“Go on, Slater,” Sawyer said. “I’ll finish that up for you.”
“All right,” Slater said, “soon as I wash some of the deer off my hands and throw a saddle on my horse.” He went to the creek to rinse his hands.
* * *
When they reached the fort, Bostic wheeled his horse toward the stable while Slater continued on to the headquarters building. He dismounted, looped the paint’s reins over the hitching rail, and went inside.
“Sergeant,” Slater greeted Millward.
Millward didn’t return the greeting but instead pointed toward the office door. “Go right on in. The colonel’s waitin’ for you.”
Slater couldn’t help thinking that the sergeant major appeared to be a little stiff, not at all typical. His attitude seemed to be official-like, instead of the good-natured manner of a favorite uncle, as was his usual state. Likewise, he was met with a very grave expression on the face of Colonel Brackett when he walked into his office.
“You wanted to talk to me, Colonel?”
“Yes, I did, Slater,” Brackett replied. “Slater,” he repeated, as if considering the name. “You know, you’ve never told us your full name. We don’t even have it on the pay vouchers when you get paid. That’s not the way we usually keep records in the army. So tell me, what should we put on your pay vouchers for the rest of your name?”
Slater had hoped this subject would never come up. And until now it had never been a problem. “It’s just Slater, sir. That’s my whole name.”
“Come, now, man,” Brackett charged, “you’ve only got one name? When you were born, your mother and father didn’t see fit to give you a proper name?”
“Reckon not,” Slater replied stoically, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the interview.
“Well, we’ve got to have a proper name for the army payroll records,” Brackett went on, warming up to the game. “So how about we just write in a name just to make it official?”
Slater shrugged indifferently.
“Fine,” Brackett continued. “How about John? That’s a good common name. John Slater, you like it?”
“I reckon,” Slater said, certain now that he didn’t like where this was going.
“Hell,” Brackett declared, “we might as well give you a full official name. I like Engels. Would that suit you? John Slater Engels Jr., does that sound like it would be a good name for you?”
So this is what this meeting is all about, Slater thought. His secret was out, but how? “Well, looks like you know my name,” he said. “Why didn’t you just ask me if that was my name, instead of makin’ a little game out of it?”
“If I had, would you have denied it?” Brackett asked.
“Most likely,” Slater replied truthfully. “I don’t like that name.” He had a feeling that there was a bigger issue to come, so he decided to find out. “Well, if that’s all settled, I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m truly sorry to say that there’s a more serious problem we have to address,” Brackett said. “Now that you’ve admitted that you are John Slater Engels Jr., there is a matter of the murder of a man in Virginia City named Arlen Tucker.” He paused to watch Slater’s face. “And I’d like to hear what you have to say about that.”
Slater went cold inside and every muscle in his body seemed to tense up like steel springs.
It had happened! The very thing he had hoped never to have to face was now laid out in front of him like a bloodstained shroud.
He glanced at Sergeant Major Millward standing in the doorway and noticed that the burly sergeant was wearing a sidearm. He was certain he had not been wearing it when he greeted him at the door. His initial impulse was to run, but he didn’t see the possibility for success in the attempt without causing injury or death to anyone in his way. And he could not bring himself to do harm to the colonel or Millward.
Finally he made a simple statement. “He shot at me, so I shot him.”
“Are you telling me that this man shot at you first?”
“That’s a fact,” Slater replied.
“And you killed him, but it was in self-defense?” Brackett shook his head, puzzled. “If that was the case, why did you run? Weed said you ran.” He dropped the name before he caught himself. It was like throwing kerosene on a fire.
“Weed!” Slater exploded. “Henry Weed!” The somber facade that had always been presented to friends and enemies alike was transformed into a mask of pure fury, causing Brackett to recoil and Millward to drop his hand on his revolver.
“Easy, boy, easy.” Millward attempted to calm the violent outburst. “Don’t make me do somethin’ I don’t wanna do. You just stay calm, and we’ll talk this thing out and get to the truth.”
As suddenly as he had erupted, Slater’s usual deadpan expression returned to hide the fury burning inside him, and he sat back in his chair, much to the relief of both of the soldiers. The hated name had registered in his mind, however, and if the slimy hoodlum was nearby, he would find him and see that he was amply compensated for exposing him.
Very calmly, he asked, “Where is Henry Weed?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that,” Brackett answered. “It was careless of me to even mention the name. I had not meant to. It would do no good to tell you how I happened to talk to Mr. Weed.” He released a long sigh, as if frustrated. “I’d like to keep you from committing another murder.”
“I didn’t murder anybody,” Slater insisted. “I told you, he shot at me, so I shot back. I don’t even know if I killed him. I didn’t wait around to see.”
“Did anybody see you shoot him?” Millward asked.
“Yeah, one ol’ drunk settin’ beside the buildin’, but I don’t know if he was too drunk to see what happened. I was just a kid. I was scared, and I ran. That’s the whole story.” He looked from one face to the other, then asked, “What are you plannin’ to do with me?”
Both the colonel and the sergeant wanted to believe him. Lieutenant Russell and Sergeant Bell as well had expressed great admiration for his courage and his grit. Brackett was caught in a dilemma. He knew he should put him in the guardhouse until he had checked with the authorities in Virginia City. There was supposed to be a U.S. Marshal headquartered there. Maybe he could wire the marshal for confirmation of Slater’s guilt.
He wished that he could let Slater remain free while that was being done, but he couldn’t let the man go, trusting his word not to flee. His decision was made for him when he remembered how intimately Slater knew the mountains that surrounded this valley. If he fled to the mountains, he would never be seen again.
Reluctantly he ruled. “I’m going to have to sentence you to the guardhouse until we can verify your story. I’m sorry, but I’ve got no choice.”
There was no change in the somber expression, but inside, the colonel’s decision fell like a great boulder upon Slater’s spirit. He could not bear the thought of being locked up in a small place with walls around him, shutting him off from the mountains and valleys.
Many thoughts bombarded his brain. What of Little Wren and Red Basket? Once again, a barrier had been placed in his way, keeping him from making good on his promise to them. These worries became entangled with thoughts of Henry Weed and the possibility that he had somehow landed here. And what of his mother? Was she alive or dead? Or was she here somewhere close? If that was so, it could only mean Bozeman. He had to find out, and how could he when he was locked away in the guardhouse?
“Are you going peacefully?” Brackett asked, breaking into his desperate thoughts. He knew he’d be faced with a problem if Slater decided not to. In hindsight, he would have had a squad of men there to escort the prisoner to the guardhouse.
“I reckon,” Slater said, much to their relief. “I don’t wanna cause no harm to you or Sergeant Millward.”
The colonel was cursing himself mentally for not having that squad
of escorts. He had not handled this interrogation very well, and now Millward was going to have to take Slater to the guardhouse by himself.
It was obvious to Slater that the colonel was reluctant to lock him up, and might have released him on his word to remain near the fort until something final was resolved. But he couldn’t very well do that, because truth of the matter was Slater knew that he would not have waited for the army to check anything. He would have headed for the mountains straightaway, there or the Musselshell. That was Slater’s way. If things were not good where he happened to be, then he’d go somewhere where they might be better.
Well, he thought, I ain’t gonna make things hard for the colonel.
“Will you let Jeb Sawyer know what happened to me?”
“Sure will,” Millward said.
“Let’s go, then,” Slater said, and got to his feet. Sergeant Millward stood aside to let him pass through the door. When they got outside, Slater asked, “Will you take care of my horse and things?”
Millward assured him that he would personally take the paint to the stable, and put his saddle in the tack room. That settled, they walked past the ammunition storehouse toward the guardhouse.
Chapter 15
“You can talk to him through the bars,” Sergeant Fred Welch told Sawyer when he went to visit Slater in the guardhouse.
Then he opened the door leading to the cell room, which was actually one large room with no individual cells. Half of the room was occupied by two rows of cots. There were five prisoners in addition to Slater incarcerated at present, and they were all lounging on their beds, except Slater. He was standing at one of the small barred windows at the end of the cell room, staring at the hills in the distance.
“Hey, Slater,” Welch called out, “you got a visitor.”
“Hey, Sarge,” one of the inmates japed, “you comin’ to let me outta here?”
“Yeah, Price,” Welch returned, “just as soon as I find that key I lost.” He turned to Sawyer and said, “Take as long as you want.”
“How’s he doin’?” Sawyer asked, knowing Slater wouldn’t be doing very well confined to a small space with a group of loud-mouthed drunks and petty thieves.
“All right, I guess,” Welch said. “He don’t cause no trouble. Most of the time he just stands there and stares out that window.”
He turned then and went back to his desk in the outer office, leaving the door open.
“Jeb,” Slater acknowledged when he walked over to the cell door.
“How you doin, Slater?” Sawyer asked.
“All right, I reckon,” Slater replied.
Knowing that was a lie, Sawyer pressed him for information. He was stunned when he was told that Slater had been put under arrest on murder charges. In the short time he had known Slater, he felt confident that he knew the man well, and in his mind, he couldn’t believe him to be a murderer without good reason. But he also knew that Slater did not share a great deal of his thoughts, especially when they related to his past.
“Tell me what this is all about,” Sawyer insisted. “You look as edgy as a mountain lion.”
In his typical simple and concise way, Slater answered, “When I was fifteen, I shot a man.”
Sawyer continued to press him until he was finally able to hear the whole story. When he had heard it, he was not surprised to learn there was justification for the young boy to have shot the man.
“So this feller, Henry Weed,” Sawyer asked, “he’s the son of a bitch that went to the colonel about it?”
“What I wanna know is, what is Henry Weed doin’ at Fort Ellis?” Slater said. “And where is he now, just passin’ through, or settled somewhere near here?”
“You think he might have some money?” Sawyer asked when a thought popped into his head. “I mean like money to put in a business, like a saloon?”
The thought struck home with Slater as well. “You mean like the Golden Chance?” He paused while that possibility took form in his mind. “Henry Weed wasn’t nothin’ but a two-bit outlaw. If he has any money, it’s because he stole it, or he mighta struck it rich up near Helena.”
“He might be the rich partner that woman at the Golden Chance is in business with,” Sawyer said. “I don’t recall hearin’ his name.”
It was enough to cause Slater’s mind to spin wildly, and he knew he had to find out before it drove him crazy. Then it occurred to him that, if it was Weed, then his mother was in Bozeman, too. “His wife!” he blurted. “Did you hear anything about this man’s wife?”
“He ain’t married,” Sawyer said. “I do recall hearin’ that woman say he was a widower. She joked about them teamin’ up, a widow and a widower.”
Slater’s eyes seemed to go blank, like those of a dead man, and his face appeared to turn to solid granite, hardened by the fury burning inside him. If this man was Henry Weed, and he was a widower, then his mother was dead, and in all likelihood, by Henry Weed’s hand.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Slater stated softly, but with deadly conviction.
His desperation was not lost on Sawyer. He could see that his friend was just about to explode. “I know, I know!” Sawyer quickly tried to calm him. “I’ll go see Lieutenant Russell and ask him if he’ll help you. He thinks a lot of you, and when I tell him the whole story, I know he’ll hurry things up to get you outta here.” He could see that Slater was not placated by that. “For Pete’s sake, Slater, don’t go and do somethin’ crazy and get yourself shot. Russell will help. I know he will. Just sit tight for a little while, and give ’em a chance. Brackett will do what he can, too. They know better’n to think you’d just up and murder somebody.”
After a few moments, the stone-cold face softened to regain the normal somber expression Sawyer was accustomed to seeing, and Slater reassured him. “All right, I’ll sit tight, but do me a favor, will you?”
“Sure,” Sawyer replied right away.
“Pick up my horse and saddle at the stable and take him home with you. I ain’t too happy lettin’ those soldiers take care of him. They ain’t used to workin’ with an Indian pony like my paint, and I’m liable to be in here for a few days before they find out anything from Virginia City.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” Sawyer said. “They’re liable to try to shoe him or somethin’. I’ll go get him right now.”
“Don’t forget my saddle,” Slater said, “and make sure my rifle’s still in the sling.”
“I’ll do ’er,” Sawyer replied cheerfully. “I’m goin’ right now, soon as I go find Lieutenant Russell. I reckon I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Right,” Slater said. He remained at the cell door until Sawyer left. Then he turned about and went back to the window.
“Go back to lookin’ out that window,” Private Price needled him when he walked by his cot. “Whaddaya see when you’re starin’ outta that window?”
“Mountains,” Slater answered, and went to the window, where he stood up close to the small opening. He slipped the large spoon, which had come with his supper, out of his pocket and resumed his efforts to loosen the heavy spikes that held the bottom of the iron bars in place, being careful to shield his motions with his body.
“Shut up, Price,” one of the other prisoners said.
* * *
As the evening hours passed slowly by, he remained at the window, working diligently on the three spikes, ignoring the occasional derisive remarks from the other prisoners. Had the window been any higher off the floor, or had he been a shorter man, he might not have been able to hide his determined efforts.
While Price and one or two others figured he might be “touched in the head,” the rest of the inmates felt a modicum of sympathy for the near Indian who fought desperately to hold on to his beloved mountains. He remained at the window until the bugler blew taps and Corporal Johnson came with the changing of the guard and t
old him to go to bed.
“Those mountains will still be there in the mornin’,” Johnson said.
It was a long night as he lay waiting for his fellow prisoners to fall asleep. He had no trouble staying awake, for he could not come to terms with the saggy cot, just as it had been with his first night in the cavalry barracks.
When finally the steady drone of snoring convinced him that he could go back to the window without being observed, he got up from the cot and walked silently to resume his work. The progress made during the afternoon and evening had been enough to convince him that he could force two of the three crucial spikes out of the sill.
The question he was not certain of was, could he work the final spike loose before sunrise? If not, it would mean another day and night before he could attempt to escape. His spoon was already bent almost double, and every time he straightened it again, he feared he weakened it so that it might eventually break in two. He had no choice other than to continue worrying the spike back and forth in an effort to force it to loosen.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, what he feared might happen did. His spoon broke into two pieces.
He cursed silently as he held the two useless halves. Frustrated, he threw them out the window, but he was not ready to give up. There were still several hours of darkness left before sunup, so he tried another method. Since the first two spikes were loose, he pulled them out, and using one as a lever and the other as a fulcrum, he tried to pry the remaining spike up. To his surprise, the spike had been loosened enough with his spoon, so that it began to slowly back out of the sill. He immediately felt an increase in his heartbeat.
It was going to work!
He continued to work away at it, until it was free.
The next problem to be solved was whether or not he could squeeze his body through the small opening, and that was provided he was able to force the bars to hinge outward enough. There were no spikes through the sides of the iron frame, but there were spikes holding the top firm. He was gambling on the possibility that he could loosen the top spikes by using the iron frame itself as leverage. It was by no means a sure bet, but he was desperate to the point of taking the bet.
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