The High Rocks

by Loren D. Estleman

  The main street was deserted, which came as no surprise since it was piled with snow up to the tops of the hitching rails on either side. We came to a halt in front of the darkened barbershop.

  “Sergeant, see if you can wake Staghorn’s excuse for a doctor,” ordered Captain Trainer.

  “Not him,” I said.

  “Open your eyes, Deputy. Right now, Ezra Wilson is the only thing available. Every road to town is blocked.”

  “I’d rather do the job myself.”

  The sergeant banged on the door with the butt of his revolver and kept banging until a light came on inside the shop. The door flew inward and Ezra Wilson, in nightshirt and cap, started out onto the threshold.

  “What the hell—oh, good evening, Captain.” He had spotted the mounted troopers.

  “We’ve a wounded man here, Wilson,” said the captain. “How are you at surgery?”

  “At this hour?”

  “At any hour. Never mind. Get moving, Sergeant. I want two strong men on each end of that litter. Get him inside.”

  It was the work of two minutes for the delegated men to unhitch the litter, hoist it, and staggering beneath their burden, shuttle it past Wilson into the shop. The troopers transferred the patient from the litter to the bed in the back room.

  “Who in perdition is that?” Wilson stared popeyed at the giant that was revealed when the blankets covering him were peeled back. Bear was conscious and breathing with great effort.

  “That there’s the man who might just make you famous if you pull him through, Doc,” volunteered the sergeant. “That there’s Bear Anderson.”

  The eyes started farther. “Anderson? The scalp-hunter?”

  “Is there any other?” I retorted.”Look, he’s got a bullet in his back, and I think it’s leaning up against his spine. Can you take it out?”

  “I don’t know. I never tried anything like that. And I’m not about to try now. I don’t treat murderers.”

  “You’ll treat this one.” I drew my gun.

  Wilson stared at it for a moment. Then he smiled. “You wouldn’t shoot.”

  I shattered the glass chimney of the lamp he was holding with one shot. He lost his grip on the base and had to stoop to catch it before it hit the floor. The flame flickered violently.

  “Are you crazy?” Trainer exclaimed. “You could have burned us up!”

  I removed the empty shell from the cylinder and replaced it with a fresh cartridge. “I have faith in Wilson. He’s good with his hands. That’s why he’s a barber.” I spun the cylinder. “What about it, Ezra? Are you going to operate?”

  He was standing there holding the still-burning lamp in both hands. He opened his mouth, closed it. “I’ll wash up.” He set down the lamp and stepped out through the side door.

  “You’re something new in lawmen,” said the captain, studying me curiously.

  I holstered the gun, looked around, found another lamp, and transferred its chimney to the one the barber had just relinquished. “You and my boss would get along famously,” I told him. “He says the same thing.”

  Ezra Wilson returned a few minutes later wearing the same clothes he’d had on when I left his shop the last time. “Turn him over,” he mumbled, opening his medical bag and setting out the contents on the table beside the bed.

  “See to his chest first,” I said. “He’s been stabbed.”

  “Anything else?” His tone was ironic.

  “What would you like?”

  “Room. I need room to work.”

  Captain Trainer dismissed everyone except the sergeant. Then the non-com and I helped Wilson strip off Bear’s shirt and bearskin. His chest was a battlefield of scars old and new, but the barber was interested in only one. He undid the belt I had fastened around the huge torso and slowly drew out the kerchief.

  “Christ,” he said, looking at the bloody relic. “Why didn’t you stuff your hat in while you were at it?”

  He opened a bottle of alcohol and poured it into the wound. The scalp-hunter arched his back, sucking air in through his teeth.

  “Laudanum!” Wilson barked. “Cabinet, top shelf. Hurry!”

  The captain reached down the square bottle and handed it to him. He pulled out the stopper with his teeth, measured a portion of its contents into a shot glass on the table, put it to Bear’s lips. The big man gulped it down greedily, his head supported by the barber’s other hand. Almost immediately he relaxed and his breathing returned to normal. Wilson looked at me sideways.

  “It does have its uses, you see,” he said.

  He finished cleaning the wound and applied a patch, securing it with sticking-plaster, then nodded to us. The sergeant and I helped him turn the patient over onto his chest. “Turn up the lamp,” said Wilson. I obeyed. A warm yellow glow spread over the bed. Fresh shadows crawled up the wall on the other side.

  “It’s healed over,” the barber observed. “I’ll have to re-open.” He reached for the laudanum bottle and glass. I took hold of his arm.

  “He’s had enough,” I said.

  He looked at me. “It’s not for him.”

  I hesitated. He held his hands up in front of my face. They were shaking. I released my grip.

  I watched the expressions on the two soldiers’ faces as the barber poured himself a measure of the narcotic—nearly twice what he’d given Bear—and tossed it down as if it were a shot of watered-down whiskey. To say that they were thunderstruck would be an understatement. But they kept their mouths shut.

  There was a clock somewhere in the building; the ticks reverberated like explosions in that overheated room as Wilson cut with his scalpel and probed inside the wound with alcohol-soaked fingers. At length he straightened and wiped the blood off on a towel.

  “It’s deep,” he said. “Maybe too deep. I’m just a barber. I don’t know anything about backs.”

  “Can you get it out?” I asked.

  “No question about that. The question is, what’ll happen when I do it? It’s fifty-fifty I might kill or cripple him.” He looked at the captain. “Will you take the responsibility?”

  That was a tough one. I could see Trainer weighing the odds. It was a decision that could affect his career, and not for the better. Finally he nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “Whatever happens, I’ll back you up.”

  Under Wilson’s direction, I poured more alcohol over his hands while he held them over a basin on the table. He shook them dry. Then he seized a pair of metal tongs and had me repeat the procedure with them.

  “Hold up the lamp,” he told me. As I did so, allowing the light to flood into the gaping hole, he spread the flesh around it with his fingers. A drop of sweat rolled down his nose. He wiped it off on his rolled-up sleeve.

  “There it is,” he said. “See it?”

  I leaned over for a closer look. Framed between his fingers, a dark and shadowy something showed deep in the wound. “So that’s what they look like after they hit,” I said.

  “Of course. What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I put them in. I don’t take them out.”

  “You’ve got the easy job.”

  He inserted the tongs. As he worked, a fresh bud of perspiration started out on the bridge of his nose and began the long crawl downward. I removed my kerchief—this time clean didn’t matter—and mopped his face gently. His breath came sibilantly through his nostrils. After what seemed an eternity he drew out the tongs, straightened, and with an exhausted sweep of his right arm hurled the offending substance clanging into the basin.

  “What’s the verdict?” I asked him.

  He picked up the discarded scalpel from the basin and extended it to me. “Care to do the honors?”

  I stared at him uncomprehendingly. Finally he shrugged and used the pointed end of the instrument to prick Bear’s right leg. It jumped.

  “He’s a lucky man,” he said, tossing back the scalpel. “He’ll be able to walk to the gallows.”

  The sergeant’s breath came out in a whoosh.
“Good work, Doc! Remind me to talk to you about sending a case of that loudium stuff to Doc Hollander back at Fort Benton.”

  Wilson ceased bandaging to glare at him. “That’s not funny, Sergeant,” he said. “Not funny at all.”

  “How long before he can be moved?” asked Trainer.

  “Couple of days. This is twice you’ve booted me out of my bed, Murdock. This time I hope I get paid.”

  “I’ll settle my bill before I leave town,” I assured him. “For the rest, you’ll have to talk to the captain. He’s his prisoner, not mine.”

  The captain adjusted his slicker. “If you’re not too tired, Deputy, I’d like to see you in the sheriff’s office in a few minutes.”

  “I’m not paying the bill.”

  “Your sense of humor wears thin after a while.” He strode toward the front of the shop and the exit. “Sergeant, I want a guard posted in front of this building at all times. I’ll send someone to spell you in an hour.”

  The sergeant grumbled something unintelligible, which may or may not have contained the words, “Yes, sir.”

  I remained behind a few minutes to make sure Bear was resting comfortably, then left to join the captain at the jail. At the door, I almost bumped into a big trooper who was on his way out. I had never seen this one before. He had a coarse face overhung by massive black brows and shoulders like a workhorse; by most standards I suppose he was huge, but I had just spent ten days with the biggest, so I was less than impressed. He brushed past me without a word.

  Inside, Henry’s coffee pot was sizzling away atop the stove, filling the room with its familiar acrid odor. Henry’s rifles and shotgun were locked in the rack where he’d left them. Captain Trainer, still wearing the slicker, was sitting behind Henry’s desk smoking one of Henry’s cigars and reading one of the wanted circulars Henry had stacked there. A puddle was spreading beneath Trainer’s hat where he had dropped it atop the desk.

  “Who’s the buffalo?” I asked.

  “That’s Corporal Patterson. He’s been filling in as sheriff in my absence. He’ll be back after supper. Sit down.”

  “He looks capable.” I dropped into the chair before the desk and tilted my hat forward over my eyes. Moisture seeped from the brim down into my collar; I let it.

  “He should be,” he said. “He was a sergeant-major before I broke him for striking an officer.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  He let that one slide. I heard the water dripping from his oilskin to the floor.

  “We’re both exhausted,” he began, “so I’ll make this short and sweet. Will you agree to testify against Bear Anderson at his trial?”

  That sank in slowly. “What do you care one way or the other?” I asked finally. “You won’t have anything to do with it once you turn him over to the civil authorities.”

  “I’m not turning him over to the civil authorities. As soon as he’s well enough, he’ll be tried in military court-martial.”

  I straightened my hat and sat up. “Anderson’s a civilian. The military has no jurisdiction over him.”

  He sent a jet of blue smoke toward the darkened ceiling. “It’s perfectly legal. Federal law states that the military may intervene in cases where the civil courts have ceased to function. Staghorn has no permanent judge, and the circuit judge can’t get in until the passes are cleared. Technically, due process of law has been suspended.”

  “Nothing in the law says you can’t wait until spring.”

  “Nothing in the law says I have to.”

  “Whoever heard of a captain presiding over a military court-martial?”

  “The circumstances are unique. There will be no peace between the Indians and the settlers while Anderson goes unpunished. Delay on our part will be construed by Two Sisters as official sanction for his actions. And it’s not just him. The Blackfeet are getting restless and so are the Crows. The fact that they’re no friends of the Flatheads means little as long as a renegade white is allowed to go around killing Indians. If we don’t act now, next year’s thaw will bring a full-scale war like this territory hasn’t seen since the Little Big Horn. A wire to General Clifton should remove most of the legal obstacles that remain.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you? All that’s left is to measure the rope.”

  “Fifteen feet, I should think, allowing for the knots and Anderson’s height and weight.”

  I showed him my gun. His expression didn’t change.

  “That’s not your style, Murdock. Even if it were, you’d have no place to go afterwards.”

  “Murder is relative,” I told him. But I put the gun away. Instead, I gripped the edges of the desk and leaned forward until our faces were only inches apart. “I’ll tell you what is my style. I’m no lawyer, but I’ve seen my share of them in action in Judge Blackthorne’s court. When that court-martial convenes, I’m representing Bear Anderson.”

  The twisted smile returned. “Suit yourself. The outcome will be the same regardless of what you do or say.”

  I straightened. “You’re the enemy,” I said. “Not Bear. Not the Indians. You.”

  His cigar had gone out. He relit it, lifting the chimney of the lamp on the desk and leaning forward to engage the flame. “That’s all for now, Deputy,” he said, between puffs. “I suppose we’ll meet again in court.”

  15

  He was scheduled to hang shortly after dawn on a bleak day in December.

  As expected, the trial had been a joke. Chief witness for the prosecution was old White Mane, whose whiskey-roughened voice shook as he described the aftermath of what was already being whispered about abroad as the Spring Thaw Massacre, and repeated the dying words of its sole survivor. It mattered little that this was pure hearsay, or that a significant number of the details had changed since the first time he had recounted the story to Bart Goddard, or even that every time he opened his mouth the air reeked of the profitable side of Goddard’s mercantile. It didn’t matter at all that I raised objections remarking upon each of these points. Trainer turned such arguments aside with the grace of a boxer feeling out his opponent—never actually landing a punch, but rendering mine ineffective through simple footwork. The emotion-swaying tricks I’d learned observing the transplanted eastern attorneys in Helena were useless in the stylized atmosphere of a military court-martial. Bear was twisting in the wind before the first bang of the gavel.

  Before the trial, I had made several attempts to wire Judge Blackthorne to inform him of Trainer’s unorthodox proceedings, only to be turned away each time by armed guards stationed at the door of the telegraph office. The captain, they told me, had declared martial law in view of the “Flathead danger,” and put a stop to all messages traveling into and out of town. The restriction was eventually lifted, but by that time high winds had taken down the telegraph lines, thus severing Staghorn’s last link with civilization. Trainer couldn’t have planned it any better.

  But weather is a fickle thing that recognizes no ally.

  For two weeks following the passage of sentence, blizzards kept the troopers from carrying it out. Even then, two of the men assigned to construct a gallows behind the jail were killed when a sudden blast of wind from the North tore the supports from beneath them, hurled them to the ground, and brought half a ton of fresh lumber crashing down on top of them. Not counting the Indians we’d slaughtered back at the crossing, that made it nine dead just since I’d renewed my acquaintance with Bear Anderson. Bringing him to task was proving an expensive proposition for whoever tried it.

  At length, however, the gallows were built, and beneath a pale sun the citizens of Staghorn gathered in the old firebreak behind the jail, stamping their feet and pounding their shoulders with gloved and mittened fists to keep the circulation moving while they waited for the back door to open. It was an impressive gathering; merchants had closed their shops, and farmers, trappers, and cattlemen had braved the arduous journey to town in order to see history in the making. It wasn’t every day you got
to see a legend die.

  And they were not the only spectators.

  Since dawn they had begun to accumulate along the rocky ridge overlooking town, and by the time the jail door opened, the skyline was filled with mounted Indians decked in all their ceremonial finery. For the first time in memory, the Flatheads had not made their regular migration to the plains west of the Bitterroot to await the spring thaw. Two Sisters had chosen to winter in the mountains rather than miss the hanging.

  On the gallows itself, backs to the wind, stood Captain Trainer and Corporal Patterson. Patterson was a last-minute substitution for the sergeant, who, upon learning that he was to be the hangman, had gotten drunk and started a brawl that wrecked Goddard’s saloon just after the old bastard had finished repairing the damage wrought by Ira Longbow. Trainer had locked him up in the cell adjacent to the scalp-hunter’s pending possible court-martial. I saw the sergeant come to the window of his cell from time to time to glance down at the proceedings; from the expression on his face I wondered if he had been as drunk as he’d seemed, or if his one-man riot had been staged to keep him from being the one who sprang the trap.

  The local minister—pudgy, bespectacled, and mumbling from a Bible held open in his mittened hands—was the first to descend the long flight of wooden steps that led from the back door of the jail to ground level. Behind him walked Bear, bareheaded and in chains, his hands manacled behind his back. A chorus of mingled gasps and murmurs greeted him as he ducked his head and swiveled sideways to get through the doorway; most of those present had never seen him, and to a generation that considered a man over six feet tall to be gigantic, the sight of Anderson’s nearly seven feet of gristle was beyond belief. Trailing him were the remaining eleven troopers. The captain wasn’t taking any chances here, as the odd man followed at a safe distance with his side arm in hand, while behind him the others marched in a column of twos with their rifles in parade position at their shoulders. There was no drum; the condemned man was a civilian, after all, and some of the conventions had to be honored. So silence reigned.