Buzzard Bait

by Jory Sherman

  Matt came and stood beside the bunk. He looked down at the girl. He had never really looked at her before. She had a beauty about her that he had failed to notice. Her features were not as blunt as her brother's; there was a delicacy to her facial bones that spoke of fine china, lace. He wanted to touch her face, to wipe away the perspiration, open her eyes. He shrugged off the feeling and moved away. He looked at Tex, then at Stamps, appraising them, working something over in his mind. Behind him, he thought he could hear Ted stifle a sob. Matt cleared his throat.

  "How about you, kid, you all right?" Matt's eyes bored into Stamps'.

  "Uh, yessir, mister, I guess so."

  "Tex?"

  "Empty as a houndog's belly, Matt, rarin' to get after them rustlin' bastids."

  Matt walked over to Stamps. He towered above the skinny youth.

  "You know how to use that piece of iron on your belt?"

  "Yessir, shore do. Pretty well."

  "Well, we'll see." Matt turned to his partner. "Ted, I'm lightin' out. You and Tex stay here and take care of Addie. I'll take the kid with me."

  "You're leaving?" Ted asked, his mouth open.

  "Got a hunch, if I ride fast enough. Go into Virginia City, get some men, take on Roumal. I figure he's headin' thataway. He can't make it before I do."

  "But you just can't walk off and leave Addie. She may be dying, Matt."

  "There's nothing more I can do. She needs air to breathe and someone to make her sit up when she comes out of her sleep. Feed her some hot soup and plenty of water. I've seen smoke eaten before. Big trouble if she gets too weak.''

  "Dammit, Matt, you act like you don't give a damn!"

  A shadow crossed Matt's face.

  "There's something else, Ted," he said, his jaw muscles relaxing. "I held back when we came in because I wanted to check my back trail. We were followed here. Indians, I think. Talking Horse and a couple others."

  Ted let it sink in.

  "Talking Horse? I thought he was your friend."

  "Maybe. Indians aren't fussy about such. Stay close to the cave. Keep Addie inside. I'll get back to you soon as I can. Keep your powder dry and stick till I can bring some men."

  "But Addie . . ." Ted started to protest.

  "Can't be helped by me anymore'n she is. Stamps, you want to ride with me?"

  "Sure, mister. I'm ready." Stamps was confused by what was going on around him. He felt the tension among everyone in the cave. There was something positive about Matt Cord. He was the man in charge.

  "Tex, I'm countin' on you," Matt said.

  Tex nodded.

  "Ted, my friend, I'm not deserting you. There's nothing I can do here. We've lost our ranch house and our cattle are about to be sold out from under us. Some of the men out there killed my brother. There's some due bills comin' up for payment."

  Ted looked at his partner. He lowered his eyes, sheepishly.

  "I understand, Matt. I wish I were going with you."

  "We'll make out, Ted. So long. Kid, get yourself that rifle over there. It's loaded, just put a cap on it."

  In a daze, young Stamps went to the rifle that Matt had pointed out. It was a slender beautiful thing.

  "Tex, give him a pouch of shot and a horn of powder, a cap box."

  Tex handed the items to Stamps who stuffed the shot and caps in his pocket, after removing one, and slung the horn over his shoulder. He capped the rifle. It felt just right in his bony hands.

  Matt took a shotgun from the arms chest, checked it, capped it. He took along some extra ball for it.

  "So long, Matt," Ted said.

  "Be seein' ya," Tex drawled.

  And then the two were gone.

  Matt cautiously stepped away from the cave entrance. He looked back and saw no light. He was satisfied. Keeping low, he led the kid down to where the horses were wandering about. He checked his saddlebags quickly and mounted. Stamps climbed aboard his own horse. They rode off, passing the places where Cal and Les had fallen.

  "Are they dead?" Stamps asked, his voice choking with fear.

  "Yes, kid, they're dead."

  They crossed the river and rode hard on the Bozeman, heading for Virginia City. On the slopes above the smoldering ranch house, three figures sat astride horses.

  "We wait," said Talking Horse.

  His eyes burned black and fierce.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Matt knew he couldn't take on Roumal by himself. He had to ride hard and fast to Virginia City to find the men he needed to help him. He was sure he would find them. Alder Gulch was still swarming with miners. Some 6,000 people were caught up in the boom, many of them broke and idle, waiting for a new strike or a sudden opportunity. Many of the people remembered the hard winter of 1864-65, with snow blocking off the passes, some fifteen feet deep in places, a shortage of flour. Matt had watched the price go from $27 for a hundred-pound sack to $100 in a few days.

  Beef, wheat and potatoes were the items most needed. Beef was the most crucial food now. There were only a few cattle ranches, poor in stock. These were begun from oxen and cows that the immigrants used to pull their wagons westward. Matt was one of the men who had brought herds in from Texas to the Montana Territory. There was still not enough to go around and beef was up to 25 cents a pound for the better cuts. It could go even higher before the winter was over.

  Matt was counting on Roumal bedding the herd down for the night, then driving on into the Gulch tomorrow. That's why he was pushing his horse and Stamps'. His plan called for him to strike at night, take the herd into market himself. He knew he was facing impossible odds. He'd have to make quick decisions in Virginia City to get the men he needed. Some of them would not be of the caliber he wanted, but maybe they could provide enough firepower for him to execute his plan.

  He rode into Virginia City late, but there were still people about. Pflouts' store was open, all of the hurdy-gurdys were blazing with light. The town was choked with people even at this late hour. The miners worked hard and spent hard in the evenings. The main street was muddy with melted snow. The town had sprung up in 1863 and some of the people had wanted to name it "Varina" in honor of Mrs. Jefferson Davis. A Federal judge had refused to accept this Rebel name and changed it to Virginia City in his court records. Some ten million in gold had been harvested in the area since June of 1863 and they even had a newspaper, the Montana Post, which kept the gold fever high through its reports and rumors of strikes. Some said Virginia City would soon have 10,000 people and Matt believed it. If the gold held out.

  Matt pulled up in front of Pflouts' store. Most of the miners gathered there in the evenings to gossip, to talk of the past, the future, and listen to news from Bannack, the capitol. After graining their horses, Matt and Stamps walked inside and the room got still. Paris Pflouts, the owner, eased the tension.

  "Howdy, Matt, you bringing in a herd?"

  "Paris, gentlemen," Matt said quietly. "My herd is on its way, but Roumal's saving me the drive."

  "Rustled?"

  "Rustled. They burned the house, shot two men, Les and Cal."

  "Be damned," said Wil Sanders. Jim Williams, another friend, nodded to Matt. Pflouts, Sanders and Williams had organized the Vigilantes and cleared out Plummer's gang. Matt knew he'd come to the right place.

  "I need ten or a dozen good men with pistols and rifles," Matt told them. "We have to move fast. I'll pay ten dollars in gold to each man who rides with me."

  "Well, now," said Pflouts, "we could maybe round up some of our Vigilantes in the morning. I'm sure they could help out."

  "Not in the morning," said Matt. "Now."

  There were several coughs in the room. The men around the pot-bellied stove shuffled their feet nervously.

  A man stepped out. Then another. Two more drifted up from another corner of the store. Another got up from his chair. All wore pistols.

  "We'll ride with ye," said the first. "I be Bill Bobbitt."

  "Get your gear, Bobbitt. The rest of you." Matt looked t
hem over. Bobbitt was a stocky man from Colorado who knew the ways of the west. A good man. Besides him, Joe Bartlett, Todd Butterworth, Lonnie Graham and his brother Louis, all introduced themselves. Five men in all. "Meet me in front of the store here in three quarters of an hour. Much obliged, Paris. Jim, Wil."

  "Good luck, Matt," said Pflouts. "We need the beef."

  "You'll get' em."

  The talk rose up behind them as he and Stamps left the store.

  "Where're we goin' now, mister?" Stamps asked.

  "Call me Matt, kid. You got a first name?"

  "Frank. No one ever calls me that, though. Mostly 'kid.' "

  "Well, you're growed now. Frank's a man's name. We're going to a saloon or two. You can stay behind or come along. Just don't drink any of the rotgut they pour."

  "I don't have any money, anyways," Frank Stamps said, pouting, but glad to go along.

  Just then, a man named Jess Fultz walked up to the front of the store.

  "Howdy, Matt," he said. "You bring the rest of the herd in?"

  "Jess. Rest of what herd?"

  "Why, I just bought two hundred head of C Bar M stock less'n an hour ago. Heard there was a thousand more a-comin'."

  Matt jumped off the porch and strode up to Fultz.

  "Who'd you buy 'em from, Jess?"

  "Why, your hands, I reckon. Man named Carl, nursin' a bad leg, said he was gored."

  Matt spat an oath.

  "Where are they?" His voice was tight, low.

  "The cattle? Why, down to the yards. I'm just goin' to get some money from Paris to pay off. Give it to you, easy enough, I reckon."

  "Keep it till later. Where're you meeting this Carl?"

  "The Silver Queen. He and his hands are over there liquorin' up."

  "Jess, don't say anything about this. The cattle aren't for sale. Not that bunch, anyway. I'll explain later. I'll give you a couple hundred head out of my main herd. Keep shut about this until tomorrow night."

  "Damn, Matt, are those your cattle or ain't they?"

  "They're mine. Don't show up at the Queen."

  Matt stalked off down the muddy street, Stamps scuttling along behind him. Matt stopped.

  "No, kid, you wait here. I got some business."

  "A minute ago, I was Frank. Now I'm the kid again. Make up your mind, mister!"

  Matt looked at the defiant youth. Stamps' eyes flashed. Matt allowed himself a wry smile.

  "Come along, then, Frank. Just stay out of my way. I don't want you to get hurt."

  Matt went down the street with long strides and turned into the Silver Queen. A honkytonk piano burbled inside. There was laughter, the clink of glasses.

  Cautiously, Matt went up to the batwings. He looked up at the light, letting his eyes grow accustomed to their brightness. Then he stepped quickly inside, Stamps following. Matt's right hand hovered near the butt of his pistol as his eyes quickly scanned the room. The room was large with a bar at one end. A bartender was mixing drinks at one end of the bar, where it was divided by a railing running from side to side. The outer enclosure was packed with men in every variety of garb. Behind the barrier sat the dancing girls, the "hurdy-gurdys," who were dressed in uniforms, some of them. Others dressed more elegantly and probably charged more than a dollar for their attentions. On one side was a raised orchestra platform. The instruments were stacked there during a break. The girls were just waiting inside the barrier for the musicians to come back so they could be summoned with the phrase: "Take up your partners for the next dance."

  The din was overwhelming. No one seemed to pay any attention to Matt who had come in quietly. He moved along the wall toward the edge of the room, searching through the crowd for the sight of Carl Lathrop or his man. He circled so that he could come up to the bar from the uncrowded side. He passed through several tables. Gambling was wide-open in Virginia City as elsewhere in the territory. He saw games of dice and cards, even faro, but none of the outlawed games such as three-card monte, strap game, thimblerig, patent safe, black and red, or two-card-box faro. The dice game was "legally unfair" in Montana, as well, but the Silver Queen was evidently not one to deny its customers some illegality at chance. The dice game, they said, was "fair." Matt knew better. His eyes had learned to pick up the nimble switches from slender hands, the telltale distractions the dealers used so deftly.

  Matt knew these things, yet they were still alien to him. He was more adept in reading the signs in the forest, in walking through quiet woods and riding from sunrise to sunset. He had seen both worlds and civilization was the one he liked least. Yet, he was a civilized man. He had to be in order to survive. The day of the mountain man was over. The trapper had helped to ruin the Indian and now the trapper was gone, the first to be stamped under civilization's heel. The Indian was next. Yet, Matt wanted to keep part of himself free. The ranch represented that freedom to him. He could engage in commerce, but only at intervals. He had learned these ways of civilization as he had learned the ways of the Oglala. He had survived their world. He meant to be a survivor in this one, too, but only on his own terms.

  "Stay over here," Matt told Stamps.

  "Out of the way?"

  "Watch my back. Don't look at the bar or anywhere else in the room. Just see that nobody gets behind me, Frank."

  "I'll do it," Stamps said, his voice filling with pride. He began to glance at the tables where men drank and played cards, the ones to the far side of the room. The reek of alcohol and smoke was strong. Occasionally, he caught a whiff of perfume, tainted by the other smells. He kept Matt's back in view out of the corner of his eye while he watched the faces of those dealers and players at his back.

  Matt reached the bar and took the corner position, took his back to the wall. He kept his hatbrim down, but his eyes peered out, searching for the face he knew. The bartender took a long time noticing him, finally came over.

  "Whiskey," Matt said, "in a glass."

  The bartender reached under the bar.

  "Not that tanglefoot. I've got more'n two bits." Matt threw a gold coin on the bar.

  The bartender, chewing on the stub of a cigar, his apron stained with dried beer and spilled whiskey, started to say something, but thought better of it when he looked closely at Matt Cord. He brought out a bottle of labeled whiskey, poured it in a thick-walled glass and left the bottle. He picked up the coin and bit it on the edge.

  "Tanglefoot, eh? Not in the Silver Queen," he snorted.

  Matt knew the man was lying. Every third business in Virginia City was a saloon. When the supplies of regular whiskey ran low, in barrels or bottles, the proprietors took to making tanglefoot: boiled mountain sage, two plugs of chewing tobacco, one box of cayenne pepper with one gallon of water. The price was twenty-five cents and it burned all the way down.

  The bartender rattled coins on the bar in front of Matt, not defiantly, just with enough independence to make the big man suppress a smile. Matt hunched down lower to make himself less conspicuous and continued to survey the room. He noticed the stairs behind the orchestra, a hallway to the left of that, where men and women disappeared and reappeared at intervals. He tasted the whiskey. His shoulder had begun to heal and he no longer felt stabbing pains in it. Moss and mud and crumbled wet oak leaves had helped it, along with his favoring. The whiskey helped take away some of the weariness of the last several days. He glanced over at Frank Stamps, who looked like a young hawk, bright-eyed and alert. This time, the smile came, breaking slowly, and lasting for only a moment.

  "Bartender," Matt called softly. The heavyset man shifted the stump of a cigar in his mouth and waddled over. "Draw me a small bucket of beer."

  "You want to ruin good whiskey?"

  "It's not for me. Just draw it." There was no trace of a smile on Matt's face.

  The bartender set the pail of beer on the counter carefully so as not to slosh the stranger. Then took enough change in payment and waddled back to the cash box without a backward glance.

  Matt held the bucket up and
beckoned to Stamps. The boy came over.

  "Here's something for you. Don't look like a damned bodyguard. And don't drink too much of this slop."

  "Th-thanks, mister, I mean, Matt."

  "Now go back over there and do what you were doing, but don't be so obvious about it."

  "Is he here?"

  "I don't know. Drink this with your left hand, Frank."

  The boy went back to his former position. Matt turned back to watch the patrons. He catalogued every face, every eccentricity of the men and women in the saloon. He hunched lower, kept his hat brim shading the features of his face. He sipped at his whiskey.

  He didn't have long to wait.

  Carl Lathrop came through the hallway opening, a painted hurdy-gurdy gal on his arm. He strolled to the bar and ordered champagne and drinks for the bar. The champagne went for twelve dollars in gold.

  Matt felt something burning inside him.

  This was the man who had killed his brother, who had dragged him behind a horse until the rocks and sand ground into his flesh. This was the man who had made Luke suffer like a dog before stringing him up like a common cow thief. Carl Lathrop was laughing, pinching the girl's behind, leaning into her breasts with leering eyes.

  For just a second, Matt could see Luke swinging in the wind, a rope around his neck.

  He stepped away from the bar, strode to the L-joint until he was on a direct line with Carl Lathrop. Several men saw him make the move. They watched him quietly with motionless eyes. Frank Stamps put his pail of beer down and put his hand on the butt of his pistol. A dealer whirred through a deck of cards, shuffling them. Money clanked at a table. A glass fell from another table, splintering on the sawdust-covered floor.

  "Carl Lathrop!" Matt shouted, above the din. "Step away from that bar!"

  A sudden silence gripped the Silver Queen. Carl stepped back to see who had called his name so commandingly.

  When he saw Matt Cord his face went chalk white.

  "Lathrop, you killed my brother and stole my cattle. I call you on both accounts. I come to square them!"

  People scrambled away from the bar, out of the line of fire. A hurdy-gurdy girl screamed, then shut it off quickly.