Once a Renegade

by Peter Brandvold

  "I wonder who stacked those," Stillman said, pointing to a mound of rocks a few yards down the ridge.

  "I did," Jody said. "In Pa's memory. This was his favorite place in the Two-Bears. We hunted here a lot. Mostly, though, he'd just sit right there, where I stacked those rocks after he died, and stare out over the valley while he sent me on for the deer or elk we were tracking." He chuckled.

  "That was Bill," Stillman said, remembering his old hide hunting pal. "He had a poetic soul."

  "Ma's laid out, in the Cree way, on the other ridge, about a half mile east. You can't see the tree from here, but it's a big, lightning-split cottonwood that formed another leader after the split and grew even stouter than before. Ma would've appreciated that."

  "No doubt she does, son."

  "The Indians believed the spirits of those who've passed return to their favorite places in life and give their blessing."

  Stillman thought about this as he moved his eyes up from the rock cairn to the other ridge, eastward, then back to the cairn again. "I reckon I can feel old Bill watching us right now," he said. "I sure miss the old cuss."

  Jody didn't say anything.

  "Some men leave the world a little worse than before they got here, and some men leave it a little better. Your old man left it better, but it's darker, too, since he went." Stillman looked at Jody and smiled. "He'd be right proud of that grandson of his."

  "I think he would." The boy backhanded a tear from his cheek.

  Stillman smiled again then started Sweets down the ridge past the cairn.

  They rested the horses in the valley, watering them at the creek. The water was cold with snowmelt, giving an instant headache, and the men filled their canteens before heading westward, following the curving trail through the draw. They crossed a saddle and found themselves in Aspen Valley, heading south.

  By this time the sun had slipped behind the peaks, and Jody and Stillman began looking for a camping spot.

  "Hey," Stillman said as they rode slowly toward a bald mountainside strewn with boulders and scrubby, wind-twisted pines, "I smell smoke."

  “Too wet for a forest fire," Jody said.

  Stillman worked his nose, scowling. "No, that's camp smoke."

  Sniffing it, too, Jody whipped an anxious look at the sheriff. "You don't think it's him, do you?"

  "Can't imagine it. But that smoke belongs to someone."

  "Where's it coming from?"

  Stillman pointed down the draw, westward from where they'd been going to camp. He kneed his horse in that direction and said, "Keep behind me."

  "I'm armed," Jody said.

  "I don't care," Stillman told him, keeping his voice low. "I promised Crystal I'd bring you back unharmed, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

  "I can take care of myself."

  Stillman stopped and tossed the young man a look that would have wilted a cactus.

  "All right, all right," young Harmon grouched, lifting his hands and falling back.

  Stillman rode across the bowl to the conifers on its north-facing side. Staying close to the trees, knowing he'd be hard to spot against them, he rode slowly eastward.

  The wind funneling toward him brought with it the smell of burning pine. Reaching behind, he shucked his Henry sixteen-shot repeater from his saddleboot, quietly levered a round in the chamber, and rode on.

  When he came to a bend in the game trail he was following, hugging a spring freshet lined with rocks, he dismounted and tied Sweets to a low branch. The smell of the smoke was strengthening, which meant the camp was close and getting closer.

  Thoughtfully patting the horse's rear, he lifted his rifle and walked on.

  He stopped when he saw a thin column of smoke rising from behind several large rocks, and turned into the trees, making a wide circle around the camp, then walking back north, toward the clearing.

  Several stumps and deadfalls blocked his view of the camp. He made his way slowly to a large stump, stepping carefully across the leaf-and-branch-littered forest floor, and crouched, listening.

  Hearing nothing but the popping of a small fire, his heartbeat quickened. Could he have found Shambeau? It seemed unlikely, but maybe the man's injured shoulder had slowed him up and caused him to make an early camp. Hell, maybe his sutures had ruptured and he was bleeding....

  Cautiously Stillman moved out from behind the deadfall and around a boulder, turning sharply into the camp and bringing his rifle shoulder high.

  "Hold it!"

  He froze, blinking and frowning at the two young men—boys, really—hunkered on a deadfall log before a dying fire. Both were dressed in homespun breeches and hide coats. The clothes looked worn and shabby—probably old hand-me-downs—and the boys' deerskin mittens and wool hats were threadbare and filled with holes.

  The boys appeared even more surprised to see Stillman than Stillman was to see them. Giving a start, both shrank back on the log, eyeing Stillman's rifle fearfully.

  "Please, mister," one of them said, his teeth chattering. "Don't shoot!"

  Stillman quickly lowered the rifle and held out his hand, palm out. "It's all right, boys. I'm not going to shoot."

  Stillman looked around for sign of grown-ups or horses and saw nothing. Not even any blankets or camping supplies. It was just these two boys—aged about ten and twelve by the looks of them—and a small fire set in a hole they must have carved out of the ground with their hands. Their wood supply was almost gone—only a few twigs torn from a dead cottonwood branch lying beside the hole.

  "What are you two doing here?"

  The oldest boy, who had auburn hair cut straight across his forehead, said, "We were out huntin' and our horse spooked yesterday an' threw me and Robert off. Thunder run away and we couldn't catch him. We walked a ways and got lost." He looked at the feeble fire, almost out "We were gettin' cold, so we built a fire. I had some matches in my coat."

  Stillman heard footsteps and turned to see Jody walking up on the camp from the east, holding his Winchester across his body and frowning curiously. The youngest boy, Robert, whose blond hair poked through die holes of his cap, grinned delightedly. "Hi, Jody!"

  "Robert? Edgar? What are you two doing out here?"

  "We were huntin' and ole Thunder spooked at a magpie," little Robert said. "He bucked us off and took off, probably headed home."

  "We started walkin' and somehow after an hour came to the place we started out from," Edgar added sheepishly.

  "Yeah, that can happen out here," Jody said. "How did you get so far from home?"

  Edgar scowled and looked at his hands clenched before him.

  Robert said, "Edgar was followin' a big bull elk," he said, eyeing his older brother scornfully. "Wanted to shoot it and show it off to Prissy Schotz."

  "I did not!" Edgar protested. "I just wanted the meat! He'd have dressed out huge and filled our whole smokehouse for a year!"

  Young Robert chuffed and shook his head.

  To Stillman, Jody said, “These are the Huard boys. They live with their mother and uncle in Blacky's Coulee, a good seven miles from here as the crow flies."

  "Their mother must be pretty worried by now," Stillman said, eyeing the two boys. "Maybe she sent their uncle out after them."

  "Uncle Ralph is off to Big Sandy," Edgar said. "He's gettin' lumber and wire for a new chicken house."

  Shit, Stillman thought. He'd have to make sure these boys found their way home, and that could take precious time away from his tracking of Shambeau. He gave Jody a look that said as much, and Jody tightened his lips in complicity. It was a confounding situation, but there was nothing they could do about it until morning.

  "I bet you boys are hungry," Stillman said.

  Robert's eyes brightened. "I'll say we are!"

  "Well, we'll set up camp, build up that fire, and see what kind of grub we can rustle up." Stillman started walking back for his horse. He turned back to the boys. "Oh, by the way, I'm Ben Stillman."

  The boys looked at each ot
her, their eyes growing large.

  "The sheriff?" Edgar said, turning back to Stillman.

  "Pleased to meet you," Stillman said, touching his hat brim, then walking off toward Sweets.

  "Is he really the sheriff?" Robert asked Jody.

  "He is at that, Rob," Jody said. "Didn't you see the star pinned to his coat?"

  "I thought maybe he was just the deputy or somethin'," Edgar said.

  "No, he's the real thing."

  Edgar's eyes were large as saucers. "He's the one who shot Donovan Hobbs and solved that string of murders in the county last fall and sent that swine Norman Billingsley down to Deer Lodge?"

  "One and the same," Jody said with a laugh. "You two sit tight. I'm gonna go fetch ole Dex."

  The boys looked at each other and said in unison, "Wow!"

  "There, that should keep you cozy," Stillman said later as he regarded the beds of pine boughs he'd made for both boys. "Now if we can get some food into you younguns, you can get some sleep and be ready to head for home first thing in the morning. I bet your ma's gonna be some happy to see you."

  "You gonna take us, Sheriff?" Edgar asked.

  He was sitting on a deadfall log, watching Jody tend the spit he'd erected over the fire and upon which two young rabbits roasted. Jody had brought the rabbits from home—two cottontails his nephews had shot earlier that morning. He was also tending a pan of corn cakes sizzling in the grease dribbling off the rabbits.

  "I reckon Jody and me'll both see you home," Stillman said, trying not to sound too disgusted over the dilemma. "One of you can ride with me and one can ride with Jody."

  "If we had one more horse, they could go on alone," Jody said thoughtfully. "I can give them decent enough directions."

  "Well, we just have the two horses, so we'll take them," Stillman said. "Besides, I have a feeling ole Louis'll be holed up in that first cabin of his for quite some time, while that wound heals."

  "Louis?" Robert asked. He was sitting on bis pine bough bed, his back against a log, holding a tin mug of coffee in his gloved hands.

  "Louis Shambeau," Jody told him. "That's who we're after."

  "We seen ole Louis," Edgar said. "About midday, just before our horse threw us."

  Stillman and Jody looked at each other. Then Stillman turned to Edgar. "You saw Louis Shambeau?"

  "Yeah, he crossed our trail and headed up a ridge. How come you're trackin' him, Sheriff?"

  Stillman ignored the question. "Where did this happen, son?" he asked, regarding Edgar intently. "Where did you see him?"

  Edgar thought a moment, his eyes wide, and turned to look eastward along the stream. "Well, I thought it was back that way, but now I'm not sure. All I know, there was a big rock sticking up off a butte, and there were a lot of trees around it. There was a stream a little bigger than this one nearby, too." Edgar paused, thinking. "Oh, yeah, and we'd just passed an old tipi frame some Injun left in a clearing."

  "I know the place, Ben," Jody said. "It's off one of the feeder canyons to Aspen Valley."

  "How far away from here?"

  "About an hour's ride."

  "If he was there at midday, how far ahead of us would that make him?"

  Jody shook his head and exhaled. "I'd say at least a half day, maybe more. And if he's traveling at night, like he probably is, we won't catch up to him till he's at his cabin. He probably knows a lot more trails in these mountains than the brush wolves."

  "Well, at least we know we're heading in the right direction. I was worried he might have had another plan in mind, or another cabin you didn't know about."

  Stillman turned to Edgar. "How did he look, son— could you tell?"

  Edgar scrunched up his eyes and peeled his lips back from his big, square teeth, thinking hard. "Uh . . . seems to me he was kinda hunkered down in his coat. Yeah, I think he was, like he was extra cold or somethin'. It wasn't that cold then. The sun was out, and it was pretty warm for the mountains."

  "He's hurtin', then," Jody said.

  "Doesn't sound like the wound's slowin' him down any, though."

  Jody flipped the corn cakes with a spatula. “I don't see how the man could have crawled up out of that ether as fast as he did. When those men who robbed the army paymaster shot me in the Hawley cabin last winter, it took me a good two days to sleep off the ether the doc gave me when he dug the bullet out."

  "This man's different," Stillman said, tossing the coffee grounds from his cup and reaching for the pot. "He's not made of the same stuff as you and me. He's a survivor...at all costs. More animal than man, living by instinct, overcoming weakness by ignoring it and doing what he has to do to keep going... to keep living and breathing and eating."

  "How come you're after ole Louis?" Robert asked, watching Stillman wide-eyed from across the sizzling fire. "Did he kill someone?"

  Stillman regarded the boy seriously, the corners of his mouth curving grimly, the flames reflected in his deep-set eyes under the brim of his high-crowned Stetson. "Yes, he did, son."

  Robert's voice was filled with urgency and awe. "How come?"

  Stillman glanced at Jody, then returned his dark eyes to Robert. "Because they were bad to him. They pushed him too far when what they should've done was left the man alone. You don't bother men like Louis Shambeau. They're tied to a different time, with different ways that might seem odd to some, impossible to understand to others. But that doesn't mean you don't respect them, treat them the way you'd want to be treated, and give them a wide berth when they want to be left alone."

  Edgar cleared his throat, transfixed by Stillman's words. "If they were bad to him, how come you're hunting him, Sheriff?"

  Stillman took a deep breath and flexed the muscles in his neck. "Because he broke the law," he said, removing his hat and running a hand through his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. He donned the hat again and smoothed his mustache. "He broke the law."

  Stillman sipped his coffee and stared into the flames.

  They ate the rabbit and corn cakes, both boys so hungry that they broke the bones and sucked the marrow out as Stillman and Jody watched them and chuckled, shoveling more food onto the lads' plates. When it was time for sleep. Stillman chucked several good-sized branches on the fire so they'd all stay warm. It was a clear night, with lots of stars capping the pines, and the damp spring breeze had a penetrating chill.

  Stillman slept hard, waking up occasionally to toss more wood on the fire then falling swiftly back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  At dawn he was jolted awake by the sound of approaching horses.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “JODY.”

  Stillman touched the young man's arm as he got swiftly to his feet, donned his hat, and grabbed his Henry.

  Jody lifted his head as he tipped his plainsman back from his eyes. "What is it?"

  "Riders."

  Jody flung off his blankets and jumped to his feet, reaching for his gun belt and wrapping it around his waist. Stillman walked westward from the camp, holding the rifle in his arms and peering down the shadowy trail hugging the stream. Jody shouldered up beside him, listening and watching.

  "I don't hear anything," young Harmon said.

  "I could feel the vibration in the ground. Horses. A half dozen, maybe more, headed this way."

  After a minute Jody said, "You sure? I don't—" He stopped as shadows moved upstream, separating from the boulders strewn down the side of. the mountain. "I'll be damned. Who do you suppose?"

  "I reckon we're gonna find out in a minute," Stillman said, jacking a round into the Henry chamber and snugging the butt to his hip, just above his gun belt.

  The riders grew out of the pale dawn light and stopped suddenly about a hundred yards away. They'd seen Stillman and Jody standing before them on the trail.

  "What now?" Jody said.

  "I don't know but be ready for anything."

  The men milled around on the trail for several minutes, then came on slowly, two out front, six or so following in a straggly l
ine. They were cantering now, backs stiff with apprehension, wondering, like Stillman, whom they'd run into.

  When the riders were about thirty yards away, Stillman took several steps forward and planted his feet and held his rifle across his chest. "All right," he called. "That's far enough. Name yourselves."

  There was a five-second silence. The men had halted on the trail, checking their horses down. One of the mounts whinnied. Another blew.

  "You first," the leader called.

  "Ah, hell," Stillman groaned, recognizing the voice.

  "What is it?" Jody asked.

  "Not it but who." Stillman raised his voice and waved an angry arm. "Come on in, Hendricks. It's Stillman."

  The leader gigged his horse ahead and the others followed suit. Hendricks approached on his big, black Morgan cross, a wry smile on his lips. "Gave me a bit of a spook back there, Stillman. But then, when I seen two of you, I figured you couldn't be Shambeau."

  Stillman's features were angry, his voice tight. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought I told you to keep your apes in their cages."

  "That you did." Hendricks allowed. "But that was before you caught Shambeau, not after you let him get away."

  "You tell him, boss," Tommy Falk grumbled. He was riding behind the rancher, sporting a red bandanna. His face was pinched and mean.

  "Well, I'm telling you now," Stillman ordered, "get the hell out of here. Go back to your ranch and stay there, or I'll arrest you and all your men here for interfering with a lawman."

  "You listen to me, Stillman," Hendricks said, jutting his head out over his saddle horn. "That madman killed two of my men and scalped another. You can't expect me to just sit back and listen to how you found him and let him get away. That renegade needs to be taught that if he messes with a Bar 7 man, he messes with all of them, and he pays the price."