Not as entertained by Clint’s bluffing as Bobby, Ben took a more serious stance. “I don’t know about what you done back there, partner. A man like that don’t take gettin’ made a fool of lightly, and you know he’s gonna come after you. Only next time he ain’t likely to give you a chance to bluff your way out of it.”
Clint knew that Ben was genuinely concerned for him, but he didn’t feel that he had had many options available to him back there in the saloon. “I hear what you’re sayin’, Ben, and I don’t say it ain’t true. But damn it, the only other choice I had was to walk out in the street like a damn jackass and try to outdraw a man that does it for a livin’. I didn’t like those odds, so I decided to see if I could talk my way out of it.”
Ben considered that for a moment before he replied, “I reckon you’re right. I wouldn’ta give you a nickel for your chances in a gunfight against that killer.” He shook his head, exasperated. “But dog bite it, you’ve got a target big as a bull’s ass on your back now. You’d best stay the hell away from Miles City from now on.”
“Maybe,” Clint said. He didn’t particularly like the idea of anybody running him out of town. “Right now, though, I’m concerned about a couple of fast horses catchin’ up with this wagon before we get back to the Double-V-Bar. So I’m gonna drop off and watch our back trail when we get to the draw.”
“That might be a good idea,” Bobby said. He hadn’t considered that very likely possibility.
When they reached the southern end of a line of low hills where the trail led up a draw between two of the taller ridges, Clint reined Sam back and guided the bay to the top of one of them. He dismounted and walked out on a ledge that gave him a view of the trail they had just traveled. There was no one in sight for as far as he could see.
After about fifteen minutes with no sign of pursuit, he began to think that he had misjudged Mace’s hunger for vengeance. But he didn’t want to make the mistake of dismissing the threat too soon, however, so he made himself comfortable on a rock that afforded him an overall view of the snowy valley behind him. He remained there until the sun threatened to set behind the high hills on the western side of the river. Satisfied then that no one had followed them, he got to his feet, stiff from sitting so long on the cold rock. After stamping his feet on the ledge for a minute or two, in an effort to warm them up a little, he climbed back into the saddle and loped off to catch the wagon.
When he arrived at the Double-V-Bar, Ben and Bobby Dees were unloading the wagon with a little help from a couple of the other men. “I was beginnin’ to wonder about you,” Ben said. “Thought maybe you’d decided to go back to town to have a drink with your friend Mace Yeager.”
“My ass was froze to a rock, and it took me a while to break it loose,” Clint japed.
“Saw no sign of ’em, didja?” Ben asked.
“No, no sign,” Clint replied. “I give even a jasper like Mace Yeager credit for havin’ enough sense not to come on the Double-V-Bar lookin’ for trouble. He needs a bigger gang than him and his brother and those two coyotes followin’ him around to tangle with us.” There was a decided advantage in having a year-round crew of fifteen men on average.
“I reckon you’re right,” Ben said. “But somethin’s gonna have to be done about those outlaws runnin’ that town. We get all our supplies from that general store, and if Horace Marshall finally shuts down and leaves town—or gets killed—we’re gonna have to go a helluva long ways for supplies.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Clint said. “But until something does get done about it, the army, or vigilantes, or whoever, it’d be a good idea to stay clear of the town. Hell, you can get just as drunk at Ernie’s near the fort, and Ernie would appreciate the business. I think I’ll take about half the crew with me next time we need supplies, though.” He frowned and shook his head regretfully. “This whole thing is my fault, and I’m sorry about that. I reckon I’ve made it hard for all the boys on account of my little run-ins with Mace Yeager.” He paused to think about it and decided that Private Goldstein should share in the blame. That was where it all had started. “I wish to hell that soldier had kept his mouth shut when he came down the stairs behind Darcy,” he lamented.
“I expect it’d be best if I took some of the boys when we have to go to town for supplies again,” Ben said. “You know you’re stuck in that bastard’s craw, and he ain’t gonna quit callin’ you out till you face him.”
“You thinkin’ I oughta strap on my .44 and stand out in the middle of the street with him?” Clint asked.
“Hell no,” Ben said. “I think you’d be a damn fool to do that. I’ve seen you draw that pistol to kill a snake, and, partner, it wasn’t like greased lightnin’. You’re as fast with a rifle as any man I’ve ever seen, but you wouldn’t have a chance against a fast gunman with a pistol. And Frank Hudson says Mace Yeager is as fast as there is.” Clint shrugged indifferently. “I’ve known you long enough to know you ain’t afraid of anything or anyone,” Ben continued. “But sometimes it’s just downright foolish to commit suicide just to show how brave you are.”
“Is the lecture over yet?” Clint said, grinning. “I’ll try to stay outta Mace Yeager’s way when I can, but I’m damned if I’m gonna let him or his brother run me outta that town, or any other town.”
“All right, hardhead,” Ben said. “I’m just tryin’ to give you a little friendly advice.”
* * *
For the next few weeks, winter blasted the Yellowstone valley in earnest, and the crew spent their time trying to keep the cattle from straying from the Double-V-Bar range. There was also a constant effort to protect the cattle from the packs of wolves and coyotes that hung around the edge of the herd. It was miserable work in the penetrating cold. This was the time of year when every man earned his twenty-five dollars a month, even though the work was more demanding in the spring and summer.
But with so little time for the men to think about saloons and prostitutes, the memory of Clint’s advisement to stay out of town gradually faded away. No one but Bobby Dees and Ben Hawkins had actually witnessed the confrontation with Mace Yeager, so all the hands were not as concerned with the potential for trouble as Clint and Ben were.
Two of the men, Shorty Black and Pick Pickens, were among those who doubted the necessity to avoid the saloons in Miles City. After twenty-one days in a line camp on Muskrat Creek, at the extreme western boundary of the Double-V-Bar range, they were relieved of their duties and rode back to the ranch to try to thaw out a little. When told by Clint to take the opportunity to rest and get some decent food, Shorty and Pick saw an opportunity to see to some other needs of two young cowhands.
“I don’t know about you,” Shorty told Pick, “but I’ve got a cravin’ for somethin’ stronger than some of Milt Futch’s cookin’.”
It wasn’t necessary to explain his comment to Pick. For three weeks, there had been very little conversation between the two that didn’t center on the topics of whiskey and women. “We ain’t gotta ride back out to the line camp till tomorrow,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ us from ridin’ over to Ernie’s to get a little drink.”
“That’s kinda what I was thinkin’,” Shorty said. “We could start out right now before supper and get somethin’ to eat at Ernie’s, after we get a drink and have a little visit with Darcy.”
“That suits the hell outta me,” Pick said. “Let’s get goin’ while Clint or Ben ain’t around to try to talk us out of it.”
They cut two fresh horses out of the corral with help from Hank Haley. In order to satisfy Hank’s curiosity, they told him they had an errand to run for the boss, and rode away with him still wondering what it was.
When they arrived at the saloon close by the fort, they immediately satisfied their craving for a drink of whiskey, but their main objective was blocked because it happened to be a bad time of the month for Darcy. They were fully disappointed, for h
ad they known of her “condition,” they would probably not have made the ride in the cold for the whiskey alone. Dejected, they considered the cold ride back to the ranch.
“Hell,” Shorty decided, “it ain’t that far into town from here, and I’ve got an itch I need to scratch.” Both young men had fueled the fire of anticipation into flames too high to be easily extinguished, so they were soon in the saddle again.
It was well into the shank of the evening when they pulled up before the Frontier Saloon, having already been warned that the Trail’s End was the usual hangout for the Yeager brothers. Before entering, they decided it best not to let on that they rode for the Double-V-Bar.
“We’ll let ’em think we’re just two out-of-work cowhands riding the grub line,” Shorty said. Generally, this time of year, there were a lot of cowhands laid off for the winter, who rode from ranch to ranch for free meals.
The Frontier was crowded, with many of the patrons no doubt riding the grub line, so the two eager men from the Double-V-Bar were satisfied that they were no more obvious than any of the thirty-odd other customers. It didn’t take long before a buxom lady named Rose sidled over to wedge in beside Shorty at the bar, having noticed that he had paid for his drink and had money to put back in his pocket.
“Hey, darlin’,” Rose cooed. “It’d be a shame to spend the rest of that money on whiskey when I’ve been waitin’ for you to come in. I’ve got a real passion for short men.”
Shorty stood up as tall as he could stretch himself, but was still no taller than she. “Well, maybe I ain’t short all over,” he said in defense of his lack of stature.
“Don’t get cross with me, sweetie,” she said as gently as she could contrive. “I figured you were a stud as soon as I saw you walk in. I didn’t mean to make you mad. I was just funnin’ with you. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you a good time. Whaddaya say?”
That was proof enough of the woman’s sincerity for Shorty. “Maybe I’ll show you a good time,” he boasted. Glancing at a grinning Pick, he winked and followed Rose toward the stairs.
“Ride ’em, cowboy,” Pick said, still grinning.
Wishing he had saved a little more of his last month’s pay, he turned around to make small talk with Frank Hudson, who was working the bar. He figured he had enough for one more drink, so he told Frank to pour it.
We should have come here first, he thought. Had they done so, he would have had enough money to ascend the stairs to paradise that Shorty had just climbed. What the hell? he decided. I’ll try to save a little more next month.
After a moment, Frank moved down to the other end of the bar to pour drinks for another patron, so Pick turned around with his back to the bar to observe the noisy bar crowd.
* * *
Down the muddy street at the Trail’s End Saloon, Mace Yeager sat at a back corner table with his brother, Simon, and three other players. Bored with the game, since it didn’t appear that he was going to draw any decent cards, he threw his hand in and pushed his chair back.
“Where you goin’?” Simon asked when Mace stood up.
“Aw, I ain’t got no luck tonight,” Mace said. “I think I’ll take a little walk up the street and see what’s goin’ on at the Frontier.”
“Take Curly and Blankenship with you. Can’t hurt to let ol’ Hudson think he’s gettin’ a lot of protection for his money,” Simon told him. He glanced over at a table against the side wall where the two were sitting, drinking free whiskey. “Spence will be glad to see ’em go.”
He laughed when he said it. Spence Snyder, the owner of the Trail’s End, had complained that Curly and Blankenship consumed a hell of a lot of whiskey and never paid a cent for any of it. Simon had told him that the two were official sheriff’s posse men and were entitled to free whiskey.
When Mace nodded to them, the two gunmen got up from the table and followed him out the door.
“What’s up, Mace?” Curly asked when they got outside and started up the street, trying to avoid the deeper ruts in the mire that was Miles City’s main thoroughfare.
“Nothin’,” Mace replied, pulling a slim cigar out of his coat pocket. “We’re just gonna go to the Frontier to remind ol’ Hudson why he’d better not get outta line.” He started searching his pockets for a match. When he had no luck in finding one, he asked, “One of you got a match?”
“Yes, sir,” Blankenship quickly responded. “I sure do.” He started digging into his pockets.
By the time he found one, they had reached the hitching rail outside the Frontier. Curly smacked a horse on its croup, causing it to step aside as they walked beside it. Blankenship paused at that moment to strike the match on his belt buckle, cupping his hands to keep the wind from blowing it out. The match flamed brightly and as Mace leaned toward it to light his cigar, he was startled by what he saw on the horse’s quarters. Plainly seen in the light of the match he saw the brand VV. Forgetting to draw on his cigar then, he muttered, “Double-V-Bar, that son of a bitch!”
At once excited, he threw the cigar down and headed for the door of the saloon, thinking that Clint Cooper had dared to show up in town again. Blankenship followed right on his heels. Curly paused to pick up the discarded cigar and tried to clean the mud from it, but it had landed in a small pool of water, so he dropped it and hurried after them.
Inside the door, Mace paused to scan the room carefully. He had already decided that there would be no pretense of a fair fight. He had been buffaloed twice already by Randolph Valentine’s top hand, so this time he intended to shoot first and dare anyone to say that Clint didn’t go for his weapon. After he searched the room a second time to no avail, he walked over to the bar to question Hudson.
“Who’s upstairs with the women?” he demanded.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Hudson said. “Some drifter’s up there with Rose. There ain’t nobody else right now.” He was not happy to see Mace and his two outlaw posse men in the saloon. Trouble usually came in with them.
“Who is he?” Mace pressed.
“I told you, I don’t know,” Hudson insisted. “He came in with that fellow down at the other end of the bar, the one wearin’ the ‘Boss of the Range’ Stetson.”
Mace concentrated his gaze on Pick, leaning against the bar. “You ever see that jasper before?” he asked Curly.
“Nope,” Curly answered. Mace shifted his gaze to Blankenship, who also said no.
“Somebody rode in here on a Double-V-Bar horse,” Mace said. “And ain’t none of us ever seen that feller before.” To Mace, that meant that the man at the bar and his friend upstairs were riders for the Double-V-Bar. He walked over as casually as he could, despite the rise in temperature in his blood at the thought of a couple of Valentine’s ranch hands in town.
Never having seen Mace Yeager before, Pick was not alarmed when he moved in beside him at the bar. “How do?” Mace said.
“Howdy,” Pick returned.
“Was that Clint Cooper I saw goin’ upstairs with Rose a little while ago?”
“Uh, no,” Pick answered before thinking. “That weren’t Clint. That’s Shorty.” He only realized that he might have said the wrong thing when his remark was met with a cynical smile.
“You know you boys from the Double-V-Bar ain’t welcome to come in here and drink with honest men,” Mace said, much to Curly’s and Blankenship’s amusement.
Pick gulped nervously as he glanced from Mace’s menacing face to the two grinning bullies behind him. “Uh, no, sir,” he sputtered, “we ain’t from the Double-V-Bar. We’re just a couple of fellers out of work, ridin’ the grub line.”
“Then how come you came ridin’ in here on a couple of Double-V-Bar horses? Maybe you and your partner are a couple of horse thieves. I’m the law in this town, and we hang horse thieves here.”
“No, sir,” Pick gulped again. “We sure ain’t no horse thieves. We ride for the Dou
ble-V-Bar.”
“You just told me you didn’t, so you’re a liar, too. I hate a damn liar worst than a horse thief.”
Mace was trying as hard as he could to provoke the frightened Pick into making a move to respond to his accusations, but Pick recognized a professional killer in the lean, sinister face sneering at him and he was not ready to die.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I reckon I did lie about it. I’ll go get Shorty and we’ll leave town right away.” He turned to put his empty glass on the bar.
Disgusted with the timid man’s refusal to defend his honor, Mace was not willing to let the matter be settled that easily. Clint Cooper was the man he wanted dead, but this weak-livered cowhand would temporarily satisfy his craze for satisfaction. So when Pick reached to return the glass, Mace drew his .44 and pumped two shots into his stomach, doubling him over to fall back against the bar before sliding to the floor.
“He went for his gun!” Mace exclaimed. “He went for his gun! You all saw that. The son of a bitch tried to draw on me.”
“That’s right!” Blankenship blurted, right on cue. “He went for his gun, Mace.”
“He didn’t give you no choice,” Curly sang out, and looked around the crowd of spectators, nodding for emphasis. No one voluntarily voiced support for the deputy’s actions. And among those close enough to have witnessed the confrontation, all were afraid to speak of what they had actually seen. The room was totally silent for a few moments, followed by whispered fearful remarks from some of the patrons near the back who had been startled by the sudden gunshots.
Also startled by the shots, Shorty Black stopped dead still at the top of the stairs, paralyzed by the sight of Pick Pickens crumpled unmoving on the floor, his back against the bar. His hand dropped automatically to rest on the handle of his pistol, but he thought better of pulling the weapon. Running seemed like a better idea, so he turned and ran back to Rose’s room. Charging through the door, he almost collided with the buxom prostitute on his way to the window. She was in the process of tidying up a little after the transaction she’d just completed with him.
Trial at Fort Keogh Page 10
