Vengeance Moon

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  “Rider’s comin’,” Ed Varner called out. He was standing in the open gate of the stockade built around the Frenchman’s trading post. Only mildly interested, he pulled absentmindedly at the full, bushy, black beard that covered his face from ear to ear while he watched the rider approach. “Looks like that Slaughter feller that was in here a couple of days ago,” Varner said. “Looks like that paint pony he was ridin’.”

  Behind him, near the door of his store, Bordeaux was examining a buffalo robe brought in by two Blackfoot men. He paused then to look toward the gate. He had not responded when Varner had first announced a visitor. When Ed identified the rider as Slaughter, however, he became interested. Leaving the two Indians to wait for their whiskey, he moved unhurriedly to stand by Varner at the gate.

  “By hisself this time,” Bordeaux said. “I wonder what the hell he wants.” There had been something in the steady eye of the young mountain man that hinted he was not to be underestimated. He cocked an eye in Varner’s direction. “You didn’t leave that old man’s body layin’ around where somebody could find it, did you?”

  “Nah,” Varner replied, still unconcerned. “We threw it down that gulch with the rest of ’em. He ain’t found nuthin’—probably just wants a drink of likker. You gave him too good a deal on them hides he brung in.” He paused to spit a stream of tobacco juice at a beetle scurrying across the open gate. “Wish he’da brung that pretty little wife with him.”

  “We’d best keep an eye on him,” Bordeaux said. “I don’t like the way he kept askin’ questions about that old trapper. He might wanna cause some trouble.”

  “I hope to hell he does,” Varner blurted. “We’ll throw his ass down that hole with his partner if he wants to find him that bad.” He grunted and spat again. “I fancy that paint he’s ridin’. I might wanna ride it back to find his camp and that little honey-haired woman.”

  Bordeaux grunted in return. “I expect we might have to draw lots to see who got the horse and who got the girl if it comes down to that. The others might have a say in it.”

  “To hell with ’em,” Varner snorted.

  They continued to stand in the gate, watching the rider approach. As before, the ill-tempered mongrel dog ran out, snarling a warning, but when it approached the visitor, it remembered the paint pony and stopped well short of its hooves. When Matt was within a dozen yards, Bordeaux called out, “Welcome back. Slaughter, ain’t it?” Matt did not reply, but continued walking the paint up to them, then reined the horse to a stop a few yards before them. “Still lookin’ for that partner of yours?” Bordeaux asked.

  His face deadly calm, without expression, Matt stared at the two men standing before him. Shifting his gaze from Bordeaux’s attempted innocence to the confident smirk of the bearded man, he replied softly, “That’s right.”

  “Well, you missed him,” Bordeaux said. “He came back lookin’ for you, not long after you was here—didn’t he, Ed? He was pretty drunk when he left—mighta rode off a cliff or somethin’.”

  “Mighta,” Matt replied stoically. “I expect it more likely he got thrown into that pit behind your place.”

  Both men blanched. Realizing that Matt had discovered his dark game, Bordeaux’s hand dropped to his pistol. Matt, the Henry rifle already cradled in his arms, whipped the weapon around and pumped two shots into the Frenchman’s chest. Varner, his face twisted with anguish, managed to get his .44 halfway out of the holster before meeting the same fate as his partner. As the two men crumpled into the dust of the stockade, Matt cocked the Henry again with an eye on the two Indians, who wisely departed the compound. When they had disappeared, he calmly prodded the paint with his heels. Stepping around the bodies, the horse walked toward the trading post. Matt did not look down at them as the horse walked past; he knew they were dead.

  Alerted by the rifle shots, two more of the Frenchman’s gang of cutthroats appeared in the doorway of the store. They were executed where they stood. Calm and seeming as impersonal as the rifle he carried, Slaughter continued toward the door. The burning anger that had fired the blood in his veins was past him now, having been replaced by a dull, single-minded mission. There was no thought of the taking of human life. It was no less moral than the methodical extermination of a rat’s nest. He owed it to Zeb, and to the other poor soul whose bones he had tripped over at the bottom of the gulch. The job was not finished, however. There were two more rats inside.

  Intent upon cheating a Blackfoot hunter out of a half-dozen prime fox pelts in exchange for a small jug of watered-down whiskey only moments before, Bordeaux’s two remaining thugs were suddenly jolted by the second barrage of gunfire. Since there was no one in the compound except a couple of the Blackfoot’s friends, the two white men, Luther Rainey and Bill Cotton, had assumed that the initial round of rifle fire had come from Bordeaux or Varner. The cause was of no particular interest to them. They were always shooting at something, Cotton had commented in an attempt to calm the alarmed Blackfoot hunter, who didn’t know if he was in danger or not. “They’re maybe trying out a new rifle or somethin’,” Cotton had said. But in the next instant after these last shots, they were stunned to see their two partners crumple in the doorway, both stone dead.

  “Jesus!” Rainey blurted, dumbfounded. His sudden paralysis lasted for no more than a second, however, and he set his feet into motion. Straight for the back window he ran, grabbing his rifle on the way. The Blackfoot ducked behind the counter.

  Equally confused, but of a stouter fiber than his partner, Cotton yelled after the fleeing man, “Rainey!” But all he saw was Rainey’s rear end as the frightened man went out the window. Angry at having been left alone to face whatever threat awaited, he pulled his pistol and wasted two shots at the now empty window. He then moved quickly to take cover behind the bar. Not wishing to be part of it, the Indian moved to the other end of the short counter. Cotton took a moment to snarl at the Blackfoot before concentrating his attention on the doorway.

  Consumed by panic, which was intensified by the two pistol shots that whined through the window over his head, Rainey landed headfirst on the ground, clambering to get to his feet. He only managed to get to his knees before he discovered the moccasined feet standing before him. He immediately shrank back in terror, fumbling with his rifle as he fell back against the log wall of the store. The bullet that split his forehead sent him on his dark journey wearing the frozen expression of cold fear that gripped his face.

  Inside the store, Cotton heard the fatal shot and swung his revolver around to aim at the window. A moment later, a head appeared in the open window. He emptied his pistol, firing until the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. Only then did he realize that it was Rainey’s head. He had pumped his last three shots into a corpse. Panic-stricken then, he scrambled out from behind the counter and ran for the door. Outside the window, Slaughter let the bullet-riddled body of Luther Rainey drop to the ground. There was no time to get off a certain shot, as Cotton reached the door faster than Slaughter anticipated. He managed only one shot before the fleeing man cleared the doorway, catching Cotton in his right shoulder.

  His work not yet done, the solemn angel of death walked around the cabin to the door, expecting to find Cotton’s body just outside. It was not there. A sudden pounding of hooves behind him caused him to spin around and drop to one knee, ready to fire again. Too late, he got only a glimpse of Cotton as the wounded man rode out of the gate at a full gallop. Matt lowered his rifle. While the venom of vengeance was still in his veins, he gave no thought to chasing the remaining bushwhacker. There had been enough killing for one day, and the nest of vermin had been destroyed.

  He paused then to look around the stockade while he reloaded the magazine of his rifle. There was no one else inside the log walls of the compound, the Indians who were there having fled when he started shooting. Shoving the two bodies blocking the doorway aside, he entered the store and walked over behind the counter where Bordeaux had kept ammunitio
n. A slight movement at the other end of the counter triggered an instant reaction. In the blink of an eye, he turned, the Henry leveled at the figure crouched there.

  Huddled against the back of the counter, the Blackfoot hunter awaited a fate that seemed certain. A knife, the only weapon he had, was in his hand. Only a split second before firing, Matt relaxed his grip on the Henry. Then, waving the rifle barrel, he motioned for the Indian to get up. The man hesitated for a moment before doing as he was bade, sensing that he was not about to meet death, after all. “You talk white man?” Matt asked. The Indian nodded. “Go find your friends. Take anything you can use. I’m gonna burn this place to the ground. You understand?” The Blackfoot nodded again.

  While the Indian hurried out the door to summon his friends, Matt took all the .44 cartridges on the shelf. There was not much in the way of other inventory on the shelves. It was apparent that the Frenchman’s main merchandise consisted of watered-down whiskey. He took a bag of green coffee beans, and left the rest for the Indians. Outside, he opened the corral and walked Zeb’s sorrel out. He led the horse, along with his paint, to the stockade gate. There he waited while the Blackfoot hunter returned with his friends. They paused when they saw him standing at the gate until he motioned for them to continue.

  In a matter of minutes, the small party of Indians had cleaned out the store of anything remotely useful. Carrying firearms and ammunition, they wasted no time in clearing the structure. Outside, Matt waited stoically while the Indians collected the weapons from the bodies of Bordeaux and Varner. Pausing at the corral, the Indians hesitated to take the horses, looking instead at the menacing figure with the deadly rifle. With another wave of his Henry, Matt signaled his permission. They were quick to comply. He watched until they had disappeared beyond the bluffs, hurrying to return to their village to relate this strange turn of events and show off their recent bounty. Matt figured they were probably owed that much if they had been trading with the Frenchman for very long. He wondered then how many more remains he might have found if he had searched in the direction away from the river when he was at the bottom of the gulch.

  Alone now in what had been a den of thieves and murderers, he went back inside the store. There was a small iron stove in the middle of the room with a coffeepot sitting on one corner. Opening the grate, he discovered that the coals were still hot. There was a box of kindling over against the wall, along with some split firewood. He dragged it over to the stove. Then he stood back and kicked the stove over, spilling most of the glowing coals out on the plank floor. Using the kindling and firewood, he fed the coals until he had a strong blaze going. Then he piled on everything he could find in the building that would burn. Soon he had a roaring fire going in the center of the store. Satisfied that would do the job, he then went outside to his horses, and waited there until the flames began lapping the outside walls of the log structure.

  Feeling drained and tired, he stepped up in the saddle and turned the paint toward the Crow village, burdened with the heavy dread of finding his partner dead when he got there. As he rode out, the ill-tempered mongrel ran out from where it had been waiting behind the gate. Yapping and snarling, it attacked the paint’s hooves, this time forgetting its earlier lesson. This time the dog came too close, and paid for its indiscretion with a kick of the paint’s hind legs that sent the belligerent mutt flying. “I reckon that about does it for this place,” Matt commented wryly.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when Matt arrived at the Crow village. Leading Zeb’s sorrel, he walked the paint slowly across the rocky shore of the river past the pony herd, where some young boys watching the horses waved to him in greeting. Hearing shouts of greeting from several of the people in the village, Molly walked outside, hoping it was the visitor she waited for. She could feel her heart beat fast in anticipation, and her face blossomed with a huge smile of relief when she saw that it was, indeed, Matt. He saw her running to meet him, so he dismounted and caught her when she jumped up into his arms.

  “I told you I’d be back,” he said, unable to keep from laughing when she clung to him so tightly. His expression quickly turned serious when he asked, “How is Zeb? Is he gonna make it?”

  Her face was still firmly pressed against his chest, but he could feel her nodding, yes. She pulled away from him then to give herself room to sign, Bad, hurt bad. He winced as if feeling the pain himself. They walked to Singing Woman’s lodge, leading the horses, Molly holding onto Matt’s arm with her free hand.

  Molly was right; Zeb looked bad. Lying on the bearskin pallet Singing Woman had prepared for him, the old scout looked for all the world like a man glimpsing death. Matt nodded to the Crow woman when he entered the tipi. She returned his greeting, then backed away from her patient to give Matt room.

  “You old buzzard,” Matt said softly. “I thought you’d be dead by now.”

  Zeb’s eyes flickered open and a faint smile formed beneath the grizzled beard. “I ain’t sure I ain’t,” he replied weakly.

  “I believe you’re gonna make it. I brought your horse back. As soon as you get strong enough to ride, I’ll take you home.” He looked up at Singing Woman and smiled. “That is, if Singing Woman will let me.” Standing beside the Crow woman, Molly frowned and slowly shook her head. Matt understood. “Might be a better idea to let you lay up here a while longer,” he said. “Looks like Singing Woman’s pampering you pretty much. You might wanna play sick for a long spell.”

  “Did you get them bastards?” Zeb asked, with obvious effort in his voice.

  Matt nodded. “I got ’em. They won’t be throwin’ any more poor souls down that ravine.”

  “Bordeaux?”

  “The whole bunch,” Matt answered, “except for one of ’em, and I’m pretty sure I winged him, but he hightailed it outta there. I don’t expect he’ll be back.”

  “I’m obliged, Matt.” Zeb rolled weary eyes up at his young partner. “I reckon I cooked up a stew too big for me to eat. But I never meant to drag you into it.”

  “Hell, we’re partners, ain’t we?” Matt shrugged. “You’da done the same for me.”

  Chapter 6

  Bill Cotton, although a bit unsteady on his feet, still found the strength to stagger up to the bar of the Lucky Strike Saloon. At first glance, Cotton might easily have been mistaken for any one of the many drunks who frequented the saloons of Virginia City. But Bill Cotton was stone-cold sober, and needed a drink bad. Three long and grueling days in the saddle had taken a terrible toll on a man with a rifle ball lodged in his right shoulder. The wound, festering and swollen, had rendered his right arm almost useless, and he needed to see a doctor, but not as badly as he needed a drink.

  “Damn, mister,” the bartender commented. “You look like you was left out in the rain.”

  “Whiskey,” Cotton demanded.

  The bartender eyed the desperate-looking man suspiciously. “Can you pay for it?”

  Cotton fumbled in his pocket with his left hand, and slammed his money down on the counter. “Just pour the damn drink,” he snarled.

  “All right, no need to get sideways about it.” While he poured a shot glass full, the bartender continued to study his customer. “Ain’t I seen you here before?” he finally asked. Cotton didn’t bother to answer, but the bartender’s memory was already working on it. “You was hooked up with that feller, Bordeaux, that come in here for a while. Right? Hell, I remember you now.” He paused to take another look at the surly Cotton. “I wondered what happened to you fellers. You have a fallin’-out with Bordeaux?” He nodded toward the wad of makeshift bandage protruding from the blood-encrusted shirt.

  His tongue loosened a bit by the strong whiskey, Cotton shook his head slowly. “No, me and Bordeaux never got crossways with each other. We built a tradin’ post up on the Yellowstone—was doin’ all right until about a week ago. That’s when I got this bullet in me. Bordeaux and the other boys are all dead. I’m the only one got away, and I damn near didn’t.”

/>   “Damn!” the bartender exhaled. “Injuns?”

  “Hell, no, it warn’t Injuns. It was a white man.”

  “A white man?” the bartender asked in amazement. “Bushwhackers?”

  Cotton tossed the remainder of his drink down. “Hell, no, it was one man. A crazy son of a bitch, jumped us without so much as a ‘howdy-do,’ and us just tryin’ to make an honest livin’.”

  “Bless me,” the bartender exclaimed. “Shot you and Bordeaux both?”

  “And Luther Rainey, and Ed Varner, and Johnny Littleton, and Grady Chapman,” Cotton snorted. “He come in there blazin’ away with that rifle. We never had a chance. I emptied my pistol at him, but then I got the hell outta there.”

  “Who was he?” the bartender asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. A wild man is all I can tell you, gone loco livin’ up in the mountains. I only saw him one time before that. He come into the store with a woman what couldn’t talk.”

  “Mister, I’d admire buyin’ you another drink.” The offer came from a table next to the bar. Cotton turned to see a party of four listening to the exchange between him and the bartender. Cotton’s story had sparked an interest at the table, especially when he mentioned a woman who couldn’t talk.

  Cotton cast an inquisitive eye at his benefactors, a rough-enough-looking bunch. “Why, that’s mighty neighborly of you,” he said, and shoved his empty shot glass toward the bartender.

  “Come on over and set down. Arlo, pull up a chair for the man.” Cotton picked up his drink and walked over to the table. He sat down heavily in the chair, his right arm hanging stiff and swollen. “I’m P. D. Wildmoon,” his hostess introduced herself. “These here is my boys—Arlo, Bo, and Wiley.”

  “Bill Cotton,” Cotton replied.

  P. D. watched him toss his drink down, then got right to the point. “I couldn’t help overhearin’ you tellin’ about that piece of bad luck you had. The feller that bushwhacked you—what was his name?”