Trial at Fort Keogh

by Charles G. West

  Clint turned to see the three sitting at the back corner table in a room filled with off-duty soldiers. “The sheriff you were talkin’ about?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Ernie whispered. “It ain’t the sheriff, though. It’s his brother, Mace—that one with the droopy mustache. He’s as low-down a skunk as his brother.” Ernie chuckled heartily then. “He ain’t said no howdy-do to Darcy this time, so I reckon he remembers that hat pin of hers.”

  “What are they doin’ out here near the fort?” Clint asked. “I thought you told me they hung out in town.”

  “Danged if I know,” Ernie declared. “Mace just walked in two days ago. About the third time he’s been here, and already he’s back again, this time with his two friends.” He snorted contemptuously. “Don’t make no sense to me to ride all the way out here to do their drinkin’. So I expect they’ll be wantin’ to talk to me about payin’ them to stay in business. Walt Hoffman, owner of the River House in Miles City, told ’em he didn’t need no protection for his business. Night before last he got pistol-whipped and robbed when he went home for supper. Mace told me about it when he came in. Told me it might be something for me to think about, said he could arrange a little extra protection for me if I was willin’ to spend a little money. I told him there’s enough soldiers in here most of the time to make sure nobody jumps me.”

  “You might have something there, Ernie,” Clint said. “He oughta have enough sense not to mess around with the soldiers’ water hole.” Clint wasn’t in the mood to talk about Simon and Mace Yeager. He was tired from being in the saddle for the past few days. All he wanted now was a couple of drinks, a little friendly conversation, and a good night’s sleep, so he was glad to see Darcy arrive at the top of the stairs. A contented-looking soldier was a few steps behind her.

  She was halfway down the steps before she glanced over toward the bar and spotted Clint talking to Ernie. Her eyes brightened immediately and the bored expression she had worn a few seconds earlier dissolved into a smile. Clint returned her smile and saluted her with a tap of his finger to the brim of his hat. He only glanced at the soldier behind her, but it was enough to tell him he had seen him somewhere before. When the soldier looked toward the bar and saw Clint standing there, he at once broke out into a great big grin.

  “There he is!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Sioux Killer himself.” He pounded Darcy on the shoulder and said, “If it weren’t for that man, I wouldn’ta been here to dip my pickle today.” He pushed by Darcy and hurried down the stairs to offer his hand to Clint. Astonished by the soldier’s display of appreciation, Clint shook his hand. “Mister, I’d like to buy you a drink,” the soldier said. He hesitated then, remembering. “Oh hell, I ain’t got no more money.” He looked apologetically in Darcy’s direction. “She got the last I had.” He turned to Ernie then. “I’ll pay you come the end of the month, Ernie. You know me. I’m good for it.”

  Ernie and Darcy couldn’t help laughing. Clint was still somewhat startled, but he remembered then that this was the soldier who had thanked him for saving his life before. So he quickly assured Goldstein that he appreciated the offer. “Hell, I’ll buy you one,” he said, “and we’ll both drink to our good luck.”

  “How ’bout if I give you both one on the house?” Ernie offered. He had no notion what circumstances they were celebrating, but it was obvious Clint had something to do with it. “Was you with the soldiers chasin’ those hostiles?” he asked Clint.

  Goldstein didn’t wait for Clint to answer. “I’ll say he was. Me and the rest of a grave-diggin’ detail was ambushed by those red devils. They had us holed up in a hollowed-out pocket under the river bank—out of ammunition, we was done for—just waitin’ for the Injuns to come down and finish us off. Then all of a sudden, this feller comes along like the angel of death—Crack! Crack! Crack! And the Injuns start droppin’ one by one.” That was as far as he got before Clint stopped him.

  “Whoa, soldier,” he interrupted, already embarrassed. “We just had a little luck, that’s all.”

  Ernie grinned at him. “Did you really do all that?”

  Clint shrugged. “More or less,” he said.

  “Angel of death, huh?” Ernie could see Clint’s discomfort with the subject. “Whaddaya think about that, Darcy?”

  She favored Clint with a smile as well. “He’s always been my hero,” she said sweetly. “Ain’t that right, honey?” She gave Clint’s arm a squeeze while Ernie poured four drinks.

  The celebration had gotten loud enough to be plainly heard, even in the noisy barroom, by the three men sitting at the back corner table. Mace Yeager cocked his head in the direction of the bar to listen. He had established himself among his lawless society as a gunman with no peer. He wore the reputation as if it were a badge, and never passed up an opportunity to prove it. The two hired guns seated at the table with him were not surprised when he pushed his chair back and walked casually over to the bar. The four people having a drink paid no attention to him, aware of his presence only after he spoke.

  “Me, I ain’t never seen no angel that I recall, and I know I damn sure ain’t never seen no angel of death.”

  The intrusion was sufficient to halt the conversation at the bar, and they turned to look at him. No one said anything for a moment, and then Ernie spoke. “Something I can do for you, Deputy?”

  “Yeah,” Mace replied. “There’s somethin’ you can do. You can tell your hero here—what did you call him, angel of death? You can tell him he’s makin’ so much noise that me and my friends can’t hear ourselves talk.” A thin smile spread slowly beneath the drooping black mustache, barely disturbing the corners of his mouth in a face that knew no charity.

  Clint took a quick moment to notice the deputy’s hands hanging seemingly casually, yet poised to instantly reach for the .44 holstered at his side. His hands were narrow, with long slender fingers, almost like a woman’s hands, nimble and quick. Suddenly the portion of the room close to the bar went deadly silent, so Clint’s response to the blatant challenge, though softly spoken, was easily heard. “If we’re disturbing you and your friends,” he said to the tall, knife-thin deputy, “then we’ll try to quiet down a little, so you don’t hear us above all the other noise in the room.”

  “This is a private party,” Darcy said. “We’re not disturbin’ you, so go on back to your table and mind your own business.”

  Mace’s eyes narrowed immediately in angry response to her suggestion. “Shut up, bitch,” he blurted. “I don’t wanna hear nothin’ outta the mouth of a damn whore.”

  Clint looked at the menacing gunman, poised like a rattlesnake ready to strike. Then he glanced at the man’s two friends still seated at the table, both watching the drama intensely with grins of anticipation plastered on their rough faces.

  Back to Mace again, Clint spoke. “You seem like a right friendly fellow, but you’re startin’ to get on my nerves a little bit now. You’re probably ashamed of the way you just talked to the lady here. So we’ll just let it pass this one time, figure you just didn’t know any better, and you can go on back to mindin’ your own business and we’ll tend to ours.”

  Mace was not sure how to react to what he had intended to be a challenge. “You’ll let it pass?” he blurted. “Well, I ain’t gonna let it pass.”

  “I think you’d better,” Private Goldstein said. And Mace became aware then of the number of soldiers who had gotten up from their tables and were now crowding around them. Though no threats were spoken, they were fairly obvious.

  Furious for having to back down, but aware of his prospects if he did not, Mace growled, “This ain’t over between me and you. I’ll see you sometime when you ain’t got the army to protect you.” He started pushing his way through the uniforms that reluctantly permitted him a path to the door. “Come on, boys,” he called out angrily to his two companions. “Let’s get outta this damn whorehouse.” There was no hesitation on t
heir part, having seen the response of every soldier in the room.

  “Ya’ll come back real soon, now, you hear?” one of the soldiers nearest the door called out sarcastically to them as they left. It brought a wave of laughter over the whole room.

  Back at the bar, Ernie gave Clint a serious look and said, “I’m afraid this thing might cause you some trouble if you ain’t careful. That man, him and his brother, ain’t nothin’ but a couple of murderin’ outlaws. So I’d advise you to stay outta Miles City, and watch your back everywhere else.”

  “Oh, I expect he was just tryin’ to be friendly in his own way,” Clint said in an attempt to make light of it. No one laughed. “How the hell did I get him so riled, anyway?”

  “I reckon it was my fault,” Goldstein said. “I shoulda kept my mouth shut—yellin’ all over the room like I did.”

  “No such a thing,” Clint said. “He’s the kind of fellow that’s gonna find somebody to rawhide. It just happened to be my turn this time.”

  “All the same,” Ernie said, “you watch your back. Are you ridin’ back to the Double-V-Bar tonight?”

  “No, I’m stayin’ right here in the cavalry barracks,” Clint said.

  “You can stay in my room with me,” Darcy offered.

  “There, you see,” Clint said to Ernie. “I’ve got all kinds of safe places to sleep. But some of ’em are safer than others,” he said to Darcy. “I might get in all kinds of trouble if I stayed with you. So I reckon I’ll stay with the boys in the barracks.” He laughed when she gave him a pouty face in response.

  “Ain’t you ever serious about anything?” Darcy said.

  “Only about you, darlin’,” he teased. “When you get old and tired, and decide to quit whorin’, I’m gonna marry you and make an honest woman outta you.”

  “You’re so full of horse shit,” she said, still pouty.

  * * *

  Curly James leaned close to Bill Blankenship as they prepared to climb into their saddles and follow Mace Yeager, who was already riding away from the saloon. “Boy, he’s sure as hell hot under the collar now, ain’t he?”

  Blankenship grinned. “He sure is. He don’t cotton to havin’ to back down to nobody. I’da thought he might wanna hang around for a while to see if he could catch that feller when he came outta the saloon. It ain’t like Mace to eat crow like that and let him get away with it.”

  “Oh, it ain’t over. Ain’t no way Mace is gonna let that son of a bitch live after he mouthed off at him like that.”

  “Maybe,” Blankenship said. “But I’m damn glad he didn’t decide to take on that roomful of soldiers. I didn’t catch that feller’s name. Did you?” Curly shook his head. “I reckon he might be ridin’ scout for the army, the way that one soldier was braggin’ ’bout what a hero he was.” He grinned again. “That sure riled ol’ Mace, didn’t it?”

  “I reckon,” Curly said. “We’d best tiptoe around him for a while. He might decide to shoot anybody that’s handy, if he don’t find out who that feller is.”

  In the saddle then, they kicked their horses into a fast lope to catch up with Mace, who was already at the wagon track to Miles City and still fuming over the confrontation at the saloon. It didn’t help to improve his disposition to have to tell his brother that Ernie Thigpen showed no sign of intimidation by the three gunmen who had sought to offer him protection. He had argued with Simon before, insisting that Ernie’s saloon was so close to the fort that it might as well be considered attached to it. But Simon thought a show of three threatening gunmen would deliver a message that Ernie would be reluctant to dismiss.

  Simon can get off his lazy ass and come over here himself, Mace thought.

  Then his mind took him right back to the man who had caused him to have to back down in the saloon. “Damn it to hell,” he cursed.

  Behind him, Curly and Bill looked at each other and grinned.

  * * *

  After a long evening at Ernie’s, during which a fair amount of time was spent making playful talk with Darcy that still didn’t end the evening in the way she always hoped, Clint said good night and retired to the cavalry barracks.

  Although more than ready to return to the Double-V-Bar, he delayed his departure the next morning to take advantage of breakfast in the mess hall with the troops. While he was eating, Sergeant Cox came by to tell him that Captain Rodgers would appreciate it if he stopped by to see him before he left. It turned out that the captain wanted to hire him as a scout on a more permanent basis. Clint politely thanked him for the offer, but had to decline because of his responsibilities at the ranch and his loyalty to Randolph Valentine. Rodgers understood, thanked him for his part in rescuing Lieutenant Landry and his men, and told him that the offer was still good, if he changed his mind.

  “I’ll think about it,” Clint said, although he already had thought about it, and took his leave.

  As expected, he was greeted by Hank Haley when he rode into the barnyard. “Hey-yo, Clint,” Hank hailed him from the pigsty, and hurried up to the barn.

  “Mornin’, Hank,” Clint greeted him cheerfully. “Anything goin’ on?”

  “Same as always,” Hank replied. “Mr. Valentine told Charley he could move the cattle down to the southwest section, close to the river, since there ain’t been no sign of Injuns in the last two days. Did you catch up with them Sioux?”

  “Yep,” Clint replied. “I doubt we’ll see that bunch around here again, at least what’s left of ’em.”

  “Ben said you’d find ’em,” Hank went on. “Said he’d taught you how to track a hawk’s trail in the sky.” Clint grunted a chuckle. “Can a feller do that?” the simple man asked. “Charley said you can’t.”

  “Nah,” Clint said. “Charley’s right. Ben Hawkins says a lot of things just to see if anybody’s listenin’. It didn’t take anybody special to follow that big party of Sioux. Anybody coulda found ’em. The army sure didn’t need me.” Hank nodded solemnly, as if giving the matter serious thought. Clint exhaled a little sigh and said, “Well, I probably oughta go up to the house and let Mr. Valentine know I’m back on the job. I’d appreciate it if you’d turn Sam out for me. Don’t give him any grain. He got plenty of the army’s already.”

  Rena answered his knock on the kitchen door and nodded her customary lifeless greeting. “Would you tell Mr. Valentine I’m back?” Clint asked her. She nodded again and left to do his bidding. In a few moments she was back with Valentine right behind her.

  “Well, glad to see you got back in one piece,” Valentine greeted him. “How’d it go? Have any luck?”

  “Yes, sir, we found ’em all right, but not before they massacred some folks over at Zack Bristol’s tradin’ post.”

  He went on to tell his boss what they had found there, and the events that followed when they tracked the raiding party to the bluffs of the Yellowstone. Hope slipped quietly into the room while he was recounting the surprise attack the soldiers had successfully accomplished. She said nothing, but her eyes were imploring him for news of the army’s casualties.

  “You had to say it was a successful fight,” he said, mainly for her benefit. “As far as I know, the army didn’t lose but three men, privates—no officers.” The relief in her eyes was obvious, causing him a painful twinge of envy. He wondered if Justin Landry knew what a lucky man he was.

  To hell with it, he tried to tell himself. I’ll go down to the bunkhouse to see if Milt’s got any coffee made.

  Almost as if she knew what he was thinking, Rena was standing at his elbow with a cup of coffee for him when he turned to leave. “Why, thanks, Rena,” he said. “Hot coffee goes really good on a cold day like today.” He turned back to Valentine. “I think I’ll wait till the boys get back for supper, instead of ridin’ down the river where they’ve got the cattle. Charley can handle anything with the herd, and he’s got Ben there to help him. I need to put some new sho
es on my horse, and I might as well do that today. Is that all right with you?”

  “Oh, hell yeah,” Valentine said at once. “Charley can handle the herd.”

  * * *

  “Well, you got back, didja?” Ben greeted him in the bunkhouse. “I saw Sam out in the corral,” he said, referring to Clint’s horse. Clint had named the bay gelding Sam, short for Samson, because he was such a strong horse, like the fellow in the Bible.

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “I put some shoes on him. He looked like he was gettin’ ready to throw one.” To satisfy Ben’s curiosity, he gave him a full accounting of the fight with the Sioux.

  “I reckon I shoulda gone with you,” Ben said when Clint had given him all the details of the fight.

  “Why?” Clint asked. “The soldiers killed more’n half of ’em and didn’t have but three casualties themselves. So we figure the Indians have headed back north, and we got back safe and sound, even without you,” he teased. He knew that Ben felt he should be a part of everything that happened to him. He had often teased his old friend about it, once telling him that it was the only reason he couldn’t ever get married. “I don’t think any respectable lady would tolerate you in the bed with us,” he had japed.

  Ben snorted gruffly to express his discontent, and Clint watched him, waiting for the response that was sure to come. The fact that it was slow in coming told Clint that Ben had to think hard about it. He pulled his boot off and made a show of examining a large hole in the toe of his sock. “Looks like I’m gonna have to do a little darnin’ before my whole foot is stickin’ out,” he said. Then he raised one eyebrow as the thought came to him. “If I’d been with you, them other two Injuns wouldn’ta got away at that ambush on that grave-diggin’ squad.”

  Clint laughed. “I reckon you’re right. I hadn’t thought about that, Chief Hawkins. What happened to that feather you had stuck in your hat?”