Montana Revenge

by Dusty Richards

  “We’ll hear the triangle,” Texas assured him.

  “You fellas are really looking for grass,” Toad said, “could have fooled me. I figured you were just drifting through.”

  They laughed, thanked him, and rolled out their bedding upwind from his fire’s swirling smoke.

  “No need to let out any word we’re looking for Ford. He might get that message before we find him.” With that said, Texas rolled over and went to sleep.

  Herschel took a while longer. He wondered about Marsha and how she was making it. Heavens, she’d run a ranch by herself for two years before they married. Art and Phil surely could hold down the office and jail. If only they learned more about the lynching. Then he fell asleep.

  At dawn, they were in the saddle and hauling the loaded mule over the next ridge. Herschel called him Red, and the long-legged stout horse Bay. They made good time, and reached a freighter stop by evening. Several double wagons were parked around some low-sided buildings, and lots of oxen were spread out grazing, when Herschel and Texas topped the ridge to view the place in the sunset.

  “Amos Seaman’s Ranch,” Texas said. “We can rest our horses here a day and listen. There may be some hard cases here. So stay on guard. Several wanted men drift in and out of here all the time.”

  “Good idea. Make camp on the creek.” Herschel followed the line of cottonwoods upstream as they rode off the rise.

  “Yeah, after we eat and drink some of the old man’s firewater. Want him to think we’re only looking for a place to set a herd.”

  “Good notion,” Herschel agreed. Texas would earn his money before this was over.

  The hard-eyed freighting bunch in camp looked them over with suspicion when they rode up. They were an unshaven lot that hadn’t bathed, and their clothes were soaked in road dust. They were snorting whiskey from crocks, and someone played a banjo. A half-drunk kid was hopping around like a clumsy black minstrel he’d seen somewhere on a stage.

  A man stuck his head out the door of the hewn cottonwood log cabin. He had a long nose, a ring of black whiskers, and a shiny bald scalp. He spat tobacco to the side before he spoke. “That you, Texas?”

  “Yeah, me and a pal, Amos.”

  “What brings you this far from a whorehouse?”

  “Looking for some range where we ain’t crowding in.”

  “Hell, don’t lie to me. You want some sweet-grass country.”

  Texas looked at Herschel. They’d been caught. They dismounted heavily. It had been a long day. They’d trekked across forty miles. Herschel looked over at the revelers in the twilight, and the man with the banjo was still picking away. The dancer was on the ground lying on his back, as if he couldn’t go another step.

  “Come on in,” said Amos. “The whiskey’s hot and the girls ugly.”

  Texas nodded as they undid their saddle girths. “He ain’t lying about that. Ugly women.”

  Herschel smiled and shook his head. Been a long time since he’d been on the move. He’d forgotten the road camps and the freighters. Most of the cargo they carried were supplies for the Indian reservations. Tough bunch of men, and it wasn’t unusual for someone to be killed over cards or anything at every stopover.

  The smoky yellow light in the interior came from candles. A hefty woman moved about serving the few customers and gathering dirty dishes. She used her large butt to intentionally bump men in the back when she went by, to get a reaction from them.

  “Suppose you two ain’t ate?” she said, more as a demand than a question, as she inspected them.

  “No, we ain’t ate,” Texas said, and laughed.

  “It ain’t funny either.” She went off in a huff cussing all late arrivals.

  They took a bench behind a table with their backs to the wall. Soon, she brought them steaming coffee in tin cups, and mumbled that she’d have them food directly. Then she went by and propositioned a freighter, and when he agreed, she put a ham of a hand on the rise of her hip and glared back at Herschel and Texas. “I’ll be ready, darling, when I get them fed,” she said.

  “Aw, I can wait that long, Cindy,” the old man said.

  When she brought their food, Texas stopped her. “We got an old friend up in this country owes us a few bucks, named Casey Ford. He ain’t been in here lately, has he?”

  She put the heaping plate of bread, beans, and stringy meat in front of Herschel, leaned over so he could see her cleavage if he wanted to, and then straightened as if thinking about the question.

  “He was over on Blue Crick. But that cheap weasel hears you want money from him, he may ride to Dakota to get out of paying you.”

  “Cheap, is he?”

  She looked at Texas like she couldn’t believe he didn’t know that. “We’re talking about the same Casey Ford?”

  “Got an ax scar on his right cheek.” Texas pointed to that side of his face.

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s him. It’s a gawdamn shame that was only a glancing blow. Should have chopped his head off.” She put a plate down before Texas. “You can tell him Cindy Evans said stick it up his you-know-where.”

  Texas looked startled. “Why, I’d never believed that.” Then he went to laughing and waved her on. “We’re talking about the same fella. Except he owes me twenty bucks.”

  “You won’t ever get it,” she said over her shoulder. Then she stuck her large flabby arm out for the white-bearded freighter. “Darling, we’ve got business to tend to.”

  The old man jumped up, did a jig, and then locked his arm in hers. They went out the back way.

  Texas looked after them and sat for a long moment tapping on his plate with his fork. Then he shook his head in amused disbelief. “Young love.”

  Herschel nodded. He now knew a possible place where Ford might be hiding out—Blue Crick, wherever that was located. The notion of being that close restored some of his confidence about finding his man that the vast rolling empty grasslands they’d crossed had wrung out of him getting to this place. Beyond the next horizon or even the next—Casey Ford was enjoying his last days as a free man, and probably his last days on earth. Herschel planned to make them as short as possible.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THEY bedded down a half mile from Amos’s place on the stream. Under the stars, they unloaded Red and set the panniers aside. After they watered the animals, feed bags were hung on them and they were hobbled. Herschel was anxious to get some sleep. He undid his bedroll, wrapped in the canvas ground cloth, and strung it out.

  Texas squatted on his boot heels and smoked a roll-your-own. “You ever have a gut feeling about something?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I got me a big one tonight. That drunk kid dancing. I seen him somewheres before. He ain’t with them freighters, I’d bet a month’s pay. Something about him got me uneasy.”

  “Better to be ready than sorry. Wake me up when it’s my turn.” Herschel decided to sleep in his boots in case there was any trouble.

  “I seen him before somewhere. Damn, I wish I could recall where that was.”

  “It’ll come to you.” Herschel lay back and looked at the starry sky. He’d rather have been in his own bed in Montana. A million constellations, and a fiery comet sped over the earth. He closed his eyes—been a long day.

  “Hersch, be really easy,” Texas whispered, waking him from a sound sleep. “We’re getting company. One’s coming down the creek side, and I seen another sticking his head up to the north. I think they want our horses and mule.”

  Half awake, Herschel nodded, and his finger closed on the grip of his .45. He rolled over and got on his hands and knees beside his partner. Fully awake, he tried to see the one in the north. The bay horse, a hundred feet away, had been awakened, and to judge from his dark silhouette, the gelding was looking in the direction of the invader.

  “You get him. I’ll get the one on the creek side.”

  “Right.” He watched Texas slip off into the night in a low run. Then he tried to focus on his man. In a low run, he mov
ed twenty feet closer to the horse, staying down, and stopped to listen. All he could hear were the creek’s murmur and some crickets chirping away. The mule must be snoring some, too, he decided, locating it beyond the bay.

  Then he saw a bare head move, and wondered if the thieves were Indians. It was moving toward Bay. He wondered how vulnerable Texas was as he cocked the .45. Then the crack of the rifle from the watercourse was heard, and Texas shouted for someone to halt. More shots.

  Herschel was on his feet, gun ready, and moving past the bay. “Put your hands up.”

  The cherry-red fire of a pistol shot cracked the night. Herschel returned fire with deadly accuracy as he ran toward the shooter. It spooked the mule, and he began to bray like he was hit.

  Herschel had no time. He rushed over and found the would-be horse thief moaning on the ground. He ripped the pistol from his fingers and checked him in the dim light for any more weapons.

  “Oh, Gawd, I’m dying,” the wounded man cried out.

  “Mister. I ain’t got one drop of sympathy for you. You’d’a killed me or Texas in a minute and stolen our horses if we hadn’t figured you out.”

  “We never killed—nobody.”

  “But you stole lots of horses and left folks stranded and maybe they died ’cause of you.”

  “Never killed no—one.”

  “You ain’t fetching no tears out from me. You better talk to your maker. I think you’re going to see him soon.” He looked in the direction of the stream, and in the starlight saw the familiar hat coming his way. “You all right?” he called to Texas.

  “Fine. But my man’s on his way to hell. I told him throw it down and he never listened.”

  “This one’s going there, too.”

  “What’s your name?” Texas demanded of the man Herschel had shot.

  “John Smith.”

  “Bullshit, you’re dying. I’ll send a letter to your people and tell them you passed on. What is it?”

  “Jenny Perkins, South Fork, Texas—tell her I was trying to—get home.”

  “Your mother?”

  “No—my—w-wife.”

  “I’ll do it.” Texas looked closely at him. “He’s gone to his place, too.”

  “I guess we can bury them tomorrow,” Herschel said. “We’ve got all day.”

  “Yes, we have. I may need it to get enough sleep.”

  Herschel looked around. He would, too.

  At dawn, Herschel rode in and borrowed a shovel. Amos never asked why, simply handed him one and nodded. Herschel mumbled thanks and rode back. They worked for hours, taking turns digging the grave, and at last dumped the two bodies in minus their money, boots, and guns. Thirty dollars, sixteen cents, a Cleveland for President button, three whorehouse tokens, and two jackknives. Both pistols were cap-and-ball—hardly worth anything.

  “Dear Lord, receive these two. They wasn’t worth much on earth. Maybe you can make them better up there— amen.” Texas nodded at Herschel when he finished, and they started the tedious job of covering the bodies up.

  They made breakfast next. Then they bathed in the creek, and let their clothes dry on the bushes while they shaved. Except for some sore muscles in his back, Herschel felt better. Still, he grew antsier by the hour to get after Ford, but he knew the animals deserved some rest. Besides, they had another thirty or forty more miles to cover to find his man from what they had learned about the Blue Crick’s location.

  Amos rode down to their camp on a flea-bitten, spavin-toed gray horse in mid-afternoon. He reined the exhausted horse up, and it snorted in relief with its head down in the grass.

  “Don’t pay to keep a good horse down here,” Amos said, and spat sideways. “They’ll for sure steal a good one.”

  “Two of them won’t steal no more horses.” Texas had an angry scowl on his face.

  Amos nodded like he was considering what to say. “They was wondering.”

  “Who’s they?” Herschel asked.

  “Oh, them freighters. They wondered if their swampers had run off.”

  “They have,” Texas said. “They went to hell last night without telling them, I guess.”

  Amos spat again and wiped his hand over his whiskered mouth. “Guess they won’t be going to the Rosebud Reservation.”

  “They ain’t going anywhere.” Herschel handed him back the shovel. “We won’t need it no more, either.”

  “Boys,” Amos began. “Horse stealing is so bad up here, I can’t tell you how terrible it is. They even stole this gray once, but let him go and finally he came home. You understand?”

  “I think we do now. We’ll be sleeping with one eye open,” Herschel said.

  “Good.” Amos turned his horse and rode off on the coughing gray with his shovel.

  Texas was looking after him. “Kind of nice of old Amos to come out and check on us.”

  “I ain’t so sure he wasn’t looking like a buzzard for something for himself in the deal.”

  Texas snorted. “Second thought, you may be right.”

  The next morning, without an incident in the night, they loaded Red and rode northwest. Not many cattle to speak of in the country, but Herschel knew for certain they were on their way. He felt grateful he didn’t need to be a drover again. Nights without sleep, stampede after stampede, swollen rivers to cross—no, he’d take man-hunting over that any day.

  At midday, they reached a small soddy and some corrals. A woman with two small children hiding in her skirts met them at the doorway.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” Texas said, looking around.

  She looked stolid and was straight-backed. “You come to steal our horses, you’re too late. My man is out tracking your brothers right now.”

  “Brothers?” Texas looked pained.

  “Cousins. You horse thieves are all kin.”

  “How long has he been gone?” Herschel asked, wondering how prepared her man might be for fighting such outlaws.

  “Since daylight. But he ever gets them in the sights of his old Greener, they can count on going to hell on an express.”

  “Ma’am, I’m a deputy U.S. marshal.” Herschel booted Bay in closer. “Which way did he go?”

  She pointed toward the northwest. He nodded to Texas. Without another word, they reined around and broke into a long trot for the high ground.

  “I’d’a left ole Red at that place till we got back, but they might steal him,” Texas said with a grin.

  “We better keep our stock all under lock and key.” Herschel could hardly believe the state of affairs in that country. They needed law badly.

  Texas nodded, and they rode on.

  After an hour’s ride, they spotted a distant figure and rode toward him.

  “Better tell him you’re law,” Texas said as they approached the armed figure.

  “Deputy U.S. marshal,” Herschel shouted.

  The man stopped, set his gun butt down, and took off his hat to wipe his face on his sleeve.

  “Didn’t catch your name,” Herschel said.

  “Thompson, Clyde Thompson.”

  “Your wife said you were after some horse thieves.”

  “They got my team last night.”

  “Any idea who they are?”

  “No, but I aim to track them down if it takes forever.”

  “Get up behind me.” Herschel took his foot out of the left stirrup. “I never tried Bay double, so hang on,” he said, taking the shotgun as the shorter man attempted to mount.

  When Thompson was on behind, Bay went in a circle, but Herschel got him settled and they went on.

  “You on their tracks?” Texas asked, catching up and coming beside them.

  “There’s plenty of tracks. Mine’s shod,” the man said. “You know, leaving a man out here without a horse is worse than criminal.”

  “Damn serious,” Texas agreed.

  “Hell, it’s murder. I can’t go for supplies, make a crop, or do anything without horses.”

  The first sign was the smell of wood smoke. Her
schel couldn’t see the thieves yet when he turned to Texas. “May need to leave our honker here. If he goes to braying, they might scatter. Let’s hobble him.”

  Texas agreed and bailed off his horse. In minutes, the mule was hobbled and left to graze. Herschel hoped he didn’t get too lonesome too fast and give an alarm.

  “Want me to get down?” Thompson asked.

  “Not yet. They break and run, I’ll want you off.”

  They topped the next crest, and Herschel saw two men jump up and run for their horses at the sight of them. Thompson slid off, and Herschel sent Bay after them. The thieves were busy gathering up saddles and pads to throw on their horses.

  “We’re the law,” he shouted with his six-gun in his right hand.

  Stirrup to stirrup, Texas rode beside him, and they bore down on the panicked horse thieves.

  “They’re going for their guns!” Texas shouted over the drum of their horses.

  Herschel saw the ring of black smoke from the hatless one on the right, hanging onto the lead of a spooked horse and trying to shoot at the same time. He shot once at the man, and the rustler was forced to let go of his horse. But it was too late to turn back and shoot—a shot from Herschel’s .45 struck him in the chest and he fell on the ground, the fight gone from him.

  Texas’s man kept shooting. Herschel’s deputy stood tall in the stirrups and began to make his shots count. The bullets’ impact spun the rustler around, and Texas hit him twice more before he struck the ground.

  “Any more?” Texas shouted, whirling his pony around and looking the area over.

  “Looks like we got them.” Herschel set Bay down and stepped off, handing his reins to Texas.

  Thompson came on the run. “Those are my horses over there.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Sure glad you two were here for this. I never saw two braver men than you two.”

  Texas smiled. “Or dumber ones, either. You know these two?”

  “That’s Pauley. Webb Pauley, I’ve seen him before.” Thompson walked wide of the dead man. Pauley’s eyes were open to the bright sun.

  Herschel squatted by the rustler he’d shot. “You got any next of kin you want notified?”

  The man half-raised up, then fell back. “Naw. They wouldn’t care.” He made a face. “What’s a damn U.S. marshal doing—after horse thieves?”