Inside, he found two people seated at a small table by the kitchen door. They were eating supper. They looked up in surprise when they saw him. When he hesitated, unsure if the diner was open, the woman greeted him. “Lookin’ for some supper? Come on in, stranger, and set yourself down. I got some lamb stew on the stove.” She got up and started for the kitchen, talking as she went. “I raised that lamb, myself. Jake, get the man a cup of coffee.” The man she addressed as Jake pushed his chair back and slowly rose to his feet. Then he shuffled over to a sideboard to pick up an empty coffee cup and take it to a stove where the pot was sitting. After filling the cup, he stood motionless before Hawk, waiting for him to choose a table. He set the cup down when Hawk pulled a chair back from the end of the long table, never uttering a word, then went back to his supper. Hawk wondered if he was a mute.
In a few moments, the woman returned with a bowl piled high with stew and placed it on the table before him. Then she stood back, smiling, as if waiting for a comment from him. “Looks good,” he offered, which seemed to satisfy her.
She stood over him, however, waiting for him to try the stew. “I bet you ain’t had no lamb for a long time,” she began. “Nothin’ but pork and beef. A feller from down in the valley brought me that lamb’s mama ’bout a year ago. He didn’t know she was carryin’ a baby. I didn’t either till one mornin’ out it popped. Well, I’d seen many a baby born, so I took care of it and raised it till it looked ready for my iron pot.” She glanced over at the man busy eating his supper. “Ain’t that right, Jake?” Jake looked up from his plate and nodded. She continued with her story. “’Bout a month after that lamb was born, I lost the mama. One of them drunken son of a bitches down at the saloon shot her.” When Hawk failed to comment on that, she paused a moment, then said, “Well, I reckon you’re gonna let your stew get cold, if we don’t stop gabbin’.” She went back to join Jake then.
Hawk studied the plump, matronly woman with her lined face and gray-streaked hair for a moment after she sat down. He tried to imagine what she must have looked like when she was in her youthful prime. She might have been a fine-looking woman, he decided. Since she was still watching him, he determined not to make a sour face if her stew wasn’t good. To his relief, it was very good. He gave her a smiling nod.
* * *
“Who is it?” Bevo Brogan whispered low while seated on the floor of the empty room, his back against the wall, a half-full whiskey bottle on the floor beside him. “Take a look.”
Slim Perry was standing near the door of the abandoned harness shop they had taken temporary residence in. He drew his .44 and sidled up to the window to peek through the ragged remnant of a curtain. “It’s Loafer. Wonder what he wants.”
“Hell, open the door and find out.”
“Whatcha want, Loafer?” Slim asked when he opened the door.
“I thought you boys might be interested to know there’s a stranger in town askin’ questions about you,” Loafer said.
This captured their attention right away and caused Bevo to scramble to his feet. “Soldiers?” He blurted the first thought that came to mind.
“No,” Loafer answered. “Ain’t no soldiers. Ain’t but one man.”
“One man?” Bevo exclaimed. “Lawman?”
“He says he ain’t, but he sure looks like one to me. Claimed he was supposed to meet you two fellers here—askin’ me all kinds of questions—even asked about that feller that came through here a while back, ridin’ a horse like that Palouse he saw in my corral.”
“What did he look like?” Bevo asked, thinking at once of the scout who had captured them.
“He’s a sizable man, wearin’ a buckskin shirt.” He remembered then. “And he’s ridin’ a buckskin horse.”
“It’s that son of a bitch that shot Johnny,” Slim blurted, “that damn scout ridin’ with the soldiers. He’s the one that sneaked up on us when we was gettin’ ready to rob that payroll.”
“That’s him, all right,” Bevo said, certain that Hawk had tracked them down. “And you’re sure there wasn’t no soldiers with him?” Loafer shook his head. “Maybe settin’ back hidin’ behind your barn?” Loafer continued to shake his head. “He came up here, in this place, all by his lonesome?” It was difficult for him to think that one man would dare to come after them by himself—a squad of soldiers, maybe, but not one man. “Hell,” he said to Slim, “we couldn’t have asked for anythin’ better’n this. We owe that son of a bitch a killin’, and he’s come to the right place to get it.” Turning back to Loafer, he asked, “Where’d he go after he left your place?”
“Belle’s place,” Loafer said with a satisfied grin. “He went to get hisself somethin’ to eat.” He grinned again, finding that amusing. “I expect that’s where he is right now.”
Excited now, Bevo grabbed his gun belt and slapped it around his waist. “Come on, Slim, let’s catch him before he gets outta there.”
“Hell, Belle’s cookin’ might save you boys the trouble of killin’ him,” Loafer said, laughing outright as he followed them out the door. “I told him I ate there.”
* * *
At that particular moment, Hawk was having similar thoughts about Belle’s cooking. At first taste, the lamb stew seemed very good, but upon finishing about half of it, he began to hear rumbling noises in his stomach accompanied by an uneasy feeling. He suddenly suspected that the lamb he was eating was tainted, turned bad, and it was too late because he already had a belly half-full. “Bread!” he blurted, startling the couple at the small table. “Have you got any bread?”
“Bread,” Belle echoed. “I didn’t give you no bread? Jake, get the gentleman some bread.”
Jake went in the kitchen and returned a minute or two later with a chunk of bread from what had been a large loaf. Hawk, desperate to quell the eruption threatening deep down in his gut, didn’t wait for the bread to reach the table, snatching it off the plate while it was still in Jake’s hand. He bit off hunks of the stale bread, hoping it would help by absorbing the stew inside him while the two astonished spectators watched. “Outhouse!” he finally blurted when it was clear the bread was not going to work. Still speechless, both spectators pointed to the kitchen door. He didn’t wait, but, grabbing his rifle, he dashed through the door, through the kitchen, and out the back door. He made it to the outhouse without a moment to spare. He could never remember ever having felt so sick in his life before as the lamb decided it would use the upper and lower exits simultaneously as it departed his stomach.
In a few minutes, although it seemed an eternity, he felt he had some measure of control again. He decided at that moment that he was going to break his usual practice of complimenting the cooking no matter how good or bad. In fact, he saw no reason to go back inside the diner at all. He just wanted to get to a cool stream and clean himself up a little and had no intention of paying for his supper. Outside the outhouse, he stopped and took a moment to breathe in some of the cool evening air. Then he started to walk around to the front of the diner where his horse was tied, but stopped when he saw three men in the street, walking toward the diner. Even in his present state, he recognized Loafer, but the two walking with him caused him to freeze in his tracks. Bevo and Slim, he was sure of it, and they had obviously not seen him. That low-down son of a bitch, he thought when he realized Loafer had double-crossed him. Suddenly the troubles inside his body were temporarily forgotten, replaced by the call to fight. He remained motionless until the three entered the diner.
Loafer held back when Bevo and Slim suddenly kicked the door open and charged in, guns drawn, to see no one but Belle and Jake, still seated at the table. Astonished for the second time in less than fifteen minutes, they could only sit there, gaping. Outside on the porch, Loafer, still grinning with anticipation for the showdown he had orchestrated, sobered immediately when he felt the cold barrel of the Winchester against the back of his neck. “One peep outta you and I’ll blow a hole right through the back of your head.” Loafer felt the handg
un he wore slowly rising out of his holster. Hawk motioned toward a bench at the edge of the porch. “Get over there and sit down.”
“Yes, sir, ain’t no trouble outta me,” Loafer pleaded. “I got no hand in this game.” He promptly did as he was told.
“You got a hand in it, all right,” Hawk threatened. “And I ain’t decided what I’m gonna do about it. But I promise you this, if you don’t sit there with your mouth shut, you’re a dead man, ’cause you’ll get the first bullet. You understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Loafer answered. “Mouth shut, I ain’t movin’ off this bench till you tell me to.” He had never seen a man as angry as Hawk obviously was, with no idea that a huge part of his fury was instigated by agony left from his encounter with Belle’s lamb stew. Reasonably sure that this time he could take Loafer at his word, Hawk turned his attention to the two would-be assassins whose loud demands could be heard through the open door.
“Where is he, you crazy ol’ bitch?” Bevo demanded, and used his .44 to motion at the half-finished plate of stew on the table. He failed to read the message conveyed by her wide-open eyes at the sight of the avenging stranger behind him.
“I’m right here,” Hawk said softly. Both Bevo and Slim froze, stopped by the deadly promise in his tone. “Both of you drop your weapons and I’ll let you live to go to trial for killin’ that soldier.”
Caught with their backs to him, both outlaws hesitated to try to turn and shoot, but when Hawk offered to take them back for trial, Bevo was emboldened to challenge him. “You arrestin’ us? You ain’t no lawman, you can’t arrest nobody. How you gonna ride outta here without gettin’ shot? Lawmen ain’t welcome around here, and somebody actin’ like one is dead meat.”
“You’re runnin’ outta time,” Hawk said. “I’ve told you what your choices are, so drop those pistols on the floor.”
“If me and Slim turn at the same time, you ain’t gonna have time to get both of us. Did you think about that?”
“That’s right,” Slim finally piped up. “You can’t get both of us.”
“I thought about it,” Hawk answered Bevo. “I reckon we’ll just have to see who the sun shines on tomorrow, but one of you ain’t gonna see it.”
Bevo made his decision. “On three,” he whispered to Slim. “One . . .” was as far as he got before Slim, his nerves stretched beyond controllable limits, whirled around to shoot. Hawk fired before he was halfway around, cutting the simple outlaw down. Then, without losing a second, he instantly stepped to the side, using the doorframe for protection as he cocked his rifle while Bevo’s hurried shot snapped through the empty doorway. Hawk stepped back and shattered Bevo’s breastbone before he could cock his pistol again. He slumped to the floor, his eyes wide in disbelief. In a few seconds, the shock of the bullet in his chest turned to pain and he realized he was dying. Clutching his chest, his final words were meant for his partner. “I said ‘on three,’ you dumb shit. You kilt us both.”
Hawk turned back toward the end of the porch, but the bench was empty, Loafer having taken advantage of an opportunity to run. Knowing his tendency to spread the news now, Hawk presumed he didn’t have time to dawdle. He stepped inside to make sure both men were dead, then glanced at the man and woman sitting like statues at the table. “Sorry ’bout the mess,” he said, then hurried out the door. There was still the problem of getting out of town before a mob of lawless men decided to avenge two of their outlaw brothers. Hawk climbed into the saddle and took a quick look around him to select his best route of escape. He figured Loafer would have headed straight for the saloon to tell about the shooting, so he decided his best bet to escape would be to head in the direction the mob was coming from. “Rascal, now’s the time to do your job,” he said as he wheeled the big buckskin and galloped off behind the diner to race along the alley behind the buildings. He experienced a small stab of pain in his gut as he galloped past Belle’s outhouse and it occurred to him that he had forgotten the misery he had been in. That caused him to think that maybe he owed Belle his thanks for her part in saving his life, or maybe it was the lamb that should get the credit.
Glancing between the buildings as he passed behind them, he could see men running up the street toward the diner and he admonished himself for pulling such a boneheaded stunt. In all honesty, he might have very well decided to forget about attempting to capture Bevo and Slim in the face of such odds. If he had simply reported to the military where the fugitives had fled to, then he would have completed his job. As far as killing both men, he had to believe he was given no choice, circumstances having been what they were. Maybe there should be guilt to be considered for having killed two men. He would let higher powers decide that issue. Besides, the two outlaws were destined to be hanged, if they had made it to trial. His concern now was to save his own neck.
Once he left the town of Nevada City behind, he reined Rascal back to a pace the big horse could maintain for a while. There were many trails coming into the once-bustling town. He picked one that looked as if it might take him east, out of the mountains, and back to the valley where he had left his packhorse. When he felt sure he was not being followed, he stopped to give Rascal a drink at a busy stream near the valley floor. Suddenly reminded of the rancid taste in his mouth from his episode in the outhouse, he dropped on his stomach beside his horse and did his best to rinse the episode from his memory.
His mind returned to focus on Zach Dubose. He felt sure the rider of the Palouse that Loafer had talked about was Dubose. He had to be. It was the first possibility he had come across since Dubose had eluded him at the Hog Ranch in Big Timber. If he found a town that had a telegraph, he would wire Fort Ellis the news of the demise of the two fugitives they sought for the murder of Private Anderson. He didn’t have any evidence to prove they were dead, but he knew Lieutenant Conner would take his word for it. Then maybe he could convince Major Brisbin. At this particular time, Hawk didn’t care if they believed it or not. He had something more important to him to pursue, and the first order of business was to fetch his packhorse.
* * *
“Looks like I ain’t gonna own me a packhorse,” Rufus Tubbs greeted him cheerfully when Hawk reined Rascal up to the rail. “I kinda had an idea you’d be showin’ up. You didn’t find them two outlaws?”
“I found ’em,” Hawk replied. “They didn’t wanna come back with me, so they stayed in Nevada City.”
Rufus felt no need to ask for additional clarification of the matter. As far as he was concerned, he had accurately judged the earnest young army scout the first day he walked into his store. “Well, since you’ve settled that, where are you headed now, back to Fort Ellis?”
“Nope, I just came back this way to get my packhorse. Then I reckon I’ll head back west to see if I can strike the Montana Trail, up from Utah. I’ve been told if I head straight west, I can’t miss it. You agree with that?”
Rufus laughed. “Well, I reckon that’s pretty much the general idea. If you want directions a little more specific, I can help you out. Where you thinkin’ about headin’ after you strike the trail, north or south?”
“South,” Hawk answered. He had no idea where Dubose might be heading, but he doubted he would turn north, since that would take him back to Butte.
“In that case,” Rufus said, “the best way to go is to take a trail about a quarter of a mile back up the valley. It’s an old trail used by the Bannock Indians when they traveled over into this valley to hunt. It’ll be easy to find the trailhead. There’s a big old rack of elk horns nailed to a fir tree.” He paused to chuckle over that. “It was nailed up by a white man—Injuns didn’t need a sign. Follow that trail. It’ll lead you past the foot of the Tobacco Root Mountains, west to strike the Ruby River in about half a day’s ride. Another half a day oughta get you to the Beaverhead River. Follow that river and it’ll take you to strike the Montana Trail farther south.”
“Much obliged,” Hawk said. He settled up with him for boarding his packhorse and
bought a few supplies from him in case his search might take him into the winter months, for summer was already fading. Then he struck out to find the fir tree with the elk antlers.
The Indian trail was as easy to find as Rufus had said it would be, and his estimates on the distances turned out to be reliable, for Hawk struck the Ruby around noon. After that, it was not as simple as Rufus predicted, for the trail seemed to end at the Ruby. After resting the horses, Hawk decided he was going to have to find this old Montana Trail on his own. So he headed a little more south to ride around the southern slopes of the Ruby Mountains, trying to work his way back to the west across rolling treeless terrain. Like Loafer had said, if he kept going west, he was bound to strike the Montana Trail eventually. And when he did, he was sure he would recognize it. It was bound to be scarred with the tracks left by the countless settlers and their wagons, as well as mule trains and oxen, pulling heavily loaded freight wagons. “Then, I reckon I’ll just head south and see if we can pick up Mr. Dubose’s trail,” he informed Rascal. Even as he said it, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was embarking on a hopeless mission, searching for a needle in a haystack. “Why would Dubose head down through this wilderness?” He questioned the sense of it. “Maybe I’m makin’ a big mistake.” It struck him then that he had in fact blundered into a huge waste of time. He had carelessly accepted another of Loafer’s stories as truth when he should have realized that the Palouse he had seen in the stable was the one he had been following all along. There was no second horse, and the realization that he had been so stupid to have thought that there was made him feel like a blithering idiot.
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