The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  “Good enough. Also, Mary and I need a clean hotel.”

  O’Brien scratched his ear. “The Palace is good as I know.”

  Mary rolled up some things of hers including her new dress. Putting on the moccasins, she smiled at Thurman. “You knew him?”

  “In the war.”

  “You were an officer?” she asked as he guided her outside and to the edge of the busy street.

  “I’ve been many things.” Then he took her by the elbow past the beer wagons and riders to the far curb, then inside the lobby of the Palace.

  He went to the desk and asked the clerk about a room.

  “I have a room for you, sir. But she can’t go in—”

  Thurman’s right fist shot out and he jerked the young man halfway over the counter to talk in his face. “She’s my wife. You say one word and I’ll cut your tongue out. Savvy?”

  The man’s face went to putty and he tried to swallow. He finally managed a croaking “Yes.”

  Thurman released him, and he about fell off the counter he’d been taken halfway over. Straightening his suit and tie, the clerk swallowed hard. “If you will sign in for both of you.”

  Thurman did that. “We will stay four nights.”

  “That will be ten—I mean eight—dollars for four nights, sir.”

  Thurman paid him, and the man marked paid on the four dates in the register.

  “The room is on the second floor—206.” The clerk put the key on the countertop.

  They went up the stairs in silence.

  When they got to the door marked 206, she stopped, looked up at him, and wet her lips. “I see why you were a captain.”

  Then her shoulders began to shake in mirth. In the room, she laughed aloud and in a falsetto voice said, “No damn Indians can be in here.”

  Amused, he went and opened the two windows. “Peel back the sheet. If you see one black bug we’re leaving.”

  She pulled the spread and sheet aside and examined the bed closely. “No bugs.”

  “Good,” he said, then grabbed her around the waist, lifted her up, and swung her around. “Is this better than the last time?”

  Looking down at him, she smiled and removed his hat. “I think you should kiss me again.”

  Late that night, from the open window, he studied the traffic on Garrison Avenue and took a sip of whiskey from the new pint. The sounds and smells of the city wafted on the warm night air. Buy a stout horse and let her drive the buggy. In three days they’d be headed for Montana. He needed to find that boy.

  NINE

  THE music of a fiddle being tuned carried on the air. The atmosphere inside the schoolhouse tingled with excitement. Late arrivals rushed inside with pots of food and loaves of bread for the potluck. On a bench against the wall, Herschel sat with Marsha. They were eating their supper off tin plates and nodding to well-wishers going by.

  “Nice to have you up here, Sheriff. Ma’am, you, too.”

  He thanked them and took another bite. Every woman there had wanted him to try something they’d brought, so his plate was covered with food for him to sample. He’d probably bust eating it all.

  “You’re looking for Roscoe Hatch?” Marsha asked in a whisper.

  “Yes, he’s the one supposedly knew Hamby, or maybe Hamby worked for Hatch. Shultz and that cowboy both mentioned it the morning we brought in the body.”

  “I thought so. Would you eat some cherry pie if I got you a piece on my plate?”

  “Might save me from having to eat some of everyone’s dessert.”

  “I’ll do that.” She squeezed his forearm. “I’m really enjoying you doing this, and the lovely cameo was such a surprise.”

  “I guess at times, Marsha, I get so involved in what I must do, I plumb forget it’s the little things that count.”

  “No, no, you do fine.” She rose and winked at him. “But sometimes you shock me.”

  Good thing. She and the girls had turned his life around. From an oatmeal-eating bachelor to a comfortably married man with a family. He felt that way, too. Having a wife had never seriously entered his mind before he became involved with her. He was lucky that Marsha saw something worth having in him. Why, he’d about run away from any other woman that even tried to get close. They gave him the jitters whenever he thought things were getting serious. But with her, it turned out different.

  She returned with his piece of pie and traded him plates.

  “Looks good.”

  “It was the best one I saw over there.”

  She took up the seat beside him. “I may have forgotten how to dance,” she said.

  “Naw. It comes back when they play the music.”

  After he ate the pie, she carried their cups and utensils outside to wash them in the hot water tub set up, and then put them away.

  Shultz soon took a seat beside Herschel. “I heard you learned his name.”

  “Hamby, Wallace Hamby. And he was shot wearing a slicker.”

  “How did you find that out? He didn’t have one on that morning.”

  “Oh, I know lots more things about that dead man now.”

  “Why would someone have murdered him?”

  “I’ll know more about that when I get back to Billings.”

  Shultz nodded, looking impressed. “Most folks don’t know how hard you work to solve these crimes.”

  “Save that for reelection time.” Herschel looked around the room. “I don’t know Roscoe Hatch very well. Have you seen him here tonight?”

  “That’s what I came over to tell you. When I was unsaddling my horse outside a while ago, Roscoe and three of his hands rode up. I heard someone say the sheriff’s here. Roscoe said something to his boys, then they turned and rode off.”

  “That’s a shame. I had some questions to ask him about Hamby.”

  “I figured you’d want to talk to him.”

  “Who said the sheriff is here, do you recall?”

  “By Jove, let me think. I never thought about it at the time, but he might be in on something with Roscoe.”

  Herschel nodded. “Might be. I’d like to talk to him anyway.”

  “Oh, shoot, I’ll remember his name after a while and tell you. Oh, do you mind if I dance with your wife a few times?”

  “Better ask her. She’ll be back here shortly.”

  Shultz thanked him and started off to talk to some others.

  “Learn anything?” Marsha asked when she returned.

  “Shultz asked to dance with you.”

  “Oh.”

  “He also said that Hatch came tonight and someone told him I was here and he left.”

  “Was he afraid of you?”

  “I don’t know, Marsha. But it would be strange for him to avoid me unless he’d done something wrong.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Baker, they’re going to play some slow music first. Would you dance with me?” Shultz asked.

  Herschel nodded and smiled, amused because she was taller by five inches than the cattle buyer.

  “Oh,” Shultz said to Herschel. “I think it was Hans Olsen told him you were here.”

  “Thanks.” Herschel looked though the crowd for the blond Dane. Shultz led Marsha off for the first dance. The sheriff stood up and stretched, then realized that the man he wanted wasn’t inside and headed for the front door.

  He knew there would be several men outside nipping on a bottle or jug. That was what some of them came for. In the dying sundown, a handful was gathered around a bonfire more for light than heat in the warm spring night.

  “Would we offend you, sir,” a man said, “if we offered you a drink?”

  “Thanks, but not now. I’m looking for Hans Olsen. Is he around?”

  “What’s he done?” someone asked.

  Herschel shook his head. “Nothing. I just need to talk to him. I’m up here with the missus to enjoy the fine weather and dance a little.”

  “We’ll tell him you’re needing to talk to him.”

  “Thanks.”

&nbs
p; He went to check on his horses on the picket line by the wagon off at the edge of the large school yard. They were standing hipshot and all looked fine. He started back for the dance, and two men approached from the bonfire area. Obviously, they had business with him or wanted to talk with him privately.

  “Sheriff Baker, my name’s Clem Shaefer and this is my neighbor John Dart. You know we have a problem up here?”

  “Oh?” He shook their calloused hands.

  “I call it”—Shaefer looked around to be certain they were alone—“dealing with a bully. I had a springing heifer. She was staying up on small creek and I was keeping an eye on her. Rode up there every day and checked on her in case she had trouble calving.”

  Herschel understood calving heifers and the problems associated with them.

  “Well, I rode up there one morning and she was gone. I found where someone had gutted her. Blood was all over the ground. Hide and all, they took it everything with ’em.”

  “You know who did it?”

  “Wagon tracks went east.”

  “Who lives in that direction?” Herschel asked.

  “Roscoe Hatch.”

  “You think he butchered your heifer?”

  “Accuse him and face his wrath?” The man shook his head. “I couldn’t do that. I’ve got a wife and three kids to think about.”

  “That goes on all the time up here,” Dart says. “He sells his beef over at Miles City.”

  “That’s a ways to take it.”

  “Yeah, but if beef don’t cost you anything, it will sure make money,” Shaefer said.

  “I can’t accuse him of stealing without proof. Let me work on it. He’s stealing beef, we can catch him at it.”

  “It’s hard enough to make a living up here,” Dart said. “Someone stealing your stock makes it even harder.”

  “I agree and we can stop it. May take me some time. He sounds pretty smooth. Either of you seen Olsen around here?”

  “Earlier. Ain’t seen him in a while. You need him, I’ll tell him if I see him again,” Dart said.

  Herschel shook his head. “Don’t mention it. I’ll find him.”

  No need to spook him, too. This cattle rustling business sounded serious. The question was how many others were doing it. Somehow, there must be more than Hatch if they were selling beef clear over at Miles City.

  Monday, he’d telegraph Sheriff Don Harold and ask him to look into the sales if there were any he could learn about. That would be a start. This job never ended. He shook the men’s hands and thanked them, promising to do some investigating. No sign of Olsen. Strange that the man would come to a social function, warn someone, and then leave. They were some things that needed close scrutiny in this part of the county.

  Herschel rejoined his wife, and they danced to a waltz. As she swirled around floor to the fiddle, she smiled up at him. “Find Olsen?”

  “No, he seems to have evaporated. Strange there is no sign of him.”

  “What do they have to hide from you?”

  “I’ll tell you later what I think.”

  She smiled and nodded, obviously enjoying the opportunity to have a dance with him. With her in his arms, he could waltz across Montana—at least the smooth schoolhouse floor part. He nodded to people he knew as they circled around the room. For a few minutes with her in his arms, he was on a cloud above the rest of the world. Far away from the problems of his office and life itself—it was heady. He should do this more often.

  After the waltz, she went for some cold lemonade, a sugary mixture of the sour fruit and chunks of river ice floating in the vast bowl like icebergs. She returned with both cups filled and he thanked her.

  “If this is sheriffing, we need to do this more often,” she said.

  He sipped his drink and smiled at her. “Make this job look too easy and everyone will want it.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “There are always folks want your position in life. Take Shultz, he wants a wife.”

  “Not me, I hope.” She suppressed her amusement as best she could. “He’d need a ladder to even get in our bed.”

  “That don’t keep him from wanting the job.”

  They both laughed. How long since they’d laughed together? Too long. Maybe they should move back to her ranch. He could break and trade horses again—they’d make a living. Sleep every night in their own bed together. Let someone else take over all the worries about lawbreakers in Yellowstone County.

  Sure, and eat oatmeal again. The girls would really love that. No, he was probably where he belonged—in politics and making enough money to pay for their place in town as well as their lifestyle.

  After the dance, Herschel and Marsha camped in the cool night air and snuggled in the bedroll with her silky skin pressed against his. She wore no nightgown, so his hands could explore every inch of her with his palms. He closed his eyes, hugged her tight, and thanked God for her.

  “What will you do next week?”

  “Go find Roscoe Hatch. If he wasn’t in on murdering Hamby, he may be guilty of rustling.”

  She snuggled to him. “What if we have to get up in the night?”

  “Guess we better dress then or the stars will see our bare butts.”

  “Herschel.” Then they giggled.

  Morning came too quick. He built a fire and she made coffee while the Dutch oven heated. Shultz came by and she invited him to breakfast. Before long, she was making more coffee and feeding the hat-in-hand single friends of Herschel who had supposedly just dropped by to say howdy.

  “You don’t need to feed every dog-eyed cowboy in camp,” he said under his breath, putting more fuel under the grill.

  “Maybe they’ll vote for you.” She shared a mischievous grin with him as she bent over checking on her biscuits. “Stir the gravy and the potatoes.”

  “How close are the biscuits?”

  “A few more minutes.”

  Shultz was grinding more coffee for the next pot. A cowboy named Poke was peeling spuds, and Marsha had more dough mixed for the next batch. She was enjoying the attention, Herschel could tell. Everyone ate till she finally ran out, and then they stayed, helped her clean up, and packed everything in the buckboard. Because of having to feed her army, they were almost late for church services in the schoolhouse. Voices were raised singing the first hymn when they went inside and, along with her “eaters,” finished filling the classroom.

  After services, several folks invited them to come back and they promised to return. The two of them drove out with four cowboys trailing along, each dropping off at various side roads with a big thank-you and a high wave.

  “Nice folks up at Soda Springs,” she said as the buckskins jogged along at a brisk pace. A cooler wind swept over his face as he agreed. Montana was full of nice folks—it was the un-nice ones that were his problem.

  He only had one regret—he had not learned one thing about Hatch’s connection to Hamby. That meant he’d have to ride back up there and find out more. And see what else he could learn about Roscoe Hatch.

  TEN

  THE next day, Thurman’s trip to the federal courthouse went more smoothly. The supervisor was there and after looking over his receipts, issued him two warrants for fifty dollars each.

  “Now of course, these can only be redeemed when there is money in the federal coffer to pay them. However, several folks in Fort Smith will redeem them at a discount.”

  “Marshal Morris warned me about that.”

  “Good, then you know.”

  “Yes. Thank you, sir.”

  Thurman left and walked back to Garrison Avenue and the Palace. In the hotel room, Mary was busy sewing, so he went out, found a barbershop, and got a haircut and a shave.

  “You new here?” asked the mustachioed barber.

  “Passing through. Had a couple of rewards to collect.”

  The barber laughed and said to his colleague, “He’s got some rewards.”

  “What’ll he take for ’em?” the other barber
asked.

  “Forty apiece,” Thurman said.

  The barber quit cutting his client’s hair and shook his head. “You’re too damn high.”

  “That’s twenty percent interest.” Under the sheet, Thurman shuddered at the notion of giving that much away.

  “You borrowed any money lately?” his barber asked.

  “No.”

  “The going rate around here’s twenty-five percent.”

  “That’s risk money—this is U.S. script.”

  “Governments fail, too.”

  Thurman knew there was no way he would win the argument, so he let it go. He listened to their talk that the federal government was going to open up some of the unused Indian lands for white settlers.

  Finished, he paid the man a quarter and headed down the sidewalk past the panhandlers, the expensive ladies of the evening in their rustling satin gowns laughing about the night before, and the ordinary folks. Swampers dumped slop buckets and spittoons off the curb from inside the stale-smelling joints. A few blacks with handcarts were sweeping up and shoveling horse manure off Garrison.

  He reached Dearborn’s stables and ducked inside.

  A familiar rusty voice welcomed him as Thurman petted Blacky, who was tied to a rope.

  He turned and asked, “How’re you doing, Sarge?”

  “Fine. What do you need? You ain’t leaving already?”

  “No, I need a good saddle horse. I’ve got a far piece to ride.”

  “How fur?”

  “Montana.”

  “Woo-wee, you do have a long ways to go. I know a man’s got a good Morgan horse. He’s a chestnut the color of good polished furniture. They used him as a stud for a while—but that only made him a more muscled horse.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Four going on five.”

  “What’s he asking for him?”

  Sarge scratched his bushy sideburns and gave a pained look. “Hundred and a half.”

  “Wow, he must be some horse.”

  “Cap’n, he’s as stout and sound a horse as I know about. He’s a little spooky of things, but I think you riding him hard, he’d lose lots of that.”

  “When can I try him?”

  Sarge paused. “The man owns him is pretty well stuck on that price.”