* * *
Following the river was a common trail that had been used enough to show some old tracks as well as some that he decided could be as fresh as three days old. When he had ridden for what he estimated to be about twenty miles or so, he began looking for places that offered good stops for horse and rider. He found several, and the third one he checked had the ashes of a small fire near the bank of the river. Thinking this might be the spot Dubose picked to rest his horse and cook some of that bacon he bought from Rufus, Hawk reined Rascal to a stop and dismounted. Freeing his horses to drink and rest, he began a closer search of the area around the ashes in hopes of discovering some imperfection in the shoes on the Palouse that would give him some means of distinguishing the horse from others. He couldn’t find anything that stood out, however. He had no guarantee that he was looking at the Palouse’s hoofprints, anyway. He was still going on a gut feeling. He found tracks that could be fresh enough, they were going in the right direction upon leaving the place, and the ashes from the fire were not too old. What it all boiled down to was he had no choice but to assume he was on Dubose’s trail.
When the horses were rested, he set out again along the river, keeping an eye sharp to pick up any tracks leaving the trail. There was nothing to indicate Dubose had anything in mind beyond simply following the river to Bozeman, until reaching a point where it took a more northeastern direction to reach that town. Hawk missed it at first, but soon discovered the tracks he had been following were no longer there, causing him to backtrack to find where he lost them. It took some careful study of the trail, but he eventually found the point where they left the common trail. No wonder, he thought when he found the faint impressions where the trail passed over a heavily grassed area. They had escaped his notice, but as he looked ahead in the direction they pointed, they told him that Dubose had left the river and continued straight north to Three Forks and not to Bozeman. So he turned Rascal in that direction with a slight feeling of confirmation that he was following Dubose for sure. He thought of the Hog Ranch Dubose and his two partners had gone to before when they left Great Falls. He had considered the possibility that he was heading there again, since Dubose might be convinced that the man chasing him was riding down toward Utah Territory on the Montana Trail. If that was the case, then why not go to the hog ranch again on his way to wherever? According to what both Loafer and Rufus had said, Dubose had plenty of money. It might give Hawk a chance to catch up with him if he decided to stop awhile and spend some of that money. At least he had hoped so, but now he wasn’t sure what Dubose had in mind, since it seemed obvious that he was heading for Three Forks and not Big Timber.
* * *
The sun was hovering low over the mountains to the west when Hawk rode into the settlement of Three Forks. With eyes peeled for any sight of the spotted horse he had become so familiar with, he held the big buckskin to an easy walk as he passed the blacksmith and the general merchandise store. Continuing on toward a stable, he involuntarily jerked Rascal to a halt. There, in the corral with at least a dozen other horses, he saw it—the Palouse. His hand automatically fell to rest on the stock of his Winchester as his eyes darted back and forth to discover any immediate threat. But there was no one in sight, until a man walked out of the stable, and upon seeing Hawk, stopped in front of the corral to greet him. “How do, stranger. What can I do for you?”
Although there was no doubt in his mind that the horse he now saw was the horse Dubose rode, he did not see the man, himself. That left the only possibility of his whereabouts to be the general store he had just passed because he could see that he was not in the blacksmith’s shop. He quickly looked back the way he had come in case Dubose had seen him ride by the store, but there was no sign of anyone behind him. He was aware then that the stable owner was waiting for an answer to his question. “Maybe you can tell me where I can find the man that owns that Palouse over yonder.”
“You’re lookin’ at him,” the man said, at once somewhat guarded in his tone. “What’s your interest in that horse?”
I’ll be damned, Hawk immediately cursed to himself, thinking he was about to be met with the same stunt Loafer had pulled in Nevada City. He struggled to hold his temper. “Had that horse a long time, have you?”
“As a matter of fact, I traded two good horses for that Palouse just a couple of days ago,” the man answered. “Fair and square, so if you’ve got some kinda claim on that horse, you’re gonna have to show me some kinda proof and you’re gonna have to make up what I lost.”
Hawk, surprised, paused to think about that. He hadn’t expected it, but it looked as if Dubose had become concerned enough about being tracked down to finally get rid of that spotted horse. That was not good news because that horse was the only clue Hawk had to find him. His task just became more impossible. He was aware then that the man was again standing there waiting for him to speak. “I’ve got no interest in the horse,” he said. “I’m just tryin’ to find the man who traded him to you.”
“Oh,” he responded, then sheepishly hastened to explain. “No offense, mister, when you asked me about him, I thought maybe that horse was stolen. I sure got the best end of the trade, and the feller I traded with had a look about him. You know what I mean? Like he mighta been the kind that’d steal a horse.” When Hawk simply nodded his understanding, the man went on. “My name’s Raymond Fuller. This here’s my stable.”
“John Hawk. Mr. Fuller, you got any idea which way that fellow went when he left here?”
“Well, I know he rode out toward the east, headin’ for Bozeman, I reckon,” Fuller said. “That’s one helluva fine horse. I was tickled to get him.” He hesitated then before asking, “He ain’t stolen, is he?”
“Not that I know anything about,” Hawk said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised, knowin’ the man who traded him to you.” To give Fuller some reassurance, he added, “If he did steal it, it was a long way from here and a long while back.” He shook his head, thinking about this unfortunate turn of events. “I’m just damn sorry to find out he got rid of that horse. It was the only real hope I had of findin’ him.”
“Maybe you ain’t outta luck after all,” Fuller said, a wide smile spreading across his whiskered face. “Like I said, I gave him two horses in trade. One of ’em’s a sorrel he was wantin’ for a packhorse, but the other’un he threw his saddle on was a dappled gray that wouldn’t be too hard to spot. That horse wasn’t but about four years old, so it’s still a pretty dark gray.”
“Much obliged,” Hawk said. “I ’preciate the information.”
“Not a-tall,” Fuller replied. “I’m always glad to help the law. Hope you catch him.”
There it is again, Hawk thought. “Thanks,” he said without going to the trouble of telling him he wasn’t a lawman. He turned Rascal toward the wagon road that led to Bozeman. He had to consider himself lucky that Dubose had a liking for horses with unusual markings, otherwise he would have a much smaller chance of spotting him. It was about twenty-five miles from Three Forks to Bozeman, a good half-day’s ride, and he knew of only one small trading post on the road between. It was owned by a fellow named Lem Wooten and it was halfway to Bozeman. Hawk had often stopped there in the years since he began working as a scout for the army, so he could count on Lem to help any way he could. His concern now was for his horses. They could use a rest, but he decided he would push on and rest them at Lem’s. There was a creek there and good grass for Rascal and the packhorse, and since Lem was a good friend, the possibility of a meal cooked by Lem’s wife.
* * *
It was approaching hard dark by the time Hawk saw the lights in the small store by the creek. His arrival was announced well in advance by the two large dogs that slept on the front porch of the log structure. In a matter of a few seconds, the front door opened a crack and Lem called out. “Who is it?”
“John Hawk, Lem.”
The door opened wide, revealing Lem Wooten, holding a shotgun. “Hawk,” he responded. “Come
on in, boy!” He stepped out onto the porch to call his dogs back. “You ridin’ alone? I don’t see no soldiers with you.”
“Yep,” Hawk replied, “nobody but me. Figured I was close enough to your place, I’d just camp here tonight.”
“Well, you know you’re sure welcome. I expect you ain’t had your supper yet. We’ve done et, but Lucy can fix you up somethin’.”
“Thanks, Lem, but I wouldn’t wanna put Lucy to the trouble. I’ve got some bacon in my packs and a little bit of coffee,” Hawk said, knowing Lem would insist, and counting on it.
Lem insisted. “No such a thing. Lucy’d be downright insulted if you didn’t let her fix you somethin’ to eat.” He looked back toward the open door and yelled, “Lucy, it’s Hawk and he ain’t et.”
“Tell him to give me a minute and I’ll rustle up something,” Lucy called back.
Lem turned to relay her message to Hawk. “Take care of your horses and she’ll have somethin’ ready for you by the time you’re done.” By that time, two small children, a boy and a girl, moved up on either side of their father to stare at the man called Hawk, who was close to being a legend in their young minds.
“Much obliged, Lem. You sure Lucy won’t mind?”
“Not a-tall,” Lem replied. “We ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. Where you been?”
“Oh, here and there, I reckon. I’ll pull Rascal’s saddle off and turn him out to graze. I wish I had some help with my packhorse, though.” He winked at Lem when he said it.
“I’ll help!” Eight-year-old Martin immediately exclaimed, and pushed away from his father.
“I figured you’d be too busy,” Hawk teased. “Come on, then.” He strode toward his horses with the small boy trying to match him stride for stride.
After the horses were taken care of and Hawk’s overnight camp was set, he and young Martin returned to the house. Lucy and her ten-year-old daughter, Mary, greeted Hawk cordially. They appreciated the fact that he often bought supplies from their store and on more than one occasion, he had brought them a deer or antelope to butcher. He joked that Mary and Martin were the only young children he could tolerate. They were fascinated by the bigger-than-life scout who wore a buckskin shirt and rode the big buckskin horse. Little Mary was especially taken with him, so it was naturally she who asked, “What happened to the feather you always wear in your hat?”
“Oh, I reckon I musta lost it somewhere,” he answered. “I’ll find another one to take its place before long.” Not wishing to discuss the circumstances that brought him to their door on this night, he abruptly changed the subject. “I declare, Lucy, you sure came up with a regular feast on such short notice. I feel right guilty to put you to so much trouble.”
“Don’t be silly,” Lucy insisted. “I didn’t go to any trouble at all. I was just getting ready to throw the rest of those potatoes to the hogs, and the biscuits, too. All I did was warm ’em up again.”
After he finished his supper and the children went reluctantly off to bed, Hawk and Lem sat at the table and discussed the issue that brought him to their door. Lucy listened as she cleaned up her kitchen. “He was here, all right,” Lem said. “Rode in here a little before noon three or four days ago. He wanted to know if I had any whiskey. I told him I didn’t, so he didn’t stay long. And I’m just as glad he didn’t, ’cause I didn’t like his looks.” He paused when he thought about what Hawk had said Dubose had done to the girl Joanna. Shaking his head slowly, he said, “I knew that man was evil. He had a packhorse, but there wasn’t much on it. I figured he’d be buyin’ somethin’. That feller in Three Forks told you right, though. That horse he was ridin’ is easy enough to spot. Looks like one the devil might be ridin’.”
Making no comment until then, Lucy had to ask, “Why are you the only one trying to catch this man? Why doesn’t the marshal send a deputy to find him?”
Hawk found it difficult to explain why he felt obligated to avenge Joanna, a childlike woman he had known only briefly before she was murdered so coldheartedly. So he didn’t try. “I don’t know,” he said. “It just happened that I was the one who cut his trail, and I’m doin’ my best to keep from losin’ him.”
They talked on until Hawk declared that he was going to leave at sunup, so it was time he turned in. In a small way to repay them for their hospitality, he bought some coffee beans and a small sack of flour. But he turned down Lucy’s invitation to breakfast, saying he would be gone before then. “Mary’s gonna be disappointed when she finds you’re gone,” Lucy said. “I think she’s still planning to marry you when she grows up.”
“Well, I sure hope so,” Hawk said with a chuckle. “I know I’d really like to have Lem, here, as my father-in-law.” He took his leave then, retiring to his blanket and his saddle as his pillow. As usual, he went to sleep right away, thinking that it was a welcome break from the grim business he found himself in. It made him remember that there were good people in this world.
CHAPTER 12
There was a decision to be made and Hawk kept rolling it over in his mind as he traveled the road to Bozeman. It was only a half-day’s ride and Fort Ellis was only a few miles beyond it. He knew he should stop at the post to report the deaths of Bevo Brogan and Slim Perry, but he didn’t want to be detained any more than necessary. So the temptation to bypass the fort was strong in his mind. He would check the town of Bozeman for any sign of Dubose, but then he would prefer to continue on to Big Timber. It was a day and a half’s ride from Bozeman and any time he could save might mean the difference between catching up with Dubose before he started out in a new direction. There was also the question of whether or not he still had a job with the army. If it was left to Lieutenant Meade to decide, it could come down to an ultimatum—report to work right now, or be fired—if he hadn’t been fired already. And Hawk would like to avoid that confrontation. The desire to bring Zach Dubose to justice was so strong, he could not forgive himself if he simply broke off the chase. He was still trying to decide when the buildings of Bozeman came into view, so he turned his attention to the business at hand and left the decision until later.
Traveling the length of Bozeman’s short street at a slow walk, he looked for the dappled gray horse, but there was no sign of it. So he turned around and headed back toward Grainger’s Saloon in case Dubose might have stopped there, since he had tried to buy whiskey from Lem Wooten. When he passed the blacksmith shop again, he was hailed by Ernest Bloodworth, so he pulled Rascal over. “I thought that was you when you passed by a minute ago,” Bloodworth said. “I was out back, splittin’ some wood.”
“I thought maybe you were over at Grainger’s, gettin’ your mornin’ tonic,” Hawk said.
“Too early for me to start in on any drinkin’,” Bloodworth replied. “Ain’t seen you around town lately. How are those shoes holdin’ up on your horse? Have any more trouble since we put those new ones on?”
“Not a bit,” Hawk replied, “and we’ve traveled some since then. If Rascal could talk, he’d say, Much obliged.”
Bloodworth smiled. “What brings you to town? You headed for Grainger’s?”
“I’m tryin’ to catch up with a fellow, thought he mighta rode into town a few days back. He’s ridin’ a dappled gray, dark as night.”
“I saw that fellow,” Bloodworth said right away. “He tied his horse up in front of Grainger’s. He didn’t stay very long, maybe a half hour or so, and then the horse was gone. Just stopped to wet his whistle, I reckon. Whaddaya lookin’ for him for?”
“He owes me somethin’,” Hawk answered, preferring not to share the story. A little gurgle in his stomach suddenly reminded him that he had not taken the time to eat breakfast that morning, not even a cup of coffee. “I reckon I’ll take time to visit Sadie up at the diner—give my horses a little rest before I get goin’ again. I reckon that fellow on the gray rode on out toward the east.”
“I can’t say,” Bloodworth said. “I didn’t see him when he rode off.”
It would have
been helpful if he had confirmation on the direction Dubose rode off in, but it was safe to assume he continued in the same direction, since he didn’t run smack into him going the other way when he rode into town. He was hungry, and his horses were ready for a rest, but he was also still laboring with the decision of visiting the fort or not. This would give him a little more time to make up his mind.
* * *
“Well, well,” Sadie clucked when Hawk walked into her dining room. She walked over to the table where he had seated himself. “Haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you musta found someplace where the cookin’ was better’n mine.”
He knew she was fishing for compliments, since he had told her that her stew was the best in the territory—like he did in every diner he patronized. “Not hardly,” he said. “I’ve just been out of town for a long time. Matter of fact, I planned my day just so I could get over here to eat some of your cookin’. I get to cravin’ it when I’ve been out of town awhile.”
Pleased, she nevertheless struggled to maintain her usual stern, no-nonsense demeanor, for which she had become famous. “I see you left your gun by the door this time,” she said, remembering the first time he had eaten in her diner, and she had to inform him of her rules against guns in her dining room. “I might notta served you if you hadn’t. I’ll get you some coffee.” She turned abruptly and went to the kitchen. “Keep your shirt on!” she growled at another customer, who was waving his cup in the air in an attempt to get her attention. Hawk couldn’t help wondering how she did as well as she did, having such a sour disposition. It had to be the fact that hers was the best cooking in town. Of that, there was no question.
When she returned, she carried a plate piled high in one hand and a cup in the other. After placing them on the table, she went to get the coffeepot and returned to fill his cup. “You’re lucky you got back this week,” she said as she poured. “We killed a hog yesterday, so you’re gettin’ pork chops today, a little somethin’ besides beef.” She lingered a moment, waiting for him to sample the chops, ignoring the impatient patron waiting for more coffee.
No Justice in Hell Page 19