“One is enough,” Matt replied.
He did not linger in the Blackfoot village any longer than necessary. On the third day, he felt that his left arm was strong enough to support his rifle, so he announced his intention to leave. The following morning he thanked those who had cared for him, and saddled up, ready to ride. Little Hawk and Black Fox, along with a party of a dozen warriors insisted upon accompanying him. “They may not have gone to Virginia City,” Little Hawk explained. “White men are pushing farther north, looking for the yellow dirt your people worship. If the men you seek have gone into the mountains, you will need good scouts to help you find them.” So, on a chilly, cloudy morning, Matt set out once again to find Zeb Benson’s killers, accompanied by fourteen Blackfoot warriors leading extra horses to recover their dead.
Retracing their earlier journey, the scouting party returned to pick up the trail where Black Fox had been ambushed. There they found the bodies of their slain brothers in a pile just under the bank of the river, easily located by the gathering of buzzards that had already discovered them. Yelling and firing their weapons, the warriors scattered the squawking, protesting dinner guests, and loaded the bodies on the extra horses. Sending four of the party back with the dead, Black Fox led the rest of the scouting party after P. D. and her two sons.
The trail was easy enough to follow. There had been no effort to cover their tracks. It held close to the Yellowstone until reaching the point where the Yellowstone took a turn to the south. It was still too early to determine if the three they followed were heading for Virginia City. From that point, Alder Gulch and the mining towns of Virginia City and Nevada City were on the far side of the mountains to the south-east. But the trail they followed continued on west-ward. It was not until reaching the Madison River that their prey turned south on a well-used trail that led to Virginia City. From this point the Blackfoot warriors knew it was unwise for them to continue.
Little Hawk and Black Fox pulled their ponies up on either side of Matt, and sat silently gazing toward the south. They were obviously reluctant to give up the chase, but both knew they could not ride into the white man’s town of thousands of people. “We will say good-bye here,” Little Hawk finally spoke. “I hope that the Great Spirit will guide your eyes.” Matt nodded in reply and nudged the paint forward. The two Blackfoot warriors watched him depart. Then, a long way from home, they wheeled their ponies and loped away.
* * *
Passing the outermost buildings of Virginia City, his mind was churning with confusing and often conflicting thoughts about the men he sought. They had come a long way to capture him, if indeed they had started from Virginia. It had cost them the lives of two of their number—one cut down near his corral, and the one he had seen disappear over the edge of a cliff. And yet the trail he followed was that of three men. Where had the other man come from? Even with two dead, it still didn’t make sense to him that they would give up on their mission and turn tail. He thought then of the angry little man who had exchanged shots with him on the mountainside before sliding over the cliff to his death. He wondered if that was the reason the others had given up and headed back to civilization. Maybe the stout little man was the boss, and the others didn’t have the stomach to come after him again. There were questions, but Matt did not expect to find the answers, as his intention was to shoot on sight as soon as he was sure of his target.
Walking his horse slowly along Wallace Street, the main street that ran up Daylight Gulch, Matt shifted his gaze from side to side as he passed the shops and houses. His first impression of the town was that it might be a little more difficult to find the men he searched for than he had anticipated. Having never been to Virginia City before this day, he had expected a much smaller town. To his dismay, there were hundreds of houses and stores, located on several streets. There appeared to be no shortage of saloons and bawdy houses with the customary loafers lolling on the board sidewalks out front. There was a lot more bustle than he had a taste for, though many of the town’s residents had left the town back in the summer of ’64 after hearing news of a gold strike in Last Chance Gulch in Helena. In spite of that, Virginia City was still too crowded by Matt’s standards. He decided the first place to start his search was the livery stable.
* * *
Clyde Newton looked up from the saddle he was polishing when a shadow fell across the potbellied stove before him. With the lantern hanging on the side of a stall behind his visitor, Clyde was unable to make out the man’s features. Seeing that the owner of the stable was squinting hard in an effort to identify him, the stranger stepped away from the lantern. Able to see him clearly now, Clyde was a little surprised. A real wild-and-woolly one, he thought as he took a quiet inventory of Matt’s buckskin clothes and moccasins, the rifle in his hand, and the bow he carried on his back. He also noticed the tail of a bandage protruding from under his hat. I ain’t seen one of the real wild ones in quite a spell, he thought. He placed the can of saddle soap on the dirt floor, folded his polishing cloth, and placed it on top of the open can. “Evenin’, mister,” he said. “What can I do for ya?”
“I’m lookin’ for three men that mighta rode in durin’ this past week. They rode in from north of here—thought maybe they mighta put their horses up in your stable.”
Clyde didn’t answer right away, but continued to assess the tall young man. After several moments of silence, during which Matt obviously lost his patience and shifted his Henry rifle from his right hand to cradle it before him, Clyde spoke. “That ain’t a helluva lot to go on, young feller. I’ve seed one or two strangers all week—don’t recollect seein’ three come in together.”
“Is this the only stable in town?”
“No, there’s others,” Clyde replied. “You can check with them. They’re easy enough to find.” He continued to study the sober young man standing uneasily in the confines of the crowded stable. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what do these fellers look like? Are they prospectors? Maybe I’ve seed somebody new in the saloon or the blacksmith’s, or somewhere else.”
It was difficult to explain to the stable owner that he didn’t really know for certain if he could identify the three men, even if he bumped into them. He was counting on finding the three together. As far as describing them, the only thing he had to go on was the description of the young one he had killed between his cabin and corral, and the short stocky one he saw go over the cliff. He figured the other three would probably be similarly attired. “Well, they ain’t hardly prospectors,” he answered. “I expect the only tools they’d be carrying are rifles and pistols.”
Clyde thought about that for a moment. This didn’t strike him as a reunion of family or friends. It might even be worthwhile to alert the deputy marshal that there might be some troublemakers in town. At the moment, however, he deemed it prudent to remain cordial with the steel-eyed young mountain man before him. “Sounds like you might wanna look in the saloon for your friends,” he suggested. “Might try the Bale of Hay. That’s where a lot of folks go.”
“Much obliged,” Matt replied, and turned to leave.
“Not a’tall,” Clyde returned. He walked to the end of the stable and watched as Matt rode up the muddy street. Then he crossed the street and walked down to the deputy marshal’s office. Virginia City had seen its share of outlaws and killers, and Clyde remembered that it was not that long ago when the only defense the town had was an active vigilante committee. At least now there was a deputy marshal, since Virginia City had become the territorial capital. As he walked in the door of the marshal’s office, he congratulated himself upon being smart enough to send Matt someplace where the marshal could find him right away.
* * *
Matt didn’t have much money to spare, but he decided he could spend a little for one drink to kindle a spark of fire in his veins. It had been a chilly ride for most of the afternoon, and a shot of something strong might serve to burn the cobwebs from his heart. “Pour you another?” the bartender asked, holding the bottle
to hover over his glass. Like the man who owned the stable, the bartender had looked Matt over with an appraising eye.
“Reckon not,” Matt replied, placing his palm over the empty glass. “One’ll do.” He had turned away to search the faces of the patrons seated around the tables when he heard a voice at his elbow.
“Have another, friend. Ed, put another one on my bill for the stranger.”
Matt turned to see who his benefactor might be. The most obvious thing that met his eye was the badge pinned to his black lapel. His initial reaction was a sudden tensing of his muscles, a reaction that was not evident to the marshal. In fact, Matt himself might not have noticed it had it not caused a pain to shoot through his shoulder. It was enough to remind him to find a doctor to take a look at his shoulder. The wound seemed to be healing, but Matt felt it wise to check on the Blackfoot medicine man’s work. Looking the lawman straight in the eye, he said, “That’s awfully neighborly of you, Sheriff. Does every new face in town get a free drink?”
The marshal grinned. “It’s Marshal,” he corrected. “Tate’s the name. I’m the law around here. And, no, ever’body don’t get a free drink—just the ones that come outta the mountains lookin’ like an Injun.”
Matt returned the marshal’s smile. “Well, then, I guess I’d better take it.” He slid his glass toward the bartender. When it was filled, he tossed it back and replaced the shot glass solidly on the counter. “Now, Marshal, what is it you really wanna know?”
Tate’s smile froze on an otherwise frowning face. “It ain’t so much what I wanna know. It’s more a matter of what you need to know. I don’t know what you mighta heard, but Virginia City ain’t the lawless town it used to be. We got solid folks livin’ and workin’ here now, and I aim to keep it peaceful. Now, I don’t know who you might be lookin’ for, or for what reason, but it damn-sure better be peaceful. Am I makin’ myself clear enough?”
“Yeah, I reckon you are,” Matt replied. “I shoulda checked to see if it was against the law to be wearin’ buckskins.”
“Now, it ain’t gonna do you no good a’tall to smart off at me, young feller. I know you come into my town lookin’ for three fellers, and I expect you’d best tell me what you’re aimin’ to do when you find ’em.”
“I expect that’s my business,” Matt retorted. His patience was rapidly evaporating with the marshal’s manner. He had broken no laws, and he found it exasperating that he was being subjected to harassment when three wanton murderers were probably not even noticed when they had hit town.
“Now, you see,” Tate shot back, “there’s that smart-mouth attitude I’m talkin’ about. I’ve a good mind to lock you up for a while till you learn some respect for the law.”
Matt was suddenly astonished, finding it incredible that he was involved in this conversation in the first place. Marshal Tate had evidently already labeled him a troublemaker, and he was in no mood to continue bantering with him. He thought about Molly, frail and frightened, running for her life from the band of bounty hunters that had invaded his valley. He thought about Zeb Benson and Singing Woman, and the twilight years they might have shared together, years now that would never be. In his mind, there could be no greater wrong than permitting these wanton murderers to go free. He made up his mind that no one was going to prevent him from ensuring that justice was done. He simply had no time for posturing lawmen.
He calmly picked his rifle up from where it had been propped against the bar. Then, with his eyes locked on Tate’s, he reached in his pocket, pulled out a couple of coins and tossed them on the counter. “That’s for the drink. I haven’t broken any laws, and I haven’t threatened any of your citizens. I didn’t come here to cause innocent folks any trouble, but I aim to do what I came here to do, and that don’t include spendin’ any time in your jail.” He glared into the marshal’s eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”
As soon as he said it, those few who stood closest to him and Tate backed away, anticipating an explosion about to occur. Tate’s eyes flashed with anger, obviously accustomed to greater respect for his badge. He had been issued a direct challenge to his authority. It had been laid out for him in pure and simple terms by this sandy-haired cougar standing resolutely before him. And now it was up to him to respond. He was at once painfully aware of the eyes upon him from everyone in the room. He dared not show any weakness of backbone before the many witnesses to his actions at this moment. Yet the cold, clear, blue eyes that penetrated his gaze gave evidence of a certain truth. They were the eyes of a hunter, a man who had killed before. And Tate knew in that timeless moment that he would not hesitate to kill again, given no other choice. As if the earth had halted for a moment, the barroom was suspended motionless, as quiet as a tomb. The stillness pounded with a steady heartbeat in the marshal’s temples. It was his move. Grimacing his lips tightly against his teeth, he made the decision that saved his life.
“Why, hell, young feller,” Tate blurted nervously. “I was just japin’ you a little bit. I didn’t figure you’d take it to heart.” Sensing the silent judgment of the barroom patrons, he made a feeble attempt to exhibit some backbone. “It would be smart to keep in mind that we aim to keep the peace in this town, and it’s my job to see that we do.”
Relieved, although with no change of expression, Matt realized that the marshal was backing down, and his last remark was a desperate show of bravado for the sake of his reputation. He was willing to allow the marshal that consideration. He had no wish to destroy Tate’s standing in his community. “I’ll try not to cause you any trouble,” he said in a quiet but clear voice. “I’ll be on my way now.” He walked out the door.
No one moved for a full minute after the tall stranger disappeared through the doorway. Not until the swinging doors returned to their resting position, standing still once again, did anyone speak. And then the room filled with conversation. One, who had been seated at a corner table in the back of the room, rose to his feet. A big man, he, too, was a stranger in town, and the incident just witnessed seemed to have impacted on him more than any of the other patrons. He moved quickly to the door and pushed through to the board sidewalk, looking anxiously up and down the muddy street. In the gathering darkness of the early evening, he just managed to catch sight of a rider as he disappeared into the night. Slaughter! the big man thought.
* * *
“Arlo! Damn your hide. What’s the matter with you, bustin’ in here like that? Don’t you know enough to knock before you come bustin’ in a lady’s room?” P. D. quickly pulled her shirt over her to cover her exposed shoulder. Bare from the waist up, she had been in the process of changing the bandage on her wound.
“Slaughter!” Arlo exclaimed, ignoring his mother’s nakedness as well as her scolding. “He’s here! I seen him!”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about? Slaughter? Here? How do you know it was Slaughter?”
“Oh, it was him all right,” Arlo gloated confidently. “Tall feller, wearin’ animal hides like an Injun, totin’ a Henry rifle. It was him. He come into town lookin’ for three men. The marshal tried to stand up to him and he backed the marshal down, right down in front of ever’body.”
P. D. was momentarily stunned, finding Arlo’s report hard to believe. The man she was determined to hunt down had actually come after her? The thought of such a thing quickly triggered her anger. Nobody came after P. D. Wildmoon. She was the hunter, not the hunted. You were lucky the first time we met, she thought, thinking things would have been different had her foot not slipped on the loose shale of that mountainside. Next time you won’t be so lucky.
After giving it a few moments additional thought, it began to dawn on her that this news might be more than she could have hoped for. She slipped into her shirt and slowly buttoned it while she thought about the possibility of such good fortune. Only she and Wiley had come face-to-face with Slaughter, and upon second thought, she had to say that poor, dead Wiley had no more than a glimpse of him when he entered the cabin. Arlo and Bo ha
d only seen the man called Slaughter for a brief few seconds, when he said his name was Johnson, and that was at a fair distance. “Did you hear anybody call his name?” she asked.
“No, but it was him, Ma,” Arlo insisted.
“You say he come lookin’ for three men? How do you know that?”
“That’s what the marshal said.”
She felt a gradual tensing of the muscles in her whole body as she began to feel what Arlo said was a real possibility. Well, she thought, he’s come to his own funeral. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” Arlo admitted. “He rode off toward Nevada City, but it was gettin’ dark, so I couldn’t see real good. Anyway, I came back to tell you.”
P. D. paused to consider that. Nevada City was only about a mile and a half up the gulch. Maybe he was going to look for a place to stay up that way. Her shirt tucked in, she tested her shoulder, picking up her rifle and sighting on the washbasin several times. Satisfied that the wound would no longer hinder her, she put the rifle down. “Where’s Bo?”
“I don’t know,” Arlo said. “He was in the saloon with me for a while, but he left to find him a whore-house a half hour or so before Slaughter came in.”
“I told you two to keep an eye on each other,” P. D. scolded, but with no real conviction. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of revenge, and the picture of Wiley lying dead on the ground. “Go find Bo. We’re gonna take a look around town.”
* * *
A search of every saloon and hotel in Virginia City and Nevada City turned up no trace of the man P. D. so passionately wished to kill. With no choice but to give up the search for the night, she was worried that Slaughter might have moved on. Her common sense told her that it was unlikely, and her instincts told her that he was still near. “He’s gotta show up somewhere,” she assured her sons, “and when he does, he’s a dead man. I ain’t aimin’ to take nothin’ but his head back to Virginia for the reward.”
Vengeance Moon Page 19