The Bitterroot Trail

by James W. Johnson

  In this wild new country, shut off from the restraints of law, a strange feeling of primitive freedom beset men. Bonds of civilized society were dropped like the harness from the tired horse, the animal left free to frolic and roll as it pleased. All the good and bad qualities of these rough men quickly came to the surface. The ruthless law of six-gun was the only power of restraint.

  These conditions were all familiar to young Bainbridge. He was pondering these facts when he caught sight of a crowd of men congregated about the hotel awaiting the arrival of the stage. With an effort he forced back a peculiar feeling of uneasiness. Undoubtedly a certain element would resent the bringing in of the body beside him.

  The crowd separated as the stage pulled up. The gambler alighted first, and, without offering his services with the boy, disappeared in the crowd. Amid the curious gaping crowd they laid the corpse gently down on the porch until arrangements should be made for permanent disposition of it. The rough onlookers broke into a subdued conversation. One man pulled back the covering from the boy's face and shook his head. Others crowded about.

  Ordinarily there would have been little or no excitement over the body of a dead man being brought in, but its apparent connection with the stage and Uncle Sam's mail was quite a different matter. A dozen tongues began asking questions.

  Who was this boy? Did he try to rob the stage? Where'd he come from? Then came the pertinent personal question directed at Bainbridge.

  "Stranger, who shot this here kid?" a rough prospector demanded.

  Without changing the cool expression of his face Bainbridge answered, "We found him dying by the road and picked him up. Do any of you men know a man by the name of Magruder?"

  An old man with a goatee, wearing his hands in his pockets and chewing a cud of Horseshoe, piped up. His remarks were foreign to the point.

  "Wal, now, let's see, Ah reckon that could be ol' Hank Patterson's boy--no, more like his cousin. Lemme think. Of' Hank's been dead these ten year, comin' September."

  The crowd tittered at the old man who'd spent too many years on the frontier. Elbowing him out of the way, a tall man with black hair and a stubble beard cut close in from his ears, pushed forward.

  "I'm Pat Ford, young man," he greeted cordially. "I just heard you ask for Magruder. If you mean Joe Magruder, I know him. And you're...?"

  "Bainbridge is the handle, Mister Ford. I want to deliver this body to him. It's Kid Patterson, the boy that worked for him. Seems like Magruder sent him to Walla Walla with his dust. He was intercepted on the way. We found him dying beside the road."

  Ford stroked his short beard thoughtfully for a moment. "Magruder's out to the diggin's in Oro Fino," he answered, going over to look at the boy. "That's his boy, all right. Just a kid, too," he said, shaking his head, while a frown formed between his black eyes. Then he turned, facing Bainbridge again. "I'll have some of my boys take care of the body. My string's going to the diggin's tomorrow. I'll send word to Magruder."

  Bainbridge was much relieved. "I'll be obliged, Mister Ford."

  "Cut the 'Mister' and call me 'Pat'," Ford answered, and taking him by the arm he pulled him to one side. "Bainbridge, you're either a brave man or a damn fool to bring that boy in here this way. Drop over to my saloon. I want to talk with you." He started away, then turned, "And don't wait too long."

  Bainbridge promised. At the same time he had a strange premonition that trouble was just around the bend. The atmosphere became even more poignant as he observed the attitude of those rough men about him. While they were not exactly unfriendly, they gave him a wide berth. It gave him a feeling of one being elected to suffer impending catastrophe.

  When he entered the hotel, the proprietor, a shriveled-up little man with rheumatism, hobbled up to the counter.

  "The price for a room, stranger, is two dollars," he squeaked in a high-pitched voice. "Pay in advance!"

  Bainbridge showed no sign of irritation. He even smiled. "So you don't trust me, eh?"

  The little man squinted up at him. "Ain't arguin' 'bout thet, Mister, but yuh see I don't know how long yuh'll be well an' healthy."

  "Don't worry, Dad," Bainbridge chuckled. "I'll be here in the flesh longer than tonight, and with my working clothes on, too." He threw down the coin indifferently.

  "Iffen yuh want a bite, jest amble intuh the dinin' room," the old man said, stuffing the silver coins in a long leather money poke.

  Bainbridge ate his supper at a rough board table, alone. As he left the dining room he noticed two men standing near the foot of the old rickety stairway in confidential conversation. One of them, seeing him approaching, said something to the other, and they moved away to watch him climb the stairs behind the hobbling proprietor to his room.

  The words of Pat Ford kept ringing in his ears. "'You're either a brave man or a damned fool." He wondered which.

  2

  EBB CLEVELAND, IN HIS PRIVATE OFFICE IN THE back of the Gold Nugget Saloon, paced back and forth, puffing on his pipe, biting savagely on the pipe stem. He was large, rawboned, with sandy hair and deep blue eyes. He wore the typical garb of the professional gambler: black coat, light trousers and a white vest.

  He knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the corner of the desk, and refilled it. The stage coach had arrived two hours ago. He cursed to the accompaniment of music and laughter in the saloon. The door suddenly opened and he whirled about savagely.

  "Where in hell have you been since the stage came in?" he demanded savagely.

  The round face of the intruder paled. "Just been changin' clothes, boss. Sorry I been so long. I'll explain."

  Cleveland cut him short. "You'll have a lot to explain, Maxwell. What the damnation do you mean by bringin' that kid into town? Ain't things been bad enough for us around here since old Hildebrandt was wiped out, without this?"

  "Now' don't go blamin' me, boss. I knew you'd be mad as a hornet, but that feller who was on the stage is a hell-roarin' bad man. I made a holler about bringin' the kid in, but this gun-toter told me to go to hell. What's more, he backed his play. Said he was goin' to bring the kid in and let the people know about what was goin' on around here. Honest, I never saw a draw like that Yank carries."

  Cleveland snorted disgustedly. "Max, you're gettin' soft bellied!"

  "You would be too, boss, if you had a run-in with him like I did. I tell you, Cleveland, our troubles have been like a Sunday School to what it's goin' to be while this Yank is in this territory."

  Cleveland did not answer immediately, but methodically filled and lit his pipe. "Leave him to me," he said at length, without looking up. "It won't do to rub him out too quick, but I sure want to meet this gent with the greased lightnin' draw. If I don't find a way to put him out of the way, it'll be the first time Ebb Cleveland ever failed."

  * * * *

  Bob Bainbridge was awakened from a dead slumber by the tinkling of bells. He arose quickly and hurried to the window. A string of pack mules was ambling out across the Clearwater, heading toward the Bitterroot Trail and the gold fields beyond. Something in the scene stirred his ancestral blood, and gave him a longing to explore the unknown in that mysterious territory. Right then he knew that one of these days he'd be taking that long trail and following its adventures to the end.

  The sun was an hour high. Sprays of golden light played among the branches of the young summer leaves. A cool breeze fresh from the river fanned his face. He inhaled deeply as a smile of exhilaration came over his face. The beauty of the June morning for the moment almost effaced the gloomy purpose for which he had deserted all else.

  A knock at the door brought him back to present realities with all their dangerous possibilities.

  "Hello!" he called, pulling on his trousers and leaving his suspenders dangling. He recognized the hotelkeeper's voice.

  "Jest wondered' stranger, was yuh daid, er was yuh aimin' to sleep till the Angel Gabriel sounded his trumpet?"

  "Be right down, Dad"' he answered, pouring cold water from the tin buc
ket into the wash basin. Then he added, "Why don't you step inside?"

  The little proprietor, eyes blinking, hobbled in. "Aimin' to chow this mornin'?"

  "Sure am," Bainbridge answered, drying his tanned face with an unbleached factory towel. "I aim to set my teeth into the biggest steak in the house. By the way, do you know Pat Ford?"

  "Pat Ford? Shore. Owns the saloon right across the street. First rate feller, only they says as how he meddles in other folks' business too much."

  "That so?"

  "But I guess it's 'cause he's got a wife an' kid. Right smart they be, too. Don't know as I blames him much." Then after a short pause, "Aimin' tuh team up with him?"

  Bainbridge's evasion was a disappointment to the curious hosteler. "Got that steak down there?"

  "Yes, I ain't!" he bristled. "D'yuh think we serves breakfast all day?" Then, as an afterthought, "I guess we could fix a bite, maybe."

  Bainbridge didn't go to see Ford at once. He knew from the information he'd received from the hotelkeeper that the eyes of everyone were on him. They were evidently curious to know whether he was going to throw in with Ford, and, just at present, he didn't care to invite more enmity. He therefore spent the day looking over the town, and doing a little investigating to determine Ford's standing among the men.

  Toward evening he visited the Cleveland saloon. Already the frivolity had begun. The fiddler sat in the corner of the barroom, hoisted upon a high platform, playing to the rhythm of booted feet of rough miners. He took a chair at one of the tables and ordered a drink, where he sat observing curiously the milling crowd in front of him.

  He seemed to be keenly interested in the girls, several of whom approached him, but he was not interested socially. It took less than thirty minutes observation to satisfy him. He arose and pushed back his chair with the toe of his boot, when a familiar voice hailed him. He recognized at once the gambler with whom he had had the tilt on the stage. The man was decked out like the chief mourner at a funeral. The ends of his moustache had been freshly curled.

  "See you ain't gone out to any of the diggings yet? Come up and have one on me for old time's sake."

  "Thank you, but I'm not drinking tonight, stranger," Bainbridge demurred curtly.

  "Meanin' what?" The gambler's eyes showed fire.

  Bainbridge made no pretense of evasion. "Meaning that I don't care to drink with you."

  It was a crucial moment, pregnant with dire possibilities. For a moment the two men surveyed each other coldly. Both recognized the intended insult. The gambler broke the tense silence.

  "Listen' tenderfoot, nobody ever insulted Maxwell and lived long! If it wasn't for the boss you'd be a daid man this minute!"

  Bainbridge smiled dangerously with his eyes. Maxwell turned on his heel and disappeared in the crowd. Bainbridge pushed through the men to the street. So the big boss was saving him for a special occasion; He was certain now that Maxwell was one of the Innocents Gang, and that sooner or later he would have to use something stronger than words. From that moment he knew that he was a marked man and that his life was in danger every minute he stayed in Lewiston. This realization decided him. He'd see Pat Ford at once. What came of his visit would determine whether he should remain in Lewiston or start for the interior.

  He found Pat Ford in his private office in the rear of his saloon.

  "You've been a long time coming, Bainbridge, but I'm glad you're here," Ford greeted, extending his hand.

  "Didn't know there was any great hurry," Bainbridge answered congenially.

  "You don't know this country, my friend", Ford answered, pouring a drink. They drank together. "Pull up a chair. Smoke? It isn't the best tobacco in the world, but it's as good as there is in Bannock Territory. Now, what I want to know is how did you ever get that body in here on that stage?"

  Bob grinned. "Well, I reckon I...well, I just persuaded them to bring it."

  Ford shook his head thoughtfully. "It was a foolish thing to do for your health, but it was a mighty brave thing to do for the real citizens of this country." He lit his pipe, took a few puffs, then continued, "I'm taking you for a real he-man who will fight to the finish for law and order. And, I'm telling you, it takes a brave man to buck the lawless element--the Innocents Gang. As a committee of one I welcome you to Lewiston and the great Northwest Territory. It's men like you who are going to make history in the founding of this great empire."

  For a full moment neither spoke, but Bainbridge was doing some thinking. Here was a real man; a man who could see farther than the mad rush for gold. Here was an empire-builder. In those distant diggings he could see the shadows of coming cities, factories, farms, and homes, housing a million contented people. The vision of the future quickly disappeared at Pat Ford's next words.

  "I've called a meeting of the real citizens in my saloon tonight. I'm trying to get them to organize a vigilance association. It may be a long time before we can get law and order established out here. We had to do it in California, you know.

  "Of course I'm taking a chance, for I don't know who belongs to the Innocents Gang and who don't. Men who lift a finger against them have a habit of disappearing from the earth for good."

  "Then why worry about it?"

  He turned from the window. "Someone's got to do it," he said seriously. "You see, only a day or two ago, old man Hildebrandt, a decent harmless competitor of mine, was brutally robbed and murdered. These outlaws must be caught and brought to justice. Someone must take the lead. I'm not asking you to come, but we'll meet tonight." He paused, then continued, "While you are in town I want you to occupy the room upstairs. I'd like you to meet my wife at supper."

  Bainbridge stood up, and Ford followed him to the door. "Thanks, Ford," he said gratefully holding out his hand. "There are not enough outlaws in the Northwest Territory to keep me from that meeting; and I'll make sure my holsters don't stick!"

  "That's fine! I'll see you later," Ford smiled.

  Bainbridge left the office and started for the front door with the intention of bringing his bag from the hotel. His quick eye took in the barroom at a glance. The place was clouded with blue tobacco smoke from the pipes of the rough-looking men at the card tables. The brazen painted women were not new to him as they danced and drank with young and bearded men. Again as he looked, an expression of disappointment came over his face.

  Then he caught sight of Maxwell. He was sure the gambler had followed him from Cleveland's saloon. He was talking with a man wearing a silk hat and a white vest. Almost at the same moment he was accosted by a girl with blond hair and baby face who, under the paint, was wrinkled and looked old. She drew his attention from the men who interested him. When he finally got rid of her he found himself facing the man with the silk hat. Maxwell had disappeared. The stranger was contemplating him with a queer smile, while he toyed with the lower button of his white vest.

  "Looking for someone, stranger?" On the surface the stranger's voice was affable enough.

  "Yes!"

  "Maybe I can help you. Who is it?"

  "I don't know yet, but I'll find out."

  "I'm Ebb Cleveland. Come up and wet your whistle."

  With difficulty he smothered his desire to refuse the invitation, but not wishing to make an enemy of the man before he knew more about him, he accepted.

  "Going out to take up a claim, stranger?," Cleveland asked suavely.

  "I'm not so sure, Cleveland. I aim to hang around here until I get my bearings. Here, barkeep, another whiskey. Now, before you ask any more questions, my name is Pokerface Bob Bainbridge--and I don't play poker!"

  Cleveland's face set into hard lines for an instant as the two men stared at each other. Finally, with a sneer, he pushed his untouched glass aside. "I got you!" he said, as his hand began toying with the button on his vest again.

  Bainbridge had no good reason for wanting to shoot this man, but he instinctively hated the soft-mouthed hypocrite. He was standing squarely on his feet waiting for that hand to slip from
the button to the holster at his armpit. But the man seemingly thought better of it.

  "I have a feelin', Pokerface, that our paths'll cross again. Come over to my shindig sometime and play checkers. I got a lotta gran'pas over there who'll be glad to take you on if you can't play poker!"

  "Never fear, Cleveland. I'll drop in, all right!"

  For the first time Bainbridge discovered that he and the gambler were standing alone. Prospectors and women alike had retreated to places of safety. It was easy to understand what they expected.

  "Now, let me give you some advice, Pokerface. This is an unhealthy country for the gent who totes dead men in and makes charges. We got all the dead men here we got time to bury."

  "I'll remember the tip, Cleveland, but I'm not making any promises," Bainbridge retorted coldly.

  Cleveland whirled about. In doing so he upset a cuspidor. With a curse he kicked the offending brass jar half way across the room. A titter of laughter followed, which stopped as quickly as it started when he turned upon them menacingly. Dead silence followed. For a moment he glared savagely at the onlookers without moving a muscle. Then he turned and stalked from the room.

  It was easy to see that Cleveland had the town bluffed. Bainbridge knew too that the man was dangerous, and would sooner or later attempt to avenge the humiliation he'd suffered. Bainbridge had made another deadly enemy. Of one thing he was certain, Maxwell and Cleveland were working together, whoever the other members of the gang might be. Well, he was not afraid to face trouble, but he didn't relish the idea that he might be cut down from behind.

  Hearing the commotion in the barroom, Pat Ford came in. "What's going on here, Bainbridge?" he asked excitedly.

  Bainbridge smiled. "Nothing," he answered. "Just been getting a little advice from your friend Cleveland."