Before he was finished, Millie came running and promptly told Frank to take Nancy to the porch. Then she sent Lucas to the pump to wet a cloth and bring it to her. “I’ll be right there to help you with her,” she told Frank. Then to reassure him, she said, “She’ll be all right. I was supposed to be the one gathering the eggs, but she said she’d do it this morning, even though she was feeling poorly.”
“Is she sick?” a worried husband asked. “She didn’t say she felt ill.”
Millie met his question with the look of one who is impatient with the naïveté all men seemed to exhibit when it came to their wives. “Most women have these little spells when they’re carrying a child,” she said.
“What!” a startled husband blurted, causing Carson to quickly grab his elbow when he showed signs of fainting himself.
“Better let me take her back,” Carson said, and took Nancy from Frank’s arms. He carried her to the porch and lowered her onto a chair. Frank sat down in a chair beside her. Leaving them in the care of Millie, he went back to the barn to dispose of Red Shirt’s body. He couldn’t help hurrying to make sure the body didn’t vanish again, as it had done the first time they thought they had killed him. Finding Red Shirt where he had last seen him, he grabbed him by the heels and dragged him out the back of the barn. When Lucas came to help, he told the boy to hitch up the wagon. “I don’t wanna bury this piece of shit close to the house,” he told him. “He might turn the soil sour.” Riding to the other side of the east ridge, he had plenty of time to think about the incident just finished, and he thought back on Nancy’s words in the middle of her execution of the hated half-breed. He was not sure what he thought he heard was, in fact, what she had actually said. Maybe when she’s feeling better, I’ll ask her, he thought.
* * *
Frank Thompson, on a rare visit to Big Timber, stopped in the post office to post a letter. While there, he commented to the postmaster, “I don’t see that wanted notice for that fellow Carson Ryan up on your board anymore.”
“No,” the postmaster replied, “I got a notice to take it down. I guess they caught him.”
This was good news to Frank. He could hardly wait to get back to the ranch to tell everyone about it. The fact of the matter was the U.S. marshal in Omaha received a letter from Robert B. Grimes, a civilian doctor located at Fort Laramie. In that letter, Dr. Grimes requested that the marshal should get in touch with Robert T. Patterson, who was now a congressman for the state of Texas. The purpose was to verify Carson Ryan’s employment as a drover for Mr. Patterson in Ogallala on the date Ryan was accused of murder and rustling a herd seventy miles away. Mr. Patterson verified that Carson Ryan was in fact with him in Ogallala at that time.
* * *
Almost a month had passed since young Lucas Cain had ridden to Big Timber to telegraph the territorial governor for help before that help showed up in the form of U.S. Deputy Marshal Marvin Bell. He was met at the front door by Millie. She walked out on the porch to talk to him. “Well, Mr. Bell,” she commented, “when we sent for help, we were hoping for a detachment of cavalry to fight a gang of murdering cattle rustlers. I guess it’s lucky for you that we had enough men to drive the gang away ourselves. It would have been a helluva job for one deputy to take on.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bell replied respectfully. “Sometimes we don’t get the whole story, so I was sent up here to find out. You’re sayin’ you drove the rustlers off, and there ain’t no more problem here?”
“That’s right,” Millie said. “All the cattle have been recovered, and everything’s back to normal.”
“No range war, then?”
She chuckled. “No, no range war. Is that what they told you?”
“Like I said, sometimes we get the wrong information.” He was obviously relieved to find out that his visit was going to be brief. “And what is your name, ma’am?”
“I’m Millie Cain,” she answered.
He was distracted for a moment when he saw Carson ride up to the barn and dismount. “Is that one of the hands?”
“Oh, that’s my husband, John,” she quickly replied. You picked a helluva time to come riding up to the barn, she thought. “He must have forgotten something.”
“Well, sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Cain. I think I’ll go down and talk to your husband.” He turned to descend the front steps.
“I’ll go with you,” she replied at once, and immediately followed him down the steps, fearful now that she might have gotten them in trouble by trying to distract the deputy.
As soon as they reached the barn door, she called out, “John, there’s a deputy marshal here to talk about the wire we sent for help.”
This was not news that Carson wanted to hear. He had been thankful that there had been no response from the governor. He walked out to meet them, still holding the bush ax he had come to get. “You wanna talk about the cattle rustlin’?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Bell replied, “although your wife has pretty much told me there ain’t anything to investigate.”
“My wife?” Carson responded without thinking.
Millie quickly spoke up. “Yes, me. I know you tell me to let you do the talking, but I just told Mr. Bell here what happened, that’s all.” She turned to the deputy. “John thinks it’s not ladylike for me to talk to the authorities.”
Carson realized then what she was doing. “I suppose I am a little protective when it comes to the little lady.”
“Well, I don’t see anything wrong with that,” Bell said with a chuckle. “I reckon there’s nothin’ more for me to do here.”
“It was pretty cut-and-dried,” Carson said. “We were able to drive ’em off.” He glanced at Millie, who frowned when a new thought evidently just then popped into her head. He was not prepared for her next comment.
“I thought you were here to investigate the death of Red Shirt,” she said.
“Red Shirt!” Bell exclaimed. “Red Shirt, the half-breed outlaw? Whaddaya mean, his death?” Her remark had triggered a definite interest on the part of the lawman, but Carson could only think that she had betrayed him.
“That’s the one,” Millie replied smugly. “I know the word was out that he had tried to attack our family, but we killed him. I can show you where he’s buried. It hasn’t been that long. You might wanna dig him up to make sure it’s him.”
What are you doing? Carson thought while trying to keep a calm face. He tried to catch Millie’s eye, but she purposefully avoided it.
The visit to the M/C suddenly took on new importance to Marvin Bell. Red Shirt had long been wanted all over the territory, but no one had been successful in tracking him down. And if what the girl claimed was true, it would definitely be a feather in his cap. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “I surely would like to verify it. Can I borrow a shovel?”
“Of course,” Millie replied. “John, why don’t you get a couple of shovels and help Mr. Bell dig Red Shirt up?” Carson had little choice but to comply. When he went into the tack room to get the shovels, Millie said to the deputy, “I’ll be right back.” She hurried then to the barn door where Carson had left his horse, and drew the Winchester from the saddle scabbard. Back to the waiting deputy just as Carson returned with the shovels, she handed the rifle to Bell. “This is the rifle we found with him. John naturally didn’t bury it with him.”
Bell took the Winchester and examined it carefully. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered softly when he turned it over to discover the letters L. Moody carved on one side of the butt. “Well, I’ll be . . . ,” he started to repeat. “I’m gonna need to take this with me as evidence,” he said. “Now let’s go take a look at that body.”
A close look at the decomposing body convinced the deputy that it was in fact the notorious outlaw Red Shirt, and there was little doubt that he had killed Deputy Marshal Luther Moody to have had the rifle in his possession. He l
ooked up at Carson and smiled. “This was sure enough a worthwhile trip. I wanna thank you both for your help, Mr. and Mrs. Cain.” He didn’t linger after the grave was filled back in. So anxious was he to return to Helena with his news that he refused an invitation to stay for supper.
They stood watching for a minute or two as the deputy rode off toward the north. Then Carson could hold his tongue no longer. “Mr. and Mrs. Cain?”
“He just made the assumption since I told him my name was Millie Cain,” she replied. “I didn’t think it was a good idea to tell him your name was Carson.”
“I reckon you’re right,” he said. “I’ll tell you the truth, though. For a while there, I thought you were fixin’ to get rid of me for good.” He shook his head and repeated, “Mr. and Mrs. Cain.”
“Well, we’ve got chores to do,” she finally announced. “We can’t stand here working our jaws all day.” She spun on her heel and headed for the house, but stopped and turned back to him. “I guess my name will be Millie Cain till the day I die if somebody doesn’t get busy and start courting me.” She turned again and continued on her way.
“You don’t mean—” he started.
Without turning her head, she called back, “Well, I’m not going to ask you.”
Read on for a look at another exciting historical novel from Charles G. West
LONG ROAD TO CHEYENNE
Available from Signet in July 2013.
Cam Sutton wheeled his buckskin gelding around sharply to head off a reluctant steer and drive it back into the shoot that led to a holding pen by the railroad siding. That’s the last one, he thought, unknotting the bright red bandanna he had bought in Cheyenne and wiping the sweat from his face. He then turned the buckskin toward the lower end of the corral where his boss, Colonel Charles Coffee, stood with a tally sheet, watching the loading. The colonel turned to look at him when he rode up and dismounted.
“You ain’t changed your mind?” Coffee asked hopefully. Young Sutton was a hardworking drover and had been ever since he’d hired him three years earlier. Coffee hated to lose him, but he understood Cam’s desire to leave. Coffee owned Rawhide Ranch in Wyoming’s Rawhide Buttes, but lately the better part of each year was spent driving cattle from the Wyoming counties of Niobrara and Goshen, a short distance across the line to Nebraska, where the colonel had established Coffee Siding. Cattle shipped from Nebraska were cheaper than cattle shipped from Wyoming because of the higher freight rates in Wyoming.
“I reckon not,” Cam answered the colonel’s question.
“Well, I guess I can’t say as I blame you,” Coffee said. “You’re still young enough to have a hankering to see what the rest of the country looks like. I’d be glad to keep you on to work at Rawhide Ranch, but the days of free range are numbered. The settlers will be moving in before much longer.”
“That’s what I figured,” Cam said, “and like you said, I’ve got a hankerin’ to see some of the rest of the country before I decide to squat in one place.” He had been thinking a lot lately about his future in the cattle business. It was his feeling that the colonel’s range was going to be severely cut back in the near future. Coffee owned several ranches, but he didn’t own the land they sat on. It was all free land, government owned, and open to homesteading. Already some sections of their range had been fenced off, and unlike some of the other large ranches, the colonel was averse to using violent tactics to scare homesteaders away.
When Cam looked his situation straight in the face, he couldn’t say that he was unhappy riding for the Rawhide. If he had to define it, he would say it was more of a restless feeling, an urge to move on. Of course, he could always head back down to Texas and sign on with some outfit pushing a herd of cattle up north, but he was tired of playing nursemaid to a bunch of brainless critters. It didn’t help his restless feeling when he witnessed the increased traffic on the Deadwood Stage Road taking adventurous souls to the mysterious Black Hills.
Soon after the Black Hills were opened to prospectors, the stagecoach line had established a line of changeover stations from Cheyenne to Deadwood in Dakota Territory. Colonel Coffee’s ranch in Rawhide Buttes was set up as one of the stops to change horses, so Cam had plenty of opportunity to see folks from all walks of life, all intent upon realizing the riches the Black Hills promised. Passengers were not the only cargo the coaches transported over the road. Every so often, a team of six horses pulling an ironclad Monitor coach, with a strong box bolted to the floor, and a couple of extra “messengers” with rifles aboard, rolled into Rawhide on its way back to Cheyenne. He really didn’t know much about prospecting for gold, but he confessed that he was one who was always tempted to go see the elephant. So he had decided to head up Dakota way to see for himself what all the fuss was about. He could then decide if he wanted to be a part of it or to simply move on someplace else. He had no family to concern himself with, so he was free to follow the wind if he chose. His thoughts were interrupted then by a comment from the colonel.
“I’ve got your wages here, up through the end of this month,” Coffee said. “You thinking about heading out right away?”
“Well, if it’s all right with you, I thought I would.” Nodding toward the buckskin, he said, “Toby ain’t worked too hard this mornin’. Might as well head on up toward Hat Creek. If it’s all right,” he repeated.
Coffee smiled. “Of course, it’s all right with me.” It was typical of the young man to concern himself with the thought that he might not be entitled to a full day’s wages if he had officially resigned. The colonel handed Cam an envelope with his pay inside. “I added an extra month’s pay in there. You’re liable to need it. And listen. You come back anytime you feel like it. I’ll always have a job for you.” He extended his hand in a parting gesture, joking as he and Cam shook hands, “And don’t go telling the rest of the boys in the bunkhouse about the bonus. They’ll all quit, probably wanting the same deal.”
“I won’t,” Cam replied, grinning. “I ’preciate it, sir.”
“You earned it. You take care of yourself, boy.” He turned and walked toward the head of the siding.
* * *
Larry Bacon cracked his whip to encourage the matched six-horse team to maintain their speed up the incline. “Ha, boy, get up in there!” he called out to them. The team was not fresh, but still had enough left to respond, and they would be changed at the Hat Creek Station, about five miles away. The horses answered Bacon’s urging, hauling the big Concord coach through a notch in the breaks south of Sage Creek. Inside the colorful yellow coach were six passengers: Travis Grant, a businessman headed for Deadwood; a man named Smith who claimed to be a cattle buyer; Wilbur Bean, an extra stagecoach guard; Mary Bishop, a widow; and her two daughters, Grace and Emma. Riding shotgun in the seat beside the driver was his grizzled partner, Bob Allen. Like Bacon, he was a veteran of the three-hundred-mile run between Cheyenne and Deadwood.
It was an unusually light load for the big eighteen-passenger coach, but there was additional freight that warranted the extra guard, or messenger, as the company called them. In the strongbox bolted to the floor was a neat bundle of currency totaling thirty thousand dollars. And the only nervous passenger in the coach was Travis Grant, who was planning to invest the money in the creation of a bank in the thriving town of Deadwood.
There had been frequent holdups of the Deadwood stage, four in one month’s time by the notorious road agent, Sam Bass, and his gang. However, Bob and Larry were not expecting trouble on this run, in spite of the money they were carrying. Their reasoning was simple. The big gold shipments that the bandits were after were on the stages coming from Deadwood, and they were headed toward Deadwood. If any of Bass’s agents were watching the stage when it left Cheyenne or Fort Laramie, they would see that there was not a full load of eighteen passengers aboard, so it was not a worthwhile payday to go after. To be safe, however, the company sent Wilbur Bean along for extra p
rotection. For these reasons, Bob Allen was taken completely by surprise when they topped the rise and he suddenly discovered three men standing in the narrow notch, their pistols out and aimed at him. He reached for the shotgun riding beside his leg as Larry hauled back on the reins to stop the coach.
“That’d be your first mistake,” a voice warned from the side of the hill above him, and he turned to see the muzzle of a rifle aimed at him. “Suppose you just pick that scatter gun up by the barrel real gentle-like and toss it on the ground.”
Bob had no choice but to comply, so he did as he was ordered. “Damn,” he swore as he dropped the shotgun over the side, exchanging a quick glance with Larry. Both men were thinking the same thing, hoping that Wilbur Bean wasn’t asleep in the coach.
“Now you just drive them horses nice and slow down to the bottom of the hill,” the gunman said after he jumped down to land on top of the coach. “Mind you, this here forty-four has a hair trigger, so you’d best take it real easy.”
“You fellers are goin’ to a lotta trouble for somethin’ that ain’t worth the effort,” Bob said. “Hell, we ain’t got but six passengers and three of ’em’s a woman and two children. You ain’t gonna make much offa this holdup. We ain’t carryin’ no gold shipment. Hell, word of this gets out and folks will be laughin’ at Sam Bass and his gang.”
“Who says it’s Sam’s gang?” the gunman asked.
“Well, if I ain’t took leave of my senses, that feller with the black hat and the black mustache standin’ in the middle of the road down yonder is sure as hell Sam Bass,” Bob replied. “Ain’t that right, Larry?” The two partners had had the unfortunate opportunity to meet Mr. Bass on another occasion while driving an ironclad coach between Custer City and the Cheyenne River crossing, so they were not likely to forget the man.
“I can’t say for sure,” Larry said, and shot a warning look in Bob’s direction. “That was a while back. It’s kinda hard to identify anybody after that length of time.”
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