Montana Revenge

by Dusty Richards

  “How’s it going today?” he asked.

  Herschel stepped down and gave Toby the reins. “You mind getting down?”

  The man looked at both of them. “No, what’s wrong?” He blinked and looked hard as if disturbed by the request. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “It ain’t you.”

  “Oh.” And he bailed off and stuck the roll-your-own cigarette in his lips. “What is it—” He was trying to strike a light when Herschel reached out and stayed his hand.

  “We have some bad news. Is that new soddy back there yours?”

  “Something wrong with my Dorie—” His eyes opened wide.

  With the man’s hand still in his grasp, Herschel nodded. “Yes, she was murdered yesterday.”

  “Oh. My God, no!” The man fell to his knees and began bawling like a baby.

  Pale-faced, Toby stood by holding the horses, and shared a pained look with Herschel, then joined him in the search for some words of comfort for the distraught husband.

  “We gave her a Christian burial.”

  “Oh, no,” the man cried out. “Why my Dorie—”

  “Mister, I’m sorry, but did you pass two men on this road?”

  “Yes, after I left Edwards.”

  “That a town?”

  “Got a bar, store, and wagon yard.”

  “Good. They’ll stop there,” Herschel said.

  “Went after some handles for my cultivator.” The man snuffed his nose and wiped the free tears off his cheeks onto his sleeve. “I was only gone a day.” Then his eyes turned to coal. “Them two kill her?”

  Herschel nodded. “Why do you ask?”

  “I gave them the makings not two hours ago. Said they was out and said that they’d waved at Dorie riding by yesterday—sonsabitches.”

  “You can leave Brown and Frenchy to us. We’ll get them. Go home and cultivate your corn. It’ll help take your mind off the loss of her.”

  “He your deputy?”

  Herschel looked over at Toby and considered him. “Yes, he’s my deputy.” He’d give Toby a chance.

  The man staggered to his feet. “Guess I owe you two.”

  “No, but we need to get after Brown.”

  “I hope he hangs forever on that hangman’s rope strangling to death,” the man said through his teeth.

  Herschel nodded and mounted Cob. They had work to do. “I never caught your name.”

  “Argus McCord.”

  “God be with you, Argus McCord,” he said, and nodded to his new deputy to ride.

  An hour later, they spotted the buildings that marked Edwards. Two false-front stores and a low rambling soddy with pens alongside that had to be the wagon yard. One store was actually a saloon. Herschel could read TEXAS SALOON in big black letters on the graying boards. EDWARDS MERCANTILE was on the second store. If those two killers were still there, they must have put their saddle horses in the yard pens. No horses were hitched at the racks. No one was in sight. Only an azure sky, a bright midday sun—not a tree for shade or even a cur dog to bark at Herschel and Toby.

  “You ride around the back of the saloon,” Herschel said under his breath. “One of them two busts out—shoot them. If they don’t stop and surrender, you shoot them. You’re a deputy sheriff.”

  “I-I never shot no one.”

  Leaning back, Herschel jerked out the rifle, levered a cartridge in the chamber, and put it back on safety. Straightening in the saddle, he said, “I know that. But you remember they’re killers and they won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  Toby swallowed hard and nodded with a grim set of his mouth. He reined his bay to ride around the saloon and set out in a trot.

  Herschel kept riding Cob straight toward the saloon. He noted Toby’s disappearance behind the building. When Herschel was two hundred feet from the batwing doors, they parted and a rough-dressed, white-bearded black man stepped into the sunlight. In his right hand, he held a pistol aimed at Herschel.

  “If you’re the law, mister, you be dead.”

  “Brown?” Herschel asked and, using Cob as a shield, dismounted. In one swift move, he jerked the Winchester out of the scabbard. He knew he had to chance Brown shooting the horse because the outlaw would know that Herschel would come up firing. Herschel counted on him being a dedicated killer and not wanting to waste a shot at Cob. A shout at the roan and it bolted forward. He dropped to his knees, rifle to his shoulder, and saw the black smoke from Brown’s pistol barrel through his sights. In a fluid motion, Herschel squeezed the trigger and acrid smoke blew in his eyes. Through the tears, he watched the big man stagger backward to the door frame from the force of the bullet, and despite his wound, begin to raise the six-gun again.

  The second round from Herschel’s .44/40 struck Brown in the chest and smoke began to come from the bullet hole in his vest. He slumped down to his butt and dropped his chin.

  Several shots from behind the saloon forced Herschel to rise and run for the saloon’s batwing doors. He wondered if Brown was playing possum and might make one last try to kill him. Only a few feet from the boardwalk, he decided the man was unconscious or dead, and he hit the doors holding the rifle in front of him and shouting, “U.S. marshal!”

  The bartender raised his hands behind the bar.

  “Which way did Frenchy go?” He surveyed the empty place.

  The shocked man indicated the open back door, and Herschel headed for the well-lit frame with sunlight streaming in.

  “Toby? Toby!” he shouted as he ran.

  “I’m all right, Sheriff. I’m all right.”

  In the doorway, Herschel stopped and glanced down at the foot of the stairs and the buckskin-clad figure sprawled facedown among the brown bottles. The bulldog pistol in his right hand still smoked.

  “You sure you’re okay?” He looked hard at the boy, who was collapsed cross-legged on the ground.

  Toby nodded. “It ain’t easy killing someone, is it?”

  “No.”

  “I knew when he came through that door and looked at me I was dead. How he missed me I don’t know, and I shut my damn eyes and went to shooting at him with both hands. I must have opened my eyes sometime. . . .” He stood up and holstered his gun. “You get Brown?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how you feel about drinking whiskey, but we need something.” He reached down and turned Bateau over. His brown eyes stared into eternity. Three wounds in his chest wept lots of blood.

  “Come on in, I’m buying.”

  A smile of relief crossed Toby’s face, and he removed his hat to wipe his forehead on his dusty sleeve. “I didn’t know if I had it in me.”

  Herschel nodded and started inside. He almost bumped into the curious bartender.

  “He dead, too?” the man asked, letting both of them by.

  “Yes, can we get a grave dug for them?”

  “One or two?”

  “One’s fine with me. They can share it going to hell.” Herschel headed for the bar with Toby in tow.

  “Cost you ten bucks. Coffins are more.”

  “Toss them in the hole and cover them up.”

  “You don’t want a coffin?” The man blinked and wiped the bar with his rag.

  “No. Good whiskey, a bottle and two glasses. Can you get us some food?”

  “Ah, yes. Steak and bread okay?”

  Herschel looked at Toby for his answer.

  The youth pulled out a chair at a table. “Fine, I could eat a bear.”

  Herschel turned back to the man. “That’s what we want, and a ten-dollar funeral.”

  “That’s just for digging the hole.”

  “He can cover them up, too, for that.”

  “No services?”

  Herschel set the bottle and glasses on the table. A thread of anger was in his voice. “You go see about our food and the undertaker. They’re both too far gone to pray over. Now go.”

  He poured some whiskey in Toby’s glass, and watched him lift the glass with both hands and sip deep.

&nb
sp; “Easy, this stuff is like a mule, it’ll have a big kick.”

  Toby stopped drinking. “I need a kick.”

  “It’ll be all right after a while,” Herschel promised him, and let the first shot slide down his throat and cut the dust. There hadn’t been many times in his life when he figured he needed a drink—this was one of those days.

  A man in his forties stuck his head inside. “This Hootie Brown out here?”

  “He used that name,” Herschel said.

  “Where’s his partner?” the man asked.

  “Out back.”

  “You know there’s a two-fifty reward on Brown and Bateau,” the man said.

  Herschel frowned at Toby. “You know what that means?”

  The youth put his whiskey glass down. “No, what’s that?”

  “We need to get an ax and take their heads with us.”

  Toby slid his glass over for a refill and his shoulders quaked in a big shudder. “I’ll sure need to drink me some more whiskey for that job.”

  Herschel refilled his glass halfway and they both laughed.

  TWENTY-THREE

  HORSES gathered, saddled, and packs loaded, both Herschel and Toby still hung over, the two started south at daybreak. Herschel had picked out Barley’s dun for Toby to ride. It was the only horse that he could give the kid a bill of sale for, and somehow he felt Barley would have given him the horse if he’d been alive. They drove the other horses.

  “I’m sure glad you got them fellas to sign the paper that they saw Hootie and Frenchy dead and we didn’t need to pack their heads back for proof,” Toby said as they rode stirrup to stirrup.

  Herschel agreed with a nod. At the moment, his mind was on how tough it would be for him to tell Heart about her husband’s death. The next day or so would be hard. Dread stabbed his chest as he rode in a long trot.

  At midday, they rested and grained the saddle horses to keep them moving. There was no sign of the homesteader when they rode by his place, but his grazing horses raised their heads and nickered. Herschel and Toby rode on. Herschel wondered what he’d do if someone had killed Marsha—probably spend the rest of his life crying.

  “What are you going to do next?” Toby asked after bringing back one of the horses that had strayed.

  “Go home. After I see Barley’s widow and then get on a stage for Nebraska. There’s a killer down there I’m going to bring in.”

  Toby shook his head and looked over at Herschel. “I thought you had deputies.”

  “I do, but I can’t ask one of my men to do my job.”

  Toby squinted over at him. “I don’t think you’re like other sheriffs.”

  “I can’t tell,” he said, and motioned him to boot their horses to go faster.

  The long day passed with many miles covered. At sundown, they crossed the Musselshell, turned the hobbled horses loose to graze, and made camp in the twilight.

  “What are you going to do next?” Herschel asked Toby as they sat on the ground and listened to some coyotes yap.

  Toby tossed some sticks on the fire. “Guess look for work.”

  “You know, there’s other things to do besides cowboy.”

  “I’d been thinking on that for a while now.”

  “When we get to Barley’s place tomorrow, we’re splitting. I’m giving you the dun horse and a bill of sale. Some cash I have on me, so that’ll be your share. But I want you to line out, find a real job, and make something out of yourself.”

  “You’re serious, ain’t yah?”

  “Serious as I ever get.”

  “Whew—I never—I never figured it would end like this.” He wiped his forehead on the back of his hand in the flickering light.

  “How did you figure it would end?”

  “Figured I’d do hard time, be lucky not to be lynched.”

  Herschel nodded. “Well, you have a chance many don’t ever get, don’t waste it.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “Good enough. Let’s get some sleep.”

  “If I can even sleep.” Toby shook his head in dismay.

  Late afternoon the next day, they split. Toby rode south and Herschel took the trail-broke herd and headed south-west for Heart’s place.

  He let the loose horses stop and graze while he rode up to the yard gate, and she ran out of the house to greet him. Halfway to him, she stopped. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  He put his arm on her shoulder and managed a raspy, “Yes.”

  She buried her face in his vest. His hands felt strange— like they were trespassing, holding her as she wept.

  “I’m sorry I was too late,” he said.

  She raised her wet brown eyes in the flare of the sundown’s last fire. “Oh, he knew his way. He would not have waited even for you.”

  Herschel nodded. “That was his way.”

  “I am sorry his best friend had to bring me such news.”

  All he could do was nod. There was no way to swallow the knot behind his tongue.

  He left the extra horses there, planning to send for them later.

  Close to dawn, he reached home and dismounted. He glanced up when the back door slammed open. Skirt in hand, Marsha crossed the yard. “You’re back. You’re back.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and rested his cheek on her head. “I’m back.”

  “You sound sad.” She raised her face to look at him in the first light.

  “Some rustlers killed Barley.”

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Any trouble here?”

  She shook her head and fingered his vest. “I lost the baby.”

  “Oh.” He looked pained at her.

  “I’m fine now. But I told you all of them weren’t made to come into this world.”

  He hugged her. “Sorry I wasn’t here.”

  “I’m so glad you’re back—safe.”

  “Let me get Cob put up.”

  “Fine. I’ll go make some breakfast.” She smiled through her sparkling tears. “I prayed a lot for you.”

  “Must have worked.” He laughed and led Cob off to be unsaddled.

  The next day at mid-morning, the mayor burst into Herschel’s office waving the newspaper. “More of these headlines and Billings will never be the railroad center of the Yellowstone River Valley.”

  “What did they say today?”

  “Sheriff Saves Trial Costs.” The mayor thumped on the page with his fingers to show the story. “This sort of thing—”

  “McKay, we can’t stop them from printing that stuff. It sells papers.”

  “But if the Northern Pacific—”

  “How did you do raising money for my trip to Nebraska?” He had little time for the man’s ranting.

  “Oh, my, I have close to two hundred dollars.”

  Herschel leaned back in his swivel chair and tented his fingers. “Good, gather it up. I’m heading for Ogallala.”

  “Now? I mean right now?”

  “Yes, the sooner I have Casey Ford in jail, the sooner I’ll be able to enjoy my family.”

  “But they say that’s a vast area and not controlled by any law.”

  “That’s why he is down there.”

  McKay leaned forward with his fingertips on the desk. “But you have no authority—”

  “I have a deputy U.S. marshal’s commission.”

  “Good.” The mayor straightened. “I will collect what money I can get and be back in the morning.”

  “Fine.”

  He saw the mayor to the doorway and nodded to Phil. “What else is news?”

  “Well, Ida Crowley has agreed to marry me.” The deputy swallowed hard.

  “Wonderful news.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Send someone after Art. I need to speak to him.”

  “He’s probably sleeping. He’s been doing the night watchman shifts since Dave broke his leg.”

  “We better go to billing McKay for our services.”

 
“You think he’ll pay us?”

  “No, but he will get a bill. I’ll speak to Art later.”

  “I overheard you say that you were going after Ford—”

  Herschel nodded, deep in his own thoughts about all he must do first. “Yes, I plan to leave as soon as possible. No new information about the lynching, is there?”

  “Nothing. Been pretty quiet. Except for some rowdy cowboys in town.”

  “I’ll need to hire another deputy, too. Barley gone and all.” The thought of his loss stabbed him. “I need to send someone out to his place and bring in those horses I recovered.”

  “Oh, yes, the telegram is back from Wells Fargo. They will pay the reward on those two.”

  “Fine. But they’ll be months sending the money, I’d bet.”

  Phil shook his head. “Supposed to be here in a few days.”

  “Good, I’m going down and arrange for my stage tickets to Cheyenne. I can catch an eastbound train from there and be in Ogallala in a few days.”

  “Big country and they say there ain’t much law up in the panhandle, either.”

  “Ford’s there, I’ll find him.”

  “I don’t doubt it. There was a fella by here looking for work the other day. Said he’d worked law in Kansas. I never figured we’d need someone.”

  “See if you can find him if he ain’t left town. I’d sure talk to him. Anyone with experience would be valuable.”

  “His name was Ty something. I see him, I’ll tell him.”

  “Good. I’ll go down and see Lem Pascal at the stables and get him to send one of his work hands up there after those horses.”

  “Word’s out, you know, by October there will be quarter of a million new cattle up here. They left Texas last spring.”

  Herschel looked hard at his deputy. “I guess they haven’t learned yet. No hay, no cattle, come the Chinooks.”

  “Another bad winter and even the rich ones will know.”

  “You’re right. Think of the name of that lawman from Kansas. Tell him to drop by.” Herschel went back into his office for his hat and gun. Lem should be able to send someone after the horses.

  “I’ll find him if he hasn’t gone on.”

  Herschel agreed, left the courthouse, and walked the block to Lem’s stable.