The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  “Earl claimed he was over there looking for a missing pig. I guess they had a fistfight. I’m not sure who won. Yesterday, they got into it again here and Earl shot Tompkins.”

  “Tompkins have a gun?”

  “Yeah, he had one.” Rademaker made a face. “He wasn’t no match for Earl.”

  “How’s Tompkins now?”

  “Fine. Earl’s bullet hit a Bible that Tompkins had in his overall bib. Guess you could call it the Good Lord saving him. He was knocked down. But folks first thought he was dead. Earl rode off. Guess he left the country thinking he’d killed him.”

  Herschel shook his head. And he’d ridden almost twenty miles to find out it was two dumb men having a gunfight that turned out like that. At times, this job proved to be trying.

  “Thanks. You see Earl or he comes back, tell him to ride into Billings and see me in my office.”

  “You won’t ever see him again.” Rademaker laughed. “He’s G.T.T.”

  Gone to Texas. Herschel understood that abbreviation.

  He thanked the big man and led Cob over to the hitch rack at the foot of Gayline’s Store’s stairs. Tipping his hat to the ladies coming out, he strode into the busy store. What he needed was a gewgaw for Marsha. Some little thing that would show he cared, especially after making her drive the buckboard up to Soda Springs by herself.

  He roamed around, looking in the glass cases and not seeing a thing. A straight-backed woman with silver in her pinned-up hair, Mrs. Gayline, finally confronted him.

  “Sheriff Baker, what do you need?”

  He removed his hat, looked across the case, and smiled at her. “Something special for my wife.”

  “Combs for her hair?”

  “No, she wears it in a Dutch bob.”

  “I don’t know her, but we do some pawning with people. And if they don’t come back for it, it is ours to sell.”

  “Yes, but I can’t afford—”

  “The item I am thinking about would not be expensive to you. We all know you have tried to be fair in how you handle the law. So if I did not make a profit, then whose business would that be but yours and mine?” She reached in and brought out an ivory cameo on a chain and held it in her open palm.

  “That’s too expensive,” he said.

  She leaned over the counter. “What number is E in the alphabet? Count them off.”

  “Five.”

  “That was our cost. You may have it for that.”

  On the cameo was carved a delicate dancing girl. A ballerina on her toes. He opened it and there was no photograph inside.

  “The lady who pawned it took the picture out.”

  “You sure that’s all it cost you?”

  “If I am lying, put me in jail.” She held out her hands with the long slender fingers and a gold wedding band.

  “Don’t guess I’ll do that,” he said, feeling a little embarrassed by her confrontation. Digging down in his pocket, he found several silver dollars and paid her.

  “Wait,” she said. “I have a small velvet box to deliver it in.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Sheriff Baker, I am giving it to your wife.”

  He set the necklace down on the counter and dried his palms on the front of his pants. While he did that, she put the cameo in the red velvet box.

  “I guess the shooting’s over up here. I came and talked to some folks today and they think the main troublemaker left the county.”

  “I knew why you came today. That’s why I bragged on you. It doesn’t have to be a large corporation-owned cattle company to get your attention. I hope your wife likes it.”

  He nodded and put on his hat. “Marsha will like it fine. Thanks again.”

  Tipping his hat to the ladies, he exited the store, spoke to a few men, and shook their hands. With the box in his vest pocket, he swung on Cob, waved to some kids, and rode northeast. He didn’t want to be late for supper—not this night.

  Roscoe Hatch—that was the man he wanted to talk to at the Soda Springs dance. It was apparent from the letter that Wallace Hamby might have received a sum of money from an estate. That he might have been executed in that old abandoned cabin. The question was by whom? And how could Herschel prove it in a court of law?

  He pushed Cob, short-loping him across country. This was not the day to be tardy. It was supposed to have been a day for him and his wife to leisurely drive up there, enjoy the company of each other, dance the night away, and camp under the stars. So far, he’d already missed the drive. He wanted to have time to put up the fly for her, although the Montana sky looked clear blue. Anxious to simply be there with her, he pushed the big roan horse on faster through the sage and bunchgrass.

  At mid-afternoon, he pulled the hard-breathing horse down. They were on the road near the spot where the body had been. He looked to the south and saw a team coming—they were his wife’s matched buckskins.

  He’d timed it right. Even better than he thought he could. He was off Cob and loosening the cinch when Marsha drove up.

  She wrapped the reins, jumped off, and ran to hug him. “You sure rode hard to get here.”

  “Feel anything in my vest between us?”

  She frowned, and then she felt it on the outside with her hand.

  “Better look at it.”

  “What is it?” With shaky fingers, she opened the velvet box and seeing it, sucked in her breath. “Oh, Herschel—it is wonderful. How much did it cost?”

  He hugged her. “Not much. We can get a photograph made of all of us and put it in there.”

  “No. I already have those photos. I will get one of you to put in there. You gave it to me and I will always wear it. Then I will always have you with me.”

  “Mrs. Baker. Let’s tie Cob on the tailgate and I’ll drive you to the Soda Springs dance.”

  “Oh, whoever said that cowboys are not romantic?” She hugged his arm to her.

  “Why, we’re the knights of the range.”

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  “My pa told Travis and me that years ago when we were boys. ‘You boys are knights of the range.’ He said we’d never raise cotton. So far, I haven’t had to.”

  “You miss Travis, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. I always thought the two of us would have built a big ranch together.”

  She pushed him onto the spring seat. “I think you have done very well for yourself, Herschel Baker. Let’s go dance.” On the seat, she removed her straw hat and put the cameo chain around her neck, and then the locket down behind her dress front.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She hugged his arm. “Yes, I am ready for a wonderful evening, my knight.”

  “You boys will be knights on horseback, not knaves that chop cotton,” their pa told them long ago. Maybe Thurman Baker had been right.

  EIGHT

  THURMAN stood with a camp ax in his hand. One he’d used to split cooking wood for Mary. It was late afternoon when Youree, sitting on the wagon seat, and Morris, on horseback, arrived at the clearing beside the road where Thurman and Mary had set up their camp.

  “Thought you’d be way up the road—who’s he?” Morris blinked at the sight of the Indian boy seated on the ground with his leg in a splint.

  “Name’s Needles. I figured he’s worth a fifty-dollar reward. He’s one of Chickenhead’s men. They tried to hold us up back down the road, but they were full of firewater and left when I went to shooting at them. Except Needles’ horse threw him off and broke his leg.”

  “Yeah, Morris,” Youree said. “I seen Needles’ name on that list.”

  “Well, now the court owes you a hundred dollars,” Morris said to Thurman. “That’s more than I’ll make this month.”

  “Yeah, but you can wait around for your money. I’ll have to discount mine.”

  “What in the hell’re we going to do with a broke-leg Injun?” Morris squeezed his unshaven chin and shook his head.

  “You’ve got plenty of labor. Get them to load and
unload him. Write me a receipt.”

  Morris agreed, but only begrudgingly. “Was Chickenhead riding your red horse?”

  “No, or I’d’ve got that horse back. I shot a black hat off one of them to send them running. If he’d been riding my horse today, he’d be lying dead in this road.”

  Morris made the receipt out in pencil on the seat of his saddle and handed it to Thurman. “Expensive-looking hat even with a hole in it.”

  Then he nodded at Mary, who was bent over the fire, wearing the silk-bound black hat with the high crown creased in the front as she stirred their supper. She took it off and tipped it to them. Putting it back on, she wore it with its trailing eagle feather and a smug look on her face.

  The lawmen took the prisoner and then went to the far side of the meadow to camp.

  Thurman was seated cross-legged on the ground, drinking coffee. Bareheaded, Mary came and sat beside him. Looking upset, she pulled the short grass up and tossed it into the hot evening wind. “I never told you everything about me.”

  “So. I haven’t told you much about me.”

  “But I have a dark secret you must know before we get to Fort Smith.”

  He blew on the coffee. “What is that?”

  “I carry another man’s child.”

  He nodded. “And?”

  “And it was forced on me.”

  He nodded again, busy studying how the small red-blue flames licked the bottom of her black kettle.

  “Did you know?” she asked.

  “I thought so the first day I saw you.”

  Her brown eyes filled with tears as she looked at him hard for his answer. “It does not bother you?”

  “I guess we can raise it to be better than its father. It will be all yours. You think that is why those men tried to stop us today?”

  “I never told him. I promised myself I would kill him if he ever touched me again.”

  “In few days or a week, we’ll be beyond him and he won’t find us up there in the vast prairie country between here and Montana.”

  “Hold me?”

  He took her on his lap and despite the pain in his side, he rocked her. She dried her eyes with his handkerchief and sniffed a lot. There was no need for words between them. They already had a strong bond. The simple security of his arms and him holding her settled her down.

  “Should we hurry to Montana before you have the baby?” he whispered in her ear.

  She straightened up and looked in his face. “No, I am strong. I have had two children. One by myself in a lodge. I have good medicine.”

  “All right. I think the food must be ready.”

  She agreed and jumped up.

  Before the marshals’ prisoners stirred the next morning, the two of them were on the dark road for Fort Smith. Using the full moon and stars, they jog-trotted the mule through the shadowy groves and past the rail fences while the sun struggled to come up over some mountains in the east. Thurman could tell she had found a new spirit. Good. Who was he to judge someone else? He’d made the greatest mistake in his entire life riding off to San Antonio for a life he simply knew was going to be more exciting.

  When it all shattered, then he couldn’t go back. He’d shut the gate on that part of his life, too. Later on, he began to find some solace in reading the Bible. God forgives, it said. He’d marry this woman in time. But he’d already broken more commandments than he could count. In his case, God had lots to forgive. But he hoped His forces led him to Herschel and then helped him convince that boy he needed to join him on the 7 Bar.

  They crossed the Canadian River on a ferry in late afternoon. The dingy brown water lapped at the side of the barge. The black man cranking the winch to carry them across sang gospel songs as they started across the high river. Thurman was grateful he wasn’t staring at that high water with a herd to cross it.

  Many a son of Texas never came up from the first ducking they took in swift water like this—swept away by the strong current that made the thick rope, which the man was working his great muscles on to propel them across, bow. Halfway, he stopped singing and used all his strength to wind the rope up.

  Mary moved against Thurman and clutched his leg. “I don’t like this.”

  Ira shook all over, rattling the harness standing in the traces. Then he snorted so loud, she jumped. The towrope groaned. The river rushed past faster underneath the barge. Heavy grunts from the black man lasted until he began to break the river’s force and they were inching again for the far bank.

  Thurman would have gone to assist him, but he knew the broken rib was still too tender for him to be much help. When they approached the north bank, he squeezed Mary’s leg through the dress. “We’re about there.”

  Then she struck his right arm. “I hated that.”

  “No, you never had to swim it with a horse. It was ten times worse, and then the cattle were swept downstream and your cowboys were drowning. No, no, Mary, it was an easy crossing.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  When he settled back, she stared at him as if lost. Her fingertips touched her lips as if he had burned them. Then, she finally smiled at him. “I will complain more often if that is your punishment.”

  “Ma’am, you’s can drive off now,” the black man said, standing in the front of the docked ferry.

  “Oh, yes.” Startled, she took up the reins and drove Ira off the barge.

  “Let’s make camp,” Thurman said, looking around. “I think we can reach Fort Smith tomorrow.”

  “We are not stopping until I don’t have to smell or hear that damn river,” she said, and made Ira go faster.

  Thurman twisted and looked back. Not near as bad as some of the crossings he’d made. Then he looked to heaven, grateful for their safety.

  Late afternoon the next day, they reached a shantytown on the west bank of the Arkansas River. A settlement of Indians, ’breeds, and riffraff that lived in dugouts, crate shacks, and canvas-covered lodges with their skinny, slinking black dogs and dirty, naked children looking blankly at the wagon’s passing.

  Thurman drove the mule down the steep cross-tie road laid in the alluvial sand to the waiting ferry. Mary closed her eyes and held his leg tight.

  He nudged her with an elbow. “You can look now. We’re on the ferry.”

  “Two bits,” the ferryman said, and Thurman paid him.

  Then the man in a sailor’s cap went inside the small doghouse and blew a steam whistle that made Ira spook in his tracks. The paddle wheeler began to churn the brown water, and they were off for the far shore. Several red brick buildings stood against the skyline across the Arkansas. A half dozen river paddle wheelers were docked on the bank, unloading or taking on cargo. The town showed off its success despite the setbacks of the war.

  Thurman drove Ira up on Garrison Avenue, then turned right to go to the federal court building. He stopped in front, then undid his gun belt and left it on the seat.

  “I need to go in here and see about my rewards. Then we’ll put Ira and Blacky up at a livery. Find us a room in a hotel and go have supper in a café.”

  She looked warily at the three-story brick barracks. “That is where Parker’s court is held?”

  “Yes.”

  “They won’t keep you, will they?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” She hugged her arm and looked around the near empty brick street. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  He took the stairs two at a time and went inside the right-hand door. A clerk looked up at him. “Can I help you?”

  “I have two receipts for federal rewards.”

  The young man held out his hand. He read them and handed them back. “Go to the second door on the left. They can help you in there.”

  In the second office, a middle-aged man at a desk removed his glasses and came over to the counter. “What do you need?”

  “I have two receipts for rewards.”

  “Hmm,” the man snorted.
“You’ve been busy shooting ’em, huh?”

  “No, they were busy attacking me.”

  “I can’t sign these warrants and my boss is gone for the day. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Then give them back to me or issue a receipt for them.”

  “Well, don’t you trust me?” The man swaggered up to the counter and tossed them down.

  “That ain’t the question.” He put them in his pocket, bit his tongue, and started for the door. “Good day.”

  At the buggy, Mary frowned at him. “Did you get the money?”

  “No, I didn’t get the warrants that they issue for them. The man who signs them was not there.”

  “You weren’t this mad when they tried to rob us.”

  “Sorry.” He collapsed on the seat and smiled at her. “We’ll do better tomorrow.”

  She clutched his arm and laughed. “Ferries make me upset. Judge Parker’s men make you mad. We were lots happier in the mountains.”

  “It will all work out.” He clucked to Ira and gave Mary the reins to turn him around as he put his gun belt back on his waist. He whistled to Blacky and the dog fell in with them. No need to let him get into a fight with some town dog.

  “Where do we go next?” she asked.

  “Dearborn’s Livery, go two blocks, then turn left and a right on Garrison.”

  She looked uncertainly at him and finally nodded, clapping Ira on the butt to go faster.

  Inside the livery, a whiskered man came out of the office, licking a lead pencil with a tag in his hand.

  “Name?”

  “Thurman Baker.”

  “Well, I’ll be dogged gone. Captain Baker, that you?”

  Thurman stepped down. “Who’re you?”

  “Why, Sergeant Reilly O’Brien, sir.” He clicked his heels and saluted.

  “I’ll be damned, Sarge, how are you?”

  “Fine. It’s been a long time, sir.”

  “Yes, it has been. I need to leave Ira and my dog Blacky here, and we have several things in our buggy I want looked after.”

  “Cap’n, I’ll be damn sure it’s all here when you get ready to leave. Cross me heart.”