Herschel thanked Hayes, who refused any pay, and an hour or so later they rode north for the Crow reservation. He was within a good hard day’s ride and anxious to get back home.
They crossed over the high country, and he shared his ideas with Texas about the Hanks lynching.
“You think one of them two families hung him?” Texas asked.
“They’re my suspects. One of them was even shot in a bar fight supposedly because of his involvement.”
“And you have the word of a drunk that he saw three of them ride off, but couldn’t see their faces?”
“He also saw the man that cut him down awhile later.”
“I guess that says three were there for the hanging, huh?”
“Why don’t you stick around when we get up there? I want to interrogate both families and see what they really know. Besides, you’ll like Marsha’s cooking.”
“Hey, I’m footloose.”
“Good, I want this lynching solved.”
“Sounds like you’ve been working hard at it.”
“Not hard enough. I haven’t solved it.”
“I’d say you haven’t done bad.”
Herschel nodded, and looked back at his downcast prisoners. It would be good to be home.
Two days later they rode up Main Street, drawing lots of attention from the onlookers. At the courthouse, Herschel told the prisoners to dismount, and removed the Winchester from the scabbard. He looked carefully around the area. No sign of any mob, but he expected one before it was all over—Mike Melloncamp had lots of friends.
Keeping his eye on everything, he backed to the open door where Texas and the prisoners had entered.
“You’re pretty anxious, aren’t you?” Texas asked under his breath.
Herschel nodded, and looked up to see Phil’s smile on the second-floor landing.
“You’re back,” Phil said.
“And with guests. How are things?”
“Quiet.”
“Too quiet?” Herschel asked, halfway up the staircase.
“Art says the lynching and murders are on lots of minds. People are worked up. Now we got Ford it could turn tough.”
Herschel nodded and introduced Texas to Phil. They shook hands and the prisoners were taken inside and, after Herschel filled out the papers, were put in cells.
Back in Herschel’s office, Phil and Texas sat around his desk.
“I am afraid we all need to sleep here,” Herschel said. “A bunch of agitators’ll get to drinking and work up their courage for a lynch mob. Better tell Art. He sleeping?”
“Yes, we’re still in charge of the town law,” Phil said.
Herschel shook his head in disgust. “McKay better hire him a chief of police. Money or no money.”
“Stokes has been pestering me for a story since the telegram.”
“Guess he got a copy?”
“I never gave him one.”
“I imagine a couple of bucks bought him one.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Phil asked.
“I think so. But it isn’t a felony. Texas and I are going out to the house, and we’ll be back here in a short while.”
Phil wrinkled his nose and then agreed. “I can hold them off that long.”
Herschel looked hard at his deputy. His man had no idea about the power of a large mob to swarm in and take over the jail and carry out their plans to lynch everyone in the cells. “Send word to Art and get him in here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, Texas, we can put the horses up and meet my wife and girls.”
“Right.”
“Something wrong?”
“No, but you’re sure on edge about this lynching business.”
“I have a reason to be. Montana has a reputation for it.”
Texas agreed, and followed him out the door.
Nothing looked out of place when they rode out to the house. Still, Herschel could hardly stand to think he had left a young man in charge of so much back at the jail. Not that he didn’t trust Phil, but he knew in his heart that someone would make a try at getting to his prisoners with rope justice.
When they rode up with the extra horses, Marsha rushed out the front door to hug him, and the girls charged out after her. Everyone talked at once, and he tried to answer them all.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. This is my good friend Texas Jack.”
They all nodded at Texas.
“Now, I’ve got to go back to work,” said Herschel. “I only came out to see you a few minutes, put these horses up, and I need to get back.”
Marsha frowned.
“I’m concerned about vigilantes,” Herschel said.
She nodded. “How many to feed? We’ll bring you supper.”
“Four or five of us.”
“Nice to meet you, Texas,” she said, looking very somber.
Texas smiled again and then waved his hat at the girls. “You all right?” Herschel asked as Marsha walked beside him and they led the horses out back.
“I’m fine. We’ve been very worried about you. The telegram helped. Phil showed it to us.”
“He’s a good man.” Herschel and Texas stripped the saddles off and carried them inside the tack room.
“How long will you have to do this?” she asked.
“Until they all get calmed down about it. Until I’m sure it’s safe.”
“We understand. Don’t we, girls?”
“I think so,” Nina said, and hugged his arm as he went by her.
“Good, we’ll have a big picnic and go down to the ranch when this is over.”
“Yeah!” came the cheer.
Herschel kissed Marsha on the forehead after the animals were in the pen.
On their way back to the jail, Texas laughed. “You did good, ole cowboy. That bunch really likes you.”
Herschel nodded in agreement. He hated not being able to stay with them right now.
At the jail, Wally came in and brought Herschel his bedroll. “Figured you might need help.”
Herschel nodded his approval from behind his desk. “If we have to sit in here, I want to talk with both the Ralstons and Mannons. Phil, send Donnie up and tell Bert Ralston I want him and his boys in here in the morning. No need to waste our time just sitting here.”
“What will you ask them this time?” Art asked.
“Who owns this arrowhead? Who wrote that note in the schoolhouse after the dance?”
“You reckon we’ll get someone to break?” Art asked.
“I think they all know more than they’re telling us.”
“I’ll send Donnie right away,” Phil said. “What about the Mannons?”
“He can go up there, too, and tell them to come in here on Wednesday.”
“What if they won’t come?” Art asked. Phil and Texas both turned an ear to listen.
“I’ll go out and arrest them,” Herschel said.
“Want Donnie to tell them that?”
“Only if they refuse.”
“I’ll go find Donnie.”
“Phil, they may try to pick us off one at a time. Be careful.”
The deputy nodded with a grim face, put on his hat, and left.
Herschel looked around the room. Texas was half-asleep slouched in a chair. Art prowled the floor, and Wally looked out the window at the street. No one said this job would be easy. Times like this, he considered quitting on the spot and going home to be with his family. Maybe go back to breaking horses and ranching, it would be a damn sight easier. But he and Marsha had set out to make Yellowstone County a better place to live. Vigilante law was over in the territory and it was his job to enforce that.
Phil came back and reported Donnie was on his way to the Ralstons and the Mannons. They all jumped to their feet when someone called out from downstairs. Herschel picked up the double-barrel Greener off the desk. He went out through the outer office on soft feet, followed by Phil and Texas.
“Sheriff Baker, can I come up?” Ennis Stokes stood at th
e foot of the stairs.
“What do you need?”
“Your story. I heard you rode in with two prisoners.”
Herschel nodded and handed Phil the shotgun. “We have Casey Ford in custody and the horse thief—took Squires’s bald-faced horse.”
“Can I come up there?”
“No.”
“But I’m a reporter,” he pleaded.
“Stokes, I think you’ve written enough bad things about this office and the job my small force of men do. I don’t care what you print.”
“This is the story of the century. It could make you as famous as Buffalo Bill Cody.”
“I don’t want to be famous. I just do my job. That’s it. This building is closed to everyone.” He paused. “Clear out.”
“Baker, you’ll regret this day.”
“I’ve been regretting you and your yellow journalism for weeks. Clear out,” he shouted, and it echoed in the empty courthouse. “This place closed at five p.m.”
Stokes went off cussing to himself and when Herschel was certain he was gone, he dusted off his hands.
“He ain’t giving up that easy,” Art shook his head. “But no more civil than he is, we don’t need to be nice.”
“Amen,” Phil said.
Herschel went back inside his office. “Marsha’s bringing supper for us. I guess the prisoners have food coming?”
“Café sends food about this time,” Wally said. “I’ll watch for them.”
“Good.”
Herschel checked the schoolhouse clock on the wall, 6:10 p.m.
The prisoners’ food arrived. Two boys in their teens carried it in pails covered with napkins to keep the flies out. The process was uneventful and following the boys’ departure, Marsha drove the buckboard up in front, and the crew went down to help her and the girls carry up the food. She oversaw their work, skirt in hand, apologizing that she had not had time to cook all she wanted to, and saying she hoped it suited them.
“They’d eat old nails if you cooked ’em,” Herschel said, and hugged her shoulder as the food went up the stairs. He took a look around, but things in the street appeared quiet—too quiet.
His office became the banquet room. The rich smell of her cooking saturated his nose. Man, how he had missed so many things about her. Plates were unwrapped by the girls with care and silverware soon appeared. Sliced hot beef straight from the oven. Browned new potatoes, new green peas fresh from her garden, sourdough biscuits, and yellow homemade butter. The talking ceased and the feast commenced. The girls kept everyone’s coffee cups filled, and Herschel looked up once from eating the mouthwatering food and nodded in approval at Marsha.
He sure hoped this wasn’t a last supper.
When the meal was over and the buckboard packed, his crew was still bragging on the food. Herschel had only a moment to tell Marsha thanks and promise this situation would be over soon. She nodded, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
With sundown bleeding on the front side of the courthouse, Art slipped out to check on the town. He knew it better than anyone else, and he was confident he could find any trouble before it festered.
They waited.
Art returned after sunset and came upstairs. “They’re gathered in the Buckhorn.” He shook his head. “It’s getting louder by the hour.”
“Old man whiskey is fortifying them,” Herschel said. “Art, you and Wally stay here. You can hold this jail. They’ve got to come up those stairs to get to the jail. Shoot if you have to.” He turned to Phil and Texas. “Get shot-guns.”
They nodded and went to the rack. Herschel broke out a box of twelve-gauge brass cartridges on his desk. “Take some extras.”
“Texas, you will go up the alley. Phil and I will go in the front. I’ll fire off one round outside and then bust in. Texas, you do the same in the alley and come in gun ready through the back door. Phil’s backup.”
“Good plan. That should throw them off guard,” Texas said.
Art agreed with a grim set on his face. “They’re sounding tougher.”
“That’s where we need to cut them off. I may need to shut the bars down for a week, but I hate to ruin those fellas’ business.”
“This should work,” Art said, sounding confident for the first time that evening.
Herschel gave Texas a good description of the Buckhorn’s back door, so he could find it when he went up the dark alley. Then, Herschel and Phil set out on the boardwalk. The few folks still out stepped aside in awe for the two armed lawmen.
Herschel dried his right hand on the side of his pants two doors short of the Buckhorn. Then he gripped the stock and trigger again. A pattern of light from inside shone on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. A few steps short of the saloon, he cocked the right barrel’s hammer and stepped to the edge of the boardwalk. He fired the Greener, and the blast woke up a half-dozen horses at the rack. They tore loose in a wild scramble and in three steps, shotgun ready, he stepped into the brightly lit barroom.
Texas’s blast in the alley made all the customers whirl around to see him charge in from the back.
“Everyone sit down,” Herschel ordered, standing blocking the door with his boots set apart. He aimed to intimidate them. With a loud scraping of chairs on the floor, they all wilted into seats.
“I have only one message. My deputies have orders to shoot and shoot to kill anyone breaches that jail. I mean some of you will die. I have plenty of buckshot. We’re leaving the law to the law in this county, is that clear to all of you?”
“Mike was—”
“Mike was my friend. His killer will hang by a judge’s order.”
“What’s he like? I mean his killer.”
Herschel answered. “A little self-centered rat that has no feelings about it or remorse.”
“But he damn sure ain’t worth dying over,” Texas said.
“Save you the expense of a trial,” someone shouted.
Herschel’s eyes narrowed. “There’s lots of things depend on how we act as citizens over this matter. The railroad is looking hard at us. I don’t want them to bypass Billings. The federal government is looking at us. Our statehood is at stake here. Boys, we don’t need a lynching.”
“Baker, we’ll back off if you say he’ll hang.”
“Back off, then. Ain’t a jury in Montana won’t find him guilty and hang him.”
Texas came across the room, nodded to Phil, and whispered to Herschel, “You’ve won. Let’s go back.”
Herschel agreed and turned to leave. One battle down, one more to fight. Learn who lynched Billy Hanks.
TWENTY-EIGHT
LIKE a rumpled banty rooster, the billy-goat beard shaking under his chin, Bert Ralston stood up defending his rights as a citizen. “I’ve got my rights—”
“Sit down,” Herschel said, pacing the floor with the entire clan seated around two tables in his office. “You were asked here to answer questions, not defend yourself. Now sit down and listen.”
Farrel and Jimmy looked ready to jump and run. The eldest, Wanda, hugged her father’s arm and kept talking to him about how everything would be okay.
“Now you camped there all night, right?” Herschel looked hard at the youngest, Jimmy, who he felt was the most vulnerable. Herschel’s hand cut off Bert, who was starting to speak for the boy.
“I want Jimmy to tell me.”
The boy’s head bobbed and the rooster comb in his blond hair shook when he spoke. “All night—we stayed there.”
“Did you see anyone after the dance go in and out of the schoolhouse that night?”
“Hell, that’s dumb, how could he? He was asleep.”
“Bert, I want his answer.” Herschel waited.
Jimmy looked up and shook his head. “No.”
Innocence was all over his face when he shook his head.
“Thanks,” said Herschel.
“I saw someone,” Wanda said. �
�I don’t know who it was. It’s all right, Pa. I saw someone lighting matches inside from where we camped. I was curious and went over there to see who it was and what they were up to, but they ran off before I could tell who it was.”
“How many?” Herschel asked.
The pudgy girl held up one finger.
“Before the rain?”
“Yes, it liked to never rained.”
Herschel looked at Art and Texas seated in chairs to his left. Then he dug out the arrowhead. “This belong to you, boys?” He started by handing it to Jimmy, who quickly shook his head and passed it to Farrel.
“You ever see that before?”
Farrel nodded. “But I can’t remember where.”
“Think hard.”
“I never owned it, but I seen it before.” Then he shook his head. “I remember, I’ll tell you.”
“Good. Now I have a witness seen three of you ride away from the hanging.”
“He’s a gawddamn liar. Our horses was all picketed that night. We’ve got witnesses,” Bert said.
Nothing pointed to the Ralstons, Herschel realized. Wanda had no reason to lie about seeing a person in the schoolhouse writing the note. Someone had written the note in there. It was a dark night, and it would have been hard to identify anyone at any distance at all.
“Bert, hold on. He saw three riders. Did any of you see three riders after the dance?”
They all shook their heads.
“Thanks for coming. You remember who had that arrowhead, you send me word.”
Bert stood up and stared hard-eyed at Herschel. “That mean you don’t think we done it?”
“Bert, I don’t think your family was involved.”
“Good, ’cause we never done it.”
Herschel nodded and they filed out.
“That leaves the Mannons,” Phil said when the Ralstons were gone.
“They have to answer some questions, too,” Herschel said, picking up the arrowhead and pocketing it.
“That second boy had seen it before or one like it,” Texas said.
“I agree that sounded good to me,” Art said as if in deep thought. “Means that it might lead us to the killers.”
Montana Revenge Page 23
