Of all the Broken-T crew, Bris Collins was the hardest hit by the turn of events. He was close to Tom, and counted him as good a friend as he had. He was genuinely disappointed at not having had a chance to say good-bye. He and the rest of the boys who were in town the night before got back to the herd barely ahead of the sheriff and his deputies. Bris had borrowed enough money to buy himself a bad head in the Cowtail Saloon, and he was in no mood to receive the news as it was. He got even more riled when, in answer to the sheriff’s questions, Smoky said he thought Tom might have ridden out toward the south last night. But he calmed down when Slim confided that it was him, not Tom, who had ridden south. Bris watched, a thin smile on his face, as the three lawmen scouted around until they picked up Slim’s trail and disappeared over a rise south of the camp.
“Now who’s gonna pull me out from under my horse next time Injuns get after me?”
Chapter VII
A thin frosting of snow lay along the top edge of the crude sign nailed to a lone tree standing guard over the road into town. Tom paused to study the sign for a moment. It proclaimed the odd assortment of wooden buildings and tents to be Miles City. Tom was cold. His fingers were numb, and his feet felt as if there were a thousand tiny needles pricking them, and real winter had not even arrived yet A steady wind had beaten the back of his neck all day as he rode south, causing him to wish he had taken his buffalo robe from the bottom of his pack before he broke camp early that morning. Although late in the fall, the days had been pleasant enough for the past several weeks, so he had no clue that this day would turn so cold. But it seemed apparent that old man winter was at last giving notice. A strong wind came in from the north around midmorning, bringing dark clouds with it. By noontime, the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees, and with it a light dusting of snow powdered the prairie. It encouraged Tom all the more to press on to Miles City before nightfall.
When he stopped to think about it, he had to admit he was pretty lucky to be there on the outskirts of the small settlement. He had spent the last month on the upper Missouri, trapping. It was a dangerous place to hunt beaver because the Blackfeet didn’t permit any trappers in their territory. They were a warlike people, even more feared than the Sioux or Crow, and he knew he was gambling with his scalp every day he remained there. When Tom left Bismarck that night over a month ago, just ahead of the sheriff, he needed to find a place to hide for a while. He also needed some money since he had been forced to leave before he could collect his wages from Eli. The upper Missouri territory was the logical place, provided he could keep his scalp. Nobody would be too anxious to search for him in the heart of Blackfoot country. Add to that the fact that the upper Missouri offered the richest beaver trapping around—better than the Yellowstone country, better than the Milk or Judith rivers. The big fur companies had been trying for years to trap the upper Missouri, but their efforts were met with such fierce resistance from the Blackfeet that their expeditions almost always ended in failure, costly in horses, supplies, and the bloody loss of lives. Tom knew it to be a huge risk, but he reckoned that a man alone could stay out of sight of the treacherous Blackfeet where a party of trappers could not. This was a philosophy he had picked up from Squint Peterson, who had spent most of his life alone in the mountains in the midst of hostile territory.
So he trapped the small streams and rivers of the upper Missouri country, at least until the winter started to set in and he was forced to quit. It was a lonely, dangerous existence, up to his waist in icy water for much of the time, constantly looking over his shoulder for the sudden Indian attack that might be imminent, always careful to hide his horses and his campfire. He was especially cautious when checking his traps, for if his bait sticks with their castor-scented tips were not concealed, a sharp-eyed Blackfoot might find them and lie in wait for him.
The weeks passed slowly, the danger weighing down the passage of time. Occasionally he felt sure he would be discovered before he could pack out with his furs, and it tested his courage to remain day after day alone in that hostile land. Well, he thought now, I’ve done it, trapped the Blackfoot country and lived to tell about it, and have a fair load of pelts to buy the supplies I need.
There was still some risk involved in going to Miles City. It was near Fort Keogh for one thing. But he had never been there before, so he didn’t expect to meet anyone who might have known him. The fort hadn’t been there long. It was built after the mop-up operations of the Sioux war when the warriors of Sitting Bull had been defeated and the great chief himself had escaped to Canada. The garrison at this fort would not very likely know about Tom Allred. Besides, he had been cold long enough. He yearned for a warm place to spend the night so he decided to chance it. Cold and loneliness could do funny things to a man, even to the extent where he would take sizable risks just to find a warm place to lie down. The wanted poster he had seen at Bismarck had no picture of him, just his name, so he didn’t think there was much real danger of his being recognized.
As a town, Miles City didn’t appear to be much more than a few buildings, but he could see signs of potential. There were more buildings under construction, and there was already a two-story structure that looked to be a saloon and trading post combined. He pulled his coat collar up around his face, pulled his hat down low on his forehead, and nudged Billy forward.
He rode the length of the main street, keeping Billy at a slow walk so he could look the place over thoroughly. It looked peaceful enough. Down at the far end of the street, he found a livery stable and pulled Billy up in front. “Well, boy, looks like you’re going to stay in a hotel tonight. I still got enough money left to do that. Maybe buy you a little supper, too.” He dismounted and, pulling the wide door open, led his two horses inside.
The stable was dark. Tom stood in the open doorway for a moment, looking for someone to take the horses. No one was in sight. “Hello,” he called out. “Anybody here?” There was no answer. Well, he thought, there are plenty of empty stalls. He led Billy to a stall on the end of the row and unsaddled him. He put the packhorse in the stall next to Billy, then threw his gear in with Billy. He planned to sleep in the stall with the horses. That pack was all he owned in the world, and those pelts were the only things he had to trade for supplies. He didn’t want to be separated from them.
“Howdy.”
He turned to discover a squat bowlegged barrel of a man watching his movements with seemingly casual interest, a double-barreled shotgun cradled in one arm, a lantern in his other hand.
“Evening,” Tom replied. He finished arranging his saddle pack into a bed and then came out of the stall. Nodding toward the shotgun, he said, “I hope that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to rent me a stall.”
The man acted surprised. “What, this? Ah nah, mister. This here shotgun always rides on my arm. I’d be glad to see to your animals. Long as you can pay fer it.”
“Well, I’ve got enough for tonight, not counting a little that I hope to find some supper with. If it’s all right with you, I’ll leave the horses till I can change my plews into cash.”
“Fine with me.” It was obvious this was not out of the routine for him. Not many travelers came in with money. At least this one had some furs. Even if he tried to get out without paying, the stable keeper had his horses and the customer had to get by him and his shotgun to get them. “My name’s Dan Turley. Folks around here call me Pop. Me and my two boys own this here stable. As far as something to eat, you can get you a good supper up the street at the Cattleman’s. I’ll watch your stuff for you.”
“I appreciate it, Pop. I’ve been eating wild meat for a month, and I could sure use a change.” He looked around to see if there was anything that needed his attention before leaving his possessions in the care of this squat little man. He must have appeared hesitant.
“Don’t worry ’bout your possibles. Anybody in Miles City’ll tell you Pop Turley is as honest as he is ugly.” He held the lantern up to study Tom’s face more closely. “And I�
�m most always here. If I ain’t, one of my boys is. I sleep up there.” He pointed toward the hayloft. “If you’re short of money, you can sleep with your horses for ten cents more a day.”
“Fair enough,” Tom said. “I’ll be going then.” He pulled his rifle from the saddle boot and walked toward the stable door.
“Where’d you ride in from?” Pop called out after him.
Tom kept on walking, answering over his shoulder, “Dakota.”
“I won’t ask you where you’re headed. You’d more’n likely say it was none of my business.”
Tom laughed. “Maybe.”
“What’s your name, young feller?”
“Does it matter?”
“I reckon not.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “I’ll just call you Dakota.”
* * *
Tom stood inside the door for a few moments until he took in the entire room. There were maybe a dozen customers in the Cattleman’s at that hour. Most of them were seated at tables eating supper, although it was obvious that most of the supper crowd had already gone. Many of the tables still had dirty dishes on them. Over against one wall, three men—drovers by the looks of them—were standing at the end of a long bar. Behind the bar, and talking with the three drovers, stood a heavyset man with a bald head and a long handlebar mustache. He paused in the middle of his conversation to study the stranger standing in the doorway, rifle in hand.
“Howdy,” the barkeep called out. “Come on in and make yourself to home.”
Tom nodded in reply and walked across the room to the bar. All conversation in the saloon ceased while everyone stopped to consider what manner of man had joined them. There was no hostility apparent, merely curiosity. After a short pause, the general hum of conversation resumed.
“What’s your pleasure?” the bartender asked, flashing a manufactured smile for Tom. “Beer? Hard likker?”
“No thanks. Is it too late to get some supper?”
“No, sir. It’s not too late. I’m sure there’s some stew left back in the kitchen. My wife’ll fix you up something.” He came around the end of the bar and pushed some dirty dishes aside on one of the tables, clearing a place for him. “Set yourself down and I’ll fetch Marthy.” He watched Tom seat himself and then he yelled toward the kitchen, “Marthy!”
After a moment, a bony little woman in a dirty apron appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. Her face looked tired and drawn as she reached up to brush a thin wisp of gray hair from her face. She did not change her expression as she stared at the stranger seated at the table. “You want supper?” she asked without enthusiasm.
“Yes, ma’am, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Stew and biscuit, all that’s left.”
“That’ll do fine.”
She turned and retreated to the kitchen. While he waited, Tom unbuttoned his coat and made himself a little more comfortable. He laid his rifle across the arms of the chair beside him and casually glanced around the room. Here and there he met a curious eye, occasionally followed by a polite nod. In a country where it wasn’t wise to ask too many questions, especially from a stranger, the atmosphere in the Cattleman’s seemed cordial enough. In a few minutes, the woman came back with a plate heaped with a thick stew, with three biscuits riding on top.
“Pay Kirby,” was all she said when she placed it in front of him.
He assumed Kirby was the barkeep. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied and immediately dove into the plate of food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he really was until the beefy aroma filled his nostrils. He was halfway finished when the door opened and Pop Turley came in, quickly shutting the door behind him in an effort to keep the chill night air outside. He nodded to Kirby and the others in the room, looking around until he spotted Tom.
“Kirby,” Pop called out, “how ’bout a drink of that there kerosene you call likker. I need somethin’ to warm my blood.” He walked over and pulled a chair up across from Tom. “I see Marthy fixed you up with something to eat.”
“She did,” Tom replied, “and it’s pretty good eating, too.”
When Kirby brought his glass of whiskey to the table, Pop gestured toward Tom. “Kirby, this here’s Dakota. Just rode in tonight.” He looked back at Tom. “Watch out for this cuss. This stuff he sells for likker’ll take the hide offen your teeth.” Both men laughed. “But his wife can sure cook.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dakota. You plannin’ to be in Miles City for a spell or just passin’ through?”
“I’m not sure. To tell you the truth, I’m just looking for a place to stay warm till winter’s over. I’ve got some pelts I’d like to sell. Know where I could unload them?”
Pop answered. “Jacob Branch buys some skins. He’s got a store over near the fort. ’Course it ain’t like it was ten, fifteen years ago when the American Fur Company had a fort near here. A man could make some money on skins then. I reckon it’s near petered out now, but, like I said, Jacob Branch still buys some to ship back East.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll go see him in the morning.”
* * *
The trip to Jacob Branch’s store was disappointing. As Pop had lamented the night before, furs were not bringing much money anymore. Branch seemed a fair man, but he burdened Tom with the long sad story about the demise of the beaver hat back East. Everything was silk now. Tom understood, but was still disappointed to have to settle for the price he got. It wasn’t much of a grub stake—most of it was traded for the possibles he needed. There was but a small amount of cash money left over, enough to acquire a well-used Sharps Forty-five, One-twenty, and some cartridges. His Winchester was all he needed in most cases, but he felt the need for a good buffalo gun. His Winchester would fill the buffalo’s hide full of holes before it finally stopped the animal. The Sharps would knock the beast down with a forty-five bullet with a hundred and twenty grains of powder behind it. Although it had been used a good bit, the weapon was well taken care of, and Mr. Branch gave him a fair deal on the price.
Low on money now, Tom could still last for a while, anyway. He badly needed his pay from the Broken-T, and he resolved to make the trip over to the Musselshell to collect it. He had earned it, and he was certain Eli Cruze would hold it for him. He was probably taking too much risk by remaining in this part of the country, but with winter coming on he felt it was all right to chance it. He could not really accept being a wanted man. In his mind, he had done nothing wrong. What he did, any man would have done. Perhaps if he had stopped to give serious thought to the danger he was in, he might have realized the need to leave the territory. Still, he rationalized, no one in this part of the territory knew what he looked like. As for the garrison at Fort Keogh, he didn’t know where soldiers were sent from to man the new fort, but he was certain it was not a detachment from Lincoln. Hell, he thought, nobody pays attention to every drifter who rides into Miles City. If I keep my nose clean, there won’t be any reason to call attention to me. He was right for the most part, at least for three more days.
* * *
“Damn, Sarge,” the young trooper complained, “my behind is about froze off.” They had been in the saddle all day, and there was only an hour or so of daylight left. “Why don’t we ride on in to the fort and find us a place to get warm?” His was the only complaining voice, but he knew he spoke for the other six men.
Sergeant Waymon Spanner did not answer at once. He was thinking about other things. The cold air made his nose ache. Since he had the cartilage smashed by a rifle barrel across the bridge of his nose, he had difficulty breathing, and the cold weather made his nose sore, as if he had rheumatism. It didn’t do much for his disposition as he was reminded of the man who had changed his profile so drastically. In fact, since that day, he had lived with one thought in his mind—to track down Tom Allred and kill him. He had volunteered to lead the search detail, and he had been charged with the responsibility of bringing the fugitive back to Fort Lincoln for court-martial. Those were his orders—to capture him if at all possibl
e. But Spanner had no notion of bringing Tom Allred back alive. And now time was running short. Winter was about to set in, and if he didn’t find Allred before the first heavy snows fell, he had little hope of finding him at all. His superiors would call it off with the bad weather. They had already been combing the towns in the territory for over a month. He was beginning to think Allred had left the plains and headed for the mountains. He rode on for a while in silence, then finally answered the young trooper.
“Wilson, you whine like a damn woman. But I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna ride into Miles City before we go to the fort, and you boys can have a little drink while I look around. That oughta warm up your backside some, hadn’t it?”
Wilson grinned. The thought of a visit to the saloon before reporting in was appealing. “You’re giving the orders, Sarge. I reckon if we had to, we could stand a little drink.”
“I thought you could. If you got any money, you might want to get something to eat, too. It’ll beat anything you’re likely to get at the fort.”
The light of day was beginning to fade away when they rode down the main street of Miles City. Those who weren’t patronizing the Cattleman’s had gone home to supper. At Spanner’s instructions, the men tied up in front of the saloon while he continued on to the sheriff’s office. There was no one in the small wooden building but a boy of perhaps fifteen or sixteen.
“Sheriff’s gone home to supper,” the lad replied to Spanner’s question.
“Damn. When will he be back?”
“He won’t, ’lessen somebody sends for him.”
Spanner looked irritated. “Are you a deputy?”
“No, sir.”
“What do you do?”
“What I’m doing right now. I tell people the sheriff’s gone to supper.”
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