A Bad Place To Be

by John Hansen

  Finally, the night began to give way to the approaching day. It was before the sun was actually visible above the distant ridge above Willy’s, but Josh was sure that he’d seen movement in the trees there. He estimated the range to be about five hundred yards from where he sat. It would be a decent shot from this distance, especially in this light. Josh strained his eyes to see what had moved, but whatever it was had disappeared. Nonetheless, he rested the Sharps rifle over a big downed log and adjusted the sights. The light conditions were still marginal for shooting. And then suddenly, there was a dull glow visible through the south window of Willy’s cabin. Josh’s heartbeat quickened. He searched even more intently the area where he had seen movement a few minutes before, but there was nothing. Maybe he was mistaken, or maybe it had been a deer or coyote that had moved on. Regardless, Ira and Willy were up; light blue smoke, just a wisp, was drifting up from the stovepipe that protruded from Willy’s cabin. There was a gentle breeze from the northeast, causing the smoke to bend over in a loose column pointing southwest. Josh made a mental note of this in the event that he had to shoot. It wasn’t a strong wind, but at this range any wind could be a factor. And then the back door to Willy’s cabin opened and Ira stepped out. It was the hour of reckoning. Josh hadn’t told Ira what he planned to do, that he would be the bait in the trap. Ira started slowly towards the privy, yawning and scratching the back of his head as he went along. He was nearly to the privy when the shot rang out. The bullet spun Ira around, causing him to stumble and fall. Josh quickly shifted his eyes from Ira to the trees beyond the privy, and there it was: a puff of rifle smoke drifting away from a small patch of skunk bush. Josh pointed his rifle towards the brush; as he did, Ira got to his knees, clutching his right arm. And then the rifleman in the brush patch fired again, his shot going astray. Ira was up now and running towards the cabin. Josh took aim to the right of the smoke concentration from the second shot and squeezed the trigger. The .50-caliber Sharps bucked and roared, causing Josh to momentarily lose sight of his target area. But then when he refocused he could see a body sprawled in the dirt slightly downslope from the brush. The big slug had literally hurled the would-be assassin to the side and spun him around. Josh kept his eye on the man for a short time to make sure that he wasn’t going to do any more shooting. And then, satisfied that he was dead, Josh got to his feet. He stood for a moment with the Sharps cradled in his arms just staring at the dead man in the distance. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, and there was a chorus of birds singing all around him to start the new day. Josh hated killing. It would’ve been a good morning to have a hot cup of coffee while watching the sun come up and listening to the birds. But he knew that there’d be none of that pleasantness once he reached the cabin and the dead man beyond it. There’d be blood, anguish, and the finality of it all for the dead man. Josh sighed and started down the hill to Willy’s cabin.

  The hike down the hill took only a few minutes, and as Josh neared the cabin both Ira and Willy emerged to greet him. Ira was without his shirt. He had a rag tied around the upper part of his right arm, and there was a bloodstain that ran from there all the way down his arm and onto the back of his hand. Much of the blood had dried, but there was still some that oozed from beneath the rag and trickled down for three or four inches, giving that skin a brighter sheen than where the dried blood was. But now, confident that the danger had passed with the apparent death of the shooter up on the ridge, Ira said almost flippantly: “Boy, I’m damned glad you finally got a bead on that sonovabitch. I was beginning to think I was a gonner.”

  “I’m sorry ya got shot,” said Josh soberly. “I just couldn’t get on to ‘im until he fired.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged, Deputy,” replied Ira respectfully. “You made it so this old man can see another sunrise or two.”

  Josh nodded his head and then he said: “Ya’ll feel good enough to hike up to this dead fellar? I’d like to know if he was one of the Menaghers.”

  Ira had no desire to look at the dead man, but given the circumstances he figured that it was the least he could do and so he said reluctantly: “Yeah, I reckon I can hobble up there.”

  It was about three hundred yards to where the body was on the ridge. As they neared the dead man and the immense damage done by the heavy slug from the buffalo gun became apparent, Ira stopped. The dead man had an enormous exit wound on the right side of his torso, and it was clear that he had bled out fairly quickly. Sensing that Ira was no longer close behind him, Josh stopped and turned around. Ira looked pale and was beginning to gag. Suddenly, he turned away from the body and Josh and threw up. He continued to retch until there was nothing left. There was no good way to salvage Ira’s dignity except to leave, but Josh had to know if this was one of the Menaghers. “I’m sorry, Ira,” said Josh, “but can you tell me if this is one of the guys who came in with the fool’s gold?”

  Ira was bent over at the waist, resting his hands on his knees. Long stringy spit hung from his mouth. He tried to spit but it wouldn’t detach and he found himself sputtering, and so he wiped it away with the back of his bloody hand. And then standing erect, he took a deep breath to calm himself. “That’s one a them Menaghers. Don’t know which one, though.”

  “Thanks,” said Josh. “Ya’ll better head into town. See if ya can get the doc to take a look at that wound. I’m gonna poke around here a bit.”

  Ira nodded and started down the hill while Josh turned and continued on up the ridge. It didn’t take him long to top out and start down the other side, and there he found what he had been looking for: the dead man’s horse. He went straightaway to the saddlebags. There were four bags of what was probably Stevenson’s fool’s gold. Menagher was no doubt hoping to scam some unsuspecting person with it. Whether or not this had come from the Stevenson party would be easy enough to verify once Josh caught up with the marshal—assuming of course that he was still alive.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The letter had arrived with the mail on the stage yesterday afternoon but wasn’t picked up until this morning. It was postmarked Bear Creek and addressed to Sheriff Zeke Willet, Idaho City. There was no return address and no signature. It read:

  The marshal from Boise is dead somewheres in Chokecherry Canyon.

  Sheriff Hollis is the one that kilt him.

  The intent of the letter was obvious; the why and who were not. Nonetheless, Sheriff Willet gave the letter credibility, especially in light of the conversation that he had had with the deputy marshal earlier that morning on the ridge overlooking Willy Randolph’s place. He knew the deputy was making arrangements for the dead man’s burial and disposition of his personal effects, but after that he didn’t know. And so he took the letter and went in search of the deputy starting with the undertaker’s place. It wasn’t far from the sheriff’s office to the undertaker’s—maybe five minutes walking—but it was sufficient time for the sheriff to consider the ramifications of tangling with Hollis and his deputies. He’d heard rumors of how things were done up in that Bear Creek country and he wanted no part of it. He’d already had two men killed and one wounded in his town in less than twelve hours, and the one thing that they appeared to have in common was the Stevenson party and the marshal—and they, if this letter was true, were all dead. Zeke Willet was not a coward, but he had a pretty wife and two small kids and Chokecherry Canyon was out of his jurisdiction.

  Josh had just stepped out of the undertaker’s front door when he heard his name being called. “Deputy Morrow, hold up a second.” Josh turned around to see the sheriff, a man in his mid-thirties with an average build, approaching at a brisk walk.

  “Glad I caught you before you left town,” he said, extending the letter. “Got something I think you’ll be interested in.”

  Josh took the letter and read it twice. He said nothing for a moment, as his attention was on the condition of the letter and the envelope that it had come in; they were both creased from being folded in half and the outside of the envelope was
soiled. It had smudges of dirt on it. “Did this come this way?” asked Josh, pointing to the dirt on the envelope.

  “Yeah, that’s the way it was when I picked it up this morning at the post office,” replied Willet.

  Josh shook his head, a little perplexed. “Looks like whoever wrote this stuck it in his pocket for a while, kinda like he had to think on it before he mailed it.”

  “Yeah, he wasn’t too clean either,” said the sheriff.

  “Ya’ll mind if I hang on to this?” asked Josh.

  “Help yourself,” replied the sheriff. “You think the marshal is dead?”

  Josh sighed. “Well sir, right now it ain’t lookin’ good for it to turn out otherwise.”

  “Whaddaya aimin’ to do?” asked the sheriff.

  Josh couldn’t help but smile to himself. There wasn’t the slightest hint in the sheriff’s demeanor that suggested finding the marshal was his problem, and truth be told, maybe it wasn’t. “I guess I’m gonna head for Chokecherry Canyon and see what I can turn up,” replied Josh as he put the letter back in its envelope and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

  “Well, good luck to ya,” said the sheriff as he extended his hand towards Josh.

  Josh shook the sheriff’s hand. “Much obliged,” he said, and with that he turned and headed for the livery to retrieve Thunder.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sheep Springs was located in a relatively small basin, about a half-mile wide, along the wagon road to Boise. It owed its name to a cluster of several good-producing springs that originated in a large aspen stand on a north-facing slope. The output from the springs meandered individually down through the trees until due to the topography, they had no choice but to come together and form Sheep Springs Creek. Even then it was just a spit of a creek barely five feet wide but ample enough to water stock or catch a cutthroat trout for supper. Add to this the bluegrass and fescue meadows that occupied much of the basin’s floor and Josh could see why it was a favored stopover place on the road to Boise.

  It was early evening as Josh dropped off the ridge on the west side of the basin and started down the road towards the springs. He could see smoke—about the amount you’d expect from a campfire—drifting upwards out of the trees near the creek. However, as yet he could not see any people or horses, but it was suppertime. Maybe I’ll have company tonight, he said to himself, or maybe I’ll want to ride on. Passing the time of day with a total stranger was one thing, but laying out your bedroll in close proximity to theirs was another. And so it was when Josh rounded a slight curve in the rutted wagon road and came into a small clearing where the campfire was, he saw a solitary man tending a skillet on the fire. The man glanced over at Josh but made no attempt to get up. Josh rode on, and when he had closed the distance between him and the stranger to about thirty feet, he stopped. “Evenin’,” said Josh.

  The stranger was frying fish and he had just begun to turn them with a fork; some of them were sticking to the bottom of the skillet, and so he said without taking his eyes off of what he was doing: “Step down if you’ve a mind to.”

  “Much obliged,” replied Josh. Dropping Thunder’s reins where he stood, Josh moved towards the fire. He could see that the man carried no sidearm but had a Spencer repeater lying across a pack saddle which was within arm’s reach. The man was middle aged, of average build with a red beard and short hair. He had on a wool felt hat that was well worn, having acquired several small tears in it, and his shirt and pants, which also had a few holes, were dirty. From all appearances he was your typical down-on-his-luck prospector.

  As Josh got to within a few feet of the fire, the prospector looked up at him. There was an almost instantaneous change in his expression as his eyes settled on Josh’s badge. “Have a seat, Deputy,” said the stranger.

  Josh knelt down near the fire. “Name’s Josh Morrow.”

  The stranger looked up from his skillet of fish. “Jim Holchek’s mine.”

  “Pleased to meet ya,” said Josh.

  “Do ya like trout?” asked Holchek with the implication that Josh was invited for supper.

  “Yes sir, I do,” replied Josh. “Ain’t nothin’ better than fresh-caught trout out of a mountain stream.”

  “There’s some plates and forks in that pannier behind you there,” said Holchek. “If you’ll dig ‘em out we’ll give these fish a try. There’s another tin cup in there if ya want some coffee or water outa the crik.”

  Josh retrieved the utensils that Holchek had asked for, and then excusing himself went to the creek for a cup of water. It was only then that he noticed the four new graves. He wasn’t a superstitious person, but given a choice he wouldn’t necessarily camp this close to four fresh graves; it made him wonder why Holchek had. And so returning to the fire and Holchek he said: “Did ya’ll see them fresh graves right over yonder?”

  A somber look came over Holchek’s face. He was silent for a moment and Josh began to wonder if he’d heard him, but then he said: “Yeah, I did. The second one from the right is my brother, Rudy Holchek.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Josh.

  “It’s alright, Deputy,” replied Holchek. “I tried to warn Rudy that he was playing with fire but he just wouldn’t listen.”

  “How’s that?” asked Josh.

  Holchek had an anguished look on his face. Josh could tell that he was conflicted about something. And then feeling guilty for opening such a fresh emotional wound, Josh said: “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Holchek sighed deeply. “No, all this killin’ and robbin’ has got to come to an end. My brother’s dead now. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt him now. In fact, I think that he’d want me to say something or else he wouldn’t have told me what he did.”

  Josh made eye contact with Holchek but remained silent, waiting for him to speak when he was ready. Holchek looked away and removed the pan with the fish in it from the fire. He stuck a fork in one of the larger trout and set it on one of the plates that Josh had fetched. Handing the plate to Josh, he said: “There’s biscuits in that cloth bag on the ground there and blackberry jam and some apples too in the pannier. You’re welcome to take what suits ya.”

  “Much obliged,” said Josh, figuring that Holchek would tell him about his brother when he was ready.

  And so they ate supper with the more normal mundane conversation about the weather and the quality of the fish interspersed with periods of silence. As trail standards go the meal had been good; Josh was comfortably full. He was mostly at ease with Holchek and so he said: “Ya’ll mind if I throw out my bedroll here tonight?”

  Holchek was in the process of rolling a Bull Durham cigarette and was just licking the paper to seal it; he paused and lowered the cigarette slightly from his lips. “Help yourself,” he said and then resumed sealing his after-supper smoke.

  It wasn’t until after Josh had tended to Thunder and he and Holchek were sitting next to the fire that Holchek just out of the blue says: “Ya know most people looked at my brother as a fat, sloppy drunk. They was too many folks that disrespected him ‘cause a that. But ya know, Deputy, he had feelings. It wasn’t right the way folks treated him.”

  Josh had seen examples of that in the army. Invariably, there always seemed to be one or two guys in the company that because of some physical or personality trait, they became the constant target for harassment from many of the other guys. It never seemed right to him just from the standpoint of human decency, let alone the cohesiveness of the company, but the NCOs or officers never saw fit to correct it—not even after one man who had been the target of harassment had blown his brains out while in a drunken stupor. And still, there were those that were so obtuse to the reality of what had really happened that they had simply laughed and said: “Ole Charlie got drunk one too many times.” And so Josh said with some conviction: “People can be pretty mean-spirited sometimes.”