“Oh, there ain’t no worry about Bob Yeager,” Jack assured her. “Takin’ care of troublesome people is his business. Him and three fellers he rode with gunned down a deputy sheriff in Virginia City six years ago and they got away with it slick as you please. He was in prison for robbin’ a stagecoach outta Bozeman. They never did find out he was the one killed the deputy—shot him in the mouth with his .44.”
“How do we know he won’t come back around later on, looking for more money?”
“’Cause he knows I’ll shoot him if he does,” Jack boasted with a smirk. “Besides, he don’t have to know about the gold and he don’t have to know why we want the McClouds dead. All the same to him, as long as he gets paid for the job.”
“Just be sure this deal is between you and him,” she said. “I don’t want him to know I’m involved in any way.” She had big plans for the money that gold would buy and she wanted no chance of some saddle tramp killer showing up at her front door looking for hush money.
Jack snorted impatiently. “Don’t worry, Your Highness. I ain’t gonna tell him about you.” Knowing his sister’s fetish for neatness, he couldn’t resist making a point of deliberately tapping his cigar over the rug and smiling when the ashes hit the floor. “You know, it’d help a helluva lot if I knew what these jaspers look like. I don’t reckon they’ll ride into town wearin’ a sign around their necks that says ‘We’re the McCloud boys.’ ” He chuckled in appreciation for his joke.
She could not be sure both brothers would be trailing her. It would depend on how serious Cody’s wound had been. “I’ll describe them as best I can,” she said. “They’re both taller than average. Cullen’s the oldest. He’s clean shaven and has dark hair. Cody’s hair is much lighter and he has a mustache.”
“That don’t tell me a helluva lot,” Jack responded. “Helena’s a fair-sized town. There’s a lot of jaspers walking around that fit that description.”
“If they’re both following me, you can tell them by the horses they ride. Cullen rides a light bay with white stockings, and Cody rides an Appaloosa, one of those Indian-bred horses.” She paused to watch his reaction, then thought of another suggestion. “Why don’t you have this Yeager person ride back toward Garrison, and maybe he’ll meet the McClouds before they get to Helena?”
“How do we know they ain’t already here?” Jack asked.
“We don’t,” she replied calmly. “And they may not show up here at all. I never mentioned Helena to them, so they should suspect that I’m going to Butte.” She held up a finger then as if making an important point. “But they’re both like a couple of Indians when it comes to tracking, so there’s a small chance they might be on their way here. And I want all the little possibilities taken care of, so go find this Yeager person and send him on the trail to Garrison Station. If Cullen and Cody haven’t showed up there, tell him to wait until they do.”
Just as he had figured, Jack Sykes found Bob Yeager at the Red Dog Saloon, a seedy, run-down saloon on the northern fringe of Helena. It was run by a man known simply by the name Stumpy, in obvious reference to the peg-leg strapped to the stump of his right thigh. The Red Dog was seldom frequented by the peaceful citizens of Helena, because of its reputation as a hangout and meeting place for those who walked the dark line between the law-abiding and those who had drifted over that line. It was a natural attraction to men like Jack Sykes and Bob Yeager. Yeager, a dark, brooding hulk of a man, was easily recognized by a long white scar that ran through his beard from his left earlobe, across his cheek to almost touch the corner of his mouth. He sat at a table in the rear of the saloon, hovering over a glass of beer, much like a dog guarding a bone. Stumpy sat across from him. Both men looked up when they heard the door open and Jack walked in.
“Jack Sykes,” Stumpy announced in bored greeting. “What can I do for you? Whiskey?”
“Nah,” Jack returned, “just give me a glass of that beer.” He nodded at Yeager then, who had not changed his sullen expression and offered no response to his nod. “I thought I’d find you here,” Jack said.
Stumpy got up to draw a beer for him, but paused long enough to ask, “I reckon you’ve got some cash money on you, ’cause I’m flat done with sellin’ beer on the cuff.” He gave Yeager a hard glance that Jack could easily interpret as meaning that the sullen man was drinking on credit. Jack was pretty confident then that his bargaining position was strengthened considerably.
“Yeah,” Jack replied, “I can pay for my beer, and I’ll buy one for Bob, too.” He reached in his pocket and laid the money down, enough for a couple more to boot. It was enough to cause the somber Yeager to raise his head and look directly at him. While Stumpy went to the bar to fetch the beer, Jack pulled a chair over closer to Yeager. “Don’t look to me like things has been goin’ too good for you since you got outta prison.”
“Things has been better,” Yeager replied.
“Well, maybe I’ve got a little job for you that’s right up your alley, that is, if you’re interested in makin’ a little money.”
This ignited an immediate change in Yeager’s disposition, bringing a spark of interest to his otherwise dull gaze. “Maybe,” he replied. “Who you want kilt?”
“Hold on a minute,” Jack cautioned, and looked over his shoulder to see if Stumpy had heard Yeager’s response. “This job has to be kept quiet.”
“Hell, Stumpy ain’t gonna tell nobody,” Yeager said. “He knows I’ll kill him if he does.”
“All the same,” Jack insisted, “I’d rather keep this between me and you. I’ll talk to you outside. Besides, who said anythin’ about killin’ somebody?” He glanced at Stumpy again, who was still at the bar.
“Hell, what else would it be?” Yeager grunted. “I ain’t much of an expert in any other trade.” His curiosity caused him to raise an eyebrow then and almost brought a twinkle to his eye. “How much does this little job pay?”
Speaking in a whisper now, as Stumpy approached the table carrying three glasses of beer, Sykes replied, “Two hundred dollars, gold,” he said, and sat back to let Yeager absorb that while Stumpy placed the glasses on the table and sat down with them. The sum mentioned was enough to cause Yeager to raise the other eyebrow, just as Jack figured.
“It feels so damn good to finally have a payin’ customer this mornin’ that I decided to have a drink with you,” Stumpy announced. “Seems like ever’body is feelin’ hard times these days.”
Confident now to rebuff Stumpy’s criticism, Yeager favored him with a smirk. “You crabby ol’ skinflint, maybe I won’t have to drink no more on credit in this dump you call a saloon.”
“Is that so?” Stumpy replied, and cast an inquiring look in Jack’s direction. Sykes simply shrugged in response, feigning any knowledge of the basis for Yeager’s remark. “Did somebody die and leave you a fortune?” Stumpy asked. Then exercising his sense of humor, he continued. “Or is somebody just fixin’ to die?” He chuckled then in appreciation of his wit.
Jack shot Yeager a warning glance, which Yeager answered with a lazy grin. To Stumpy, he said, “None of your business, old man. Get up and fill them glasses again.” He tipped his glass back and drained it, then set it down hard on the table for emphasis.
When Stumpy raked the remaining money off the table and went to the bar, Jack told Yeager to meet him outside. Yeager nodded, and Sykes got to his feet then and headed for the door with a casual wave to Stumpy as he walked past the bar. “Don’t hurry off,” Stumpy called out to him, reluctant to see a paying customer leave with money still in his pocket.
Jack waited by the hitching rail for Yeager to follow him. He was about to lose his temper as well as his patience when the gruff ex-con finally appeared on the short porch of the saloon. “What the hell took you so long?” Sykes demanded irritably. When Yeager replied that there had been beer bought and paid for that he couldn’t let go to waste, Jack snorted in response, “I’m talkin’ ’bout a job that’s worth two hundred dollars, and you’re worryin
g ’bout fifty cents’ worth of beer?”
“You ain’t told me what the job is,” Yeager said, “and I ain’t seen no two hundred dollars, neither.”
“You’ll see it when we’ve got a deal,” Jack promised. He then explained what he would be paid to do. “Two hundred dollars,” he emphasized when he had finished. “One hundred for each man—and damn it, I want proof of each kill.”
“You said there might not be but one of ’em showin’ up,” Yeager said. “I get the two hundred whether both of ’em show up or not, or I ain’t interested.”
Jack had to think about it for a few moments before agreeing. “All right, two hundred if it’s one or if it’s twenty that shows up, but you don’t get a cent until the job’s done.”
“I’ll be damned,” Yeager complained. “How do I know you’ll pay? Hell, how do I know you’ve even got that much money?” He had never known Jack Sykes to be any more than a down-and-out outlaw like himself, and he was asking for a helluva lot to be done on trust alone. “Hell, I’ve got expenses—supplies and cartridges—if I’m gonna have to track somebody between here and Garrison Station.”
Sykes thought it over for a few seconds before giving in to his demands. “All right, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you fifty dollars up front and the rest of it when the job is done, but I want those two brothers dead.”
“We got a deal,” Yeager said, “just as soon as you give me the fifty dollars.” He was more than happy with the arrangement. It was more than he had expected. He would have killed two men for fifty dollars, had that been the total offer. He had one more question, however, that had puzzled him. “Where the hell did you get that kinda money?”
“Never you mind about that. I’ve got it. That’s all you need to know.” The thought occurred that Yeager might be thinking about cutting himself in for a bigger portion of the gold once he got his foot in the door. It was not a matter that caused Jack any concern. If he wants a share, all he’ll get is a deposit of lead—enough to mold one .44 bullet, he thought.
So the deal was struck to eliminate one—or two—of the McCloud brothers with Jack agreeing to meet Yeager the following morning with the cash advance of fifty dollars. He could have given the outlaw the fifty then and there, but he preferred not to hand it over while the night was still young, and Stumpy’s was still open. So it was that the following morning Bob Yeager set out on the trail west toward Garrison with fifty dollars in hand and a very sketchy description of the men he was to kill. Sykes had never seen either of the two men he hired Yeager to kill, and could only offer Roberta’s description of them. “One hundred and fifty dollars, waitin’ for you when you’re done,” Jack reminded him as he rode away, in case the temptation to simply disappear with the fifty was working on his mind.
Bob Yeager kicked dirt over the remains of his campfire, pulled his rifle from the saddle sling, and checked it before returning it and stepping up into the saddle. He figured he was halfway between Helena and the stagecoach stop over on the Clark Fork. Had he been in a hurry, he could have made the ride in one day, but he was in no hurry. If Jack Sykes’ hunch was right, he ought to meet the man, or men, he was looking for. There was still some question as to whether there was one or two of the McCloud brothers stalking Jack. Sykes had been a bit hazy about why they might be looking for him. And there was still the possibility these brothers might be heading for Butte instead of Helena. Well, he thought, If I don’t meet up with them before I get to the Clark Fork, I’ll head for Butte. He guided his horse the short distance back to the trail and continued west.
Not a solitary soul did he meet before striking the Butte road and the stagecoach swing station on the river. Pulling his horse to a stop, he sat undecided whether to head south toward Butte or follow the road in the opposite direction toward Missoula. “This is crazy as hell,” he exclaimed. “How the hell do I know whether the son of a bitch has done come and gone, or ain’t even got this far yet?” Then he thought about the fifty dollars he had in his pocket, and the prospect of turning it into two hundred. Jack must want this bastard dead pretty bad, he thought, so I’ll look for him. Sykes wants proof he’s dead, so I’ll cover the trail as best I can. Then if I don’t find him, I’ll shoot somebody and tell Jack it’s McCloud. Hell, he ain’t ever seen them fellers himself. He decided then to ride on up to the stage station and buy himself something to eat, now that he could afford it. He could ask if they had seen anyone of McCloud’s description in the last day or two. There was a good chance that McCloud had stopped there.
It was close to sundown when Cullen came to the modest settlement called Garrison. He guided the bay toward a low frame building, sprawled close beside the riverbank with a couple dozen horses in the corral, indication that this was the stagecoach station. Cullen was ready to stop for the night in any case, for his horse was in need of rest and maybe a ration of oats. Approaching the door, he stopped to knock instead of walking right in, since the building didn’t have any appearance of a commercial establishment. In a few minutes’ time, the door was opened by a cheerful-looking woman wearing a long apron. Stepping back in frank appraisal of the tall stranger, she said nothing for an awkward moment before inquiring, “Can I help you, sir?”
Looking past her, Cullen could see that he had guessed right in hesitating to walk in uninvited. It was a home with a proper parlor behind the woman, and he at once started to apologize for bothering her at suppertime. “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said. “I was lookin’ for the stage station, and I thought this might be it. I saw the horses in the corral back there.” He touched his hat and turned to leave, but she stopped him.
“You’re in the right place,” she said. “The stage line changes horses here. What can we do for you? Do you need to speak to my husband about the horses?”
“Ah, no, ma’am,” Cullen replied. “To tell you the truth, I was thinkin’ that this might be a dinin’ room or somethin’ where the stage stopped to feed the passengers. I was lookin’ to buy some supper.”
She laughed then and took a step back. “Like I said, you’re in the right place. Come on in. You’re just in time. Supper’s still on the table.” She paused as he stepped inside. “If you don’t mind, sir, you can leave your gun belt and pistols here on this table. We prefer not to have guns in the dining room.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and unbuckled his belt and placed his weapons on the small table with a belt and pistol already there. Although not of great interest to him, he did note that the holster for the Colt .44 was backward so that the pistol sat handle forward, the style that a lot of men preferred in order to draw the weapon faster.
The lady led him through the modest parlor to pause in the doorway to a large dining room where all the furniture had been removed except a sideboard and a long table. “My name’s Myra Sullivan,” she said. “Me and my husband, Fred, have an arrangement with the stage line to cook a meal for the passengers on days they’re running from Missoula to Butte. We charge the passengers fifty cents apiece for supper, and I reckon we can do the same for you.” She paused. “If that’s all right with you.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’d be fine with me.”
He looked beyond her at the diners already seated at the table. Only one end of the table was being used, since there were only five places set. Those already well along in their supper turned to look at the new arrival. The gray-haired man at the head of the table nodded to Cullen. Myra introduced him as her husband, Fred. To Fred’s left, a young boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen stared at the stranger while still working on a biscuit, his curiosity insufficient to interrupt his supper. Cullen was told that this was their son, Jimmy. That left one to be introduced, a brooding, broad-shouldered man with a full beard and heavy eyebrows like dark thickets over eyes set deep in his skull. The feature that set the man apart was a long white scar that cut a line through his dark beard that resembled a trail through a thick forest. “This is Mr. Smith,” Myra said. “He’s like you, just travel
ing through and decided to stay the night.”
Cullen nodded to the somber Mr. Smith, who seemed to be looking him over with some curiosity; then he turned back to Myra. “It’s mighty neighborly of you folks to let me take supper with you.”
“Well, to tell you the truth of it,” Fred Sullivan responded, “we plan to turn the place into a regular dinin’ room if this business with the stage line catches on, so we’re glad to see folks like you and Mr. Smith stop in. If we get enough calls for it, I’m gonna build a section of rooms onto the back of the house, so if a body wants to stay over for a day or however many, he can rent a room.” He smiled at Smith then and said, “And he won’t have to sleep in the barn like Mr. Smith, here.” Turning back to Cullen, he said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“McCloud,” he answered, “Cullen McCloud.”
“Well, Mr. McCloud, set yourself down at that empty plate there,” Myra said, and watched for a moment while Cullen hung his hat on the back of the chair and sat down. Then she went to the kitchen door and called to her daughter, “Marcy, bring one more plate and some silverware. We have another guest.”
Cullen had wondered who the extra plate was for, since everybody but Myra was already well into their supper. Satisfied that the menfolk were all taken care of, Myra sat down across from Cullen. In a minute or two, a young woman of perhaps eighteen or nineteen came from the kitchen with another place setting and sat down with it next to her mother. She nodded politely to Cullen before getting up again to fetch the coffeepot. In a few seconds she was back, and Cullen watched her as she went around the table, filling the empty cups. He could not help admiring her obvious grace as she cheerfully poured the hot coffee from a large gray metal pot. Cullen found himself studying her auburn hair and the one stray lock that fell across her forehead to be constantly brushed aside. Her eyes, bright and laughing, locked on his and captured his gaze. He quickly looked away, embarrassed to be practically gaping at her. The cups filled, she returned the pot to its place on the edge of the stove, then came back to her chair.
Thunder Over Lolo Pass Page 11
