The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  She clapped the top of his leg beside her. “Do you miss ranching, breaking horses?”

  “Some.”

  “I wondered—” Then she gathered her dress and climbed up to straddle his lap. She looked him in the eye. “Are you happy with me and my girls?”

  He reached out and hugged her. “Best damn thing I ever did was hitch up with you and the girls. I still laugh about the time I told Nina that I ate oatmeal all the time when I was a bachelor.”

  “Shocked her, I remember. Did you have supper?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll fix you something.”

  He hugged her, smelling the faint wisp of lavender. “Not yet. I can eat a bowl of oatmeal later.”

  In a deep embrace, they both laughed. It was sure easing for him to just hold her and savor all the good things in his life.

  He was up at daylight the next morning, and drank his coffee on the porch and took note of the clouds. Felt like moisture in the air. They might have rain. Range grasses and the crops this time of year could use all the sky could squeeze out.

  “Your breakfast is ready,” Marsha said from the doorway.

  He nodded when he saw her standing in the coolness of the first light. “I’m coming.”

  “What’s on the sheriff’s agenda today?” she asked, delivering the flapjacks and fried eggs on his plate. The golden brown biscuits and the gravy bowl were close by on his side of the table.

  “Wire Miles City and see if Sheriff Harold knows anything about Hatch’s beef business. I also need to find out more about the money Hamby collected the day before his death.”

  “You think he was murdered for that money?”

  “I suspect that. But proving it may be harder. This whole deal up there needs to be straightened out. A murder, a possible robbery, bullying people, and the beef-stealing business.”

  “What about the horse rustlers?”

  “I can hold them another ten days. Maybe someone will contact us. Phil put wires out on them. Many of these places may want them for trial but don’t have the money to send someone after them.”

  “So they can go scot-free then?”

  “It’s possible. I can’t prove they stole those horses. They can’t prove they bought them.”

  Refilling his coffee cup, she laughed. “That is a dilemma.”

  “Oh, there’s more of those kind of deals in this business than you can ever imagine.” Lots more than he’d ever dreamed there would be.

  Later at his office, a boy from the telegraph office brought him a wire.

  SHERIFF BAKER STOP HOLD TWO MEN DOFF PORTER AND CLYDE SNYDER STOP THEY ARE WANTED IN MY JURISDICTION FOR VARIOUS CRIMES STOP UPON RECEIPT OF YOUR WIRE THAT THEY ARE STILL IN YOUR CUSTODY I WILL DISPATCH DEPUTY TO BILLINGS MONTANA TO BRING THEM BACK TO STAND TRIAL HERE IN NORTH PLATTE NEBRASKA STOP SHERIFF RAYMAN STOUD END

  “Any reply sir?”

  “Yes. I’ll write it out and you can take it back with you.” He took up a pen and wrote out the telegram back to Sheriff Stoud. “There, you can send that for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After the boy left, Herschel told his assistant Darby he would return shortly and went back into the jail. He found the two prisoners lounging in their cell.

  “I just got a wire from North Platte and Sheriff Stoud.”

  “Huh?” the taller one said, and came to hold the bars in his hands.

  “Stoud says you two are wanted down there and he’s sending a deputy up here to take you back for trial.”

  “What else did he say?” Porter asked, lying on his back on the bunk.

  “That’s all. I want some answers about that cabin.”

  “Hey,” Porter said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed. “We didn’t do one bloody thing in your district.”

  “Was there anything else in the shack?”

  “That slicker and hat was all we found.”

  Herschel nodded. “No money that you stashed?”

  “Huh, what money?” Snyder asked.

  “The man that you shot had over six hundred dollars in cash on him.”

  “Man! We shot? We didn’t shoot anyone. You think if we’d got six hundred bucks we’d been hiding out there?” Snyder asked.

  “Yes,” Herschel said. “Keeping low. Anything else you saw in that cabin when you got there?”

  “I could still smell the gun smoke inside,” Porter said, and his partner agreed. “But there wasn’t anyone around or we’d have ridden on. The slicker was lying on the floor and the hat was under the table. We saw the bullet holes and the blood and wondered about it.”

  “We kinda thought they’d started a grave in the dirt floor, and gave up ’cause maybe they didn’t have a shovel,” Snyder said.

  “There wasn’t any other thing you noticed?” Herschel waited.

  “We didn’t want no part of that slicker with two bullet holes in it and that blood,” Snyder said.

  “What time did you get there?”

  “Oh, about four in the afternoon the day before. We’re telling you the truth.”

  Herschel nodded. “Who was coming to buy those horses?”

  Both men looked shocked, and quickly frowned at each other. He’d obviously discovered a chink in their story.

  “No one,” Porter said as if to rectify their mistake.

  “I want his name,” Herschel said. “The man who was coming to buy those horses.”

  He turned on his heel, not wanting to listen to their denials. He felt certain that they were up there at that place to do business with a buyer.

  “We weren’t meeting anyone there!” Porter’s voice screeched after him as he walked out of the jail.

  He’d have to see about that.

  TWELVE

  THURMAN squatted on his boot heels and watched Sarge saddling the stout-looking bay horse. Earlier that morning, a black youth riding a flea-bitten mare had delivered the fine horse and now acted like he knew all about him.

  “You ever ride him, boy?” Thurman asked.

  “No, sir, that hoss he belongs to de boss man. I’s never ride him.”

  “Is he a handful?”

  The boy shrugged his thin shoulders under the crudely made shirt he wore.

  “Mathew there, he ain’t no jockey.” Sarge slapped down the stirrup and brought the bay over to him.

  “Just wondering,” Thurman said, and took the rein, led the horse into the street, and stuck a boot toe in the stirrup. Hand on the horn, he proceeded to swing up and sit in the saddle. No surprise when the horse ducked his head and went off into the early morning traffic crow-hopping. There were halfhearted jumps and stiff-legged hops out through the drays, carts, and startled pedestrians. Some were yelling for Thurman to succeed. Others were cursing both him and the horse.

  He didn’t care, sawing on the bay’s mouth. There was a name for this horse that fit him—Buck. The horse was still upset at the end of a block’s worth of bucking, and Thurman brought him to a stop and patted his neck. “I bet by the time we get to Montana, Buck, you’ll have all that foolishness out of you.”

  “What do you think now?” Sarge asked when Thurman rode back to the livery and dismounted.

  “Tell the man I have a hundred dollars in warrants from Parker’s Court and twenty-five dollars cash I’ll pay for the horse.”

  “I don’t know about them warrants, Cap’n.”

  “This way, he’ll get his money eventually and not have to feed the horse while he’s looking for another high-powered buyer.”

  “I have to admit there ain’t many buyers looking for that much hoss.”

  “If he don’t want to make the swap with me, look for another pony. There’s bound to be others for sale.”

  Sarge nodded and began to unsaddle the bay. “I’ll let you know by this afternoon.”

  “Fine.”

  Thurman went by and petted Blacky. He hadn’t been attracted by a dog in years. Blacky suited him and minded well enough. In time, he’d have him trained ev
en better. A good dog, like an attentive horse, could be your best eyes and ears. He looked back at the thick-necked horse—he was damn sure powerful.

  Thurman played poker for a few hours in the Border City Saloon. Cards weren’t coming his way. So he excused himself and picked up his money, making a mental calculation that he’d lost about thirty dollars.

  “Come back again,” a tinhorn named Kyle said after him.

  “I will if I’m still in town.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “North,” Thurman said over his shoulder from the batwing doors.

  “Don’t let one of them polar bears bite you in the ass. I hear they got sharp teeth.”

  He waved, and went on out hearing everyone’s laughter.

  In the hotel hallway, he unlocked the door. Mary looked up from her sewing when he came in.

  “How was the horse?”

  “Good. He bucked a little. But he was upset about the traffic and things going on around him. I made an offer. The owner’s liable to accept it.”

  “Blacky all right?”

  “Anxious to get the hell out of here.”

  She laughed. “So am I.”

  “I find a horse, then we can go. How is the dress coming?”

  “Fine.”

  She held it up in front of her and he agreed. “Nice job. It’s been keeping you busy.”

  “Yes.”

  He hugged and rocked her in his arms. “We’ll be on our way shortly.”

  “Good. I could never live here. There are too many spirits in this place.”

  “Good or bad ones?”

  “Some are very bad.”

  She shuddered in his arms, as if repelled by the thought of them. With the side of his hand, he raised her chin. “I’m sorry. We’ll move on.”

  “I will be glad.”

  That evening, Sarge sent him word the seller had accepted his terms. So they prepared to leave Fort Smith at first light the next morning. He’d studied a map and decided to head northwest to Fort Gibson. The Marcy Road westward didn’t seem to be the best way for him to go to Council Oaks or some other intersection on the Chisholm Trail.

  Under a cloudy predawn, they crossed on the ferry, and Thurman stood by Buck in case the whistle or paddle wheel spooked him. When the ferry docked, he hitched Buck on the back and drove the rig off for her. When they reached the top of the cross-tie ramp, she reached over to squeeze his arm and then nodded in approval. He glanced back to see the outline of the taller buildings and nodded. Blacky minded him while they passed the shantytown and kept close to the rig.

  The traffic on the road west consisted of wagon trains powered by oxen. Thurman drove past freighters on foot who waved, cracking whips and swearing at the lazy animals. The acres and acres of cotton fields they drove past were hardly out of the two-leaf stage. The sight of them only made him want to drive the mule faster—if there were boogers in Fort Smith for her, there were more in this farmland for him.

  That evening, they camped in a small grove of persimmon and oaks. He gathered enough wood for her to cook with. While she fixed supper, he curried down the horse and mule tied on a picket line between two post oaks. He fed them both corn in feed bags, and the sundown was dipping low when she called him to eat.

  He washed his hands in the water that was heating to wash her dishes in, and smiled taking the tin plate from her. There was cured ham, fried potatoes, and big biscuits. Seated cross-legged on the ground, he thought about all the meals of hard jerky he’d shared with himself at sundown. How fortunate he was to have her along on this trip.

  “I’ll be glad when we are beyond the Nation,” she said, pouring his coffee.

  “It won’t be long till we’re there. You still worried about Chickenhead?”

  She nodded, taking a place to sit on the ground facing him. The flames of the small orange fire reflected off her olive complexion in the gathering darkness. Hatless, she held her head high, and her thick braids swung behind her back like willow limbs in a soft breeze.

  “What is this ranch in Texas like?” she asked.

  He thought about it. “It is a green place with water seeps, marshes, and springs. There are tall cottonwoods and cat-tails all in the middle of the range, which is strictly prickly pear cactus, mesquite, and grass.”

  “Range?”

  “Means dry land.”

  She nodded.

  “The house is not much more than your cabin. But I’ll build you a better one.”

  “If I have a roof, food, and—you, I will be fine.”

  He closed his eyes while chewing on a bite of hot biscuit. She’d probably tramp through Hell with him—different anyway than most women.

  It was Blacky’s growl in the night that made him open his eyes and close his fingers around the redwood grips of the .44. He glanced over. Mary must have heard it, too. He nodded at her. Someone or something was out there. With care, he eased the blanket back and rose to his knees to peer in the starlight to try and see what had the dog’s hackles up.

  “Easy, Blacky,” he said under his breath, not finding anything out of place in the silver-tinted night. But the dog was facing the south and some scent on the soft wind had him upset.

  “It’s him,” she hissed, picking up his rifle and easing a cartridge in the chamber.

  “Stay down so you don’t make a target. They must be across the road.” He bellied himself on the ground to face that direction. “Blacky, get back here.”

  A horse snorted in the night. It wasn’t one of their animals. The sound came from the grove of trees across the road. Beside him, Blacky’s throaty growl showed his anger over the intruders.

  “Have you seen them?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, straining to look for any movement in the darkness.

  Then Blacky whirled and Thurman did the same and cocked the pistol as he did. The outline of a person stepped from behind a small tree not twenty feet away. The .44 roared in Thurman’s fist, and he saw the orange flames from the other person’s handgun pointed at the ground. Good, he was down. Thurman rolled back around, wondering about any others.

  Before he could do anything to stop him, Blacky charged the man he had shot. The dog’s angry growls went with him as he tore apart anything that his teeth caught on—clothing or flesh.

  Thurman holstered his pistol and took the rifle from Mary. “Stop him. I’m going to see if there are any more.”

  She agreed, hurrying to her feet and talking sternly to the furious dog.

  On his bare feet, Thurman walked across the open ground to the road with the rifle ready. Sticks and stiff stems all tried to puncture his soles, but his intense focus was on the dark woods for any movement. Then he saw a figure move in the trees, and dropped to his knees. He could only see a flash in the iron sights, but he put three fast shots where he thought the person was.

  After the third shot, someone screamed. “I’m hit. Don’t leave me.”

  Despite the objects jabbing his feet, he ran across the road and searched in the night for any other intruders. A horse raced away, and someone cursed loudly on the hill about its escape.

  There were others still over there. Gulping for his breath and feeling cold chills run up his cheek from the pain in his feet, he leaned on a great tree and listened. He could hear a tethered horse or two stomping their hoofs close by. That meant their mounts were to his right.

  Maybe he had them cut off from their horses. Placing his steps with care, he moved toward their ponies. Blacky joined him. Still upset, the dog slipped against his leg looking for a scratch on the head, then threw up his nose and immediately began to growl.

  “Easy, boy,” he said to the dog and petted him. He crossed a small open spot, and could see the hitched horses twisting and moving around. Where were the riders?

  Then, from his left came a man’s loud roar, and Thurman whirled, firing the rifle from his hip. The attacker folded up and a large knife fell from his grasp. With the acrid gun smoke smarting his eyes, Thurm
an searched for any other threat—but even the night bugs had quit their chorus.

  “Thurman? Thurman? Are you all right?” Mary cried, coming up behind him.

  “I’m fine,” he said, still searching around and gathering her to his still tender left side. “But there is still another one around.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “I shot one at camp. One here. There’s two horses here and one horse ran off.”

  “Where is he?”

  On his knees, he patted Blacky on the head. “Dog, where did he go?”

  He didn’t really expect an answer, but so far, the collie had saved his life twice. One more time wasn’t too much to ask of him.

  “Did you see who I shot over there?”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t him. This isn’t him either.”

  “Then he’s still out there?”

  She nodded. He got up. “Let’s take these horses back to our camp.”

  She went and unhitched them while he covered her. Then he eased over to the prone man. He was dead or close to it. Then, backing out, Thurman followed Mary to camp. With the horses on the line, he went to sit on the bedroll and tried to brush off his soles and put on his socks and boots.

  He noticed that Blacky lay on the ground close by without growling, so he felt satisfied the third man wasn’t close at the moment.

  “What will we do with them?”

  “Come first light, we’ll decide.”

  At last, with his back to a tree where he had a chance to see plenty of the starlit area around them, he reloaded the rifle and sat back to wait for the damned outlaw.

  “How did they know where we were?”

  “I’d bet when I told Sarge the night before that I’d leave in the morning, there was an ear to hear that and then he beat it to Chickenhead’s camp.”

  She nodded, seated beside him. “I thought we’d be rid of him.”

  His eyes became slits trying to see though the night for any threat. “He wants revenge. I’ve stolen you from him.”

  “I never—”

  “He must think you belong to him.”