by H. V. Elkin
“Hobson, Hedge was in Yellowstone when I was up there tryin’ to do my job. I almost didn’t get that bear because of Hedge.”
“I’m sure Hedge wouldn’t interfere with an operation that might benefit him.”
“He started a buffalo stampede that scared the bear away from my traps.”
“Then what are you proposing? That we cut Hedge out of this deal? That might be arranged.”
“I’m proposin’ that you cut me in on the rest of it. Hedge brought some buffalo heads out of Yellowstone, and I want a share of those.”
“Well, Mr. Cutler, I think we understand each other. I think we do. I’d be a bit more certain about it, however, if what you’re telling me now coincided with what I’ve learned about you.”
“You’re doin’ the talkin’ right now, Hobson.”
“The hide of a rogue grizzly is one thing, but buffalo heads removed from a national park, that’s quite another. I’m not saying I have them, mind you. But if I did, it’s difficult to believe a man like John Cutler would want any proprietary interest in them. After all, John Cutler was once a federal marshal and is known to have retained an abiding respect for the law. Your attitudes toward conservation are quite well known, too. It’s difficult to make all the pieces add up, you see.”
“Seems to me the Daltons once wore badges.”
“That’s true, but . . .”
“All right, Hobson, let’s have a look at those heads.”
“But I’ve been ...” Hobson broke off suddenly when he realized that Cutler had his gun out of its holster. There had not been the slightest indication in Cutler’s eyes that he was drawing. The gun was just suddenly there and pointed.
“Oh, come now, there’s no need ...”
“No more talk,” Cutler said. “I don’t have the taste for it. And I don’t draw in a bluff. Maybe you’ve heard that about me, too.”
“I’m not armed.”
“I am.”
“They’re in the back room, right through that door.” Hobson did not seem worried.
“Get them.”
“They’re very heavy.”
Cutler thumbed the hammer back. Hobson became noticeably pale. He opened his mouth, but Cutler cut him off before he could say anything.
“Don’t say a word, Hobson. Not one word, or you’re dead.”
Hobson could see that Cutler meant it. His lips began to tremble. Cutler gestured with his gun toward the door. Hobson went to it, put a shaky hand on the knob, turned, and swung the door open. As he did so, he dove to the floor, but he was not fast enough. In the darkness of the room, there was the flash of a gun and the reverberating sound of its thunder. Hobson stumbled and fell backward, blood turning his white shirt red.
Before Hobson hit the ground, Cutler fired over him into the place where the flash had been. Another shot came from the room, but it went wild. The bullet whizzed over Cutler’s head and broke the glass on one of the framed testimonials in the front room.
A voice from inside said, “You got me. Don’t shoot.”
“Throw it out!”
A six-gun came sailing through the air, bounced off Hobson’s body, and hit the floor with a clatter.
Cutler waited a moment, first making certain that Hobson was dead. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the next room. A body on the floor came into focus. The room had the smell of decaying flesh coming from the buffalo heads lying on a table.
Near the table lay the second cowboy Cutler had seen in the Cheyenne Club. He was bleeding near the heart but was alive.
“I need a doctor,” he said.
“Where’s your partner?”
“What partner?”
“You want me to stand here makin’ conversation while your blood runs out? Where’s the man called Ben?”
“He went to get Hedge. Please, I need a doctor.”
Cutler went to the front door of the shop and brought Red inside. He took the dog to the bleeding cowboy. “Red! Guard!”
The cowboy saw the dog’s sharp teeth. “Don’t leave me here with that dog!”
“You ain’t the foreman now; cowboy. Make one move to get away, and this dog’ll go for your throat. Lie easy, if you know what’s good for you.”
Cutler went back to the door and looked out at the street. It had started to snow heavily. No one was visible, although the snow limited the distance he could see. Chances were, the gunfire had cleared the street, which cut down the risks. Cutler was sure, somewhere out there beyond the white curtain of snow, two cowboys were waiting for him—the one called Ben and Hedge Bannister. If there was enough distance between Cutler and those two guns, the snow would give him cover. If these two cowboys were close, Cutler would stand out like a clear target against the snow. Any form emerging from the taxidermy shop would be assumed to be Cutler.
He looked back toward the wounded cowboy. Human bait? The cowboy could probably be made to stumble out onto the street, the same way Hob-son had been made to open the door to the back room. Maybe the same thing that happened to Hobson would happen to the cowboy. It seemed fitting. Some kind of justice, as Bill might have said.
There would also be justice in using Hobson’s carcass for whatever it was worth. Cutler picked up the body from behind, put his hat on the balding head, held it up by the back of the coat collar, and propped it up against the door frame. Two rifle shots rang out from the right, and the body twitched. Cutler let if fall and waited a moment.
He heard the jingle of spurs on the boardwalk, at first muffled by the snow, then sounding clearing as they neared. They came within six feet of the body and stopped.
“Damn!” It was Bannister’s voice and the spurs began to back away.
Cutler pivoted in a crouch through the doorframe. “Hold it, Bannister!” But Bannister had moved fast and was on the edge of visibility. It looked as if he had ducked behind a barrel outside the general store. Cutler backed into the protection of the snow, then circled to the left to bring himself in line with where Bannister should be.
He heard hoof beats coming from the other end of the street. A rifle shot rang out from behind and above him. It must be Ben, he thought, on a nearby roof. Then a shot came from Bannister. Cutler was caught in crossfire. He dropped to the ground and heard the hoof beats coming closer at a fast clip.
Another shot came from nearer the ground behind him. A yell was emitted from the roof, and then the thud of a body hitting the road was heard.
The hoof beats came right up to Cutler. It was Bill. He swung down from the mule, Emma, holding a rifle. “You dead?”
“Not yet.” Cutler motioned for Bill to be quiet. “Bannister’s over there somewhere.”
Bannister voice sounded. “Ben?” A pause, and then the sounds of spurs running down the street. The spurs left the ground. Next, they heard a horse galloping out of town.
Cutler looked at Bill, who was grinning. “The odds are a little better now,” Bill said. “Let’s go after him.”
“You don’t listen very good, do you?”
“Sure, I listen good. But sometimes I forget what I hear.”
“Well, listen good this time, and remember. If the cowboy you shot ain’t dead, make sure he’s not armed. There’s another one wounded in the taxidermy with Red guardin’ him. If either one of ’em’s alive, get a doctor, because somebody should be left alive to talk. Then get the sheriff.”
“You think Red’ll take orders from me? If he won’t, no doctor can get near your wounded cowboy.”
“Maybe not. Say ‘Red! Back!’ and say it like you meant it. If he does what you say, that’s good for you. If he doesn’t, it’s bad for the cowboy. I’m gonna have to gamble on that. Now, did you hear me?”
“Yes, boss.”
“See that you remember this time!”
He left Bill in a cloud of snow and ran toward the spot where Apache was waiting. Cutler mounted up and went off after Bannister.
The fresh tracks were easy to see in the falling snow, but they could not be seen very far a
head. Apache was running at full speed. If the horse’s instincts were dulled by the blinding whiteness and there was any obstruction ahead, Cutler would not be able to see it in time to avoid it. Apache had never let him down before, so Cutler had to trust that the horse would prove its mettle once more. Apache could outrun any other horse Cutler knew of, except for a wild stallion. Apache should be able to catch Bannister’s horse, despite the lead Bannister had.
The trail went out of town to the west and eventually ran alongside the railroad tracks. Cutler could hear a train whistling behind him. He figured that Bannister had been in the territory long enough to know the train schedules and was hoping to hop this one. If he did, he might get away. Cutler had to keep Bannister moving faster than the train. He took his Krag from the saddle boot and shot straight ahead to let Bannister know he had no time to slow down for the train. On a hunch, Cutler crossed over to the south side of the tracks and slowed Apache’s pace until the chugging monster was almost beside him, its bright headlight lighting up the swirling snow. Then he quickened the pace to match the speed of the engine, which was moving more slowly than usual because of the snow. He allowed the sound of the engine to muffle Apache’s hoof beats.
After ten minutes at this pace, Bannister and his horse materialized through the whiteness, coming back to meet the train. Bannister had probably figured Cutler would still be following the tracks on the other side.
Cutler fired two rifle shots against the side of the engine. The bullets ricocheted, and Bannister veered to the south to disappear in the snow again.
Cutler put the Krag back in its saddle boot and took out his Colt. The rifle was useless at this range. The six-gun would do the job.
Bannister’s tracks curved left and right. On level land, he knew Cutler might get him with a lucky rifle shot by just aiming in the direction the tracks were going. Bannister was a lot smarter than Cutler had figured him for. But this strategy slowed him down, and Cutler soon had him in sight.
It was an easy shot. Cutler first shot over his head as a warning. Being no fool, Bannister pulled up. Cutler rode up beside him and stopped, the gun pointed at Bannister.
“Unbuckle your gun belt, Hedge, and hand it over.”
“Okay, Cutler. Don’t get nervous. Maybe we can work out a deal.”
“The deal is, hand over your gun belt.”
Bannister made his unfriendly grin and unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness. As he did it, he slid it around his hips. Suddenly he lashed with it like a whip at Cutler’s head. Cutler ducked, and Bannister slid off his horse to the other side, using the animal for a shield. Running along beside the horse, Bannister tried to move back into the cover of the snow. Cutler and Apache followed, keeping him in sight.
Bannister shot once and missed. Before Cutler could get off a shot, Bannister ducked under his horse and started running. He ran straight into a barbed-wire fence, turned, and fired again. The bullet whizzed by Cutler’s left ear. Cutler was beginning to think that taking the man alive was not the most important thing in the world after all.
“You can’t go anywhere now,” he said. “Throw down your gun, or you’re dead. That better than a term in prison?”
Bannister threw down his gun. It sank into the snow.
Cutler dismounted and walked up to him. As he neared the man, he kicked the gun farther away. He could see Bannister’s eyes now, and he knew the man had not really given up. Bannister kicked at Cutler’s groin, but Cutler sidestepped before the boot made contact, continuing the swerve with his fist until it landed on Bannister’s jaw. Stunned, Bannister leveled a punch at Cutler’s stomach, but the muscles there were tight, and he could not do any damage.
Cutler hit Bannister with another lightning blow to the jaw. The bones gave. As Bannister fell, Cutler brought an uppercut against the broken jaw. Bannister fell back on the barbed wire and hung there, motionless except for the swaying of the wire. He was dead to the world.
And Cutler was alive.
Chapter Twelve
Cutler sat in a corner of the Silver Dollar Saloon drinking bourbon. It tasted good. It tasted better than usual. Cutler felt good. He could not remember having felt this good in years. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the memory of Doreen would hit him hard again, and the hard drink would be needed to deaden the memory. It would not be long before the only other thing he would be able to think about was killing the grizzly that had killed her. For this brief moment, though, he felt good again. It was all the more precious because he knew it would not last.
Iris stood near the bar, leaving him alone, casting her proprietary look over the way business was booming. Her look changed when it fell on Cutler. She had no hopes of every owning the man and few hopes of ever sharing most of his life with him. There had been a moment over two months ago, before he had left for Yellowstone, when he had that strange look on his face and might have been vulnerable. That moment was gone now. Since Cutler was a man who learned from his experience, it was unlikely she would ever see one like it again.
Cutler smiled at her. She took it as an invitation to join him. She brought a glass with her, and he poured. They drank in silence for awhile.
“Will you be staying long?” she asked.
“Hard to say.”
She nodded. “Tonight anyway?”
He smiled at her. “Tonight for sure.”
“You know, John, it’s still hard for me to believe you’re sitting here.”
“It’s the best saloon in town. The people who run the others ain’t near as pretty as you.”
“No, I mean that feeling I had you weren’t ever coming back.”
“Well,” he poured them each another drink, “fact is, I had the same feelin’. But it’s gone now.”
“In a way, I think you did get killed.”
“Not in any way that I know about.”
“I mean, you’re a different man now. A changed man. The John Cutler who rode in here two months ago is dead, and there’s a new one, or the old one, in his place, the one I got to know best.”
He wondered if that was what it had all been about. Maybe a man went through a lot of different changes in a lifetime. Maybe one of them could make him think he was going to die, when only a part of him was going to die, something that had become useless. At the end of every trail, a man was different. It was one of the things that happened during the nothing; something old was gone, and something new had taken its place. It was food for thought on the next lonely trail but not worth discussing with a pretty lady in a saloon.
Cutler saw a tall cowboy enter the saloon. He paused by the door for a minute and brushed some snow off a new Stetson. He stood tall and proud with a pear-handled Colt on his hip. His eyes were clear and confident as he looked around the room. He was the kind of man other people looked at when he entered a room, the kind of man who commanded instant respect from anyone who was not a fool. It was Bill Taylor.
His spurs jingled as he passed the bar. He picked up an empty glass and sauntered over to Cutler’s table. “Howdy.”
“Nice suit of clothes, cowboy,” Cutler said. “You got any of that five hundred left?”
Bill grinned, hiding the hole in his teeth. “Not much, so I guess you’re buyin’.” He slid his glass over. “Got me a good horse, though.”
Cutler poured and slid the glass back. He knew now the business between them was not going to be as difficult as he had expected.
“Excuse me, boys,” Iris said, pretending she had business of her own, and left them.
“What’s next?” Taylor asked.
“Don’t have a job at the moment,” Cutler said and waited.
Bill drank his bourbon in one gulp, then helped himself to another. “I been wonderin’ if everything you told me before you socked me was a lie or not.”
“I didn’t want you gettin’ killed on my account.”
“I figured that out finally. But you said the partnership was over.”
“Want it to be?”
“Bill, I figure you’re ready now to ride it alone. You either go back to work the farm, or you ride it alone. If you pick the trail life, you got to have a hitch by yourself. It hardens a man in a way that he can’t get hardened in company.”
“No hard feelin’s?”
“No, ’course not. Then, if I ever need you again, you’ll be worth a whole lot more to me.”
“I think we’ll see each other again.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The trail life is mostly a lot of hellos and goodbyes. But you never know.”
Taylor nodded. “Anyway, I’ll try not to disappear too much. I’ll try to let Miss Shannon know where I am. You might need me when you meet your rogue grizzly, with the experience I got now.”
Cutler nodded. He did not say that catching the grizzly was, once again, something he would have to do alone.
“You figure we’re even now?” Taylor asked.
“No, Bill, I figure I owe you.”
“You paid me.”
“Not money I’m talkin’ about.”
“Oh.” Taylor waved him off. “To hell with that.” He downed his drink and stood up. “Fact is, I don’t think we’re even. Figure I owe you something.”
“Can’t see it that way myself, Bill.”
“No, sir, I owe you.”
“What in the hell do you owe me?”
“This!” Taylor sent a fast, hard fist at Cutler’s jaw, and Cutler toppled backward on his chair.
He felt his jaw, then looked up amazed at his former partner. Bill was staring hard at him.
Then they both began to laugh.
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