When he thought the horses had rested enough, he climbed back in the saddle and started out again, figuring he had at least a couple of hours before darkness forced him to make camp. He couldn’t say for sure, but he guessed that he should make Three Forks by the end of the following day. It had been three years since he and his gang of outlaws had passed through the point where three rivers joined to form the Missouri. At that time, about four miles from Gallatin City, a man named Briny Bowen operated a combination saloon and trading post. It was a rough place, the kind where you asked no questions, because most of Briny’s customers were running from something or someone.
Mace hoped it was still there, for that was where he was heading. Many years ago, a couple of Frenchmen had built the trading post, a log building, hard against a cliff. The back door opened directly into a series of limestone caves that served as safe rooms in the event of Indian attacks. The log structure had been set fire to twice and rebuilt each time to form the present-day saloon. According to what Mace had been told, Briny had taken it over some twenty years ago. It had since become a stopping place popular with men of all kinds, with one thing in common: They were all on the wrong side of the law. Mace felt he would be in his element there.
A wiry man of uncertain age, Briny Bowen sat in a rocking chair beside a huge stone fireplace. The light of the fire reflected off his shiny pate, which extended halfway the length of his skull before reaching the thin, lifeless gray hair that hung down to his shoulders. The muffled sounds of cursing and laughter came to him through the closed door to the back room, suddenly becoming loud when his employee, Horace Blevins, entered the room with a fresh bottle of whiskey for the poker game in progress. Briny paid it no mind. His hearing wasn’t as sharp as it once was, and certainly not as sharp as the fourteen-inch hunting knife that he always wore.
“How many’s that?” Briny asked when Horace came back.
“Three,” Horace replied.
“Switch ’em over on the next one,” Briny said without turning his gaze away from the fire. There was no sense in wasting good whiskey on them. After killing three bottles of whiskey, it was unlikely they would know the difference.
“Yessir,” Horace replied in his typical monotone. Briny often joked that the last time Horace was excited was when the midwife smacked him on his ass at birth. “There ain’t but one bottle of that blue cork under the counter,” Horace said. “They’re drinkin’ pretty strong. Reckon I need to get some more out of the storeroom?” The watered-down spirits were identified by the blue mark on the cork. Most of it was for sale to Indians and white men already too drunk to know what they were drinking.
“Wouldn’t hurt, I reckon,” Briny answered. “Make sure you keep count of them bottles.” It was unnecessary to remind Horace, since a rowdy bunch of cardplayers once threw a couple of empty bottles out the window, thinking to cheat Briny on the total number consumed. On that particular occasion, when the winner of the poker game threw the money down to settle up, his hand was impaled on the countertop by Briny’s fourteen-inch knife and held there until he came up with the money for two more bottles. They never saw the gentleman in the place again.
Hearing the front door open, Briny took his attention away from the fire long enough to see who came in. He had to think for a moment, but he knew he had seen the man before—tall, rangy man with black hair and whiskers framing a scowl of displeasure. Since Horace had gone to the storeroom, Briny dragged himself out of his rocker and went to the counter.
“Gimme a drink of your real whiskey,” Cantrell ordered gruffly as Briny stepped around to the back of the counter.
Long years past being intimidated by any of the many lawless customers to visit his saloon, Briny didn’t respond at once. Instead, he took a long look at the scowling face, searching his memory, which was still as sharp as it had been when he was a young man. Finally he spoke after he had put a finger on the incident. “You was in here two, three years ago. If I recollect correctly, there was four or five others with you.” He reached behind him and took a shot glass from the shelf behind the counter and filled it from a bottle from under the counter. “What happened to your gang? They run off and leave you?”
“You might say that,” Mace responded, his lips parting in a half smile. “I reckon they’re ridin’ for the devil right now.”
Briny understood the meaning of the remark. “You run into a little trouble? You on the run from the law?” His immediate concern was the possibility that Cantrell had led them to his place.
“I ain’t got no lawman on my tail,” Mace replied. “I just want a damn drink of whiskey.” He slammed the money down on the counter and nudged the empty glass over toward Briny.
His show of impatience appeared to have no effect on the old man, who casually raked the money off the counter and refilled the glass. “You just passin’ through, or you figurin’ on stayin’ a while?” Briny asked.
“I ain’t thought about it yet,” Cantrell replied before downing the whiskey. “Who’s in the back room?”
“Some fellers rode in from Butte,” Briny replied. “Four of ’em. They got a poker game goin’.” He had no sooner said it than the door opened and a squat bull of a man walked directly to the end of the bar to confront Horace. He was holding the bottle of whiskey that Horace had just delivered.
“What the hell kinda watered-down piss is this stuff?” he demanded. “We sure as hell ain’t that drunk. We paid good money and we expect to get real whiskey—not some of this stuff you sell the Injuns.”
Horace shot a worried glance in Briny’s direction and Briny nodded patiently. “That bottle musta been on the wrong shelf, Horace,” he said. “Fetch another bottle for the gent.”
While Horace went behind the counter to replace the bottle, the squat customer leaned on the bar and gazed at the other two men at the counter. His gaze stopped abruptly when it met that of Cantrell, who was concentrating intensely upon him. He was stumped at first, but it suddenly dawned upon him. “Mace Cantrell,” he uttered, almost in a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure he could believe his eyes.
His utterance prompted Mace’s memory, and he put the name and the face together a split second later. “Stump?” he gasped, scarcely believing his memory. “Stump Wyatt?”
“Well, I’ll be gone to hell,” the stocky patron responded. “I thought you was dead a long time ago.” A wide grin spread the width of his jaw and he came forward to extend a hand.
“Hell, I thought you went under with Bloody Bill and Booker and the rest of them Rose Hill boys,” Cantrell said, mirroring Stump’s grin as the two shook hands and pounded each other on the back.
“It’d take more’n a company of Yankee soldiers to put us out of business,” Stump replied. “Hell, Booker and One Eye are settin’ in the back room right now.” He turned his head toward the door and yelled, “Booker! Get out here!” His shout carried enough urgency to cause his friends to charge through the door with guns drawn. Stump chuckled at their reaction. “Look what the cat drug in,” he said, pointing to Mace.
Like Stump, his friends had to pause for a moment to be sure. Booker was the first to speak. “Cantrell?” He continued to stare for a few moments longer. “I thought you was dead. Hell, somebody said they saw you get hit in the same volley that got Bill. Ain’t that right, One Eye?”
The grinning man with a patch over one eye shook his head in disbelief. When he finally found words, he said, “That’s a fact, all right. Word had it that you and your brother both went down with Bloody Bill. Course, we didn’t hang around to answer no roll call after they shot us to pieces. Me and Booker and Stump hid under that bridge till they started out after you boys, then we lit out down that creek and never looked back.”
“Figured you was dead, though,” Booker said. “Just you got out? They musta got Doc.”
“No, me and Doc both made it,” Mace said. “I was ridin’ right behind Bill when we charged across that bridge and hit the ambush in the trees. We made it through, b
ut Bill turned around and started back. I reckon I woulda followed him, but Doc cut me off, took hold of my bridle and led me straight out the other side of the Union camp. When I looked back, I saw Bill get shot in the head, and when I saw his empty saddle, there wasn’t no use for me and Doc to go back.”
The rough faces of the former comrades literally shone as the memories of what they considered their glory days were once again resurrected. “Well, what in hell are you doin’ in Montana?” Booker asked. “Is Doc still with you?”
“He was, up to a couple of days ago,” Mace replied. “He was shot down in a little job that went bad.”
Booker nodded to indicate he understood. He automatically assumed that whatever job Cantrell was involved in would be on the same side of the law he operated on. “That’s a shame. I always liked Doc.”
“Yeah,” Mace replied, “Doc was one of the best.” He saw no reason to confess that he had abandoned his wounded brother to make good his own escape.
“Well, what the hell have you been up to?” Stump asked. “It’s been—what?—thirteen, fourteen years since we charged across that damn bridge into that Yankee ambush. Damn, we was all just boys when that happened.” He took the bottle that Horace placed on the counter before him. “Come on, we’ll go in the back room and talk.” As he led the way, he nodded toward a man standing by the door. “This here’s Jimmy Peterson. He rides with us. Jimmy, meet Mace Cantrell. He rode with us and Bloody Bill Anderson.”
The reunion consumed a couple more bottles of Briny’s best whiskey as the old comrades exchanged stories. “Things went all right for a good while,” Booker explained. “There were plenty of little towns to raid, some of ’em with banks that were like pickin’ cherries off a tree. There’s too damn much law out here now. We kept gettin’ farther and farther north till we wound up here in Montana Territory—and damned if it ain’t got too civilized to make a decent livin’ here. Lately, we’ve turned to cattle rustlin’ as the safest way to turn a profit.”
“Cattle, huh?” Mace interrupted. “I just happen to know where there’s a sizable herd of cattle not three days’ ride from here, and there ain’t nobody tendin’ ’em. All you’d have to do is go up there and take ’em.” This claimed their attention, so he went on to tell them what had taken place in Paradise Valley and why he had run.
“And you say one man took out five of your gang?” Booker asked, finding it hard to believe.
“He just had a helluva lotta luck on his side,” Mace insisted. “He bushwhacked my boys and I couldn’t take him and the townsfolk at the same time, so I had to run. If it had’a been just me and him, it woulda been different, and that’s a fact.”
One Eye, content to listen to that point, interjected a question that had occurred to him. “There was a bank holdup in Helena a little while back that went bad. One man was shot, but the robbers didn’t get any of the money and had to run for it. Was that your boys that tried to pull that one?”
“No,” Mace lied. “If it’d been me and my boys, we’da never left without the money.”
“Let’s talk some more about that herd of cattle roamin’ around without nobody to watch ’em,” Booker said. “You reckon that feller you was talkin’ about has his eye on takin’ them cattle?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mace replied. “I thought about goin’ back for ’em myself, but I needed a crew to help drive ’em.”
“Well, you found one,” Booker said. “Whaddaya say, boys?” With a unanimous response from his partners, he turned to Mace and said, “The first thing we’ll do is take care of that troublesome son of a bitch.” He stuck his hand out to Mace. “Whaddaya say, Mace? Are we in business?”
“Hell, yes,” Cantrell replied without hesitation. “Suits me.” He thought about the fearsome figure of the man who had destroyed his partners and run him out of town. It would be a different story this time when he paid Paradise a return visit. The ragtag collection of misfits he had ridden into Paradise with before were no match for hardened killers like Booker Johnson, Stump Wyatt, and One Eye. He didn’t know about the other one, Jimmy Peterson, but if he was half the man the other three were, he’d do just fine. Already he could feel the fire of siege racing through his veins. It would indeed be like the old days, when they terrified the settlements in Missouri and Kansas. The more he thought about it, the more he placed the blame for the failure of his attempt to take over the town of Paradise on the inequities of Bob, Lacey, Zeke, and Junior—even Doc did not give him the backup he needed. By God, he thought, it’ll be different this time.
“Whaddaya say we have us a drink to the new partnership,” Booker proposed. After every glass was filled, he broached a subject that he deemed necessary to discuss. “I reckon we need to set some things straight before we get started. I’ve been callin’ the shots for me and the boys up to now, and from what you say, you’ve had the say-so with your men—which you ain’t got no more.”
Mace grinned knowingly. He had expected some debate over the pecking order of the new alliance. “The last boss I had was Bloody Bill Anderson,” he said. “And I don’t reckon I’ll have another one after him. Since I’m the one who knows where the cattle are, I’d be within my rights to claim I’ll be the stud horse on this deal.” Noticing the squint that appeared in Booker’s eyes, he was quick to say, “But I figure ain’t nobody boss on this deal. Everybody has a say. All right?”
One Eye and Stump glanced over at Booker to see his reaction to the suggestion. A smile broke out on Booker’s face, indicating that he was going to permit this challenge to his role as leader. “I reckon,” he said.
It was settled, then, and they decided there was no point in delaying their departure from Three Forks. “We’ll hit the trail first thing in the mornin’,” Booker said. Then, with an eyebrow raised as he glanced over at Cantrell, he asked, “That all right with you, partner?” Mace nodded and Booker continued. “What was this feller’s name that came after you?”
“I don’t know,” Mace replied. “I never heard anybody call his name. All I know is he’s a big son of a bitch and he don’t seem to back down.”
“Good,” Stump said. “We oughta have no trouble findin’ him, then.”
They settled up with Briny, and Mace followed his new partners to their camp on the Jefferson River. They planned to get an early start north in the morning, but there was still a lot of talk before turning in for the night, mostly reliving tales of their time together in the war. Having shared none of these experiences with his older companions, Jimmy Peterson was relegated to the role of audience. In the minds of the four, the events they recalled were for a noble and glorious cause, fighting for the Confederacy. The raids on unsuspecting hamlets and isolated farms, the killing of countless civilians, were all in the name of justice, and their battles were every bit as honorable as those waged by the regular armies of the South. The fact that they were considered criminals for their actions was regarded as an act of injustice, their chosen careers as outlaws notwithstanding. “We oughta been heroes,” Stump complained. “It ain’t our fault we had to take what we needed.”
Chapter 10
Still going on gut feelings, Jason followed the Jefferson River, bypassing a small settlement without so much as a cursory stop at the general store there. He knew where Cantrell most likely would have headed if he came through Three Forks—where all outlaws went—if Briny Bowen was still alive. Since he had no real trail to follow and was just riding a hunch, he fully realized that Three Forks might be a dead end if he hadn’t figured Cantrell correctly. He hated the thought of the murdering thief getting away, but if he had guessed wrong, he had no other idea where to look for him. He paused to consider what he would do if things turned out that way. Back to Paradise, I reckon, he thought. At least he had made a start there. He was reluctant to admit it, but he also had a certain interest in seeing if Roseanna was all right. Just curious, he told himself.
It had been a while, but the shabby trading post was still there
, with its backside up against a cliff. He guided Biscuit toward the hitching rail in front of the building and stepped down from the saddle, pulling his rifle from the scabbard. A quick glance around the small clearing indicated that he might be the sole customer. There were a couple of horses in a corral adjacent to a weathered barn, but there was no sign of any person and no sound save that of the buzzing of flies around a scattering of horse droppings that looked fresh. Jason propped his rifle on his shoulder and stepped inside the door.
He stood just inside for a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior of the room. At first he thought there was no one there, but then he saw the figure sitting in a chair near the stove. Propped against the wall, the chair was sitting on its two back legs, the occupant sound asleep. Jason moved across the room and stood before the sleeping man. It had been about three years since he had seen Briny Bowen. In that three years, it appeared the cantankerous old man had aged about ten. Suddenly aware of a presence, Briny opened his eyes.
“Hello, Briny,” Jason said.
Briny blinked the sleep from his eyes with no show of surprise. He gazed up at the imposing man before him and at once recalled. “Jason Storm,” he muttered. “I mighta knowed.”
“How ya doin’, Briny?”
“What the hell are you doin’ this far outta your territory, Storm? I heard you turned in your badge a while back.”
“That’s a fact,” Jason replied. “I’m just lookin’ for a friend of mine. Thought he mighta come your way, maybe a day or two ago.”
“A friend of yours, huh? Well, you’ve wasted your time.” Briny snorted. “There ain’t been nobody around here but a few of my regulars. I ain’t seen nobody new, and I damn sure ain’t seen no friend of yours.”
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