Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  “Want me to tell him to come up here?”

  “Shit, no. Tell him I’ll be there when I’m done.” He continued to eat.

  “Yessir, but don’t be too long. He’s a mean-lookin’ son of a bitch and big as a house. Looks like a cross between a buffalo and a grizzly bear.”

  Crutchfield was unimpressed. “Tell him I’ll be there when I’m done.”

  When he had consumed the last bite, he took the last small piece of bread crust and wiped the plate dry with it, then ate it. After draining his coffee cup, he pushed back from the table and sat there a moment, waiting for the satisfying belch he knew would come. Contented, he got up and left the saloon.

  He picked his way carefully across the muddy street. Although it was referred to as a street, it was in reality a dark, sticky river, churned by the hooves of horses and the wheels of mule skinners’ wagons. Crutchfield swore repeatedly as he tried to avoid the worst spots, punctuated by a loud “Goddammit!” whenever he misjudged a step and splashed mud on his twenty-five dollar Justin boots.

  The bounty hunter was waiting for him outside the jail. He stood by his horse, seemingly oblivious to the mud he was standing in. Will Proctor was right. He looked like a cross between a buffalo and a grizzly bear. A meaner looking man Crutchfield had never seen, and, though he had never seen this man before, he needed no introduction.

  “You’re Cobb, ain’t you?”

  Cobb smiled, pleased that his reputation was so widespread. “I’m Cobb,” he answered, “and this here gentleman is Rupert Slater. I got paper on him.” He produced a wanted poster from his saddlebag and handed it to Crutchfield.

  Crutchfield took the piece of paper, unfolding it while he eyed the huge bounty hunter. Glancing down at the written description on the paper, he looked for references to identifying marks. Then he walked around to the dead man’s horse, and with the poster in one hand he grabbed the corpse by the hair and attempted to pull his head up in order to get a better look at him. The corpse was frozen stiff, however, and his neck wouldn’t bend. He had to stoop down on one knee to look him over. It was near impossible to tell for sure that the man was, in fact, Rupert Slater. There was the long scar from his ear down across his face, and the body was about the right size. It could be Slater. Crutchfield didn’t really concern himself that much. It was never easy to identify a man from a wanted poster anyway.

  “You’re pretty sure you got the right man here, I reckon,” he finally said.

  “It’s Slater,” Cobb stated matter-of-factly.

  “Didn’t feel like surrendering, I suppose,” Crutchfield said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Reckon not.”

  “I notice he got it in the back.”

  “He run.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Crutchfield replied. “From what I hear, most all the fugitives you bring in come in draped across their saddles instead of settin’ in ’em.” He made no effort to disguise the disgust he held for bounty hunters in general, and this one in particular. It irritated the sheriff further to see that his words had no effect on the bear of a man standing before him.

  “One hundred dollars,” Cobb calmly stated. “The poster says he’s worth one hundred dollars. When do I git it? I got other business to attend to.”

  Crutchfield eyed the man for a long moment before answering. He truly had no use for this manner of man, and yet there was little he could do about their existence. “Well, it won’t be anytime soon—I can tell you that. He’s wanted in Kansas. That’s where the money will have to come from, Kansas City.”

  Cobb eyed the sheriff coldly. “I reckon they can wire it, can’t they?”

  Crutchfield did not try to hide his impatience. It was cold, standing outside, and he didn’t have a mountain of hides draped over him as Cobb did. “Yeah,” he answered gruffly, “they can wire it, but you didn’t notice any dang telegraph lines coming into town, did you? You’ll get your damn blood money, but first I’ll have to send the papers on the stage to Corinne, in Utah territory. That’s the closest railroad. Then they’ll go by mail train to Kansas City. Then you’ll have to wait for them to send the money back the same way.”

  Cobb’s eyes narrowed. He was not pleased by the conversation. “How long?” he asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know, four, six weeks, if they feel like gittin’ on it right away in Kansas City. That is, if the weather don’t turn bad and close up the passes between here and Corinne so the stage can’t git through. Then, it might take two months.” Crutchfield took a certain amount of satisfaction in the reaction caused by his prognosis and the bounty hunter’s obvious distaste for the news. “’Course, if that ain’t fast enough to suit you, you can haul him on down to Utah. Maybe they’ll telegraph for the money for you.”

  Cobb stared hard into the eyes of the sheriff. He was not pleased with the turn of events. He wanted his money, but he wanted to rid himself of the dead man more. After thinking it over for a moment, he said, “No, I’ll pick it up when it gits here.”

  Crutchfield was disappointed. He hoped Cobb would take his dead man and ride out of town. “All right,” he said sighing. Turning to his deputy, he directed, “Will, untie him and see if you can unbend him enough to get him off his horse.” He watched the deputy struggle with the frozen corpse for a few minutes. “Hell, we might have to bury the horse with him.”

  Cobb was quick to interject, “That there’s my horse. His’n got shot.”

  Crutchfield looked hard at the bounty hunter for a moment before a slow grin formed on his face. “Yeah? It sure was lucky you had another one, wasn’t it?”

  “Warn’t no luck to it, Sheriff.” Cobb’s eyes narrowed. Crutchfield was getting on his nerves. “I always have what I need to git the job done.” He was thinking to himself that it would be a great pleasure to come across this self-satisfied, potbellied sheriff alone somewhere out on the prairie. He didn’t like the idea of any man looking down his nose at him, especially a lawman.

  The paperwork didn’t take long to complete, in spite of the sheriff’s complaining. Cobb had done it dozens of times before. All that was required of him was to make his mark on an affidavit claiming the reward. Crutchfield sent Will for the undertaker to certify the death, then he confirmed Slater’s identity and that was it. Promising to return to Bozeman in three or four weeks to get his money, Cobb got on his horse and rode down to the livery stable to sell Slater’s horse and saddle. With some of the money, he bought supplies and ammunition. Then, after a hot meal at the saloon, he rode out of town, back toward the Musselshell. Cobb had very little use for towns of any size. He preferred the frozen mountains and prairies. Besides, he had a notion that it wouldn’t hurt to visit the Broken-T again. Allred had worked there before, and might have decided to return. It was a four-day ride back to the Broken-T if the weather held, maybe twice that if a winter storm hit. Cobb didn’t concern himself with it. Good weather, or bad weather, it was all the same to him. He had camped out in the open in weather most men wouldn’t leave the hearth in. There was a meanness about him that defied even the elements.

  Chapter XI

  While Cobb loaded a packhorse and set out east from Bozeman to strike the Yellowstone, the man he hunted was making camp after one day’s ride from the Broken-T. It had been a long frigid day, although the snow that had fallen the night before was not deep enough to impede Billy’s progress. Tom could have made a few miles more before daylight faded, but he felt a strong desire to make a camp and warm his bones. His spirits could stand a little lifting after the episode with Little Joe, and he figured a warm fire and a hot cup of coffee might go a long way toward perking him up. He had sworn that he would never spend another winter alone in the wilderness after he nearly froze to death in his dugout cave the previous year. But it looked like he was about to do it again. It seemed that every place he tried to light, people spawned another unpleasant encounter for him. And this time it had resulted in the useless killing of a young boy, one he had counted as a friend. May
be he was better off being alone after all.

  When he said farewell to Eli and Smoky that morning, he decided to follow the Musselshell west. There was a court-martial waiting for him back East, so there were very few choices left for him. He considered Canada but he was unsure of that territory, that and reports of trouble with the Gros Ventres and the Assiniboines as well as the Blackfeet. Maybe he could find himself a little valley somewhere away from the army and the bounty hunters, a valley where the streams were still loaded with beaver, as it used to be in the Musselshell country before the American Fur Company trapped it out. Tom recalled the disappointing price he had received for the plews he had trapped that fall; three dollars for prime. It was discouraging but, at present, he could think of no other way to earn a living.

  Sighting a clump of cottonwoods and willows that promised to offer some protection for a campsite, he decided he had ridden far enough that day. Upon riding up under the trees, he discovered that he was not the first to camp there. Someone else, probably Indians, had camped there before. From the signs, it wasn’t recent. There were large patches of grass where the snow had melted during the day, so he tethered Billy where he could graze. He turned the packhorse loose to forage for himself. He wouldn’t wander far and, if he did, Tom had Billy to go after him. He ground up a handful of coffee beans, and before long he sat before the fire, bundled up in his buffalo robe, eating his supper. As darkness approached, he roused himself from his warm cocoon and took his rifle for a quick scout around his camp just to make sure he was alone. Everything seemed to his satisfaction. His packhorse was down by the water, grazing on some shoots and weeds along the river’s edge. Billy seemed quiet enough. As a precaution, he took some extra blankets and made up three dummy beds around the fire. This was a trick he had learned from Squint Peterson. Squint figured it at least increased his odds in the event he was caught napping, which Tom doubted ever happened, and gave him a one-in-four chance of getting the first bullet. Tom had taken to using the dummy beds when he learned about the bounty hunter, even though he was not overly concerned. He figured he was probably the only fool out in this kind of weather. Anybody with any sense, Injun, white, or breed, would be sitting by a warm fire. Tom wanted to remain alert, however, sleeping with one eye open that night, just in case someone from the Broken-T might be tracking him. Big Joe allowed as how the death of his brother was no fault of Tom’s and couldn’t have been helped. Still, Tom figured there was the possibility that after it worked on his mind for a while, Joe might see things in a different light and decide he was honor-bound to avenge Little Joe’s death. It wouldn’t pay to discount trouble from that direction. Despite all of his intentions, fatigue overtook him and he was soon sound asleep.

  The morning broke clear and bright, sending the first rays of light snaking through the cottonwoods that ringed his campsite. He was at once alarmed by the lateness of the hour, having daylight catch him still in his blankets. He was about to deliver a good scolding to himself for his laziness when he discovered a more serious predicament—Billy was gone!

  He rolled out of his blankets, clutching his Winchester. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly scanned the trees that surrounded him. He suspected the worst. Billy would not likely have broken his tether. A moment was all that was necessary to confirm his fears. The sign was not hard to read. Someone, Indian by the look of the tracks, had run off with his horse while he slept. He felt hot with anger and disgust for his carelessness.

  As he ran down toward the river, hoping to find his packhorse, a flood of questions troubled him. Why didn’t Billy make a sound? How had the thief—the tracks indicated only one man—been able to approach within that distance without his having heard? Another thought, more puzzling than these, was why the thief had not killed him? Any Indian, even those who were considered friendly, would not hesitate to kill and scalp a lone white man out on the prairie. It didn’t make sense. But he would have to think about it later. Now he had more urgent things on his mind.

  At the river’s edge, he took cover behind a large boulder while he scanned the horizon for signs. It appeared that he was the only man within miles, alone and on foot. It was plain to him, from the tracks in the hard frozen sand and the snow patches, that the Indian forded the river on foot. Probably tied his horse on the other side near a sprinkling of willows, Tom figured, led the packhorse a few yards downstream and tied it to a tree while he went around the other side of Tom’s campfire and got Billy. From the way the moccasin was made, he figured the thief to be a Blackfoot. The more Tom read the sign, the madder he got, though not as much at the Blackfoot, for stealing horses was an honorable pursuit. No, he was disgusted with his own stupidity for being taken like a rank greenhorn.

  “Well, greenhorn, now what the hell are you gonna do?” He stood there a moment longer before deciding to return to his campfire and get something to eat. He was going to have to leave this place right away. Whoever had stolen the horses was not likely to ride off and leave a man on foot with his saddle pack and harness, not to mention guns and ammunition. He could only wonder why he had not been attacked when the thief took his horses. He puzzled over it while he stirred up the coals and ate a piece of dried jerky. It was only one man. That much Tom was sure of. And since he was alone and not with a hunting party, he must be a renegade or someone in disfavor with his tribe. Otherwise, he most likely would not be by himself in this winter wilderness. Kinda like me, Tom thought. The man must have been poorly armed, or he would have simply shot Tom where he lay. Possibly the dummy beds made him hesitate. If he thought there were actually four men, he might have figured it was not worth the risk. But, hell, Tom reminded himself, there weren’t but two horses. Did he think four men were riding two horses? The more he thought about it, the more it began to make sense. One Indian, probably armed with nothing more than a bow and a lance, didn’t have to take a chance on getting shot once he stole the horses. He was probably sitting back right now, behind one of those hills, watching to see how many white men came out of the trees. He had to figure if it was only one, he could not carry the saddle and pack with him. He would have to leave everything but his weapons if he had any notion of walking. Then it would be a simple matter to ride into the camp and load the white man’s belongings on the stolen horses. Then, with the natural patience of the Plains Indian, he would track the man until he became exhausted from trying to cross the snowy hills on foot, or until a blizzard struck and the man froze to death. If Tom elected to hole up in the cottonwoods where his Winchester could keep the Indian at bay, then the Indian would no doubt decide to share his plunder with his brothers and go back to his village for additional warriors. That is, unless he was the renegade that Tom suspected he was. Everything considered, Tom decided he’d rather be on the move than sitting still. So he figured he had little choice but to start walking and hope that his enemy would make the mistake of coming within rifle range of the Sharps.

  As quickly as he possibly could, Tom rigged a backpack using half of his saddle pack. In it, he carried enough jerky to last him a week, a blanket and as much ammunition as he thought he could carry. He cached his saddle, along with everything else he had left under a deadfall near the bank of the river. That done, he propped his Winchester over one shoulder and his Sharps buffalo gun on the other. Keeping low behind the willows, he set out along the riverbank and left the camp behind. If he was being watched, he hoped he could keep out of sight long enough to get a head start. Before leaving the cover of the cottonwoods, he forded the icy river and headed south. He was not absolutely certain how far he had ridden the previous day, but he figured if he struck out straight south, he would have to reach the Yellowstone in about three days’ time. Then he would follow the Yellowstone west until he found a settlement or, if he had to, until he walked all the way to Bozeman. His original plan to stay away from any towns was now overridden by the necessity to get another horse. At present, aside from the obvious threat of attack, his biggest concern was the weather. If he got c
aught out in the open by a blizzard, he was as good as dead. As far as the Indian tracking him, he didn’t worry that much. He had his rifles and he was confident he would come out on top should the two of them meet. In fact, he sincerely hoped the lowdown thief would track him. He’d let him get within about five hundred yards and then introduce him to Mr. Sharps.

  As much as he possibly could, Tom kept to the coulees and draws, but inasmuch as his desperate situation required him to maintain a more or less true course to the south, he was occasionally forced to take the high ground. From habit, he took some pains to cover his trail whenever he could, but he was on foot, and the snow patches were too frequent and broad. At best, his efforts might gain him a few minutes’ time. Whenever he topped a rise, he paused momentarily to scan his backtrail. For a good hour or so, there was no sign of anyone behind him. He guessed the Indian was no doubt scouting his campsite, searching for the goods that had to be left behind. He only hoped he had hidden his cache well enough. Tom’s driving thoughts now were simply to make haste. There was always the possibility the Indian would decide not to trail him. An Indian would sometimes change his mind for no other reason than he was an Indian.

  Tom was moving at a good pace, a rifle in each hand, as he alternated between a slow trot and a fast walk. He was not accustomed to traveling on foot, and his breath became heavy after only a short while, necessitating longer periods of walking. Coming to a slightly higher rise, he kept below the crest as he topped it, keeping his profile below the hilltop. As he started down, his foot slipped on an icy rock, and he sprawled in the snow. He lay there for a few moments to let his breathing calm down, then crawled back to the crest of the hill to check his backtrail.

  “Damn!” he uttered under his breath. The Indian was on his trail all right, perhaps a mile behind him. He would close that distance in no time at all. He quickly looked around him from side to side, and decided this was as good a place as any to wait for him. He had the high ground and, as long as he had the rifles, the open prairie was to his advantage. So he made ready for his adversary. He brushed the snow from a flat rock at the top of the rise and laid the Sharps down. Then he checked the load in both rifles. Satisfied that his weapons were ready, he settled back to wait for his target to approach. He didn’t have long to wait.