Hell Hath No Fury

by Charles G. West

  Feeling slightly irritated by the stoic scout’s apparent lack of interest, Monroe waited until Hawk returned his attention to him before continuing. “It’s a very serious matter,” he said. “And one I hope you would consider a Christian duty.”

  Hawk paused at that, shifted the carcass slightly to one side to center it, and turned to study Monroe. “I don’t consider much of anything I do as my Christian duty. I might, though,” he said, “dependin’ on if you’ll get around to tellin’ me what you’re wantin’ me to do.”

  “I want you to find a white man and woman who went missing around the first of June. The man is my brother and the woman is his wife.”

  Hawk took a moment to reflect before replying. “Up toward Helena, on the Mullan Road?”

  “That’s right,” Monroe said. “You heard about it?”

  “Yeah, I heard about it—heard the army sent out a patrol to look for ’em.” He cocked his head to one side and scratched his chin to help him think. “But that was a couple of weeks ago and if I recollect properly, they didn’t find hide nor hair of ’em.”

  “You remember correctly,” Monroe said. “And the army called off the search.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “He’s my brother,” Monroe replied, thinking that should be reason enough.

  “What makes you think I’d have any better luck than a cavalry patrol?”

  “I don’t know about luck, but Major Brisbin told me that if there was anyone who could find them, it would be you.” He waited a few minutes while Hawk appeared to be thinking it over. “Dead or alive, I want to find out what happened to my brother and his wife. All the army found was his wagon, left on the side of the trail with a broken axle. They found no trace of them, and the horses were gone as well. Whether they went on, on horseback, or they were attacked by Indians, it’s hard to say. But there were no bodies found, so that means there’s a chance they’re still alive. What do you say? Will you help me?” He paused then to watch the scout’s reaction, waiting for his response.

  “I ain’t sayin’ I will and I ain’t sayin’ I won’t,” Hawk said. “You’re talkin’ about a long search, a lotta time spent, and you’ve got a good possibility of comin’ up empty-handed. Your odds ain’t too good.”

  “I know that,” Monroe responded right away. “But he’s my brother,” he repeated. “If you’re worried about the money, I’ll pay you one hundred dollars to look for them and I’ll double it if we find them, dead or alive. Plus, I’ll pay all your expenses for ammunition and supplies.”

  That perked Hawk’s interest more than a bit. That was about four months’ pay when scouting for the army. “It’s about a three-day ride from here to Helena before we even get started,” he said, just to make sure Monroe understood the expenses to be encountered. “You ain’t told me where your brother was headed when he joined that wagon train.”

  “He was heading for Missoula and our ranch in the Bitterroot Valley,” Monroe said.

  Hawk let that sink in for a few seconds. “I heard that train didn’t go any farther than Helena, so your brother went on by himself, I reckon.” He paused to stroke his chin while he considered that. “Just him, his wife, and their wagon, headin’ out on a trip over a hundred and twenty miles away, through country that two or three Indian tribes claim.” He shook his head and commented, “Mister, if I was dealt that hand in a poker game, I’d throw it in.”

  “I suppose so, but Jamie drove that wagon all the way from the Bitterroot Valley to Minnesota to get Rachel and her things, and he’s never been one to fear anything or anyone. So I’m not surprised that he didn’t hesitate to drive the rest of the way with just the two of them,” Monroe said, and still pressed for an answer. “Will you take the job?”

  Hawk snorted a small laugh. “I reckon. I’ve got a few things to do before I go, though. One of ’em’s to skin and butcher this deer. I reckon we’ll be eatin’ it on the way to Helena. You got a horse tied up somewhere on the other side of the creek, or did you walk all the way from Fort Ellis?”

  Monroe laughed. “No, I’ve got a horse tied up back there in the pines.” Unable to resist a little sarcasm, he added, “I left my horse and came on foot when I heard you thrashing around in those berry bushes like a herd of buffalo.” Hawk chuckled to show his appreciation for Monroe’s sarcasm. “How soon can you be ready to leave?” Monroe asked.

  “Like I said, I need to butcher this deer and smoke a good bit of it to eat on while we travel. I’ll close up my cabin, put a few things in a little cache I’ve got hidden back up the hill, and that’s about it. I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon. It’s about forty miles from here to Bozeman, so we’ll need to rest the horses before we start out from there to Helena.”

  “I figured it a little farther than forty miles to get here,” Monroe said. “I left Fort Ellis early yesterday morning and already it’s getting dark between these mountain ranges today.”

  “Most likely you had to ride east to the Yellowstone, then follow it to strike this river, then follow it to the pie-shaped boulder Major Brisbin told you to find, right?” Monroe nodded and Hawk continued. “We won’t go that way goin’ back. We’ll cut across through some mountain passes that’ll shorten the trip. You got all your possibles with you?”

  “No,” Monroe replied. “I’ve got my bedroll, but I left a packhorse back in the stables in Bozeman—didn’t think I’d need it till we start back in that direction. I was thinking we can ride back to Bozeman tomorrow and stay there overnight. Then the horses will be rested and ready to go. Does that suit you?”

  “Suits me fine,” Hawk replied. “I’ll wait here while you go get your horse, then I’ll lead you to my cabin.” He stood there, holding the buckskin’s bridle, watching Monroe walk back into the pines. Seems like a reasonable man, he thought. I hope we can find his brother and his wife, but there ain’t much chance of it. “We can sure as hell use the money, though,” he said to the buckskin.

  * * *

  The first evening the two new partners spent together went well enough. Monroe was eager to help in any chore Hawk had to do before leaving—mostly helping with the smoking of the fresh venison. While they worked, Monroe told about all the events that led his brother, Jamie, to be missing. “Jamie had been writing letters back and forth with a friend of one of our cousins in Minnesota. One thing led to another till Jamie got around to asking her to marry him. She said yes, so he drove a wagon back to get her and her things. The last word we got from him was that he was on his way home to the Bitterroot Valley at Missoula with a wagon train following the Mullan Road to Walla Walla in Washington Territory. They never showed up when they were supposed to, so I left Missoula and backtracked along the Mullan Road, hoping to meet the train. Come to find out, the fellow leading the train left them all high and dry just short of Helena and the other folks on the train decided not to go any farther. Roy Nestor was the wagon master’s name, supposed to have been an army guide. I ran into Nestor in Helena and he told me that Jamie and his bride went on alone from Helena. And like I said, I never met them on the Mullan Road anywhere between Missoula and Helena. I’m hoping you can pick up their trail somehow. I need to know what happened to them.”

  “Nestor, huh?” Hawk responded, still stunned by the news that he had been hired as the wagon master. “So he was out in Minnesota. I wondered what happened to him after he quit scoutin’ for the army.” He refrained from sharing his opinion of Roy Nestor with Monroe—that he doubted Nestor could have found his way back from Minnesota if the army hadn’t built the Mullan Road for him to follow. It didn’t sound like he turned out to be any better as a wagon master than he had as a scout. “You say he quit the train?”

  “That’s what I was told by one of the men who had been a member of the wagon train,” Monroe replied. “Of course, Nestor had a different version of the story. He said the folks in the train decided not to go any farther after they saw the available land around Helena. But according to this fellow who h
ad a wagon in the train, they didn’t decide to stay until after Nestor convinced them it was too dangerous to continue, due to Sioux war parties between Helena and Missoula.”

  “Is that a fact?” Hawk responded. “I ain’t heard there was any increase in Sioux raidin’ parties along that road this summer so far. You said you rode the road from Missoula to Helena. You see any sign of Indian activity?”

  “Obviously not,” Monroe replied, “or I wouldn’t be standing here.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’,” Hawk said. “If I was to guess, I’d say those folks never got any of their money back.”

  “You’d be guessing right,” Monroe said.

  * * *

  It was a good thing Hawk had waited to take Monroe to his cabin. Otherwise, Monroe was not sure he would have found it if left on his own. It was located on the stream, about three hundred yards from where it flowed into the Boulder River. Nestled back under the overhang of a ridge above it, it almost looked to be part of the ridge. Monroe had to give the rough-edged scout credit for building a solid cabin with a fine-working stone fireplace. Although it was still in the middle of summer, the night air chilled the valleys and ravines considerably, but a small fire in the fireplace kept the cabin comfortable. When the chores were finally done in preparation for leaving, Monroe slept solidly until awakened by Hawk early the next morning.

  “There’s still a few things to do before we can go,” Hawk said. “There’s coffee boilin’ in the fireplace. Help yourself. I’m gonna go put some things in my cache, then I’ll be right back to saddle up and load my packhorse.” He picked up a large pack and went out the door. When he returned, he busied himself closing up his cabin while Monroe finished his coffee. “We’ll stop after a while when we rest the horses and fix a little breakfast,” Hawk said when he was ready to start out.

  As Hawk had said he would, he led them across the river and followed a series of game trails that took them through the rugged mountains before striking the Yellowstone at a point about twenty miles southeast of Bozeman. This was where they stopped. After resting the horses and eating some of the fresh venison, they were in the saddle again, arriving in the settlement of Bozeman in the afternoon. “I’ll leave it up to you,” Hawk said as they walked their horses slowly up the one street toward the stables at the far end. “There’s still some daylight left, so if you want to, we can start out for Helena today after we rest the horses.”

  “No, I think I’d rather wait here and start out in the morning, like we planned. By the time I pack up my stuff and check out of my room at the hotel, get my packhorse loaded, it’ll be getting along toward sunset. Besides, we might wanna take the opportunity to have a good supper and a drink of whiskey before we start riding again.”

  “Whatever you say,” Hawk said, although he would have expected Pratt to insist upon starting as soon as possible. “We’re ridin’ on your dollar.” They continued on to the stable.

  “I see you found your man,” Lem Birchfield greeted Monroe when they pulled up by the corral. He looked Hawk up and down when he dismounted. Offering his hand, he said, “Lem Birchfield.”

  “John Hawk,” he returned, taking his hand.

  Although never having met the man, Lem had heard of him. The feather in Hawk’s hatband should have given him a clue and at first glance, he looked worthy of his reputation. Back to Monroe then, he asked, “You fixin’ to leave your horses here?”

  “Yep, we’ll leave mine and Hawk’s here for the night. We’re heading out in the morning, so I reckon a ration of oats might be a good idea for all four of ’em.” Hawk nodded in agreement. If Monroe hadn’t suggested the oats, he would have. His buckskin didn’t often get grain, so whenever Hawk had occasion to stable the horse, he usually sprang for the extra treat. When Hawk asked Lem what he would charge for him to sleep in the stall with his horse, Monroe interrupted. “You can stay in the hotel—bunk in with me if you want to, or I reckon I could pay for another room if you’d rather.”

  “Thanks just the same,” Hawk said. “But I’ll just bed down with my horse, here, if Mr. Birchfield don’t mind. Sometimes those hotel beds are too soft, and I end up on the floor, anyway. Seems like a waste of money.” He looked at Lem. “How much?”

  “I usually charge an extra two bits for a man to stay with his horse,” Lem said.

  “Ought not charge anything since I’m payin’ to board four horses,” Monroe commented. “Hawk’s not likely to eat any oats or hay.” Lem shrugged and complied. Hawk grinned, thinking that Monroe was not as loose with his money as he had at first appeared to be.

  Hawk piled his saddle and packs in a corner of the stall Lem suggested, pulled his Winchester 73 from the saddle sling, then joined Monroe in the short walk to the hotel. When they came to Grainger’s Saloon, next to the hotel, Monroe said, “No sense in you having to go up to the room with me. Why don’t you go on in Grainger’s here and have a drink? And I’ll be back in a few minutes.” There was no argument from Hawk. He paused a moment while Monroe continued on to the hotel, then stepped up on the board stoop in front of the saloon.

  Grainger’s was fairly busy, although it was not yet into the evening hours. Hawk walked through the open door into the dimly lit barroom and stood for a moment looking around the room for a table. There were several open along the far wall and while he paused to decide which one he preferred, he heard a voice from the bar. “Hawk.” There was no mistaking the undisguised contempt in the low, slurred delivery.

  Hawk turned toward the bar, where a small knot of men was gathered around the end, talking to the bartender. His gaze settled upon a broad-shouldered, heavyset man in the center of the four men. “Hello, Nestor,” Hawk said, not at all pleased to see the irritating man. “I heard you were up in Helena.”

  “You did, did you?” Roy Nestor replied.

  “Yeah, fellow told me you were in the wagon train business, guidin’ settlers to Washington Territory,” Hawk said. “Whaddaya doin’ back here in Bozeman? You plannin’ on scoutin’ for the army again?”

  “Hell, no,” Nestor shot back. “I ain’t wastin’ my time on no twenty-five-dollar-a-month job nurse-maidin’ a bunch of dumb soldiers.” He sneered when he added, “I reckon you’re still scoutin’ for ’em.”

  “Whenever they need me,” Hawk said, and turned his attention to the bartender, wanting no further conversation with the loudmouth blowhard. His history with Nestor was short, but of conflicting issues from the start. The first involved the cruel treatment of a horse that Nestor was trying to saddle-break. Hawk didn’t approve of beating a horse into submission and he didn’t hesitate to tell that to Nestor. It was just before turning into a fight when Lieutenant Meade stepped in to stop it and threatened to fire both of them. After that, the lieutenant made an effort to keep them apart whenever possible, but when the company was in the field, it was not always easy to do. The last time they were paired together was on a patrol under Lieutenant Mathew Conner’s command. It was shortly after that patrol that Nestor quit. His sudden resignation came as a welcome surprise, graciously accepted by Meade, for he had already made up his mind to fire the belligerent scout. As for Hawk, he didn’t concern himself with Nestor, one way or the other. He figured he took army pay to do a job, so that was his primary interest. He never sought Nestor out, but neither would he back away to avoid him. Just as he would when encountering a rattlesnake, he would step aside if convenient. But if the snake was prone to attack, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill it. He didn’t have time to settle himself at a table before he was caused to wonder if this was going to be one of those occasions when it was going to be hard to avoid the snake.

  “What’s your poison, mister?” Fred Grainger asked.

  “I reckon I’ll have a glass of beer,” Hawk said, and fished in his pocket for a coin.

  “You’re lucky I’ve got some,” Grainger said. “First I’ve been able to get in about a month.” He poured the beer from a barrel under the bar and set it on top. Hawk picked it up a
nd started toward a table against the wall.

  “Thought you might drink with us at the bar,” Nestor mocked. “Have a shot of whiskey, like a man.” He looked around him at the men standing with him, smirking. “Reckon you’d rather set down at a table and drink your beer like a woman.” He was rewarded with a few chuckles from those standing with him before the room became silent with the patrons suddenly becoming aware of a possible fight.

  Hawk smiled, not at all surprised by Nestor’s baiting. It was the nature of the man to blow and bluster when he had an audience. It was the main reason he had not gotten along with the other scouts who rode for Lieutenant Meade. “Why, I appreciate your kind invitation, Roy,” Hawk replied, ignoring the intended insult. “But I’m waitin’ for a fellow that’ll be here in a few minutes, so I’ll just wait for him to show up. Thanks just the same.”

  “Who is it, your big friend Lieutenant Conner?” Nestor went on. “You two always were thick as thieves.” Hawk ignored the remark and heard the derisive grunt behind him as he continued on to the table. He ignored the grunt as well. Disappointed, the other patrons resumed their noisy drinking.

  He had not finished his glass of beer by the time Monroe came in the door. He stood just inside, looking the barroom over until he spotted Hawk seated at the table, and strode straight toward him. “What are you drinking, beer?” Monroe asked as he pulled a chair back. “I was thinking of something with a little more bite than beer.”

  “Me, too,” Hawk said. “But I thought I’d wait for you. Whaddaya want?” Monroe expressed a preference for rye whiskey, but said he’d settle for corn if that was the only choice. “Set yourself down,” Hawk said, “and I’ll get us a bottle.”

  When Hawk went to get the whiskey, it momentarily silenced the loud conversation between the four men at the bar. Nestor didn’t say anything at first while he stared at Monroe sitting at the table. He was sure he had seen him before, but his memory was clouded by the alcohol he had consumed, so he returned his attention to Hawk. “You sure you’re man enough to handle that stuff?” he said when Hawk picked up the bottle Grainger placed on the counter.