Wild Side of the River

by Michael Zimmer

  “Thanks, Doc. You’re ahead of the game,” Jeff said appreciatively.

  “I don’t have anything about the hand wound that came in yesterday, but I’ll write up a description of the guy and have someone drop it off at your office later today.”

  “That’ll be helpful.”

  “You might want to talk to some of the hunters down in the breaks, too,” Ethan added. “There’s a few who have turned up missing recently, and Jimmy Chews says Ian McMillan and his woman were hanged a few days ago.”

  “I’ve got enough troubles on my plate as it is,” Jeff replied curtly. “I’m not interested in what goes on down in the Marias breaks.”

  Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “I thought they might be connected.”

  “That ain’t likely, and I’ll tell you something else. I don’t really care what goes on down there. As far as I’m concerned, Montana would be better off without that bunch of horse thieves and wolfers.”

  “Those horse thieves and wolfers settled this territory,” Ethan returned sharply.

  “Bah! I’m tired of hearing how that rabble made it safe for the rest of us to come out here. It’s the U.S. Cavalry that opened this land for settlement when they put the Indians on reservations. What they ought to do now is build a fence around those reservations, then shoot any red devil they catch on the wrong side of it. That bunch living in the breaks is no better. They’ve spent so much time with savages, they’ve started thinking like them.”

  “Gentlemen,” Doc Carver broke in gently, “this is hardly the time to argue the Indian question. There’s a wounded man in the next room, Ethan’s father is waiting to be buried, and tempers are flaring across town. I’d recommend we focus our attention on what develops as the day progresses.” He walked over to his desk and picked up the silver pot Claudia had left there. “Who’d like some coffee?”

  “Not now, Doc, but thanks,” Jeff said, folding Carver’s Incident Report into a pocket. “Ethan, ten o’clock.”

  Ethan waited until the sheriff was gone, then said: “I reckon I’ll be going, too.”

  “Watch yourself, Ethan. People are angry, and they’re scared. They’ve all heard about what’s going on in the breaks, whether Jeff wants to admit it or not. They’re all worried.”

  “Worried that it’ll spill over into their own lives,” Ethan said bitterly.

  “Yes, absolutely. The prospect frightens them, and frightened people have a tendency to strike out when they feel threatened. Sometimes, they strike blindly, without logic.”

  “Meaning Joel and Ben?”

  “Exactly.”

  Ethan nodded soberly, taking Doc’s meaning to heart. “What do you know about Lou Merrick?”

  “I’ve spoken with Lou a few times, and I’ve treated Missus Merrick and Suzie for various ailments, but Claudia and I haven’t socialized with them.” After a pause, he added: “Let Jeff handle this, Ethan. He’s got the authority and the impartiality to get to the truth.”

  “Jeff might have the authority, but he didn’t seem especially impartial.”

  “Jeff Burke was out here during the Indian wars. His opinion of the different tribes and the men who embraced them, like your father, was formed in part by the things he witnessed after Indian attacks on innocent civilians.”

  Ethan was unmoved. “I was a boy when the Baker Massacre occurred, but I remember its aftermath like it was yesterday. Burned-out lodges, dead Indians everywhere. I remember Chief Joseph’s surrender over near the Bear Paws, too, and what happened afterward. Indians didn’t hold a monopoly on savagery.”

  Doc’s shrug was non-committal. “We can argue the rights and wrongs of the Indian wars until the cows come home, but not today. All I’m saying, all I’m asking, is that you be careful. Tempers are high right now. It wouldn’t take much to set off another mob like we almost had last night.”

  It was vexing, but Ethan felt he owed Doc that much. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “And, Doc, thanks . . . for everything.”

  Chapter Eight

  The sun was up when Ethan walked down to the Occidental Hotel for breakfast. The woman who waited on him kept her nose in the air the whole time, and said no more than necessary when she took his order. Ethan had steak, potatoes, and onions, all fried in the same skillet, and two thick slices of bread to soak up the grease. He drank three cups of coffee with his meal, and left $1 on the table when he was finished. When the waitress tried to return his change, he told her to keep it.

  “No, thank you,” she replied tartly, shoving the money at him.

  Ethan’s pulse throbbed in his temples as he pocketed the tip and walked outside. It was much the same at Davidson’s Mercantile, where he bought a new outfit of clothes—wool shirt and trousers, a union suit, two pairs of socks, and a new bandanna to tie around his neck. Sam Davidson wasn’t around, but his clerk, a sallow-faced man with his hair slicked down close to his skull, had pursed his lips in disapproval when Ethan walked in, and didn’t unhinge them until he was leaving.

  His anger growing, Ethan went to Jenkins’s Barbershop next. Fred Jenkins wasn’t around, either, and the man captaining the big chair in the center of the room was a stranger. Ethan ordered a shave, haircut, and a fresh bath.

  “In town for the roundup?” the young barber asked as he tipped Ethan back in the chair.

  “More or less.”

  “Heard about the trouble yet?”

  “What trouble is that?” Ethan was glad for the warm, moist towel wrapped around his face to soften his beard. It kept him from having to control his features as the young man continued.

  “Some of the riff-raff from down south have been cutting up recently,” the barber said. He was placing buckets of water on the stove for the bath, before mixing the lather for Ethan’s shave. “A child killed his father, and his brother beat up one of our young ladies right here in Sundance. People are very upset about it. There was talk of a lynching last night, but, fortunately, our sheriff was able to stem the tide of violence. I don’t know if he’ll be able to do it again tonight, though.”

  “What’s happening tonight?”

  “Bad business, I’m bound to say.” Removing the towel, he began dabbing lather over Ethan’s beard, all the while keeping up a steady chatter. “The thing is, Nate Kestler has been courting Suzie Merrick for some months now. Several of Mister Kestler’s cowboys were in town last night when this Joel Wilder fellow was arrested, and they’re pretty upset about it. They sent a rider back to Mister Kestler’s Lazy-K Ranch to inform him of the situation. Mister Kestler and his men are expected in town sometime today. Frankly everyone is wondering if Sheriff Burke can keep them from hauling both Wilders out of jail and hanging them, or if he’ll even try. Mister Jenkins, who owns this shop, says if the sheriff is smart, he and his deputy will take a long supper tonight, as soon as it gets dark.” He wiped the excess lather from Ethan’s cheeks, then stood back with a satisfied look on his face. “I knew there was a man under all that brush,” he said pleasantly. “Now we’ll start on your hair.”

  “Do that,” Ethan said gruffly. “And how about keeping your mouth shut while you’re at it?”

  Startled by the harshness of Ethan’s tone, the barber set aside his razor and picked up a comb and shears. “How would you like your hair cut?”

  “The same way it is now, only shorter.”

  It wasn’t much to go on, but the barber didn’t ask again. When he was finished snipping, he handed Ethan a mirror, but Ethan shoved it away without looking into it. As he climbed out of the chair, the barber seemed to notice Ethan’s holster for the first time, colorful beadwork over smoky leather, and his eyes grew large. Ethan doubted if the kid recognized the design, but it was obvious he’d figured out it was Indian-made.

  The bath was in a small room behind the barbershop, the galvanized tub already half full when Ethan climbed in. He shivered from the cold water until the first bucket of hot was brought in off the stove, followed by a second that was poured slowly over his sh
oulders.

  Nodding to a small bench beside the tub, the kid said: “There’s soap and towels. I’ll be out front if you need anything else.”

  Ethan grunted a reply. He wasn’t really mad at the kid, but he was glad when he left. He needed some time to think about what was going on—Vic probably dying and Pa dead, and talk now that Charlie Kestler and his boys planned to come roaring into town to pull Ben and Joel out of jail and string them up. Ethan wondered if the kid was right about Jeff Burke showing the white feather. Ethan had always liked the imperturbable lawman, but he didn’t know him well, and likely hadn’t made much of an impression all those years ago when he’d come roaring into Sundance himself, determined to dry up the town’s whiskey supply.

  Ethan finished bathing, barely cognizant of what he was doing, then dried off and skinned into his stiff new duds. His old clothes he dumped into a barrel beside the door to be burned. When he walked into the barbershop, the kid was still there, and so was old man Jenkins. Ethan could tell from the expression on the kid’s face that the old man had been flopping his tongue.

  “Howdy, Fred,” Ethan said, tossing $1 on the counter.

  “Ethan,” Jenkins replied coolly.

  Ethan’s gaze bore into the older man’s eyes. “Tell me, Fred, what do you figure the odds are of Burke holding his ground tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a gambling man.”

  “That’s smart,” Ethan said, the words coming out hard as thrown punches. “Because I wouldn’t bet on a Wilder being lynched tonight, or any other night.”

  Jenkins’s cheeks flushed red. “That’s bold talk for a man in your position, Ethan. You’re alone now, or hasn’t that sunk in yet?”

  “Alone against the whole town,” the kid added.

  “Hush, Robert,” Jenkins said. He was studying Ethan closely. “You ought to sell that ranch of yours, Ethan. I don’t think the Wilders are going to be welcome around here much longer.”

  “Who would you suggest I sell it to, Fred?”

  “Westminster is buying up a lot of local range land. So is Charlie Kestler.”

  Ethan hesitated. He hadn’t heard about Kestler buying more land. Then he lifted his hat from the rack beside the front door and settled it on his head. “I’ll tell you what . . . I think I’ll hang onto that land for a while. I might decide I want to increase the size of my herd.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me,” Jenkins replied, sweeping Ethan’s money into a tin cash box. “I’ll still be here next year, cutting hair and shaving whiskers. Lord knows where you Wilders will be.”

  It was too early to go to the sheriff’s office, but the Bullshead was open. Ethan went there instead. Not expecting much of a crowd so early in the day, he was surprised when he pushed through the batwing doors to discover nearly a dozen men scattered throughout the room. Everyone looked up when he entered, and a sudden quiet fell over the saloon.

  “Have a drink, Ethan,” Ira said quickly, moving down the bar.

  “Maybe later, Ira, but I wouldn’t turn down a cup of coffee, if you had a pot brewed.”

  “There’s a pot on the stove in back, though it’s likely cold by now.”

  “Then nothing will do just fine. I came over to say howdy. I didn’t know you had customers.”

  “Holdovers from last night,” Ira explained, leaning across the bar and lowering his voice when Ethan came over. “You ought to get outta here, son, and I ain’t talkin’ about the Bullshead, either. Get outta town.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  Ira nodded sadly. “Yeah, I reckon I do. How’s Vic?”

  “He was still fighting when I left Doc Carver’s. I’ll be going back soon to check on him.”

  “Vic is a good boy. I wish him well.”

  “I’ll tell him you said that, if . . . you know.”

  “Yeah.” Ira’s gaze shifted briefly to the rear of the room, where half a dozen men were sharing the same table Nolan Andrews had commanded on Ethan’s first night back from the high country. “I’d bet a shiny new penny that bunch had a hand in what happened out at your place the other day.”

  Ethan turned to look. “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a hunch. Plus, they was talkin’ to Nolan Andrews last night.”

  “Andrews.” He spat the word out like it was rotten meat. For the first time, he noticed that one of the men had a raw-looking wound on his cheek, and he recalled the shots he’d slammed into the barn yesterday, the sudden cry of pain. “Any idea who they are?”

  “Nope. They’s a lot of drifters in town wantin’ to get hired on for the fall roundup, but that bunch don’t look like cowhands to me.”

  “The one with the sliced-up cheek, he say what happened?”

  “Nary a word. They rode in late last night and been rooted under that table ever since.”

  Ethan eyed the empty whiskey bottles scattered across the floor around them, the haze of tobacco smoke overhead. “Any idea what they’re waiting for?”

  “Nope, but I’d wager something’s brewin’. The whole town’s on edge.” Ira hesitated, then added: “I’ve heard your name mentioned, Ethan. Charlie Kestler’s, too. Word is that Kestler’s comin’ in today with his whole crew.”

  “I’ve heard the same, but the Wilders have never had any trouble with Kestler before.”

  A shadow fell across the door and everyone looked up, the same way they had when Ethan came in. A tall man in a sweat-stained Boss of the Plains hat peered intently over the batwings for a few seconds, then walked away briskly, boot heels beating a quick tattoo along the boardwalk.

  “One of Kestler’s boys,” Ira said. “They’s a few of ’em already in town.”

  “Has there been any friendliness between Kestler’s men and that bunch in the back?” Ethan asked.

  “None that I’ve seen. They was all in here last night, but they kept a good distance between ’em, and never spoke to one another.”

  Another shadow appeared at the door, larger this time, more ominous. The tall man in the Boss of the Plains was back, flanked by two others, the mark of cowhands branded clearly on their clothing and mannerisms. They pushed through the doors and took a spot at the bar, not far from where Ethan and Ira were standing.

  “What’ll it be, gents?” Ira asked, affecting a neighborly tone as he walked over.

  “We’ll have some coffee, Ira,” the tall cowboy said.

  “I wish I had some. You’re the second gent to ask for it this morning.”

  Ethan threw a subtle glance over his shoulder. The hardcases at the back table had fallen silent, watching the bar. The tall cowboy turned toward Ethan. Although he didn’t say anything, his intent was clear.

  “They’ve got coffee over to the Occidental,” Ira said without much hope. “Fresh brewed and hotter’n a July anvil.”

  “We’ll just wait here a spell,” the tall cowboy said.

  Ira shrugged and came back to talk to Ethan. “This don’t bode well,” he said quietly.

  “Maybe I ought to go. I didn’t come here to cause trouble.”

  “That sounds like a shrewd decision,” Ira concurred. “And, Ethan, don’t come back. It ain’t nothin’ personal, I just don’t wanna have to clean anybody’s blood off my floor.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to, Ira,” Ethan replied solemnly. “Especially mine.” He was grinning as he stepped away from the bar, but that faded when the three Lazy-K cowboys moved to intercept him.

  “Where you heading, friend?” the taller cowboy asked.

  “That wouldn’t be any of your business,” Ethan replied.

  “Well now, maybe it is,” a shorter, darker man with a thick black mustache said. He stood between the tall cowboy and the bar; the third cowhand was nearly as tall as the first, but skinny and younger. And scared.

  “No, it isn’t,” Ethan said, keeping his tone mild. “Now, if you’ll step aside . . .”

  The tall cowboy stepped forward, instead. “Why don’t you just have a seat at the t
able there, friend,” he said, indicating an empty chair nearby. “We can wait together for Mister Kestler to come in.”

  “Boy, you’re pushing me,” Ethan bristled.

  “You going to let a woman-beater talk to you like that?” one of the men in back called out.

  “Ethan never touched that gal,” Ira said loudly, then turned on the tall cowboy. “Get outta the man’s way, Clint. He ain’t doin’ you no harm.”

  “I reckon not, Ira,” Clint said, right hand edging toward the revolver at his waist.

  “That’s enough!” a voice boomed through the saloon, and Clint jumped and half turned toward the batwings. As he did, Ethan slipped the revolver from the kid’s holster, so slick the cowboy didn’t even know it was gone until Ethan slid it down the bar to Ira.

  The batwings swung open and Jeff Burke strode in, hooded eyes smoldering. To Ethan, he said: “Couldn’t just stay out of sight, huh? Had to see what you could stir up?”

  “I came in to have a cup of coffee with Ira,” Ethan said. “I didn’t know there were troublemakers holed up in here.”

  “He didn’t, Jeff,” Ira said. “I’d vouch for that.”

  The fire in Burke’s eyes seemed to dim a little. “All right, maybe you didn’t know, but you do now, so git.”

  Nodding stiffly, Ethan stepped wide around the cowboys.

  “Go to my office!” Jeff called after him. “I still want to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be there,” Ethan said.

  Chapter Nine

  The sheriff’s office was locked, but Ralph Finch opened the door to Ethan’s knock. Making no attempt to hide his disdain, he said: “The sheriff ain’t here, and you ain’t supposed to be until ten.”

  Ethan glanced at the clock hanging on the wall—a quarter of. “Ralph,” he said wearily, “I’m on the frazzled end of a pretty thin rope right now. You might want to keep your mouth shut for a spell.”

  Finch’s face darkened. “You damn’ Wilders . . .”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Ethan cut in harshly. “We think we own the valley and everything in it.”

  “You don’t!”