“This rifle is all I need.”
“Abby, get out here this instant,” the older woman shouted. “This lawman out here says Brigham killed a man and a woman up there.”
About to cry, she looked in disbelief at Smith. “You do that?”
“Of course not.”
“See?” she said. “You have the wrong man.”
“No, he was there all right when they cut that woman’s throat. If he didn’t cut her throat, then he held her so Casey Ford could.”
“Tell ’em it wasn’t you!”
Smith shrugged in defeat. “I guess they’ve got their minds made up.”
Herschel reached in and tightened the cuffs another notch so Smith couldn’t slip them. Then he jerked the big man up by his shirt collar. “Get moving.”
“Abby, Abby.” The older woman rushed over and drew her away. “They say he’s a killer.” The gray-headed woman tried to shield the sobbing girl from all of them.
“Mrs. Green, they ain’t got no authority here to arrest me. Have them stopped.”
“Ma’am,” Herschel said to her, shoving his prisoner toward Barley. “We ain’t asking no one for their authority. He’s going back and stand trial in Billings, Montana, for those murders.”
“Which one’s his horse?” Barley asked.
“The lineback dun,” Mrs. Green said, hugging and petting the hysterical Abby. “If he did that, you’re better off without him,” she told her daughter.
“But Momma—” Sobbing cut off her words, and she buried her face in the woman’s dress.
“I’ll go saddle him,” Barley said.
“Fine,” Herschel said. “How much of the money do you have left from the robbery?”
“I never—”
Herschel saw red and grabbed Smith by the shirtfront and shook him. “I asked you how much.”
“Don’t know. It’s in my saddlebags.”
Barley led the dun horse out of the corral and had heard the admission. “I’ll check on it.”
Mrs. Green set her daughter aside. Raw anger clouded the older woman’s face. Only Herschel stepping in and blocking her stopped her from getting at Smith.
“He did kill that woman and man—” She looked angry enough to fight a bear. Inches away from Herschel, she stood straight-backed, opening and closing her fists. She seethed to get by him.
“He’s going to be tried by the court. They’ll decide his fate. That ain’t our job.”
“Well, it won’t matter if it’s a boy or girl, that child will never carry your name,” she said to Smith, indicating Abby.
“Oh, Mother!” Abby cried out.
“The money was for us and the baby,” Smith shouted over his shoulder as Herschel guided him toward the saddled dun.
“Blood money!” Mrs. Green shouted behind him. “Filthy blood money!”
It was a long climb on foot up the steep hillside. Herschel led his prisoner on his dun. At the top, Herschel looked back and saw no sign of Mrs. Green or her obviously pregnant daughter.
Smith’s hands, in irons, grasped the horn as he looked back and shook his head. “Now she can marry that damn bishop like her mother wanted her to in the first place.”
Herschel’s entourage made Jarrow and Minnie’s place after dark.
“One of the three killers?” Jarrow asked as they dismounted in the light coming from the open doorway.
“One of the three,” Herschel said. “Could we buy some food?”
“Land sakes, it ain’t often we get celebrities around here. Famous lawmen and outlaws. I never seen him before.” Minnie peered out the doorway.
“Brigham Smith.” Herschel told him to sit on the ground while he loosened the girth on Cob.
“Guess the other two got away?” Jarrow asked, standing, arms folded by the lighted doorway.
Herschel looked at the man. That was obvious.
“There’ll be another day,” Barley said, and took the reins of the horses. “I’ll put them up.”
“Thanks,” Herschel said, then turned back to Jarrow. “Casey Ford’s using his nine lives up fast.”
“I imagine so. Come in. What part did Smith here play in the deal?”
“Ask him. He says he’s innocent.” Herschel took the prisoner by the arm and stood him up. “The man wants to know.”
“Ah, go to hell.”
“We may all go there, but you’ll be working the gate for us to get in.” Herschel guided him to the doorway. “Duck.” Then he seated him on a chair.
“Eggs, fried potatoes, and ham enough?” Minnie asked.
“Sounds wonderful,” Herschel said.
“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”
“We found him down the way.”
“Yeah, in Wyoming, where he didn’t have any authority,” Smith said loud enough that the world could hear him.
“Shut up,” Herschel said sharply. “I’ve got the authority all right.”
“Do you reckon he can get off on that?” Jarrow asked, looking Smith over.
“No, but a man in his position needs every small hope he can muster.”
Jarrow nodded slowly as if deep in thought. “Get much of the loot back?”
“Couple hundred dollars.” He fished the small notebook out of his vest and read from it. “Two hundred twenty-seven and some change.”
“Wonder what them other two got out of it.”
“Damned if I know, and Smith here ain’t saying.”
Seated at the table, Jarrow nodded. “I figure them Mormons will hire a big lawyer and get him off.”
“Anything can happen. He’ll be in jail until then.”
“Them Mormons do that.”
Herschel agreed for the sake of not having an argument with the man. Barley’s entrance was a welcome intrusion. Maybe they could get off the subject. He had grown tired of talking about it. All the past day he had wondered if he should have sent Smith back with Barley and gone after the other two.
He’d no doubt hear about it from the Herald.
“Food’s about ready,” Minnie said. “You taking his handcuffs off for him to eat?”
“If it would make you happy—” Herschel glanced over at her.
She shrugged. “No matter.”
“He can eat with them on, then.”
The clink of the chain between the cuffs accompanied the meal. Smith ate with the bracelets on like he’d done it all his life. No one in the room said much. Not even Jarrow, who sat and watched them.
“Good food,” Herschel said when finished. “The county will reimburse me for this food, so I’ll pay you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “In the morning you can pay me. I’ll have breakfast cooked before sunup. I know how you like to get to traveling.”
“Thanks,” Herschel said, and took his sullen prisoner out of the room. He headed him for the corral, where the bedrolls were stacked in the starlight.
“You try anything during the night and one of us will kill you. Savvy?”
Smith yawned. “Yeah, I understand.”
“Just don’t get to thinking we love you. We don’t.”
Barley took the first watch, and stirred Herschel in the night for his turn. He awoke heavy-eyed, sat up on his bedroll, and waved his deputy off to get some sleep. It reminded him of his trail-drive days. Only, he didn’t need to sit in the saddle and sing to cattle so that if the horse bumped into one, it didn’t use that as an excuse to stampede.
His back to the corral rails, seated cross-legged with the rifle over his lap, he looked at the snoring Smith in his bedroll at the side. No worry about the prisoner escaping. He yawned. Poor Marsha. She no doubt was beside herself with worry by this time. Don’t worry, won’t be long and we’ll be home.
NINETEEN
AT mid-afternoon on the second day after leaving the Bowen place, Herschel arrived at the courthouse. He dropped heavily from the saddle and his legs held him up, though he grasped the saddle horn with both hands for a moment to be certain. An itch in his w
hisker stubble caused him to smile—must look a mess. Be plenty of time to clean up later.
“Get down,” he said to his prisoner, and undid Cob’s girth. Absently, he went around Cob’s butt and ran right into the raging Smith’s face, his handcuffed hands reaching for him. They grasped Herschel’s vest and Smith began to shake him. Herschel’s right hand closed on the Colt’s wooden grip. Staggering backward, he tipped the six-gun out of the holster, raised the muzzle upward, and jammed it against Smith’s gut.
“You ready to die?”
Smith wilted—shook his head.
“Don’t try me,” Herschel said through his teeth, and drove the prisoner back against his dun horse. “I’d shoot you down in the wink of an eye. You killed a friend of mine.”
His face bleached white, Smith nodded and swallowed hard.
“Now get in that door and don’t be slow.”
“That one of Mike’s killers?” someone asked from the boardwalk.
He holstered the Colt. “Don’t get any ideas about a lynching. He’s standing trial for it.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that—”
“Good,” Herschel said, and propelled his man by the collar for the door.
Someone opened the door for them and when Herschel looked up, Phil was on the top of the stairs.
“You back, sir?”
“I hope so.” He smiled at the sight of his concerned-looking deputy, who came down the stairs two at a time.
“He the killer?” Phil looked Smith over and shook his head.
“He’s one of them. Two got away. Lock him up—oh, here’s the keys to the cuffs. How’s things going here?”
Phil took them and nodded. “Judge Conners is holding court. Art’s handling that.”
“I’ll ride home and check on Marsha and the kids.”
“Things are pretty quiet. Judge Watson ruled Tucker Ralston’s death as self-defense. Berry Kirk’s free.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, sir. Oh, yes, I asked Ida Crowley out for the schoolhouse dance Saturday night.”
“Nice young lady. She find work?”
“Nanny for the Thompsons.”
“Lock Smith up and don’t trust him.” Herschel gave the sullen-looking outlaw a hard glare.
“I won’t, sir.”
“See you don’t,” he said, and turned on his heel to leave.
“Sheriff, Sheriff Baker,” Ennis Stokes shouted, coming pell-mell down the stairs. “This the killer of that storekeeper and his wife?”
“That’s for a jury to decide. I’m tired and have no time for questions. See me tomorrow.”
“He can’t hold me,” Smith interrupted. “He arrested me in Wyoming. I’ll be loose in no time. He ain’t got any authority in Wyoming.”
“What do you say to that?” Ennis asked Herschel, taking down notes with his pencil.
“I say he’s in my jail and Judge Conners can decide the rest.”
“What about the others? The other gang members?”
“Stokes, it can wait.” He went outside to Cob. Weary beyond words, he drew up the cinch, took the roan’s rein to lead him, and headed for his house. A few hours sleep and he’d be better—he hoped, anyway. Barley should be home, too, by this time—sleeping.
Marsha came on the run at the sight of him. Trailed by the three girls, she raced from the garden with her skirt in hand. “You’re home at last. Kate, go stoke the stove. I’d bet he hasn’t eaten since—when?”
He dropped out of the saddle, gathered her in his arms, hugged her to his chest, and rocked her back and forth. “Days and days and days.” Then he laughed, and they all did, too.
He about fell asleep at the table eating her hastily prepared food.
“You need some sleep,” Marsha said, looking across the table at him.
“I’m filthy.”
“Sheets can be washed. Get up. We’re hauling you upstairs and tucking you in.”
“I feel so bad—” His mind was too numb to even argue.
Minutes later, he closed his eyes and slept.
Thunder woke him from a bad dream. From his sleep-blurred vision, he looked at the flash of lightning on the windowpane. Must be close to sundown. A strong rain had obviously swept into the country. The drum of the big drops with some hail on the roof told him that. Then, more thunder and flashes.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed. Better try to get cleaned up. A million things to do. No word on Billy Hanks’s killers, either. What did Barley tell him? The farther away in time you got from a crime, the harder it was to solve it.
“You awake?” Marsha asked, sticking her head in the doorway.
“I think so.”
“I’ve got hot water if you’re ready.”
“Lands, girl, I’m coming.”
The sound of the thunder shook the house and wind lashed it with waves of rain. “If we don’t blow away,” she said.
He shook his head. “I’m glad to be home.”
“So am I. Good to have you.” She led him downstairs and sent the girls to their bedroom so he could bathe. The kitchen soon was steamed from the hot water she poured in the copper tub.
“Phil brought me all the signatures and the printed words. None of them look like the printing on the note to me,” she said, scrubbing on his back with a brush.
“It was just a hunch. Who have I missed, I wonder?” Busy lathering himself in the hot water, he tried to think. Someone out there wrote that note. Damn, he wished he had more leads on the lynching.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. “You’re the one I was worried about.”
“Fine.” She swept the lock of hair back from her face. “I’ve done this birthing before.”
“Maybe you’ll have to coach me, then.”
“Some babies never seem to get here and when they do, you can always wish they’d taken longer.” She pursed her lips, then laughed. “Stop looking at me so serious. Serious is for the sheriff’s job.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled her around and kissed her. “How is the garden coming?”
“We’ll be shelling green peas in a week for supper. Will you be here to eat them fresh?”
He stopped and considered the question. “I may need to go to Nebraska.”
“So soon?”
“So soon. Casey Ford and Chub Travis were headed that way.”
“Can’t Art or one of the others go after them?”
He shook his head and started at the next roll of thunder. “Dang, the rain isn’t over yet.”
“No, it’s not.” With a pail of water she climbed on a chair, ready to douse him. “Rinse time.”
At the supper table, the girls had a thousand questions about his chase of Brigham Smith. He did his best to tell them all they needed to know—aside from Abby Green’s condition.
After supper, he and Marsha were alone on the porch. The rain had moved south and lightning still danced down there. The swing creaked and with Marsha under his arm, they simply enjoyed the reunion.
“How soon must you leave?”
“In a few days. Casey Ford may not stay long in that country. I can’t seem to learn where his roots are at.”
“This other outlaw?”
“Some old drover. No family I can learn about. Folks that like him say he never hurt no one.”
“How did he ever get hooked up with a killer like Ford?”
“No telling. Ford finds help like Newton Crowley. No one believed he’d ever rob a stage.”
“It’s the hard times, isn’t it?” She snuggled against him.
“Hard times don’t give you any rights to take to the owl-hoot trail.”
“Oh, I worry so much about you when you are gone.”
“Don’t.”
“I can’t help it.”
He bent over, lifted her chin, and kissed her. Kissed away all the worry he could and enjoyed the intimate moment. Casey Ford still had to be apprehended.
At seven the next morning, Herschel was behind his d
esk reading the Billings Herald.
Yesterday, Yellowstone County Sheriff Herschel Baker returned with one of the reported criminals in irons that perpetrated the bloody Deer Creek Store massacre that claimed the lives of Mike and Sara Melloncamp. The outlaw, whose name is Brigham Smith, is twenty-seven and a resident of Clay Bank, Wyoming. Mr. Smith claims that the sheriff illegally removed him from Wyoming Territory without the expressed consent of Wyoming officials, and hence has made an illegal arrest. He plans for his legal team to sue the sheriff and Yellowstone County for wrongdoing, violation of the U.S. Constitution and of his civil rights.
An ex-ranch foreman, Mr. Smith alleges that he was helping some families out with spring chores and hay cutting when arrested. He claims that he has not been in Montana in six months and has no idea why Sheriff Baker singled him out as a suspect in the cruel murder.
Sheriff Baker was not available for comment. The question stands. How does one gang of criminals keep attacking our citizens? The sheriff goes off on his own and leaves the entire county vulnerable to attack for days at a time. When he does return, he brings in some underling, like he did the last time. The Yellowstone County Republican and Democratic Parties plan to have large conventions this August, and each have reported they will field strong candidates to end Baker’s short term this coming November.
“There you are,” Mayor McKay said, storming into his office.
Herschel lowered the paper. “I see you didn’t do much good with this newspaper.”
“Oh, the Good Lord could not dissuade them. But you have one of the killers?”
“He’s back there if you want to talk to him.”
“Heavens, no. Now what about the others?”
“Down in the Nebraska panhandle, best I can tell.”
“Why are we getting all this bad publicity?”
“The Herald is egging it on.”
“What are you going to do about this outlaw leader?”
“I’d need two hundred and fifty dollars in expenses and I’ll go get him.” Herschel folded the paper and sat back. He’d see how strong McKay’s convictions were about ending Ford’s career.
“My God, man, that much money?” McKay paused, pulled on his beard, and frowned. “You say you can get Ford if you have the money?”
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