Montana Revenge

by Dusty Richards

  “You see something that can help us?”

  “Boy, I was drunk, Hersch, but I know I seen three riders and them leading off an extra horse down on the creek road after the dance.”

  “Where were they going?”

  “I studied on that.” He scratched his mussed-up hair. “Damn. I’ve been thinking how I knew one of them horses.”

  “One that they rode or led.”

  Danberry turned his calloused palms up in exasperation. “I just can’t say, but when I come to I saw that boy swinging by his neck, not thirty feet from me.

  “I got sick as can be ’cause I knowed them three had done that. Well, I heard a horse coming, so I crawled back in the willows. The rider cut him down and took him with him.”

  “You see who did that?”

  “No. But the body was gone when I came to again, and so was the rider.”

  “Was it raining then?”

  Danberry blinked his eyes and, downcast, shook his head. “Started after that—damn cold rain sobered me up some when it finally got there. Then that blasted lightning— it was a helluva bad night is all I can say.”

  “But you first saw three men ride off leading a spare horse, then when you came around again you saw Hanks hanging there?”

  “That’s what I saw.”

  Herschel leaned forward and looked hard at the man. “How did you see them in the dark?”

  “That lightning—she lit up everything for a long time before it rain.”

  “You hear them talk?”

  “Naw, I was down by the creek and they was on the hill.”

  “Cove Tipton cut him down.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

  “But you saw him ride up there?”

  “I saw somebody.”

  “Fred, you keep thinking, you recall that horse or a shape of their hats, I need to know.”

  “Never thought about a hat. I’m sure they had them on.”

  Herschel clapped him on the shoulder. “I appreciate what you told Barley and me. I want those killers. You think of anything else, you remember you get me or Barley word.”

  Danberry half-smiled at them and agreed. “I’ll do her.” He went back to slopping his hogs, who let out earsplitting screams fighting over space.

  When they rode out of Fred’s hearing, Barley asked. “What do you think?”

  “I think he may have seen them ride off.”

  “We may never know why or how they did it, but we do have a lead.”

  Herschel was studying the late afternoon sky. No clouds, a simple blue emptiness that spread from horizon to horizon. He finally nodded. “A drunk saw part of something. It’s a lead all right, but heavens, what a lead.”

  “Suppose it was the Mannons? I’ve heard lots of talk lately they ain’t telling it all.”

  “I figured that when they said the horse came in. Why didn’t they backtrack it?”

  Barley twisted in the saddle and glanced back. “I don’t know either. And the Ralston boys been brought up, too.”

  Herschel agreed. “What about Berry Kirk? He was into a fight down at Mike’s place today. And he has followers. Bunch of boys with him.”

  “I know him. He’s trouble all the time. Got a temper and gets into fights a lot. Who was he into it with this time?”

  “Wayne Farr, and it was supposedly over Farr’s younger sister. Seems like Kirk’s been flirting with her and Farr don’t like it.”

  Barley shook his head in disapproval. “One day, Kirk will get so mad and in his rage he’ll gun someone down. You going to use Danberry’s testimony at the grand jury?”

  Herschel shook his head. “They won’t put much stock in a drunk. I ain’t ready for a grand jury yet. Besides, all he said he saw were three riders and a spare horse. No names, no identification, nothing. He didn’t even recognize Cove as the one cut Hanks down either.”

  “But he said he saw someone ride up there.”

  Herschel rubbed his left palm on his pants leg and nodded slowly in deep concentration. “That’s why I want to believe he actually saw three riders. I know about Cove finding Hanks.”

  Close to sundown, Herschel came riding up the street leading Chico, a spotted Welsh pony wearing a youth saddle and a bright red Navajo blanket. Jailhouse expenses, court cases coming up against Hamilton and Raines over the grocery robbery, and another story in the Herald’s latest edition complaining that the Hanks lynching had not been solved and what was the sheriff doing about it. At the moment—he grinned to himself—not one damn thing. He had bigger fish to fry. A pony that Barley had traded for in his horse deals, well mannered, who liked people, was a present for the three girls to ride.

  “You found him!” Nina shouted as she burst out of the house, ran across the porch, and took the steps two at a time.

  Dismounted, Herschel sent a grin at his wife, drying her hands in the doorway. He captured the excited seven-year-old around the waist, swung her up into the saddle, and nodded to her—you’re there.

  “What’s his name?” she asked in an awed whisper.

  “Chico, and it’s a her.”

  Her blue eyes drew in tight lines and she looked sternly at him. “She’s ours?”

  “She’s all of yours.” He took the bridle from the horn and slipped the bit in her mouth, then handed the reins to Nina. “Go easy until you’re sure you can ride her.”

  Stiff as an ironing board, she nodded and pulled the mare around. Chico obeyed a step at a time, and then Nina gave it some rein. The chunky-built pony began to walk away, and a great “whew” escaped Nina’s lips. By this time, Herschel held Sarah in his left arm, Marsha clung on the right one, and Kate, shoes set apart, hands on her hips, was making a silent caustic appraisal of how her sister was handling the pony.

  “You are spoiling us to death,” Marsha said, looking up at him.

  “It was time somebody did.” Then he laughed.

  SEVEN

  A PENCIL stuck behind his ear and a small pad of paper in his left hand, the tiger reporter of the Herald stood with one shoe on the captain’s chair ready to collect another story. Ennis Stokes wore a cheap green-checkered suit, a collarless, once-white shirt he’d slept in, no socks, and his dusty shoe propped on the chair was coming apart at the sole. Maybe twenty-five years old, he had a mustache crop on his upper lip and his blue eyes surveyed the desk of the Yellowstone County sheriff.

  “What’s new on the hanging?”

  Herschel leaned back in the swivel chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t know, I haven’t read the latest edition of the Herald, my chief source of information.”

  Stokes raised his eyebrows from the pad in his left hand and paused. “Now, reporting is my business. You’re the law. You’re supposed to know about everything.” He waved the pencil around in a large circle.

  “I ain’t biting on that bait. The investigation of the lynching of Billy Hanks is ongoing. At such a time that we get sufficient evidence, we will have a grand jury hearing and at that hearing we will name the accused killer or killers.”

  “What are you doing about it?”

  “Interrogating everyone that was there.”

  “You mean, of course, those that attended the dance?”

  “And others that might lend any information on the murder.”

  “Do you expect any more lynchings?”

  “No. Do you know about any more that are planned?”

  Stokes frowned at him, then smiled knowingly. “I ain’t heard of any. What evidence do you have in the lynching?”

  “A shank of Boston hemp rope from a lariat that about ninety percent of the stockmen in Montana use.”

  “So stockmen hung him?”

  “Or they borrowed it from one.”

  “You gave out a list of things to stores and saloons this week.” Stokes fished through his paper looking for the information. “Yes, a pocketknife and a watch with D monogrammed on the silver case and a red horsehair fob on it.”

  “You seen a
ny of those items?”

  Stokes shook his head. “Don’t you figure that they will destroy them now you have a description out on them?”

  “I’m counting they can’t read.”

  “Did they rob him, then?”

  “He was missing those personal items. You can judge the rest.”

  “What about the stage robbers Casey Ford and Jim Riggs?”

  “We think they’ve gone to Nebraska and we’ve sent out wanted posters.”

  “Many people in Billings think you aren’t doing enough to combat crime in the county. What is your answer to that?”

  “This meeting is over. Thanks for dropping by. Have a nice day, Ennis.”

  “But I need to know—”

  “You heard the sheriff,” Art Spencer said, coming in the office. “The meeting is over.” He used his thumb to indicate the open door.

  “You know—the press can defeat you in the next election,” Stokes protested as Art herded him out and shut the door.

  His back to the door, Art shook his head. “You got more patience than I’d ever have with that sumbitch.”

  Herschel laughed and shook his head amused. “You have to admit he’s sure persistent.”

  “That ain’t the word I’d use.”

  “Well, we can look for some good spirited reporting in the next edition.”

  “Anyway, I got word a while ago that one of them stage robbers may be back.”

  “Which one?”

  “Casey Ford. Bartender friend of mine up in Miles City sent me word by Argle that Ford may be gathering a new gang.”

  “Any ideas where or how many?”

  “I figure he needs to find work or do another robbery pretty soon. You got back all the loot on the last one, save the little money they took off those drummers on the stage.”

  “Maybe I should drop down and pay Bertha a visit. She would probably know if they were around that country.”

  “But would she tell you anything?”

  “I doubt it. She’s mad and mean enough she might shoot me this time.” Herschel chuckled. “I really thought for a second I was dead that day looking down those two barrels of her Greener.”

  “Luck’s what I say. But this Ford must be pretty smart; bet you can’t catch him with a fast horse next time.”

  “Sounds like we better get ready for more trouble. One of us needs to ride that stage when it has money on it—” Herschel slammed the desk with his fist. “That’s it. Ford has an inside track somewhere and we need to know who it is.”

  “You’re saying?”

  “I’m saying someone is feeding him information when that money is on it. That stage runs every day with only mail sometimes, and the very day it has cash, Ford and his gang heist it.”

  “Maybe just luck.”

  “Too damn convenient. One of us better ride up to Miles City and talk to Sheriff Tommy Clarendon about setting a trap.”

  “Clarendon ain’t your biggest fan. He rides with them big ranchers up there.”

  “I know, but when it comes to crooks, the big outfits hate them.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “We better get to going on it. If Ford’s going to try something, then I’d like him to meet four armed lawmen.”

  “You want me to go up there and set it up?”

  “You better, I’d be too obvious. I figure Ford could see me a mile off and run.”

  Art agreed. “We put out the word that the money is on the stage, and then we replace the passengers after it leaves Miles City and take him when he tries to rob it.”

  “Let the banker do it like he usually does. I want to think the spy is in the organization, or whoever is passing out the word is in the middle. Could even be a deputy, I don’t know Clarendon’s men.”

  “Where do we fit in?”

  “Carson Station, we get on and ride it into Billings.”

  “What if they hold it up in Big Horn County?”

  “Clarendon can run them down.”

  Art laughed and then looked at Herschel hard. “This job doesn’t ever get to you, does it?”

  Herschel rose and nodded, hitched up his pants, and walked to the window that looked down on the street. “Art, I made up my mind when I got elected to slow down, be methodical, work things out. But it gets to me. Them two getting away might have been because of my bullheadedness.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I hate posses. They aren’t hardened riders. They aren’t lawmen.”

  He stared out the distorted glass window at the bull wagon plodding down the street. Several yokes of roan steers crawling like an ant army up the street. Even the loud swearing voices of the drivers carried to him in a faint way. “I hate we ain’t found Billy Hanks’s killers and that eats at me every waking hour. No, this job gets to me. I just have a good rein on my anger right now.”

  Art looked hard at him and nodded. “You damn sure do. Lots better than I have.”

  “Go up to Miles City and learn all you can. Set the trap and I’ll be ready to help you spring it.”

  Art agreed. “I think we may get him that way.”

  “You handle Clarendon the best you can.”

  Art chuckled, going out the door. “I’ll try your way.”

  While Art was gone to Miles City, Herschel planned to ride up and see Faye Ryan, the widow woman who never missed a dance and never missed seeing a thing either. “Phil, handle things. I’ll be gone a couple of hours.”

  “Ah, Sheriff, did you ask, ah, your—daughter Kate about lessons?”

  Herschel took his hat off the rack and smiled at the young man. “She said she’d be pleased to.”

  “Thanks—”

  “Anytime,” Herschel said, and went out the door. He took Cob out of the stall and went around in a circle before he could get his toe in the stirrup. At last in the seat, he spoke sharply to the gelding, who danced sideways for fifty feet up the empty street, drawing surprised looks from some ladies on the boardwalk. Cob’s foolishness somewhat resolved, Herschel sent him off in a long trot for Widow Ryan’s farm.

  The weather was warm and strong gusts came out of the south. His Stetson never threatened to leave his head, but after years of wearing one, Herschel had learned how to tilt his head a certain way to buff the eternal wind. Like how he reset the six-gun on his hip out of habit, time and again until he didn’t think about it.

  He rode off the rise, and could see the green cottonwood leaves around her white house and picket fence. She raised up in her garden and used a hand to shield the sun’s glare to see him. Then, with a nod, she headed for the end of the row, and he knew she was smiling.

  “Well, hope you aren’t out here to arrest me, High Sheriff,” she said from the gate, busy pulling off cotton gloves.

  He dismounted and wrapped the reins on the worn-smooth hitch rail. His gaze met her bright blue eyes and he shook his head. “Naw, Faye, I need information today. You stole anything lately or done anything immoral?”

  “Is it a sheriff’s job to enforce morality now?”

  “No, but it would make good gossip if I knew something on you.”

  The willowy woman in her forties laughed out loud, took his arm, and led him to the porch. “Now wouldn’t it. How’s that wife and those pretty girls?”

  “Best thing ever happened to an old cowboy.”

  “I agree, and they’re lucky to get such a fine man. Sit in the rocker and I’ll bring us out some tea and then we can talk sheriff business.” She paused in the open doorway. “You did come out to talk business, didn’t you?”

  He nodded, grim-faced. “Yes, ma’am. Billy Hanks.”

  “Yes,” she said, and chewed on her lower lip. “It crossed my mind when I saw you and that fine roan coming. He’s coming to ask me about Billy.”

  Herschel rubbed his palms on the top of his pants legs. “Get the tea. I’ve got some time.”

  “Oh, yes—I almost forgot my business.” She hurried off, and he studied the short grass beyond the yard
fence that was whipped and tossed by the growing wind. In the past few days, some small violets had begun to bloom in patches, and tiny yellow blossoms had also burst open to feed the bees hungry from winter. Mother Earth was healing over the bones and carcasses of the thousands of storm-lost cattle piled up in ravines. Losses that would bring an end to many big outfits, and some small ones, too.

  “I hope you like cream puffs,” she said, putting a dish of them in his hand as she moved the delicate china cup and saucer to the nail keg beside him.

  “Trying to bribe me?”

  She laughed, and the wind swept her long skirt around her high-button shoes in a hard rush. “I may blow away before I get this all ready. Sugar?”

  He nodded and winked at her.

  She used the small silver spoon to add sugar. “Cowboys never use sugar in their coffee, but drink my tea and they all need sugar.”

  “’Cause it’s handy,” Herschel said, and sat back in the rocker to try the pastry oozing with stiff cream filling. The first bite flooded his mouth with saliva. He closed his eyes to savor the flavor. “Wonderful.”

  With her blondish hair swept back from her face, she sat opposite him in the other rocker. “Have you arrested anyone for his murder yet?”

  “No, but I hoped you could give me a lead. Did he get into it with anyone up there?”

  She looked at the teacup in her hand and shook her head. “I’ve thought hard about it—since I heard the bad news. Something was strange about that night. We all knew it was going to storm, but the storm sat out there and growled like an old toothless dog for hours.”

  “Hanks never got into any kind of altercation that you saw—with anyone?”

  “No.” She shook her head warily.

  “I need to ask kind of a tough question.”

  She nodded for him to continue.

  “Hanks wasn’t having an affair with someone’s wife, was he?”

  “My, my—” She squeezed her chin and then shook her head. “No, but he was so good-looking and charming he could have. But I’d say no. Why?”

  “I think this horse-rustling business was a frame-up. I don’t buy it. I think he made someone mad over him flirting with their wife or girlfriend and they put him out of the way.”