“I figured that. Only hoped we’d get lucky.” Herschel had searched around the site for a hopeful sign or clue.
“That his horse?” Barley asked, pointing to a sorrel across the creek who’d raised his head to study them.
“Sure is,” Cove said. “Where’s his saddle and bridle?”
“I have no idea.” Herschel shook his head in grim disgust. The puzzle grew greater by the hour. “We better go round him up.”
“He won’t be hard to catch. He’s running on three legs,” Barley said, feeding out some rope to make a loop.
The gelding held his right front hoof up, and obviously something was wrong with it. A dead cowboy, a crippled horse, a scribbled note, and a clearing sky—it all weighed heavy on Herschel’s conscience. They forded the rushing creek, hemmed up the cow pony, and dismounted to examine him.
Its hoof in his lap, Barley used his hunting knife to pry a stone out of the horse’s frog. He handed the sparkling object to Herschel. “See what it is?”
“An arrowhead. Unusual, ain’t it?” With a frown, he studied the sharp-edged rock that his deputy had handed him.
“I guess you can step on anything.”
Herschel turned the small chiseled stone over in his palm. “It’s a good one, too. The kind people like to collect.”
“Well, old sorrely here collected it all right.” Barley clapped the horse on the shoulder. “He should be all right. Little gimpy, but he can walk enough to follow us.”
“If he was mine, I’d pour some turpentine in that cut and burn it so he don’t take lockjaw,” Cove said, looking concerned.
“Good idea. We find some, we’ll do that. Let’s go look up at the tree again.” Herschel pocketed the arrowhead in his vest, stepped in the stirrup, and swung in the saddle.
“Indians around here use that kind?” He twisted around for Barley’s answer.
His deputy frowned and scowled at the notion. “I never seen one that exact color before.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Cove asked, booting his horse in between them.
“Means it might not be from around here.” Herschel knew he’d have to answer the next question, too.
How did it get up there and get in that horse’s foot? Good questions, no answers. He lifted his gaze to the tree limb and watched the wind swing the tail of the rope. The night before, Billy Hanks had left lots of things unsaid.
THREE
NEVER seen a thing, Sheriff.” Bert Ralston stood on the front stoop of his log cabin. He was bareheaded. The wind tossed his thin hair, and his gray-black chin beard stuck out like a billy goat’s. He held on to his red galluses and rocked on his brogan heels.
Herschel leaned over the saddle horn and stretched his back muscles. “You stay all night at the schoolhouse last night?”
“We camped up there.”
“Who all was there?”
“In our camp?”
It struck Herschel this man didn’t like being asked anything by the law. No matter, he’d get answers. “Who was there with you?”
“My boys, Tucker, Farrel, Jimmy, and girls, Effie and Wanda. My wife stayed here.”
“You see or hear anyone in the schoolhouse after the dance?”
“No.”
“Are the boys around?”
“Naw, they went off to trade for a dog. Left as soon as we got back. What you need from them?”
“Billy Hanks was hung last night less than a mile from that schoolhouse. Someone knows something about what happened. You have those boys stop by my office and see me the next time they’re in Billings. I want to talk to them about it.”
Ralston shook his head. “I can tell you now, they don’t know a damn thing about no hanging.”
“Ralston, I never said they did. But they might have heard something or seen something that night I need to know.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Thanks.” Herschel turned and nodded to Barley and Tipton. “We can make the Scopes place before dark if we ride hard.”
As they trotted their horses to cover ground, Tipton rode up close to him. “He wasn’t very friendly, was he?”
“Bert’s like most folks from back in the hills. Suspicious of any kind of law.”
“Where’s he from?” Tipton asked.
“Kentucky or Tennessee. I’m not sure.”
“Bunch of them kin to him, ain’t they?”
“Holisters and Treys are, I think, or at least I heard that somewhere.” He twisted to look for Barley, who was on his left. “Kin, ain’t they?”
“Some kind of kin.”
They reached the Scopes place and dropped off the ridge toward the smoke trailing out of a rusty stovepipe. The low-walled cabin was roofed with dirt and the new grass was green on top of it.
Herschel rode around the unpainted wagon and dismounted, hissing off the barking dogs that acted threatening.
An attractive young woman came to the doorway, drying her hands on a towel. Clare Scopes was perhaps sixteen. With a budding figure and a straight back, the dark-eyed girl was no doubt the center of attention of the young men at most dances.
“Hello. Your father home?”
“No, is something wrong?” she asked, looking at him and the other two on horseback.
“Yes, there is. Clare, Billy Hanks was murdered last night.”
Her face paled and she put her hand to the door facing to support herself. She blinked her long lashes in disbelief and shook her head. “Oh, no.”
Herschel bounded to her side at the sight of her distress. “We better go inside and you sit down. I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”
“Come in.” She turned, went to the gray table, and sat down. Chewing on her lower lip, she clasped both hands. Then, shaking her head, she drew out a kerchief from her dress pocket and began to sob.
“I had no idea.” Herschel felt helpless.
“Oh—” She indicated for him to take a seat. “Billy was such a nice—” Across the table from him, her eyes glistened in silver wetness as she raised her chin. “Billy wasn’t the kind a girl married—though he asked me—” Caught up in her sadness again, she chewed on her lower lip and shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, Sheriff, he could really polka.”
“Yes, he sure could. Why couldn’t you have married him?”
“Oh, he was like a wild mustang. He’d never settled down. Had no place. Could you imagine a bedroll for a house?” She swept the reddish-tinged hair back from her face. “Marriage to me means having a home, kids, and settling down.” Her dark eyes met his gaze. “Billy Hanks wasn’t cut out to be that kind.”
“I understand. Can you think why anyone would want to hang him?”
“Hang him—” Downcast and looking at her folded hands in her lap, she shook her head. “I have no earthly idea.”
“He never said anything last night about troubles he had or anything I can go on?”
“No.” With the corner of the handkerchief, she dabbed her eyes. “I’m no help.”
“Oh, you have been lots of help. I hate to leave you all upset. When will Ed be back? Soon?”
“Before dark. He just went to find a heifer he thought was close to calving.”
“Clare, if you think of anything or your dad does, get word to me. I want these killers brought in.”
“I will—oh, why Billy?”
“It problems me, too. No talk at the dance, no fights?”
“I didn’t hear a word. In fact, I thought at the time it was too peaceful. We all could see that storm coming in.”
“Tell Ed I said hi, and don’t forget to tell him I need anything he can add.”
When the men were on their way again, Barley asked, “She know anything?”
“Said Billy wasn’t the marrying kind.”
“One thing for sure, that girl’s sensible enough.” Barley grinned. “She’s sure a looker.”
“He wanted to marry her?” Tipton asked, booting his horse up with them.
“She said he asked he
r.”
“Last night?”
“Didn’t say—guess I’ll have to talk to everyone that was there.” Herschel rehashed the whole thing in his mind. It was like a box canyon for him, nowhere to go and no way to get out. But someone knew something. He’d keep asking till he found that individual.
“That’ll make a list as long as your arm,” Barley said. “What’s next?”
“I’ve got to set up an inquest. We all better ride for home. Thanks.”
“Want me to poke around some more tomorrow?” Barley asked.
“Yes, see Fred Danberry and then start making a list. After the funeral tomorrow, Cove, you better come by the courthouse. I’ll have the inquest at four.” He reached over and shook Barley’s hand, then Cove’s. “Thanks.”
The men nodded and separated. Barley rode off east and Cove went north. Herschel checked the setting sun. Be two hours getting home and seeing his wife and girls. Didn’t find a pony either. Maybe Nina and Sarah would forgive him. He put his boot heels to Cob.
FOUR
STAGE’S been robbed!” The out-of-breath youth collapsed against the door facing of Herschel’s office.
From his swivel chair, Herschel blinked in disbelief at the boy. What else would happen? Better get down there and see what he could do.
“What’s going on?” Deputy Phil Stevens asked from the doorway. Phil took care of the office and had been gone when the boy burst in.
With the gun belt around his waist, Herschel hitched the buckle. He looked up. “They’ve robbed the stage.”
“What do I need to do?” Phil asked.
“You may need to ramrod the hearing on Hanks’s death. Right now I better get down to the stage and see what happened.”
“They shot up Hoffman,” the boy said, some recovered.
“He was the shotgun guard,” Phil said.
Herschel nodded. “I’ll let you know what I think I better do. Young man, run down to the livery and get my roan horse, Cob. Afton will help you saddle him.”
“I sure will, Sheriff.”
“Wait.” Herschel stopped him. “Donnie Fellars, isn’t it?” At the boy’s nod, he continued. “That roan will sure enough buck, so if you ride him back, walk him.”
A crowd was gathered at the stagecoach half a block up Main Street. Herschel made his way to the front of the curious and nodded to the agent, Jim Brooks. “How’s Hoffman?”
“He may live. They got the bank shipment.”
Herschel nodded and looked around for the driver. “Where’s Argle?”
“He’s getting a drink. Needed one after all he’d been through. Said he’d be right back.”
“How much money did they get?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Lordy, they did get the right one this time.” Herschel tried to see over the crowd to look for the driver, who he hoped was returning. “He say how many holdup men?”
“Three.”
Herschel nodded and then faced the crowd, holding his arms up. “I’m sure we can catch the ones did this. Let’s all of you go about your business. The law can handle it.”
“You need anyone, Sheriff, a bunch of us sure would be happy to help,” a rancher he knew from over on Deer Creek said.
“Thanks, Slim. I’ll sure call on some of you if I do.”
Looking hard-eyed enough to fight a bull, and hatless with his too-long black hair in his face, Argle Bailey stalked across the street toward him. Bailey nodded to Herschel, opening and closing his hairy fists at his sides.
“Them devils done made me mad. No reason to shoot Hoffman.”
“They were masked?”
Argle nodded. “Flour sacks and wore dusters.”
“See their horses?”
“No.”
“Any wear spurs?”
Argle shook his head and then swept the errant long hair back. It was hopeless in the afternoon wind. “They even wore cloth gloves. ’Cept one swore a lot.”
“What did he say?”
“Sumabitch. Used it all the time.”
“He the leader?”
“No, a short fella spoke in a tough voice ran the show.”
“How tall was he?”
The driver raised his face and looked up at Herschel. “My size.”
“Must have planned it well.”
“Must have. Still, they never needed to shoot Hoffman.”
Herschel agreed with a nod. “Was the money in sacks?”
“Yeah, they emptied the strongbox in the road.”
“Any passengers?”
“Couple of drummers.”
“I want both of them to give a statement to my deputy Phil. Can you find them, Brooks?”
“I will.”
“Where did they hold you up?”
“Foot of the mountain. They were in the road and had us covered like they’d popped out of the ground.”
“I better go see if I can find any tracks. They sound like tough ones.”
“You ain’t taking a posse?” Argle blinked in disbelief.
“Places you need them, others you don’t.”
“They’re killers, Baker. Cold-blooded ones.”
Herschel acknowledged the warning with a nod. “I need help I’ll send word.”
The Fellars youth came leading Cob up the street. He jumped off, and Herschel paid him a dime, which he smiled at in his palm. “You need me, you just call, Sheriff.”
“I’ll do that. Argle, if they ain’t fled the country, I aim to find them.” He nodded to him and Brooks, then swung into the saddle. He motioned to the boy. “Donnie, you run up and tell my deputy to send word to my wife I may be late for supper.”
“Yes, sir.” And the youth was gone up the boardwalk in a flurry of dirty bare feet. His flight parted women and men as he dodged through them. The eager efforts brought a smile to Herschel’s lips. That boy’d do well when he grew up.
“Be careful,” Brooks shouted after Herschel when he reined the horse around to leave.
Herschel waved he’d heard the man’s warning and set Cob into a long lope. Highwaymen like this bunch sounded well organized. It would pay to be careful—but he needed to find them while the trail was fresh.
An hour later, he was at the robbery site, marked by the empty strongbox with its shot-up lock at the side of the road. He searched around the area of the crime. His gaze went to the hilltop roached in short pines. Had they gone that way to their horses? Nothing but rolling prairie for a long ways to the north, hardly a place to hide horses. Still, climbing the steep hillside would have been a task while carrying the loot. He dismounted, and soon found the obvious boot tracks. Uphill was the way they’d gone.
He stepped in the stirrup and started to ride up there. Cob cat-hopped over the steepest part, and when they reached the top, he let the roan catch its breath. Not twenty yards over the rim, he found the piles of horse apples where their ponies had stood. From the tracks, four horses had headed south. Herschel felt certain the fourth was a packhorse—carrying camp stuff, bedding, and probably the loot in the panniers.
The bandits were headed in the direction of the Wolf Mountains and Wyoming. Several undesirables lived down in that country—some small outfits in that region fed and boarded passersby overnight and never asked any questions. Lots of horse thieves threaded their way through that region. Many of the residents were suspected of being wanted someplace else themselves. From there, robbers could weave their way east into the sparsely settled lands of northwest Nebraska and then head south for the Indian Nation or Texas. It was the trail for the wanted—not a highway, but a more general route. Some called it the Owl Hoot Trail—lawmen called it an outlaw railroad.
With four hours of daylight left, he pushed Cob south-eastward. The Wyoming line did not bother him. They could argue that legality of their arrest from one of his jail cells as long as they wanted. And he still stood a good chance he might catch them this side of the border, especially if they were confident there would be little o
r no pursuit. Their horse tracks were clear, he only needed to check them once in a while. The stout roan under him could run all day. It was grain-fed and rock-hard. He let the roan run and, at once, flushed up some grouse from the sagebrush. Their loud burst into flight caused the big horse to shy, and he reined it back—never losing a stride.
With the sun firing in the west, he dropped off the ridge and eyed the pole corrals and low dirt-roofed outfit. The sunset cast long shadows of him and the hard-breathing Cob. The outlaws’ tracks led down there. He checked the gun on his hip. Been nice to have brought a long gun—but he’d never thought about it. This being sheriff business would teach a man a lot about going prepared if he lived long enough.
The horse between his knees was still breathing hard and snorting out his nose from the long run. Repeatedly bobbing his head, Cob danced some coming downhill, as if he knew more than his rider did about what this place might hold for them. His pace took on more of a high step, and only made Herschel that much more aware and uneasy.
The question any lawman faced in a situation like this was would they run, fight, or surrender. He’d considered all their options and since he had no backup, he decided to charge in and throw the devil to the wind. Lots of such criminals were simple enough out-of-work cowboys and in the face of authority surrendered. However, there could be some real hard cases down there. The next few minutes would sure tell.
When he was a hundred yards from the main building, someone came outside and used a hand to shield the last of the sun and look in his direction. The man could see who was coming off the hill, but maybe because it was one rider and not a posse, it might not throw as much suspicion.
“Sumabitch!” the man swore, and ducked inside.
That sounded like one of the robbers Argle had mentioned. The .44 in his fist, Herschel charged the roan for the cabin.
Three men spilled out of the doorway in a panic-filled retreat. The one in chaps stopped and began shooting at him. Mushroom smoke out of the muzzle obscured the man, and Cob shied when the hornetlike bullet sent up dust beside them. By then the shooter was headed for the cover of a shed after the other two in full retreat. Herschel drew up the horse enough to aim, then squeezed off a shot. The shooter went down, dragging his leg and crawling for his goal.
Montana Revenge Page 3
