“Yes, Charlie Chickenhead, Burl McDougan, and another man known as Squirrel with buck teeth.”
The man’s brows furrowed he blinked in disbelief. “They’re all dead?”
“They’ve been that way since last night. They raided our camp over in the Territory.”
“Mister, my name’s Bill Bowlin. I’m the second in command here. Our marshals have been after those outlaws for over a year.” He shook his hand. “I never caught your name.”
“Thurman Baker. I’m on my way to find my son. The sooner I can get my warrants, the sooner I can be on my way.”
“The newspaper will want a story from you.”
“Maybe you could do that. One of those outlaws shot me ten days ago down in the Kiamish Mountains. I got one that night. They stole a good horse I never got back. Then later, I captured one called Needles when they tried to hold me up on the way up here. They wouldn’t leave well enough alone and tried to jump us in camp last night. I still don’t have my expensive horse back.”
Bowlin smiled. “Three hundred fifty dollars in reward should buy a good horse.”
“Whenever I get the cash. Will a bank hold it for redemption and mail me the money?” he asked.
“Costs ten bucks. The River Bank or the Cotton Planters will do that.”
“Which one is the best-run bank?”
“Planters probably.”
“Thanks. I guess I have to come back here and get them?”
Bowlin nodded. “Eight A.M.”
“Fine. Where do you want the bodies left?”
“Green Funeral Parlor on Garrison. I’ll go along and help you.”
“Fine. You can ride in the buggy with Mary. Better get your slicker. It don’t have a top.”
The buggy wheels cut through the sheet of water as Mary drove the mule sharply up to the funeral home. Bowlin hitched the mule and helped her down, then came back to help Thurman undo the ropes.
They carried the first canvas-wrapped corpse inside the mortuary, while she untied the next one from the horse. When they came out again, Thurman told her to go inside and dry out, they’d get the rest. At last, all three outlaws were laid out, and Bowlin had the two funeral home employees unwrap the bodies for identification.
Once they were out of the wraps, he looked at their pale faces and nodded in approval. “It’s them all right. You know, it is not often that one man brings an end to an entire outlaw gang.”
“I didn’t look for them. They came looking for me.”
“You ever consider making law enforcement your career?”
“No, I’m a cattleman and I’m going back to being one if these outlaws let me alone.”
“These three sure won’t trouble you again.”
“I sure hope not. Now we’re going to get some sleep.”
“I’d buy you a drink.”
“Ordinarily, I’d jump at the chance, but I better get Mary to bed.”
“You’re entitled to their horses and gear,” Bowlin said as he walked Thurman outside.
“Good, they aren’t worth much. But they’ll bring something.”
He helped Mary onto the buggy seat and they drove to Dearborn’s. The hostler said Sarge was at home asleep, and said he’d put up all their horses and their possessions would be fine on the buggy. He tied up Blacky.
Moments later, they stomped inside the Palace lobby and Thurman told the clerk he wanted a room for the night. The young man never hesitated, and Thurman signed the register, paid the two dollars, and in few minutes they were inside Room 220.
He hugged Mary as they stood in their wet slickers, and then he pushed the heavy hat off her head to kiss her. She giggled.
“We sure didn’t get very far this time.”
He held her tight. “Yes, we did. That son of a bitch is dead. No more dreams of him coming back.”
It was past sunup when he washed himself using the washcloth, pitcher, and bowl. He dressed, then told her to sleep, that he’d be back $350 richer.
He walked the three blocks to the courthouse. A half block from the old barracks, he saw a blinding flash from near the stairs. The photographers were already there.
“Mister, look over here. This is last of the famous Chickenhead gang. Some guy brought them in last night—single-handed they say.”
“I see.” He refused to look at the three corpses propped up in their open coffins, and took the stairs two at a time, grateful to be inside.
The clerk recognized him. “Second door.”
Thurman nodded and when he walked into the office, a blinding flash went off.
“Stand right there,” someone ordered, and another flash went off.
Blinking his eyes, he threw his arm up. “That’s enough.”
“Sir. Might I have a word with you?” The reporter had his pad and pencil ready.
“What I did was what any law-abiding man would do. They attacked me and I returned fire.”
“But three against one?”
“That’s three bullets. How long did that take?”
“Did they say anything?”
He shook his head. “Oh, they growled like bears and came after me. Worthless humanity is all I can say.”
“What will you do next?”
“Go get my wife and find some breakfast.” He folded the warrants the clerk handed him, then put them inside his coat with a thanks. “I’ll be leaving now.”
“Wait. Tell me your business in the Territory.”
“Getting across it.”
“No, I mean where were you going?” The reporter was hurrying alongside him.
“Kansas, unless they moved it.”
Thurman was really striding down the hall and hoping to lose this question-asking devil.
“Can you tell me—?”
“Go ask Charlie Chickenhead all your questions.”
The reporter frowned at him. “But he’s dead.”
“So am I. Good day, sir.”
Thurman took Mary to breakfast, and then they went to the Planters Bank. She waited in a chair in the lobby while he spoke to a big man in a fine brown suit in his office behind a frosted-glass door. Troy Donovan was his name, and he had the aloofness of most bankers Thurman had dealt with in the past. But the suit that Thurman wore made the banker less standoffish than if he’d come in there wearing his vaquero clothing.
“I have warrants for three hundred and fifty dollars from the federal court,” Thurman said. “I’ve been told that for a fee you would cash them for me when that money is available.”
“You know that can be as long as a year.”
“I know they are slow to pay.”
“Our usual fee for doing that is ten percent of the face value, or we can discount them for cash for thirty percent.”
“Seems like everyone in Fort Smith is in the discount business. No, I’ll do ten percent, Mr. Donovan, and you can hold it until I telegraph you where to send it.”
“Very well, sir. Do you have heirs?”
“Yes, my lawyer in San Antonio, Texas, Charles T. Watson, can handle that.”
Donovan wrote that down. “What else may I do for you today?”
Thurman shook his head. “That’s all.”
“If you will sign them over to the Planters Bank, I’ll handle the matter when the money comes in.”
“I can do that.”
“Excuse me. I’ll have my secretary write up a short agreement and then you can sign it, too, sir.”
In a few minutes, Donovan returned, and he showed Thurman the agreement for a ten percent fee. It all looked official and he signed both copies. Donovan did the same and gave him one of the copies.
When he shook the man’s hand, Thurman wondered if he’d ever see his money. His distrust of banks and bankers ran deep.
He gathered Mary and they went to the livery. The outlaws had less than thirty dollars cash on them when they’d turned their pockets out. So besides their black powder pistols and some crudely made knives, there wasn’t much besides the
ir old saddles and two common horses, a paint and a bay mare.
Sarge figured they’d bring ten, maybe fifteen dollars apiece.
“How old are your grandkids?” Thurman asked Sarge, with a notion on his mind about the horses’ disposal.
“The oldest boy is twelve.”
“You got a place to keep these horses?”
“Sure, I’ve got a small farm, but you want me to keep them for you?”
“No, I’m going to loan them to your grandchildren to keep.”
“Why, Cap’n, that’s about the nicest thing I can ever imagine.”
Mary hugged his arm and winked in approval.
He clapped his ex-noncom on the shoulder. “Tell ’em to ride and enjoy them.”
“Aw, hell—” Sarge sniffed. “That’s just wonderful.”
“We’ll be ready to go again before sunup.”
“I’ll have that mule harnessed and everything ready. Boy, I can’t wait to go home and show them ponies to the kids. Thanks, sir.”
“Thurman Baker, is this May or December?” Mary asked as they strode down Garrison Avenue.
“I hope it ain’t December. I’ve got a boy of my own to find before then.”
“His grandchildren are really going to think it is Christmas. Two horses and saddles. They made a fine gift.”
“I was real poor once myself. A man gave me a horse one time. Preacher Tom Clary was his name. She was a clumsy two-year-old. I broke her myself. My father got drunk in town one Saturday and sold her for five bucks.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve, thirteen. Him and I were never close after that.”
She put her cheek on his shoulder. “It was a nice way to heal that scar.”
“Scar?”
“Yes, the scar will always be there, but giving those horses healed it for you.”
“My profound Cherokee woman.” He shook his head in amazement. “I never thought of it that way.”
“What does that word ‘profound’ mean?”
“Means you have lots of insight into the ways of people’s minds and hearts.” When he glanced over at her, she looked embarrassed.
“Maybe I do. Maybe I do.”
They would leave again in the morning. This time there would be no Chickenhead lurking on the road.
What else would happen? He could drive cattle herds faster than he was going north. Then he considered Mary and nodded to himself—he was grateful for her.
FIFTEEN
ANTON Pleago ain’t to be found,” Art said, and dropped heavily in the chair in front of Herschel’s desk. “His Indian woman told me he’d left a couple of days ago. She had no idea where he went.”
“Anyone else know anything?” Herschel asked.
“No, I talked to several folks. They don’t know anything about where he went.”
“Phil’s doing some checking, too. He might have murdered Taunton yesterday.”
Art scowled at him. “Why do that?”
“He figured that Taunton would testify that he put them up knowing about their plans to rob the store. Doc thinks he smothered him with a pillow.”
“Any witnesses?”
“That’s what Phil’s doing. Trying to find someone who saw him in town about the time of the murder. Doc was gone to deliver a baby, his nurse was gone to see about a man hurt at the sawmill, and his housekeeper was off buying groceries. It would have have been easy to slip in and silence Taunton forever.”
Art shook his head in disgust. “We sure keep racking them up, don’t we?”
“Yes. I also learned that Hamby and Olsen were going to Page’s place to meet someone.”
“Where’s Page’s place?”
Herschel tented his fingers. “Damned if I know or can learn. It may be in that country east of the Soda Springs schoolhouse.”
“There any Pages on the tax rolls?”
Herschel shook his head. “I checked on that. Can’t find a thing by that name or anyone who’s heard of the name.”
“What next?”
“I wonder if Pleago knows where those other two are hid out.”
“You mean he might kill them, too?”
“No, I mean he might join them to get some money now he’s on the run, too.” Herschel pressed the side of his fingers to his mouth and used the two of them to punctuate his words. “One of us needs to go check out this Miles City deal, too. If Hatch is selling stolen beef over there, we need to stop that, and I believe those ranchers. He’s got them buffaloed.”
“Maybe I need to camp out up there.”
“Naw, he’s got too many lookouts. I couldn’t even confront him at the dance without him being warned. But at this party Hamby had at Sally’s, Olsen was with him. They said they had to ride hard to be at Page’s place and meet someone. The dove forgot the name of the man they were to meet.”
Art shook his head. “You learn the horse buyer’s name?”
“No, they ain’t been apart long enough to worry about what the other one said to me.”
“Strange thing that they were at the same place that those rustlers were. Who’d need some stolen horses anyway?” Art asked.
“The only way it would make sense was if you were going to do a robbery and didn’t want your horse recognized.”
“They didn’t steal those horses to give them away. They’re nice horses and worth some money in Canada.”
“Let’s suppose they were stopped by a party and told to go to that old ranch and wait ’cause there would be a buyer coming to meet them. Why else would they stop and get caught there? If I was going to Canada, I’d’ve kept on riding.
“I may go back there and talk to that cocky one. You take the rest of the day off. I’ll go up to Miles City on the stage in the morning. You’ll have to do my job and patrol the town tomorrow and until I get back.”
“Phil and I can handle it,” said Art.
“I know, but we’ll need to at least triple our force before the tracks gets close. I think Don Harold has his hands full up there.”
“You get lots of bad ones in those boomtowns. I’ll work on the Page situation while you’re in Miles City.”
“Thanks. I’m also going back to the dance Saturday. I promised the girls they could go, too.”
“Can’t never tell, that oldest one might find her a beau.”
“I don’t think her mother is ready for that.” Herschel chuckled.
Art shook his head. “They aren’t ever ready for that. See you when you get back.”
Herschel took his saddle along in case he needed it, and the stage driver, Rip, put it in the back under the tarp. It was early and two women were waiting. Rip had told him there was one more ticket holder coming. Then Rip checked his large pocket watch.
“He ain’t here in ten minutes, he can walk to Miles City. Go get a seat, Sheriff.”
Herschel thanked him. It was Wednesday, and he’d promised Marsha he’d be back by Friday night. No way he needed to miss that return. Besides, what could he get into in Miles City to hold him up? But simple trips had a habit of becoming complicated in his life.
The mother and daughter soon joined him in the front seat. They introduced themselves as Mrs. Carson and her daughter Magdeline. Magdeline was probably in her twenties. Her mother was gray-haired and a very well-preserved lady. Both women were dressed in very stylish outfits. They did not look like homesteaders.
“The driver said you were the sheriff here?” Mrs. Carson asked.
He doffed his hat again. “Yes, I’m going to Miles City to see about some criminal activity in that area.”
“Oh.”
“You ladies headed east?”
“Yes, we’re going to St. Louis.”
“Well, the train ride will be much easier than the stages.”
“We’re looking forward to it.”
Herschel agreed. A red-faced man who smelled of whiskey climbed up, looked them all over, and blinked at the sight of the two women. “Wall, ain’t’cha the prettiest
things in the land.”
“Mister, you’re drunk and if you want to ride to Miles City, you’ll be riding up there with Rip.”
He blinked his bleary eyes. “I paid for plassage.”
“Rip,” Herschel said out the window. “This gentleman can ride on top or stay here.”
Rip pulled him back. “You can ride the next stage, mister.”
“Why you—”
The drunk drew back, and Rip hit him with a right uppercut that drove him back on the porch, where he collapsed on his butt.
Ignoring him, Rip climbed in the box, undid the reins, and kicked the brake loose. A loud whistle and a “Heeyah” to the horses and they were off. It was an all-day trip, and Herschel sat back to enjoy the brief reprieve from the week of problems.
“You have a wife?” Mrs. Carson asked over the clatter of the wheels and the horses’ hooves pounding the road.
“Yes, a wife and three daughters.”
“Magdeline was to have been married a week ago. Her fiancé was killed in a mining accident a week before we arrived.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It has been a very exhausting three weeks.”
“I would imagine so.”
“He was such a nice young man. Came from a good family back home. I am certain his family is as distraught as we are.”
“Was it his mine?”
“He held an interest in it.”
“Well, ma’am, I hope you can find something to take your mind off it.”
“Thank you,” said Magdeline.
“Are there many Indian problems out here?” Mrs. Carson adjusted her full skirt in her lap.
“No, most of the troublemakers are on reservations or in prisons.”
“We found Idaho very wild. They no doubt have very little law enforcement.”
Herschel nodded. “Most places in the West don’t have enough tax base to support a large law enforcement effort.”
“I never thought about that.”
Mrs. Carson talked on about her life in St. Louis, her plans for Magdeline, and what all they must do when they arrived home. Magdeline wrung her hands in her lap, looking very uncomfortable, contributing nothing to the conversation.
When they switched horses at the next station, Rip spoke to him on the side. “Sorry, I didn’t notice he was that drunk.”
The Sundown Chaser Page 13
