Thunder Over Lolo Pass

by Charles G. West

  His insensitive question brought a weak smile to Jug’s harried face. “Hell no. I ain’t never had no notion to die.”

  “Well, I reckon I better make sure we’ve got plenty of meat in the smokehouse,” Smoke said.

  Suddenly feeling exhausted, Donovan McCloud sank heavily into his chair on the other side of Jug’s bed, finally confident in his son’s ability to defy the doctor’s diagnosis. The last few days, when Jug was fighting for his life, had been hard on the head of the McCloud family. The odds of Jug’s recovery were dead set against him, and they were all resigned to the prospect that the likable, easygoing giant of a man would soon pass out of their lives. Donovan had spent many long moments in the tiny graveyard on the ridge close to the river, talking to Charlotte, asking his late wife to be on the lookout for her second son, Ryan. Jug would need her help, Donovan pleaded, being on his own after so many years looking to Cullen for guidance. Now, unable to keep a tired grin off his face, he watched what some might think a miracle, and he had a feeling that it was just some of Charlotte’s work. Even Smoke had a smile on his face, which was a miracle in itself, for Donovan could not recall having ever seen one on the craggy face before. Glancing from Smoke, to Jug, and then to Cody, everyone was grinning except Cody. His youngest son was standing at the head of Jug’s bed, obviously thankful for his brother’s unexpected rally, but he wore a troubled look on his face.

  “I expect we’d all best get outta here and let him get some rest, now that his fever’s broke and he don’t look like he’s gonna check out any time soon,” Smoke advised.

  “I expect so,” Donovan agreed, and got up to leave.

  “I’m gonna need somethin’ to eat,” Jug protested weakly.

  This brought an immediate laugh from his three visitors. “Yeah, I reckon he’s back all right,” Cody said.

  “I’ll fix you somethin’,” Smoke said, and led them out of the room.

  “What’s workin’ on your mind?” Donovan asked Cody when they had walked out into the hall.

  “I don’t know,” Cody answered. “I’m thinkin’ about Cullen. I guess I just got a feelin’ that he might need help. And now that I’m sure Jug is gonna make it, I’m thinkin’ about headin’ out toward Missoula to see if I can find him.” He didn’t need to express other concerns that they both knew. Cullen had been taken with Roberta Morris. Cody feared what it might do to his brother if he was too late to save her.

  Donovan nodded thoughtfully. There was a strong bond between all three brothers, and he had long ago stopped questioning their tendency for one to know when the other needed help. “All right,” he said, “I think that’s a good idea. Me and Smoke will be okay here. We’ll take care of Jug. Go find your brother, and, Cody, you be damn careful.”

  “I will, Pa. I’ll find him.”

  Early the next morning, Cody once again threw his saddle on the six-year-old Appaloosa gelding named Buttermilk. Of his string of horses, he would have to say that he favored Buttermilk when the job called for endurance and speed. Smoke put a fresh bandage on the wound in his shoulder, which looked to be close to the point where he could go without one. The stiffness was gone, and that was all that mattered to Cody. After promising his father again that he would be careful, he turned the Appaloosa’s head toward the north and started out to find his brother.

  “Not again!” Jimmy Sullivan exclaimed. It was the second time this month the spirited young stallion had managed to squeeze through a small gap between a corral post and the barn. And just like the first time, it took off up the road toward Helena. It was Jimmy’s job to find him and bring him back. His father planned to geld the young horse in the early fall when the flies weren’t so bad and the cooler temperatures would tend to keep the swelling down after the procedure. Gelding was usually done in early spring or late fall. Jimmy’s father could have done it in the spring just passed, but he wanted to give the horse time to develop a little muscle definition and aggressiveness first. The leggy stallion was not quite a year old. Its withers hadn’t grown to be level with its croup yet. In Jimmy’s opinion, the horse had already developed enough aggressiveness to be a nuisance. You’ll settle down to more respectable ways after you’ve had your balls lopped off, he thought.

  The first place Jimmy had looked for the rebellious young horse was the meadow just above a band of pine that ringed the lower slope of a low mountain. This was where he had found him the last time, and sure enough, that was where he found him again. It took a little cussing, and a fair amount of time, but Jimmy finally got a rope on the renegade. With the ornery stallion in tow, he guided his horse down through the pines with the intent to come out on the road to Helena. The stallion followed reluctantly, jerking and tossing his head in protest to Jimmy’s rope. Emerging from the trees that lined the road, Jimmy’s horse shied away from an object lying beside the trail, some thirty feet away. It took a second look before Jimmy realized it was a body. “God A’mighty!” he exclaimed involuntarily, and hauled back on the reins. Hesitant to move closer at once, in case someone might be watching him, he sat there and looked up the road in each direction, then back to the still form lying beside the track. When he felt sure there was no one else around, he nudged his horse closer until it was plain to see the cause for the body to be there. It was covered with blood, the obvious work of an Indian or a road agent.

  Still in the saddle, Jimmy walked his horse slowly around the body to take a better look before riding for home to tell his father. The face seemed familiar and it occurred to him then that it was the man who had spent the night in the barn. McCloud was the name he recalled. Shocked, he didn’t wait any longer, but gave his horse a kick and galloped off for home, the leggy young stallion in tow.

  As soon as Fred Sullivan heard his son’s excited report, he sent him to the house to fetch his rifle, while he hitched up the wagon. There had been no Indian trouble in this valley all summer, but with recent reports of the Nez Perce fighting in Idaho, and the prospect of their arrival in the neighboring valley west of the mountains, he had reason enough to be cautious. Jimmy said the dead man was Cullen McCloud. It was hard to believe he had been killed practically on their doorstep. It had been only hours since he had shared breakfast at their table. His womenfolk had commented on what a nice fellow he seemed to be. The least he could do was to give the man a decent burial. The team hitched, he waited for a few moments until Jimmy came running from the house with the rifle. His mother and sister followed the boy out the door, their faces etched with concern. “You women stay in the house,” Fred ordered, “till we get back.”

  As the wagon rumbled along the rough tracks of the Helena trail, Fred kept a sharp lookout for any signs of treachery awaiting, but all seemed peaceful enough. They had gone no more than three miles when they rounded a sharp turn in the road and Jimmy sang out, “There he is!” He stood up and pointed to the body lying beside the road. Fred pulled the team to a halt beside Cullen, and as his son had done earlier, paused to look all around him for any signs of danger before getting down. There was no sign of anything wrong, and no sound except a gentle whisper of the wind in the tall pines with the occasional call of a crow. Whoever had done this evil piece of work had obviously long since departed.

  “Let’s get him in the wagon,” Fred told his son, and climbed down to take a closer look. It was McCloud, all right. It was hard to tell how many times he had been shot because of the blood-saturated shirt. “Who woulda done such a thing?” Fred murmured, noticing his gun belt was missing and his pockets turned inside out. “Bushwhacked by a murderin’ thief.” He turned to Jimmy. “Take hold of his feet, son, and we’ll see if we can get him loaded. He’s a pretty good-sized feller, so mind your back.” Fred slid his hands under Cullen’s shoulders. “All right, you ready? Let’s pick him up.”

  Man and son strained and started to lift the body, but raised it no higher than a few inches before releasing him and jumping back startled when a slight groan came from the supposedly dead man. “Jesus!”
Fred exclaimed. He looked at his son, astonished, wondering if he had heard the sound. The wide-eyed look on Jimmy’s face told him that he had. Fred knelt down beside Cullen to get a closer look, and recoiled slightly when Cullen’s eyes flickered open for an instant before closing again. “Good Lord in heaven,” Fred uttered. “He’s alive.” He had to sit back and think for a few moments. He had known what to do before, when he had a dead man to deal with. Now with a man clinging to life, he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do for him. Considering all the blood soaked in Cullen’s shirt and trousers, Fred wondered if there could possibly be much left in his body. “Come on, son,” he finally said. “We’ll put him in the wagon and get him back to the house. It ain’t fittin’ for anybody to die lyin’ out here by the side of the road.”

  Both Myra and Marcy came out of the house to meet them when they rolled back into the yard. Several steps in front of her mother, Marcy was the first to reach the wagon. Before she could ask, Jimmy blurted, “He ain’t dead yet!”

  Marcy looked to her father for confirmation and Fred nodded in response. “That’s a fact,” he said.

  Moving up to stand beside her daughter as they both stared at the wounded man lying in the wagon bed, Myra uttered in disbelief, “My Lord, Fred, how could he not be?”

  “Don’t ask me,” her husband replied, “but he ain’t.” He scratched his head while he thought the problem over. “We could haul him over to the doctor at Deer Lodge, but the ride would most likely finish him off. I don’t think he’d make it.”

  “Well, we can’t leave the poor man out here in the wagon,” Myra said, a worried look on her face. She was clearly troubling over what to do with the dying man. As if concerned that Cullen might hear, she whispered to her husband, “Maybe it would be best to put him in the barn. It’ll be easier to clean him up in there.” She paused, then said, “For however long it takes for him to die.”

  Hearing her mother’s comment, Marcy protested. “We can’t put the poor man in the barn with the horses and the cow, Mama. We have to help him if we can. He may not be as badly wounded as it looks.”

  Fred shook his head, all the while studying the grim scene in his wagon bed. “I don’t know, Marcy. He looks pretty much finished to me. Your mother may be right. He’s gonna need a lot of cleanin’ up, and it’d be a whole lot easier in the barn, a lot easier to clean up the barn, too. We can make him a bed in that stall where he slept last night—put some fresh hay in there. It’d be clean as in the house.” He ignored the pointed glance Myra aimed his way for the remark.

  Although it still seemed insensitive to her, Marcy realized that her parents might be right as far as making it less trouble to care for the man. She confessed to having more compassion for the wounded man than had her mother and father, and it tore at her heart to see him in such a desperate state. “I guess you’re right,” she conceded reluctantly. “Mama and I will clean him up and make him as comfortable as we can.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that’s the thing to do, or not,” Fred replied hesitantly. “I reckon me and Jimmy could do it.”

  “Don’t be silly, Fred,” Myra responded. “It isn’t like we’ve never seen a man in his underwear before. Besides, you two clumsy bodies would probably kill him in the process.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Fred replied sheepishly. Still undecided what else he should do about the wounded man, he suggested, “Maybe I ought to send Jimmy over to Deer Lodge to tell the deputy about this.” Then reconsidering, said, “He’d most likely tell me there wasn’t anythin’ he could do about it.”

  The matter settled, Fred drove the wagon on over to the barn and the four of them carried Cullen inside and settled him as comfortably as they could in a corner of the stall. Their patient had not spoken a word during the entire process until he was lowered onto the fresh hay prepared for him. He opened his eyes briefly as Marcy bent over him to brush a stray wisp of hay from his face. Looking up to meet her gaze, he formed one silent word, Thanks.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of you.”

  With their problem temporarily resolved, Myra sent Jimmy to build up the fire in the kitchen stove and put a bucket of water on to heat. She went to the house to fetch her scissors and an extra quilt to cover Cullen after she had cut his shirt away and cleaned his wounds as best they could. She sent Marcy to pull down the bolt of cotton material from the rafters over the washroom. She had bought it in Helena to make curtains for the dining room, but had never gotten around to it. She could use some of the material now for bandaging. Hesitant at first, she had caught some of her daughter’s empathy for the unfortunate man lying in the barn, and resolved to make his final hours as comfortable as possible.

  “You’re sure he’s dead?” Jack Sykes asked.

  “I don’t reckon I’d be wearin’ this gun belt with his initials scratched on the inside if he wasn’t, now, would I?” Yeager replied sarcastically. He unbuckled the belt and placed it on the table, then pointed to the initials as proof that the job had been completed. “Now let’s talk about a little matter of a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Hell, how do I know you ain’t just stole that gun belt?” Sykes shot back. “Besides, it mighta belonged to somebody else with the same initials. Hell, you mighta scratched them initials in there yourself. I told you I wanted proof that he was dead.”

  “This son of a bitch was ridin’ a light bay with white stockin’s, like you told me, and he said his name was Cullen McCloud,” Yeager said, his tone taking on a hint of temper. “If you wanna see the damn horse, I can show it to you. There ain’t nothin’ more to argue about. He’s dead. I pumped three slugs into him and left him lyin’ in a wagon rut beside the road. I did the job. Now I want my money.”

  “All right, all right,” Sykes replied. He was convinced that the job had been taken care of, and to question Yeager further might prove to be risky for his own health. He pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and began counting out one hundred and fifty dollars.

  “Wait a minute,” Yeager said. “I thought you said a hundred and fifty, gold.”

  “Damn it, Bob,” Sykes protested. “I ain’t got it in gold. The paper’s good. Hell, a dollar’s a dollar, paper or gold, in any saloon in the territory.”

  “All right,” Yeager grumbled. Then in light of his curiosity about the source of Jack Sykes’ apparent wealth, he changed his attitude. “Sure thing, Jack, I know the money’s good. Tell you what. Let’s have a drink on it—I’m buyin’.” He yelled for Stumpy to bring a bottle.

  “Hell,” Sykes replied, “let me buy you one.” He would have preferred to part company with the man now that their business was completed, but he realized the possibility that he might need him later on for a similar type contract. According to what Roberta had told him, there was one more McCloud to worry about, depending upon how seriously Cody had been wounded. Aside from that, he wanted as little to do with Bob Yeager as possible. Yeager, on the other hand, was intent upon staying close enough to Sykes to keep an eye on him. He had something going for him that was evidently worth a lot of money, and Yeager was determined to cut himself in on the deal, whatever it was. He was especially curious about the woman who had gotten off the stage at Garrison, and he had a strong suspicion that Jack might have been the man who met her. So both men affected a cordial smile when Stumpy ambled over with a fresh bottle.

  “You know, Jack,” Yeager said after they had downed a couple of shots from the bottle Sykes bought, “I don’t know what you’ve got goin’ on, but judgin’ by the size of that roll in your pocket, I’d say it was somethin’ that pays pretty good.” When his comment was met with a silent pause from Sykes, Yeager continued. “I ain’t tryin’ to horn in on nothin’. Hell, I say more power to you. I’m just tryin’ to point out that a lot of folks think I’m a handy man to have around for them jobs that other folks don’t wanna get their hands dirty on. And you know me, Jack. I can keep my mouth shut. Me and you go way back to Deer Lodge.�
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  Sykes filled the glasses again while Yeager studied him intently, waiting for his reply. “What makes you think I’ve got some deal workin’?” he finally responded. “I just needed to have you take care of somebody who was givin’ me trouble. There ain’t no deal. I’m just tryin’ to get by, same as you.”

  “Damn, Jack, I ain’t the smartest son of a bitch around, but I’ve got enough sense to know that roll of bills you’re carryin’ didn’t come from no rich uncle. And I ain’t heard of no bank gettin’ robbed lately. I ain’t askin’ for an equal share of whatever you’ve got goin’. I’m just askin’ you to throw a little business my way.”

  “Damn it, Bob,” Jack replied, getting a bit hot under the collar, “I already threw a little business your way and paid you good for it. If I need somebody else took care of, I’ll throw you a little more, but there ain’t nothin’ else goin’ on right now.”

  Yeager leaned back and thought about it for a minute, still studying Sykes intently. “Who’s the woman?” he asked bluntly.

  “What woman?” Jack responded, taken aback, but trying hard to keep the look of surprise from showing.

  He was unsuccessful in the attempt. Yeager read the startled expression and knew he had struck a chord. “That woman that got off the stagecoach at that little swing station over on the Clark Fork. McCloud was mighty interested in that woman, and he took the same trail to Helena she took with a feller they say looked a helluva lot like you.” Yeager had no description of the man who met Roberta at the stage, but he decided to throw a bluff at Sykes. Judging from Jack’s expression, he was sure he had guessed right. “Them folks over there said she was your sister, or so she said.” Feeling smug now with the confidence that he had struck a sensitive area in Jack’s mind, he sat back and watched Sykes’ reaction.