The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  If one cowboy could tell a story like this, there’d always be a better one coming, and Herschel sat on his butt with Marsha beside him enjoying the humor.

  Curly was next. “You boys all heard of Charlie Goodnight. He was hiring hands one time for a drive, and this round-bottom boy came riding over on a dink. He got off the horse real clumsy, and a bunch of the hands lounging around wondered why he even came to apply.

  “He was carrying something in a tow sack under his arm, and he walked up to Goodnight like you approach a king. Charlie was a big old boy that could make you feel two inches tall anyway.

  “ ‘Sir. I want to be a drover on your drive.’

  “ ‘What’s your name?’

  “ ‘Laney Wayne.’

  “ ‘Laney Wayne, you ever been on a cattle drive before? ’

  “ ‘No, sir, but I sure want to make a hand.’

  “ ‘Your mother know you’re here?’

  “ ‘Yes, sir.’

  “ ‘What have you got under your arm?’

  “ ‘My fiddle.’

  “ ‘Can you play it?’

  “ ‘Yes, sir.’

  “That boy could really saw on the fiddle, and even had Goodnight tapping his boot toe. When it was over, Goodnight told him he was hired and to get a bedroll and a slicker.

  “That boy was plumb excited, jumping up and down how he was going to be a drover. Goodnight stopped him. ‘Laney Wayne, Lord sakes, I ain’t hiring you to be no drover. I’m hiring you to be the fiddler. You can make music in the camp every night. Cowboys will like that.’ ”

  The stories went on while Marsha served hot cinnamon raisin rolls that she’d made in her large Dutch oven. The girls served them, and drew lots of proposals to marry the men when they got big enough.

  Holding the plate of rolls out to one who asked, Nina shook her head at his offer. “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause I’m going to be taller than you are when I grow up.”

  The afternoon passed with lots more jokes and cutting up. One cowboy complained his belly hurt from laughing so much. He never drew any sympathy from the others. Finally, one of them went and got his guitar, and others went after mandolins and fiddles. Shortly, the singing began in earnest.

  The crowd grew, folks sitting down around the circle and enjoying the music. But it was Johnny Frank’s ballad “The Texas Cowboy” that brought them all into singing along.

  Oh, I’m a Texas cowboy and far away from home.

  If I get back to Texas I never more will roam.

  Montana is too cold for me and the winters are too long,

  Because before the roundups do begin, your money is all gone.

  And Johnny Frank knew all the words and sang the five verses. After he hit the last strum on his mail-order guitar, there was hardly a dry eye in the crowd.

  Herschel hugged Marsha’s shoulder as she worked at the table set up on the buckboard, making peach cobbler for the night’s festivities. “You’ve got a big crowd now. Lucky there weren’t that many here at cinnamon roll time,” he said.

  She smiled. “It’s sure been fun today.”

  Shultz edged in and under his breath announced, “Hatch and his bunch just arrived.”

  “Good,” Herschel said, seeing the big man riding a stout bay horse at the head of four other riders. Disregarding his wife’s words of caution, he walked out to intercept them.

  Hatch reined up the bay. “Well,” he said from behind the bushy beard. “How’s the fine sheriff of Billings?”

  “Doing well, Roscoe. Very well, but a friend of yours met a terrible fate two weeks or so ago.”

  “Oh, who was that?”

  “Wallace Hamby.”

  “You boys know a Wallace Hamby?” Hatch twisted in the saddle and looked at the others. They shook their heads and he turned back. “What’s this have to do with me, Sheriff?”

  “Someone shot Hamby in a deserted ranch house and then hauled his body over to dump it on the road.”

  “Did you ask those rustlers I heard that you captured over there about him?”

  “I did. They didn’t shoot him.”

  “What makes you so damn certain?”

  “Let’s say I know they didn’t shoot them.”

  “Why are you asking me?” Hatch held his fingers up toward his chest.

  “I thought you might know since he worked for you.”

  Hatch shrugged, gripping the saddle horn and rocking in his seat. “Did some day work for me was all.”

  “Folks say he worked for you.”

  “Did some day work for me, gawdamnit. I don’t know and don’t care what happened to him.” He started to rein his horse around Herschel.

  “See that you’re at the coroner’s hearing Tuesday—ten A.M. If not, I’ll come get you.”

  “That a damn threat?”

  “I don’t make threats, Hatch. But riding belly down over a horse back to Billings won’t be any picnic.”

  “You talk mighty big for a man without a posse or any backup.”

  “Hatch, if I come after you, I won’t need a posse and you’ll make the decision how you want to come back with me—dead or alive.”

  A cruel smile parted Hatch’s lips and the beard around his mouth. “Come on any day you want—to die.”

  “Don’t miss that hearing Tuesday.”

  Hatch laughed aloud. “Maybe, but don’t cry for me if I do.” Then he rode past.

  Three of the riders with Hatch were kids. They didn’t look at Herschel. The fourth man was a stranger with the cold look of a killer in his eyes when he rode on by. Dark complexion. He looked part Indian, with high cheekbones and too long black hair.

  “That’s Black Fox,” Bailey said, joining him. “He was the other thing I was going to tell you about.”

  Herschel watched them dismount on the far side of the grounds and hitch their horses to a picket line they put up between two pines. “Who’s he?”

  “A hired gun. They say he’s a son of Crazy Horse.”

  “He isn’t a full-blood.”

  Bailey shrugged. They were drawing a crowd. Shultz looked at Herschel. “Think he’ll be there? I mean at the hearing.”

  “I gave him an option.”

  Shultz nodded. But the music was over. Cowboys put up their instruments. The happy festival had sunk to near silence. Concerned-faced women herded their small children into their camps. Men guided their women back to their own wagons.

  Hatch’d only come there for one reason, to make these people even more afraid of him. Soon, there were folks hitching up and leaving before anything could get started. Herschel squatted by the buckboard. Where did his authority as sheriff stop? Could he go over where Hatch and his gang squatted and order them out of the school yard?

  What law had they broken? If they stepped over the line, he could move. What was that line?

  “Are we going to leave?” Kate asked.

  “No, honey.”

  “My best friend Claris and her family have left. Her daddy said there would be no dance tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do.”

  “It’s because of those five men, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  “They’re not breaking the law.”

  Tears streaked down Kate’s cheek. “If I was sheriff, I’d make them go home.”

  She turned and ran for the buckboard, shrugging off her mother when she tried to catch her.

  Shultz came to where he stood. “There’s five of us willing to back you. You want to go down there and force their hand?”

  “I appreciate that, but I can’t justify doing anything against them.”

  “They ran everyone off. Ruined the dance and supper—”

  “There’s not a law broken. Marsha will cook some food for us. Stay hitched.”

  The western sky dripped with a bloody sunset. Hatch and his men mounted up, laughing openly at their success. They
rode across the grounds. Then Hatch halted them a distance from Herschel’s camp, and the five men with Herschel squatted at the fire ignoring the riders.

  “Hell, this dance don’t look like any fun at all. Guess folks all got sick of the idea. Huh, Baker? Send me word when you have another one.” Hatch laughed and started to rein the bay to leave.

  “Tuesday. You be there.”

  “You know, you’re kind of amusing. Come up here and order me around single-handed, like you’re some big deal. One snap of my finger and you’re dead.”

  “Snap it then,” Herschel said. Cold streaks of lightning ran up both sides of his face.

  Hatch shook his head as if scoffing at him. “Not here. Not now. Another day, we’ll see. I want you to think on it. She could become a widow all over again.”

  Herschel didn’t bother to answer him. Those five men, including Shultz, might explode. They were poised to have it out with Hatch and his gang. He couldn’t have that happen. He watched Hatch’s bunch ride out in the red twilight, and soon they were gone.

  Kate ran out and hugged his arm. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I hated for all my friends to leave, but I don’t want them to hurt you.”

  He hugged her shoulder. “Those men won’t hurt me. I promise.”

  “Bailey, you peel potatoes, and some of you boys dice them up,” Marsha said. “Shultz, you cut biscuits. Kate will help you. Johnny Frank, get your guitar, we want some polka music. No sad songs either.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “He ain’t ruining our Saturday night,” Marsha said, putting on her apron. “Nina, you go around and tell any of the folks left that we’re having supper over here in an hour. Bring a dish or just come.”

  Herschel nodded at her and swelled a little with pride. She’d save a sorry day.

  After Nina made her announcements, folks came and brought their dishes. Some of the cowboys brought out tables to set things on. Blankets were spread and the main fire built up for light. More Dutch ovens appeared and the meal grew in size.

  In a short while, little girls danced and Nina convinced Herschel to play his harmonica with the others. “Old Dan Tucker” had a whiskered man sawing on a fiddle.

  “It turned out good.” Elsie said to him privately.

  “Marsha’s idea.”

  “We all knew the law was here.”

  “My hands were tied. They’d broken no laws.”

  She nodded. “And I’m going to tell all of them that left, if they don’t stand up to those bullies sooner or later, then they better leave Montana.”

  “Don’t be too hard on them. They had their wives and kids here.”

  She nodded and left him.

  Later that night, he woke up, coughing on smoke. He sat up hearing others shouting, “The schoolhouse is on fire.”

  Flames were already consuming the roof, cracking and souring in the air. There was no need to try to fight the fire. Whoever had set it had done too good a job.

  “You think Hatch came back and burned that schoolhouse?” Marsha asked him, wrapped in a blanket for a robe in the flaring light of the roaring fire.

  “I doubt I could prove it, but I’ll always believe he did it or had it done.”

  She hugged Herschel’s arm. “That son of a bitch.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SUNDAY morning, Thurman went to the stables that Buster had recommended, Pascal’s, and rented a horse. He tossed his saddle on a black horse that looked sound enough and cinched him up. The young man on duty was filling out a form.

  “Name?” he asked.

  “Thurman Baker.”

  “You any kin to the sheriff?”

  “I’ll have to ask him.” Thurman dropped the stirrup.

  “You kinda look like him. Maybe you’re a cousin. He sure rides a tough horse. I wouldn’t try that damn roan horse. He’s a tough sumbitch. Why, he’d put you in a pile in a minute.” The youth shook his head as if in awe.

  “Guess he likes the sheriff.”

  “I guess. You want to cross the Yellowstone, use the ferry.”

  “Can’t this old black swim?” Thurman teased.

  “That’s the boss’s orders.”

  “I won’t swim across the river.”

  “Good.”

  Thurman caught the bridle headstall and cheeked the horse’s head near his left knee when he swung aboard. No fancy riding that morning. Mary was washing clothing and diapers at Maude and Buster’s house. That way, Maude got to rock the baby since the restaurant was closed on Sunday. Buster had offered to take Thurman around, but Thurman knew the man was in pain from his stiffness and declined the offer.

  He discovered the assortment of folks living along the river. Tepees and tents and log dugouts pocked the area. One person even had a covered wagon box for a residence. Thurman found the ferryman half asleep, and the man looked put out that he had to crank the barge across the river.

  “Where you headed?” he asked.

  “Horse Creek.” That was where Buster said Thurman’s son and wife owned a ranch. He wanted to see the operation so he’d know what might keep Herschel from leaving Montana.

  “Hmm, you got business down there?” the old man asked.

  “Just looking.”

  “Quiet down there now. They had a helluva lot of trouble down there a year ago.” He used both hands on the reel and grunted with his efforts. “Tried to burn down the guy who’s sheriff now. Shot the last sheriff down there in a double cross. Lots of trouble.”

  “Quiet now?”

  “Oh, yeah, real quiet.”

  “Guess it would be a good place to settle, huh?”

  “Might be.”

  On the south bank, Thurman unloaded the black and remounted. “Thanks, see you later.”

  “Reckon you will if you want back across.” He made a hyenalike laugh.

  Thurman recalled hearing one like it at a circus in Austin once. He sent the black into an easy lope down the well-worn road. Later, he passed a crossroads store and saw folks all dressed up for church in buckboards and on horseback. With a tip of his hat to the ladies, he followed Buster’s instructions. Crossing the bridge that marked the north end of the ranch, he turned the horse off the road and struck the ridge to find a high point to view the country side.

  He hitched the black in a grove of pine trees, dug out his field glasses, and carefully cleaned the dust off the lenses with his handkerchief. Then he walked to the east side of the ridge to view the country that rolled off to the east—grass country for a cowman. Water and rich grass made beef.

  Then he caught movement and thought he heard someone shouting—it could have been ravens. In the glasses, he found a man afoot while driving a light team of horses hitched to a sled. It carried a freshly skinned beef carcass. Why butcher in the summer? Then he saw the woman coming behind him, whirling around looking in all directions, holding a rifle on her hip. He could read the turmoil on her hard-set face. It was a dangerous, desperate look that said she’d shoot to kill if she saw anyone.

  They disappeared into a draw, only to reappear with the man flailing the team with the reins and shouting obscenities at them that carried on the soft wind. He was running behind the horses to keep up. The woman was doing the same.

  Thurman wondered if he could see their destination by going to the end of the point. He made his way, keeping out of easy sight of anyone below. Finally, he could see the alfalfa and grass hayfield along the winding creek. Nearby were a neat log cabin house and several sheds and pens. Once or twice, he saw the woman in the lens as she moved between the buildings and obstacles down there with her ready rifle.

  In a short while, the man drove out with a team of big Belgium horses pulling a farm wagon with something tarped down in the back. Thurman took the road back toward the crossroads. He intended to follow the man and try to learn what would happen to the beef. Not in any hurry, he went back to the black, put the glasses up, and rode off the ridge long after the wagon had rumbled over the bridge headed for the crossroad
s.

  They were singing a hymn in the church when he got on the Billings road following the wagon’s tracks. No one else was around. Who’d ever think a man would steal a beef on Sunday?

  The tracks turned off onto a little-used lane. Thurman decided to take to a ridge on the right and see if he could find out where the wagon was going. Pushing the black through the brush, he caught a glimpse of something in the canyon. He rode the black over on the south side and hitched him, hoping his presence had not been discovered. Getting as close as he dared, he watched two men hauling blocks of ice out of a dugout and icing down the beef carcass in a newer wagon. Smart move. There was a windlass there, too. That was probably how they moved the carcass from one wagon to the other.

  The second wagon was hitched to a pair of large black shires. They would not be hard to locate. Soon, the men had the beef tarped down, and the man from Herschel’s ranch drove off in a big hurry. The other man closed up the dugout door and piled some things against it to keep it insulated. Then he drove the high-stepping team off to the north. Satisfied there would be no problem finding him and his big team, Thurman rode the black off the ridge and rode south again to see more of the country.

  The cat’s away, the mice will play. Did Herschel’s man know his boss was up north somewhere at a dance?

  They were still having church services when he rode on south this time, and in a few miles he discovered a sign. He reined up to read it. It indicated the boundary of the Crow reservation and warned that no alcoholic or spirited beverages were allowed.

  He could hear some moaning; at first, he thought it might be ravens in the distance. Then he decided that it was something else. An Indian wearing an unblocked black hat and two eagle feathers twirling on the back came around the bend riding a black piebald horse. He wore a fancy beaded vest and looked as solemn as any buck Thurman’d ever seen.

  Behind him came three white men, hands tied behind their backs with a reata tied around their necks daisy-chain fashion. They were barefoot, too. They stumbled along behind the Indian, moaning. Then a girl in her teens brought up the rear on a paint and leading two packhorses.

  Thurman nodded to the Indian, who reined up his horse.

  “You have prisoners?”