Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  “All right, Cap’n,” he replied and did as he was told, wrapping the belt around the holstered pistol.

  During the confrontation, Tom had been doing some serious thinking. Right or wrong, he was the cause of the trouble, and he knew now that it was little more than wishful thinking that he could stay on at the Broken-T and hide from the past.

  “Cap’n,” he said, “I think it best for everybody if I’m the one who moves on.” Eli started to object, but Tom stopped him. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but it won’t work. If it ain’t Little Joe, it’ll be the bounty hunter coming back, or the army, come spring. It ain’t your problem to have to deal with. It’s mine, and I’ll be moving on.”

  Eli said nothing. The look in his eyes told Tom that he understood and thanked him for it. Big Joe, looking helpless, offered, “Damn, Tom, I feel real bad about this.”

  Tom smiled at him. “Don’t, Big Joe. There’s no hard feelings.” He then looked at Little Joe, his eyes still cold and hard. “There aren’t any hard feelings your way either if you let this be the end of it. But get this straight. I’m not going to start you out on the road to being a gunfighter. You can forget about that. I’ve got better sense than to play at killing.”

  “Maybe you ain’t got the guts to stand up to me in a fair fight,” Little Joe hissed.

  Tom just stared at him for a moment with a look of total exasperation. “Well, I prefer to think I’ve got better sense. Make a name for yourself with somebody else.” He turned back to Big Joe. “Can I depend on you to hold this young killer down long enough for me to saddle my horse and get my things together?”

  “If he can’t, I will,” Smoky spoke up.

  “Yeah, Tom,” Eli said. “You go ahead and git your stuff. I’m mighty sorry to see you go like this, but I reckon, like you said, it’s the best thing to do.”

  It didn’t take Tom long to get his scant belongings together and load his packhorse. Smoky made sure he didn’t start out without plenty of food. The only thing he needed was some coffee beans, as he had everything else he needed. Still, Smoky insisted that he should take some sowbelly and dried beans, so Tom accepted the offering graciously. Billy seemed ready to leave. He didn’t even bother trying to blow up his belly when Tom pulled up on the girth strap. Tom suspected his horse was never comfortable around cattle in the first place. Maybe it was his long cavalry background. Maybe it was a sense of jealousy whenever Tom saddled up Breezy to work cattle. Whatever the reason, Billy fairly pranced and pulled at the reins, eager to get started when Tom climbed into the saddle. He held the horse back for a few moments while he said his good-byes to Eli and his friends. Smoky and Doc reached up to shake his hand, followed by Big Joe, who still showed some signs of the shame and frustration that had all but overcome him only minutes before. Tom glanced in Little Joe’s direction. His gaze was met with a defiant stare, indicating the boy felt no remorse for his actions. Tom felt compelled to warn him.

  “Let this be the end of it, Little Joe. Don’t get it in your mind to come after me. Once I leave Broken-T and get out in the open country, any man who stalks me is a dead man.”

  Little Joe made no reply. Tom looked the boy in the eye for a moment longer before turning Billy west, releasing the pressure on the reins. Billy responded immediately, breaking into an easy gait toward the snowy prairie.

  Big Joe was not alert enough to prevent the events in the next few seconds. He stood watching Tom ride past the bunkhouse, his brother’s gunbelt in his hand. Eli, who had been keeping an eye on Little Joe, his rifle hanging loosely in his hand, relaxed his vigilance for an instant to glance at Tom. In that moment, Little Joe suddenly lunged into his brother, knocking him off balance. At the same time, he grabbed his pistol from the holster and yelled out, “Tom! Go for your gun!” That was the only warning he gave before opening fire on the unsuspecting man.

  Tom’s back was turned to the little group of men, so he barely heard Little Joe yell before he felt a bullet slash through the shoulder of his heavy coat, followed immediately by the sharp crack of the pistol. At first he thought he had been hit. He was to discover later that the bullet ripped through his coat, but at that moment, he had no time to think about it. It was the same as it had been when Sergeant Spanner cut down on him in Pop Turley’s stable. He didn’t consciously think about what he was doing, he just did it. Within a fraction of a second after he felt the impact of the bullet against his shoulder, he rolled out of the saddle, his right hand grasping the stock of his rifle so that he drew it out of the scabbard as he fell to the ground. He landed on his side and in one continuous motion rolled over in the snow and pulled the trigger, cocked the lever and fired again. Both shots found Little Joe’s chest, dead center. Tom would never forget the look of complete disbelief on the boy’s face as he took two steps backward and sat down heavily in the snow. Tom cocked his rifle in case another shot was necessary, but it was obvious the boy was finished.

  For a moment it was as if time had stopped. The other men stood frozen by the sheer horror of what had just taken place before them. Then Big Joe was jolted from his paralysis by the sight of his younger brother’s crimson blood spreading brightly on the snow. He ran to him and cradled him in his arms, sobbing. Little Joe could not hear his brother’s mournful cries—he was already dead. Big Joe moaned as tears streamed down his face, continuing to rock his brother back and forth in his arms.

  Tom rose slowly to his feet, his rifle ready, for he was not sure what Big Joe’s reaction might be. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “He didn’t give me any choice.”

  Big Joe had no thought of revenge. He continued to cry, still holding his dead brother. “I know it, Tom. I know it. You couldn’t help it. Just get on out of here. Please, just get on your horse and go and let me bury my brother.”

  Tom wanted to say more to console him, but there was nothing to say. He slid his rifle back in the saddle sling and stood there for a moment longer, looking at the two brothers. Then he stepped up in the saddle and rode out.

  Chapter X

  He was a wiry little man, rough in his ways, with the conscience of a weasel. Bent over his campfire, his heavy skin robe draped over bony sloping shoulders, he looked like a coyote hunkered down over a kill. So intent was he on the small snow hare he was turning over the flames, he was unaware he had a visitor until the man spoke.

  “Evening.”

  Startled, the little man almost fell into his own campfire as he tried to get to his feet. He tripped over the tail of his robe and landed on his backside in the snow.

  “God damn! You could git yourself kilt, sneaking up on a man like that!”

  His warning rang a bit hollow when he realized the situation he found himself in. His rifle was on the opposite side of the fire now, and he was seated in the snow while his visitor stood on the edge of the camp, his hand resting casually on the handle of a heavy Frontier forty-four, six-shooter. With the sharpened sense of a weasel that had been cornered, he found himself at a distinct disadvantage. There was nothing for him to do but sit there and await whatever fate had caught him by surprise.

  The visitor stood there for a long while, watching the little man. He seemed as large as a grizzly from the weasel’s perspective, his heavy coat made of animal skins opened and pushed back from his hips so as to leave his pistol free. He seemed to take no notice of the little man’s fright or his discomfort at having his backside in the snow.

  “Smelled your rabbit cooking,” he stated simply and moved in close to the fire. He sat down beside the weasel’s rifle, seeming not to notice it, and held his hands out to warm at the fire. “Name’s Cobb. What’s your’n?”

  Weasel hesitated a moment while he struggled to his feet. “Smith,” he said, brushing the snow from his pants. He eyed the stranger suspiciously, wondering how a man that size was able to slip up on him without his being able to hear him. His horse didn’t even give him any warning. “What the hell you doing, walking around out here? Ain’t you go
t no horse?”

  Cobb looked at him, unblinking, his eyes dark and deep as night. Then he grinned, not a warm smile, but sinister, a leer that gave weasel a chill down his spine.

  “Yeah, I got a horse. I left him back there a piece.” Without waiting for an invitation, he reached over and pulled the rabbit from the spit and tore off a leg. “I didn’t wanna just come riding right in. You might not a’been friendly. You know what I mean, Mr. Smith?” His malevolent smile stayed in place while he tore the flesh from the hare’s leg with his teeth.

  The outright brass of the huge man made the hackles rise on the smaller man’s backbone, but there was nothing he could do about it. The stranger was sitting right beside his rifle. He had the feeling he was being toyed with, the way a cat plays with a mouse. He could do nothing but sit and watch Cobb eat the supper he had cooked for himself. He wasn’t sure what manner of man had taken over his camp. Maybe he would eat and be on his way. All he could do was wait and hope for a chance to get his rifle.

  Cobb paused in his chewing and seemed to be studying his reluctant host. With one long, dirty fingernail, he worked at a piece of rabbit’s flesh that had stuck between his teeth, until it loosened enough so he could suck it out. That done, he cocked an eye at the weasel and winked. “You know what I think, Mr. Smith? I think you don’t want me eatin’ your rabbit. I don’t call that very neighborly. Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?” He paused, still grinning at the hapless little man. When there was no response, he continued. “You know what else I think? I think your name ain’t Smith. If I had to guess, I’d say your name was Rupert Slater. Now what do you think about that?”

  There was a definite reaction to Cobb’s statement. “I told you,” the little man blurted, “my name’s Smith.” He began to fidget in an effort to move closer around the fire toward the rifle. “I don’t know no Rupert Slater.”

  “That so?” Cobb answered casually, seeming to be unconcerned as he pulled another leg from the rapidly disappearing rabbit. “Too bad. I got a wanted poster in my saddlebag that says this here Rupert Slater’s worth a hundred dollars for a little piece of work he done back in Kansas. I don’t ’spose you’ve run into him, have you?” He paused while he licked some grease from his fingers. The weasel did not answer, so Cobb continued, obviously enjoying the discomfort the little man displayed. “’Course I ain’t got no picture of him to show you, but I can tell you what to look for in case you run across him. He’s about your size, rides a horse just like that bay over there, and he’s got a long knife scar from his ear, down across his face, just like that one on your face.”

  Slater knew his situation was hopeless. He could sense his life running out as he sat there staring at the uninvited guest who had just devoured most of his supper. He had to make a move. He couldn’t sit there and wait for the slaughter. And he had the distinct feeling this damn bounty hunter would just as soon shoot him as not. He leaned slightly toward his rifle, but Cobb quickly reached over and picked it up.

  “Now this here’s a mighty fine rifle. Mind if I look at it? You warn’t about to reach for it, was you?”

  Slater tired of the cat-and-mouse game that was providing so much entertainment for Cobb. He was caught, and he knew it. Finally he gave in. “All right, you got the jump on me. I’m Slater. Maybe we can talk this thing over. You say the reward’s a hundred dollars? I got some money hid in a cabin over near Virginia City. What if I give you two hundred to let me go?”

  Cobb rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if he was giving the offer deep consideration. “Well, the problem is, Rupert, I ain’t really shore you got that two hundred dollars. And I’m pretty shore I can git the wanted money from the sheriff over in Bozeman. You know, two hundred dollars is a lot of money, but I ain’t got time to go to Virginia City. I got bigger fish to fry than you.”

  Slater was doing his best to keep his nerves from showing, but it was impossible. The expression burned into Cobb’s dark features bordered on being gleeful. “Hell, man, it’s a lot of trouble to take me all the way back to Bozeman, ’specially in this kind of weather,” Slater tried.

  Cobb shook his head thoughtfully. “No, it ain’t really that much trouble. See, the poster says dead or alive.”

  That was all the warning Slater needed. In a panic, he scrambled to his feet. His intention was to run, but in the process he stumbled and fell, sliding a few feet, face first in the snow. Cobb calmly waited for the terrified man to struggle to his feet again and start running before he carefully raised the man’s rifle and cut him down. That done, he sat where he was and finished the last of the rabbit. He picked up a battered copper kettle that had been resting on some stones beside the fire and swished the contents around while he peered at them. Pleased to find that it was coffee, he poured himself some in the dead man’s cup. Satisfied with his day’s work, he sat back and enjoyed his coffee.

  After a short respite, Cobb sighed and told himself he had to pack up and get ready to leave at morning light. If he waited much longer to load Slater’s body on his horse, it would be too stiff to bend. He picked the dead man up with very little effort. “You’re a scrawny little rat,” he said as he threw him over the saddle and tied his hands and feet. “If it was me, I wouldn’t give no hundred dollars fer ya.” He smiled to himself when he noted the two bullet holes in the man’s back. Most of the men he brought in had bullet holes in their backs. It was sort of his signature. As he always insisted to the law, if they hadn’t been trying to escape, the holes Would be somewhere else.

  Slater wasn’t a big payday for Cobb, but a hundred dollars was a hundred dollars. It would sure as hell carry his expenses while he was hunting a bigger payoff: an ex-army officer named Tom Allred, and some other fellow named Dakota. Cobb had his suspicions they were one and the same. There was a thousand dollars offered on Allred and five hundred on Dakota. If he could convince the law that they were the same man, he still might collect both rewards.

  He slapped the dead man on his backside and stated, “Rupert, you’re just expenses. That’s all you amount to, just expense money.”

  First light found Cobb already in the saddle, winding his way out of the narrow valley that had been Rupert Slater’s hideout. Slater’s horse, bearing the body of the unfortunate little fugitive from the law, trailed along behind. There was some disappointment for Cobb when he found that Slater had very little property of value to salvage. He had hoped the man at least had a packhorse. It always helped to have another horse to sell, a kind of bonus on the deal. As it turned out, there was little to offer in the form of bonus goods—a pretty good rifle, some supplies and ammunition, but nothing else. He would have to be satisfied with the hundred dollars. He could get enough for the one horse to take care of his expenses in Bozeman while waiting for the reward money to come.

  It was a two-day ride to Bozeman, two cold days. But Cobb didn’t seem to mind the cold weather. He never paid much attention to it. He was cloaked in layers of skins that never came off during the winter months. The top layer was a buffalo cape with a hood that could be pulled up if needed. He was padded with so many layers of hides that he appeared to be a foot wider at the shoulders than he actually was, which was bigger than most men west of the Missouri. With his greasy, shoulder-length hair and dark furry beard, he presented a frightening vision to men like the late Rupert Slater, often terrorizing his quarry upon encounter. Cobb was smart enough to realize this advantage. It gave him an edge. He was not fast with a handgun, nor did he find it necessary to be, preferring to kill his prey at long range if he was unable to take them by surprise at short range.

  Emerging from the valley out onto a long, flat stretch of prairie, he stopped and climbed down to urinate. While he stood there relieving himself, he studied the horizon all around to spot any sign of other human activity. Satisfied there was none, he walked back and checked the body to make sure it was riding all right. The thought flashed through his mind that, if that was Tom Allred or Dakota, he would be worth a lot more money. This st
arted him to thinking about the man. He was convinced it was one man he was searching for. After talking to witnesses and hearing their descriptions of the killings, it was too much coincidence for two men to be as fast with a rifle as that. No, his instincts told him that Tom Allred and Dakota were the same man, a man too dangerous to get careless around. For now, it was no more than a general search effort, for he had no trail to follow. His man had disappeared. But Cobb was confident he would resurface and, when he did, Cobb would pick up his trail. Once that happened, he was as good as dead, for Cobb had over ten years’ experience tracking outlaws. Once he picked up the trail, he would follow it to hell if necessary, and dare the devil to get in his way.

  * * *

  Sheriff Aaron Crutchfield took his fork and punctured the soft yolks of the three eggs resting on top of his fried potatoes, then paused a moment while he watched the runny, yellow ooze seep into the crevices. Then, with his knife, he cut the brick-hard salt-cured ham into small chunks. When it was all sliced down to pieces he could handle, he mixed the ham, eggs, and potatoes together and covered the entire mixture with a layer of salt and pepper. Then, with a fork in one hand and a slice of bread to help load the fork in the other, he set upon his breakfast in the earnest fashion of a man who knows no higher priority in life. On this morning though, his breakfast would be interrupted, an occurrence he always met with a scowl.

  His young deputy, Will Proctor, stuck his head in the door of the saloon and announced, “Sheriff, they’s a feller wants you over to the jail.”

  Crutchfield took another huge mouthful and without looking up from his plate, asked, “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know, bounty hunter, I reckon. He’s got a dead man. Sez he’s wantin’ the reward money on him.”

  “Shit!” Crutchfield grunted. He didn’t like bounty hunters, and he didn’t like to have to bother with their prisoners, or corpses as was usually the case, and have them hanging around town while he sent for the money. He washed the mouthful down with coffee and loaded up another forkful. “Dammit, I’m eating!”