Hell Hath No Fury

by Charles G. West

  Hawk didn’t respond at once, waiting until he picked up the two shot glasses the bartender set out. He locked eyes with the obviously drunken belligerent and said, “Nestor, I don’t normally take advantage of a man too drunk to keep his mouth shut, but I reckon I’ve heard enough outta you. I don’t know what your problem with me is and I can’t say as I really give a damn. So you just mind your own business and I’ll take care of mine.” He turned and walked back to the table where Monroe sat, astonished by the confrontation between the two.

  “You better turn your back and walk away,” Nestor bellowed after him. Hawk ignored him.

  “That’s that Nestor fellow, that wagon master,” Monroe said when Hawk sat down. “What’s he raving about?”

  “Nothin’,” Hawk replied, and filled the two glasses. “It’s just the whiskey workin’ on what he calls a brain.” Eager to change the subject, he said, “Corn whiskey’s all the bartender’s got. Sorry he didn’t have any rye.”

  “That’s all right,” Monroe said. “I’m sure it’ll do the job. I’m not in the habit of drinking too much, anyway.”

  “I reckon that’s something we’ve got in common,” Hawk allowed. “I never wanted to drink so much that I didn’t have control over my actions.”

  “Like that fellow over there?” Monroe asked.

  “Yeah, like him,” Hawk replied. He filled the shot glasses a second time. “Damn, that stuff burns pretty good, don’t it?” He chased it with a swig of beer, then pushed the glass over toward Monroe. “Help yourself. Maybe there’s enough left to put out the fire.”

  “I appreciate it,” Monroe said, trying to laugh while grimacing from the first drink. They both chuckled over their reaction to the stinging liquid. “I don’t believe I’m gonna need more than two drinks before we go get some supper. That stuff’s hard on an empty stomach.”

  “We’ll take the bottle with us,” Hawk said. “It’ll be good for snake bites or bullet holes, or anything else we run into that needs killin’ or skinnin’.”

  They both pushed their chairs back and got up, but their departure was not going to be that simple. “Uh-oh,” Monroe murmured when he turned to see Roy Nestor push away from the bar and stride on wobbly legs to stand in their way. He glanced at the grinning faces of the men still hovered around the end of the bar before taking a quick glance in Hawk’s direction to see his reaction. Seeming not to even notice Nestor’s outright challenge, Hawk walked right by him to pay Grainger for the bottle in his hand.

  Enraged to be so coldly ignored, Nestor turned to again block Hawk’s path, causing the rangy scout to inform him, “I ain’t got time to fool with you right now, Nestor. You’re standin’ between me and supper.”

  “You smart-mouth son of a bitch,” Nestor blurted. “I’m callin’ you out. You’ve been stuck in my craw ever since that patrol on the Yellowstone.”

  “You mean when you went ridin’ off up the river chasin’ after that Sioux war party you couldn’t find?” Hawk responded.

  “Damn you!” Nestor bellowed, his hand hovering over the handle of the .44 he wore on his hip. Even as inflamed as he was, however, he hesitated to draw it. He was not so drunk that he thought he could draw his weapon before Hawk cut him down with the Winchester he already held in his hand. His vision, although somewhat fuzzy from the alcohol, was sharp enough to see that the hammer on the rifle was cocked and Hawk’s trigger finger rested lightly on the trigger guard. Nestor prided himself on his reputation as a fast gun, but nobody was that fast. “You’re wearin’ a six-gun on your hip, so hand that rifle to your friend, there. I’m goin’ out in the street and wait for you to come out and face me. If you ain’t out there in five minutes, you’re nothin’ but a low-down yellow bastard, and I’ll come back in here to get you.”

  “All right, Nestor,” Hawk replied. “I’ll be right out as soon as I pay Mr. Grainger for this bottle of whiskey.”

  Nestor tossed an arrogant smile in the direction of the drinking partners he had been performing for, then spun on his heel and marched toward the door. From having ridden on patrol with Hawk before, he was smug in the knowledge that the rugged scout was not one to practice with a handgun, the rifle being his preferred weapon. He, on the other hand, considered himself quite adept at handling the Colt .44 he carried. Consequently, he was quite confident that he would win any duel with pistols between them and it would go a long way in establishing the reputation he coveted. The fact that he had consumed an impressive amount of Fred Grainger’s liquid fire did not worry him in the least. If anything, it bloated his estimation of his ability as a gunman.

  Finding it hard to believe what was actually happening, Monroe shook himself out of his temporary paralysis in time to step up to the bar where Hawk was busy negotiating a price for the bottle of whiskey. “Here, I’ll pay for that,” Monroe volunteered. “That comes under the heading of supplies.”

  “Much obliged,” Hawk said, and stepped aside. “I was just tellin’ Grainger, here, that the bottle wasn’t quite full when we bought it, so we oughtn’t have to pay for a full bottle.”

  Monroe ignored the comment and slapped some money down on the counter, his thoughts on a matter he considered of more importance than the price of the whiskey. He had not known Hawk long enough to judge his reaction to an outright challenge that might possibly end his life. Monroe was greatly concerned about the threat issued by Nestor and he turned to confront Hawk while Grainger eagerly counted out the price for an unopened bottle. “Are you planning on going out in the street to face that man in a duel?” Monroe paused for a few seconds until Nestor’s friends filed out the door, eager to watch the showdown, the smiles of anticipation still plastered on their faces. A thought occurred to him that he might be losing his guide if this thing didn’t turn out in Hawk’s favor.

  In answer to Monroe’s question, Hawk said, “No, you and me are fixin’ to go to the hotel to eat supper. You ready? I know I am. I ain’t in the mood to waste time with loudmouths like Roy Nestor.”

  Baffled by Hawk’s seemingly casual ignoring of a man waiting for him with the express purpose of shooting him down, Monroe questioned, “How are we gonna get around him? He’s standing in the middle of the street and we’ll have to go by him if we’re really going to the hotel.”

  “We’re not goin’ around him. We’re goin’ through him. You ready to go?” Without waiting for an answer, he started for the door, cranking a cartridge into the chamber of the Winchester as he walked. “Just follow me.” Monroe hurried out behind him, followed close behind by Grainger, who didn’t want to miss the show.

  Outside, Hawk paused just a moment to survey the scene. A sizable group of spectators had gathered even in that short time, a testimony to the quickness with which word of a possible gunfight could spread. He returned his cool gaze to focus on Nestor, some forty yards away in the middle of the street. He was standing with feet widespread and knees slightly bent, as if ready to spring into action. Hawk glanced at a tiny dust devil skipping along the dusty street, then looked at the flag on the short pole by the post office just to verify the direction of the slight breeze. Satisfied that it was not enough to make him overly cautious in his aim, he stepped off the board stoop.

  The first shot startled everyone on the street, though none so much as Roy Nestor when the rifle slug kicked up a puff of dust between his feet. Stunned, Nestor was still confused when a second shot, then a third, ripped into the dusty street close around his feet, causing him to jump backward. On a straight line, walking toward him, Hawk fired shot after shot around Nestor’s feet, each one seeming closer than the one before. Frantic, Nestor pulled his .44, although he was hard pressed to take aim, what with the bullets plowing up the street at his feet. When he finally fired one harmless shot that went through the window of the saloon, Hawk shifted his aim to send a slug through Nestor’s boot. Nestor emitted a loud howl and hobbled for the safety of the general store, which was the closest port of cover. Two spectators standing at the entrance to the st
ore scampered away, fleeing the path of the apparent maniac.

  “Step lively,” Hawk cautioned Monroe. “We need to get outta range of his handgun before he decides to come out of the store.”

  It was a wise but unnecessary precaution, due to the panic that now possessed Nestor. Suffering the pain in his foot and the tempest swirling in his stomach from too much alcohol, he lurched drunkenly into the store only to empty the contents of his gut onto the floor. His anger now reaching a boiling point, he straightened up to confront an eight-year-old girl who stared at him with eyes open wide in amazement. It was only for a moment, however, before the child’s mother grabbed her hand and snatched her behind the counter. Suddenly feeling the humiliation of vomiting on the floor, Nestor turned to meet the astonished face of William Bates, the owner of the store. “What the hell are you gapin’ at?” Nestor roared at Bates. The terrified store owner was too stunned to answer. Nestor tried to regain some measure of dignity, but he was unable to ignore his throbbing foot as he limped to the window. Hawk and Monroe had already disappeared. Left with the feeling that he had been buffaloed, he mumbled a vow to kill Hawk, holstered his .44, and went to the door.

  Bates, no longer fearing the loss of his life, managed to utter a parting remark. “Looks like you’re gonna be needin’ some new boots. I’ve got several styles that oughta fit you.” Nestor paused for a moment. His first reaction was to turn around and shoot the store to pieces, but he had been shamed enough by the mess he had made on the floor. To him, that might have been taken as a sign of total cowardice by Bates, thinking he had become sick with fear. He swore to avenge himself, but the throbbing in his foot caused him to think about a doctor first. The closest thing to a doctor in Bozeman was the barber, so he limped down the street to his shop, waving his pistol at anyone on the street stopping to stare at him.

  While Nestor had suffered the humiliation of emptying the contents of his stomach on Bates’s floor, Hawk and Monroe had plenty of time to reach the hotel. Monroe needed to avail himself of the hotel’s outhouse before eating, so he told Hawk to go on to the dining room and he would join him there. The happenings in Grainger’s Saloon were not the norm for him and he thought it would be good for him to consider the possible consequences to follow.

  CHAPTER 5

  Monroe Pratt was rapidly learning that the guide he had hired to help him track down his brother was like no other man he had ever met. When Hawk had started firing his rifle Monroe naturally thought he planned to murder Nestor at long range, with no intent to face him in a duel. To the contrary, the rangy rifleman appeared to have no desire to kill Nestor, because every shot he fired traced a neat little pattern around Nestor’s feet, moving him backward, like herding cattle. Monroe didn’t think to count the shots, but he guessed that Hawk must have almost emptied the magazine, and every shot, one of pinpoint accuracy. There was little doubt that he could have placed a fatal shot, had he so desired, but he settled for a wounded foot, just to rid himself of an annoyance. The only worry that occurred to Monroe was whether or not Nestor had sense enough to know his life had been spared and to count himself lucky to still be walking around. Or was Hawk, and maybe himself, now in danger of being shot in the back? He knew one thing for certain—he was not going to rest easy until they had left Bozeman behind them, and that would not be until morning.

  These were the thoughts that occupied Monroe’s mind when he walked into the hotel dining room to find Hawk seated at a table with his back to the wall, waiting for him. He noticed the rifle propped against the wall beside Hawk’s chair as he unbuckled his gun belt and left his Colt on the table just inside the door. He questioned Hawk about it when he approached the table. “How’d you get away with holding on to your rifle? The hotel’s pretty strict about their rule of no guns in the dining room.”

  “Yes, they are,” Hawk replied. “And a good rule it is, too, but the woman runnin’ things here agreed that it might be a good idea to have a little bit of protection while there’s a mad dog with a sore foot runnin’ around town. I reckon she heard all those shots fired in the street earlier—mighta spooked her a little. She—I think her name’s Sadie—told me to leave it by the door at first, but she let me keep it as long as I promised not to shoot her cook if I didn’t like the food.”

  Monroe nodded. He could well imagine that Sadie might have even witnessed the altercation having just taken place outside on the street. With that thought in mind, he pulled out a chair on the side so as not to have his back to the door as well. “It’s been pretty good eating here for the couple of days I’ve been in town,” he said, mostly for the benefit of the woman approaching the table with a coffeepot and an extra cup for him.

  “You eatin’, too?” Sadie asked Monroe.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “What is the special tonight?”

  “Beef stew,” she answered. “Same as it is every Wednesday night.”

  “Right,” he came back quickly, as if he should have known. He had tried on prior occasions to make polite conversation with the stoic woman, but she seemed either incapable of small talk or simply saw no future in knowing him any better. She filled their cups and returned to the kitchen to prepare two plates.

  In spite of Sadie’s lack of cheer, the food was good and the servings were generous. They ate their supper without interruption save that of the somber woman with her coffeepot. Although Hawk had taken precautions against a sudden visit from Roy Nestor, he had felt that there was little danger of an attack in the hotel dining room. He figured Nestor to be more inclined to hide someplace across the street from the hotel, wait for him to come out, and try for a shot in the back. They ate their supper and made their plans to get started early the next morning before breakfast. Because neither man had any strong need, nor desire, to visit a saloon after supper, and because of the early start scheduled the next day, they said good night when the meal was finished. After Monroe went upstairs to his room, Hawk stuck his head in the kitchen door to tell Sadie he thought the stew was the best he’d ever eaten. It wasn’t, but he made it a habit to always compliment the cook. His comment served to replace the ever-present scowl on her face with an awkward smile. “You come back to see us,” she said as he went out the back door to make his way behind the buildings on his way to the stable. He had advised Monroe to take the same route in the morning, just to be safe.

  * * *

  Like the night just past, morning came without further incident. Hawk was saddled up and his packhorse ready to go by the time Monroe appeared at the stable door. “I saddled your horse,” Hawk said. “You can check that cinch to see if it suits you.”

  “Much obliged,” Monroe said. “I reckon we’re ready to get started, then.” Since Lem Birchfield had been paid in advance, they stepped up into the saddle and walked their horses out into the early-morning light. Hawk peered down the empty street, his focus moving from storefront to storefront, seeking to catch any irregularity in the normal outlines of the structures. Satisfied that Nestor had no plans for an early visit, he waved Monroe on and pushed his buckskin to a steady lope past the hotel and saloons.

  Once they were out of town, they followed the wagon track northwest along the Gallatin River to a point about twelve miles east of Three Forks. They left the common wagon track at that point and veered off up the valley to the north, riding another ten miles or so before stopping to rest the horses and eat their breakfast. Pushing on, they continued up the broad valley, west of the Big Belt Mountains, stopping to make camp on the Missouri River with a little over a day’s ride left to reach Helena. Hawk had caught no sign of anyone following them all through the day, but he reminded himself that Nestor had worked many years as a scout and tracker, so he was careful in choosing a campsite. There was never any reason to be careless, he told himself, whether anyone was chasing him or not. But by the time they were sitting around the fire eating the venison Hawk had killed two days before, concern about Roy Nestor was all but forgotten. Their talk centered more on Jamie
Pratt. Hawk was interested in knowing more about Monroe’s younger brother, thinking the more he knew about him, the more he might be able to mentally walk in his boots if it came to the point of guessing what might have happened to him. There was not much Monroe could tell him, however, that would provide any help in tracking him. Most of what he learned was about the Pratt ranch in the Bitterroot Valley. From what he gathered, Monroe, the oldest brother, made the decisions since the death of his father, but nearly always after conferring with Thomas, the middle brother. According to Monroe, Thomas was married to the land and the cattle, and worked harder than anyone else to develop the Pratt brand. Jamie, on the other hand, was never one to embrace the business of the ranch. It was welcome news to his brothers when he began exchanging letters with Rachel White, at last showing the interest in the family ranch his brothers shared. A separate cabin was already being built for Jamie and his wife to start their family. Kinda sad when you think about it, Hawk thought, and took the last swallow of his coffee.

  * * *

  “Might be he knows we’re on his tail,” Walt Keenum suggested. The three men stood over the hoofprints leading away from the common trail.

  “Maybe,” Nestor conceded, “but I doubt it.” He held on to his saddle horn in an effort to relieve the weight on his right foot. The bullet that had smashed three of his toes had required no removal by the barber since it had gone right through the boot. But the swelling in his foot had rendered his every step painful—this in spite of the enormous wad of bandaging that forced him to walk on his heel and made it impossible to place his right foot in the stirrup.

  “These tracks mighta been left by somebody else,” Shorty Doyle suggested. “How do you know these tracks are his?”

  “’Cause they’re the same damn tracks we’ve been followin’ ever since we left Bozeman,” Nestor replied curtly. “And they’re the only fresh tracks on the whole damn road.”