* * *
Eight-year-old Tommy Pratt was the first to spot the three riders approaching from the north. He propped his single-shot .22 against the front steps of the house and walked toward the edge of the yard in an effort to see the riders more clearly. In a few minutes’ time, he recognized the formidable figure of his uncle and the red roan he rode. About to burst with excitement, he waited a moment to identify the other two riders. One was a woman, but the man sitting tall in the saddle on a big buckskin did not favor his uncle Jamie. “Ma!” He let out a yell, picked up his rifle, and ran into the house. “Ma!” he let out again as he ran into the kitchen.
“Good grief, Tommy, what are you yelling about?” Dora Pratt responded. “You’ll wake your grandma. She’s trying to take a nap.”
“It’s Uncle Monroe!” Tommy announced, even more excited.
This was enough to cause his mother to immediately respond, as well as catching the attention of the stoic Salish woman working over the stove. “Where?” Dora asked.
“Coming down the path from the river,” Tommy replied. “There’s a man and a woman with him, but the man doesn’t look like Uncle Jamie.”
A man and a woman, Dora thought, but not Jamie. That can’t be good. Then she said, “Go find your father.” Nervously wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried to the front door. Lily Bright Bird quickly pulled a pot to the edge of the stove to keep it from boiling over and followed her. Out on the front porch, Dora murmured to herself, “Who in the world . . . ?” The tall man with a feather in his hatband and the woman with him were strangers to her. She looked at Lily, but Lily shook her head. In a few minutes, her husband and Tommy came running from the barn.
“It’s Monroe, all right,” Thomas Pratt said. “But who’s that with him? It’s sure as hell not Jamie.” He looked at his wife as if she might know.
“I guess we’ll find out if we just wait a few minutes,” Dora replied.
They stood there on the front steps until the three riders walked their horses up to the house. Monroe wasted no time in giving them the grievous news. “I come bearing sad news,” he blurted, almost before he dismounted, anxious to get it out. “Jamie is dead, murdered by the evil devil who was supposed to lead the wagon train to Washington Territory.” He waited a few moments to let them get past the initial shock of his announcement before gesturing toward Rachel. “This is his widow, your sister-in-law, who escaped her death only because she was captured by a band of Sioux.”
His staggering announcement hit them with the blunt force of a gunshot, leaving them all stunned for a long moment. Thomas was speechless. His wife would most likely have fainted had she not been possessed of the strong sinew most frontier wives developed in order to survive. She recovered quickly and turned to face the trembling woman who climbed down from her horse with an assist from Monroe. “So I reckon you’re Rachel,” she said, and held her arms out to her. Rachel came at once to receive Dora’s embrace. “You’re such a tiny thing,” Dora said. “I feel like we already know you, Jamie talked about you so much just from the letters you sent.”
Still staggered by the news of his brother’s death, Thomas stood there for a long minute just slowly shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. When he had recovered somewhat from the shock of learning that Jamie was gone, he glanced up at the tall, somber man still seated in the saddle. “You haven’t said who this fellow is that you brought with you.”
“This is John Hawk,” Monroe said. “He’s the man who helped me find Jamie and the man who actually brought Rachel back from that band of Sioux.”
Hawk stepped down from the saddle, shook hands with Thomas, and nodded to Dora. “Ma’am.”
Back to Monroe, Thomas asked, “So you know who killed Jamie?” There was obviously a great deal more to the story of how Rachel came to be captured by Indians. But Jamie’s death was the most important thing at the moment.
“Yeah, I know,” Monroe answered. “A man named Roy Nestor. Poor Rachel saw him do it.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Dora cooed, and put her arm around Rachel again. “Why don’t we go in the house, instead of standing out here in the hot sun?” She turned the still-trembling young woman toward the front door. “Come on, Lily,” she said to the Indian woman beside her. “We’d best hurry up that supper. They’re probably hungry.”
After the women had gone inside, Thomas asked Monroe, “What about this Nestor fellow? Is he dead?” Monroe shook his head. “Did you try to find him?”
“Sure, I thought about it,” Monroe replied, “but he isn’t that easy to find when you’re running like hell to keep from being caught by a Sioux war party, especially after Hawk, here, killed the one who was chasing after Rachel.”
Thomas, who was suspicious by nature, cast a wary eye at the formidable figure with a hawk feather stuck in his hat, whose somber expression seemed to convey indifference to their plight. “So, did Mr. Hawk help you out of the kindness of his heart, or are you paying him?” He had been struck hard with the news of Jamie’s death, and he was in no disposition to tolerate a saddle tramp looking to gain from their tragedy.
Well familiar with his brother’s sense of skepticism, Monroe was quick to straighten him out. “Hawk is with me because I rode up the Boulder River to find him when the army had quit looking for Jamie. By recommendation from the commanding officer at Fort Ellis, I might add. And yes, I paid him to help me, but he has refused to take anything more for accompanying me to bring Rachel home, and insists that he will try to track Nestor down, also free of charge. Does that answer all your questions?”
Thomas visibly flinched at his brother’s obvious irritation with his line of questioning. He looked at Hawk as if to apologize for his mistrust, only to receive a casual smile and a nod. “I meant no offense, Hawk. I reckon I was still irritated by a little trouble we’ve had here of late.”
“None taken,” Hawk replied with a shrug.
“What kind of trouble?” Monroe wanted to know.
“Indian, maybe, or maybe rustlers,” Thomas replied. “We’ve been missing some cattle, and with those bands of Nez Perce that just passed down the valley, I was afraid we’d been feeding some of ’em. But the Nez Perce have already passed through. When we got word Chief Joseph was bringing a bunch of people through here, we drove most of the cattle over toward the Sapphire Mountains. The Indians have been gone a few days now, but we’re still missing some cows. Bob and Pete are up that way today to see if they can find out what’s happening to ’em.”
“Damn,” Monroe muttered, “if it ain’t one thing, it’s another.” He hadn’t counted on coming home to a problem with the cattle. His main focus was on tracking down the man who had killed Jamie and he had planned to turn around right away and go back with Hawk. Time was their enemy—the longer they waited, the less likely they were to find any trace of Roy Nestor. “How many cows are we talking about?” he asked Thomas.
“Don’t know for sure,” Thomas answered. “It looks like whoever’s stealing ’em are cutting out a dozen or more at a time. We just started noticing the shortage right after you left for Helena. Like I said, I thought it mighta been Indians too lazy to hunt ’cause there weren’t that many cows missing. There’s a couple of bands of Salish that are still raiding in the valley. And there’s still talk about driving them out to the reservation, but the army hasn’t done anything about it. But now, it looks like we’re just getting rustled by somebody. I doubt that it’s any of our neighbors. They might be getting cattle stolen, too. If it were Indians, seems like they would just take what they need for food. We’re losing too many for that.”
“Have you found any bones or remains of carcasses?” Hawk asked, since Monroe hadn’t.
“Not so far,” Thomas said. “Maybe Bob and Pete found something today. They’ll be back tonight. I’m damn sorry about Jamie, but I’m awful glad to see you back. We need to find out what’s happening to our cattle.”
“We will,” Monroe assured him. “We’ll decide wha
t to do tonight when the boys get back. Right now, we need to take care of these horses and maybe get ready to eat a little supper.” He made an effort to seem casual about the cattle problem, but it was already weighing heavily on his mind. He had sworn to avenge Jamie, but it appeared that Thomas needed his help here. So Monroe was afraid he was going to be forced to choose between punishing Jamie’s killer and hanging on to their livestock.
Other than his one question, Hawk remained a silent observer of the meeting between the brothers. It was unfortunate that the trouble with their cattle hit at a time when the family was grieving the loss of one of the brothers. As for his part, he felt more comfortable going after Roy Nestor alone and letting Monroe handle the problem with the cattle rustlers.
* * *
The conversation about missing cattle continued at the supper table in spite of Dora’s occasional complaining that too much serious discussion resulted in letting the food get cold. “Lily and I hustled our behinds to cook you men a hot meal. If you’re determined to let it get cold, we won’t cook yours next time. We’ll just cook for the boys down at the bunkhouse.” She was primarily scolding Monroe and Thomas. The somewhat mysterious scout that Monroe brought home with him, along with Tommy, seemed not to be distracted by the talk of Indians and rustlers. Had she known the man called Hawk better, she would have appreciated the fact that a real sit-down supper was a rare treat. The closest he came to it was an occasional meal he might buy in a diner, so he gave it his full attention. As for Tommy, nothing was more important to him than eating.
“Dora, damn it,” Thomas finally exclaimed. “We’re eating the damn food, but we’ve got some important decisions to make here.” He looked at Lily and asked, “Did you take the food to the bunkhouse?” Lily nodded. “Were Pete and Bob back yet?”
Lily nodded again. “They come back, say they come see you after they eat. They want to eat while food still hot.”
“See?” Dora blurted. “Your hired hands have enough sense to eat their supper while it’s still hot.”
“For God’s sake, let it be, Dora,” Thomas reacted.
Finished eating, Hawk pushed his chair back a little from the table while he drank the rest of his coffee and took the moment to study the Pratt family. The matriarch of the Pratt family, Mrs. Emily Thompson Pratt, was not present at the table, so her supper was taken to her bedroom by Lily. Hawk assumed the mother was bedridden. It was obvious that Monroe was head of the family. While interesting to watch, Hawk found the scene not to his liking. He preferred his solitary existence. Perhaps it came natural to him, since he had been orphaned at the age of six, after having been abandoned by his aunt and uncle at a campsite on the North Platte River. At the time, he thought his aunt was under the impression that he was in the back of the wagon with her two youngest children. When they didn’t come back looking for him, he figured that with a total of four children, she and his uncle decided they couldn’t take on one more. He couldn’t remember having been afraid—it was more a feeling of a new chapter in his young life. He wasn’t alone for long before he was found by a cavalry patrol returning to Fort Laramie.
The soldiers dropped him off with a missionary who was intent upon converting the Crow Indians to Christianity. The boy stayed for four years until the missionary died, leaving the youngster with an easy choice, to join a band of Crows, whom he had come to know better than whites. It was not until he reached his nineteenth year that he left the village to see the mountains to the northwest and ultimately become a scout for the army out of Fort Ellis. It had never bothered him that the Indian tribe he ultimately became close to was a village of Blackfeet, traditional enemies of the Crow.
Drawn from his revelry when Rachel got up to remove his plate, he let his attention drift back to the talk between Thomas and Monroe. A moment later, there was a knock at the kitchen door and they were joined by Pete Little and Bob Boston. They both expressed their sympathy for the death of Jamie before making their report to Thomas. “I swear, Boss, we still can’t tell for sure what’s happenin’ to our cows, but ain’t nobody killin’ ’em to eat. They’re drivin’ ’em off somewhere. We’ve been tryin’ to keep an eye on about sixty head that have been bunched up in a canyon near Lost Creek. Near as I can guess, it looks like there’s about eight or ten of ’em missin’ since two days ago.”
His interest tweaked again in their cattle problems, Hawk asked an obvious question. “How well do you know your neighbors?”
“Pretty well,” Thomas answered. “We all participate in roundup every year, and none of the ranches near us have ever failed to deliver cows with our brand back to our range. I don’t suspect any of our neighbors of rustling our cattle.”
“What does your brand look like?” Hawk asked.
“Triple-P,” Monroe answered him. “It’s a simple brand, PPP.” He drew an imaginary brand on the tablecloth with his finger.”
“None of your neighbors have a brand close to yours?” Hawk asked. He was told there was no brand close to PPP. “If it was me,” Hawk went on, “I’d be lookin’ for somebody who could change my brand to look like theirs.”
“Ain’t none of the ranches that share our boundaries the kind of folks that would alter brands,” Thomas said.
“But what about that Barfield crowd that set up a homestead on the eastern side of the Sapphires?” Pete asked. “Randolph Barfield, I ran into him last month at Skinner’s—bought me a drink—had his daughter with him. He said him and his two sons were buildin’ a herd over in that valley on the other side of the mountains, said his brand was a lot like the Triple-P’s. Only difference is his brand is just his initials, RPB.”
Hawk waited for one of them to see the obvious, but it didn’t occur, so he said, “That would sure as hell tickle my curiosity. I believe I’d wanna take a look at this Barfield fellow’s cows to check their brands. Wouldn’t take much to change your brand to RPB, one bar and a curlicue burnt over PPP and you’ve got Barfield’s brand. He mighta figured he’s landed in a gold mine.”
“Why in the hell didn’t I think of that?” Thomas complained. “He must take us for a bunch of fools. That son of a bitch.”
“Hawk’s right,” Monroe cautioned. “But just because it would be easy to do doesn’t mean that’s what he did. We need to get a look at some of his brands. If that’s what’s happening, it ought to be easy to spot, depending on how good the man with the iron is.”
As was usually the case, Hawk felt no urgency in regards to his time or plans, but he had to wonder what Monroe’s priorities were. After all, he had agreed to accompany Monroe to deliver Rachel to the ranch with the idea that they would return immediately to search for Roy Nestor. As the discussion between him and his ranch hands progressed, it was beginning to sound like Monroe was intent upon replacing Nestor’s day of reckoning as his top priority. Hawk could understand that. Monroe could not ignore the poaching of his livestock. The only thing left to decide, as far as Hawk was concerned, was whether or not Monroe wanted him to return to search for Nestor on his own. His answer came in a short time.
“We’ll take a little ride up over the mountains in the morning,” Monroe said to Bob and Pete. “We’ll leave Marvin to watch after things here till we get back.” He sent them on their way, then turned to Hawk. “I know I hired you as a tracker, but I’ve got to hold up on running Roy Nestor to ground till we straighten out this business with our cattle.”
“Stands to reason,” Hawk said. “That’s what I would do if I was in your boots.” He shrugged indifferently. “I said I’d help you find Roy Nestor, so I reckon I can go on back and see if I can find some trace of him. I’m not in any hurry to get back to Fort Ellis.” This was said in spite of the fact he had already been away from Fort Ellis longer than he told Lieutenant Meade he would be. He couldn’t help feeling caught between his obligation to Meade and his promise to help Monroe.
“I appreciate that,” Monroe said. “But I’d rather have you with me tomorrow when we cross over the mountain
s. I don’t know if we’ll run into any trouble or not, but I’ve seen you shoot. So whaddaya say?” When Hawk shrugged again, Monroe continued. “Good. I’m putting you back on the payroll.”
“Whatever you say,” Hawk said. “You’re the boss.” At least he was drawing steady pay for doing very little work.
CHAPTER 10
In contrast to the taller Bitterroot Mountains to the west, with their steep, heavily forested faces and deep canyons, the mountains of the Sapphire Range on the eastern side of the valley were more rounded with less tree coverage. The Triple-P took advantage of the open grassy slopes from time to time, as in the case when they utilized them to move their cattle out of the valley when the Nez Perce moved through. It was not unusual for some of their cattle to wander onto the lower slopes of the Sapphires, requiring the Pratts and their men to drive them back to the main herd. Consequently, they were well familiar with the easiest trails to follow when searching for strays. It was on one of these trails that Hawk rode with Monroe, Thomas, and the two hands that had reported the cows recently missing. With Bob Boston leading, they rode up a wide canyon to an open grassy area where a stream crossed through the lower corner. There were about a dozen cows grazing near the stream.
“See there,” Bob said. “We drove about twice that many outta this little pocket yesterday.” Ordinarily, this would cause little concern, but that was before they began to have cattle missing.
They rode in among the cows to check the brands. They were all wearing the Triple-P. “Well,” Pete said, “if they are changin’ brands, I reckon they ain’t had time to get around to these yet.”
“Bob, you and Pete round these cows up and drive ’em back down in the valley.” All five men helped the roundup and got the cows started down the trail they had just come up. Once they were on their way, Hawk and the two Pratt brothers turned back and started up the mountain. Picking the easiest route possible to climb the slopes, they rode up a wide ravine until reaching the top, where they paused to look over the downward slope and the valley beyond.
Hell Hath No Fury Page 15