The Sundown Chaser

by Dusty Richards

  “Yeah, we’re weeks behind, and you can’t build railroads in deep snow.”

  Thurman nodded. He paid for his breakfast and walked outside picking his teeth. A bullet crashed in the front glass of the café and shattered it. He dove at the hooves of the horses tied at the hitch rack, and on the ground drew his gun. If they shot anything, it would be the horses.

  On hands and knees, he tried to locate the pair, but the upset horses were milling around until a walleyed one broke his reins and jerked loose. When the cow pony tore out into the street, it left a small opening and Thurman shot through it. His bullet cut down one of the gunman standing on the porch across the street. The other gunman hightailed it around the corner.

  “Who in the hell are they?” an irate man who stormed outside demanded to know.

  “Pistoleros.” Thurman ran across the street and then between the buildings into the alley. He could hear someone running over a stack of bottles. Where was he?

  Thurman sprinted down the alley and saw the pistolero round a corner. The gunman stopped and swung around to use his pistol. Thurman’s two shots took him out and he crumpled in a pile.

  Thurman walked over and found money in the man’s pocket. From the roll of bills, he took seventy-five dollars and when the out-of-breath marshal arrived, he handed him the rest of it. “That should fix the damages they caused.”

  “Who in the hell are you?”

  “My name’s Thurman. His name is Petrillo. He’s a hired gun from Mexico. He and Sanchez, the one around there on the porch, hail from the same village. They have been trying to kill me for two days. They shot my horse out from under me yesterday morning. I took out money for for the horse that they shot, and the rest is yours. Now I’m going to go have a glass of whiskey.”

  “Stick around town. Sheriff may want a hearing on this.”

  “He knows who I am.”

  “You heard me.”

  One of the onlookers that Thurman passed used his finger for a gun. “Bang. Bang. You dead.” Then he laughed. Thurman smiled. One less obstacle in his way to having a sane life again.

  In the Liberty Saloon, he bought a bottle of whiskey and went to a back table with two glasses. He sipped his first splash in the tumbler.

  A large man came in the batwing doors and looked around. The bartender nodded toward Thurman. The man walked up to the table. “You must be his old man.”

  “You must be the sheriff.”

  Sheriff Harold dropped in the opposite chair, and nodded when Thurman went to pour him some whiskey in the other glass.

  “Rich Mexicans. Had over four hundred bucks on them,” the lawman said.

  “I took seventy-five to buy a new horse. They shot mine.”

  “Hell—” Harold lowered his voice. “I thought you were up here on the rustling deal.”

  “I am. This was leftover baggage. Sorry it happened here.”

  “What did you learn? Anything new?”

  “They break down the beef at a place Hatch owns up the road. There’s enough hides up there with brands on them to send everyone away. But Herschel wants Thompson. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Big man. He runs a large corporate ranch up north on the Milk River. He’ll be hard to attach to the rustlers.”

  “Means he can hire sharp lawyers that will tie things up in court, right?”

  Harold nodded. “Talk rings around these county prosecutors.”

  “Then we better get things right. I’m going to wire Herschel to get ready to start out and hope we can get enough of them to testify against Thompson. When does the stage go back to Billings?”

  “Sometime this morning.”

  “I better be on it. What about those two?”

  “Foreigners. I don’t know what they were doing here anyway. Self-defense.” He raised his glass. “Tell him good luck.” He grinned at Thurman. “I damn sure see what tree Herschel came from.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Oh, and Thurman, you ever need work, you come look me up.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Thurman hurried to get his saddle and bought a stage ticket for Billings.

  It was close to ten o’clock that night when the stage arrived in Billings and Thurman climbed down. The cab was there, and the man who drove it nodded to him. “I’m here to take you home, sir.”

  Thurman put his saddle in the back and climbed in. “How are you doing tonight?”

  “Fine, sir. Very fine.”

  “So am I. So am I.”

  When they arrived at Herschel’s house, Mary rushed out to hug him, and he swung her around in the starlight.

  “I’m so glad you are all right. I had a bad dream that they shot your horse.”

  He set her down and looked hard into her face. “They did.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  HERSCHEL checked the packhorses and the diamond hitches with a lantern. He had one of the rustled horses, a big dun, saddled for Thurman. At the sound of other horses coming up the street in the dark, Herschel nodded at his father. “These men are all real posse men. They’ll back us in whatever we get into. I believe in them.

  “Art and Lem Pascal are going down to arrest the man on my place, Sonny Pharr. And try to find a man called Olsen, if he’s around up here.

  “Meanwhile, the rest of us’re going to arrest Roscoe Hatch and anyone with him. Once we secure him, we’re going to ride up to this place where Thompson is at and arrest him.”

  “What for?” Thurman asked.

  “Offering to buy stolen horses brought over a state line. It’s a federal law. My deputy U.S. marshal badge will be good anywhere.”

  “I guess we’re headed for Hatch’s place first?”

  “Yes. Black Feather and his bride are coming, too. He’s our tracker if we need him.”

  “You ever been to Hatch’s place?”

  “No, but I have a man’s been there, Bailey. He’s meeting us at Soda Springs.”

  Thurman nodded and reached back to hug Kate, who was there with her bucket and lamp to milk the cow. “Don’t let old Sukky kick you milking her.”

  “I won’t, Grandfather. You two be careful.”

  “We will,” Herschel assured her.

  They mounted up and rode out. Art and Lem went south. Herschel led the way north for the others.

  “Shultz, meet my dad,” Herschel said as they rode by dark houses and past a few with lights on in their sheds.

  “That’s John Frank over there, Shultz, and Curly Manning. Bailey said he’d join us at the schoolhouse site.”

  At mid-morning, they reached the burned-out school. There were half a dozen men, black-faced with soot, using wheelbarrows and scoop shovels to clean it all up. Herschel nodded at them in approval.

  “We’re going to have her ready by Saturday to start back up. Lumber’s coming.”

  “Keep it up, boys. I’ll try to be back by then. We’re going to arrest a few lawbreakers.”

  “Reckon we could ask who?”

  “Hatch and his whole gang. You know any more in his bunch, let me know.”

  “Aw, Sheriff, we’ll work twice as hard now.”

  He smiled and waved at them. Bailey came short-loping in on a good-looking bay horse to join them.

  “Follow me,” he said, and took the lead.

  They crossed the rolling grass country, the ridgetops bristled with pines. It was a vast land supporting lots of cattle that were shedding winter’s long hair and licking their sides.

  Late afternoon, Bailey drew them down. “Hatch’s spread is over this next rise. There’s several pens, sheds for them to hide in. The main house faces the south. We’ll have the sun to our back riding in.”

  “I don’t know how many are here,” Herschel said. “Those three kids we saw last weekend at the dance, they say, do the work around the place. They won’t fight. But they say Black Fox is up here. He’s a son of Crazy Horse. You know him, Black Feather?”

  The Crow shook his head.

  “T
ell your woman to stay here with the packhorses,” Herschel said to Black Feather. “The rest of you spread out at least fifteen feet or so apart. We’ll go in together like that. First one of them offers any resistance—open fire.” Herschel turned to his father. “What else? You’re the veteran.”

  “I like the plan. Daylight’s burning.”

  In position, Herschel waved them on. They went over the rise in formation, and soon looked down on the place. Halfway off the hill, Herschel saw someone shade his eyes against the slanting sun to look at them. Then he took off screaming and running for the house.

  “They’ve done seen us,” Curly said on Thurman’s right.

  Three of the outlaws rushed out of the house armed with rifles.

  Herschel held his men up. “I’m the law,” he called. “Put down those weapons and get your hands in the air. One deputy dies and you’ll all hang.”

  “Someone’s leaving,” Bailey pointed out.

  “We’ll get him. You’ve got till three to die. One—”

  The three obeyed, setting down their rifles.

  Thurman said, “Bailey and I want to go after the one that ran off.”

  Herschel nodded. “Watch him. It may be Hatch or that gunman Black Fox.”

  They swung wide of the ranch, and Bailey’s dun really turned on the power. On the next high point, they caught sight of the one who’d run off, but his horse was slowing and the man had to beat him to make him gallop.

  Bailey grinned. “He ain’t getting away.”

  He set his spurs to the dun and charged off again. He was three or four lengths ahead of Thurman when Bailey jerked out the rifle and stood in the stirrups to take aim. When he shot, the rider’s horse broke in two and went to bucking. He threw the rider off, and Thurman and Bailey raced up.

  Thurman pointed his pistol at the hatless ’breed holding his hands up. “Just stand there. I’m checking you for weapons.”

  “Where’s Hatch at?” Bailey asked the gunman.

  “How should I know?”

  Thurman took two knives and a pearl-handled six-gun off the man. He put them in his saddlebags. Bailey rounded up the man’s horse and brought him back.

  There were soon four rustlers in irons, and Curly found the hide pile in a shed. He stuck his head out the door. “Hell, boys, they’ve got brands from everywhere in here.”

  “None of them knows where Hatch is at,” Herschel said.

  “Maybe they don’t know,” Thurman said. “I sure don’t. You already said they were his dumb help, and that slant-eyed buck ain’t going to tell you shit.”

  “When they realize they are not only facing rustling charges, but murder, they may talk.”

  “We can check that place over by Miles City. It’s got lots of cowhides, too. But I don’t think he stays there.”

  “You think he may be up there at the ranch that Thompson runs?”

  “You’re headed that way, aren’t you? Thompson’s?”

  “That was going to be my next stop. I’m sending two men, John Frank and Curly, back with the prisoners using a wagon and a team they have here. We’ll need to load those hides as evidence.”

  “Sounds good,” Thurman said, then lowered his voice. “But you better chain that ’breed up good. He’s the cagy one.”

  “I think so, too. The rest of us will ride north in the morning.”

  “I took a fancy Smith and Weston pistol off Black Fox. I was going to say for you to give it to Bailey to keep. He’s the one that got Black Fox.”

  Herschel blinked. “What caliber?”

  “Damned if I know.” They walked over to his horse and took the revolver out.

  “.38-caliber Smith and Wesson.” Herschel spun on his boot heel and walked over to Black Fox.

  Herschel shoved the gun in his face. “This is the pistol that shot Wally Hamby.”

  “I wasn’t here then.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I was in Cuttbank in jail.”

  “I can check on that.”

  Black Fox shrugged.

  “Put them all in leg irons, too.” Herschel scowled at them. “I want the judge to hang ’em all.”

  One of the younger ones paled and looked ready to faint. Herschel stepped over and jerked him up by the shirt. “Did you kill Hamby?”

  “No. No. I wasn’t even there. I swear to God. Oh, mister, I never done no killing, I swear.”

  Herschel lifted him on his toes. “Then who killed him?”

  “Hatch, Olsen, they were there. But I swear to God, none of us were there.”

  “Was Thompson there?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  Herschel let him go and shook his head in disgust. “Load them in the wagon. In the morning, you can take them into jail.”

  Thurman caught him by the sleeve. “Who’s cooking supper?”

  Herschel clapped him on the shoulder. “I know you don’t need any practice at it.”

  They both laughed.

  They all pitched in and made a meal. It was past sundown when they finally sat down cross-legged on the ground, eating off tin plates in the fire’s glow. Herschel told Thurman and the others his plans.

  “John Frank and Curly are taking the prisoners back to jail in the morning. The rest of us are riding for this ranch that Thompson runs. That’ll cut us to five men. He might have an army on that payroll. Anyone wants out, speak up now.”

  No one said a word. He continued. “I’m arresting Thompson as a deputy U.S. marshal for being an accessory to rustling horses from Nebraska. I figure he has a bunch of tough lawyers that are going to fight it. But I hope to implicate him in Hamby’s murder at the same time.”

  “Can we get up there in a day?” Thurman asked.

  “We’re going to try.”

  Hard as they pushed, it took them two days. They arrived in late afternoon and with their rifles across their laps, they rode double file up the lane between the pole-rail fencing. The main house loomed larger than most hotels. Herschel had been seeing men running around as they approached.

  “Keep your wits about you, men. They may plan to resist us.”

  Thurman agreed, and looked over at the short cattle buyer riding beside him. “You do much of this kind of work?”

  “Only when he needs me.” Then Shultz shook his head like he’d been in better deals than this one.

  “Spread out,” Herschel said. And when they reached the yard, each posse member moved aside until they were stationed fifteen feet apart.

  A man in a starched white shirt came out on the high porch and looked them over. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “W. C. Thompson?” Herschel asked.

  Herschel noted there were now several ranch hands at the front of the house. Some were armed. They all looked hard at his posse.

  “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Herschel Baker and I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Thompson showed no emotion. “Oh, I know your boss, Chief Marshal Earl Martin, very well. I talked to him in Butte just a week or so ago. He never mentioned any charges being brought against me.”

  “Mr. Thompson. I’m here to arrest you, sir. Any resistance on your or your men’s part will be met with force by my posse.”

  “Come now, my good man. I’ll post a bond and be at the hearings whenever they are scheduled. I run a large operation here and my presence is very important to its economic soundness. I am certain you have not discussed this matter with your superiors. A twenty-thousand-dollar bond should be sufficient. I’ll—”

  “Thompson, you make one step to move and you’ll be dead.”

  “There’s no need for this show of force. I have several men you can see that could, on one word from me, shoot all of you.”

  “You wouldn’t live to talk about it.”

  “I suppose you intend to take me in irons to your jail?”

  “Yes, sir, we do.” Herschel stuck his rifle in his scabbard and dismounted. He took a pair of handcuffs out of his saddlebags and started
for the steps. He never looked aside at any of the ranch’s men on either side of the house. His full attention was on Thompson.

  When he reached the man, he took Thompson’s right hand and locked the bracelet on that wrist, then his left one.

  “I’ll have your badge for this,” Thompson snarled.

  Herschel ignored his threat. “If you want a jacket and a hat, say so now.”

  “I do.”

  “Tell someone to saddle you a horse, or you can ride belly down over a packhorse.”

  “You’ll never hear the end of this.”

  “One of you go saddle him a horse and bring it around,” Herschel said toward the ranch crew.

  An older man nodded and sent two others to do it.

  Herschel stepped aside, and then he went inside the door. From a wall rack, he took a fancy-tooled gun belt and holster with a pearl-handle Smith and Wesson pistol in it.

  “What are you doing? That’s my personal property,” said Thompson.

  Herschel removed the revolver and looked it over. “A .38, huh?”

  “You have no authority to take that.”

  “Why, Thompson, this gun will be evidence, sir.” Herschel patted his palm with the barrel. “Yes, you shot Wally Hamby with this very gun.”

  “You’re crazy. Mad. Why, I’ll have you incarcerated in the state mental hospital when this is over.”

  A butler brought Thompson’s suit coat and hat. He handed them to Herschel.

  “Wire my lawyer and tell him to meet me in Miles City,” Thompson said to the butler. “Tell him I have been arrested by a madman who is beyond reason. Wire the governor, too.”

  “What shall I tell him, sir?”

  “For him to order my immediate release from custody. What is your name again?”

  “Deputy Marshal Herschel Baker.”

  “You heard him!”

  Herschel guided Thompson down the steps. At the base, he stuck the hat on Thompson’s head and laid the coat over his arm. “You can put that on later.” He took the bridle from the cowboy who delivered the horse. “Get on.”

  When his prisoner was in the saddle, Herschel led him over and put a lariat around the horse’s neck, then mounted up. With a sharp farewell nod at the ranch hands, Herschel turned to leave. When Cob made his first step for the driveway, the skin under Herschel’s shirt collar crawled. Soon, he had Cob trotting and one by one, his posse filed out after him.