“What were you waitin’ for me for? Why didn’t you just go on over there by yourself? You can sit a horse now.”
“Damn, partner,” Sawyer drawled, “I thought about doin’ that, but I thought you might wanna little drink yourself, seein’ as how it’s a brand-new place and all. So I thought it was the right thing to do to wait for you.”
Slater turned to face him again. He thought he could guess the real reason Sawyer waited for him. Sawyer knew he had no interest in the new saloon, or any other one. He suspected Sawyer was a little hesitant to go there by himself. He was on his feet, but he still wasn’t back to full strength. It took a while to recover from a wound like his, and it was a natural feeling to be physically cautious and unsure of yourself. He wanted Slater with him in case he ran into any trouble. And that was always a possibility whenever alcohol and rough men were stirred together.
“I’ve still got this meat to take care of,” he said, hesitating.
“Hell, cold as it is, that meat’ll keep,” Sawyer insisted. “It’ll be fine. I’ll help you cure it tomorrow. Whaddaya say? We won’t stay long, just long enough to have a couple of belts.”
Releasing a weary sigh, Slater gave in. “All right. Let me get finished unloadin’ it.”
“I knew I could count on you,” Sawyer said, a wide grin across his face. “My horse is in the barn, already saddled.”
* * *
Corporal Jarvis had not exaggerated. The Golden Chance was a fine-looking building, especially when compared to the rough structures there before it. Slater imagined that the owner of the competition was not too happy about the grand opening.
It was well past the supper hour, and there were several horses tied to a new hitching rail. Off to the side of the building, a horse and wagon stood that had no doubt brought a load of soldiers from the fort. Slater and Sawyer pulled up to one end of the rail and dismounted.
After tying their horses, they walked inside, Sawyer in the lead. He headed straight for the bar, which a buxom woman, with long hair the color of a carrot, stood behind, helping the bartender pour drinks for the men crowded there. Slater stopped, dead still, to stare at the woman, scarcely believing his eyes. Lola Leach glanced up at the tall man in buckskins casually holding a rifle in his hand. Startled, she instantly opened her eyes wide in shock and spilled whiskey on the counter when she overfilled the shot glass she had aimed at.
“Hey!” the customer exclaimed. “Don’t waste that precious stuff.” She shifted her eyes toward him for just a second before setting the bottle on the counter and returning her gaze to the man coldly watching her every move.
After a long moment more, during which both parties seemed to be frozen with indecision, her look of alarm suddenly broke into a smile, and she greeted him. “Well, hello, sweetie, fancy seein’ you here. Come on over and I’ll pour you a drink,” she said, and reached under the counter.
He quickly pulled his rifle up before him, but relaxed when her hand came back with a glass. He nodded when he understood how she was choosing to deal with their short history. He walked up to the bar and slid the shot glass of whiskey over to Sawyer, who accepted it without hesitation while staring in astonishment.
“Slater,” she said softly, and unconsciously rubbed her jaw while continuing to smile at him.
“Lola, ain’t it?” Slater responded. “I see you used that knife.”
“All that stuff don’t matter anymore,” she said. “That’s done and over with.” She seemed to be stating her position as far as revenge was concerned. “I told you that ol’ boy had found gold in that crick.” She made a sweeping motion with her hand, indicating the busy saloon. “You shoulda listened to me. You coulda had a part of this.”
“Wouldn’ta done me much good if I was dead,” he reminded her.
“I’m willin’ to let it lie, if you are,” she said. “Matter of fact, I reckon I’m beholdin’ to you for gettin’ rid of that trash I was stuck with. I’ve got a new partner now, and I’m doin’ a legitimate business here. Whaddaya say? Are you gonna be a problem for me?”
He thought about what she said for a few moments before responding, not really sure how he felt about the situation. Maybe she was right. Finally he said, “I’ve got no reason to cause you trouble. I figured we settled all the trouble back up in the mountains. When I rode down outta there, I left it all back there.”
“Glad you feel that way. There ain’t no sense in stirrin’ up a pot of stew that’s done gone rancid.” She grinned big and said, “I’ll let you meet my partner. He’s in the kitchen, eatin’ a late supper.”
“Some other time,” he said, having no interest in getting downright friendly with her and her partner. He turned abruptly and walked out the door, leaving Jeb Sawyer standing there speechless.
When Slater had gone, Sawyer turned back to face the smiling woman. “You know Slater?” he asked, recovering his ability to speak.
“We had occasion to bump into each other a while back,” she said casually. “I didn’t expect to see him again so soon.” That was all she cared to offer. “What’s he doin’ around here, anyway?”
“Me and him are scouts for the army,” Sawyer said.
“Well, he oughta make a good one,” she said, then moved down the bar to refill an empty glass.
Sawyer tossed his third shot down and slammed the glass down hard on the counter while he endured the burn. He paused a few moments to consider his need for a fourth one before reluctantly turning to go after Slater. Outside, he found the quiet man standing by the hitching rail, gazing at a three-quarter moon that had just shown through a break in the heavy clouds overhead. He appeared to be deep in thought.
“I’m ready to go,” Sawyer sang out, “just like I told you I would.” Slater answered with no more than a grunt. They untied their horses and climbed aboard before Sawyer asked, “How do you know the lady in there? What was her name?”
“Lola,” Slater answered. “I shot her husband and his partner.” He pulled the paint’s head around and started toward the end of the short street.
Sawyer gave his horse a kick and caught up beside Slater. “No, you don’t, dad-gum it!” he said, exasperated with his stoic partner’s tendency to keep things to himself. “Not this time, you don’t,” he insisted. “Whaddaya mean, you shot her husband and his partner?”
“They tried to kill me, so I shot ’em,” Slater answered.
“That don’t make no sense,” Sawyer pressed. “She acted like she was glad to see ya. Looks to me like she woulda been thinkin’ more about shootin’ ya.”
“I thought about that,” Slater admitted, still offering no elaboration.
Sawyer was not to be ignored, however, and kept questioning until he wore the silent man down. And eventually Slater related the whole incident that had taken place in the Crazy Mountains, and the situation that he’d left Lola in.
“Damn!” Sawyer exclaimed. “She was a regular wildcat, weren’t she? I’d say you was lucky to get outta that alive, instead of nothin’ but a bullet in the shoulder.” He said nothing more for a few minutes while he thought about the story he had just heard. Then he said, “She sure came out of it all right, though.” He rode on in silence a few minutes longer. “And all her money is blood money.”
“I reckon,” Slater said.
* * *
Another conversation took place behind them in the Golden Chance that would have been of equal interest to Slater, had he known about it. After the two scouts had left the saloon, Lola went into the kitchen to see why her partner had taken so long to eat his supper. She found him standing just inside the kitchen door where he could peek into the barroom without being seen himself.
“What the hell are you doin’?” she asked.
“Who was that man you were talkin’ to?” he asked, instead of answering her.
“Which one? I’ve been talkin’ to a lot o
f men,” she replied.
“The tall one, wearin’ animal skins, like an Indian,” he said, “the one you were talkin’ to for about fifteen minutes.”
“Him? He’s one of the army scouts, over at Fort Ellis. Why? Is he somebody you know?” It was obvious from his behavior that it might have been somebody he didn’t especially want to see. “If you wanna know the truth, he’s the reason I’m a widow,” she chortled, amused by the thought, considering how she had landed on her feet afterward. “Is he somebody you know?” she repeated.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I ain’t sure. It’s been a helluva long time if it is who I think it is. He weren’t much more’n a boy when I last saw him, but he sure favors him, even in that Indian getup he’s wearin’. Walks like him—I don’t know, he just looks like him.” He shook his head, perplexed. “It probably ain’t him. What did you say his name was?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “His name’s Slater.”
That didn’t mean anything to him right away, but it struck him after he said it over a few times in his mind. “Slater!” he exclaimed then. “It’s him!” Staring at her with eyes wide with alarm, he blurted, “That’s his middle name. His name is John Slater Engels Jr. That’s his whole name! It’s him, all right! I knew I’d seen that man before!”
Sharing his alarm now, Lola demanded, “Well, who in the hell is he?”
“He’s the son of the woman I left up in Last Chance Gulch.”
“He’s your son?” Lola asked, astonished.
“No, he ain’t my son,” Henry said. “He’s John Engels’ son, the man his mother was married to before I moved in with her.”
“Your widow,” Lola said.
“Well, no,” he said. “I never married her, and I reckon I did tell you she was dead. But the fact of the matter is, after I struck it rich up there, I didn’t really have no use for her. So I just lit out for better diggin’s.”
Lola was not happy with the news at first, but the thought occurred to her soon after that it was Henry Weed’s problem and not hers. Her first concern had naturally been for any circumstance that might endanger her new enterprise, but on second thought, why would it? If Slater should find out about Henry Weed, and decide to seek him out, the worst that could happen would be for one of them to kill the other. Either way, she wouldn’t stand to lose. If Weed killed Slater, nothing changed. If Slater got Weed, she would be left with sole ownership of the Golden Chance and any money Weed had left.
“So you dumped his mama, did you?” She chuckled, amused that he had held that back, since they had both supposedly confessed that they were conscienceless scoundrels who would stoop to anything. “What are you thinkin’ about doin’? You can’t hide in the kitchen every time he comes in the saloon. I reckon you could try to catch him somewhere by himself and put a bullet in his back.”
As appealing as that sounded to him, Weed was not a man with guts enough to do his own dirty work. He was too fearful to stalk a man as dangerous as Slater appeared to be. Then the solution to his problem struck him.
“Maybe I won’t have to worry about takin’ care of ol’ Jace,” he said with a smirk, referring to Slater by the name he had known. “Maybe the army will take care of him for me.”
He told her then what he was going to do. After she heard his plan, she was impressed, and curious to see if it would work. It had a chance, she allowed.
* * *
Colonel A. G. Brackett looked up from his desk when Sergeant Major Millward rapped lightly on the open door. “Sir, there’s a Mr. Henry Weed here to see you.”
“Who’s Henry Weed?” Brackett asked.
“He says he’s one of the owners of that new waterin’ hole in Bozeman, the Golden Chance,” Millward answered.
“What’s he want?” Brackett asked, expecting to hear some complaints about some rough behavior by some of his soldiers.
“I don’t know, sir. He just said it’s important that he talks to you.”
“All right,” Brackett said with a weary sigh. “Send him in.” He put the report he had been studying aside and got to his feet, remembering to present a cordial front for the local civilian businessmen. “Mr. Weed,” he greeted Henry when he walked in. “What can the army do for you?” he asked while motioning toward a chair in front of his desk.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Henry responded nervously, and sat down. He was not at all comfortable in the presence of any form of authority, having usually been on the wrong side of the law. “Well, sir,” he started, trying to recite the speech he had rehearsed. “I figured it was my duty as a law-abidin’ citizen of this territory to let the army know about a fugitive from the law that’s workin’ right here under another name.” This seemed to pique the colonel’s interest a bit, so Weed continued. “There’s a feller you hired to ride scout for you who’s wanted in Virginia City for murder. He goes by the name of Slater, but that ain’t his whole name. He’s John Slater Engels Jr. and he killed a feller named Arlen Tucker. He was a blacksmith.”
Brackett’s attention was fully aroused at this point. He immediately called a picture of Slater to mind, and the way Lieutenant Russell had described him as a killer as lethal and as stealthy as a mountain lion. Still, he had to question the accusation, for the man had not struck him as a murderer.
“How do you know this?” he asked. “What proof do you have to support such a charge?” Slater was an excellent scout. Brackett didn’t want to lose him.
“It was back a few years,” Weed said. “I was there. I knew the boy. He’s an outlaw, just like his daddy was. His daddy killed a man in Virginia City, and the vigilance committee hung him. The boy went into town to get the body and killed the man that tried to stop him. That’d be Tucker.”
“You saw him do it?” Brackett asked.
“Well, I warn’t right there when he shot Tucker, but I was workin’ a claim right next to his daddy’s, and his mother came to me for help when the boy came home. He admitted in front of me that he shot Tucker, cut him down with that Henry rifle of his daddy’s. He threatened to kill me if I tried to stop him from runnin’. Then he packed up some things and lit out. I reckon he’s been on the run ever since.”
He sat back then to judge how the colonel took his story. Judging by the grave expression on Brackett’s face, he was satisfied that it had given him reason for concern. “I don’t know, but I reckon there’s still a warrant for his arrest, even after this long a time,” Weed said.
Brackett hesitated. This was serious news, indeed, and hardly welcome at this time, but he would have to act on it. “Well, Mr. Weed,” he said, “these are very serious charges. And we can’t arrest a man on nothing but an accusation by someone. All I can tell you right now is that I will investigate these charges and see if we can verify what you have told me today.”
“You gonna let him run loose?” Weed asked. He was hoping for an immediate arrest. “If he finds out I told on him, he’s liable to take off again. Matter of fact, I’m hopin’ you ain’t gonna tell nobody it was me that told on him, ’cause he’s liable to come after me.”
Brackett was still hesitant. Slater just didn’t seem like the kind of man who would do that. He had little choice, however; he would have to investigate the complaint.
“I expect we’ll have to take him in custody until we can find out more about the crime.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to Weed. “Thank you, Mr. Weed, for bringing this to our attention. I assure you we’ll look into it and do whatever the law calls for. I’m sure you understand that it’s necessary to verify your testimony.”
Weed got up and shook the colonel’s hand, but he was not entirely happy with the outcome of the meeting. He had hoped the colonel would send some soldiers immediately to arrest Slater, but at least he had promised not to let him run free while they telegraphed around trying to verify his story.
After Weed left his office, Br
ackett remained at his desk, considering what he had just learned. “You heard?” he asked Sergeant Millward when the sergeant major stepped just inside the door. Brackett knew that Millward listened to everything that might be interesting going on in the colonel’s office.
“Yes, sir,” Millward replied. “I guess I couldn’t help overhearin’.”
Especially with your ear stuck against the wall, Brackett thought.
“You want me to detail some men to go out to that cabin and bring him in?” Millward asked.
Brackett hesitated, and then said, “No. Just send one man out there and tell him that I want to see him. I don’t want to arrest him before we hear his side of the story.”
* * *
“I swear,” Private Bostic declared when he rode up to the cabin, “you boys are gonna clean them mountains outta any critter that’s fit to eat.”
“Talk to him,” Sawyer said, nodding toward Slater, who was turning a side of venison over on the racks he had built for the purpose of smoking the meat. “I’m just helpin’ with the curin’.”
“Looks like you’re fixin’ a helluva lot more than two men can eat in one winter,” Bostic said.
“Ha!” Sawyer grunted. “He ain’t lettin’ me keep but a little portion of it. He’s thinkin’ on feedin’ a whole village of Injuns.”
“This wouldn’t hardly be enough to feed ’em the whole winter,” Slater said. “But it’ll help save a little of their buffalo meat.”
“Whaddaya doin’ out this way, Bostic?” Sawyer asked. “Get lost tryin’ to find your way back to the fort?”
“Colonel Brackett wants to see Slater—Millward sent me to fetch him,” Bostic replied.
“What’s he wanna see me for?” Slater asked.
“I don’t know. Millward didn’t say—just told me to ride out here to tell you.”
“Right away?” Slater asked. “I ain’t halfway done with this meat.”
“I reckon,” Bostic said with a shrug. “When the colonel says he wants something, it usually means right now.”
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