The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  “I like him,” Marsha said.

  “I guess. He did make a big sacrifice to come up here and find me for whatever reason. He has shed some light, too, on that sorry Sonny Pharr.”

  “What are you going to do about him?”

  “Fire him and put him in jail. I trusted him as a man to take care of that ranch. I’m paying him good wages and he’s stealing from us. Guess I’ve been too busy worrying about other business beside my own.”

  “Now don’t go blaming yourself. I could have checked on it.”

  “You have enough to do here.”

  She went over and hugged him. “It ain’t where we were, it’s how we get out of this mess.”

  “Right. I need to break up this rustling ring and then get Pharr. I move before then, it will telegraph all the others to hide.”

  “Now that’s thinking.” She poured him some more coffee and dropped onto the chair beside him.

  “Dad said he’d go to Miles City and try to turn up this mysterious Thompson for me. They don’t know Dad, and Art and I are known over there. I hope that doesn’t take too many days. Then maybe we can close in on all of them.”

  “Good morning,” Marsha said as Mary came into the kitchen. “We can finish this later,” Marsha said to Herschel.

  “I hope I was not intruding,” said Mary. “I came to help. I guess all the wonderful smells of food woke me up.”

  “Let me hold the baby a minute. Oh, he is some boy.”

  “You didn’t interrupt anything,” Herschel said to Mary.

  Soon, Kate returned with the milk and Thurman. She was busting to tell them about her experience with Grandfather.

  Marsha gave Thurman a cup of coffee. Then he checked on Cheyenne, whom Hersch held now. Then he spoke to Mary and found a seat at the table. He shook his head. “You two may not know it, but you are blessed.”

  “What do you mean?” Marsha asked.

  “I have been offered a very generous deal by an old friend in south Texas to take over his large ranch. This is a big ranch. I figured at my age I needed someone to help me run it. So I decided to find my sons. I learned unfortunately we’d lost Travis, and I thought maybe, just maybe, I could coax Herschel and you all to come to south Texas.”

  He dropped his chin. “I saw a part of your ranch yesterday. Lovely place. A cowman’s dream.” Then he looked up at them. “This house is a mansion to me, only better. From Kate’s fine milk cow to all the love you have under this roof, I wouldn’t expect you to leave any of it.”

  “What will you do?” Marsha asked as the two women served breakfast.

  “Go back and take Old Man Hanson up on his offer to sell me the ranch. I have three fine vaqueros that have been close to me. They’re good boys. There’ll be others, I am certain. But if you and Hersch ever want to go where it never snows, there’s a place down there for all of you, too.”

  Mary nodded, looking pleased.

  “You aren’t leaving so soon, Grandfather?” Kate asked, taken aback.

  “No, your father and I have some business to do first.” He looked over at Herschel, who nodded in agreement.

  “Tell us about this ranch,” Marsha said, at last ready to sit down.

  “Well, I’m not certain of the number of sections he does own, but there are lots of them.” Thurman began to describe the setup.

  An hour later at Pascal’s Livery, Thurman and Herschel were looking over the horses that Lem, the owner, had for sale.

  “How well broke is that bald-face horse?” Thurman asked.

  “Oh, he’s not for sale. The sheriff will sell him in a few weeks. He was stolen, we figure,” said Lem.

  “Those rustlers are on their way to South Platte and trial,” said Herschel.

  “Is he well broke?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll bid on him.”

  “What for?” Herschel asked.

  “Kate needs a horse of her own. Besides, she’s too big for the pony.”

  “You’ll start a war.”

  “No, I’ll find Nina one, too.”

  Herschel shook his head. “I wouldn’t want Grandfather to leave either.”

  “Hmm, saddle up the bay and Hersch can try him,” said Thurman.

  “There you go again. I don’t need any experience riding him.”

  “Yeah, but you ride better than me.”

  Herschel shook his head warily and mounted the horse. The bay didn’t buck and he reined good. Looked sound. Thurman bought him and after shaking Lem’s hand, and hearing more praise of his son, he and Herschel went to the office.

  Herschel and Art made Thurman a list of the men they knew were involved in the rustling: Thompson, Hatch, and Olsen as well as four others—Black Fox and those boys with Hatch at the Soda Springs schoolhouse the past Saturday night.

  Thurman left for Miles City riding the new bay horse he called Rob. He’d told Mary he needed to get on over there and learn all he could about the rustlers. The sooner they were in jail, the sooner he could get on with his life and so could Herschel.

  It was late in the night when Thurman reached the bustling boomtown of Miles City. Herschel had given him the name of Deputy U.S. Marshal Otter Washington, who could tell Sheriff Harold what Thurman’s purpose was being there.

  Thurman decided to stay at the stables. He had his bedroll, and the hotels were no doubt bulging from the number of people he observed on the streets riding in. When Rob was put up, grained, and rubbed down, he went to look in the saloons. He had a whiskey in the first one, and couldn’t get over the mob. Smoke and lots of bathless souls made all the places reek. Business was so good that the working girls were charging five bucks a trick and getting all the business they could handle. In fact, most of them had lines of customers waiting. The faro and roulette wheels were churning with men waving money to get in. Looked like a gambler’s paradise—he found all of the places were busy.

  He realized that it would be hard to find any information in this mass of people. At last, he decided to get some sleep and try the next morning, when things were calmer, to find someone who knew something.

  In the hay, he slept with his six-gun handy. It wasn’t a sleep that ever reached a deep level. Drunks arguing in the barn woke him. He held the .44 in his fist until their anger melted or they went away. In the predawn, he woke and found a diner that served him a tasteless breakfast.

  Later, he learned from a bartender that Hatch had a place north of town, and was seeing some gal named Ruby who worked in the Liberty Saloon. Hatch’s place interested Thurman more than anything else. It was on Swan Creek north of town. He didn’t press the man for a whole lot more, and paid him a couple of dollars. That was too generous, but he hoped he was buying loyalty and the man wouldn’t report him to Hatch as asking a bunch of questions about him. It was enough of a lead to check out.

  He rode Rob out the road that the livery man told him would take him up there. At a crossroads store, he bought two cans of peaches and some jerky. He was spearing out halves from a can when the man who owned the place came out and took a chair beside him.

  “You’re new up here, ain’t’cha?” the thin man in the soiled apron asked.

  “Yeah, Roscoe lives up here someplace.”

  “You mean Roscoe Hatch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About a mile up there. But he ain’t home. Wednesday, he delivers in town.”

  “Guess he has a route?”

  “Damned if I know. He just delivers.”

  “He got a nice place up here?”

  “Naw, it’s the old Granberry place. He was some old worthless lazy guy from Missouri. Was going to lose it to the bank. Hatch bought it for a song.

  “You can’t miss it. There’s old running gear for a wagon that Granberry abandoned right by the lane goes in there.”

  “Thanks.”

  Keeping an eye out, he rode up the road, turned in seeing the fresh tracks of the big horses going toward town. He must have missed them on the way out. T
he house looked fallen in and unlived in. The stout-looking barn had obviously been built by someone else. The recent work on the fences showed someone had repaired them—patched would be a better word. He dismounted behind the barn and hitched Rob there in case someone showed up.

  He eased his way inside the barn, which smelled of hay for the horses and also had a copper smell of butchering. In the center of the barn was a windlass to hoist the carcasses up. In the dim light, he saw the long table with knives, a saw, and axes to break down carcasses. Then he noticed a stack of salted dry hides. He went over and checked them. Even in the dim light, he could see they all bore different brands—the butchers weren’t wasting a thing. Something like that would get them arrested.

  They got the meat on Sunday. Then, by Monday, they brought it here. Tuesday, they processed the carcass. Early Wednesday, they delivered it.

  How could he find this Thompson? Maybe next he needed to become a cattle buyer. They rubbed elbows with the big cattlemen. Thompson was not one of the common folks from all he knew about him. Shame that Hersch wasn’t here. He would have enjoyed discovering this place and the orderly operation.

  He rode Rob back toward town. In a long trot, he crossed the open rolling grassland. He needed to speak to this deputy U. S. marshal when he got back to town. Suddenly, there was the report of a rifle and Rob stumbled.

  Thurman kicked loose of the stirrups and spilled on the ground as the horse collapsed and bullets buzzed over him like mad hornets. On the ground, he scrambled around to use the grunting horse in life’s last throes as a shield. Two more bullets struck the animal. It sounded like hitting a ripe watermelon.

  The .44 in his hand, he wished for the rifle instead. If the fall hadn’t cracked the stock, it was pinned under the horse. Where was the shooter? No way that Hatch had discovered Thurman’s intentions. Those damn pistoleros.

  He closed his eyes and reached in his shirt to look at the good-luck charm Mary had given him the first night. Maybe it had saved him. This went back to the night he had taken the pistoleros’ boots and horses. He should have killed them then and there. It wasn’t his way, but in the end, it might cost him his life. They must be somewhere around those box elders in the draw.

  He took his hat off and set it aside. It would be hours until dark. Let them think they’d got him. It was the only plan. Or if someone came by, that might scare them off. He needed patience. Let them do the impulsive thing.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ART burst into the office. “Black Feather is coming up Main Street.”

  Herschel frowned at his deputy. “What took him so damn long? Dad saw him on the road down there Sunday.”

  “I guess he was still on his honeymoon.”

  Herschel shook his head and hurried down the stairs. He and Art stood on the street corner, and could see the black hat on the rider aboard a big black piebald. Folks on the boardwalk were clapping their hands, and the prisoners, wearing the ropes for collars, looked haggard.

  Herschel saw that one of the prisoners was Anton. He should have left the county.

  “Oh, thank God,” the first prisoner said, looking at Herschel. “Why in hell’s name didn’t you come up there and get us? We’d give up, I swear.”

  “Maybe you learned a lesson,” Herschel said, nodding at Black Feather. “You did well.”

  “I come back to get my money.” He tossed the end of the reata at Herschel.

  “You did very well.”

  “You need me, you know where I live.” He and the young woman leading the packhorses went off at a trot for the river.

  Art and Herschel herded the footsore prisoners toward the courthouse. In a short while, they were in cells.

  “I better go collect Black Feather’s reward,” Herschel said. “He’ll be needing it to feed his women.”

  Phil was back from the land office upstairs. “That land where that dugout full of ice is belongs to a W. C. Thompson.”

  “You talk to those Danes—Olsen’s a Dane, isn’t he? There’s several of them that cut river ice. No, I mean the one that’s involved with Hatch. He’s the one drives the big horses now that Hamby is dead.”

  “He’s the one that also warned Hatch you were up there, too,” Art said.

  “I know. I’ve been thinking about him. It was why he wasn’t at the dance this past Saturday. He was waiting for the beef delivery at the dugout.”

  “Wasn’t he the one you told us had cut out some heifers?” Phil asked.

  “Yes, he was. We need to go find him and bring him in. He might tell us all we need to know.”

  “He ain’t up at the dugout. But it’s half full of ice,” Phil said.

  “You know, Thompson planned this for some time. That ice was cut last winter and put in there.” Herschel felt certain that Olsen might have arranged for the ice to be stored up there.

  “Olsen sure could have handled getting that done,” said Phil.

  “Where do we find him?” Herschel asked them.

  “Miles City?” Art suggested.

  “That’s too wild a place right now. Anyone know if Hatch’s ranch is in this county?”

  “I can go check on the records,” Phil said. “It would be east of Soda Springs school?”

  “Yes. Roscoe Hatch.”

  “What’ll that do?” Art asked.

  “We’ll get a search warrant if he’s got a place in our jurisdiction. Maybe we can find some evidence.”

  “Won’t that warn the others?” Art asked.

  “Once we start, we’ll keep on going. Jurisdiction or none.”

  “What about your father?”

  “It won’t take him long. I expect a report anytime.”

  “What else do we need to do?” Phil asked.

  Herschel went to the window and looked down at the street. “Let’s start a list of men to ask to go with us. Men we want for posse members. That way, when we move they’ll be ready. Art, we’ll need two men to marshal the town in our absence. Darby, the new man, can man the desk and keep things going here on a temporary basis. I want this sweep made in three days, not over four.

  “Every man needs a bedroll and a stout horse. We’ll need camp gear and food. Two packhorses, and not plugs, they’ve got to move. Two men can go down and arrest Sonny Pharr and Olsen if he’s up here. Then the rest will raid Hatch’s, and by then I hope we know where Thompson’s at. When we’re done, I want them all behind bars with cases that will stick.

  “It’s time we ended this rustling and bullying.”

  His men went off to get to work. Herschel went to talk to Lem Pascal about joining the posse.

  “I was wondering when you’d have enough of Hatch,” Lem said as they sat in his office, which reeked of neat’s-foot oil and grain.

  “Law’s funny. You need evidence or a confession. I have two sworn confessions tying Thompson to the stolen horses. But with a smart lawyer, you might not get two feet in court with ’em. I want them all looking out of bars.”

  “You think you have enough now?”

  “Yes, and when they start talking, it will take a dam to hold them back.”

  “I’ll be packed and ready.”

  “I’ll be looking for a telegram and then we can go.”

  They shook hands and Herschel went back to his office. Nothing from his father.

  Phil found three sections in the east that were listed as Roscoe Hatch’s. That was enough to encourage Herschel. He felt things soon would be under way.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THURMAN was sitting near his dead horse when out of the north two cowboys came rattling up in a large farm wagon pulled by two black draft horses.

  “What happened to your horse, mister?” the driver asked, reining up his team.

  “Someone didn’t like him,” Thurman said. “I’d sure appreciate a ride into town.”

  “Throw your kack on. Is the guy that shot it gone?” The driver and his sidekick were looking all around.

  “Yeah, they quit me about an hour ago,” Th
urman said.

  “They want you or the horse?”

  “I think they wanted me, but they were up in those bushes and that’s too far for their rifle.”

  “I see what you mean. I take it they didn’t want to get close to you.”

  “I guess.” He tossed his gear on the wagon and climbed in the back. These two must be going for supplies. He found a seat on the floor and took the rocking on the springless wagon as the team trotted southward.

  “Guess you’re going to Miles City?” the driver shouted back.

  “That’s fine.”

  When the wagon stopped on top of a hill to give the horses a breather, Thurman and the cowboys climbed down to get the kinks out. Shaking his stiff legs and stretching, the driver asked, “You the law?”

  “Just a cow buyer,” Thurman said.

  “I never knowed anyone get mad enough to shoot one of you fellars.”

  “We all have our enemies.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Lost their nerve, I guess. And rode on. Or they figured I was dead and left.”

  “So that I don’t ever insult them shooters, what’s their names.”

  Thurman shook his head. “It don’t matter.”

  “Could I ask what you’re going to do about it?”

  “Send ’em to Hell.”

  “Yes, sir. Good place for them. Let’s load up. I need a drink—bad.”

  So did Thurman. In fact, his teeth were about to float away for one.

  It was past dark when Thurman sent Herschel a telegram.

  FOUND HIDES STOP NOT FOUND T STOP THURMAN

  He went back to the livery and slept a few hours in the hay. Then, brushing out his clothing, he went in the predawn for breakfast. Nothing defined a man as dirt poor as looking like he’d slept in a haystack the night before. He had early breakfast at a café filled with construction men, and he shared a table with two railroaders, a conductor and a brakeman.

  “Railroad’s coming along?” he asked.

  “Slow. The demand for new rails everywhere has them in short supply.”

  “Hard to get, huh?”