Halfway through a stack of dodgers, he paused. Removing a printed page with the drawing of a man’s face, he placed it on the desk before Cal and McCaleb. There were five names beneath the drawing. One of the names was Milo Reems.
“By God, we’re on the trail of a big one,” said Yeager. “He’s wanted in New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Kansas and Missouri. All for fraud and thievery, it says here.”
“Now that you know what a no-account bastard he is,” McCaleb said impatiently, “what can you do to help us get our hands on him? He’s had just about enough time to get to North Platte, Nebraska, and he can take the train from there east or west.”
“We’ll head for the depot and make use of the telegraph,” said Yeager. “No trains east or west have been through today, as far as I know. If Reems boards a westbound, we’ll grab him here. If he takes an eastbound, I can have him arrested in Omaha or at some other stop.”
The trio mounted their horses. McCaleb and Cal followed the lawman to the depot, and Yeager wasted no time explaining the situation to the station agent.
“You’re welcome to use the telegraph,” said the railroad man. “The next train is the eastbound. It should arrive here at two o’clock, Cheyenne at half past two and at North Platte around five.”
“There’s a sheriff in North Platte,” Yeager said. “I’ll start by telegraphing him.”
“If he finds Reems there, have him just keep an eye on the varmint until we can get there,” said McCaleb. “We can take the same eastbound he’s waiting for, and we can’t risk him getting away.”
“If it works out that way, I’ll be going with you,” Yeager said. “Dakota Territory will be in my jurisdiction, and with hundreds of witnesses to his thievery in Deadwood, we can prosecute the varmint right here in Laramie.”
Yeager quickly sent a telegram to the sheriff at North Platte, and within less than an hour, the telegraph instrument chattered to life. The message was brief:
Party you seek is awaiting eastbound stop Wire instructions STOP
It was signed Ben Pryor, Sheriff, North Platte, Nebraska.
“Wire him back. Tell him to do nothing until we get there,” said Yeager. “Tell him I’ll be on the eastbound that our party’s waiting for.”
LITTLE MISSOURI RIVER, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
JULY 12, 1876
The next time the miners approached, they were two dozen strong and reined up on the east bank of the river. Brazos and Tom had both outfits ready to fight. Each of the women held a Winchester. Finally the lead rider spoke.
“I’m McKeever, and I’m talkin’ for ever’ damn miner in Deadwood. We laid down good money for them cows, and we aim to take what we paid for. We got receipts.”
“Hold on to those receipts,” Brazos shouted, “and you’ll get your beef. But not until we find this Milo Reems and get our money. You should know by now that he took your gold and ran. Some of our men are after him, and it may take some time. We’ve been on the trail with these cattle for four months. We can’t afford to give them to you without being paid.”
“You got three days,” McKeever said. “Either we get our beef as promised, or we’ll be takin’ ’em with a gun.”
“You saw what happened when you fired on us before,” said Tom Allen. “Try it again, and more of you will die.”
“You already kilt ten of us,” McKeever said. “We ain’t lettin’ it pass. We’ll settle with you for them after we get our beef.”
“You won’t like our way of settling for those who came in shooting,” said Brazos. “It was nothing more than self-defense, and if you choose to come shooting again, be prepared to dig some more graves.”
“You got three days to settle with us on the beef,” McKeever shouted.
With that, the men wheeled their horses and rode away.
“Damn them,” said Tom Allen, “they were fools to hand over their money to Reems, and now they’re blaming us. If McCaleb and Cal don’t catch up to that bastard and get our money, we’re goin’ to be in one hell of a mess. Three days ain’t much time. If he got to the railroad far enough ahead of McCaleb and Cal, he could be in Omaha or somewhere in California by now.”
“You don’t know Benton McCaleb like I do,” Brazos said. “He once met the President of the United States, aboard a moving train, in President Grant’s guarded private coach.”*
But even as the two outfits waited for some word from McCaleb and Cal, or for the promised showdown with the angry miners, Monte Nance created another crisis. Penelope and Quanah Taylor sat near the river’s bank, their eyes on the fast-flowing water. Without warning, Monte approached and kicked Taylor in the back of the head. Taylor slumped forward for a moment, stunned.
“Monte!” Brazos shouted, drawing his Colt as he ran.
“Leave him be,” said Taylor, on his knees. “He’s been buildin’ up to this, and I aim to have satisfaction.”
“You’re welcome to beat each other senseless,” Brazos said, “but no shooting.”
Monte laughed, for he outweighed Quanah. Each man shucked his gunbelt, and like a fighting rooster, Monte came on the run. Quanah stepped aside, tripped him and Monte fell face-down in the mud along the riverbank. There was some laughter among the outfit, and when Monte got to his feet, he was furious. He brought a sizzling right almost from his knees, but Taylor was too quick for him. He dodged and it barely grazed his chin. He countered with a left, and it connected solidly with Monte’s jaw. He slammed against the ground like a fallen oak, and it took some time for him to rise to hands and knees.
“We can end this right now,” Quanah Taylor said, “if you’ve had enough.”
“By God, you ain’t gettin’ off that easy,” said Monte.
“Monte,” Rebecca said, “this is a senseless fight. You started it. Now stop it.”
“You mind your own damn business,” said Monte. “He took my woman away from me, and I’ll kill him for that.”
“I’ve never been your woman, and I never will be,” Penelope shouted.
*The Western Trail (Trail Drive #2)
Her words plunged Monte into an even greater fury and he went after Quanah with his fists flying. But his added weight ceased to be an advantage, for Quanah Taylor was cat-quick on his feet. He rained blows on Monte Nance, until Monte’s face was a bloody mess from his smashed nose. There was a crack like a pistol shot when one of Quanah’s blows landed on Monte’s left jaw, laying him out half conscious. Quanah waited until Monte sat up.
“You son of a bitch,” Monte snarled, “you busted my jaw.”
“I aimed to,” said Quanah. “Have you had enough?”
“Yeah,” Monte said. “Get away from me.”
But Monte had fallen near his discarded gunbelt, and on his knees, he seized the Colt.
“No!” Penelope screamed.
But her warning was too late. Monte fired and the slug struck the unarmed Quanah in the back, high up. He stumbled to his knees and then went belly-down, reaching for his own discarded gunbelt. Monte fired twice, missing because his prone target had become more difficult. Quanah Taylor rolled over on his back, his Colt steady in his right hand.
Monte fired a fourth time, and it burned a bloody furrow almost the length of Quanah Taylor’s right arm. But the Colt remained steady, and Quanah fired just once. Monte stumbled when the slug slammed into his chest, and during his last moments of life, he stared at the widening circle of blood on the front of his shirt. Finally his knees buckled and he fell, his dead eyes turned to the blue Wyoming sky. There was a terrible silence, broken only by the weeping of Penelope. Quanah Taylor stumbled to his feet, dropped the Colt and made his way to Rebecca. Her head was bowed, while silent tears streaked her cheeks.
“Ma’am,” said Quanah, “I’d give every horse and cow I own, if that hadn’t happened.”
“You played fair,” Rebecca said, “and Monte was a coward. He shot you in the back while you were unarmed. You did what you had to do.”
“Let’s get that shirt off o
f you,” Oscar Fentress said. “You be bleedin’ bad.”
Oscar led Quanah away, and Brazos put his arm around Rebecca’s sagging shoulders.
“It’s hit Penelope pretty hard,” said Brazos. “Without realizing how it might end, she led Monte on. I just wanted you to know I’ve never seen her hurt this bad. She’ll want to talk to you, when she’s able.”
“I don’t fault her,” Rebecca said. “He walked and talked like a man, but Monte never grew up. This was his destiny. All it needed was a time and place.”
“We’ll see to the burying,” said Brazos. “Do you want him in any particular place?”
“Choose a place for him somewhere alongside the river,” Rebecca said.
“I’ll get some of the boys to help me, and we’ll get started,” said Brazos.
“Brazos?” she said, as he turned away. “I . . . I . . .”
Brazos turned back just in time to catch her before she collapsed. All the other women came on the run, Rosalie bringing a blanket. Brazos stretched Rebecca out on the blanket, her face deathly pale. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and ignoring the others gathered near her, she spoke to Brazos.
“Brazos, I know he’s not deserving of it, but will you—one of you—read from the Word before you . . . cover him up?”
“I’ll do it myself,” said Brazos.
Monte Nance was buried on the west bank of the Little Missouri. From an old Bible, Brazos read the Twenty-third Psalm. The rest of the day was spent quietly, with little or no conversation. One of their three days of grace was almost gone, and in the minds of them all was a single agonizing thought. If they were forced to fight, they were hopelessly outnumbered. Benton McCaleb and Cal Snider had two days to produce a miracle.
NORTH PLATTE, NEBRASKA. JULY 12, 1876
Leaving their horses in Laramie, Marshal Yeager, McCaleb and Cal took the afternoon eastbound train to North Platte. They left the coach on the off-side, so their quarry could not see them from the depot. Before they rounded the last coach, they were met by the sheriff.
“I’m Ben Pryor, sheriff. Your man’s waitin’ on the platform. Station agent says he won’t get on the train until them wooden crates of his is loaded in the baggage car. He’s paid for his fare and the freight to Omaha.”
“I’m Hiram Yeager, Deputy U.S. Marshal from Laramie. These two gents are lookin’ for the varmint that cheated them out of payment for eight thousand head of cattle. If that’s him there on the platform, him and his freight will be on the next train to Laramie. Let’s go get him.”
Yeager and Pryor each wore a lawman’s badge, and Reems drew a revolver from what might have been a shoulder holster under his coat. But he was no match for McCaleb. In a lightning cross-hand draw, McCaleb fired once, the slug striking the cylinder of Reems’s weapon. The weapon seemed to explode, as the cartridges detonated, and Reems dropped it like it was hot.
“Reems,” said Marshal Yeager, “you’re under arrest.”
“My name is Reed,” the culprit said.
“That’s just one of your many names,” Yeager said. ’ “This WANTED dodger has a pretty good likeness of you, and there’s just a whole lot of somethin’ in these crates that you’ve been accused of stealing.”
“I know nothing about them,” protested Reems. “I had nothin’ to do with that gold.”
Immediately he realized his mistake, but it was too late. Sheriff Ben Pryor had a pair of handcuffs and, forcing Reems’s hands behind his back, snapped the cuffs on him.
“I can hold him in jail, under guard, until you’re ready to move him,” Pryor said.
“We’re taking him back to Laramie on the next westbound,” said Yeager.
“That won’t be till tomorrow morning,” the station agent said.
“Then we’ll wait,” Yeager said, “and I think we’ll hang around the jail, just so’s this varmint don’t get any ideas about leaving us.”
“There’s one more thing you can do for us, Mr. Yeager,” said McCaleb. “Send a telegram to Sergeant Carpenter in Deadwood. Tell him to get the word out that we’ve found Reems and recovered our money. The miners will get their beef as soon as we can return.”
“I’ll do that,” Marshal Yeager said. “In fact, I’ll go you one better. When you ride to Deadwood, I’ll ride with you. I’ll want to talk to some of those miners, to line up enough witnesses so we can lock up this thieving varmint until Judgment Day.”
Deputy U.S. Marshal Yeager sent the telegram to Deadwood and received a reply that said Sergeant Carpenter would get word to the troublesome miners. Cal Snider and Benton McCaleb breathed huge sighs of relief.
LITTLE MISSOURI RIVER, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
JULY 15, 1876
“This is the third day, and here they come,” Brazos said.
“Yeah, but there’s only a dozen or so,” said Tom.
They gathered along the riverbank, their guns ready, but the approaching riders made no aggressive moves. Again McKeever was the spokesman, and he wasted no time stating the purpose of his visit.
“The military telegraph in Deadwood just got a telegram from U.S. Marshal Yeager in North Platte, Nebraska. Your men and the marshal just caught up to this Reems bastard. They’ll be comin’ back tomorrow on the westbound, takin’ Reems to jail in Laramie. From there, Marshal Yeager will come to Deadwood with your riders. We’re just tellin’ you what we was told to tell you. We ain’t holdin’ no grudge, and we’ll wait for our beef until you folks are ready.”
“We’re obliged,” Brazos shouted. “Soon as our trail bosses return, we’ll be driving the herd on to Deadwood.”
Three days later, Cal, McCaleb and Deputy Marshal Yeager reached the cow camp on the Little Missouri. Cal and McCaleb each led a packhorse.
“Our money,” Cal said. “There was so much gold, some currency had to be railroaded in from St. Louis.”
McCaleb waited until all the shouting had subsided, and then he spoke.
“Marshal Yeager has some more good news for us. Don’t you, Marshal?”
“Matter of fact I do,” said Yeager. “This Reems—if that’s his name—is wanted by the law just about everywhere. Five different governors are offering rewards for him. I’ll see that all of you share the money.”
One look at Rebecca’s stricken face, and McCaleb knew something had happened. Quick as he could, he dismounted, but she came running to meet him. After her sobbing and trembling had ceased, McCaleb spoke.
“Monte?”
“Yes,” said Rebecca. “There was no other way, Bent. There’s more, but it can wait.”
Quickenpaugh, Goose and Quanah Taylor all wore bandages, and Cal Snider was with the three of them.
“I’m almighty tired of this river, and the graze is gone for ten miles around,” said Will Elliot. “Let’s move on to Deadwood.”
“We can,” McCaleb said. “There’s water half a day’s drive from here.”
DEADWOOD, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
JULY 25, 1876
The barren gulch that was Deadwood offered virtually no graze, so the herds had to be bedded down ten miles away. Cal had a favor to ask of Sergeant Carpenter.
“Sergeant, will you telegraph the post commander at Bismarck that the horses from the Nelson Story herd are here? With the Indian trouble, this is as far as we were told to go with them. From here on, it’s up to the soldiers.”
“I’ll send the telegram,” said Carpenter.
Five days passed before all the cattle were portioned out to individual buyers. Three hundred unhappy miners had their money refunded, for Milo Reems had sold them cattle that didn’t exist.
DEADWOOD, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
AUGUST 1, 1876
“Wild Bill Hickok’s in town,” Arch Rainey announced to the camp.
“Yeah,” said Pen Rhodes, “and that Yates bunch is there too. Old Roscoe’s set him up a jackleg saloon right next to Number Ten, where Wild Bill plays poker.”
“Everybody has money,” McCaleb said, “but Deadwood’s nothing to
get excited about. It’s a den for gamblers, thieves and probably killers. Stay out of the saloons, Lone Star.”
“The same goes for all you Story riders,” Cal shouted. “There’s no law, so don’t start anything you can’t finish.”
Quanah Taylor saddled his horse and Penelope’s, and they galloped away. Three hours later they returned, obviously pleased with what they had accomplished.
“No law in Deadwood,” Quanah announced happily, “but there is a jewelry store and a preacher. We took advantage of both.”
Penelope raised her left hand and the evening sun flashed off the diamond on her ring finger. The women converged on her with laughter and shouting, while the men who were in camp shook Quanah’s hand.
DEADWOOD, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
AUGUST 2, 1876
Early in the morning, a dozen soldiers arrived, taking the herd of horses with them to Bismarck. Clearly, Quickenpaugh hated to see the herd go. Goose understood, joining him.
“We’ll have our own horses,” Curley consoled.
“I’d be right interested in how Story handles the sale of horses to the military,” said McCaleb. “Goose has one hell of a horse ranch, with Indian riders.”
“You can always get back to Wyoming before the snow flies,” Cal said. “Why don’t you and your outfit go back with us to Virginia City? Nelson Story’s the most powerful man in Montana Territory. I can just about promise you he’ll help you get your horses to the military. Besides, he’ll want to meet you and your outfit when he hears what we’ve all been through.”
“How about it?” McCaleb shouted. “Do we go?”
There was a resounding shout of approval.
“Jed and Stoney are still in town,” said Will Elliot. “Maybe some of us ought to go after them. I’ve got a bad feeling about this place, like the lid’s about to blow off.”
“Maybe it has,” McCaleb said. “Here they come now, riding hard.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 28
