The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  “I saw you in Dodge City two years ago,” Crawford said to him, sitting up with his hands on his lapels.

  Thurman nodded. “I was there ramrodding a herd for the Calvin brothers at that time.”

  “Gents, Mr. Baker is no one to mess with. Trust me. That day I saw him, two cowboys decided he’d done something they didn’t like. When they approached him, they went for their guns.” Crawford picked up his new hand and arranged the cards in a fan.

  “Finish the damn story,” Frenchie said with a look of impatience.

  “Anyway, they both died in the dust with their boots on. Lucky for Mr. Baker, he had just arrived in town and had not had time to check his gun in. Dodge had a gun law.”

  “That was lucky,” Frenchie said.

  “Marshal Earp accused me of planning it that way, too,” Thurman said, looking at his soft hand—all number cards, none matched. “Actually, a few minutes later and I would have checked my gun in at the Wild Horse Saloon.” He folded.

  By mid-afternoon, he felt he’d learned all that they knew about everything from the latest arrival at Millie May’s whorehouse—a fiery new redhead that had amused someone—to the price of cattle on the Fort Worth market. None of them had heard of a Herschel Baker.

  Ahead perhaps a hundred dollars, he excused himself. Down in the stockyards, he squatted on his haunches beside the tall wooden plank fencing and shared a pint of his whiskey with some loafing Mexican cowboys. He asked them if they knew a Herschel Baker.

  “No, Señor, I never hear of him,” an older hand said, and handed him back the bottle, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “We are having a fandango tonight,” the one-eyed hand said. His blank white eye looked sightlessly around. “You can come, uh, hombres?”

  “Sí. Join us.”

  Thurman took a swallow from the bottle and sent it back around again. “Naw, I’m heading out in the morning early, boys. I need to find him.”

  “Who is he, Señor?”

  “My son who I haven’t seen in fifteen years.”

  “Good luck in finding him, amigo,” the older one said, and tossed the empty pint aside with a clink.

  Thurman thanked them and moved on. In questioning several bartenders and stockyard men, he found that some of them remembered Herschel but didn’t know where he’d gone, though they’d heard rumors of him heading toward Montana. He looked off to the north. Montana was a long ways up there. He’d better hitch his belt up and ride that way.

  The second evening after leaving Fort Worth, he reached Doan’s Store on the Red River. It was little more than a reminder of the old days when, by this time of year, there would be herds in the tens of thousands lined up to ford the treacherous Red. In the store, he bought what he needed for supper. A hunk of summer sausage, a loaf of fresh-baked sourdough bread, and a can of peaches. Seated in a rocking chair on the store porch, with his jackknife he punched a hole in the top of the can and washed down his sandwich with the sweet juice.

  Uninvited, an older cowboy joined him like a man wanting company from another wearing a high-crowned hat. Seated on a crate beside Thurman, he looked like a man who wanted to talk. Thurman offered him a sandwich.

  He shook his head mildly. “You know, I’ve been up that trail over a dozen times.”

  Thurman nodded. “Baxter Springs?”

  “Baxter Springs, Abilene, Newton, Wichita, Dodge, and some others—hell, I even went to Sedalia, Missouri—once.”

  “Them were the days,” Thurman said between bites. “Ever know a man named Herschel Baker?”

  The man squeezed his unshaven chin and looked across the snag-dotted Red River. “Name sounds familiar. Did he have any other tag?”

  Thurman shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “There was a horse-wrangling kid I recall—Travis Baker.”

  “Yes. That could be his brother. They tell me he’s dead.”

  The old man looked disappointed. “That’s a damn shame. He sure was gutsy for a kid back then. The outfit we was with—I’ll recall the boss man’s name later—had a big stout bay horse in the cavvy that had been cut after he was too old. The puncher that drawed him in his string got throwed every time he climbed on him. Travis, he got disgusted that the puncher couldn’t ride him.

  “We was laid up for a day or so up on the Canadian to repair the chuck wagon, and Travis had another cowboy saddle a horse that wasn’t afraid of that proud cut bastard and snubbed him up close. Travis got in the saddle and told the other ranny to pitch the lead to him. They went off like a cyclone. Spinning and bucking. Man, it was a real sight.

  “That Travis rode that devil till his nose ran blood and he finally stood plumb still, dripping in sweat. And after that, a kid could have rode him to gather milk cows. Yes, sir, that Travis was a real hand with horses, but I never knowed no Herschel. What’s them boys to you anyway?”

  Spearing a peach half out of the can with his jackknife, Thurman paused. “They’re my sons.”

  The old man looked away. “Sorry I can’t help you.” Then all of a sudden, he must have felt like he didn’t belong there. He cleared his throat, said, “Sorry about you losing your boy,” and left.

  Even well chewed, the slippery peaches proved hard for Thurman to swallow.

  Before he took the ferry across the river, he bought three pints of whiskey to stow in his saddlebags, along with some jerky, dry cheese, and crackers in case he got stuck out there somewhere. Riding the sorrel horse up the well-worn road on the far side to the top of the steep north bank, he passed a sign.

  Warning: The Indian Territory is a dry territory. Anyone selling or transporting alcoholic beverages, beer, or spirits in these lands will be prosecuted in the federal court at Fort Smith, Arkansas.

  Issac C. Parker, Federal District Judge

  He nodded at the message. A notice that he’d read many times after crossing the Red headed north with cattle herds. Too bad, Your Honor, I’m on a quest and I need a few spirits to get me though this. Maybe he’d need a whole lot, but there would be sources in the Nation. Corn, sugar, and a still were all it took. There was no shortage of wooden barrels, copper coils, and bootleggers to make their own in the territory.

  He knew a man who lived with a Choctaw woman up the road a ways. He planned to look Fred Hayes up if he could find him. That first evening, outside a small store, he ate a meal cooked on a campfire by a young Indian woman. She called it beef stew and served it to him from a large Dutch oven in a turtle-shell bowl.

  He sat on the ground and after he took the first sip from his spoon, he nodded his approval to her. It was good. The rich meaty flavor was delicious. The woman brought over a coffeepot to fill his tin cup. She was in her twenties, and when she grinned at him, he noticed that she’d lost two top teeth. She was a little thick at the waist, and he wondered if she was with child. He extended his cup for her, and she poured the boiling brown liquid into it.

  Before she spoke, she checked to be sure no one heard her. “You a Parker man?”

  “No, why?”

  “You dress like one.” She motioned to his clothing.

  “I’m a cow buyer headed north.”

  “You better stay here tonight, mister,” she said in a low voice.

  He looked up at her hard. “You got a good reason?”

  She checked around, then nodded at him. “Bad place. That outlaw Chickenhead may try to rob you.”

  He frowned at her. “Who’s he?”

  “Bad outlaw. Murder, rob, even rape women.”

  “Can’t Parker’s deputies catch him?”

  She shook her head, standing above him with the pot. “They try. He is like smoke.”

  “He ever bother you?”

  She didn’t answer him at first. Then she nodded and went off to serve some of the others that were gathering to eat. There was some laughter, and she joined in at the various groups. Her laughter was like a silver bell and stood out. Some of her customers were Indian boys in their teens. There were couples
, and even a few ’breeds that kept to themselves.

  The coffee was so hot it burned his upper lip. He blew on it, set it aside, and went back to his stew. She returned with a small kettle and a gourd dipper to refill his bowl. “It is good luck to eat out of turtle shell.”

  “Good food, too.” He wanted to say it wasn’t such good luck for the turtle, but he didn’t.

  “You can sleep at my place tonight,” she said in a whisper as she ladled more in. “You would be safe there.”

  “You have no man?”

  “He died.”

  “How will I find your place?”

  “Ride north, take the creek road left. Turn left at the broken-down wagon bed. Take that lane to my cabin.”

  “No one will bother me for doing that?”

  Looking serious, she shook her head. “No one.”

  “I’ll do that if you say so.”

  With the warm shell in his hand, he began eating the stew. Was her offer a trap? Or an actual goodwill gesture? Was she lonesome? She’d sounded sincere. He watched her move about in her willowy way feeding the others and refilling cups. His instincts told him she was all right, and he relied on them a lot. The chatter of guttural Indian words mixed with broken English filled his ears.

  When he finished, he returned the bowl and paid her two bits. She thanked him and looked concerned.

  “You have a way home?” he asked under his breath.

  “Oh, yes. But I have to work here for a while. Make yourself comfortable there. You can find candles when you get inside.”

  “Thank you. If I am asleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She nodded, and then looked hard at the quarter in her palm. “I owe you change.”

  He shook his head.

  She smiled, pleased at his generosity.

  He left riding north, then turned on the creek road. In the last hour of daylight, he watered his horse in the small stream, and when he was through, rode on west. Sure enough, he found a broken-down wagon bed and a little-used lane. He sent the sorrel up the grassy ruts through the post oaks to a cabin as the sun dropped lower. When the gelding was unsaddled and put in the pen, he fed the horse some corn in a log feed trough.

  An excited stock dog fresh from swimming somewhere joined him, wagging its tail until he paused to pet the black and white collie. With the saddle on his shoulder, he went toward the house.

  The drawstring opened the door, and the dark interior carried wisps of cooking odors and some fragrance like flowers. He stepped over the threshold and struck a match. A stub candle in a shiny sardine can on the table told him lots about her neat ways. With the wick lit, he could see the stone fireplace, a rocking chair, a camelback trunk, and homemade patch quilts on the bed. He set the saddle down with the horn to the side so no one would fall over it, and then he shut the door. He put his hat on the wall peg and turned to inspect the rest of her cabin. There was a dry sink, cupboards made of crates, and a canvas water pail with a gourd dipper. All very neat.

  He located a pint in his saddlebags and took a drink, popped in the cork, and stowed it away. The small supply had to last him. Seated in the rocker, he soon dozed off. The dog’s whining outside awoke him. He eased the Colt out and put it in his lap—just in case.

  “You found it,” she said, out of breath as she opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

  “You must have walked home,” he said, holstering his gun.

  “I always walk home. But I take a shortcut.”

  She drew out a ladder-back chair. Seated before him, she straightened her dress. “You must think I am brazen for inviting you here.”

  He shook his head. “I thought you had a reason.”

  “I see things sometimes.”

  “Like fortune-telling?”

  “Yes, it scares some people. Does it scare you?”

  “No. What did you see?”

  “I saw you in harm’s way.”

  “From who?”

  “I thought it might be Charlie Chickenhead who was after you.”

  “And?”

  “I know you are a man looking for something—something very important to you.” She rubbed her palms on top of her dress and seemed anxious.

  “Will I find it?”

  She shook her head in disappointment. “It is far, far away. I don’t know the answer. I am sorry. I only see some things. Others escape me.”

  “I understand. My name is Thurman Baker.”

  “Mine’s Mary Horsekiller.”

  “I appreciate your concern for me, Mary.”

  Her eyes like dark coal peered at him as if she could see through him. “You have no family?”

  “Right. That’s who I am looking for.”

  She jumped up and went to the cupboard. With a small furry pouch on a leather thong in her hands, she returned and motioned for him to lean forward. Standing on her toes, she strung it over his head and around his neck.

  “It has some magic in it. Wear it. It is the most powerful medicine I have for you.”

  “Thank you. My heart goes to you for your generous ways. In the morning, you know, I must ride on.”

  “Then we will sleep.”

  “Yes. I have a bedroll.”

  “No, you must share my bed. The floor is cold and dirt.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I wish that.” She bent over and blew out the candle.

  The room became engulfed in deep darkness. Far, far away. Those were her words. But she did not know where. He closed his eyes, standing in the room’s blackness. Was it in Montana?

  THREE

  THE side room in Doc’s office smelled of alcohol and iodine. Lying under the white sheet drawn up to his black-whiskered face, the wounded outlaw looked ghostly pale.

  “My name’s Herschel Baker. I’m the sheriff of Yellowstone County. Doc says you’ll survive. I think this bed is better than the one in my jail right now for your recovery. But it comes with rules. Try to escape, you’ll end up in irons in my jail no matter how bad off you are. Harm anyone here, the same applies.”

  The man nodded stiffly, staring at the tin-squared ceiling.

  “I can tell you that folks were ready to lynch you out there in that street if you didn’t know that—so if you try to escape, I can’t be responsible for your life when the posse finds you, and they will.”

  “What else, law dog?” the man asked in a rusty voice.

  “What’s your name?”

  “John Smith.”

  Herschel closed his eyes as if in pain and dried his right palm on the side of his canvas pants. “I could jerk you up and shake the fire out of you. Mister, I expect straight answers—start giving them to me.”

  “Kermit, Kermit Taunton.”

  “How long have you been in this county?”

  “Week, maybe more.”

  “You come looking to rob someone?”

  “What did it look like?”

  “I asked you.”

  Taunton closed his eyes. “Yeah, there ain’t no work in this country. We decided to rob the damn store.”

  “Who’s we?” Herschel straddled a chair backward and rested his arms on top of it.

  “The others.”

  “I want their names.”

  “I ain’t no snitch.”

  “Taunton, you better think about your position here. You’ve got a real bed and clean linens. The county jail has an iron bed and a couple of stinking blankets.”

  “All right. All right. Slide Jennings and Euford Malloy.”

  “Where did you boys stay while you planned the robbery?”

  “I can’t tell you that—”

  “Why not?”

  “He’d kill me.”

  “Who?”

  Taunton took a deep breath. “Anton Pleago.”

  No surprise. Pleago lived on the edge of the law. Herschel nodded and rose. “Don’t get any idea that you’re well enough to travel and take off.”

  “I savvy,” Taunton said.

&nbs
p; A half hour later, Herschel was back in his office with his deputies Darby, Art Spencer, and Phil Stevens. He told them what he’d learned from Taunton.

  “What about Anton?” Art asked.

  “You know he’s been a pain in my backside for over a year. He’s as slick at rustling as any man alive, or you boys would have caught him. We know he eats beef and don’t own a calf.”

  “We know that. What do we do now?” Art asked.

  Herschel set his lips tight for a moment before he spoke. “I think I’m going to ride up there and give him an eviction notice. And I’m going tell him if he wants to stay around for the trial, then he’ll be tried as an accessory. That’s three to five years.”

  Art, who was a burly ex-teamster in his late thirties, laughed. “I’m going along. When are we going up there?”

  “Daylight in the morning. Meet at my place.

  “Phil,” Herschel said to his former desk clerk, who’d recently turned twenty-two, “you check on Taunton. He’s got it too good over there to mess up, but you never can tell. Since we don’t have any tracks of where those other two went, I want a detailed description of the others from him to telegraph out. He gives you any trouble, tell him you’ve got the authority to move him across the street to a steel cot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shultz and I are going down to my wife’s old ranch for a few hours this afternoon and I’m going to show him some good steers.”

  An hour later, Herschel met the cattle buyer at the livery. They short-loped down to Horse Creek and found Mae Pharr, the hired man’s wife, at the house. She came to the door, a plain-looking gal holding her head like she didn’t feel good.

  “Oh, it’s you, Sheriff. Sonny is out checking cows today. Didn’t say which way he was going.”

  Herschel nodded. “Tell him to fix that fence up there. Cattle will be getting in the hay meadow.”

  “I know. He mentioned it the other day.”

  “He better see about the mower and get it ready. In a few weeks, it will be haying time.”

  “I’ll do it, sir. I been too sick this spring to help him much.”

  “He needs my help, send word or drop by when you’re in Billings.”