death.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  HE left on the swinging stagecoach and headed for Sheridan and the long ride on to Cheyenne. With his rifle and saddle in the boot, this would be the quickest way. In three days he’d be at the railroad, and stiff as a board. He looked out the open window grateful for the morning’s cool air. If there was anything left of him, he’d be in Sheridan that night. Seated in the back-facing seat, he viewed the man and woman across from him.

  “Jerome Calhoun,” the dapper-dressed man said. “This is Emma.”

  Herschel touched his hat and introduced himself. Calhoun was his age, in his thirties, with a trimmed thin mustache, a silk scarf, and a fine suit. Emma looked to be in her early twenties, maybe even younger. She wore a green silk dress and a wool shawl against the coolness. Her hazel eyes avoided him as if deliberately. Somehow, the pair did not match. He’d almost thought Emma was a courtesan rather than a wife. Calhoun looked like a promoter or fancy tinhorn. No matter, they were southbound with him.

  Once over the grade, the horses made good time going downhill. The driver on top, in a loud voice, called the horses by name when they weren’t doing right. How he knew them apart, Herschel could never figure, since they changed teams and animals so much, but this driver did, or pretended he did.

  “We’re going to Buffalo, Wyoming,” Calhoun said. “I’m looking for some investments.”

  “Nice place. Been through there several times bringing up herds.”

  “Should be some there.”

  “They say that there’s coal in the P
owder River country.” Calhoun said it more as a question than a statement.

  “I guess there could be, but it’s so far from anything. I doubt it would be worth much.”

  “Ah, the future.”

  “In a couple hundred years.” Herschel chuckled at his own idea, and gazed out the window. They’d pass the site of Custer’s demise sometime later in the day. Lots of settlers were taking up land along the streams. Get rid of the buffalo and Indians and the cattle came, behind them plodded the farmer.

  “You aren’t impressed with such resources,” Calhoun said.

  “I wouldn’t know how to get it from the ground or how to sell it.” He still could not figure out Emma, who reminded him of one of the girls’ best china-faced dolls. Oh, well, she was no concern of his.

  Through the day, the stage made stops and changed teams. The fly-infested outhouses offered little solace for the traveler, who just wanted to get in and get out. Any food served in the stopovers tasted rancid and old—left over from something the last passersby didn’t eat. Even the coffee tasted bitter and scorched. It no doubt had pan-browned barley for its base. In Sheridan, they’d lay over two hours, the driver said, but that would be late at night. Herschel curbed his appetite and lasted until they rolled up the streets past the lighted businesses.

  “We should find some fine cuisine here,” Calhoun said, and smiled at the silent Emma.

  “Yes,” tumbled off her lips in a quiet whisper.

  She could talk, Herschel realized, and he nodded in approval at her. “The Grand Café is the best place. I’ve eaten there.”

  “Show us the way.”

  “Certainly,” Herschel said as the driver opened the door.

  “Two hours and we pull out,” the man said.

  “We will be here,” Herschel promised. He planned not to miss it.

  The restaurant meal of roast beef went well, and Emma even ate some from her plate, though he suspected she never ate much. After supper, the three strode back to the stage office.

  “I may step in a den of iniquity for a moment if you would show her to the stage office,” Calhoun said.

  “Sure.” Herschel nodded at Emma and she went along without a word.

  Two doors down, Calhoun went in the swinging doors.

  “He a good gambler?” he asked her casually to make conversation.

  “He’s a gambler.”

  “He must win sometimes.”

  She raised her eyebrows and shook her head at him. “Yes, he won me.”

  “Won you?” The notion slapped him between the eyes.

  She nodded and kept on walking.

  “Excuse me. The sale of anyone is prohibited by federal law.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “Blacks maybe, but not women.”

  “I’m a federal marshal.”

  “Thanks, but nothing you can do. A soiled woman has few choices.”

  “You mean nothing you can do but be a slave?”

  “The alternatives are not very pretty.”

  The time slipped by as they waited in the stage office, and Calhoun still did not return. The driver looked up and down the dark boardwalk, grumbling about his absence.

  “I can—” Herschel started up to go after him, but Emma’s hand touching his forearm stopped him.

  “He knows when the stage leaves,” she said.

  He settled back and nodded. “Shall we get on board?”

  She took his arm and he helped her inside, then climbed up. The driver shut the door and the coach rocked when he went up on top. The lines in his hands, he shouted to the horses, and they were off for Big Horn and Buffalo in the darkness of night. Some dim-lit lanterns hung on the coach, but the driver needed to know the road for he had to go by feel in the starlight.

  Herschel pulled the hat down over his face and slumped down to try to sleep.

  “Thank you,” she said in a smoky voice.

  He raised his hat and looked in her shadowy direction. “What’s that for?”

  “For not going after him.”

  He smiled. “No problem, ma’am.”

  Two days later, he parted with Emma in Cheyenne. She refused his offer of money and when he last saw her, she was walking away with her carpetbag. Head high and proud as anyone, she soon disappeared. He hoisted his saddle on his shoulder and with his rifle and war bag in his other hand, headed for the train depot. The next eastbound passenger train would be there in two hours, which meant he’d be in Ogallala by the next day. Maybe he could sleep on the train. He hoped so.

  During his wait, he left his gear with the ticket agent and found a café, where he ate some better beef and frijoles. In Montana, the brown beans were scarce. So it was a treat. Cooked long in smoky ham and onions with a hint of Mexican spices, it reminded him of the food on the cattle drives.

  Full at last, he headed back for the brick depot. Cheyenne at night sounded quiet compared to the old days. But it had grown, and many men dressed like Calhoun— Eastern-fancy, not nearly like the drovers he recalled from past visits. Maybe the drovers just weren’t up there yet. What did Phil say? Big herds were coming in the fall.

  In the morning sun, he dismounted from the train in Ogallala. Plenty of wagons were choking the streets and lots of honyockers were strolling on the boardwalks. Farmers with bib overalls had obviously found that end of Nebraska. The Sioux were all on reservations up in South Dakota, which opened lots of country for homesteading. Some great grassland, in his opinion, lay north of the Platte for many miles. A shame to bust it up for crops, but they would. Somewhere up there, Casey Ford and his henchman were camped out. Herschel would find them.

  “Baker! Herschel Baker!”

  He turned and saw a familiar face coming through the wagons and parked rigs. Texas Jack Bailey, with his long curly blond hair and buckskin-fringed shirt, was booting his buckskin pony and soon drew up in front of Herschel. A longtime friend from the cattle drives.

  He blinked his blue eyes at Herschel. “Thought you were in Montana.”

  “I am.”

  “How the hell come I’m seeing you here?”

  “Long story. Get down and I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “Man, you must have sold the herd, if you’ve got enough money to buy me a beer.” He swung down. “What’re you doing here?” He jerked off his fringed glove and shook Herschel’s hand.

  “Looking for some killers. I’m the sheriff of Yellowstone County.”

  “Damn, that’s impressive. Let’s go inside and have that beer. I’m dying of thirst.”

  They climbed the porch and entered the yellow sunlit canvas tent behind the false front. A crowd dressed in everything from suits to overalls was shouting over a faro wheel. They found a space at the bar. Herschel had left his gear and saddle at the depot until he could find a horse.

  They ordered beers, took them to a vacant table, and sat.

  “I heard about you losing your brother,” Texas said, and slouched in the captain’s chair.

  “Been a while,” Herschel agreed. “I have a wife and three girls now.”

  “Well, my lands, that ain’t filtered down my way.”

  “Great woman and her daughters are four, seven, and ten.”

  “You look like you’ve done fine. Bet she’s a looker.” Texas shoved his hat back on his shoulders and laughed.

  “Marsha’s a handsome woman.”

  “I bet she is. I’ll have to see her sometime. Who are you after down here?”

  “Looking for a man killed some folks and his henchman. Casey Ford and some out-of-work cowboy called Chub.”

  “Casey Ford—he got a scar on the right side of his face?”

  “Yes, you know him?”

  “He ain’t worth much. He robbed a bunch of our riders of all their money when they got drunk once in Dodge. He told them they spent it—but we figured it out later.”

  “Lucky he didn’t cut your throat. He did that to a man and woman he robbed in Montana.”

  His stein of beer halfway
to his mouth, Texas stopped, frowned, and shook his head in disgust. “The worthless outfit.”

  “He’s that all right. You on any payroll?”

  “No, why?”

  “I can pay two bucks a day. Ride with me up there and we’ll find this no-account.”

  “You’ve done hired you a posse man, sonny boy.”

  They shook hands on the deal. Herschel ordered another round and sat back. He had a man could handle himself. They’d choused enough cattle out of the Lone Star State to cover Kansas over in cowhides if they all were laid out. No one he’d like better at his back when a fight broke out than Texas Jack Bailey.

  They left the saloon and went to find Herschel a saddle horse and a pack mule. After two hours dickering, Herschel owned a big bay to strap his saddle on, plus a long-legged red mule to carry their bedding and gear. He was pleased when they had the things they needed in panniers at the livery by supper time, including food for the trip and their animals.

  They left Ogallala before sunup with a few tips that Texas learned, somewhere along Pine Ridge they should find Ford. It was only a tip, but he felt certain that someone might know something or had heard about Ford. Worth heading that way anyhow for starters.

  They pushed hard, covering forty miles, and found a ranch to stay at that evening. The cook was an old friend of Texas Jack called Toad. The short man had some large red growths like mushrooms on his face and the name suited his ugly looks, but he laughed a lot and fixed them steaks fried in tallow, although the crew had already eaten.

  “What you doing up here?” Toad asked.

  “Looking for some range for a herd,” Texas said, and shared a quick look with Herschel to make sure he backed him.

  “There’s plenty grass,” Toad said. “When is the herd coming?”

  “Late, I figure. They’ve had trouble. Fences and honyockers down south.”

  Toad made a fist and raised it. “I would kill that one he made bob-wire, huh?”

  “He’d be a good one to start on,” Texas said as they stayed busy eating.

  Herschel offered to pay him for the grub, but he waved it off. “I always feed the good ones I know passing through. Boss, he can afford it, he’s got lots of money.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We have breakfast at four.”