North to Montana

by Colin Bainbridge

  Nation looked around. What must have once been the saloon had been transformed into a parlour. The plush furnishings had faded; a mirror still remained, along with a massive chandelier. There were other indications that the place had once served quite a different function and the effect was oddly disconcerting.

  ‘Neither of us uses this part any more,’ Muleskin said. ‘Annie has most of the top floor and I got a place out back.’

  He led the way through a doorway into the room beyond. There was a bed and some shelves, a couple of chairs and a table – but not much else apart from a battered, rusty stove. Through a grimy window Nation could see a yard with a tumbledown shack in one corner, which he guessed comprised the stabling to which the old-timer had referred.

  ‘Kinda strange the place has no front door,’ Nation remarked. ‘Anyone could walk in.’

  Muleskin shrugged. ‘It don’t happen,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t matter anyway. Annie’s quarters are private and there’s nothin’ here a body would waste time tryin’ to steal.’

  Nation glanced round the room and back through the door at the parlour. ‘I guess not,’ he replied.

  The old-timer looked down at Midway. ‘He’s done his time as a guard dog,’ he added, ‘but he’s kinda retired now, just like me.’ He stroked the dog’s head. ‘Come through here,’ he said. ‘This’ll be yours.’

  He led the way to a room beyond, which was dusty with lack of use. An old bunk stood in a corner. ‘I ain’t sayin’ it’s a palace,’ he said, ‘but I figure you’ve probably seen a lot worse.’

  The old-timer was right, on both counts. ‘It’s fine,’ Nation replied. ‘Anyway, I don’t figure on stayin’ for long.’

  Muleskin gave him a quizzical look. ‘Stay just as long as you like,’ he said. ‘Get your stuff out of your saddle-bags and I’ll stable those animals and fix somethin’ to eat.’

  He turned and went out of the room, followed by the dog. Nation looked about him once more. There had been no further mention of Double-Cinch Annie and he wondered when he was likely to meet her.

  A day went by. Nation had no intention of outstaying his welcome, but, although he didn’t like to admit it, he wasn’t feeling too good. Muleskin helped him change the bandages on his chest; the wound seemed to be healing OK but it had obviously affected him. By the evening, however, he was feeling better and in need of some air.

  ‘I’m gonna take a little stroll,’ he said.

  ‘There ain’t a lot to see,’ Muleskin replied. ‘Figure you’ll about cover it by the time I got some coffee brewed.’

  ‘I hope it ain’t anythin’ like your notion of whiskey,’ Nation responded.

  He went through the parlour and out of the batwings. The night was cool. The street was deserted; scattered lamps showing in the windows only served to emphasize the sense of desolation which enveloped the town. Nation paused before continuing till he saw ahead of him a low mound over which hung a sign. He had already stopped by on his way into Gunsight. It was the town cemetery. He paused at the entrance before turning and starting to climb the rise. The moon hung low behind it and the dim shapes of crosses were etched against the skyline.

  Stopping beside one of them, he bent down to read the name: Cliff Nation. Nearby, a second cross was marked with the name of Henrietta Nation. It seemed strange that he and they shared the same blood, though they had never met and he hadn’t even known they existed until a few short weeks before. He still didn’t know much about them, but Muleskin might be able to supply him with further details. There was no time like the present. Muleskin would have coffee bubbling on the stove; it would be a good time to talk with him.

  He turned to go. At the same moment he heard the crack of a rifle behind him and a bullet thudded into the wooden cross. If he hadn’t moved, he would have been hit. Diving to the ground, he rolled away from the cross and suddenly found himself falling. He landed with a jarring thud which knocked the wind from him. He lay for a moment looking up at the sky, which was framed in a dark rectangle. He was in a cramped position and when he tried to move he found it difficult. He succeeded in sitting up and then he realized that he had fallen into an open grave. In the darkness he had not even seen it.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a second shot. He drew his six-gun and struggled to his feet. His head rose just above the edge of the grave and he peered about. He could see nothing but he heard the unmistakable snarling of a dog. It was followed by another gunshot and then the sounds of a scuffle taking place at the entrance to the graveyard. He heard the whinny of a horse followed by the rapid castanet of hoofs. He looked upwards. The hoof-beats were coming from the direction of the road he had walked along, but they were travelling quickly away from town. In another few seconds they had dwindled away into the night. Placing his gun back in its holster, and with some difficulty, he hauled himself out of the pit.

  His injured chest hurt. He stood and looked about him but he was alone. His clothes were grimy and he wiped them down with his Stetson before moving quickly forward, puzzling over what could have happened to frighten off his attacker. As he emerged from the graveyard he saw a dark shape lying in the road and he knew instantly that it was the dog, Midway. He remembered the gunshot and ran forward, fearful of what he might find. He kneeled down and to his immense relief saw that the dog was still breathing. He could see no obvious injury and after a few moments the dog roused itself and struggled to its feet. It stood, looking up at him, with its tongue lolling.

  ‘Good boy,’ he said, stroking it under the chin and wondering who could have taken the shot at him. Nobody knew of his presence in Gunsight. At least, so he had thought. ‘Come on, old fella,’ he said, ‘let’s get you home.’ He started to walk slowly away and the dog followed in his footsteps.

  When he got back, although the night was chill, Muleskin was sitting outside at the back of the building. A wide porch gave access to a yard and the decrepit outhouse which passed muster as the stable. Muleskin showed some surprise at seeing the dog tagging along behind.

  ‘I’ve topped up the coffee pot,’ he said. ‘Hope it ain’t too weak now. I already had a mug.’ He poured the thick black liquid. Nation sat in a chair and took a drink. It didn’t affect him quite like the old-timer’s whiskey but it wasn’t far short.

  ‘I hope Midway ain’t been causin’ you any bother,’ Muleskin continued. ‘He sure seems to have taken to you.’

  The dog had settled between the two of them. Nation reached down and patted its head.

  ‘Just the opposite,’ he said. ‘I got Midway to thank for helpin’ save my life.’

  Muleskin looked at Nation with an expression of enquiry on his grizzled features.

  ‘I took a walk to the cemetery,’ Nation explained. ‘While I was there somebody bushwhacked me. I was in a real fix till the dog decided to take a hand. Whoever it was, he drove him off.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be!’ Muleskin exclaimed.

  ‘One shot was probably aimed at Midway but I can’t see any damage.’

  Muleskin bent down and, holding the kerosene lamp in his hand, examined the dog.

  ‘There’s a burn mark,’ he said. ‘Hell, he’s got so many old scars and marks it’s kinda hard to tell, but I figure this is a new one.’

  Nation took a look. There was a singe along the dog’s side. ‘That was close,’ he said. ‘Hey, I’m sorry about Midway, but I didn’t know he was there. He musta followed me.’

  ‘Sounds like it was a good job he did,’ Muleskin replied.

  Nation reached into his shirt pocket and drew out his muslin sack of Bull Durham with its packet of brown papers attached. He quickly rolled a cigarette and then passed the sack to the old-timer. They lit up and took another swallow of coffee before Muleskin resumed the conversation.

  ‘I don’t understand why anyone would take a shot at you,’ he said. ‘Nobody knows you around these parts.’

  ‘That’s what I was tryin’ to figure,’ Nation replied. ‘Whoever it was, he must have
been watchin’ me.’

  Muleskin looked out into the night. ‘Maybe I’d better turn down the lamp,’ he said. He fumbled for a moment and dimmed it. ‘You never know,’ he added. ‘This back porch is pretty secluded, but there’s no point in takin’ chances.’

  ‘I can’t figure it out,’ Nation repeated.

  Muleskin looked at him. ‘It ain’t none of my business,’ he said, ‘but maybe it’d be an idea if you were to tell me a bit more about what you’re doin’ here in Gunsight.’

  Nation blew out a ring of smoke. ‘It is your business now,’ he said. ‘Especially after what Midway just did for me. Besides, I was meanin’ to ask you a few questions myself. Maybe you can help.’ He paused to finish his coffee before resuming.

  ‘I’ll keep it short,’ he continued. ‘A couple of weeks ago I was contacted by a certain Justin Delaney. He’s an attorney-at-law. He wrote that if I was to contact him at his offices in Kansas City, I might find somethin’ to my advantage. I was goin’ to ignore him. I wasn’t even sure if it was me his letter was aimed at. But in the end I went along and paid him a visit. I didn’t like the looks of him, but that’s beside the point. He asked me for some proof of who I was and then he told me that I’d been left a ranch called the Forty-Five in the neighbourhood of a town called Gunsight in Wyoming territory. I figured the whole thing was probably some kinda hoax but he assured me it was all legal and above board.’

  ‘He must have persuaded you to his way of thinkin’ or you wouldn’t be here. It’s quite a ways from Kansas City to Wyoming.’

  ‘Maybe I just had nothin’ better to do. Anyway, I figure you’ve been around these parts for a long time. Do you know anythin’ about the Forty-Five?’

  The old-timer shook his head. ‘A bit, not much. A man called Cliff Nation and his wife, Henrietta, used to run it but they kept pretty much to themselves. They’d come into town from time to time for supplies but nobody knew them too well. As far as I know, they both died in an accident. They were out ridin’ and their buggy turned over.’

  ‘An accident? That’s interestin’.’

  ‘The marshal was happy about it. I mean, there was no suspicion of foul play, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.’

  ‘Why would I think that?’ Muleskin didn’t reply so Nation continued: ‘The marshal? Has the town got a marshal?’

  ‘Not any more. But it used to be bigger and livelier in those days. That was before the cholera and before the cattle herds moved on.’

  ‘What was his name? Is he still around?’

  ‘Rice Quitman? Sure. He’s retired now. Has a nice little place just outa town. I could take you there to meet him.’

  ‘That might be a start,’ Nation replied. ‘What about the rest of the folks in town? Do you reckon any of them might be able to throw light on the matter?’

  ‘You could ask around. I doubt whether any of ’em would know much more than me. Have a word with Doc Hurley.’

  ‘OK. That’s another call I’ll make tomorrow,’ Nation replied. He got to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if it’s OK with you, I guess I’ll turn in now.’

  ‘Me too,’ Muleskin replied. ‘It’s gettin’ a mite chilly. There’s a cold wind comin’ off the mountains.’

  They moved indoors and Nation noticed again how badly the old man limped. He went through to the inner room and threw himself down on the bunk. He closed his eyes. The last thing he heard before sleep claimed him was the sound of snoring, but whether it was the old-timer or his dog he would have been hard put to say.

  Chapter Two

  Early the next morning, having arranged with Muleskin to ride out to see the former marshal later in the day, Nation went to talk with the doctor. As he entered the house, a figure emerged from some inner recess.

  ‘Howdy,’ Nation said.

  The doctor was a small, lean man with a thin moustache. ‘Can I be of assistance?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m hopin’ you might be able to help me. The name’s Nation, Buck Nation. I got some relatives buried up at the cemetery.’

  ‘Nation,’ the doctor repeated. ‘You mean, you’re related to Cliff and Henrietta Nation who used to run the old Forty-Five?’

  ‘Yeah, although I didn’t know it till recently.’ In a few clipped words he told the doctor something of his story. ‘Can you tell me anythin’ about them or how they died?’ he concluded.

  ‘Sorry. I never really knew them personally, but they were well respected in Gunsight. I understand they were tragically killed in an accident when their buggy overturned.’

  ‘So the story goes,’ Nation replied. ‘By the way, I also noticed an open grave.’

  The doctor eyed him quizzically. ‘There’s nothin’ unusual about that. Old Tom likes to keep ahead of things.’

  ‘Old Tom?’

  ‘Tom Irwin. He’s a kind of general handyman. He works for me sometimes.’

  ‘Well,’ Nation said, ‘that doesn’t get us far.’ He exchanged glances with the doctor. ‘After what happened last night, I almost got a feelin’ like that grave was meant for me. Anyway, thanks for your help.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘To see the former marshal. Maybe he can tell me somethin’ about Cliff and Henrietta’s accident.’

  Nation and the doctor made their way back into town, where they parted. When Nation arrived at the old saloon, Muleskin already had their mounts saddled and ready to go. This time the old-timer was riding a dappled grey mare.

  ‘Not ridin’ your mule today?’ Nation asked.

  ‘The old girl’s gettin’ slower, like me and Midway. Figured I’d give her a break.’

  Before mounting they stood for a moment, looking up and down the street.

  ‘What did the doc say?’ Muleskin asked.

  ‘Only that nobody has died so far as he’s aware.’

  ‘So whose grave was it you found?’

  ‘Nobody’s yet,’ Nation replied. ‘The doc told me that the gravedigger likes to keep on top of things.’

  ‘Tom Irwin? Yeah, that would figure. He’s a good man. This town don’t amount to much, but I figure it would have fallen down altogether without him.’

  They mounted up and set off down the main street. The town still wore its customary hangdog look, but Nation was beginning to get more used to it. He had been in worse places.

  The ride out to see the former marshal took longer than Nation had expected. They were heading towards the broken hills beyond which the higher ranges reared into the sky.

  ‘Watch for that bear,’ Muleskin said. ‘I reckon he’s made the foothills his territory.’

  ‘Is he some kind of rogue?’ Nation replied.

  ‘There have certainly been a few incidents,’ the old-timer replied. ‘Not just recently, though, apart from the attack on you.’ He spat. ‘Goddamned bears!’ he said, with emphasis. ‘I don’t like ’em. I’ll get that son of a bitch sometime.’

  ‘I guess he was only doin’ what a bear does,’ Nation replied. ‘I figure leave ’em alone so long as they leave you alone.’

  ‘That’s just what that critter ain’t been doin’. And he isn’t the worst, not by a long way. Someday. . . .’ Muleskin stopped. He was almost gasping and Nation was startled to see his features distorted by rage. Suddenly he had an intuition about how the old-timer had acquired his limp.

  ‘You got a particular reason to hate ’em?’ he said, half-questioning and half-making a statement. Muleskin rode on without replying but after a short distance drew his horse to a halt.

  ‘You’re right, Nation,’ he said. ‘I got good reason to hate the varmints. You seen the way I walk. Well, I got that limp from a bear, up in those mountains. One day I’m goin’ back and take revenge. One day his head’s gonna be hangin’ on a nail.’

  Nation didn’t say anything. He was still taken aback by the vehemence of Muleskin’s outburst. It didn’t seem to chime with the impression he had formed of the old-timer. Eventually Muleskin seemed to calm down a little. />
  ‘Hell, guess you’re wonderin’ what’s got into me,’ he said. He looked up again at the higher ranges. ‘Come on, let’s ride. We’ve still got a few miles to go.’

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’ Nation said.

  ‘Sure. I guess I’ve let that old grizzly plumb get under my skin.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Muleskin dug his spurs into the grey’s flanks and rode forwards. Nation followed suit. That bear did more than just wound the old fella physically, he thought. Maybe there’s more to this than he’s lettin’ on.

  The former marshal’s house was set beside a grove of trees with a stream rippling through. It was a pleasant spot, somewhat isolated – but the kind of place a man, happy enough in his own company, might choose. Or a man trying to escape from something. As they tied their horses to the hitching rail, the door opened and the former marshal stepped out onto the porch.

  ‘Muleskin,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’ His eyes fell on the old-timer’s companion.

  ‘Quitman, this is Buck Nation,’ Muleskin said. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’

  Quitman shook Nation’s hand. ‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘I reckon you wouldn’t say no to some refreshment after comin’ this far.’

  He led the way inside and while Nation and Muleskin made themselves comfortable, he poured the contents of a decanter into three tumblers.

  ‘An Irish import,’ he said. He turned to Nation. ‘Since you’re still here with us, I take it you haven’t yet sampled Muleskin’s own recipe?’

  Nation laughed. ‘Matter of fact I have,’ he replied. ‘Only there were mitigatin’ circumstances.’

  ‘He’d just been attacked by a bear,’ Muleskin put in.

  Nation looked across at him. ‘Come to think of it,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure which was worse.’

  It was Quitman’s turn to laugh. ‘I hope you’re on the way to recovery,’ he said.

  Nation nodded, although he wasn’t feeling too good. ‘Still hurts some, but it’ll be fine. Thanks to Muleskin.’ He felt that some explanation of his presence was needed and he proceeded to give the former marshal an indication of what he was doing in Gunsight, concluding with what had happened since his arrival.