Thunder Over Lolo Pass

by Charles G. West

  “Don’t you worry none about that,” Yeager said, trying to regain a portion of his previous arrogance. “He’ll cuss the day he ever found Bob Yeager.” In spite of his bluster, he was strongly considering the wisdom of hanging around waiting for Cody to come after him. It might be better to simply leave town. If he knew what McCloud looked like, he’d risk bushwhacking him if the situation was such that he could avoid witnesses. The more he thought about it, though, the more a move to Butte or somewhere else seemed attractive.

  The same thoughts were going through the minds of both men, and the realization that Yeager just might elect to head for parts unknown occurred then to Jack. To prevent Yeager from running before McCloud was taken care of, he decided it was a good idea to sweeten the pot a little. “We’d all be better off if that McCloud feller ran into a bullet,” he said. “It’d be worth another fifty dollars to me if you’d go ahead and finish the job.”

  It was enough to cause second thoughts for Yeager. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” he said, still undecided. After Sykes left him, he decided to stay one more night in Helena on the chance he found some way of identifying Cody McCloud, and was able to get a shot at him.

  While the man he searched for had withdrawn from the saloon for the night in one of Stumpy’s back rooms, Cody left the first saloon he had visited, heading for the second one, which was on the opposite side of the street. It proclaimed itself to be the Last Chance Saloon, in obvious reference to the gulch that was the source of the gold that gave birth to the mining town when four prospectors from Georgia made their strike. The Georgians had called the gulch Last Chance Gulch and when the town was built, the name remained to distinguish the main street, which ran alongside the gulch.

  As he had found in the first saloon, there was no one inside who sported a scar quite as distinctive as the one Cullen had described. When asked if he knew a man named Bob Yeager, the bartender could not recall anyone answering to that name. “There’s two more saloons no more’n a stone’s throw up the street,” the bartender offered. “Maybe one of them has seen him.”

  “Much obliged,” Cody said, and headed for the door. Stepping outside on the board sidewalk, he paused to look up the street in the direction the bartender had mentioned. It was past sundown by then, and a dull haze was settling in over the dusty street. Had he thought to look back toward the stables, he might have noticed a man and woman preparing to step up in the saddle, before guiding their horses toward the end of the street, a heavily laden packhorse being led by the man. His mind set more toward the scar-faced man he sought, Cody’s concentration was on the next saloon in line.

  His luck was no better in either of the two, so he decided to have a drink in the last one, a new establishment called Jake’s. It occurred to him as he tossed his whiskey back that there was a good possibility that Yeager might have made the same sleeping arrangements that he had. When asking Malcolm Barnes at the stable about Cullen’s bay gelding, he had not asked, nor had Barnes volunteered, where Yeager might be spending the night. That might have been the bright thing to ask, he berated himself silently. Saying good evening to Jake, he started to leave, but Jake mentioned that there was another saloon he might try out on the edge of town. “It’s the Red Dog Saloon,” he said. “Feller named Stumpy owns it. Don’t many respectable folks go there, but maybe your friend did.”

  “How far is it?” Cody asked. When told that it was a little over a mile, he decided to go back to the stables for his horse, but was intercepted before he passed the Last Chance Saloon.

  “Hold on there a minute, young feller.” Cody turned to see a man wearing a sheriff’s badge coming out the door of the saloon. Sheriff Wendall Price, a lean, rawboned man with a long handlebar mustache, stepped down to face Cody on the walk. Cody stopped and waited while Price strolled casually up to him. “Ain’t ever seen you in my town before,” the sheriff said.

  “Ain’t ever been here before,” Cody replied.

  “I’m always interested in meetin’ strangers in town, you know, find out why they’re visitin’ Helena.” As the sheriff talked, Cody noticed that he was looking him over thoroughly, paying special attention to the Winchester rifle Cody was carrying. “What brings you to town?”

  “I’m just passin’ through,” Cody answered, “and as long as I was here, I thought I’d look for a friend of mine.” So far, the interview was polite and friendly enough, but he was convinced there was a deeper reason than mere curiosity. With all the strangers who surely passed through the bustling town of Helena, Cody had no illusions that the sheriff greeted each one in this manner. It only took a few moments more to confirm his suspicions.

  “What’s your name?” Price asked. When Cody answered, the sheriff asked, “Who’s this friend you’re lookin’ for? What’s his name?”

  Not happy with the way the conversation was going at this point, Cody answered cautiously, “His name’s Bob Yeager. Maybe you’ve seen him.”

  “No, can’t say that I have. What do you want with him?”

  Cody hesitated for a moment before answering. Finally, he gave the sheriff a little smile and replied, “Well, now, I reckon there’s a little business between us that doesn’t concern anybody else. Like I said, he’s a friend.”

  “Everybody’s business in this town concerns me,” Price said, “especially when a stranger comes to town with a rifle in his hand, lookin’ all over for somebody.”

  Cody smiled again. “This is a strange little town you got here, Sheriff. You got laws against carryin’ a rifle and laws against lookin’ for a friend. I expect your jail ain’t big enough to hold everybody that’s breaking those laws.”

  “Well, there’s another little matter that we need to talk about,” Price said. “There’s a young lady over at the hotel that says a feller by the name of Cody McCloud has been followin’ her all the way from Fort Missoula, and she fears for her life.”

  Cody could only gape dumbfounded for a second, amazed by Roberta’s unabashed gall in going to the law for protection. Until that moment, he had not suspected that the conscienceless vixen was even in Helena. Unprepared as he was to answer, he stumbled for an explanation, not at all certain that the sheriff would accept his version of the story Roberta had already told. “Sheriff, you ain’t the first man that’s swallowed that woman’s lies.”

  “That a fact?” Price replied, showing little emotion. “Well, you can understand my position. A right respectable lady comes to me, sayin’ she just got to town and there’s a man chasin’ her. Then I get reports that that same man is lookin’ all over town for somebody with a scar on his face. You say he’s a friend, but somehow I don’t believe that’s the case. But it sure makes for an interestin’ story, so I think we’ll just let you rest up in our fine jail tonight, and we’ll see if we can sort some truth outta all this in the mornin’.” His tone was not unlike that of a patient father, disciplining a troublesome child. “Now, you’d best hand me that Winchester and ease that pistol outta the holster.”

  Cody looked at the sheriff for a long moment, amazed by the sharp turn of events. The man who shot Cullen and the woman Cullen had been chasing were both here, right now, in Helena—and this fatherly, almost apologetic, lawman wanted to put him in jail. There was no time for this nonsense. He gazed at Price, with his hand extended to take his rifle, for a few moments more before shaking his head slowly and speaking. “Sheriff, I know you’re just doin’ your job, but I’m afraid I can’t hand over my rifle right now. I don’t have time to go to jail, and I’m gonna need my rifle.”

  Price didn’t seem overly disturbed by Cody’s statement. He remained standing there with his hand outstretched for the weapon, a benevolent expression upon his face, while Cody took one cautious step back. He took a second step before feeling the impersonal touch of a rifle barrel in the small of his back. “Like to introduce you to my deputy,” Price said. “Lonnie, say howdy to Mr. McCloud.”

  “Pleased to meetcha,” Lonnie said, reaching around Cody
to relieve him of the Winchester. Cody had no choice but to release it.

  He glanced behind him to get a glimpse of the deputy. “You move pretty quiet for a fellow your size,” he commented as he felt his .44 Colt being lifted out of his holster.

  “Don’t he, though?” the sheriff replied. “I make him wear a cowbell when he’s hangin’ around the office.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re interested in hearin’ my side of the story,” Cody said.

  “’Course I am, son,” Price replied at once. “I bet it’s a helluva story. I look forward to it. Let’s get on along to the jail now, and you can tell it there.” He motioned to Lonnie, and the deputy prodded Cody with his rifle. As they walked toward the sheriff’s office, Price said, “We’ve got a peaceful town here. The folks who pay my salary like it that way, so you might as well set back and enjoy your stay with us, and we’ll get to the bottom of who’s tellin’ the truth.” He cocked an eye then and shook his head. “But I tell you, boy, that young lady don’t look to me like somebody who’d go around makin’ up wild stories.”

  Yeah, that’s the trouble, all right, Cody thought as he was herded down to the sheriff’s office, where he was locked away in a cell for the night. He made an honest attempt to convince Price that he was innocent of any crime, but the sheriff was not inclined to believe the deeds Cody credited to Roberta Morris, who had registered in the hotel under the name of Lawrence. Shortly after his prisoner’s incarceration, the sheriff went home to supper and Cody found that Lonnie had no interest in his protests at all. The stoic deputy closed the cell room door, propped his feet up on Price’s desk, and proceeded to catch a nap. Gripped in a vise of frustration he could not recall the likes of, he could see no solution to his predicament. Both my brothers are lying in bed, shot full of holes, and I’m stuck in jail, he thought. And the people responsible for our trouble are right outside this damn building. His vexation would have been complete had he known that while he paced back and forth in his eight-by-ten cell, the woman who had wrought such evil upon his family was on her way to Three Forks—on horseback, accompanied by her brother.

  “Well, looks like I did a pretty good job on you,” Dr. Hicks commented in praise of his stitching on Cullen’s chest and back. “You must have a pretty good nurse, too,” he went on, “as clean as those wounds look.” He looked up from his patient and smiled at Marcy, who responded with a shy smile of her own. Returning his attention to Cullen, he told him, “To tell you the truth, you’re one of the luckiest people I’ve seen in a while. If two of those bullets had been an inch left or right, you wouldn’t have made it. You’da been dead before your brother shanghaied me here.”

  “Like you said, Doc,” Cullen replied, “I’m a lucky son of a gun.” He glanced at Marcy then. “And I’ve got a mighty good nurse.” Out of the barn and resting now in a bed set up for him in the house, he was subject to almost constant care from the young lady. And he had been getting stronger every day. Dr. Hicks’ visit on this day had surprised all of them. No one had expected him to return to see how Cullen was recovering, even though he had told Cody he would.

  “Don’t go pushing yourself to get on your feet too soon,” Hicks warned. “You lost a lot of blood and you’ve got a great deal of healing to do yet.” He glanced toward Fred and his wife then and smiled. “The real reason I came back down here was to see if I could get another shot at Myra’s cooking.”

  Delighted, Myra chuckled and replied, “I think your chances couldn’t be better. You got here on a pretty good day. The stage from Butte is due any time now, so I’ve fixed enough food to feed a gang of passengers.” She paused then to send a smile Cullen’s way. “Your patient has started to recover his appetite, too.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Hicks said. “Means he’s healing up just fine.” Then in order not to give Cullen too much encouragement, he warned again, “That doesn’t mean you can’t give those wounds time to heal properly.”

  “You heard what the doctor said,” Marcy scolded. “You can’t be impatient to get back on your feet.” She had scolded him before when he had made attempts to get out of bed, only to fall back exhausted.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cullen replied. “You’re the boss.” Although his response was cheerful, the urgency he felt to get on his feet again was difficult to resist. Burdened with concern for Cody, he found it hard to simply lie back and enjoy Marcy’s attention. As much as he hated to admit it, he had given up hope of ever tracking Roberta down. Too much time had passed.

  Hearing the exchange between patient and nurse, Myra and Fred exchanged glances, both fearing that their daughter was showing more than a casual interest in the serious young man. Their concern was not for the quality of the man, as he seemed to be honest and levelheaded, but they feared that he did not return the fascination for Marcy that she exhibited toward him. They had realized for some time now that their daughter was certainly of marriage age. But she was also of an age to suffer a broken heart over a one-sided infatuation.

  The gathering in Cullen’s room was interrupted then by the appearance of Jimmy Sullivan in the doorway. “They’re comin’, Pa. The stage is comin’.” His announcement served to cause an immediate response from his family. Jimmy and his father hurried out to the corral to prepare to switch the team of horses already in harness with the tired horses pulling the coach. Myra and Marcy hustled to the kitchen with Dr. Hicks in tow. With everyone gone from his room, Cullen threw his legs over the side of the bed and helped himself up, holding on to the bedpost to test for himself how much strength he had regained. Still far too unsteady, he settled back in bed, knowing that Marcy would soon be in with his dinner.

  Along with the half dozen passengers who arrived on the stage to Missoula, there appeared another man on horseback. Seeing the stagecoach, and the teams in the process of being changed, as he passed by, he decided that he might find some food there for himself. He pulled his horse up by the hitching rail in front of the house and, seeing a young boy by the coach, asked, “Can anybody get some dinner here?”

  “Sure can,” Jimmy answered, “if you’ve got fifty cents.”

  The stranger smiled and said, “Much obliged,” and entered the front door. He was not easily unnoticed, and Myra glanced up in surprise when the imposing figure filled the dining room doorway. “The boy outside said I could get some dinner,” he said in explanation for his sudden appearance, “even if I wasn’t on the stage.” The noisy banter of passengers, stiff from a long bumpy ride, fell silent while all eyes were fixed on the oversized stranger.

  “Why, yes,” Myra replied. “We charge fifty cents for dinner or supper for as much as you want.” Taking in the size of the man, she added, “For as long as the food lasts.” Then concerned that he was holding his rifle, she said, “If you wouldn’t mind, we’d like you to leave your firearms by the table back at the door.” She hesitated before continuing. “It’s a request we have for everyone,” she said in case the fearsome-looking man took it as personal to him.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t think about it.” He turned to do her bidding, and the banter around the dinner table promptly returned.

  Relieved that he seemed not at all as his physical appearance implied, Myra smiled and directed him to a chair at the end of the table. “You sit down here. You look like you need a lot of room.”

  He had barely settled in the chair when the gathering of dinner guests was startled by shouts from one of the back bedrooms. At once alarmed, Marcy and her mother exchanged startled glances. Marcy quickly handed Myra the serving bowl she had been holding and ran to determine the cause for Cullen’s raving. Fearing he had suffered a relapse to the semiconscious condition he had been in when first brought to the barn, she was not sure she heard his shouting correctly. It sounded like he was yelling, “Jug, Jug.” Maybe, she thought, he wanted whiskey, and she was certain that he was not going to get it—not in his condition. When she finally arrived in his room, it was to find him on his feet, holding o
n to the bedpost. “What are you doing out of that bed?” she scolded. “Sit down before you fall!”

  Cullen sat down, but he did not calm down. “Jug!” he repeated. “I’d know that voice anywhere!” Still she looked at him astonished, puzzled by his excitement. “It’s my brother Jug,” he explained.

  Then she remembered his having referred to a brother named Jug. “Are you that sure?” she asked. “Maybe it just sounds like your brother.”

  “It’s Jug,” he replied with absolute assurance. “Big fellow, with shoulders wider than the door?” he asked.

  The description surely fit. “You stay there,” she ordered. “I’ll go see if he’s your brother. If he is, I’ll bring him in.”

  She returned to the dining room and promptly asked the huge man already well into a plate filled with food, “Is your name Jug?”

  Surprised, he looked up and responded, “How’d you know that?”

  “Are you looking for your brother?”

  Astonished to the point where he suspended a fully loaded fork halfway between the plate and his mouth, he repeated, “How’d you know that?”

  She laughed and shook her head as if perplexed. “I know your brothers. Come on, Cullen’s in the other room.”

  Still mystified by the happenstance reunion, he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Looking at Myra, who was equally astonished, he nodded toward his plate and said, “I’ll be back to finish that.”

  “I’ll put it in the oven to keep it warm for you,” she said, looking back and forth between her daughter and the huge young man.