Pete Bender, owner of the Pay Dirt Saloon, paused in his efforts to clear the snow away from his front door to watch three riders plowing their way toward his establishment. Their horses, almost belly-deep in the snow, could make their way only by lunging, so that they appeared to be bobbing up and down in the sea of white. They must want a drink awful bad, Pete thought, when it was apparent they were not going to pass him by. It was early, but he knew these three wouldn’t be his only customers. When the weather hit the way it had over the last night and today, it was always good business for him. He always kept a good supply of firewood and his whiskey stores were more than ample. He might well be the only businessman—he and the other saloon operators—who welcomed the storm.
He shoveled the last of the snow from the board walkway, leaned his shovel against the wall beside the door, and stood waiting to greet his customers as they dismounted from the steaming horses. “Howdy, boys,” Pete said. “Come on inside and thaw out.” He stood aside and held the door while the three filed in. Looking again at the horses, emitting clouds of steam to rise in the cold air, he was prompted to say, “There’s a stable right up the street if you wanna get those horses under cover.”
“They’ll be all right where they are,” Bodine said, “but I need a drink of whiskey.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” Pete said, and hurried over behind the bar. If they weren’t concerned about their horses, then neither was he. He set three glasses on the bar and poured three shots.
“Leave the bottle,” Quincy said, and when Pete placed it on the bar, Quincy picked it up and carried it over to a table nearest the stove. Bodine and Billy followed and the three sat down to warm their outsides while the whiskey took care of the insides.
After a few minutes, Pete came over to pass the time of day with them. “Don’t recall seeing you fellows in here before. You new to the gulch?”
“Yep,” Quincy replied, “we thought we’d ride up here to see what all the fuss was about.”
“If you’re interested in the gold minin’,” Pete said, “there’s still some folks pullin’ pay dirt outta the ground. Some folks say the most of it is about done, but I think it’s the big mines that are complainin’. I know for a fact that some of my customers working small claims are still findin’ it, and in worthwhile yield.” When there was not much reaction from any of the three, he asked, “Are you fellows thinkin’ about strikin’ it rich?”
Quincy snorted, amused. “I doubt there’s a piece of this gulch that ain’t already been turned over two or three times. We’re more in the buyin’ and sellin’ business—horses, things like that. We just sold some horses to the army.” That was welcome news to Pete after seeing how fast the contents of the whiskey bottle were disappearing. “What we need right now is a good place to make camp.”
Pete slowly shook his head. “Well, if you’re talkin’ about someplace where there’s shelter, you can see for yourself that there ain’t much around that ain’t been took. But there are some shacks that folks have already left and gone on somewhere else. You might find one of them that would do till you find somethin’ better. And like I said, the stables are right at the end of the street to take care of your horses.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Quincy said. “We’ll look into it, and I expect we’d better do it right now if we don’t wanna sleep in the snow tonight.” He got nods from his two partners, and they all pushed back from the table. Quincy paid for the whiskey, saying to Pete, “I expect we’ll be back to see you.”
“Good,” Pete replied. “Glad to have you boys in town.”
“I’d like to take that stove with me,” Billy commented on his way out the door and into the cold again.
Outside, they took a few minutes to study the situation. The main street followed the gulch, and on both sides they could see buildings in various stages of construction. Looking away from the main street, up the slope, they could see dozens of small shacks like those mentioned by Pete Bender. They all looked vacant, even though almost all of them were not. Off by itself, however, there was a more substantial shack with smoke drifting out of a hole in the back. “That looks more like it,” Quincy said. “Let’s go tell the owner he’s movin’.”
“Hello the shack,” Quincy called out when they had made their way up the slope.
In a minute, a head poked out of a canvas flap that served as a door. Looking the three strangers over, the owner inquired, “What can I do for you fellers?”
They dismounted and Quincy said, “We’re from the sheriff’s office. We’ve come to serve your eviction notice.”
“Our what?” The question came from a voice inside the hut. “What the hell are they talkin’ about, Lige?”
The man with his head outside relayed the question. “What the hell are you fellers talkin’ about?”
“Your eviction notice,” Quincy answered impatiently. “How many more’s inside there?”
“Just my partner,” Lige answered.
“Well, we need to see you both out here so we can officially serve you both,” Quincy said, “and we ain’t got all day.”
Lige came outside, followed shortly by his partner, and the two of them stood staring, puzzling over the impromptu visit by the three strangers. “Mister,” he said, “I ain’t never heard of no eviction notice. You must be lookin’ for somebody else.”
“No,” Quincy said, “you’re the ones we’re lookin’ for. Bodine, show ’em the eviction notice.”
“Right,” Bodine replied enthusiastically. This was the part he enjoyed. He stepped up close to tower over Lige. “Here it is.” He brought his hand up quickly with his skinning knife in it. Lige shrieked in pain as the long blade plunged up to the hilt just beneath his breastbone. Lige’s partner tried to dive into the hut, but Billy threw an arm around his neck and jerked him backward to land in the snow, where he and Quincy quickly finished him with their knives.
With both men dead, Quincy stood up again and looked around him, scanning the hillside for any sign of anyone else about. “Nice and clean, nice and quiet,” he pronounced. “Let’s dig the boys a place in that snowbank yonder, and they’ll keep till we get a thaw.”
They carried the bodies to their crypt in the snowbank and filled it in again, then went back to the hut to inventory their new abode. “Them two fellers fixed theirselves a right cozy little hut,” Billy commented as he paused by the stove to warm his hands while Bodine dumped the contents of their knapsacks on the floor. The bags yielded very little that could be useful to them, but there was a generous supply of canned food and some dried apples stacked against one wall of the hut. Lige and his partner had laid in a good stack of firewood just outside the doorway, so the three outlaws were satisfied that they had everything they needed for their comfort. There was only one thing more that would have made their choice of shacks perfect, and Quincy was the first to mention it.
“Them two fellers must have some gold dust hid around here somewhere. It don’t make no sense that they were holed up in this hut for their health,” he said. “They had to be payin’ for all this stuff with somethin’ and I’m thinkin’ they must have struck it rich in the diggin’s.”
His observation was enough to cause his partners to join him in searching the entire hut from top to bottom, front to back, and side to side, looking for a stone to turn over, a loose board in the wall, any place where pouches of dust could be hidden. They were about to give up when Bodine tripped over a bucket filled with water, knocking it over. “Dammit, Bodine,” Quincy growled as he jumped backward to keep from getting his boots soaked.
“That bucket looked like it was plum up to the top,” Billy said, surprised to see there was not nearly that much water spilled over the floor. “I reckon I must be seein’ things.”
Quincy was quick to see the significance of the small amount of water. He immediately grabbed the bucket and began beating it against the wall. Thinking he had gone loco, Billy stepped back in case he started banging the buck
et against somebody’s head, but in a moment he saw the purpose of Quincy’s madness. The bucket’s false bottom finally gave way under Quincy’s assault and he pulled it up to reveal two equally weighted pouches. They had struck their pay dirt. Quincy held up the two identical pouches to the whooping and hollering of his partners. Eager to see how rich they were, they weighed their treasure on the balance they found among the tools along the back wall. “I thought that bucket was awful damn heavy when it was empty,” Quincy said. “I don’t know what the price of gold is, but there’s enough here to keep us in whiskey for a while.”
“I reckon we could afford to keep our horses at the stables,” Billy said, “now that we got a little to add to the money we got from the soldiers.”
“I expect we’d best keep our horses right here where we can get to ’em in a hurry. But if ever’thin’ goes right, I’d say we’re in a pretty good fix to wait out this weather,” Quincy said. “When it lets up a little, we can get around and see what else we can dig up.”
“This minin’ business pays off pretty damn good,” Billy commented. “Let’s get the horses took care of and go back to have a drink.”
For the next couple of days, they became regular customers of Pete Bender′s, drinking and playing cards. On the third day, the sun appeared again to light up the broad valley with glare as it was reflected off the snow, bringing the inhabitants of Last Chance Gulch out of their holes, as well as a traveler from the south.
The man known to the Indians as Rider Twelve Horses guided a weary buckskin horse toward the buildings of Helena. Although he was well-known by the Blackfeet as well as the Crows in the surrounding mountains—and some white men in the town—it was his first visit to the sprawling town of Helena. Approaching the town from the lower end of the gulch, he headed for the first stable he came to. After crunching through the snow leading into the stable, he dismounted onto the dry floor of the long wooden building. His legs cold and stiff from hours in the saddle, he tried to stomp some feeling into them as the attendant came from the tack room to greet him. “It’s right nippy out there, ain’t it?” Arthur Tice remarked.
“I reckon,” Rider replied as Tice took a moment to look the formidable stranger over. “I need to put my horse up for a day or two while I look around town. He could use some oats. There ain’t been much food for him to find the last few days.”
“I expect not,” Tice said. “Bad weather for traveling. You come a long way?”
“A piece,” Rider answered.
When it was obvious that the tall, broad-shouldered stranger was not going to elaborate, Arthur continued to talk. “My name’s Arthur Tice,” he said, and offered his hand, which Rider accepted silently. “I’m the owner of this establishment.”
Rider nodded in response, then turned to take his rifle from the saddle scabbard while Tice recited his prices for boarding and feed—and after another look at the wild figure his customer appeared to be—the extra fee if he chose to sleep in the stall with his horse. After the contract was agreed upon, Tice returned to his casual conversation. “You ain’t the only lost soul roaming around in the snow this week. Couple of days ago, three fellows came in from Bozeman City.”
Rider′s head immediately turned to face him. It was the closest thing to a reaction of any kind from the quiet stranger, enough to cause Tice to pause and ask, “Friends of yours?”
“Maybe,” Rider replied. “Are their horses here?”
“No, they didn’t board ’em here. I think they found themselves someplace to camp, and I reckon they’re keepin’ their horses there.”
“They say where they’re stayin’?” Rider asked.
“I didn’t talk to them,” Tice answered. “Pete Bender told me about them.” He was a little uncertain whether or not the information he was supplying might prove to be detrimental to the three men, and this stranger asking all the questions might or might not be a friend of theirs. “Somewhere up on the hill, I s’pose.”
Rider took a few moments to make sure the buckskin and his packhorse were all right. “Maybe I’ll bump into them somewhere around town.” He looked back at Tice then and asked, “Are there any saloons near here?”
“There’s five right here on this end of town,” Tice replied. He could have mentioned that Pete Bender owned the Pay Dirt, but he was already concerned that he might have volunteered too much information. And whatever business the stranger had with the other three was none of his.
“Much obliged,” Rider said, and turned to leave.
Standing to watch the stranger depart, Tice could not help thinking, There goes a heap of trouble for somebody.
Outside, Rider paused to look down the street where people were beginning to emerge and shop owners were shoveling their walkways. The main street was not yet churned into a black slushy thoroughfare, but he guessed it soon would be, for he saw the first freight wagon crawling up the middle of the road, its sixteen-mule team plowing through the new-fallen snow. It was not difficult to identify the saloons, even swamped in snow, so he wasted no time in visiting each one. They all seemed to be doing a spirited business for that time of day. One by one, he looked over the crowded rooms, filled with men waiting for the weather. They were so crowded, in fact, that he was not able to clearly see all who were seated at the tables, owing to others standing around them, so he would approach the bar and ask if they knew a man named Bodine. With no luck in the beginning, he approached the last one.
Pete Bender, owner and bartender of the Pay Dirt Saloon, looked up from the bar to see why the light through the open doorway had suddenly dimmed. The entrance to his rustic drinking parlor boasted a door only three feet wide, and the shoulders on the man standing there nearly touched both sides of the frame as he surveyed the smoke-filled, dimly lit room. Ducking his head slightly, he stepped into the saloon, a panther on the hunt. Pete knew him instantly, although he had never seen the man before. From the broad buckskin-covered shoulders to the trim waist, to the beaded knee-length moccasins, he could only be one man. He was known by the one name, Rider. No one knew if it was a first or last name. And because no one had ever seen him in the settlement, some believed he was just a myth made up by the Indians. But John Red Feather had told Pete that the Blackfeet knew him and had seen him on occasion when hunting deep in the Bitterroots or Cabinet Mountains. They said he had a camp somewhere in the Big Belt Range as well, but nobody had ever found it. Red Feather claimed that he was known by Blackfeet and Crow, even though they were enemies. Whether or not he could be claimed as a friend of either tribe was not certain, but he was left alone by both tribes just as the grizzlies and the mountain lions were left alone.
The deafening noise of the crowded barroom went silent like a great wave rolling from the front of the room to the back as those nearest the door turned to see him, until there was no sound save that of a chair scraping on the floor as someone pushed back to see what had silenced every tongue. A path was instantly cleared for him when he walked toward the bar to confront the suddenly speechless bartender. One word was all he said. “Bodine.” Without hesitation, Pete turned and pointed to a big man seated at a table in the corner, relieved that it was not his name this messenger of death had called out.
Bodine, having heard his name in the silent barroom, instinctively reached under the table and pulled his revolver from his holster when he recognized the tall scout. When Rider approached him, he brought the pistol up, aimed and cocked, ready to shoot. Ignoring the weapon threatening him, Rider walked up to stand over the table. With only the shifting of his eyes, he glanced quickly from side to side, looking for Quincy and Billy, as Bodine’s drinking companions moved away from the table, but Quincy and Billy were not there. Obviously having the upper hand with his pistol already drawn and aimed, Bodine grinned. “Well, look who’s here. What the hell do you want?”
“Johnny Hawk says hello,” Rider pronounced, his voice low and lethal. The events that followed in the next split second came faster than Bodine could bli
nk his eye, and held the crowd of spectators paralyzed. Rider grabbed the edge of the table and turned it upside down on Bodine, sending him and his chair crashing to the floor. By the time he pulled the trigger, his pistol was aimed straight up at the ceiling. Before he could pull it again, his wrist was pinned against the floor by Rider’s foot. Desperate to free his gun hand, he clawed at Rider′s leg with his other hand. His eyes wild with fright, he looked into the cold dark eyes of his executioner for a brief moment before he suddenly grunted with the impact of the long skinning knife as it was thrust deep into his abdomen. Their eyes remained locked until gradually Bodine’s gaze began to fade as death came to claim him.
Not a soul stirred as the big man withdrew his knife from Bodine’s body. In the next moment, the crowd was frozen in horror as Rider took Bodine’s scalp. His bloody execution completed, he carefully wiped the blood from his knife on Bodine’s coat. He turned then to survey the crowd of horrified bystanders, searching again for Billy Hyde and Quincy. They were not in the room. His business finished there, he walked out the door, leaving Pete Bender′s patrons to recover from their shock.
It was no more than forty-five minutes after the incident in the saloon when Billy and Quincy returned to the Pay Dirt to join Bodine. As soon as they walked in the door, Pete Bender ran to meet them and told them what had happened there. “Big wild-lookin’ feller,” Pete exclaimed, his voice higher in his excitement. “He walked right up to your friend and killed him with a knife, and then he scalped him, just like an Injun.”
“Rider!” Billy said as he instinctively looked around him cautiously. “Couldn’t be nobody else. He musta got the jump on poor ol’ Bodine.”
“That’s who I figured it was. Your friend had a gun on him,” Pete insisted, “but he walked right up to face him and turned your friend upside down before he knew whether his ass was up or down.” He turned then to gesture toward a gruff-looking man in a heavy wool coat, holding a shotgun in one hand. “Sheriff Tate, there, just got here. He’ll be lookin’ for the killer, and he said he wanted to talk to you fellers.”
Ride the High Range Page 18