Hanging back for no particular reason, Hawk got to his feet and picked up his rifle at about the same moment Henry stopped to proposition Gladys. That ain’t a good idea, Hawk thought. He’d never seen a man get drunk so soon before. The little woman back home on the farm ought to see her husband now. Thinking it foolish, but having nothing to do with him, he started toward the door after Monroe. He passed the poker table in time to hear Gladys’s response to Henry’s proposal. “Maybe some other time, honey,” she said.
Count yourself lucky, friend, Hawk thought, figuring she had saved the drunken farmer from losing whatever amount of money he had. She had obviously decided there was potential for more money from one of the card players. Hawk had not anticipated the more serious trouble he now noticed in the face of the man seated close to her. “I’ll get your whiskey bottle and you can come on to the dining room with Monroe and me,” Hawk said. “You need some coffee and a little food to straighten you out. You drank a helluva lot of whiskey on an empty stomach. Eat some supper. Then you’ll have yourself a better time with the ladies.” He didn’t particularly care to have supper with Henry, but it appeared that the man was going to find himself in trouble if he stayed in the saloon much longer. So he went back and picked up the whiskey bottle from the table.
Unfortunately, it was already too late to avoid trouble. It came in the form of a large, ham-fisted drifter who answered to the name Rafe. Already suffering a losing streak in the card game, he threw in yet another losing hand when the man to his right raised. Hawk could see the look of irritation in the man’s face as he scowled at Henry, still standing stupidly at Gladys’s elbow. “Come on, Henry, let’s get us some supper,” Hawk pressed, guessing that Rafe was looking for some way to vent his anger. And Henry looked to be an easy outlet.
“Henry don’t want no damn supper,” Rafe snarled. “Henry wants to sneak off with my woman. Ain’t that right, Henry?” The card game came to an abrupt pause as the players became immediately alert to the possibility of trouble about to happen. After a long moment of silence, one of the men tried to defuse the situation. “Ah, he ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, Rafe. He’s just a drunk sodbuster that don’t know what he’s doin’.”
With an opinion of her own, Gladys spoke up. “I didn’t know I was your woman, anyway. I sure as hell couldn’t tell it by the amount of money you’ve spent with me.”
“Shut up, bitch,” Rafe growled, and fixed the stunned farmer with an accusing eye. “He knows what he’s doin’, don’tcha, sodbuster? You figure you’re man enough to take her from me?” He rose to his feet then and stepped away from the table.
“He ain’t wearin’ no gun,” one of the other players said.
“Well, somebody get him one,” Rafe bellowed, “or I’m gonna shoot him where he stands.” Henry took an unsteady step backward. Soaring high just moments before on the wings of the whiskey he had downed, he now found himself sobering quickly.
When Hawk had not followed him out the door, Monroe waited a few moments, then stepped back inside to see why. Astounded to discover Henry standing frozen, staring at the brawny drifter like a prairie dog trapped by a rattlesnake, Monroe glanced quickly at Hawk. The rangy scout was standing a couple of steps behind Henry, calmly holding the whiskey bottle, watching the confrontation between him and the man who had called him out. When it became obvious that Henry was too frightened to move, Hawk walked over and nudged him with his elbow. “Come on, Henry,” he said, and pushed him in the direction of the door. Rafe took a step to the side to block him, but Hawk stepped between them. “Let him be, mister,” he said to Rafe. “He ain’t out to cause you no trouble. Take your losin’ out on somebody else. He don’t even wear a gun.” He gave Henry a little shove between his shoulder blades to get him started toward the door.
“Maybe I’ll take it out on you for stickin’ your nose in,” Rafe threatened, still in search of satisfaction.
Thinking he had been as patient as he could manage, Hawk said, “Get on back to your cards and quit lookin’ for an excuse to shoot somebody.” It was enough to ignite the spark of anger Rafe needed to pull his weapon. It wasn’t halfway out of his holster when the whiskey bottle in Hawk’s right hand flattened his nose, dropping him to the floor in a heap. “Damn,” Hawk said, looking in surprise at the unbroken bottle. “That’s a pretty stout liquor bottle.” He changed hands then, switching his rifle over to his right while he sized up the other men at the table. When there appeared to be no interest on the part of the card players to take up Rafe’s cause, he followed Henry to the door, aware of Monroe’s pistol out of his holster and ready to use if necessary.
Outside, a nearly sober Henry Denson changed his mind about staying the night in Helena. He decided he’d had enough of the wide-open town and preferred to drive home after dark. “That’s a wise decision,” Monroe said. “I expect it’ll please your wife to see you drove home after dark because you were concerned about your family.”
“How you feelin’?” Hawk asked. “You want some help to hitch up your wagon?”
Henry declined the help, suddenly anxious to get started for home, although it was fairly obvious to Hawk that a good deal of the whiskey he had downed might soon make another appearance. “I got a room already paid for,” Henry said, and reached in his pocket for the key. “Number three, first room at the top of the stairs. It’ll save you from havin’ to rent one.”
“I appreciate it, Henry,” Monroe said, “but I insist on paying you for it.” Henry made a weak effort to refuse before graciously accepting the money. “Don’t you want to get a little supper before you start back?”
“Thank you just the same,” Henry replied, the thought of eating something threatening to trigger an upheaval in his stomach. “But I’d best be gettin’ started, else it’s gonna be pretty late by the time I get home.” He shook hands with both Hawk and Monroe and took his leave.
They waited only a moment to watch him hurry away to the blacksmith shop where his mules were corralled. “He sure sobered up quick when that jasper called him out,” Monroe said. “I expect we’d best get along to the dining room before the bastard gets on his feet and comes looking for you.”
“I reckon,” Hawk agreed.
They turned and headed for the hotel and the dining room next to it. “Seems to me you make a new friend in every town we visit,” Monroe remarked as they walked, referring to the belligerent drifter Hawk left behind them on the saloon floor, his nose flattened. “Is that a regular thing with you?”
“Well, it ain’t been,” Hawk said. “Leastways not till I made your acquaintance. Maybe you’ve got the sign of bad luck on you. I’m a peaceable man, myself.”
Monroe laughed in response to Hawk’s japing. “Maybe so,” he joked. “But I believe we’re gonna have to give Henry the credit for this one. I’ve never seen a man get that drunk so quick.”
“He sobered up just as fast, too,” Hawk saw fit to comment.
* * *
Hawk, a naturally light sleeper, was disturbed only once during the night when he was awakened by the sounds of a man collecting his saddle from the tack room. He had a friend with him and was noisily explaining to him that he needed his horse even if he had not paid his stable rent. Unaware of the man sleeping two stalls over, he insisted, “Bowen knows I’ll pay him next time I’m in town.”
“I thought you were gonna stay over till tomorrow,” his friend said.
“Hell, so did I,” the obviously irate man fumed. “But I lost every cent I had in that damn poker game, and my credit ain’t no good at the hotel. So I ain’t got much choice, have I? Besides, I can’t hardly breathe through my nose with it flattened all over my face.”
“You need to see the doctor,” his friend advised. “I bet that hurts like hell.”
“Damn right it does, but I’ll have the missus fix it up. She’s used to patchin’ me up.”
Lying quietly in the stall, Hawk listened to the conversation between the two men while holding his Colt .
44 in his hand, just in case. When he heard them leading the horse out of the stable, he got up and walked to the door behind them. He waited there until the one called Rafe climbed aboard and rode off up the street and his friend walked toward the saloon. He went back to his stall, replaced his Colt in its holster, and settled down to sleep again.
After a peaceful sleep, he awoke early, so he saddled the horses and waited for Monroe to show up at Sophie’s Diner, right next to Davis House Hotel. When he had left him the night before, they had agreed to eat breakfast at the diner before riding out to Mullan Pass. This was Monroe’s idea, saying that he would like to start out with a good breakfast under his belt. Hawk didn’t insist upon starting out before breakfast for two reasons—Mullan Pass was only about a ten-mile ride from Helena, and Monroe seemed no longer in a hurry to find his brother and sister-in-law. Hawk had finally come to the conclusion that Monroe was convinced that Jamie and Rachel were already dead, surely killed by whoever attacked them. That was the reason he was not in a hurry. He simply wanted to find their remains and, if possible, give them a decent burial. When he had first approached Hawk to help him find them, he still had hopes of finding them alive. Hawk couldn’t help wondering what had changed his mind. As far as Hawk was concerned, as long as he couldn’t find their bodies, there was still hope.
These were the thoughts weighing on Hawk’s mind as he sat at a table in Sophie’s Diner, drinking coffee. He had arrived before the dining room opened for breakfast, but had persuaded Sophie Hicks to let him wait inside until it was time. Being a gracious lady, Sophie had brought him a cup of coffee, which he truly appreciated. A few minutes before all was ready for the day, she sat down at the table with him and had a cup for herself before she became too busy. Curious, and thinking he didn’t strike her as a cowhand, she asked, “What is it you do for a living, Mr. Hawk?”
“Not much of anything,” he answered, never having given much thought before as to what he might call an occupation. “This and that, as long as it ain’t against the law, I reckon.” She shook her head in wonder and smiled. He took it the wrong way. “Oh, don’t worry, I can pay for my breakfast.”
“I never thought that you couldn’t,” she quickly replied. “I wouldn’t have let you in the door if I had thought that.”
“’Preciate it,” he said. “What about yourself? How’d you get set up here, runnin’ a dining room? Right next to the hotel, too. You got a husband back there in the kitchen?”
“No,” she said, laughing at his innocent brashness. “My sister, Gracie, owns Davis House. Her husband built it. He built this place, too, before he was killed in an accident with a runaway wagon three years ago. Gracie and I took over the two businesses. We’re partners in both of them.”
“I’ll be . . .” he started. “Good for you.” He nodded his approval. “So you’re Gracie’s sister, Sophie Davis.”
She laughed again. “No, Davis is Gracie’s married name. I’m Sophie Hicks.”
“Oh,” he responded, feeling a little dumb for his assumption. “I didn’t think about that.” He shrugged and continued undeterred. “You said you didn’t have a husband back there in the kitchen. You got one somewhere else, back workin’ a ranch or something?” She shook her head no, obviously amused by his questions. “Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with the men around here,” he said. “You’re about the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said sweetly, unable to prevent a blush. His remark was delivered with such innocence that it struck her as sincere. She was tempted to linger awhile longer. “I must say, I’ve enjoyed visiting with you, but now I’ve got to go to work.” She rose to her feet and went to the front door to turn her OPEN sign around. She smiled at him as she passed back by the table on her way to the kitchen. “Time to feed the hungry, Martha,” he heard her say as she disappeared through the doorway. About ten seconds later, Monroe walked in along with a couple of other early risers from the hotel. Reading the sign on the table by the door, he unbuckled his gun belt and deposited it there before joining Hawk.
“Good morning,” Monroe greeted him as he pulled a chair back. “How’d you get in here so early? I saw the horses out front, but the dining room didn’t open till just now.”
“Sophie let me come in and have some coffee while she was gettin’ ready to open,” Hawk replied.
“I see she didn’t insist that you leave your rifle by the door.”
“No, she didn’t say nothin’ about it.”
Monroe smiled, remembering the stoic woman named Sadie in the hotel dining room back in Bozeman. She had allowed Hawk to hang on to his rifle there as well. He was beginning to wonder if his scout had a special effect on single women. If that was the case, he was convinced that Hawk wasn’t aware of it. That was another side of the man and it seemed to Monroe that the more time he spent with the soft-spoken, easygoing scout, the less he knew about what made him tick. “Did you have a good night?”
“Sure did,” Hawk answered. “How ’bout yourself?” Monroe said that he did.
Eggs fried in bacon grease, salt-cured ham, fried potatoes, and strong black coffee, served with two biscuits the size of road apples; Hawk decided it was a breakfast worth the late start on the trail. He and Monroe both did proper justice to the food served and when they were sated and walked out the door, Sophie smiled at Hawk and said, “Come see me when you’re back in town.” Monroe shook his head in wonder and followed him to the horses.
CHAPTER 7
Guiding on the lofty slopes of the Rocky Mountains standing dark and foreboding before them, Hawk started out to the northwest, figuring to strike the area known as Mullan Pass. The pass was named in honor of the same man, Lieutenant John Mullan, who blazed the road to the west already bearing his name. In order to find safe passage around the feet of the Rockies, the Mullan Road dropped down to within ten miles of Helena before continuing in a westerly direction toward the head of the Bitterroot Valley at Missoula, known as Hell Gate at the time. Hawk had ridden many of the game trails that led into the hidden valleys and canyons that led to the north, sometimes on his own and sometimes with his friend Bloody Hand, a Blackfoot warrior. He had not seen his Blackfoot friend in some time now, since the army had kept him busy scouting in the Yellowstone country. It’s been too long, he thought to himself. When I finish this job, maybe I’ll try to find Bloody Hand’s village and we’ll hunt again. His mind came back to the business at hand then when he saw the flat table rock Grover Bramble had described. On the other side of it, they should come to a stream.
Due to the unusually dry summer so far, the stream was little more than a trickle, but it was moving, enough so that the horses could drink. By the ruts and slash marks in the dry ground, it was easy to see where the wagon had come to rest after the axle had broken. “There’s the rock that broke it,” Hawk said, and pointed to a flat spur rising about four feet up from the base of the rock ledge. “They had to be runnin’ like hell to be this far off the road. Maybe there was somebody on the road in front of them and that was why they left it. When they hit that rock, it flipped the wagon upside down and right there is where it landed.” He pointed to the ruts gouged out of the dirt. “I reckon when the wagon flipped, it stopped the horses, ’cause there wasn’t that much damage to it.” He continued staring at the flat rock spur and wondered aloud, “Reckon it was thin enough to pass right between the horses.”
“Sounds like Indians to me,” Monroe said. He looked around him at the impressions left in the dry ground. “Can’t tell a helluva lot after all this time.”
“Maybe not,” Hawk said, trying to create a mental picture of what had happened here. “But you can tell a little.” Down on one knee, he traced the faint outlines of several of the prints that stood out a little bolder than the others. “Grover was right, some of these tracks were left by Indians. What I don’t know is whether they’re the ones that jumped ’em, or they came along later, ’cause there’s shod hoofprints here, too.�
� He looked up at Monroe. “Trouble is, there was that cavalry patrol up here, so there’s shod prints mixed in with these unshod prints. A fellow lookin’ at all the tracks would have to think your folks were jumped by Indians. That’s just a feelin’ in my gut. I can’t get enough outta these old tracks to know for sure. There ain’t much more that I can tell you. It’d all be speculation.”
Obviously disappointed, Monroe hesitated for a few moments. He had hoped that Hawk might find substantial evidence to follow, even though he had told him that the odds were against that. Finally, he asked, “If it was your brother, what would you do?”
“Well, there weren’t no bodies here when the army found the wagon, so we know whoever jumped ’em either buried their bodies or carried ’em away with ’em. Whether they were white men or Indians, they weren’t likely to wanna carry the bodies with ’em. So the first thing we need to do is look around and see if we can find any graves. If we can’t, it’s a possibility your brother and his wife are alive. And I ain’t got no idea where to look for ’em, but I’d start out by followin’ this stream a ways.” He pointed downstream toward a point where it cut through a narrow ravine in a low ridge directly south of them. “When that wagon went over, your brother and his wife most likely jumped, or were thrown out. Whichever, they were on foot and being chased, and that ravine looks like the closest place to find cover. Let’s see if we can find anything in there.” He climbed back up into the saddle and headed for the ravine.
Hell Hath No Fury Page 10