Trial at Fort Keogh

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  Eager to face the man who had caused him humiliation on two separate occasions, Mace hurried out the door of the Trail’s End. Surprised when he didn’t find his intended victim standing in front of the saloon, he at first thought that Clint had realized the foolishness of his challenge and fled. Then he glanced up the street to see him standing before the barbershop.

  “What the hell?” he exclaimed. “Whaddaya doin’ way up there? That’s too far apart.” He started walking toward Clint.

  “It’s close enough for me,” Clint said. “Get ready. When Homer counts to three, you’d better draw, ’cause I’m fixin’ to shoot you down whether you do or not.” Mace looked confused but stopped and braced himself to draw.

  “Go ahead, Homer,” Clint said.

  Homer sang out loud and clear, but he didn’t reach “two” before Mace whipped the .44 from his side and fired. As Clint had hoped, the shot missed inches wide, but the swift gunfighter was quick enough to get off a second shot at almost the same instant Clint fired.

  Though Mace’s bullet tore into Clint’s side, the more accurately aimed rifle slug slammed into Mace’s chest, dropping him to the ground. Staggered, Clint recovered to crank another shot into Mace’s body to make certain.

  Watching from the door of the Frontier Saloon, Frank Hudson blurted, “He shot him! By God, he shot Mace Yeager!”

  “Damned if he didn’t,” Pete Bender exclaimed. “But it looks like Mace got one in him, too.”

  Hudson wasn’t sure what to do. Clint was still on his feet, but he looked to be hurt badly as he strained to step up on his horse. There was going to be hell to pay when Simon found out what had happened to his brother. It wouldn’t be too healthy for anyone who tried to help the man who shot him. As much as he would have liked to thank Clint for eliminating one of the hated Yeagers, Hudson was quite relieved to see him disappear behind Homer Lewis’ shop. He turned to Pete and said, “That’s one less of those sons of bitches.”

  Seeing how badly Clint was hurt, Homer ran around the building after him and tied the lead rope to his saddle.

  “Much obliged,” Clint mumbled, and gave Sam his heels. The big bay gelding loped off behind the buildings, heading for the Double-V-Bar, leaving a rudely awakened town behind. Although he was every bit as happy as Frank Marshall to see the evil deputy go down, Homer couldn’t help worrying about Simon Yeager’s reaction when he found out.

  Jim Duffy stood wide-eyed after having witnessed the duel in the street, scarcely believing what he had just seen. He had not moved from in front of his stable, having already figured there was going to be trouble when Clint rode by his place of business. It occurred to him then that Simon Yeager and the riffraff that hung around him would be on the chase as soon as they found out. So he ran to the corral and opened the gate. Then he went inside, got around behind the horses, and shooed them out.

  “That’ll take some time,” he said as he watched the horses scatter. He would tell Simon that Clint must have opened the gate before he shot Mace.

  * * *

  Damn the luck, Clint thought as he held Sam to a steady lope. He wasn’t sure how badly he was wounded, but it felt as if someone had driven a railroad spike into his side, and he knew he was bleeding heavily. He could feel his shirt getting soaked inside his coat, but there was no time to stop, even if he had any idea how to help himself. Simon Yeager was bound to be after him as soon as he discovered what had happened, so he knew that he had to reach the Double-V-Bar before he was overtaken.

  He had faith that Sam was as stout as any horse that might give chase, and once he reached the ranch, he would be safe. The Double-V-Bar had too many men for Yeager to take on, so Clint pushed the bay hard.

  * * *

  “Yeah, what is it?” Simon Yeager called out when the knocking continued on his door. He had already been awakened by gunshots in the street, and he didn’t like being disturbed before he was ready to rise in the morning.

  “Simon, Mace’s been shot!” a voice he recognized as Curly James’ blurted.

  “What?” Simon exclaimed when he opened the door, dressed in nothing but his long underwear. “Mace shot? Who shot Mace?”

  “That Cooper feller from the Double-V-Bar,” Curly said. “Shot him dead!”

  “What!” Simon exclaimed, fully awake now. “Where is Cooper? Is he still alive?”

  “He took off,” Curly said. “But Mace put a bullet in him. He’s wounded.”

  “You and Bill get down to the stable and get the horses saddled,” Simon ordered. “Where the hell is Blankenship, anyway?” Curly said he was downstairs. “Well, get him and go saddle my horse. I’ll be right behind you. I want that son of a bitch!” Curly went immediately then, and Simon turned back to get his clothes on. “Get up and get your ass outta here,” he told the sleepy-eyed woman sitting up in the bed, staring at him.

  It didn’t take Yeager long to get dressed and run down the street to the stable, where he found Curly and Blankenship involved in an animated conversation with Jim Duffy. When Yeager arrived, all three turned to face him. “Cooper turned the horses out,” Curly explained.

  “I’ve been tryin’ to round ’em up,” Duffy said. “I got two of ’em back, that old pair that Frank Hudson keeps here to pull his wagon. But I ain’t caught none of the others yet.”

  The news seemed to infuriate Yeager. “Well, don’t stand here jawin’ about it. Get after ’em!”

  “Yes, sir,” Duffy responded. “That big ol’ dun you ride took off toward the creek when I tried to walk up to him.”

  Without waiting for Yeager to reply, he then ran in the direction he had pointed out, even though the horse, along with the others, had gone in the opposite direction.

  After a considerable amount of time was spent searching for the horses near the creek, Blankenship happened to spot one of them walking back toward the stable. They returned to the corral then to find the other horses as well, gathered together behind the stables. Almost beside himself in angry frustration, Yeager frantically saddled his horse, all the while badgering Curly and Blankenship to hurry.

  By the time they were in the saddle and had found Clint’s tracks behind the barbershop, a considerable amount of time had been wasted. In spite of this, Yeager was determined to go after the wounded man. He charged Homer with the responsibility for taking care of his brother’s body.

  “I’ll be back to get his things,” Yeager said. “You take care of him real good.”

  “Yes, sir, I will,” Homer said, and stood watching them gallop away from his shop after they decided the tracks indicated that Clint was running straight to the Double-V-Bar. He went then to recover Mace’s body, still lying in the street in front of the Trail’s End.

  A fitting place for the evil son of a bitch’s life to expire, Homer thought. It’s trail’s end for that no-good son of a bitch.

  There was a small gathering of spectators gawking at the corpse when he walked up. Their expressions reminded Homer of the looks folks exhibited when looking at a dead rattlesnake.

  “Gimme a hand, Lon,” he said to Lon Bessemer, the blacksmith, who was one of the bystanders. “Take ahold of his boots and help me tote him to my shop.”

  “He don’t look so dangerous now, does he?” Lon remarked when they had carried the body out of earshot of the other spectators.

  “I reckon not,” Homer replied, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one but Lon heard him. “He looks a lot better with those two bullet holes in him.”

  They carried Mace into Homer’s workshop and dropped him roughly into the shabby coffin Homer had hurriedly nailed together for Pick Pickens.

  There you go, Simon, all laid out with loving care, he thought sarcastically. “Come on, Lon, let’s go have a drink and toast ol’ Mace for a speedy journey to hell.”

  “Amen,” Lon said.

  * * *


  Although Clint was not aware of it, the considerable delay behind him was enough to ensure his safe return to the Double-V-Bar. Barely able to stay in the saddle, he willed himself to remain upright, determined to return Pick’s body home. He received slight encouragement by the fact that he was not spitting up blood, but the profuse oozing from his side seemed to be draining every drop of fluid from his body. He was not sure if he was going to make it all the way to the ranch until he reached the rock formation that marked the corner of the Double-V-Bar’s range. It was a distinctive rock tower that they had named the Parson’s Nose, and seeing it gave him the confidence he needed to make it the rest of the way.

  As was usually the case, the first person to see him when the weary horses walked past the low butte one hundred yards west of the barn was Hank Haley.

  “Lord have mercy,” Hank gasped when he spotted Clint, who was now lying on Sam’s neck. “Ben!” Hank yelled, running back toward the barn, where Ben Hawkins was in the process of preparing to ride out to relieve one of the nighthawks.

  Already in the saddle, Ben rode out of the barn to see what Hank was yelling about. He spotted Clint before Hank had a chance to tell him. “Oh my Lord,” Ben muttered, immediately sinking his heels in his horse’s belly and charging out to meet him. He circled around the two horses and came up beside the wounded man, taking hold of Sam’s bridle. Clint thankfully released the reins and let Ben lead the horses on in.

  “How bad is it?” Ben asked, not encouraged by the look of his friend. “Can you talk?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint answered in painful gasps. “I brought Pick back.”

  “You sure did, partner,” Ben said, worried more about Clint. Pick was already dead. “Mace Yeager?” he asked.

  Knowing what Ben was asking, Clint answered, “Yeah, but he won’t be shootin’ anybody else.”

  “You got him? Who shot you, the sheriff?”

  “No—Mace,” Clint said.

  Ben was eager to hear the whole story, but he realized that he was taxing his friend with too many questions. “You can tell me all about it later,” he said. “Right now we’ve got to get you off that horse and see what we can do to take care of you. I’ll get you up to the bunkhouse and we’ll take a look at that wound.” He led the horses up to the barn, where he untied the lead rope from Clint’s saddle and handed it to Hank. “Tie him up to that post,” he told him. “We’ll take care of Clint first.”

  Hank stood there gaping at the odd bundle on the packhorse for a long moment without responding to Ben’s instructions. “Is that Pick?” he asked, as if reluctant to take the reins of a horse carrying a dead man.

  “Yeah, that’s Pick,” Ben replied impatiently. “He ain’t gonna bite you. We’re gonna have to put him in the ground later, but right now we need to take care of Clint.”

  The injured man appeared to be hanging on to his horse for the moment, so Ben decided it would be quicker to leave him there and let his horse carry him over to the bunkhouse. So he took the reins and led Sam slowly across the barnyard to the crew’s quarters. Then, with Hank’s help, he carried Clint inside and laid him on his bunk. A couple of the other hands were just leaving the bunkhouse when Clint was brought in. Alarmed, they hurried over to help.

  “What happened?” Bobby Dees asked. When Ben told them the story, their first reaction was to round up the rest of the crew and ride into town.

  “Ain’t no need to start a war,” Ben said to them. “The man that done the shootin’ is dead. Clint killed him. Besides, you go into town blazing away, there’s gonna be innocent people hurt. Clint told you that. That’s the reason he went in to get Yeager by himself.”

  When they had him settled, Ben got him out of his coat and pulled the bloody shirt open to inspect the ugly hole in Clint’s left side. Ben had seen a few gunshot wounds before, and he hoped that this one would have an exit wound as well, but this was not the case.

  “Damn bullet’s still in there,” he fretted. He feared that the bullet would have to be removed, and he didn’t trust his hand as steady enough to do it.

  Hank stood on the other side of the bunk, watching Ben examine the wound, and made no comment until Ben said he thought the slug should be removed. It was obvious that Ben was concerned about that, so Hank said, “Rena.”

  Ben glanced up at the simple man and realized that he was right. Rena’s firm hand and steady nerve were what was needed in the absence of a doctor.

  “I expect you’re right. Go up to the house and tell her what’s happened.” He turned to Bobby then and said, “You boys go on about your work, and one of you ride out to the line shack and tell Jody to come on in. I was gonna ride out there and tell him, but I’ll stay to help look after Clint. There ain’t no use in anybody out in that shack, anyway. All the cattle are down near the river now.”

  * * *

  “What?” Hope cried in alarm when Hank told her that Clint had been shot. “Where is he?” Hearing her exclaim, Rena looked up from the pot of beans she had filled with water and put on the dry sink to soak. Hope turned from the door and said, “Ben sent Hank to get you. Clint’s been shot! Go! I’ll tell Papa. You go ahead.”

  The imperturbable woman dropped the big spoon she was holding, wiped her hands on her apron, and went immediately to the door, without taking the time to put on her coat.

  Hearing the minor commotion in the kitchen, Raymond Valentine came just in time to see Rena go out the back door. “What’s all the fuss?” he asked Hope.

  “It’s Clint,” Hope said. “He’s been shot. I was just coming in to tell you. Ben sent for Rena to look at his wound. I’m going to see for myself.”

  “I’ll go with you,” her father said, and grabbed his coat from a peg on the wall. “Put something over your shoulders. It’s cold out there.” Struggling to force his wide shoulders into the heavy coat, he asked, “How serious is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Hope said. “Hank didn’t say. He just said Ben sent for Rena.” They hurried out the kitchen door to follow the cleared path to the barn and bunkhouse.

  Clint’s eyes were closed and Rena was bent over the wounded man when Hope and her father rushed inside the bunkhouse. Hope pushed ahead of her father to move to the other side of the bunk, anxious to get a better look at the wound.

  After a few moments examining the ugly bullet hole in Clint’s side, Rena looked up at Valentine and said, “I fix.” Immediate relief registered on the faces of everyone gathered around the bunk, so much so that the somber Crow woman cautioned them, “I fix, but he lose much blood. It will take time.” She looked around her then, shook her head, and said. “No good here. Take him my room.”

  Hope exchanged glances with her father. They both shrugged, unable to see any reason to object. Ben spoke up then, very much in favor. “Good idea,” he said. “That way she can keep a close eye on him after she digs that bullet out of him.”

  That made sense to Valentine, so he told Ben to move Clint up to the house right away. While they carried the apparently unconscious patient up to the house, Ben told Valentine what he knew about what had taken place in town. It was very little beyond the fact that Mace Yeager was dead, and Mace had shot Clint. “He passed out before I could get any more out of him.”

  “I expect it’d be a good idea to post some of the men back at the Parson’s Nose to keep an eye on the trail from town,” Valentine said. “That brother of Mace’s is liable to come looking for Clint.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ben said. “I expect that would be the thing to do, although he’d better bring an army with him if he’s got any ideas about gettin’ Clint.”

  By sheer coincidence, that same thought was taking root in Simon Yeager’s mind just then.

  Chapter 8

  Even though the three men riding after Clint had pushed their horses mercilessly in a frantic effort to overtake the wounded man, Simon Yeager gave the sign
al to pull up after reaching the Parson’s Nose. It was apparent that they were not going to catch him before he made it to the ranch.

  Simon was angry, but not to the point where he would foolishly expose himself to the rifle fire of Valentine’s sizable crew. The death of his brother was eating away at his innards, and the frustration of knowing he couldn’t get to Clint as long as he was holed up at the Double-V-Bar was enough to make his blood boil. Simon Yeager had never loved anyone, and that included his younger brother. But Mace’s death meant Simon had lost his right-hand man as well as the fast gun that demanded the respect he needed. So he saw Mace’s death as a personal injury to himself. And to have to turn back now caused bile to rise inside him, threatening to strangle him.

  “Let ’em rest,” he said as he stepped down from his horse and stood glaring at the trail stretching out onto the Double-V-Bar before them. Relieved to hear the order, Curly and Blankenship dismounted, both thinking it a foolish move to ride into the ranch with the idea of gunning Clint Cooper down.

  “Whatcha thinkin’, boss?” Blankenship asked after a few minutes with no further instructions from Yeager. “You thinkin’ ’bout ridin’ on in?”

  Yeager paused a moment before answering, reluctant to say it. “No, damn it. You’d need a damn army to ride in there against that bunch.” As soon as he said it, the idea popped into his head.

  I need an army, he repeated to himself. Maybe I can get myself an army.

  This was the reason he had always been the boss, not because he was the elder, but because he was the thinker. Mace had always been faster with a gun, but Simon was the one who called the shots. They were even physically opposite, a fact that had caused their father to accuse their mother of infidelity, resulting in more than a little abuse to the poor long-suffering woman before she died. Where Mace had been hatchet-thin with dark sunken eyes and hands almost delicate, Simon was heavyset, square framed, with a broad, round face and hands with big knuckles on stubby fingers. The only common thread between them was an evil streak and no regard for human life.