Hell Hath No Fury

by Charles G. West

  “Who shot her? Was it you?” Barfield demanded, thinking that Lorena must have gone into town to seek revenge for her treatment in the saloon.

  “No, sir, I did not,” Mack immediately replied. “I just thought I’d do you folks the courtesy of bringin’ your daughter home, so you could bury her proper.”

  “Who shot her?” Barfield repeated. “You ain’t said yet who shot her.”

  “Well, she was brought into town by that feller Hawk this mornin’.” As soon as he said the name, he could see the reaction in the eyes of both father and son, so he hurried to explain. “A couple of the Triple-P hands were with him and one of them had been shot, too. They took him to the doctor to treat the bullet wound. It seems your daughter rode over there last night and shot that feller and Hawk shot her to keep her from shootin’ again.” It was apparent that his explanation did little to quell the anger smoldering in Barfield’s eyes. “They said it was so dark there weren’t no way to tell that it was a woman doin’ the shootin’.” That, too, failed to appease the father and son. To make matters worse, at that moment the distraught woman sitting on the stump began wailing mournfully. At a loss for what else he could say, Mack offered one last condolence. “The women at the Triple-P wrapped your daughter up in that sheet, so nobody could gawk at her in town.” Pearl wailed louder upon hearing that. “Like I said, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with the shootin’. I’m just bringin’ her home for you.” He remembered something else then. “That feller, Hawk, that shot her, he don’t work for the Triple-P no more. I think they let him go.”

  This sparked immediate interest from Barfield. “He ain’t at the Triple-P no more? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know where he’s gonna go,” Mack said. “He was in town when I left this mornin’, but he didn’t say where he was thinkin’ about goin’.” He handed the reins for Jake’s horse to Clint and stepped up into the saddle again. “Well, I’d best get back to town to make sure ever’thin’s peaceful there. That’s my job. I just wanted to take time to bring your daughter home.”

  “Much obliged,” Barfield grumbled reluctantly as the sheriff turned his horse and rode away at a spirited lope. Barfield turned to look at Clint standing there holding the reins. “I reckon we’ve got another grave to dig. Then I reckon we need to take a little ride to town.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Whaddaya say, Doc, is he gonna be all right?” Hawk asked when Marvin walked out on the porch with Pete Little and Dr. Smollet right behind him.

  “I don’t see why not,” Smollet said, “as long as he keeps it clean. There wasn’t much for me to do. Whoever cleaned him up did a pretty nice job.”

  “We have to give Lily all the credit for that,” Pete said. “She’s the doctor when we can’t get to you.” He took the money Thomas Pratt had given him to pay the doctor’s bill and counted out the exact amount. With that taken care of, he asked Hawk, “You sure you don’t wanna go on back to the ranch with us?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Hawk replied. “I’m gonna go see that fellow that owns the stable—what’s his name?”

  “Clell Blanton,” Marvin supplied.

  “Right, Blanton,” Hawk repeated. “I’m gonna see about puttin’ my horse up there for a couple of days and see how much he’ll charge me for sleepin’ in the stall with him. We’ll see what happens when Barfield finds out about his daughter. The sheriff oughta be back this afternoon, then maybe he’ll know whether we can look for trouble or not.”

  “He might tell you to take your trouble outta town,” Pete said.

  “There’s that possibility, I reckon,” Hawk allowed. “We’ll wait and see. Anyway, you and Marvin keep a sharp eye on your way back to the Triple-P, just in case.”

  “You can count on that,” Pete said. He reached in his pocket and took out a roll of bills. “Doc didn’t charge as much as Boss gave me. There’s a little left over, enough for a couple of drinks of Ed Wiggins’s rotgut—make the ride back a little easier.”

  Hawk laughed. “One wouldn’t hurt, I reckon, but I don’t know if Marvin oughta take a drink or not, him being wounded and all.”

  “I’m willin’ to take a chance,” Marvin said. “If it starts runnin’ out those holes in my side, I’ll ease up a bit.”

  Ed Wiggins greeted the three men cheerfully when they walked into the Valley House Saloon, a fancy name for a common saloon, as Pete had commented. Ed was ready with the bottle and glasses, but was disappointed to learn that they planned for no more than a quick drink before departing. “Sheriff Mack told me a man could get a decent supper here,” Hawk said to Ed.

  “Sure can,” Ed replied. “The sheriff takes supper here most every night. We’ve got a dandy cook, Ruthie. She used to be a cook in Bozeman before some woman came along and opened a diner in the hotel.”

  Hawk nodded, thinking that would be Sadie’s Diner. “I think I’ve ate there before. I’ll most likely be back later to give Ruthie a try.”

  After one more drink at Monroe Pratt’s expense, they decided it time to head back to the ranch, so Pete and Marvin wished Hawk good luck and headed out the north end of town. Hawk untied his horse from the rail and led him down the short street to the stables to find Clell Blanton. He found him in the process of cleaning out a couple of stalls in the rear of the stable. “Mr. Hawk,” Clell sang out when he saw the rangy man walk in. “Barney Mack said you’d probably be wantin’ to board your horse here. I’m cleanin’ ’em out right now. You can take your pick.”

  “Mr. Blanton,” Hawk returned, and walked back to look the stalls over, taking special note of the solid walls at the back of them and the convenience to the rear door of the stable. “That one will do,” he said, nodding toward the one closest to the door. After negotiating the price for him and his horse, they shook hands and Hawk pulled the saddle off Rascal and stowed it in the corner of the stall. It was still a little early for supper, so he decided to kill some time and look the little town over. He drew the Winchester from his saddle sling and walked out into the street.

  He was in front of the general store when Sheriff Mack came riding back from transporting Lorena Barfield’s body home. When the sheriff spotted him, he guided his horse toward him. Hawk stepped off the short boardwalk to meet him. “Just the man I wanna see,” Mack blurted right away. “I ain’t so sure it’s a good idea for you to be hangin’ around town, now that I’ve thought it over. It’s my job to keep the peace in this town and that might be hard to do with you in town.”

  “That so?” Hawk replied. “I take it Barfield wasn’t too happy to see his daughter dead. Did you tell him I’ve left the Triple-P?”

  “Yeah, I told him and he didn’t seem too happy about that, either. I’m thinkin’ he might figure you’re in town and come lookin’ for you here and I don’t want no shoot-out in my town.”

  “I can understand that,” Hawk said. “But I’m not gonna start anything. You have my word on that and I’ll do my best to avoid any trouble Barfield might start. Did you tell him that his daughter shot Marvin Tatum and that’s the reason she got shot?”

  “From the look in his eye, it seemed like that didn’t keep him from wantin’ to settle the score.” He shook his head, concerned. “I’ll tell you something else that don’t make it too healthy for you. That son of his, the one they brought to the doctor, well, he died. And if I ain’t mistaken, I believe you’re the one who shot him. I swear, I can’t understand why you’d wanna hang around here after what you’ve done to Barfield. Looks like you’d wanna be headin’ for the high country just as fast as a horse could carry you.”

  “Yeah, I reckon that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Seems to me like everything’s got turned around, though. I haven’t broken any laws, haven’t done anything but protect myself when I had to. Barfield and his crowd have been stealin’ cattle and changing brands, the daughter trespassed on Triple-P range, intending to murder me. Seems to me you oughta arrest Barfield if he shows up here lookin’ for revenge.” Another thought crossed h
is mind. Thomas Pratt had said that the Triple-P started losing cattle not long after the first of summer. “How long has Barfield been over in that valley?”

  Mack had to think a minute. “I don’t know. I don’t think I remember seein’ him in town before the first of the summer.” He pushed his hat back and scratched his head, trying to recall. “He ain’t been here long.”

  “You just came from his place. Did that house and barn look like they were just built at the first of the summer?” When Mack failed to answer, Hawk continued, “I’ve seen those buildin’s and they looked pretty damn weathered to me, like they’ve been there as long as these stores here. Maybe somebody else built that place before Barfield came along.”

  Suddenly a light came on behind Mack’s eyes. “Hell, I expect that was Matt Henson’s place. I never went over there, but Matt and his wife and their young’uns built a place in that valley.”

  “That so?” Hawk replied. “Reckon where he is? When’s the last time you saw any of his family?”

  “It’s been a while,” Mack said, straining to recall, “not since before summer, I reckon.” He was beginning to see the picture Hawk was helping him create and he didn’t like the look of it. “You ain’t thinkin’ . . .” he started. “Hell, folks here just figured they decided to move on.”

  “Maybe they did.” Hawk shrugged. “And maybe their bones are bleachin’ out in one of those cuts and gullies around the foot of those mountains. It’s enough to make you wonder, ain’t it?” He could see that Mack was beginning to wonder as well. The concept was pure speculation on his part, but he thought it a strong possibility. Barfield was clearly not a builder, he was prone to take what others had built, just as he had proven with his method of building a herd—take what others have worked to create. It’s easier to steal it from them than do the work yourself. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became of the possibility there were bodies hidden in those hills. “I don’t reckon anybody ever rode over to that valley lookin’ for this fellow, Henson, did they?”

  “If they did, they didn’t say anything to anybody else about it,” Mack said. “And if you’re askin’ if I ever went to check on ’em, I ain’t had any reason to. Folks settle on some land, give up on it, and move on—happens all the time. It ain’t none of my concern. My business is keepin’ the peace in the town. And what I’m tellin’ you is, I don’t want no shoot-outs in Stevensville.”

  “Your message is pretty clear on that,” Hawk said. “And like I said, you don’t have to worry about me startin’ any trouble.”

  Mack glared at him for a few moments, trying to decide whether or not to take it further by ordering Hawk to get out of town. He was reluctant to issue ultimatums to a man who was obviously indifferent to them. Like so many of the townfolk, the sheriff assumed that Hawk was a hired gun the Pratts had brought in to clean up their cattle rustling problems. Finally deciding it better not to force a confrontation with him, one in which he might come out on the short end, Mack said, “I ’preciate your cooperation.” He turned his horse and continued on to his office. Hawk decided it was not too early for supper, so he headed back to the saloon.

  * * *

  It was nearly dark by the time Barfield and his son had finished digging a second grave beside the one already dug for Jake. They carried his body out of the cabin and dropped it into the grave without the dignity of lowering it gently with the use of ropes. When his sobbing mother complained, Barfield told her it was too much trouble with no one to help him and Clint. “He ain’t gonna know the difference, anyway,” he said. “He’s already halfway to hell by now.”

  “Randolph,” she cried, “he’s your son, our youngest boy. Don’t talk that way about him.” Her tears began to flow in earnest again. “Please be more gentle with Lorena.” She looked from her husband to her surviving son for sympathy. There was none apparent in either face. It was enough to break her heart to realize there was no love for one another in her family, not even the decency anyone accords the deceased. She thought to say a prayer for Jake before they shoveled the dirt back over him, but realized that she had not called upon the Lord in all these many years. How would He hear her prayer now, after so long a time? With all the stealing and rustling her family had done, especially the taking of lives, the murders her men had committed, maybe it was God’s hand that took Jake’s life. She decided she was not worthy of asking for forgiveness, so she went back where Lorena’s body was lying on the ground and sat down beside it while the men filled in Jake’s grave.

  “All right,” Barfield grunted, already tired from burying Jake. “Let’s get Lorena in the ground, so we can be done with it.”

  “Why don’t we wait till after supper?” Clint asked, also tired from the work of digging graves. “She ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said, motioning toward his sister’s body.

  “Yeah, but I am,” Barfield growled. “And so are you, so let’s get her in the ground.” He walked over beside the body. “Come on, take hold of her feet,” he ordered when Clint was not quick enough to suit him.

  They carried the body over to the hole in the ground with Pearl walking along beside, her arms under Lorena’s back, trying to support her, even though her body was as stiff as a pine log. “Be gentle,” she pleaded. “Please be gentle. Don’t drop her into that hole like you did with Jake.”

  “If you don’t get the hell outta the way, I’m gonna drop you in there with her,” Randolph threatened.

  “Maybe we can try to lower her down if we get on our knees,” Clint suggested. He looked at his mother, who had dropped to her knees and begun to pray aloud, asking for forgiveness and begging God to accept her daughter, the only one of her family who had ever stood up for her.

  With no compassion for his suffering wife, Barfield pretended to give in. “All right, we’ll put her in gentle-like. Put her feet down at the end of the grave.” Clint did as he was told and lowered his end of the bundle to the ground at the edge of the grave. Still holding her shoulders up, Barfield said, “Slide her feet over the edge.” When Clint did so, his father let her slide down until her feet reached the bottom of the grave. She looked as if she was standing with only her head and the top of her shoulders aboveground. He gave her a shove then and the body keeled over to land flat on her stomach. “There,” he said with a satisfied grin, “that oughta be gentle enough to suit you. Cover her up, Clint.” Pearl remained on her knees, rocking back and forth, praying as hard as she could until Barfield ordered her to get up and go in the house to fix him something to eat. “Me and Clint have gotta ride tonight,” he told her. “There’s killin’ to be done and I don’t aim to do it on an empty belly.”

  She voiced no objection, but got to her feet and obediently went to the house to cook something for them. Barfield paused to watch her for a few moments, thinking he might have to keep an eye on her after this. She had been acting strange ever since they had come to this place east of the Sapphire Mountains. The first fuss she had made was when she had pleaded for him to spare the family that was living in the cabin, no matter how he tried to explain that it had to be done if they were to have a place to live. And he had no intention of building one when this one was just what they needed. She’ll straighten out, he thought and dismissed it.

  Inside the cabin, Pearl sliced some salt pork to fry and put some coffee on the stove. She would fix him something to eat, but it would be for the last time. For she had made up her mind while praying beside Lorena’s grave that she was not going to be there when they returned from town. It had been in her mind to leave for some time and the loss of two of her children was the spark that had given her the will to do it.

  “What if he ain’t there?” Clint asked as they sat at the table eating.

  “Then we’ll hunt him down till we find him,” Barfield said. “But I expect he’ll be there. That’s where he was this afternoon, accordin’ to what the sheriff said. If we hurry up, we can get over to town before it’s too late.”

  There was no
conversation between the vengeance-seeking men and the sallow-eyed woman until they had finished eating. Then there was no more until Barfield said, “I expect we’ll be back pretty late.”

  “You be careful,” Pearl whispered to her son as he and his father passed out the door. He nodded and grinned in return. She stood by the kitchen door, watching until she saw them ride out of the barn and take the trail toward town. With a tired sigh, she turned and went to the bedroom to bundle her few belongings up in a bedroll she could tie on her horse. She chose Jake’s horse because it was a better one than Lorena’s and considerably better than the old roan she had ridden into this cursed valley. And when she had saddled up, she paused only a moment to offer a final apology to the two fresh graves behind the barn before setting out on the trail they had followed in. If Randolph had followed through with his vow the night before about leaving this place, she would have stayed with him. But he chose to expose their only surviving son to more killing and she had had all she could stand. She would not be here when he returned to tell her that Clint had been killed—or he did not come back himself. With a little luck, maybe she could find her way back to Butte. If she couldn’t, it really didn’t matter to her at this point.

  * * *

  “You want some more coffee?” Ruth Wiggins asked. “Or are you thinking about switching over to something stronger?”

  “No,” Hawk answered. “I reckon I’ve had enough and I expect Ed is gonna charge me rent on this table if I don’t get outta here.”

  The short, plump woman with the graying hair smiled warmly at him. Ruthie, as she was called by the patrons of the Valley House Saloon, was in fact Ed Wiggins’s sister-in-law. Her husband, Ed’s brother, Dale, was crushed to death by a giant fir tree while cutting timber to be used to build the saloon. Ruthie had volunteered this information during the short conversation she had had with Hawk. He wondered why she seemed so friendly, as if she had known him for a long time. He had to figure that it was because he made it a point to compliment her cooking, when, in fact, he had eaten much better food in any number of saloons. It was his guess that she had not likely received many compliments on her cooking, so he thought she could use the encouragement. Whatever, she had certainly given him plenty of attention and never let his coffee cup get empty. “You set as long as you want,” she said in response to his comment. “I’ll take care of Ed if he gets snippety. There’s plenty of empty tables, anyway.”