He shook his head. “You’ll find one. You don’t know where they were headed, do you?” When he raised his gaze for the answer, she was chewing on a knuckle.
“The Swaggards,” she finally managed to say.
“Who are they?”
“They’re across the line in Wyoming on Dutch Crick.”
“Big hideout?”
“Oh, I ain’t sure. Old man makes whiskey.”
“Ever been there?”
“Once—I ain’t going back—” She shivered under the dress. “His boys were nasty to me.”
“I won’t ask you to, but how do I find it?”
“There’s a pretty good trail south of here. Them two struck it. Pa never liked that kind to come up here, so he usually wiped out any tracks.”
“He liked Ford?”
“Naw, he put up with him. Chub was always out of work, and Pa let him hang around and work for his meals. Chub brung Ford by a week or so ago.”
“Must have been after the robbery and killing.”
“Chub said Ford was down on his luck. Lots of cowboys out of work up here. Want more beans?” She stood and looked in his empty bowl.
“I don’t want to eat up all your food.”
“No worry.” She snatched the bowl and went for more on the stove. “Ain’t often I get a nice-talking sheriff to share my food with.”
“He left the loot from the last robbery behind was why he was broke.”
“Never mentioned that.” She put the bowl before him and slid the saltcellar over. “They can use some more.”
“If you can’t make it, come to Billings. You can find work there.”
“I ain’t working in one of them houses.” She looked affronted.
“I didn’t mean that. Folks need help. My friends have a café, and some lady may need a cook and housekeeper, or you could become a nanny.”
“That mean being a goat?”
“No, it means take care of children.” Amused at her question, he busied himself eating. “There’s work and a place in Billings, if it gets too rough out here.”
“Good. Pa went to Miles City looking for work. I hope he finds some.”
“So do I,” he said, bothered by the fact he’d never looked at the two dead robbers—didn’t even ask Art about their possible identity. Better keep that business to himself. “How many men are down at this Swaggard’s place?”
“Him, her, and two boys. They ain’t nice. . . .”
Herschel nodded, no need to make her upset. “Do they guard the place?”
“Yeah, they’ve always got guns standing around.”
“Good, I’m going to ride that way tonight.”
“Don’t get lost.”
“Been that before.” He chuckled and pushed the bowl toward her. “Thanks. I can pay for my food.”
“No, but I may be up there to see you if Pa don’t find no work.”
“Come on.”
“Go easy on Chub. He ain’t no bad guy. He ain’t too smart, and I figure he was just going along with them.” She looked pained at the end of her plea.
“I’ll remember that, Ida.”
“Thank you.” She hugged her arms to her budding chest and acted uneasy.
He went out, pulled up the cinch, and undid the reins. She leaned against the door facing and nodded in approval as twilight spread over the hills. “Good to meet you, Sheriff.”
Mounted, he checked the roan. “Yes, ma’am.” And he rode away.
He could hear the rooster crowing before he topped the ridge, reined up the weary roan, and looked down on the buildings and pens. All night long, he’d dismounted, lit matches to check the robbers’ tracks, and they’d led to this place. Close to the cabin, he spotted two hip-shot horses asleep on their feet in the gray of predawn. If it wasn’t the Swaggards’ place, he felt certain it was where the two stage robbers had ridden. The bay horses looked familiar enough to be theirs.
A ball-mouth hound began to bark. A woman came to the door loading a shotgun. Long black hair fell in her face when she raised the muzzle up and blasted away. Lucky she couldn’t see. The blast made lots of dust in the hillside below Herschel, and the roan shied. Herschel spun him around and sent him for the ridge.
“Don’t come back, either!” she shouted after him.
Beyond her shotgun’s range on the ridge, he stepped out of the saddle and jerked out Art’s rifle. Be hard to shoot a woman, but he had no time for her foolishness. Three or more hounds were baying around in front of the low-roofed cabin and no one was in sight.
He knelt down and took aim at the door. “This is the sheriff talking. Hands up and come outside.”
No answer.
He took aim at the shiny new washtub hanging on the side of the cabin. The first round made a loud report, and the drum of the bullet penetrating the bottom could be heard where he was standing above the cabin. “Can you hear me?”
She came out unarmed this time, waving her hands and fighting the stringy hair back from her face in the wind. “Don’t shoot no more. That’s brand-new.”
“Who else is down there?” Herschel shouted at her.
“Me and my boys.”
“Tell them to come out hands high.” Rifle ready, he started down the steep slope on his boot heels. “Where’s Ford and Chub?”
“Who?” She used her hand to keep the hair back and shade her eyes from the slanting sun.
“The men who rode those horses in.”
“Didn’t know them.”
“You always lie like that?” he asked, feeling on edge as he looked around for the boys’ appearance.
“They was my man’s friends.” She shook her head. “They needed fresh horses.”
Herschel nodded he’d heard her. “Them boys don’t get out here in an instant, I’m going in there shooting.”
“Pal and Eddie, get out here!” she shouted, and her screechy voice echoed off the buildings.
Two boys in their teens, half-asleep and in their faded red underwear, stumbled out the door and blinked in disbelief at the long gun in his hands.
“Who the hell’re you?” the younger-looking one asked. His blond hair stood up like a rooster’s comb.
“Sheriff he said,” the woman explained. “I told him them two took fresh horses and rode on.”
“They damn sure did. One took my best pony.”
“Steal it?” Herschel asked.
“Naw, but close. He only give Pa ten bucks apiece for them.”
“Where is your man?”
She turned up her palms. “He never tells me nothing.”
“You boys know where he’s at?”
“Pa don’t never sleep under a roof, mister. He may have his old buff gun pointed at your back right now.” The younger one gave a stupid grin at his silent brother.
“Aiding and abetting known outlaws is a serious offense. It can draw you some time up in Deer Lodge Pen.”
“How were we to know them was outlaws? They said they was out-of-work drovers and needed fresh horses,” the elder said, scratching himself. No wonder Ida hated them. They reminded Herschel of lazy curs rather than humans.
“You better remember what I’m telling you. Helping these owlhoots is going to fly back in your faces.”
In the rising sunlight, he wondered where Old Man Swaggard was at. Herschel didn’t have a warrant for him, but there must be one out there somewhere. Honest folks slept in beds every chance they got. If he ever got back to his office, he would check through the warrants for one.
No need to argue or flap his jaws at these three miserable hunks of humanity. He shook his head and started up the hill.
“Who’s going to fix my new washtub you shot all up?” she demanded from behind his back.
Halfway up the hill, he paused and looked back at them. “Next time, don’t try to gun me down.” Besides, he’d only put one hole in it.
She stomped her foot. “It was brand-new.”
“Such are the ways of war,” he said, and went o
n, not expecting anything out of them but their bad mouths.
At midday, he found a small crossroads store, bought two cans of airtights, one tomatoes and one peaches, and some corn for the horse. Outside on the porch, he punched a hole in the tomato can and drank the liquid out of the V-SHAPED hole. The sharp-tasting juice cut the dust out of his throat and quenched his thirst. Hitched at the nearby rack, Cob chomped on the whole corn.
“Traveling through?” the storekeeper asked, coming out the front door and using his jackknife to sliver off a slice from a tobacco plug.
“Looking for two stage robbers,” Herschel said, looking at the man.
“You the law?”
Herschel nodded and speared another tomato out of the can.
“I ain’t seen any strangers passing through.”
“Funny thing about that,” Herschel said when he finished chewing on the juicy fruit. “Their horses’ hoofprints are at the hitch rack where they stood tied.”
The man didn’t say anything for a long moment, then he turned to go inside. “Pays not to see things, if you like living.”
“Maybe,” Herschel said after him. He opened the peach can with his knife and made up his mind. On fresh horses, those two had a good lead on him, and all he was doing was finding their tracks and horse apples. He’d better toss in his hat on this chase and head back to Billings.
ELEVEN
HARDLY able to keep his eyes open, Herschel reached Billings long past midnight and checked on the jail. Wally shook his head at the sight of him. “Man, you had any sleep the past few days? You look terrible.”
“Very little. Feel the same way. I’m headed home to sleep for a week.”
“Good. Things are fine here. Go get some sleep.”
“Who were the two dead stage holdup men?”
“One was Newton Crowley. A nester over in that country.”
Even half-asleep, Herschel winced and leaned his shoulder against the door facing. Looking for work all right. Had they sent word to the girl? Damn. “Who else?”
“Randy Smith—out-of-work cowboy.”
“Has word been sent to Crowley’s daughter?”
Wally shook his head that he didn’t know. “Better ask the day fellas.”
“I will if I ever wake up.”
“Sweet dreams,” Wally said after him.
At last inside his barn, he took the saddle off, then led Cob outside and turned the stiff horse out in the lot to roll. There was feed and water there, too. He closed the gate and gazed at the two-story house in the starlight. Sure looked good.
He put his boot on the bottom step with effort and the back door flew open. “Thank God. You’re back.”
A smile cracked his sore sunburned lips. Wonderful to have a wife like Marsha. She tackled him around the waist and both about went down.
“My gosh, Hersch, I’ve been so worried about you.”
Then he realized how filthy he must be, three days of whiskers, scratched face, lots of dust and sweat. Who cared? Obviously not his wife. He stood on the back porch and rocked her back and forth in his arms and closed his weak eyelids.
“When did you eat last?”
“I don’t recall.” A huge yawn gaped his mouth wide open, and he threw his hand up to cover it.
“Why, you’re all scratched up.” She frowned at her discovery in the starlight.
“I’m fine. Wrestled a sagebrush or two was all.”
“I suppose you didn’t have any sleep, either?” She guided him inside the kitchen and lighted a lamp. “You want some food?”
“I can eat later.” He dropped in a chair and tried to clear his numb mind.
“Can you make it upstairs?”
“I made it this far. But I’m too filthy to lie in the bed.”
“No, you’re not. I can wash sheets.” She dipped some water out of the reservoir into a wash pan and brought it to him. “I’ll get some soap and a towel for you to wash your face and hands. But don’t worry about anything else—” She stopped and sucked in her breath. Then, with a knuckle to her mouth, she shook her head, about to cry. “I was so worried about you.”
“I’m home now.”
“Yes,” she said, and rushed over and hugged his head to her flat stomach. “And I’m thanking the Good Lord he sent you back to me, too.”
“I’ll be fine after some sleep.”
“Wash your hands and face, that will make you feel better and I’ll tuck you in.”
“Sure.”
She swept her robe under her legs and took a seat opposite him. “I know you can’t think right now, but do you want a boy or girl?”
Struck by her words, he felt something he’d never felt before. He was going to become a father. Didn’t seem right. Have his own child. He loved the girls like his own, but—he reached over and squeezed her hand.
“So it has five toes on each foot, I don’t care.”
“I’ll try to provide you with that.”
That was the last thing he recalled until he woke up in their bed. How long had he slept? Must be sundown, he decided, and threw his legs over the side. Combing his hair back with his fingers, he considered all he could remember. They had a baby coming. He needed to put out a new warrant on Chub and Ford. Get word to Ida about her father. And find Billy Hanks’s murderers.
“Ah, you’re awake,” Marsha said from the doorway. “Come down. I have ham, green beans, and potatoes cooked.”
“Fine. How are the girls?”
“All excited and ready to talk your head off.”
He nodded, putting on his shirt. “I’m ready to listen.”
“Oh, Art needs to talk to you when you can see him.”
“He here?”
“No, he’s at the office, but he said when you got up for you to eat and everything first. He could wait.”
Herschel scoured his whisker-edged mouth with his calloused hand and nodded. “Wonder what he’s got.”
“He never said.”
He pulled on his pants. “I better go assure those girls I’m here.”
She shook her head like she didn’t envy what lay ahead for him. “After you eat, I’ll have the hot water ready for you to take a bath. And fresh clothes for you to wear.”
“Why? These can stand in the corner by themselves.” They both laughed.
After his reunion with his girls, who were full of questions about his adventures, and the tasty meal, hot bath, and a shave, he headed for his office in the twilight. Stiff, he decided to walk the four blocks and loosen up.
Art sat behind Phil’s desk when Herschel entered, and threw his boots off the desktop. “Hello, stranger.”
“How’re things?”
“Pretty quiet.”
“Marsha said you needed to talk to me.”
Art had an angry set to his eyes as he threw the paper at him. “I may jerk that reporter through his own necktie.”
Herschel smiled at him. “Maybe he wants to be sheriff.” “That’s foul play. He says the sheriff took the opportunity in the midst of the crime to go on a hunting trip. So far, no word on the game he’s killed. But it may be snipes.”
“Art, I’m more worried about Casey Ford getting away than what this reporter writes about me.” He went to the window and looked at the busy street traffic below. “I also want Billy Hanks’s killers brought to justice.”
“He’s trying to turn the whole county against you.”
Herschel tried to appraise the anger written on Art’s face. “We know—” He thumped his own chest with his fingertips. “We’re doing the best job we know how to do. Now I need you to ride up tomorrow and tell a young lady her father is dead.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ida Crowley. She’s up there on a homestead all alone. Nice young lady. Hate that her father was shot, but that couldn’t be helped.”
“Draw me a map, maybe I can ride out some of my anger.”
“Sorry I’m sending you on my job.”
“No, no, that damn reporter�
��”
“Ease off, Art. He wants to get under our skin.”
“I’ll try.”
With pencil and paper, Herschel drew him a map to Ida’s homestead. “She may have the word by now. I suggested she come find work with a family here in Billings.”
Art nodded and after examining the map, folded and put it in his pocket. “I’ll go see about her.”
“Anything else?”
“Mayor’s heard some rumors. The Bar 9 cowboys are so upset about Hanks’s hanging that there may be trouble at this Sunday’s bronc fanning.”
“You and I better be there at the City Park Sunday,” he said to Art. “I’d give a lot to have a shred of evidence on that matter. Sometimes when tempers flare, so do mouths. You reckon anyone knows more than we do about it?”
Art narrowed his blue eyes and nodded with a grim set to his jaw. “The killers do. But I ain’t heard a word about who did it.”
“We will.” Herschel gazed at the open office door where Phil stood—waiting. “Yes?”
“Cove Tipton is here to see you.”
“Send him in.” He strode to the door and shook the rancher’s hand. “Cove, you know Art?”
The two shook hands and Art excused himself. “I’ll ride up there and tell her.”
Herschel nodded and showed Cove the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat. What do you know?”
“I came by to tell you there’s lots of talk about them Mannons and that horse under Billy’s saddle.”
Herschel nodded, taking a seat behind his desk. “They said he came home.”
“There’s folks think they did it all to cover the hanging.”
“Cove, thinking and proving are two different things.”
“I want to say there’s some bad feeling about it up my way.”
Herschel stiffened. “No one can take the law in their own hands. Montana has laws, judges, and juries. No more vigilante stuff. You even hear of any talk about it, you burn the saddle leather and get me.”
Cove nodded that he would. “You have any real leads?”
“No, but I will.” Herschel leaned back and the chair’s springs squeaked in protest. He tented his fingers and tapped his nose.
“Them Ralston boys told Sam Evans that Billy Hanks got what he deserved.”
Montana Revenge Page 9
