“Thieving son of a bitch,” he muttered when the hostile closed to a point of flat prairie, close enough now for Tom to confirm that it was indeed an Indian who stalked him. He was riding a scruffy-looking pony. Behind him Billy and the packhorse trailed along on a tether. It made Tom’s blood boil to see Billy being led by the thieving savage. One of the few ways a warrior could gain status within the tribe, outside of bravery in battle, was stealing horses. Tom understood this and accepted it, but it was different when it came to his own horse. Stealing Billy was more akin to kidnapping a family member. His anger may have caused him to act a little prematurely, for he cocked the Sharps and sighted on the Indian, allowing him to get to within only about four hundred yards before he squeezed the trigger and felt the solid kick of the weapon against his shoulder. He easily could have waited until the man closed another two hundred yards, a distance from which he could have placed his shot right between the eyes. But, he told himself, there was a slight rise between them, about one hundred yards out, and he might lose sight of his target if he allowed him to approach it. As soon as he pulled the trigger, he knew he was too rash and cursed himself for being a damn fool. As it was, the shot caught the Indian high on the shoulder and knocked him off his horse. Tom hurried to load another cartridge in the Sharps, but the Indian’s reactions upon finding himself shot were too quick for Tom to get another clear shot. The wounded man rolled when he hit the ground and, quick as a fox, grabbed his lead rope and led the horses down into a gulch and out of sight.
“That was another damn greenhorn thing to do,” he berated himself. “Now I don’t know which direction he’ll be coming from.” He made haste to strap on his pack again and scramble down from the hilltop. As he hurried to find a better position to wait for the Indian, he tried to evaluate the damage done by his shot. The man, though knocked off his horse, seemed spry enough when he pulled the three horses down in that gulch. Tom could only guess that he had barely nicked him. A forty-five bullet, with one hundred and twenty grains of DuPont’s finest black powder behind it, would have knocked a hole as big as a fist in the man’s shoulder, if it hit solid meat. He could have kicked himself for firing so soon. If he had waited another couple of minutes, he’d probably be riding Billy now instead of puffing along on foot.
There was no way he could hide himself for very long before the Indian would discover his hiding place. The country was too open with only occasional trees. The good news was that the Indian would not likely be able to sneak up on him as long as it was daylight. Tom’s guess was the man would most likely hobble the horses in the gulch and stalk him on foot, making an effort to circle around behind him. His plan of defense was to find another spot on high ground where he could watch the area around him. Then, when night came, he would get on the move again, and it would remain to be seen who was the better hunter, Tom or the Indian. So, when he came to a rise that appeared to stand a bit higher than the surrounding terrain, he dug out a shallow trench with his knife and settled in to wait. His wait was a long one.
The sun was almost directly overhead when he dug in on the rise. Now it was sinking ever closer to the tops of the peaks in the western sky. Tom, lying in the cold earth of the trench, shifted his position constantly in an effort to keep a watch on the area around him. As the hours passed with no sound nor sign, his body became stiff with inactivity as the cold began to creep into his bones. Maybe he’s hurt worse than I figured, Tom speculated. It was a possibility, but he knew it was more likely the Indian was watching him from some point, patiently waiting for darkness, for why should he risk Tom’s firepower when it would be far less risky to steal upon him under cover of a deep prairie night? He had no choice but to match the Indian for patience, so he made himself as comfortable as possible while keeping his eyes peeled. He got some jerky from his pack and ate. Too bad, he thought, there’s no wood to make a small fire. Coffee would be good. Then he remembered that he had no means to boil coffee anyway. All his gear was cached by the riverbank, if the Indian had not found it that morning. Maybe the Indian was enjoying a cup of hot coffee. There were fewer than two hours of daylight left when he heard a shot.
He scrambled to one knee, scanning the prairie around him. There had been only one shot, but peering out across the rolling hills, he could see no sign of man nor beast. The shot had not been aimed at him, of that he was certain. Or, if it was, whoever fired it missed the whole damn hill. No, it seemed to have come from the gulch where he had last seen the Indian, but he could detect no puff of gunsmoke over that way. He wondered if the Indian had been armed with a rifle after all. From the sound of it, Tom guessed it to be a repeating rifle and not one of the needle guns that many of the Indians had traded for. The mystery was not explained for fully another hour, during which time Tom watched the prairie anxiously, but saw nothing. Long shadows from the hills had begun to form dark pools in the draws and low places, when a man suddenly appeared, coming out of the gulch, leading four horses.
“Hallo up thar! Hold your fire, I’m comin’ up.”
Tom was amazed. It was no Indian. That much he was sure of, for this was a fair-sized hulk of a man. From that distance, he looked to be the size of Squint Peterson, who was the biggest man Tom had ever met. He was cloaked in skins, and the fur of his cap seemed to be a mere extension of the heavy growth of his beard. Tom figured him to be a mountain man, a prospector or trapper. He came on toward Tom, holding up a dark flag-like object about the size of a bandanna. He was calling out something to Tom as he advanced, but Tom couldn’t make out the words. Billy whinnied as he recognized Tom, and Tom stood up to receive his guest.
“Blackfoot!” the huge man called out and Tom realized the dark bandanna was in reality a scalp. The man waved it over his head a few times more before carefully folding it and stuffing it in his buffalo coat. “Reckon he was figurin’ on gittin’ your’n ’stead of losing his’n.” He dismounted, looking Tom over with a curious eye. “Reckon you was in a fix till I come along.”
“I reckon I was.”
“I’m thinkin’ this here rig belongs to you,” he said, indicating Billy and the packhorse.
Tom smiled. “That’s a fact.” He was wary of the grim-looking stranger, no matter how cheerful his talk, so he was relieved to hear he was willing to acknowledge the horses as his.
“How’d you come to be in a fix like this?” the stranger asked, whereupon Tom proceeded to relate how the Blackfoot had stolen the horses during the night, leaving him on foot, but holding all the cards as far as weaponry. Tom, in turn, wondered how this giant of a man managed to get the jump on the Blackfoot.
“Hell, he war so interested in you, he didn’t pay me no mind. What with that and him tryin’ to fix up that hole you put in his shoulder, it war easy. I just left my horses back in them willows and tippy-toed up behind him and blowed a winder in the back of his head.”
At any rate, Tom felt it to be his good fortune that this man happened along. They talked a while longer about the incident, and then, since darkness was not long in coming, they decided to find a more hospitable place to make camp. “I reckon I owe you a better feed than I can offer,” Tom said, “but you’re welcome to share the jerky I brought with me. Maybe sunup we can find some game.”
The stranger smiled, or attempted to. It seemed to Tom that the man had precious little practice in that exercise, the finished product resembling a scowling exhibit of his upper teeth. Tom formed the distinct opinion that the man was generally uncomfortable with pleasantries, but was making something of an effort to appear cordial.
“Why, tain’t no call to eat jerky when I got a rabbit hangin’ on my saddle pack,” he replied. He watched Tom fashion a rawhide halter and slip it over Billy’s nose. “Name’s Cobb. What’s your’n?”
Tom started to reply, then paused while he swung up on Billy’s back. This trapper probably hadn’t the slightest care whether he was a wanted man or not. Still, there was no sense in being careless. “Johnson,” he replied, “Tom Johnso
n.”
They made camp near the banks of a small stream that divided a stand of cottonwoods. The ground was devoid of grass for the horses, but the bark of the cottonwoods offered some nourishment. After Tom had peeled a quantity of small limbs to feed his animals, he went about helping Cobb with a fire. The two men went about their business of making camp, neither man speaking for a long period of time, evidence that both men were accustomed to camping alone. Tom noticed that Cobb saw to his own needs before looking after his stock, a practice Tom disapproved of. Every man had to do according to his own beliefs, so he would never criticize. But Tom had always been taught that a man took care of his animals first, and when the going got hot and heavy, the animals would take care of him. It was more than that, however. There was something else about the huge grimy man that told him he had better sleep with his rifle handy. Cobb seemed to be friendly enough, but it seemed a mite less than sincere, and after they had settled in and cooked the rabbit, he had a tendency to ask an awful lot of questions.
“Tom Wilson, you say your name was?”
“Johnson,” Tom corrected him. He suspected Cobb knew he hadn’t said Wilson.
“Oh, that’s right, Johnson—you did say Johnson at that.” He appeared to mull this over for a while then he asked in a manner meant to be casual, “Where you headed for, Mr. Johnson?”
“Bozeman,” Tom answered.
“Bozeman—I just come from Bozeman. What you aiming to do in Bozeman?”
“Find a place to get warm. I hadn’t thought about it much further than that.”
“Well now, ain’t that strange? I’m headin’ back to Bozeman myself,” Cobb lied. “We might as well travel together. Be a lot safer in case we run into any of that there Blackfoot’s friends.” He had been studying Tom as he moved about making camp and Cobb’s naturally suspicious mind began to work over several small details in Tom’s behavior.
“Maybe,” Tom replied with little enthusiasm. “You might not want to wait for me though. I’ve got to double back and get my possibles I left cached back there a’ways.” He was beginning to get a feeling about his camp partner, a feeling that didn’t sit well with him. He might be better off alone than with this sinister-looking wild man.
“I see you got you one of them repeating rifles. Winchester, ain’t it?” Tom nodded. “I seen you plugged that Blackfoot with that there Sharps, but that Winchester there, now that’s a dandy rifle.” He stretched his massive arms and resituated himself against the tree trunk he was leaning against. “I knowed about a feller over to Miles City had a Winchester like that. Folks over there said he was a helluva shot with it, too. Cut a soldier boy damn near in half with it.” He paused, watching Tom closely.
“That so?” Tom answering, feigning boredom.
When the response was not forthcoming, Cobb continued, “’Course, myself, it don’t make a tinker’s damn to me if he kilt that there soldier, or a hundert more. It ain’t none of my affair. But I would like to see a man shoot like that.”
Tom didn’t answer, but he was immediately alert. He didn’t like the direction of the man’s conversation. It was a hell of a coincidence for this stranger to bring up the subject. Now, as he looked more closely at his chance companion, he remembered Eli and Smoky’s warning about a bounty hunter. A mean-looking son of a bitch they called him, a big fellow. Well, this fellow Cobb surely fit that description. If it was him, Tom figured he wasn’t sure of Tom’s identity, but he was mighty suspicious. The sooner he got clear of this fellow, the better. Although his every nerve ending was alert, Tom maintained a calm, disinterested expression. It wouldn’t do to let Cobb see that his talk made him nervous. “Well,” he said as casually as he could effect, “I think I’ll turn in. It’s starting to get a mite chilly.” He made a show of arranging his blanket. He had no intention of closing his eyes that night, and if all went well, he figured to pull out before Cobb woke up the next morning.
Cobb continued to talk as he took a few steps to the edge of the firelight and untied his buckskin britches to relieve himself. “I don’t mind the cold myself. Matter of fact, I’d just as soon make a cold camp.” Finished with his toilet, he laced up again. “Think I’ll take a look-see around, make shore they ain’t no Blackfeet sneakin’ around the horses.”
Tom watched him walk out of the firelight toward the tethered horses. When he was sure Cobb was not looking back at him, he quickly ejected the cartridges from his Winchester. Taking a quick glance to make sure the Sharps was loaded, he slid it inside his blanket so that it lay across the inside of his right boot. Then he propped the empty Winchester up beside a tree and backed up against it himself, as if he were ready to sleep. From the darkness, where the horses were tied, he heard Cobb call to him.
“Say, Johnson, this here horse of your’n looks like he’s limpin’ some. I’ll take a look at ’em. Does he kick? What’s his name? I don’t want to git kicked in the head.”
“Billy. But you better watch him. He don’t take up with strangers,” he answered. He thought, Unless you’re a damn thieving Blackfoot and then he’ll let you run off with him. Billy would hardly kick but he didn’t like the idea of Cobb fooling around with his horse.
A few short moments of silence passed before Cobb stepped back into the circle of firelight. He wore an expression like that of a coyote with a prairie dog pinned under his paw. “I reckon there warn’t nuthin’ wrong with your horse after all. Billy, you say his name is?” He moved over to Tom’s side of the fire, making a show of warming his hands over the flame. “You never asked me what my line is, Mr. Johnson.” When it became apparent that Tom was still not going to ask him, he continued with obvious relish in his discourse. “I’m a trapper, kind of like you say you are. Only I don’t waste my time on beaver. I trap skunks and polecats, the two-legged kind.” He paused for a moment, but was still met with no response from Tom. Suddenly, in one swift move, he reached down and grabbed the Winchester. When there was no reaction from Tom, he stepped back a few feet and grinned, the same twisted grimace that Tom had seen earlier. “Like I said before, this here is shore a fine lookin’ rifle. The polecat I’m trackin’ now uses one just like this one. He cut a soldier plum nye in half with it over to Miles City. They said it was a feller called hisself Dakota, rode a horse named Billy. That’s what the stable man said.” He stood over Tom then, waiting for his reaction, the smile slowly fading into a scowl. “Now there’s just one thing I want to know before I cut you in half with this fine-lookin’ Winchester. They ain’t no doubt you’re the one they call Dakota. The description fits you right enough. But you can satisfy my curiosity about something. Your name’s Tom Allred, ain’t it? You might as well tell me. You’re a dead man anyway, and they ain’t no sense dying with a lie on your lips.” He brought the Winchester down to level at Tom.
“What if you don’t have the right man?” Tom asked, his voice calm and deliberate.
“I reckon that’d be too bad for you, wouldn’t it? Besides, if you ain’t Dakota, then I reckon it’ll just be my mistake. Either way, your bones bleach out here come summer, and I’ll just keep on lookin’ till I find the real Dakota.”
“That rifle’s not loaded,” Tom stated coolly.
Cobb grinned. “The hell it ain’t,” he sneered, firm in the knowledge that a man who lived in this part of the world never went to sleep with an empty rifle beside him. He paused but a moment, the grin implanted on his grisly features. Then he cocked the hammer back and pulled the trigger. A look of astonishment replaced the grin, and he quickly cocked the rifle again and pulled the trigger. Once more there was no sound save that of the dull metallic click of the firing pin on an empty chamber. With an angry snarl, he threw the rifle away and pulled his heavy buffalo coat aside to uncover his pistol. The grin returned to his face when Tom slowly raised his right leg up off the ground. A feeble effort, Cobb thought, to ward off a bullet. Cobb’s hand had not quite touched the handle of his pistol when he was knocked backward, landing squarely in the campfire.
Tom did not move for a moment, the roar of the heavy Sharps almost startling him, it was so loud. He stared at the smoking hole in his blanket where the bullet went through. In the next instant he scrambled out of his blanket, pistol in hand. Cobb roared like a wounded grizzly and managed to roll out of the fire, which he had almost smothered with his bulk. His buffalo coat was smoldering from the countless sparks that had lit up on his back and shoulders. Tom was quick to make sure Cobb didn’t draw his pistol. He stood with his own pistol aimed at Cobb’s head, ready to finish him. But Cobb was in too much shock to pull his weapon. Tom’s bullet had torn a sizable hole right through Cobb’s side, and the bounty hunter was trying to hold his insides in with both hands. Tom stood over him.
“Damn you,” Cobb spat. “Damn you to hell. You gut shot me.”
“It was you or me,” Tom replied, his voice emotionless as he watched the writhing agony of the man who, moments before, sought to kill him. Cobb, trying desperately to keep his intestines from spilling, snarled like a wounded animal. He tried to pull his pistol but blood gushed from the wound in such profusion that he quickly jerked his hand back over his side.
“Damn you! Damn you!” he continued to spit at Tom, his eyes beginning to glaze over in pain. Tom watched him for a moment, then slowly pulled the hammer back on his pistol. The move did not escape Cobb’s notice, and at once there appeared a calmness in the doomed man’s face. “Tell me, you son of a bitch, are you Tom Allred?”
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