Trial at Fort Keogh

by Charles G. West

  “Damn it, Ben,” he exclaimed in frustration. “Homer Lewis saw that fight I had with Mace Yeager. Jim Duffy mighta seen it, too. They oughta be able to tell the army that it was a fair fight, and not a murder.”

  “Trouble is,” Ben said, “they’re too scared to tell the army. They’re afraid the same thing’ll happen to them that happened to Spence Snyder.”

  “Spence Snyder?” Clint replied. “What happened to him?”

  “Word is, he was on the road to Fort Keogh sometime early in the mornin’, and he was shot in the back three times. Orville Johnson found him. Now, would you believe who’s layin’ claim to Spence’s saloon?”

  “Simon Yeager?” Clint replied.

  “That’s right,” Ben said. “Wasn’t hard to guess, was it?” He went on to tell Clint about Yeager’s takeover of the Trail’s End. “He’s got the whole town scared as a bunch of sheep. Ain’t no doubt who shot Spence Snyder, but nobody’s gonna say anything about it.”

  “That just ain’t right,” Clint said. “Somebody’s gonna have to take him down. Other towns get a vigilance committee together to take care of a killer like Yeager. Hell, if they won’t do it, we oughta send a bunch of our men into that town and clean it up.”

  “Yeah, reckon that oughta be the way of it,” Ben said thoughtfully. “But there ain’t enough men in town with the backbone to do it. And Mr. Valentine ain’t gonna send our boys in there, ’cause he says the army might look at it as a raidin’ party, set on capturin’ the town.” He took a quick swig of his coffee before concluding, “Mr. Valentine don’t care a dump about that town, anyway. He don’t need it. He figures the army has to get supplies, even if the town dries up, so he’ll get our supplies from the same place they do.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Clint said, slowly shaking his head.

  “I know I’m right,” Ben said, joking. “I’m not always right, but I swear, I can’t remember a time when I was wrong.” He emptied his cup and set it by the fireplace. “Now, if you’re still thinkin’ about ridin’ over toward those bluffs, I’ll go with you. I wanna get back to the ranch before dark, so let’s get goin’.” He gave him a stern look then. “You’re lookin’ a helluva lot better, but you ain’t all the way healed up yet. So how ’bout resistin’ your itch to hit the trail again for another week? Then if you’re thinkin’ ’bout headin’ for the far country, hell, I’ll go with you.”

  Clint couldn’t help smiling at his old friend. “Shoot, Ben, you don’t have to do that. You’d best stay right here on the Double-V-Bar, and I’ll come back sometime when this thing blows over. The army ain’t gonna spend much time lookin’ for me.”

  “Ha,” Ben grunted. “If I don’t go with you to keep you outta trouble, you’re liable not to find your way home. So that’s settled. Don’t you ride off without me. I’ll hunt you down.”

  Clint laughed. “All right, partner. I’ll be right here.”

  * * *

  “Whaddaya think about that?” Blankenship remarked. “Looks like ol’ Simon was right.” He looked over at Curly and grinned. “The son of a bitch did come back to that line shack, after all.”

  “What if it ain’t him?” Curly asked. “It might be one of the other hands.” At that distance, from their position in the high bluffs—the same bluffs that Clint had pointed out to Ben—it was difficult to clearly see the features of the two men now getting on their horses.

  His question caused them both to squint in an effort to identify the faces of the two men. They watched them as they turned their horses away from the cabin. “They’re headin’ this way,” Blankenship said. They continued to watch as Clint and Ben gradually reduced the distance between themselves and the bluffs. “It’s him,” Blankenship declared when they were within half a mile. “They’re comin’ right at us. Whaddaya reckon we oughta do?”

  “Hell, they’re ridin’ right up, happy as a couple of gophers,” Curly answered him. “They ain’t got no notion there’s anybody around but them. A little bit closer, and we can pick ’em off easy as shootin’ fish in a barrel. We can settle that little problem that’s been eatin’ at Simon’s gut right quick.”

  Blankenship wasn’t so sure that was the right thing to do. “I don’t know, Curly. Simon just said to see if Cooper was holed up in that shack. I ain’t sure it wouldn’t rile him a little if we shot that bastard for him. I think he’s got a cravin’ to do the job hisself. You know, ’cause it was his brother and all.”

  Curly considered that. Blankenship might be right. He hated to pass up an easy shot, though. Simon had been acting a little strange ever since he found himself in the saloon business. He didn’t seem like the same person who would slice a man’s belly open, just to see if he could hold his guts in. He’d started talking about plans to increase the business, courting the soldiers, buying supplies, things like that. It was just strange to hear him talk like that. His temper was just as quick as ever, though, so it made it hard for a simple thief and gunman like Curly to understand him. Maybe Simon did want the pleasure of cutting Clint Cooper’s string himself. Still, it was a shame to pass up a sure shot.

  “If we don’t knock them two outta the saddle,” he finally decided, “we ain’t liable to get another chance like this.” His mind made up then, he crept back to his horse and pulled his rifle out of the saddle sling.

  “Simon might not be too happy about this,” Blankenship warned, but Curly was already crawling up behind a long flat rock to use as cover.

  The discussion over, he got his rifle and moved up beside Curly, raked some of the light blanket of snow away, and settled himself for the shot.

  “Let ’em get a little bit closer,” Curly whispered, when their targets were still over fifty yards away. A wide grin formed on his face then. “I’ve been wishin’ I could get a clear shot at that smart-talkin’ son of a bitch—give him some of the same medicine he gave ol’ Mace.”

  Oblivious of the harm about to befall them from the deadly ambush awaiting, Clint and Ben continued their casual approach toward the bluffs. Intent upon climbing to the top by way of a narrow gully, Clint nudged Sam with his heels. The big bay horse responded quickly, then stumbled slightly when his hoof slipped on an icy rock, covered with snow.

  At the same instant, a rifle shot snapped past Clint’s ear, followed at once by a second, aimed at Ben behind him. “Go!” Clint yelled as he came out of the saddle and ran for the cover of the gully as more shots filled the air around them. When he heard Ben fall in behind him, he strained to see where the shots were coming from.

  “Up there!” he exclaimed when he spotted a rifle barrel protruding over the edge of a long flat rock at the top of the bluff. Within seconds, his Winchester was in business, and he pumped a series of rounds at the rock, causing the rifle barrel he had spotted to retract. “Come on!” he said, and scrambled up the gully to gain a new position before there was time for return fire.

  In a few seconds, he saw the rifle barrel appear at the edge of the rock again, but from his position higher up the gully, he could now see a hand and part of an arm. He took careful aim and squeezed the trigger slowly. When the rifle bucked, he heard a yelp of pain and the rifle barrel disappeared. Without hesitation, he scrambled to a new spot against the side of the gully, expecting return fire. Pressing hard against the frozen ground, ignoring the cold, he held his rifle ready, waiting for the shots to come.

  When none came, he realized the bushwhackers had withdrawn. Intent upon getting a clear shot at them, he charged up the gully to the top in time to see the two gunmen scurrying to their horses. He rushed to steady himself for a shot, but missed as the two fled recklessly across the bluffs.

  “Damn!” he swore, and turned to hurry back down to the horses. Only then did he realize that Ben had not been right behind him as he had assumed. At the bottom of the gully, he saw him, struggling to climb up but unable to negotiate the steep defile. “Ben!” Clint c
ried out in distress, and immediately clambered down the gully to reach him. “Damn, damn, damn,” he kept repeating as he hustled down to reach him.

  “I’m sorry, partner,” Ben said when Clint knelt beside him. “I couldn’t back you up. I went and got myself shot.” He leaned back against the side of the gully, exhausted by the pain.

  “How bad is it?” Clint asked. “Where did you get hit?” He didn’t have to wait for an answer, for he saw the hole ripped in Ben’s coat. He unbuttoned the coat then to discover the wide patch of blood spreading on his shirt.

  “Did you get one of ’em?” Ben asked with great effort.

  “I think I nicked one of ’em,” Clint said, “but they got away. I ain’t worried about them right now. I’ve got to get you back to the ranch.”

  “I can wait here awhile,” Ben said, “if you wanna chase after ’em.”

  “To hell with ’em. I’m takin’ you to get some help. Can you ride, if I get you on your horse?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben groaned, and Clint knew then that he couldn’t.

  “I’m gonna get you back to the cabin,” Clint decided, “and do what I can to help you. Then I’ll go in to the ranch and get a wagon to haul you back where Rena can take care of you.”

  When he tried to help him back to his horse, however, he saw at once that there was no way Ben could ride. Even a slight movement caused the blood to flow more rapidly and brought gasps of pain from his lips. Clint realized then that his partner was seriously wounded and it evidently involved his internal organs. He eased him back down against the side of the gully, the only position that Ben could stand, while he tried to figure out what to do.

  “You just try to rest easy,” he said. “I’m goin’ to the cabin to get the ax. Then I’ll be right back to get you.”

  He had decided to make a travois to haul Ben back to the cabin, so he made him as comfortable as he could. He then took off his coat and spread it over him before jumping into the saddle and racing toward the cabin to get what he needed.

  As soon as he got to the cabin, he started calling off items he had to have to fashion a travois. There was plenty of rope at the line camp, so that was no problem. He picked up the ax and a large deer hide that had been nailed to the wall. For good measure, he took a blanket from the bed to pad the deer hide, figuring the two together would be a platform strong enough to support Ben’s weight.

  The next critical items were the poles, so he went behind the cabin to select two young pines. The sparse growth of trees didn’t offer many choices, but he picked two that would best serve his purpose, cut them down, and trimmed the smaller limbs. Crossing the two small ends in front of Ben’s saddle, he went to work building the platform. When he was satisfied that he had a travois, he took some extra rope to hold Ben on and led the horse back to the gully and his wounded partner.

  Alarmed when he first rode up, for Ben’s eyes were closed and he made no sound to indicate he was conscious, Clint asked anxiously, “How you holdin’ out, partner?”

  Ben’s eyes fluttered open, and he answered, his voice weak and strained, “I think I’m done for.”

  “The hell you are!” Clint responded. “You’re too damn ornery to die. I swear, if you kick off after all the trouble I went to just to make you a travois, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “You went to a helluva lot of trouble for nothin’,” Ben said painfully. “You oughta leave me right here and throw some dirt over me when I’m done.”

  “You know, I’m considerin’ that, as a matter of fact.” He was encouraged somewhat, figuring that as long as Ben could be ornery, he might be able to hang on. “I’m gonna hurt you a little, while I get your sorry ass on this fine travois I made for you, so get ready.”

  “All right,” Ben said, and tried to steel himself for the move. Try as he might, he was unable to keep from crying out when Clint pulled him to his feet and got a shoulder under him. As quickly as he possibly could, he carried Ben to the travois and laid him on the platform. Then he tied him firmly on to keep him from rolling off. “I’da cut some longer poles so it wouldn’t be so steep,” Clint said, “but these were the best I could find.” When he was finished, he asked, “How’s that? You gonna be able to stay on there awhile?”

  “Not too bad,” Ben rasped.

  “That’s good, because as long as it ain’t too hard on you, I’m takin’ you back to the ranch, instead of leavin’ you at the cabin till I can get back here with a wagon. Think you can stand it?”

  “Hell, I’ll hurt just as bad a’layin’ in that shack as I do on this rickety contraption.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Clint said. He was afraid he had wasted too much time as it was. He knew it was going to be one helluva rough ride for a painfully wounded man, but he felt sure it would give Ben a better chance if Rena could attend him.

  They started back to the Double-V-Bar, with Clint trying to pick the easiest routes to follow, hoping the jostling didn’t jar every last drop of blood out of his friend.

  On the way, he gave some thought to the bushwhackers who had ambushed them. There were two of them. He had been unable to get a close enough look to be sure, but he had a pretty good idea who they were.

  * * *

  The two would-be assassins drove their horses mercilessly until positive they weren’t being chased. Only then did they decide to rest the weary mounts.

  “Cuss the luck,” Blankenship complained as he slid off his horse and hustled over to a tiny stream cutting a narrow flow of water down through the snow-covered ravine. “Bad luck, bad luck,” he fussed painfully as he tried to clean the blood from his fractured wrist. “It’s broke! I can’t work it at all! That son of a bitch!”

  “Leastways it ain’t your right hand,” Curly said. “You can get that barber feller to fix it up for you as soon as we get to town.”

  “I ain’t waitin’ for that,” Blankenship said. “That bastard’s gonna pay for breakin’ my wrist. I ain’t goin’ back to town until I settle with him. I know where he’ll be tonight. He’s gonna have to hole up in that cabin and try to take care of his partner. I know his partner’s shot. I saw him when he fell. What the hell did we run for, anyway? He ain’t gonna be comin’ after us tonight. He’ll be right there in that shack.” He knew that he had panicked when he got hit, and that was enough to infuriate him. He was equally as angry with Curly for his lack of courage.

  “What about your wrist?” Curly asked. “Ain’t you gonna take care of it?”

  “I’m takin’ care of it right now,” Blankenship said. “I’ll wrap it in my bandanna, soon as I get it cleaned up a little. That’ll hold it till I settle Mr. Cooper’s account. I don’t need both hands to shoot a handgun, anyway.”

  “We’ve got to let these horses rest a little while,” Curly said. “But I reckon it’s just as well. I don’t wanna go back to that cabin till it’s dark, no how. That bastard’s too good with that rifle. Look at your hand. You couldn’ta had much more’n that showin’ and he hit it. That was one helluva shot.” He was reluctant to admit that he would have preferred to keep on running, thinking of the shoot-out that Mace had lost to the rangy rifleman. “I wish we’da hit him, instead of the other feller,” he lamented.

  “Well, we didn’t, but I aim to settle his hash just as soon as we can get back to that line shack,” Blankenship promised as he wrapped his bandanna around his throbbing wrist.

  “What about Simon?” Curly asked.

  “What about him?” Blankenship came back. “I ain’t waitin’ around for Simon to get a shot at that son of a bitch.” He held his wounded wrist up to examine it as the throbbing continued. “I ain’t got time to wait for Simon,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  Darkness was approaching by the time Clint led the travois between the barn and the bunkhouse. He was met by an astonished Jody Hale and Charley Clark, who came running from the barn as he pulled t
he horses to a stop. “Lord a’ mercy,” Charley gasped when he saw Ben. “What happened?”

  Clint quickly dismounted. “He got shot, and it looks pretty bad. Help me carry him into the bunkhouse,” he said as he started untying the ropes. “You still with me, partner?” he directed at the wounded man as he hurried to free him.

  Ben peered at him through eyes barely open. “Hell . . . ,” he started to reply, before his voice trailed off and his face twisted up in pain.

  “You’re gonna make it,” Clint tried to assure him. “We’ll get you inside on a bed and you’ll feel a helluva lot better.” He reached down and patted his hand. It felt like a block of ice. He was afraid Ben was half frozen from the long ride on the travois, but on second thought, maybe that was a good thing. He turned to Charley. “You two take him inside and warm him up. I’m goin’ to get Rena.” Without waiting for a reply, he ran toward the house.

  “Wait, Clint!” Charley exclaimed. “Let me get her!” But it was too late; Clint was already halfway across the yard.

  Thinking only of getting help for his longtime friend, Clint took the three steps up to the kitchen door in one stride. In his anxiety, he didn’t take time to knock and burst into the kitchen to confront Hope, her eyes wide in shock.

  “Where’s Rena?” he implored. “Ben’s been shot!”

  Only then did he see the startled image of Justin Landry seated at the table, his face reflecting the shock in Hope’s eyes. Too late, he remembered that it was Sunday, and that meant the lieutenant was there to see Hope. Time stood still for one long frozen moment, while all parties seemed paralyzed by the unexpected confrontation. It was only for that moment, however, and then Clint repeated his plea, ignoring the young officer. “Where’s Rena?”

  “I am here,” Rena answered, standing in the doorway to her room.

  “Ben’s been wounded,” Clint said, continuing to ignore the startled lieutenant. “It looks pretty bad. Will you take a look at him?”