by Yenne, Bill
“Shut up, damn you . . .” Porter roared back.
“If I’m not mistaken, these boys were paid by the same person who paid you,” Hannah said.
“That would make you a loose end,” Cole continued. “How does it feel to have your high-placed man turn on you and want you erased . . . squashed like a bug so that you can never talk?”
“But . . . he still owes me money.”
“Who is it?” Hannah demanded. “Is it . . . ?”
“I ain’t talkin’!” Porter shouted. “I ain’t sayin’ a word till I get to Gallatin City.”
* * *
THERE BEING ADEQUATE ROCKS NEAR THE CAMPSITE, COLE put Porter to work in the construction of a rock pile mausoleum as the resting place of Lyle Blake. The flood of profanities that accompanied this task offended Hannah’s sensibilities less than his stubbornness.
“That man is insufferable,” she said, glancing at Cole as she saddled her mare and Cole stacked the saddles and tack belonging to Blake and Clark on top of the cairn.
“By this time tomorrow, he’ll be somebody else’s problem,” he reminded her as he turned loose the horses that had been ridden by the late bushwhackers.
“I fear this will be a very long day,” she said, revealing a trace of melancholy.
“Sometimes the last day of anything is the longest,” Cole said. “But same as any day, they’re all eventually over.”
“Mr. Cole,” she said, looking back at him.
“Yeah . . .”
“I’m really worried about today.”
“After what we been through, what I’ve seen you able to take in stride, I can’t picture you being too much of the worrying type.”
“I’ve never had to face my father like this.”
“I can’t even imagine it,” he said, betraying a shade of sympathy despite the overarching outrage he felt toward her father.
“Is your father still alive, Mr. Cole?”
“No, ma’am. He died in the war.”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“It’s been a while,” Cole shrugged. “Lot of good men died in the war.”
“I used to think of my father as a good man,” Hannah said sadly.
“I’m sorry about that,” he replied, trying not to appear cynical.
“Thank you . . .” she said, her voice trailing off.
She smiled, but he could see the tears in her eyes. He felt her hand close tightly on his wrist.
* * *
THEY WERE A CURIOUS CONTINGENT, THIS RAGTAG PARTY making its way south along the Helena–Gallatin City wagon road on that cold, early winter morning.
The bounty hunter brought up the rear behind an assortment that included two well-worn men chained to their saddles and a ripening corpse that was beginning its foul decay even in the sub-freezing temperatures. Leading the way was a young woman. Despite a generous spattering of mud and dirt and her two mostly sleepless nights of camping in the wilderness, she still managed to present the manner and appearance of a lady out for a Sunday ride.
She cheerfully greeted a freighter whose wagon they passed on his way north toward Helena. He smiled and tipped his hat when she waved, but his jaw dropped a little when he saw the others. He was still looking back at them and scratching his head a quarter mile after they had passed.
Though he was tempted to breathe a sigh of relief at having gotten through the last night on the trail alive, Bladen Cole knew better. There was no guarantee that Blake and Clark were the only ones with a mandate to prevent Cole and his prisoners from setting foot again in Gallatin City alive.
Snowflakes drifted in the air more like paint flaking randomly from the white sky than harbingers of a serious storm.
About two hours from the campsite and the final resting place of the late Lyle Blake, Hannah Ransdell reined her mare into an about-face and trotted back to where Cole was.
“Did you see?” Hannah asked urgently.
“Yeah . . . three riders about a mile and a half out.”
The three had dropped out of sight behind a low rise, but he too had been watching them for about ten minutes.
“I think I recognize one of them,” she said.
“Oh yeah . . . Who?” Cole said cautiously.
“I think the one in the black coat is Edward J. Olson, my father’s . . .”
“Yeah, I know,” Cole nodded, instinctively tucking his long coat behind the holster that held his Colt.
“What should we do?”
“If we’ve seen them . . . they’ve certainly seen us,” Cole said. “If we leave the trail now, they’ll know that we have misgivings about crossing their path.”
“Then we shan’t leave the trail,” Hannah said confidently. “We’ll face them. I’ll continue to ride point.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Cole asked. “You’re a good shot, but there’s three of them, two of us, and we have a pair of caged pigeons to keep from getting killed.”
“I don’t mean for us to face them with guns,” she said. “I mean to face Edward J. Olson with words. He knows me, and I think I can figure out what to say. He doesn’t know that I know that he sent Blake and Clark out here, and there is no indication that we met up with those two. The best thing we have on our side is that he’s in very big trouble if he lets anything happen to Isham Ransdell’s daughter.”
“He could say that you got hit in a cross fire,” Cole said.
“Thanks for suggesting that comforting possibility,” she said with an almost smile. “I’m betting there will not be a cross fire.”
“I don’t know . . .” Cole said hesitatingly.
“Do you have a better idea, Mr. Cole?”
* * *
THE TWO GROUPS OF RIDERS APPROACHED EACH OTHER cautiously but deliberately, without overt demonstration of caution.
When they were within shouting distance, it was Hannah who spoke first.
“Good morning, Mr. Olson.” she exclaimed with a merry smile, as though she were greeting Olson on the street in Gallatin City. “What a pleasure to see you.”
His companions, whom she dismissed with a nod, were a pair of men she recognized as being among those who did occasional odd jobs around town.
“Good morning, Miss Ransdell,” he replied, touching the brim of his hat. “I’m surprised to see you out here this morning.”
“It is such a nice morning, isn’t it? A bit on the cold side, but it doesn’t look like we’re in for a lot of snow.”
“No, ma’am. It doesn’t look like much of a storm.”
“Good morning, Mr. Olson,” Cole said with a wave, riding up to a place near Hannah. Following her lead, Cole smiled broadly, though he kept his right hand close to his Colt.
“Mr. Cole,” Olson said, nodding an acknowledgment of the bounty hunter. “I can see with great satisfaction that you have succeeded in your mission of rounding up the Porter boys . . . or at least one of the Porter boys.”
“Enoch’s right there,” Cole said, nodding to the canvas-wrapped parcel tied across the saddle on Enoch Porter’s horse.
“I can smell him from here,” Olson nodded.
Olson was trying to appear cordial, but the two men with him had nervous, edgy expressions. Perhaps it was merely Cole’s endemic distrust of Olson’s employer, but it seemed to him that these two were keeping their gun hands at the ready.
Cole was sizing up how fast he could take them if they did draw on him, and which one to take first. Unlike the more seasoned and calculating bushwhackers of the day before, these two appeared very young and very inexperienced, the sort who were prone to being easily spooked into drawing weapons without adequate thought. That sort was, Cole knew, the worst kind.
Cole watched Gideon Porter exchange knowing glances with Olson. This man, as Ols
on’s knowing nod and the expression on Porter’s face revealed, was one of Porter’s friends in high places.
“What are you boys doing out for a ride today?” Hannah said cheerfully. “Heading up to Helena?”
“No. Actually, we were riding out to meet Mr. Cole,” Olson said warily. Whatever he was doing or saying that he was doing, he obviously had not in his wildest dreams expected to run into Isham Ransdell’s daughter.
“Mighty good timing, I’d say,” Cole smiled. “How’d you pick this morning?”
“There were some travelers who passed through Gallatin City a couple of days ago who had word of a bounty hunter with two prisoners who had been in Copperopolis about a week ago,” Olson explained. “Figured it had to be you.”
“Guess you figured right,” Cole smiled calmly.
“Hadn’t expected to see you out here, Miss Ransdell,” Olson said, repeating his earlier words to her. “Does your father know you’re out here?”
“Of course he does,” Hannah lied with an innocent smile.
“He didn’t say anything to me about you being out here on the road with this bunch.”
“Well, you know Daddy,” she laughed. “He doesn’t necessarily tell everyone about everything. He often doesn’t tell me about the errands he sends you on.”
“He sent you?”
“Certainly,” she said with a nod. “You don’t think I’d come out here and associate myself with such riff-raff on my own, do you?”
“Well . . . I reckon not,” Olson said. He had to admit that having his boss send her was the only possible explanation that he could imagine.
“Why do you suppose . . . um . . . Why did he do that?”
“Well, Mr. Olson, as Mr. Cole put it, he wanted me to ‘check up on his bounty hunter.’ Why do you suppose he didn’t tell you that I was coming?”
Hannah wished immediately that she had not made the latter barb, but she could not resist the temptation to insinuate that the right-hand man was not briefed on everything.
“I reckon he was busy with various affairs at the bank,” Olson said weakly, trying to save face.
“Folks, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some outlaws to move along,” Cole interjected at this break in the conversation.
“Of course.” Olson nodded. “But I must say that I’m certainly concerned to see Miss Ransdell being in harm’s way like this, with these ruffians. Since things seem to be in order here, I’d like to escort her on ahead and get her back to Gallatin City as soon as possible, while you bring in your villains, Mr. Cole. I’ll leave the boys here to give you a hand.”
“Thank you so much for your offer,” Hannah said. “There is really nothing I’d rather do right now than get away from this mess . . . especially now that Enoch Porter has started to reek with such an atrocious odor.”
“I’m happy to oblige . . .” Olson smiled.
“But . . . and it pains me to say it, Mr. Olson, I would not be true to my father’s instructions to accompany this motley crew if I were to do such a thing.” Hannah smiled.
“I’m sure that if he were here, Miss Ransdell, he would . . .”
“He might or he might not.” Hannah shrugged innocently. “But of course if he were here, he wouldn’t have asked me to be here . . .”
“Okay, Miss Ransdell,” Olson said, holding up a hand. “If that be your wish. Let us all hasten back to Gallatin City . . . together.”
* * *
“YOU FELLAS WORK FOR MR. RANSDELL?” COLE ASKED innocently of Edward J. Olson’s hands as they continued south toward Gallatin City.
While Olson joined Hannah in the lead of the procession, the other two had joined Cole in bringing up the rear.
“Ummm . . . yep,” answered one. “Sometimes. Mainly do jobs for Mr. Olson.”
“He sure seems to be surprised that Mr. Ransdell sent his daughter out to check up on me,” Cole said in a casual, “making conversation” way.
“Does seem curious, I guess,” the kid said. “But I guess he figured she was up to the job.”
“She’s a willful one,” the other interjected. “Too damned smart for her own damned good from what I’ve heard. Like some kind of filly bronc.”
“Like to ride that filly bronc, though,” the first kid said.
“Not me,” said his partner. “I’m not rightly fond of uppity women. That one looks to be nothing but trouble.”
“Still, she’s a looker,” the first insisted. “What do you think, Cole?”
“She’s a looker, for sure,” Cole said, nodding, in a casual, “making conversation” way.
Chapter 29
AS ISHAM RANSDELL UNLOCKED THE FRONT DOOR TO THE Gallatin City Bank and Trust Company and stepped inside, the big clock on the far wall chimed once. Half an hour until opening time.
Mr. Duffy was at his desk, hard at work under his green eyeshade. Hannah’s desk was empty, of course.
“I wonder why Hannah decided so impulsively to take off for Bozeman,” Duffy said as he noticed his boss staring at the empty desk.
“She has a friend down there who had a child recently,” the banker replied. “But I do not know why she decided on this visit so abruptly. I have long ago discovered that the females of our species are given to flights of spontaneity. In any event, I looked forward to her return. I’m tiring of making my own breakfast.”
“Maybe you’ll hear from her by mail today,” Duffy said hopefully.
“When she travels, she usually drops a line to tell that she arrived safely, but young people often forget such things when they get busy. I hope she is having a pleasant visit.”
Pouring himself a cup of the coffee which Duffy had made—more poorly, admittedly, than Hannah—he sat down to review a stack of papers that Duffy had placed on his desk for his signature.
After signing off on a couple of very routine documents, he leaned back in his heavy oak desk chair to take a sip of coffee. On the wall there hung a map of Gallatin City and adjacent parcels, with various properties marked with color-coded snippets of ribbon carefully attached with banker’s pins. Red stood for mortgages, green for commercial loans, and so on. To the east of town, his eyes fell upon the tract of land that he and his partners had acquired some years back for practically nothing, and on which he and his lone surviving partner stood to make a fortune. Upon this reflection, he could not stifle a contented smile.
As the clock struck the hour, Isham Ransdell was raising the curtains and unlocking the front door. This was normally Hannah’s job, but in her absence it fell to him. It was, he thought, only for the week. In any case, he was delighted, as always, to see a line of customers at his door.
Standing at the teller’s window, performing the routine tasks of the bank teller—cashing checks, making change for the boy sent over by the mercantile, and so on—reminded him of his own early days in banking. He was glad, though, to have that part of his career behind him.
* * *
ISHAM RANSDELL STEPPED INTO THE COLD MORNING. A few snowflakes were in the air, but there seemed no threat of a storm.
Not only had he been compelled to fill in at the teller’s window this morning, but he now had to make the daily trek to the post office himself. He could have sent Duffy, but the man was more useful to the bank beneath his eyeshade working with his pen.
Standing in line, waiting for his mail, was another task Ransdell was glad to have behind him.
At last, he got his bundle, and he had stepped aside to thumb through it, when the door opened and in walked Virgil Stocker.
“What brings you to the post office, Virgil?” Ransdell asked with a smile..
“Same as you, I suppose,” Stocker answered with a shrug. “My secretary is off today . . . Caught something . . . It’s the weather, I suppose. These girls these days . . . they get the sniffles and sudde
nly they cannot work.”
“Not like when we were starting out,” Ransdell observed nostalgically.
“In those days, we’d have come to work with a broken leg.”
“Indeed,” the banker agreed, noting the injuries and scars that were still prominent on the attorney’s face.
“Isham, I was thinking that if you are available, you and I should perhaps dine together at the Gallatin House, as we have not done in some time.”
“That is a capital idea,” Ransdell said, his eyes brightening. “What about this evening? With my chief cook and bottle washer off to Bozeman to call on her friend, dinner at my home is a lonely affair. Your company would be much appreciated.”
“Excellent. We could make it an early dinner. We’d dine in my private booth, of course . . . perhaps around five?”
By now, Stocker had reached the head of the line and was rewarded with his own stack of mail.
Isham Ransdell was about to say “good day” and leave his partner to look though his mail alone, when Stocker turned to him with a letter, addressed to “Mr. Virgil Stocker, Attorney,” which he showed to his friend. It had been postmarked in St. Paul, Minnesota, and the return address was that of the Northern Pacific Railway Company.
Stocker looked at Ransdell and back at the letter.
“This may be what we have been waiting for,” Stocker said, licking his lips.
“Are you going to open it?” Ransdell asked.
“I suggest that we open it together,” Stocker said with a smile. “We could wait for dinner, but why don’t we retire to my offices now and open it over a glass of something to warm us.”
Neither man spoke as they made their way through the lazily drifting snowflakes to Stocker’s law offices. The two men sat down, and Stocker ceremonially uncorked a half-filled whiskey bottle.
“Special occasions.” He smiled, pouring generous portions for himself and his colleague. “I save this bottle for special occasions. I think you were here the last time . . . When was that?”
