Slater's Way

by Charles G. West

  He braced himself for the moment of truth, took a deep breath, then strained against the frame with all the strength he could summon. There was just a little give in the spikes as the heavy frame moved outward a few inches. Encouraged by his initial effort, he continued again and again, gaining inches at a time. Soon he had forced the frame halfway, and he needed no incentive to continue.

  Finally he succeeded in creating an opening that he felt he could force himself through. With one last look over the sleeping prisoners, he pulled himself up into the opening. For a brief moment, he feared it had all been in vain, but when he finally worked his shoulders through, he knew the rest of his body would make it with less effort.

  Once he had cleared the window, he dropped to the ground, remaining in a squatting position while he listened and looked around him.

  When he was sure there was no one to witness his escape, he stood up and pushed the iron frame back in place. He hoped no one would notice that the window bars had been forced up, at least long enough to keep them from immediately figuring out where he had gone. He dropped the spikes he had taken out on the ground, knowing he would be unable to force them all the way back down with his fingers.

  Moving quickly along the back of the guardhouse, he knelt at the corner and waited until he spotted the sentry walking this guard post.

  Once he had passed, Slater set out along the back of the stable at a trot, heading for the road to Bozeman.

  * * *

  Jeb Sawyer scrambled up from his bedroll and grabbed his rifle when he heard a loud knock on the cabin door. “Who the hell is it?” he roared.

  “It’s me, Slater. I’m comin’ in, so don’t shoot me.” He opened the door partway cautiously. “Are you awake? I’m comin’ in.”

  “I’m awake,” Sawyer answered, although he wasn’t entirely sure. He stood there by the fireplace, still holding the rifle until he could see that it was really Slater. “What in the hell are you doin’ here?” he asked, amazed. “What are you doin’ out?”

  “I couldn’t stay in that guardhouse,” Slater said. “I’ve got things I’ve gotta do.”

  “Like what?” Sawyer responded. “You’re goin’ after that Henry Weed feller, ain’tcha? Doggone it, Slater, I talked to Lieutenant Russell, and he said he’d make sure they got word to Virginia City right away. How’d you break outta the guardhouse, anyway?”

  “Went out the window,” Slater answered. “I ’preciate Lieutenant Russell tryin’ to help me, but I might not have time to wait for word from those folks. Even then, it might not be good news, so I’ve gotta find out some things for myself.”

  “Damned if you ain’t somethin’. You’re gonna have the whole dang army after you—you know that? You want me to go with you? Went out the window?”

  “No,” Slater said. “I don’t want you to go with me. I can’t have you mixed up in this. Did you pick up my horse and saddle?”

  “He’s out back with the other horses,” Sawyer said. “I shoulda known you was fixin’ to do somethin’ like this. Lemme pull my boots on, and I’ll help you saddle up.”

  “I ’preciate it, Jeb.”

  They worked as quickly as possible, knowing that dawn was not far away and the first place the soldiers would look for Slater would be at the cabin. They saddled the paint and rigged his red sorrel packhorse with a small pack of meat and ammunition, coffee, and a few other essentials. It was not yet daylight when Slater was ready to ride.

  “Well,” Sawyer said as Slater stepped up into the saddle, “I reckon I’ll see ya when I see ya. Try not to get yourself kilt.”

  “I’ll try,” Slater said, wheeled the paint around and splashed through the creek, and set out through the rolling prairie to intercept the road to Bozeman, instead of going back on the usual path.

  * * *

  It was not very long past reveille on the post when a hastily mounted detail of six troopers, led by a young second lieutenant, named James McGuire, turned onto the path by the creek that led to Jeb Sawyer’s cabin. They pulled up before the cabin and Lieutenant McGuire called out, “You there, in the cabin, come out and show yourselves!”

  In a few seconds, the door opened and Sawyer came out wearing nothing more than his long underwear and his boots. “What’s goin’ on, Lieutenant? What are you boys doin’ up here?”

  “We’re looking for Slater,” McGuire informed him. “Is he inside? If he is, he’d best get himself out here right now.”

  “Slater?” Sawyer asked innocently. “Why, no, he ain’t here. He’s in the guardhouse back at the fort.”

  “He escaped from the guardhouse, and I expect he came straight here,” McGuire insisted.

  “Escaped?” Sawyer exclaimed, excited. “Well, I’ll be go to hell! How’d he do that, somebody forget to lock the door?”

  “He went out the window,” McGuire said, rapidly losing his patience, for he suspected that Sawyer might be stalling him. “Look, Sawyer, we’re pretty sure Slater would come straight to your cabin to get his horse and saddle. Are they gone?” He directed his men to dismount.

  “No, sir. Come on in and look around—cabin ain’t hardly big enough for him to be here and me not know it. Course, I was doin’ a little drinkin’ last night, so I just got outta the bed.” He stepped aside when a couple of soldiers went inside.

  “Ain’t nobody in here, Lieutenant,” one of them called out.

  “Where’s his horse and saddle?” McGuire asked. “He usually rides a paint horse, doesn’t he?”

  “In the shed, yonder,” Sawyer said, pointing to the half-finished barn. “I picked his horses up myself yesterday.”

  Two troopers ran to check and promptly hollered back, “His horse ain’t here, but there is one saddle.”

  “Ain’t there?” Sawyer asked, as if astonished. “Let me see myself.” He hustled out to the shed and made a show of looking right and left. “Well, forevermore,” he exclaimed. “It is gone—and his saddle, too. That’s my saddle there.” He stood there seemingly perplexed, scratching his head. “When did he get ’em? He musta slipped in here while I was asleep.” He turned to face McGuire. “He’s sure as hell gone now, ain’t he?”

  “I don’t suppose you know where he might have gone,” McGuire said, suspecting that Sawyer was simply wasting his time.

  “Well, no, sir, but knowin’ Slater, and the kinda feller he is, I expect he lit out straight north to the mountains.”

  McGuire, perplexed, said nothing for a long moment before finally commenting, “Since you’re supposed to be employed as a scout, I could ask you to put on some clothes and find his trail for me. But I have an idea that might be just another waste of my time.” He fixed Sawyer with a knowing smile.

  “Why, no, sir,” Sawyer replied eagerly. “I can get ready to ride right quick, and we’ll see if we can pick up his tracks. Course, he’s damn nigh an Injun, so he knows how to cover a trail.”

  “Don’t bother,” McGuire replied sarcastically. Addressing his men then, he said, “Mount up. We’ll go on back to the post and see what the colonel wants to do.”

  “Lemme know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Sawyer called after them.

  He stood near the cabin door and watched them until he could no longer see through the trees along the creek.

  Well, boy, he thought, I hope that’ll give you a little more time to do whatever you’re aiming to.

  * * *

  Slater paused by the double doors of the Golden Chance. He pushed one of them open far enough to give him a view of the room he was about to enter, and he was pleased to see Lola Leach and Henry Weed sitting at a table near the kitchen door, eating breakfast. Weed was partially facing him, enough so that he could readily identify the villainous features of the conniving miscreant Slater had known when a boy. Other than having aged considerably, Weed looked the same. Slater stepped inside the empty saloon.

&nbs
p; Engaged in an oft-repeated attempt to convince Lola that, as her business partner, he shouldn’t have to pay for her bedroom services, Weed took no notice of the tall man who had just stepped inside the door.

  Frustrated with the usual turndown from Lola, he glanced toward the door as he took another sip from his coffee cup. The specter that met his eye caused him to spill his coffee down the front of his shirt.

  “Jace!” he almost screamed as the cup dropped noisily on the table.

  Lola pushed back from the table trying to avoid getting splashed, startled by Weed’s sudden spasm. Seeing the cause then, she got out of her chair and backed away from the table.

  “Henry Weed,” Slater proclaimed slowly. His tone, laden with contempt, sounded like an accusation instead of the simple statement of a name. Frozen by the spectacle that had suddenly appeared, Weed recovered somewhat and dropped his hand on the handle of the .44 he always wore. Slater’s rifle came up immediately to cover him. “Go ahead, Weed, pull it. I’ll oblige you.”

  “Whoa, Jace!” Weed blurted fearfully. “I wasn’t goin’ for my gun. I was just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know it was you, boy.” He attempted to fake a chuckle. “I mean, it’s been a helluva lotta years, and you all dressed up in that Injun outfit. I just didn’t recognize you,” he said, forgetting that he had screamed out his name. “Yes, sir, you’re a sight for sore eyes, all right. Ain’t that right, Lola?”

  For her part, Lola, having recovered from her initial fright, was more inclined to find the situation amusing. She moved a little farther away toward the kitchen door.

  “I’ve got no part in this,” she declared, smiling when she noted the sick expression on Weed’s face.

  Slater walked slowly toward the table, his rifle still aimed at Weed.

  “Yes, sir,” Weed said weakly, “it’s good to see you again. Set down and have some breakfast. We’ve got us a good cook. She’ll fix you up some eggs and bacon. I’ll bet you ain’t had no eggs in a long time.”

  Ignoring Weed’s pathetic attempt to defuse the approaching disaster, Slater walked up to stand directly before him. “Talk I’ve heard says you’re a widower,” he said softly, his words measured and deadly. “I’d like to know a little more about that.”

  “No, no!” Weed quickly blurted. “That ain’t true! That ain’t true atall! You know I wouldn’t never do no harm to your mama.”

  “I don’t know that atall,” Slater said, his tone still deadly calm as he raised the rifle up to aim it directly at Weed’s forehead.

  Weed shrank back in cold fear, knowing he was about to die. “No, wait!” he cried out. “Your ma ain’t dead! I swear it! She’s alive and well, got herself a fine cabin on a little stream called Beaver Run near Helena.” When Slater didn’t pull the trigger, Weed pleaded further. “Me and her decided we’d split up, that’s all.”

  “What you mean is you ran off and left her to try to make it on her own,” Slater said.

  “No, sir, Jace, I wouldn’ta never done a thing like that,” Weed said, “not to your ma.” Thinking that maybe Slater was beginning to buy the story, Weed sought to add more. “Why, I loved your mama—like to broke my heart when she run me off.”

  That was too much for Slater to tolerate. Maybe he had scared the truth out of the cowering weasel. Maybe his mother was alive. He knew he was going to have to find out for himself, as he glared down at the terrified man.

  He had come looking for him with the intention to kill him. As he looked upon him with such loathing disgust, he decided he wasn’t worth the cost of a cartridge. He reached over the table and grabbed a handful of Weed’s coffee-stained shirt. With one powerful tug, he dragged the frightened man across the tabletop and onto the floor.

  “If I don’t find my mother alive,” he threatened, “you’re a dead man. There ain’t no place on earth or hell I won’t find you.”

  “She’s alive! I swear it!” Weed cried.

  Slater shoved the pathetic man flat on the floor, and took one quick glance in Lola’s direction to find her still with a half grin on her painted face. It was then that Weed saw his chance. He dropped his hand down to pull the .44 from his holster, only to be slammed beside his head with the butt of Slater’s rifle.

  Knocked senseless, he collapsed back on the floor and lay still. Slater took the pistol from his hand and tossed it across the room, took another look at the smiling Lola, and walked toward the door.

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Slater,” Lola called after him as he stepped outside.

  Chapter 16

  After two and a half hard days’ ride, Slater had reached the town of Helena, which had been built almost overnight right along Last Chance Gulch. That was three days ago, and he was still searching for a stream called Beaver Run. He had asked in every saloon and store he could find, but no one had ever heard of the stream, and he was beginning to believe that there never was such a stream. Or maybe, he thought, it was known by some other name, which left him just as lost as before.

  Discouraged, he had almost decided to return to Bozeman for another meeting with Henry Weed when he happened upon a small trading post beside a wide creek in the mountains south of the town of Helena. Running low on some supplies, he rode down to the creek and the weathered log building there with the handcrafted sign. He pulled up by a short hitching rail and dismounted.

  After looping his reins over the rail, he ducked his head to enter the dark interior of the store. There was no sign of anyone, so he stood for a moment, looking around at the half-empty shelves. It didn’t appear to be a very thriving business.

  “Hello,” he called out. “Anybody home?” There was no answer.

  There was an open door to another room at the back of the store, and while he stood there waiting for some sign of life, a large yellow dog padded lazily out of the room and walked up to him to be petted. Slater scratched behind the hound’s ears for a few seconds, then walked to the door and called out again, still with no answer.

  I guess I’ll wait and pick up what I need in town, he thought, and went back outside. He walked back to the rail to untie his horses.

  “Some way to run a business,” he said to the paint. “I reckon a man could just take what he wanted and ride off.”

  “A man could try,” a voice overhead said, “if he don’t mind ridin’ off with a double load of buckshot in his hind end.”

  Startled, Slater spun around to look up and find a gnarly-looking, elflike old man standing on the roof, holding a double-barreled shotgun. “Damn!” Slater swore. “Why didn’t you sing out when I called you?”

  “I was on the back part of the roof, tryin’ to patch a hole. Hell, I couldn’t hear anybody inside the store at first. I’m hard of hearin’ as it is, and when I did hear you, you was already out front. I’da come down to see what you wanted, but I kicked my ladder over when I swung my leg over to get on it—caught the side of the ladder with my foot—dang near fell off the roof.”

  Astonished, Slater shook his head. “No higher’n that roof is, you coulda just jumped off.”

  “Twenty years ago, maybe,” the old man said. “I’d be obliged if you’d walk around back and set my ladder back up.”

  “Have you got any coffee beans?” Slater asked.

  “Sure do. If you’ll set my ladder up, I’ll fetch some for you.”

  Slater walked around the log building and found a rickety ladder on the ground. He set it up against the edge of the roof and held it steady while the old man climbed down.

  Once he was on the ground, the little man looked up at the formidable man towering over him and said, “I ain’t got no coffee beans—ain’t had any for over a month. I’m ’bout to starve for a cup of coffee myself.”

  Surprised, Slater said, “You just told me you had some coffee beans.”

  “Well, I was on the roof then. I didn’t have no way of knowin’ if y
ou’d set my ladder up if I didn’t have no coffee.”

  “If that don’t beat all. . . ,” Slater started impatiently. “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Tell you the truth, you kinda looked like an Injun, and I thought you might take a notion to clean me out and set the place on fire. And I just wanted to have my feet on the ground, in case you did.”

  “Do you have a lotta trouble like that around here?” Slater asked.

  “Not for the last five or six years,” the old man replied. “But you can’t never be too careful.” His heavy gray beard parted just enough to display a smile. “Glad to make your acquaintance. My name’s Ike Bacon. I ain’t never seen you in these parts before, and I’ve had this store here for fifteen years. I’m sorry I ain’t got no coffee. Like I said, I got a helluva cravin’ for a cup myself. Anythin’ else I can help you with?”

  “You ever heard of Beaver Run?” Slater asked, just on the chance, since Ike had been here so long.

  “Sure, everybody knows where Beaver Run is,” Ike said.

  “Can you tell me how to find it?”

  “Sure can,” Ike said. “Take a half turn around. You’re lookin’ at it.”

  Almost stunned, Slater found himself gaping at the busy creek running behind the trading post, he whipped back around immediately. “I’m lookin’ for a woman—”

  “Me, too,” Ike interrupted with a chuckle.

  “I’m lookin’ for a woman that was livin’ with a man on a mining claim somewhere on this creek,” Slater continued, ignoring Ike’s attempt at humor. “The man ran off and left her. His name is Henry Weed.” He needed to go no further.

  “Henry Weed,” Ike echoed at once, “that sorry piece of dung. I know him.” He turned his head and spat in disgust. “He moved in on Jim Holloway’s claim a few years back. Him and Jim was gonna work it as partners, and they did for a while. Jim came in here one day, struttin’ like a rooster, said him and Weed had struck that rich vein he knew was there from the first day he put a pick in the ground. Wasn’t a week later when ol’ Weed came in here and told me Jim got kilt by a boulder he loosened, said it ran right over Jim. Weed said that vein had run out and he was leavin’ the valley. That woman wasn’t with him.”