“I doubt it, unless he left him holdin’ the horses. We need to find out what happened to Nestor. I couldn’t tell if we hit him or not when he was swimmin’ in the river, but I expect that we didn’t. Let’s check the bank on the other side. If he made it, maybe we can find where he came out.”
Hindered somewhat by the moonless night, Hawk and Monroe searched the riverbank on the other side. They moved with deliberate caution, not sure if Nestor had run, or if he was waiting in ambush for them to follow. Helped by a piece of torn bandage caught on a bush, Hawk was able to follow a trail left when Nestor had broken branches in his hurry to run. “This is where they tied their horses,” he said to Monroe when he pushed through the bushes to a small clump of pines to join him.
Monroe looked around him in the darkened pine thicket. “How do you know that? I can’t see a damn thing, it’s so dark.”
“I smell horse shit,” Hawk said matter-of-factly.
“Oh,” Monroe responded, and took a step backward, thinking not to step in it.
“Yep,” Hawk said. “He took off right through those young pines.” He pointed to some small bushes, trampled by the horses in their haste. “Took those other fellows’ horses with him. I don’t expect he’s thinkin’ much about comin’ back for more. I think Nestor has finally had enough.” Thinking he knew Nestor pretty well now, he figured he wouldn’t make another attempt without a couple of new men for backup.
Hawk took the time to scout the banks of the river for almost a mile upstream and down, moving silently through the dark cottonwoods and pines that lined it. Satisfied that he could assume that Nestor was not likely to make another try, he returned to the campfire to talk things over with Monroe. He found him, kneeling by the fire, examining his rifle as if seeing it for the first time. Hawk had a fair idea of what he was thinking and figured he had been right in guessing that Monroe had never killed a man before. No matter how heinous the victim, to take another man’s life was a portal that few decent men crossed. And everything on the other side of that threshold would never be the same as it had been before. He didn’t know how to tell him that. Monroe would have to work that out himself.
There remained always a danger that sometime in the future another attempt might be made by Nestor to settle what had now become a sizable score. But Hawk felt sure that they would see no more of the belligerent would-be murderer in the near future. His normal tendency might be to go after Nestor and bring the feud to a close, but there was a more important job to consider, the task they had first set out to accomplish. Every day that passed would put them farther and farther behind in the effort to find Jamie Pratt and his wife. They could not afford to delay any more than they could help, because the trail was already cold. Still, he felt obligated to warn Monroe. “I can’t say for sure if Roy Nestor has called it quits or not. A man like him don’t take to gettin’ whupped as bad as he just got. It’s me he’s out to get, but he’ll put you under, too, if he decides to come after me again and you’re ridin’ with me.”
“I appreciate what you’re telling me,” Monroe said. “But I’m still convinced you’re the best chance I’ve got of finding my brother. And you’re right, we can’t afford to waste any more time, so I say, to hell with Roy Nestor. Let’s keep going at first light.”
“You’re the boss,” Hawk replied, glad to see that Monroe appeared not to have let the recent events get the better of him. “We’ll get a couple hours’ sleep before we saddle up and should be in Helena before dark. We’d best make our beds down close to the horses just in case. I’ll go back and see if there’s anything left of the blankets we wrapped around those logs. I expect they’re about shot full of holes.” He started to walk away, then stopped, turned around, and asked, “Is that okay with you?”
“It’s okay with me,” Monroe replied, “but I think I could use a drink outta that bottle we bought in Bozeman.”
“Might not be a bad idea at that,” Hawk said, and started toward the hummock to fetch the blankets, a faint smile on his face and the feeling that Monroe showed enough grit to get the job done.
CHAPTER 6
The night passed peacefully enough with no visit from Roy Nestor. First light found Hawk and Monroe in the saddle, each man leading a packhorse. Crossing the river close to the point of the prior night’s attack, they passed by the two bodies lying near the water, their weapons and ammunition packed on the packhorses. They paused for only a moment to look at them, content to leave them there for the buzzards to feed on. Hawk couldn’t help thinking that providing food for the vultures was most likely the first useful thing the two bushwhackers had ever done. He nudged the buckskin with his heels and set out at a gentle lope, planning to follow the river north through the Helena Valley. Helena was a good forty miles away, but with one stop to eat and rest the horses, they reached the bustling mining town well before dark. Rapidly on its way to becoming Montana’s busiest city, it was still not that far removed from the rough little settlement that evolved around Last Chance Gulch. There were several thriving saloons and a couple of bawdy houses on the main street built along the winding gulch as well as some shops and stores for the more peaceful segment of society.
Thinking to take care of the horses first, they pulled up at the stable where Monroe had stabled his horses while in Helena. Frank Bowen, the owner, was outside in the corral, but came to meet them. “Mr. Pratt,” he called out in greeting. “I see you got back from Fort Ellis. Was the army any help to find your brother?” He latched the corral gate behind him while eyeing the man with Monroe as they both dismounted.
“Maybe,” Monroe answered. “There wasn’t anything else the army thought they could do. They didn’t think it was worth sending out more patrols, but they did send me to find John Hawk.”
“I was wonderin’,” Bowen said. “If anybody had asked me who this feller was, I woulda guessed he was Hawk.” He extended his hand and said, “Frank Bowen, glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hawk.” He had heard people talk about the scout who wore a feather in his hat.
Hawk shook his hand and said, “Mr. Bowen.” He didn’t ask how Bowen could have guessed his name. He hadn’t done any business at the stable before. “I reckon I’m gonna need to keep my horses here for a day or two until we decide what we’re gonna do.” As he had in Bozeman, he made arrangements to sleep with his horse after Monroe repeated an offer to put him up in the hotel with him. With that settled, Bowen turned back to Monroe.
“One of the fellers on that wagon train with your brother brought his wagon in to fix his front wheels this mornin’,” Bowen said. “He might still be over there at the blacksmith’s in case you might wanna talk to him. Maybe he can tell you somethin’ to help you out.”
“Might at that,” Hawk answered before Monroe had a chance to. He figured he was going to need information from any source.
They found Grover Bramble working a new rim onto Henry Denson’s wagon. Denson was seated on a stool under a sheet of canvas, smoking his pipe while Bramble worked. The blacksmith glanced up and nodded when they walked in, then paused and stood up when he recognized Hawk. “Hawk,” he greeted him. Unlike Bowen, Bramble had occasion to do business with Hawk when his buckskin gelding needed shoeing once before. “What brings you up this way again? Last time I saw you, you were scoutin’ for an army patrol, chasin’ some Sioux horse thieves.”
“Matter of fact,” Hawk allowed.
“Whatcha doin’ up here this time?” Bramble asked.
“Tryin’ to help Monroe, here, find out what happened to his brother,” Hawk replied. “Feller over at the stable said this man was on the train with him.” He nodded toward Denson. “Thought maybe we’d talk to him.”
Hearing Hawk’s comments, Denson got up from the stool and came over to join them. He introduced himself, and Monroe told him who he was. “So you’re Jamie’s brother,” Denson said. “He was a fine young man, and his wife was a sweet little thing. We were all disappointed to hear about their bad luck. The army se
nt a patrol up here to look for them. Did they have any luck?”
“No, sir,” Monroe said. “Hawk and I are trying to see if we can find some trace of them—thought maybe you might remember something that would help. I guess it was bad luck for Jamie when the rest of you decided not to go on after you made it here to Helena.”
“Well, that ain’t exactly the way it happened,” Denson said. “We didn’t intend to stop here. We were all plannin’ to travel all the way to Washington Territory, but our guide quit on us, said he got word that Sioux Indians were slaughtering every wagon train that passed through the mountains west of here. We found out when that army patrol came through that there was no truth in what our guide told us. We just got bamboozled, and he didn’t give us any of our money back, either. The lieutenant leadin’ that patrol told us we could have followed that road ourselves. We didn’t need a guide in the first place.” Thoroughly heated up from revisiting the incident, Denson puffed furiously on his pipe, but it had already gone out. He tapped the ashes out on the side of his wagon and continued. “We got a group of us together to talk about whether we oughta load up and start out for Walla Walla again.” He shrugged. “But we decided we were pretty satisfied with the land right where we are. I staked off one hundred and forty acres near the river about five miles from town. I figure my wife and my three boys and I can make us a nice farm out of it.” He shook his head then and concluded, “I wish I could tell you somethin’ to help poor Jamie and Rachel, but all I know is they pushed on by themselves.”
“I expect you’re fortunate to have come this far, considering the man you hired as wagon master,” Monroe commented. “You’re lucky he didn’t murder any one of you.” He went on to relate the dealings he and Hawk had just experienced with their leader.
“My Lord,” Denson exclaimed. “I figured he was scum, but I never thought he was that evil.”
“Maybe you can tell me where their wagon was found,” Hawk said, looking toward the blacksmith. “I’d like to take a look for myself.”
“I can,” Bramble responded, and nodded toward the back of his shop. “That’s the wagon back there. I put a new axle on the front. The soldiers found it on the side of a stream in Mullan Pass.” He hesitated before continuing, turning his attention to Monroe. “I reckon you could lay claim to the wagon since it belonged to your brother. I wouldn’t give you no argument on it, but if you do claim it, I’d have to get paid for goin’ after it and puttin’ a new axle on it.”
Monroe considered that for a few moments. He hadn’t really thought about the wagon one way or the other. “I reckon you can keep the wagon,” he finally decided. “I don’t want to fool with it right now.”
“I ’preciate it,” Bramble said. Eager to help then, he described in as much detail as he could where the wagon had been found. “You know where the road cuts through that pass they call Mullan Pass, about ten miles north of here, right?” Hawk said he did. “Just as you come to where the road bends around a flat table rock and crosses a stream, that’s where they found the wagon. I saw a helluva lotta tracks around it, and some of ’em was Injun.” He looked quickly at Monroe. “I know that ain’t good news, but leastways there weren’t no bodies.” Looking back at Hawk, he said, “That’s about all I can tell you.”
“Much obliged,” Hawk replied. He turned to Monroe. “I reckon we’d best head up that way in the mornin’.”
“Reckon so,” Monroe said. “Right now, though, I think I could use a little drink before supper. Then I’ll see if there’s a room available at that place I stayed at when I was here before.”
“Where’d you stay last time?” Denson wanted to know. When Monroe said it was the Davis House, Henry said, “That’s where I’m stayin’ tonight. You picked a good place. Gracie Davis runs a nice clean house, but I reckon you know that if you stayed there before.”
“You’re staying in town?” Monroe asked. “You’re not going home?”
Henry answered with a sheepish grin. “Yep, I told the missus the wagon would take a long time and it’d be too late tonight to start back. Farmin’s hard work and a man don’t get a chance to howl too often. So I figured I’d get me a little drink before supper, too, without the little woman givin’ me the fisheye. Maybe I can join you fellers, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Sure,” Monroe responded, “be glad to have you.” He glanced at Hawk to see if it was all right with him, but he showed no sign to indicate he cared one way or the other.
“Last Chance?” Henry asked, referring to the closest saloon.
Monroe looked at Hawk, who shrugged in response. “Last Chance it is,” Monroe said.
“Good. I’ll settle up with Grover and I’ll be right behind you,” Henry said. “Looks like he’s almost done with that wheel, so I won’t be long.” He looked at the blacksmith, and Grover nodded his confirmation.
The Last Chance Saloon, one of the earliest watering holes to open up in Helena, was located in the center of the town. Hawk had rinsed the trail dust out of his throat there on several occasions when passing through on his way to hunt with his Blackfoot friends in the mountains north of Helena. It was not yet sundown, but the saloon was already busy, with most of the tables occupied. Some of them had card games under way and a couple of the saloon’s soiled doves were working the gamblers, especially those who were ahead in the game. “Pick out a table while I go get a bottle and some glasses,” Monroe said, and headed to the bar. There were only a few tables to choose from, so Hawk chose the only one that was not right next to one of the card games.
Standing beside one of the gamblers in a poker game, Gladys Welch could not help noticing the rugged stranger carrying a Winchester. She paused to consider the chances that he might be a prospect for her services. He was kind of interesting, she thought, with the look of a man born to the wild, but it was a fair guess that he didn’t have a lot of money to spend on a woman. While she was still trying to decide if he was worth her efforts, he was joined by another man with a bottle and what looked to be three glasses. Her interest was sparked a bit by that, thinking maybe the third glass might be for a female companion. So she sauntered over to their table just as Monroe pulled a chair back and sat down. “Howdy, gents,” Gladys sang out cheerfully. “Looks like you boys are one short of a party. My name’s Gladys and I’m good at parties.” Being well experienced in her trade, she quickly sized up the man who bought the bottle as a serious, responsible individual. But that didn’t necessarily rule out the occasional dallying when away from home and hearth. As for his companion, she was still not sure how to size him up, him with the hawk feather stuck in his hat. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, more like that of a tawny mountain lion you might admire, but from a distance.
“We’re waiting for a friend to join us,” Monroe told her. “Then we’re just interested in having a drink before we go to supper.” He glanced at Hawk to see if he might have other ideas, but he was as somber as ever, making no comment. “I reckon we’ll have to pass up the opportunity to visit with you tonight, Gladys,” Monroe said, taking pains to be as polite as he could.
“Suit yourself,” Gladys said, and returned to watch the card game.
Hawk and Monroe had finished their first drink by the time Henry Denson came in the door, looked over the crowd until spotting them, then walked briskly over to join them. It seemed obvious in his enthusiastic approach that he had been looking forward to this night out away from the farm. “We’re one ahead of you,” Monroe greeted him, and poured him a drink. “Sit yourself down and we’ll wait for you to catch up.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Henry said, and pulled a chair back. He took the drink just poured and offered a toast. “Here’s hopin’ you fellers find Jamie and Rachel unharmed.” They drank to that, then poured another. “What did they charge for the bottle?” Henry asked. “I expect to pay for my share of the whiskey.”
“The whiskey’s on me,” Monroe said.
“Why, thank you kindly,” Henry responded. “
It tastes better already.” After another drink, he turned his chair at an angle, better to watch the goings-on in the barroom. He seemed especially interested in the painted ladies working the customers. After tossing back another whiskey, he turned back to the table. “Looks like I’m doin’ most of the drinkin’,” he declared.
“You just go right ahead,” Monroe said. “I just wanted to cut the dust a little before going to supper. And I haven’t known Hawk but a short time, but I don’t think he ever takes more than two drinks.” He looked at Hawk, who was idly fiddling with his empty glass. “Is that about right?”
“Most of the time, I s’pose,” Hawk answered, surprised that Monroe had had the opportunity to notice. “Special occasions maybe more,” he added. He enjoyed a drink once in a while, but he had never actually been drunk but once, and he didn’t like the feeling of unsteadiness it had caused. To boot, it left him with a powerful headache and a queasy stomach the next morning. He decided to limit his drinking ever since.
Henry Denson was the opposite. He got drunk any time he had an opportunity, and they didn’t come very often, so he took advantage of Monroe’s generosity. In the short time it took for Monroe and Hawk to finish their drinks and announce it was time to start for the dining room, Henry was riding free and easy on the effects of Sam Ingram’s corn whiskey. “What’s your hurry?” he asked when Hawk and Monroe pushed their chairs back. “It’s still a little early for supper. Let’s have a couple more drinks.”
“We’ll leave the bottle with you,” Monroe said, thinking that was the most likely reason for Henry asking them to stay.
“You are a true gentleman,” Henry said grandly, even as he openly gazed in Gladys Welch’s direction. His sense of morality having been loosened considerably by the whiskey he had so quickly consumed, he began thinking about something else he could buy with the money he had planned to spend on drink. He got to his feet when Monroe stood up and started to leave. “Maybe I’ll see you over at the hotel,” Henry said, and took a few unsteady steps in the direction of the door, but stopped when he reached the poker game and Gladys Welch. Tapping her on the shoulder, he said, “I’ve got almost half a bottle of whiskey back on the table. I’d like to buy you a drink.” Surprised, she turned to give him a looking-over. “You ain’t gonna make no money at this table,” he pressed when she exhibited no interest.
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