* * *
It took him longer to get started than he had counted on. By the time he transferred all the packs from his dead horse to Nestor’s packhorse, he was moving slower and slower. And by the time he got all the horses ready to travel, he was operating on little more than willpower. But he was determined not to be brought down by Roy Nestor’s hand. If I go under, I’ll be damned if I’ll let it be because of that son of a bitch. When he figured he was at last ready to start out again, he realized he didn’t have his hat, so he went back to the trench where Nestor’s body lay sprawled across Spotted Pony’s corpse. He found his hat sitting upside down beside them. He picked it up and brushed the dirt off, pleased to see that his feather was still firmly in place. Up in the saddle again, he adjusted the cotton shirt he was using as a bandage to stop the blood that by then had soaked the whole side of his buckskin shirt. With a good twenty miles to go, he started for Fagan’s.
* * *
Second Lieutenant Peter Wallace halted his patrol when his scout signaled him to come forward. Wallace rode up to see what had caused his scout to stop. “Yonder,” Ben Mullins said, and pointed toward the bank of the river. “I pulled up here and sat for a while to see if there was anybody else besides them horses. That feller on the ground ain’t moved and the horses ain’t, neither.”
Wallace didn’t see the man he referred to at first, but he saw the buckskin horse with a lead rope tied to the saddle with five horses behind it. They were simply standing there, heads down, patiently waiting. Then he saw the body lying facedown. He turned and signaled the men to come forward. “Be careful we don’t ride into an ambush,” he said, and started down through the bluffs to the river. “It could be what it looks like and it could be a little surprise waiting for us.” It wouldn’t be the first time the Sioux had set bait for an ambush.
With every man in the patrol alert for Indian mischief, the detail rode down to the riverbank to find the situation exactly as it appeared from above. A dead man, apparently having reached the end of his string. Mullins dismounted and walked over to the body. He reached down and rolled him over on his back, then drew his hand back, startled. “That’s John Hawk!” he exclaimed.
“Damn,” Wallace responded. “He must have run up on that party of Sioux we’re looking for. Lieutenant Conner’s gonna be disappointed to hear about this. He and Hawk rode on a lot of patrols together.” He shook his head slowly while he decided what to do about it. “Couple of you men give Ben a hand. Pick him up and lay him across his saddle. We’ll take him on back to camp. We don’t have anything with us to dig a grave and a man like Hawk deserves a decent burial.” He shook his head again and declared, “That’s just a damn shame.”
“Too bad, ain’t it, Lieutenant?” one of the troopers commented. “He almost made it to camp—ain’t but a half a mile away.”
Ben Mullins remained standing by the body, staring intently at it. Finally, he surmised, “Ought not bury him anywhere.”
“Why?” Wallace asked.
“’Cause he ain’t dead,” Mullins replied.
* * *
Minnie Red Shirt walked into the back room where a bed had been set up for her patient. Standing at the foot of the bed, her hands on her hips, she prepared to scold him for sitting upright. “You start that bleeding again, I cut your throat and be done with you, I think.” He had already lost a lot of blood before the soldiers brought him to her. Now it seemed he was determined to start it again in spite of her efforts to make him give it enough time to heal.
“I declare, Minnie,” Hawk replied. “I never realized what a fine-lookin’ woman you are when you get mad. You oughta get mad more often.”
“Ha!” Minnie responded. “You never see me when I really mad. You keep starting that wound up, then maybe you see.” She walked around to the side of the bed and placed her hand on his brow. “Fever gone,” she said, nodding to herself. “When the soldiers bring you here, you look like dead man. I say, why you bring him here? Dig hole, put him in it.”
“I ain’t ready to go yet,” Hawk said. “There’s a lot of places I ain’t been, a lot of trails I ain’t scouted.” He didn’t tell her that he had survived out of sheer refusal to die by Roy Nestor’s hand. “I think it was that coffee of yours that saved my life. You make mighty good coffee. I hope you came in to tell me you were fixin’ to bring me a cup.”
“Ha! I come to see if you dead or alive. Two soldiers in store, talking to Fagan.” Ever since Hawk had known her, she had called her husband Fagan. He figured it was because everybody else called him Fagan and not Rubin. “They want to know can they see you,” she continued. “I tell them I see if you dead. Maybe I tell them go away, you not awake.” She spun on her heel to leave.
“You wouldn’t do that,” he called after her. “Tell ’em to bring some coffee with ’em.” She didn’t reply, just hurried on her way to the store. He smiled, knowing her bark was so much stronger than her bite. And he knew he would always be grateful for her care. It was a safe bet that the two soldiers who came to see him were Lieutenant Conner and Corporal Johnson and after a few minutes, they came in the door.
“Well, you don’t look dead, does he, Johnson?” Lieutenant Conner walked over and extended his hand. “It didn’t look too good for you when Wallace brought you into camp.”
“I thought you were dead,” Johnson said. “If it hadn’ta been for Ben Mullins, ol’ Lieutenant Wallace mighta buried you.”
“Everybody keeps tellin’ me I looked dead,” Hawk complained. “Hell, I’m about ready to ride outta here.”
“He talks big,” Minnie said as she walked in holding a coffeepot and three cups. “He can’t get outta bed yet.” She held her hand out to permit them to take a cup from her fingers. Then she filled the cups and left the room to let the men talk.
“We’re pulling out of here day after tomorrow,” Conner said. “I was hoping you’d be ready to go with us.” When Hawk asked where they were going, Conner told him they had been called back to Fort Ellis. “Company from the Seventh Infantry is gonna take over the road between Helena and Missoula. And damn it, I want you back.”
“I told Lieutenant Meade I’d be back as soon as I took care of that little business with Monroe Pratt,” Hawk said. “But I ain’t hardly fit to ride just yet, and when I am, I’ve got to ride up to the Bitterroot Valley to let Monroe know he don’t have to worry about Roy Nestor no more. Once I get all that done, I’m yours. Although I might have to make a short stop in Helena. There’s a little lady there who asked me to stop by to see her.” He called a picture of Sophie Hicks to mind and the last time he ate breakfast in Sophie’s Diner, next to the hotel. You never can tell, he thought.
“All right,” Conner said. “But I’m expecting you back. I want your word as a gentleman.”
Hawk said, “My word as a gentleman ain’t worth much. You’d best take my word as a scoundrel. That’ll be worth a whole lot more.”
Don’t miss the next Western from
Charles G. West!
NO JUSTICE IN HELL
A JOHN HAWK WESTERN
Coming in May 2018,
wherever Pinnacle Books are sold!
Hell Hath No Fury Page 25