Montana Revenge

by Dusty Richards

  “Part of the job.”

  “Yeah, yeah—” He grabbed his sides and looked pained.

  “You seen Casey Ford lately?”

  “You after him?”

  “I asked you if you’ve seen him lately.”

  “Sure, he’s on the Blue, staying at the U7.”

  “How much money you got on you?” Herschel asked, still on his haunches.

  “You figure on spending it?”

  “No, but I figure the man who’s going to bury you can use it.”

  The man’s breath caught, and he winced. “That the honyocker—owned them horses?”

  Herschel nodded. “You got a name? We know the other fella was Webb Pauley.”

  “B.J. Flowers.”

  Herschel rose and nodded to Thompson. “You can have your horses back, their horses and saddle gear and any monies on them. Give them a proper burial.”

  “But he ain’t dead yet,” Thompson said, looking upset.

  “He will be by the time you ride back to your place for a shovel and get back here.”

  “Wait—lawman—pull—my boots off,” Flowers said.

  Herschel nodded and obliged the man. He began to gather up the rustlers’ firearms, and noticed Texas had rounded up the four horses and had them all picketed.

  “Learn anything?” Texas asked.

  “Where is the U7?”

  “West a ways and north some on the Blue like I figured.” Herschel checked the sun. They still had several hours of daylight. “Let’s get closer.”

  Texas agreed. “I’ll get the mule.”

  “I’ll tell Thompson.”

  In a few minutes, Texas was back with Red and they headed out. By evening, they were camped on the Blue.

  “U7 is upstream about ten miles, I’d guess,” Texas said, squatted on his heels and rolling a smoke.

  “Big outfit?”

  “Naw, another two-bit place, but sure a hornet’s nest of worthless ones like Casey.”

  Herschel put the skillet on to heat up and he sliced some bacon. No time to make bread, but he had some crackers that weren’t wormy to go with it. Maybe in another day, he’d be headed for home and his girls. As he bent over, turning bacon in the sizzling skillet, he missed all of them.

  TWENTY-SIX

  TEXAS led the way in the predawn. Red trailed him, and Herschel came last on Bay with the .44/40 across his lap. The wagon tracks they followed ran parallel to Blue Creek and wound their way down the bottoms. Pine trees grew on ridges in this land, which was more broken than the rolling prairie country behind them. In fact, some hills soon began to appear. Herschel and Texas spooked some cattle watering in the creek. They were wary critters that ran as the riders approached.

  Herschel and Texas were in a land that neither knew much about. They had made no human contact since they’d left the dying horse thief. Thompson had mentioned that the U7 was north of the Deer Creek Fork, but the scratches he’d made in the dirt for a map seemed unrelated to the country they were riding through. Not seeing any human habitation in all their riding amazed him more than anything else. Of course, this land had no doubt been part of the Sioux land before the reformation of that treaty, and maybe folks had not dared come in here as they had elsewhere.

  The skin on Herschel’s neck crawled for no reason he could pin down. Since reaching the Blue and this dim road, he’d felt uneasy. When he twisted in the saddle to view more of the country, he expected to see some form of opposition to their presence. But nothing appeared despite his edgy feelings.

  An hour later, a second stream flowed into the Blue. Letting Bay drink beside Texas’s horse, the two men considered the crossing.

  “This the stream Thompson called Deer?” Texas looked around, stretching his arms above his head. He covered up a yawn. “Aside from a deer or two, I sure ain’t seen nothing that indicated there’s a ranch up here.”

  “We may be close.” Herschel motioned northward.

  “There ain’t been a horse on these wagon tracks since Hector was a pup.”

  “If you were stealing horses, would you use this road leading to your place?”

  Texas laughed and slapped his pommel. “Hell, no. I’d keep to the ridges so I could see who was eating my dust.”

  “We don’t find the place by dark, or someone who can tell us how to get there, we’ll try something else tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough.” Texas drew his horse up, jerked Red away from snatching grass, and bailed across the shallow watercourse.

  Herschel didn’t feel any better after they talked. It was still an eerie country to him. Maybe his mind was trying to warn him. He’d never felt quite like this before—trapped in an empty land of grass and ridges in pines with raw cuts of yellowish bluffs.

  “Wood smoke,” Texas said, sniffing the air. “Smell it.”

  A smile crossed Herschel’s face and he nodded. “We must be close.”

  “Maybe we better scout this place,” Texas said. “We don’t need this canary braying, ‘we’re coming’ either.”

  “My sentiments. Let’s take him back a quarter mile or so and hobble him. Then we can ease up and see who’s over that ridge.”

  “I’d sure feel safer about that than riding into a hornet’s nest.”

  With Red hobbled, they rode back and chose a game trail to the top of the hill. Under the brow, they left their horses and snuck along until they could crawl out and observe from the rim.

  Texas used a brass telescope to scan the setup. Herschel studied the pens and low buildings. Some horses in the corrals, but not many. The place wasn’t new, and might have been built by some outfit grazing cattle to sell to the agency later. It was not an Indian camp. Besides, the Sioux didn’t live in houses—they used tepees.

  “Five horses in the corral. Wait—” Texas handed him the glass. “Who’s he?”

  Herschel peered through the eyepiece. A short, white-whiskered, stove-up cowboy went to the shed and returned with some wood in his arms.

  “That could be Chub.” He looked over at Texas on the ground beside him. “All I know is Ida Crowley’s description of him.”

  “How did he ever get in with a killer like Ford?”

  “Hard times is all I can say.”

  Texas agreed with a sharp nod. “How we taking them? I mean, if Ford is down there.”

  “We need to be certain he’s there and not off horse stealing.”

  “If he’s down there in that cabin, sooner or later his bladder will drive him outside.”

  Herschel agreed with a grin. “Sooner or later.”

  They had whiled away a few hours on the ridge when a rider came from the east. Texas raised a hand and then used the scope. “Your man just stepped out of the cabin.”

  “Recognize the third one?”

  “No, but I’d say he’s telling them two about something. Maybe he brought them word about us being up here.”

  “Could be. They get hasty about leaving, we’ll know shortly.”

  “What then?”

  “We’ll try to stop them.”

  “Good enough. Hey, Ford just went inside and brought out his saddle.”

  “Time to act,” Herschel said, and rose to his feet levering a cartridge in the Winchester.

  “We going off the hill on foot?”

  “Be as quick as on our horses.”

  “I guess so.” Texas collapsed his telescope. “Reckon they can shoot worth a damn?”

  “I doubt it.” Herschel reached up, pulled down his hat, and started off the hill.

  The way was steep and, over the cry of some quail, he heard a shout. They’d been discovered. The short one was pointing up the hillside at him.

  “U.S. marshal!” he shouted, but doubted they could hear him in the gathering wind.

  The third man on the scene drew his pistol and emptied it. His shots sent up dust far below Herschel, who drew the rifle butt to his shoulder and took aim. The rifle report echoed back and the cowboy went down. It panicked the other two. The
older one ran into a shed. Ford dropped his saddle and headed for the cabin.

  The wounded one on the ground had begun moaning by the time Herschel reached flat ground. Texas started for the shed, and Herschel went toward the cabin. Two shots rang out from the front door and he answered them, with his bullets splintering the wood door facing.

  A shot from the shed distracted him for a second; then, a figure appeared in the cabin doorway. Hands high, the hatless Ford came out in the sunlight.

  “I give up.”

  “Keep walking this way,” he said, and called out over his shoulder, “Texas, you all right?”

  “Fine. It was the old man. Shot himself. Guess the thought of prison or hanging got to him.”

  The wounded one wailed.

  “Who in the hell are you, anyway?” Texas asked, standing over him.

  “Gus—Gus Jenks.”

  “Well, Gus Jenks, guess you’re wanted all over hell.”

  While Texas talked to Jenks, Herschel disarmed Ford and then shoved him in that direction. Herschel’s handcuffs were in his saddlebags; this time he’d come equipped.

  “Only thing they ever got me for before was pig stealing,” Jenks said.

  “Damn, I wouldn’t have admitted that in a court of law.” Texas shook his head in disgust. “What we got here is a dead man, a pig rustler, and a killer.”

  “I’m dying—”

  “Die, then. You come to warn those two we were coming.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “We heard you.” Texas knelt down and split the man’s pants leg. When he twisted the right one to see it better, the outlaw screamed. “Amputate is all I can see to do.”

  “No!”

  “Give me your kerchief.” Texas held out his hand for it.

  “What you going to do?” Jenks asked.

  “Bind it up. Hell, you’re barely scratched.”

  “Oh,” Jenks moaned, and fell back on the ground.

  When Jenks was in irons, Herschel went to see about fixing some food. Texas took Ford and made him dig Chub’s grave. The sound of the shovel ringing on the gravel carried to where Herschel stirred the beans in an iron pot over the fireplace inside the cabin. After he put the Dutch oven over the coals to heat, he went to the shed and cut some steaks off the hanging deer wrapped up in canvas.

  Soon, his biscuits were cooking in the oven, steaks sizzling in hot tallow, and the coffee was made. He was sipping on a tin cup of it when Texas brought Ford in and sat him on the floor in cuffs. The candles Herschel had lit gave off a smoky yellow light inside the low-roofed cabin.

  “Coffee’s done. Food won’t be long now,” he said to Texas.

  “I could eat a bear,” Texas said. With his handkerchief for a holder, he reached for the coffeepot and filled his cup. “Man, it sure smells good.”

  “Not half as good as my wife’s.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t have one of those.”

  “Then you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Both men laughed. Herschel realized that for the first time in two days, the skin on his neck wasn’t crawling.

  “What are we going to do with Jenks?” Texas asked, seeing that he’d gone to sleep in the cuffs seated on the floor.

  “I guess turn him loose. I’d hate to pack him back to Montana.”

  “Good. I guess the job includes me going up there with you?”

  Herschel nodded and used a big fork to turn the steaks. “Unless you’ve got other work?”

  “Naw, just asking.” He sat in the chair, his legs spread apart, and bent over with his elbows rested on them, he rolled himself a cigarette. “I ain’t got nothing better to do.”

  “We’ll head north, then.”

  “Guess we can swing by Lead and Deadwood going back?”

  “I guess. What’ve you got on your mind?”

  “I thought if you’d stake me to a few bucks I’d get a shave, a bath, lubricate my throat, and see how ugly the ladies are.”

  “Ford can rest in the jail for one night, too.”

  “Good idea. I’ll be looking forward to that.” Texas blew steam off his coffee. “You know we’re a fur piece from Montana.”

  Herschel considered his words and nodded. “A fur piece.”

  Deadwood, nestled in the deep canyons, proved hotter than an oven. Miners floured in blasting dust, prospectors, fancy-dressed gamblers, and the dregs of society all milled on the boardwalks and streets with scantily dressed show-girls, wooden-shoed Chinese whores, and fancy silkgowned prostitutes. Herschel led the way on horseback threading around double-wagon freight teams with eight teams of patient oxen in front, mule-powered freighters, buckboards, ambulances, and buggies. To judge from the horses standing hip-shot at the hitch racks and the noise and the tinny pianos, Deadwood, despite the sweltering heat, was alive and booming.

  The town marshal took one look at Herschel’s federal badge and agreed to board Ford for two bucks a day. Herschel and Texas took the horses and Red to the livery and stabled them there. Texas thought thirty cents a day was highway robbery, but Herschel paid the man.

  “Inflated mining town prices, I figure,” Herschel said.

  “Inflated? Plain thievery!” Texas shook his head in disgust.

  They twisted through the throngs of people making their way up the steep hill, and had almost reached a saloon that Texas wanted to visit when a horse at the hitch rack caught Herschel’s attention—a bald-faced horse stood at the rack under a Texas saddle.

  “Wait,” he said, and stepped off the wooden walkway. A closer examination showed Squires’s brand. Herschel looked at the peaks high overhead to give celestial thanks. He’d found Squires’s lost horse.

  “Know him?” Texas asked.

  “Yes. He was stolen west of Billings a few weeks ago.”

  “Bet that cowboy riding him is around here.” Texas searched the crowd and then shook his head. “No telling where.”

  “I’ll wait for him.” Herschel climbed back on the boardwalk.

  “I—”

  “You go get a bath. I can wait. I’ll tell you the story later.” He counted out twenty dollars for Texas. “Enough?”

  “Plenty.”

  He watched Texas disappear in the crowd, and then settled in with his shoulder to the frame of the saloon’s plate-glass window. He could hear most of the goings-on inside and see part of inside while he waited.

  His wait wasn’t long. Three cowboys came out of the saloon, and he could tell they were going for the hitch rack. A tall one and two shorter ones, all in their twenties.

  The shortest one began tightening the cinch on Baldy when Herschel stepped off the boardwalk as if crossing the street, and once he was beside the cowboy, spoke. “Stealing horses in Montana is not gainful employment.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a deputy U.S. marshal and this horse was stolen in Yellowstone County.”

  “How did you—”

  “Next time steal a plainer horse. You’re under arrest. You have a gun?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Carl, we’ll get you a lawyer,” the tall cowboy said, looking defiant.

  “Ain’t no use,” Carl said. “You play the fiddle, you pay the fiddler.”

  “Right,” said Herschel. “He’ll be along in three years or so. He can get mail at Deer Lodge Prison, Montana. Come on, they’ve got a nice cell for you here, too.”

  Herschel undid the reins and looked at the defeated-looking cowboy. “We’ll put him in the stable. What’s your name?”

  “Carl Tibbs.”

  “All right, Carl, you’re on your best behavior. I won’t cuff you, but don’t give me an excuse to. We’re several days’ ride from Billings.”

  “I won’t give you an excuse.”

  Tibbs shook hands with his pals, exchanged a few words, and they parted. He marched with Herschel to the livery and the horse was put up. Then Herschel took Tibbs to the jail.

  Then, Herschel walked across the street and stepped insid
e the telegraph office. He sent a wire to his office. HAVE FORD STOP HAVE BALD-FACED HORSE STOP BE HOME IN A WEEK STOP HERSCHEL BAKER

  An hour later, after a bath and shave, he found Texas in the Gold Dust Saloon. His deputy was dancing with a bar girl. Several of the onlookers were cheering him on. Herschel ordered a beer, and when the barkeep delivered the stein, the man said, sounding impressed, “That damn cowboy can sure dance.”

  “Not bad at all.” Herschel took the mug and went to the free-lunch bar and made a sandwich. Texas was almost as good at dancing as Billy Hanks had been. Herschel fixed a sandwich from sliced bread, piled with sliced dry sausages, mustard, pickles, and some deviled eggs. Then, seated at a table, he grinned when Texas swept by with his dance partner.

  “You must have got him,” Texas said, going by a second time.

  Herschel smiled and nodded, then considered his food. He’d soon be headed home. Marsha, I’m coming.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THEY crossed the Little Big Horn River and stopped off at the Atwood Cattle Company summer camp. Jim Hayes, the superintendent, looked them over with a critical eye as they rode up. He stood in the doorway of his headquarters, a low-walled cabin next to the cookshack, harness and supply shop, and two bunkhouses.

  “That you, Baker?”

  Herschel booted Bay in close. “It’s me. You remember Texas Jack?”

  “Not since Wichita.” With a big smile under his bushy handlebar mustache streaked with silver, Jim stepped out and shook their hands.

  “Who are they?” he asked, looking at Ford and Tibbs.

  “Prisoners.”

  “I heard you were the law up there.”

  “Yes, I’ll be glad to be back.”

  “I bet you will be. I’ll get Yonky to fix you some food.”

  “We’d appreciate it. These fellas think my cooking’s bad.”

  “Texas, you remember Wichita?” Hayes asked him.

  “I remember a helluva hangover.”

  They talked about the old days and cattle drives they’d shared. The prisoners did as Herschel directed them, and sat side by side on a bench outside the cookshack to wait.

  The cook Yonky fixed a pile of breaded steaks fried in hot tallow, served with German potatoes and onions, fresh sourdough biscuits with cow butter, and plenty of hot coffee to wash it down.