The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  Art shook his head in dismay. “That means they must butcher something every week.”

  “That’s fifty head of beef in a year’s time.”

  “That many beef, they ain’t getting them all out of that district up by the Soda Springs schoolhouse,” Phil said.

  “You’re right about that. They’ve got to be stealing them elsewhere, too.”

  The spring-loaded chair squeaked when Herschel leaned back in it and nodded. “But where?

  “How about those separated horse thieves?” Herschel asked next.

  “They ain’t said a word.”

  Herschel nodded. “I’m going to walk down there and try something.”

  “What’s that?” Art asked.

  “You two can listen in.”

  He strode through the jail, and when he approached Doff Porter’s cell, he cleared his throat. “Your old buddy Thompson said to say hi.”

  Porter, who was reading a dog-eared magazine, set it down and sat up. “What did that sumbitch say?”

  “Said he was sorry he couldn’t get them horses you brought him.”

  “That no-good outfit. He’d been there—where in the hell did you talk to him?”

  “I want to know all you know about him.”

  Porter stood and gripped the bars. “I guess he told you something else.”

  “Tell me your side of it.”

  “We were down in the Wolf Mountains staying in some trapper’s cabin about to starve. Thompson came down there and cut us a deal.”

  “What kind of a deal?”

  “Horses for cash.”

  “No questions asked?”

  “They could not be Montana horses.”

  “What else do you know about the man?”

  “Not a damn thing, except we found some horses that fit and brought them up.”

  “How did he know you were coming?”

  “We sent a letter to him a week before.”

  “Make you nervous waiting around before you rode up there?”

  Porter shook his head. “Hell, I was always nervous. There’s damn renegade Injuns down there in those mountains. It’s a tough place to be in by itself.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Got his mail in Beaver Creek.”

  “He have a first name?”

  “Yeah, initials W.C.. What’s he doing?”

  “Same old stuff as always.”

  “If that sumbitch had been there when we arrived like he promised and paid us, you’d not have us in here.”

  “Maybe he was busy killing someone that morning and couldn’t stay.”

  “You mean that slicker and hat business? Snyder said it was a bad sign.” Porter rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess we should have seen it as one.”

  Herschel nodded and turned on his heel. “Maybe so.”

  He held his finger up to silence the other two, and they went back to his office. Art went and looked at the street from the window. “This guy must be some crook.”

  “Beaver Creek’s over in the Milk River country,” Phil said.

  “That’s why we or the sheriff in Miles City don’t know him. I imagine his neighbors are missing cattle, too,” Art added.

  “More than likely. What was he doing with the horses?” Herschel asked.

  “He must have had a place in Canada to sell them.”

  Herschel wasn’t certain, but he wanted to know more about the man.

  “What do we do next, boss man?”

  “Art, why don’t you scout this W. C. Thompson out. Kinda drift in that country and out. Don’t make any moves against him. A day to ride up there and a couple days to look around for work, and then get back here.”

  Art nodded. “I don’t know many folks up there. That should work.”

  “The missus be all right for that long by herself?’ Herschel asked.

  With a dismissive nod, Art acted as if that was no problem.

  “Just look in on him. But watch your back. Where is Pleago?” Herschel asked them.

  “A guy told me he was slinking around town,” Phil said. “But I haven’t seen him.”

  “Does Doc think he suffocated Taunton?”

  Phil shrugged. “We don’t have any proof.”

  “He’s still around, let’s arrest him and try him for implication in the store robbery. He’s used up his time to leave.”

  They both nodded.

  “Billings would be better without him. But I don’t know what we’ll do when the railroad gets closer. They’re pouring in up there like a flood. Don Harold has so many prisoners that some are chained outside. We’ll need lots more deputies. Lots more, and Billings will need a police department. I’ll meet with the mayor and the county commissioners.” He shook his head, thinking about all the problems ahead.

  After lunch and a visit with Buster, he walked down to the Yellowstone River. He wanted to check on Black Feather and see if he’d returned. Also look for Pleago—if he was hiding, that might be the place—there were lots of ’breeds and riffraff around the shantytown. He stopped at Black Feather’s tepee, and his oldest wife came out with a small brown boy in tow to greet him.

  “Any word from him?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “No word.”

  “If he comes back, tell him to be sure to see me.”

  She agreed, and Herschel went on. He asked a young couple camped with a wagon if they knew Pleago. They didn’t, and wanted to know where there was some good land to homestead. They’d wintered in South Dakota and were still looking for the right place.

  After some suggestions for them, he moved on and stopped at a half dugout where an older man sat repairing a saddle. His beard was white and untrimmed. When he looked up and saw the badge, he nodded curtly.

  “Afternoon,” Herschel said and squatted down. “My name’s Baker and I’m the sheriff. I’m looking for a man named Pleago.”

  “He owes me two dollars. You find him, collect it.”

  “For what?”

  “I damn near rebuilt his old kack and he wouldn’t pay me a cent, said he had to sell some horses first.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two days ago. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since then.”

  “Say where he was going?”

  “No.” The old man shook his head and went back to his sewing. “He’s worthless.”

  “I know that. I told him to clear out and he ain’t done it, so he can serve some hard time. Anyone around here know any more about him?”

  “There’s a woman down there—” He never looked up while he was sewing. “He was staying there.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Grace. She’s in that covered wagon with no wheels under it down the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I won’t.”

  Herschel ambled down the ruts, spoke to a man making himself an ax handle. Said he’d busted out the old one and his old lady wasn’t cooking anymore until he fixed it.

  Beyond the wagon box, he found a buxom woman making a garden. She looked up from her planting. “Good day.”

  “The same to you, ma’am.”

  “You the law in this land?”

  “I am.”

  “Is it against the law to plant carrots?” She moved ahead a few feet, sowing her seeds in a shallow indent.

  “Only if you force some folks to eat them.”

  With a flip of the hair in her face, she laughed and started to straighten up. Standing straddle-legged, she waited for him to say something.

  “I’m looking for Anton Pleago.”

  “Well, he ain’t here.”

  “Any idea where he went?”

  She shook her head, still standing over the new row.

  “You see him, tell him to turn himself in.”

  “I won’t see him again.”

  “Is that so?”

  “He stole seventy-five cents from me. I won’t put up with thieves.”

&n
bsp; “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So don’t expect to find him around here, Sheriff.”

  “Thanks, ma’am.” He tipped his hat, satisfied he knew all she’d tell him.

  “My name’s Grace, too, not ma’am.”

  “I’ll try to remember that—Grace.”

  When he was back in his office, Phil came by and stuck his head in the door. “Anton may be out at the old Sutter place. Sandy Barr said he saw an old skinny horse out there this morning. Like the paint he rides.”

  “Get your horse and I’ll get mine. We can get out there before dark.”

  “Meet you in thirty minutes?” Phil asked.

  “I should be back with Cob by then.”

  He hurried to the house, and was saddling Cob when his middle daughter came running around the barn to confront him with her hands on her hips and blocking the doorway.

  “Didn’t your mother say no pony riding till the strawberries were weeded? Are you through weeding them, Nina?” He drew up the cinch and dropped the stirrup.

  “Last row. Where do you have to go?”

  “I have to go arrest a man.”

  “For what?”

  “Conspiracy.”

  “Where he going?” little Sarah whispered, joining her sister.

  “He’s going after a man that’s constipated,” Nina said.

  “No.” Herschel broke up laughing. “Con-spir-acy. It’s different.”

  “Anyway, you’re going after a man that broke the law, right?”

  “Who’s constipated?” Marsha asked, herding the girls back from the horse. “Cob is not your pony. Get over here. Will you be back for supper?”

  “I doubt it. We’re going down to the Sutter place looking for an outlaw. But I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

  “Be careful.”

  He nodded and outside the barn, he stepped in the saddle, threw her a kiss, and Cob went sideways ten feet. Nina ran a few feet toward him, waving her hat, shouting, “Buck, Cob, buck!”

  “Nina, get back here this instant. You want our daddy hurt?”

  She shook her head. “No, I just wanted to see him make a good ride.”

  Herschel rode off laughing, not convinced that he still wouldn’t have a show with his big roan until he was two blocks from his house. From there on, Cob settled down and went on to the courthouse in a fast swinging jog.

  The picture of Nina swinging her straw hat at him and Cob made Herschel grin. She’d be the real one to raise when she got into her teens.

  Maybe they’d settle this Pleago situation before dark. No telling.

  EIGHTEEN

  THURMAN and Mary drove into Pine Bluff, Nebraska, on the Texas Trail for the night. Thurman reined the mule up at the wagon yard and climbed down. Then, with his hands on his hips, he stretched his stiff back, “We’ll be in Cheyenne in a couple more days.”

  “Good,” she said, working her way over to his side of the rig to climb down.

  He lifted her off and set her on the ground. She smiled and laughed at him. “One day, you will fall down doing that.”

  “Oh, but you’d be on top.”

  “Not so funny either.” But despite her scolding, she had a hard time suppressing a grin. Her figure had really become large, showing off the baby she carried.

  It looked cloudy in the west, so he was anxious to hang up the fly. Late afternoon showers weren’t unusual coming off the Rockies.

  “Ask if they have cooking wood for sale,” she said as he went to check in.

  He nodded, and went to the weathered unpainted building that served as the office.

  “Howdy,” he said when the bell rang overhead above the door and a small gray-haired woman came up to the desk. “Staying one night.”

  She nodded and turned the register around. “Twenty-five cents.”

  “You have any firewood for sale?”

  “Yes, it’s around back. All split and ready for a cooking fire. You can have a big armload for ten cents.”

  “I’ll take twenty cents worth.”

  She smiled. “My grandson will like to know that. He cuts and splits it.”

  “You don’t get many freight wagons anymore, do you?”

  “No, but we still get some drovers and a few folks moving and like you on the go. Railroad got the rest.”

  “Thanks,” he said, then paid her and went outside.

  “They have firewood,” he said to Mary, and her face brightened.

  “Where will we camp?”

  “Back under those pines. I’ll hook up our fly. It may rain here soon.”

  “Good idea,” she said, walking along beside him.

  He strung a rope between two good-sized pines, and soon had the canvas slung over it. She was on her knees pounding in stakes to tie it down. By the time it was tied and tight, a small dust storm had gathered and thunder rolled across the western sky. With the crates, bedding, and his saddle under the tent, he went to unharness the mule.

  Small ice pellets began to peck on him, and the taut canvas shed hundreds of them. He tossed the harness inside, and quickly led the mule to the picket line with Buck. Then the hail increased in size and really began to beat on him. Under the tarp at last, he smiled at the concerned look she gave him while she was seated on one of the crates.

  “Just a little storm. Why, I saw hail in Kansas big as cannonballs.” He hugged her shoulders, grateful it was high enough in the center for him to stand up.

  Thunder rolled across the high prairie and rain began to replace the stones. But it was cold, too. In a short while, it would pass and all would be well.

  In the dim light, he saw her rubbing her swollen belly. “That guy getting close?”

  “I think so.”

  “Hold off three more days and we can have him in Cheyenne. There will be a doctor there.”

  “Indian women have babies all the time by themselves.”

  “I don’t want to take any chances. You’re pretty precious to me.” He stood by the open end and watched the sunlight begin to return to the rolling brown grassland. The storm moved northeast, and diamonds sparkled on every blade of grass.

  She came over and gently shoved her bulge against him. “Even as clumsy and awkward as I am?”

  “More so.”

  “Why did you leave your first wife?” Her face was nestled on his chest as he held her.

  “Probably the damn war.” He ran his upper teeth over his lower lip. “I came home beat, tired, and disgusted. I guess she was tired of running the place, and she acted jealous that I got to go and she had to stay there.” He dropped his head and shook it.

  “She had no idea. No idea of the hell there is in a war. It wasn’t the same when I got back. I’d never cheated on her in those four years. But when I came home, the bed was cold.

  “I found another woman who made me laugh. I couldn’t see things clear. I’d been drug through purgatory, and I felt I deserved to laugh and enjoy life. I even spoke to my wife of more children—she wanted no more. My time away from the place grew longer, buying and trading stock, and my drab gray days at home, where I guess she wanted me to do penance forever, became less and less.

  “I couldn’t explain it to the kids. So I left them debt free and a thousand dollars in the bank and I rode out for San Antonio. I left her a note saying I wouldn’t be back.”

  “That was a lot of money.”

  “Yes, but money won’t ever replace being there. In fact, I cut myself too short and soon fell on some hard times. Quicker than a jackrabbit can bounce up and run off, the woman I chose left me for another man with a pocketful of change.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “My first wife is buried on that place in Texas. The other one was working in a whorehouse in Denver last I heard about her.”

  She hugged him tighter. “You never found anyone else?”

  “To be quite honest—no. I wasn’t looking for you or any woman, but I’m glad you came along.” He gently rocked her in his arms. “I really am s
o pleased. I want this baby to be raised right. I want to have a life—a place of my own. When I find my son, I’ll marry you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  He closed his eyes and laid his cheek on the top of her head. “Yes, I do.”

  “I am glad that we laugh,” she said. “I never laughed after I married him. We were like spirits when he courted me, but after the honeymoon, he turned sour. I was his—his slave. He accused me of being unfaithful and beat me the week before my daughter was born.

  “He drank lots and treated me badly when he came home drunk. I lived under his shadow. He was also friends with Chickenhead. That was why I think he noticed me. I cried on my children’s grave, but I never shed a tear for him.”

  “Why pick me?”

  “I told you before, I have powers to see things. I knew that evening you came to buy supper, and took your hat off for an Indian woman, you were a good man—but I thought you might be married. I could see, too, that your heart was big and you had strong medicine. I couldn’t let him kill you.”

  “I owe you my life.”

  “Oh, you better go get that wood or we’ll starve to death.”

  He came back in the glow of the fiery sundown with the first armload. She was sitting on the ground on his bedroll cloth waiting for her wood.

  “How far is Billings?” she asked.

  “Maybe two weeks. You getting tired?”

  “No, me and the baby are fine. But I sure hope my carrying him on this trip doesn’t make him a restless person.”

  “I don’t think we’re restless. I think he should grow up and be serene.”

  “What is that sur—reen?”

  “Means like us—happy and content.”

  “I hope so.”

  He went back and got his second armload of cooking wood to take back. As he returned across the prairie, the lonesome whistle of a train moaned in the twilight and a dozen coyotes raised their heads and howled. Steel against nature. Things had changed so much in his lifetime, he could hardly believe it.

  Back in camp, he bound the firewood in smaller bundles with string while seated by her on the ground. The aroma of the smoke was much better than the cow chip fires they’d used coming across eastern Colorado.

  “Cheyenne is a big place?” she asked.

  “Oh, I think so. I was only there once and that was six years ago. I went through there to go to Deadwood and get rich.”