by John Hansen
“What’s gotcha so fired up, Sheriff?” came a voice over near the corner of the cabin. It was Buster Kregg followed by the half-breed and the other Menagher brother.
Hollis got off of his horse and dropped the reins. He took several steps towards Buster before speaking. He knew that he’d gotten their attention, but he also knew better than to press his luck with violent men like these who required little provocation to kill. And so he said in a serious but more respectful tone: “Buster, don’t you all remember what I said about we got to make like this here is a producin’ claim?”
Buster was a big man, well over six feet tall with shoulder-length black hair. Except for a big walrus mustache that hid his upper lip he was clean shaven, when he got around to it, which was usually about once a week. “Seems like I do recall that conversation, Sheriff,” drawled Buster.
“Well, Buster, the sun’s high in the sky and you and your boys is shaded up. I know it’s hot, but it just seems right peculiar to me that ever’ claim I went by on the way up here there was folks out ah-workin’.”
“Maybe you should get your sorry ass out here and lend a hand, Sheriff,” said O’Fallon before Buster could reply.
Hollis glanced at O’Fallon, ignoring the comment, and then shifted his eyes to Buster, hoping that he would get a more rational response before the half-breed’s anger infected the Menaghers and the whole situation went to hell. With the exception of Billy Menagher, they were all armed. Hollis knew that he couldn’t show any fear to Buster and his gang. And so Hollis said in a calm voice: “Buster, folks is gettin’ suspicious. They see you and your boys come to town and pay with gold dust or currency, but they don’t ever see much work up here. So you can paint that picture for yourself.”
“Well, Sheriff, I can see your point but you need to go easy on the boys and me,” whined Buster. “It’s a hot son of a bitch out here ah-digging and totin’ gravel and workin’ that sluice box.”
“I don’t doubt what you say,” replied Hollis. “But the fires of hell will be hotter, and that’s where we all could end up sooner than we was hopin’ for if our little business arrangement is discovered.”
“As long as you’re the sheriff, what do we care?” interjected Jethro Menagher.
Hollis looked at Jethro. He was living the same fantasy that the sheriff had been so naively living until this morning when he’d talked to Rudy. It was time for everybody involved to undergo a reality check; the only problem being, there was something about what Rudy had said concerning Stevenson giving bags of what looked like gold to this marshal from Boise. If that were true and the marshal was taking gold to Boise, it could make for some easy pickings. It had occurred to Hollis on the ride up from Bear Creek that the intrusion of the marshal might not be a bad thing if he was transporting a lot of gold. This could be especially true if the marshal ended up in a shallow grave and Hollis didn’t have to split the gold with anyone. Add this to what he already had in the bank in Boise and he’d have a nice grubstake to start over somewhere else. Obviously, the only problem with this scheme would be if Kregg’s gang found out about the gold, they’d kill him for sure.
“Jethro, the jig’s up,” said Hollis.
“What are you talkin’ about?” asked Buster in a concerned voice.
Hollis looked Buster straight in the eyes. “There’s a United States marshal from Boise up here pokin’ around.”
Buster was taken aback a bit. His first thought was that the law from California had caught wind of him. “Whaddya mean ‘pokin’ around’? Does he know anything?”
“Don’t know for sure,” replied Hollis. “I been told that he visited Stevenson’s camp several times since he’s been in Bear Creek, but I don’t know what went on between the two of ‘em.” Hollis had gotten good at lying over the years, and he was fairly confident that Buster had not detected these half-truths.
Buster took a plug of chewing tobacco from his shirt pocket and bit off a piece. He chewed on it several times to a point where he could use his tongue to shove it over into his right cheek. It made his cheek on that side bulge out like a squirrel carrying nuts. “Ya know, Hollis,” said Buster, deliberately addressing the sheriff by his last name, “them two is no doubt up to something but it ain’t gonna do ‘em no good. We got the element of surprise on our side. We’ll find us a spot where we can watch Stevenson and his bunch ah wagon drivers for a spell, and if things don’t look right, we won’t hit ‘em.”
Hollis was caught off-guard by Buster’s response. He’d never expected him to show any caution, especially knowing that the Menaghers probably wouldn’t be supportive. It wouldn’t pay to have Buster and his gang unoccupied if he went after the marshal and the possible gold that he might be carrying. “I got one of Stevenson’s mule skinners on my payroll,” said Hollis sternly. “He ain’t aware of any special precautions for Stevenson’s trip back to Boise.”
“Who is this guy?” sneered Billy Menagher.
“His name’s Rudy Holchek, fat guy. Got a red beard. You probably seen’em in the Gold Strike, more an’ likely half-drunk.”
Buster scoffed. “So a drunk is your inside man?” Buster laughed along with the other gang members.
Hollis’ facial expression remained sober. After the laughter subsided, he said: “This guy has never steered me wrong in the past. I got no reason to believe that this time is any different.”
The afternoon sun was at Hollis’ back and getting lower in the sky; the angle was such that it made Buster squint his right eye as he looked at Hollis. “Whaddaya aim to do about this here marshal? I mean I thought you law people talked to one another. Maybe you could just ask him straight up what the hell he’s ah-doin’ here?”
Hollis tossed his right hand in the air as if to emphasize the obvious course of action which Buster had just suggested. “I can’t ask somebody something that I ain’t never seen,” he said irritably. “Apparently this guy’s been here for some time, just skunkin’ around in the shadows tryin’ to dig up whatever dirt he can, I suspect. Besides, it don’t take no genius to figure out he don’t want me to know what he’s up to.”
Buster paused as if in thought, pursed his lips, and then spat a big stream of tobacco juice on the ground between him and Hollis. Some of the juice was intercepted by his moustache and hung there like morning dew on grass. Buster put his hands on his hips as if he was preparing to lecture a schoolboy. “The way I see it, Sheriff, is me and the boys here we do most all of the heavy lifting in this here arrangement of ours. We take all the risks and then we have to cut you and your deputies in for an equal share. It’s a pretty sweet deal for ya if I do say so myself.”
“It’s about as sweet as a bucket of horse shit if you ask me,” shouted O’Fallon.
Without thinking, Hollis blurted out: “Nobody asked you.”
Instantly, the half-breed went for his gun; Hollis, however, was quicker and had his .44 Colt drawn, cocked, and leveled at O’Fallon’s belly.
“Let it go, Sean!” shouted Buster.
O’Fallon’s hand froze on the grip of his partially drawn pistol. There was dead silence and then Buster said in a calm voice: “It ain’t worth it, Sean.”
O’Fallon glared at the sheriff. His breathing was rapid and the hatred radiated from his eyes. He smiled in a devilish manner as he slowly lowered his pistol back into its holster. “There’ll be another day, Hollis,” he snarled.
“Maybe so,” said Hollis as he carefully lowered the hammer on his pistol and holstered it. There was a moment of uneasy silence as Hollis continued to look at O’Fallon; then, satisfied that the half-breed had played his hand, Hollis turned to Buster: “Don’t worry about this marshal. I’ll take care of him.”
“When?” replied Buster curtly.
“Maybe tomorrow. I don’t know for sure. Gotta find him first.” Hollis grinned inwardly. The fact that Kregg and his boys wanted nothing to do with killing the marshal suited him fine. He would be perceived by them as “lifting his share of the load,”
and if the marshal was carrying gold, as he suspected, it would be a bonus that he wouldn’t be sharing with anyone.
“Well make sure that you do,” said Buster emphatically. “We don’t need no lawman snooping around here.”
“I’ll do my part,” replied Hollis in a conciliatory tone, “but are you guys gonna do yours or not? I told Holchek to get Stevenson to camp at Sheep Springs the second night out from Bear Creek. Figured it’d be a good spot for you guys to take care of business, and then make a wide swing up through that Crooked Creek country to throw off any do-gooders from Bear Creek that might get it in their head to try and follow you.”
Buster eyed the sheriff suspiciously. “I ain’t so sure that I’m too skookum with the idy that this here Holchek guy knows when and where we’re gonna hit’em.”
“Rudy’s alright,” replied Hollis quickly. And without thinking, he added: “I’d bet my life on it.”
Buster spat another stream of tobacco juice on the ground between him and Hollis—except this time it was closer to Hollis. “Well if things go south on this here deal,” he said in an unfriendly tone, “that’s exactly what you will be bettin’.”
Buster’s words as well as the entire meeting with his gang had angered Hollis, but he had little choice but to bite his tongue and endure it. Just a little longer and he’d have his grubstake and he could cut his ties with the likes of the Kregg gang and leave Bear Creek. But for now, he couldn’t let anything upset their business arrangement. Ignoring Buster’s threat, Hollis said: “Stevenson is leaving Bear Creek in the morning. I’ll try to meet you back here in a week.”
“Don’t be late, Sheriff,” said Buster in a sarcastic tone. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on your share of old man Stevenson’s money.” And then as if on cue the gang laughed, but not in a friendly way.
Hollis looked at Buster as he laughed. He was an oaf. The sun glistened on the tobacco juice that was imbedded in his droopy mustache. These ungrateful sonsabitches’ll get theirs one day, said Hollis to himself. And then aloud he said: “Well, boys, I got me a marshal to find so I’ll be seein’ ya.” Hollis walked to his horse and got on. His departure was met with silence. As he reined his horse around to head back across the clearing and down the trail, all of the gang except O’Fallon was walking towards the cabin. He stood where he’d been throughout the meeting, glaring at the sheriff. Hollis met his eyes briefly as he wheeled his horse around and then turned and slowly rode away, not knowing if he was going to get shot in the back.
Chapter Ten
Josh studied the map that Lester had drawn for him of how to get to Seth’s claim. From Porcupine Creek, where Lester’s claim was located, he had to go north on the wagon road about five miles and then turn up Moonshine Creek and go roughly another six miles. Along the wagon road, the terrain had been forgiving and relatively open. Rolling sagebrush-covered hills interspersed with pockets of quaking aspen and ponderosa pine dominated the lower lying country, but since starting up Moonshine Creek the terrain had gotten considerably steeper, causing Thunder to labor harder. Increasingly, there were more Douglas fir trees and dense cover on either side of the trail, providing more opportunity for an ambush. A throwback to his time in the cavalry, Josh always evaluated whatever terrain he was in for its military tactical advantages and disadvantages. “Gotta be gittin’ close to Seth’s claim,” he said aloud as if it were for Thunder’s benefit. He folded the map and put it back in his pocket. The trail that he was on was about a hundred yards up from the bottom of the canyon where Moonshine Creek ran. The creek bottom itself was so choked full of aspen, alders, willows, and rocks that in many places it was impossible to get a horse through it. Josh studied the terrain up ahead from atop Thunder. Lester had said that Seth’s claim was just beyond the first big bend in the canyon, and that appeared to be coming right up as the canyon jogged sharply to the left. Josh nudged the sides of Thunder and they started again up the rocky trail. A pine squirrel stood upright on the branch of a big fir tree along the side of the trail and chattered loudly, announcing Josh’s approach. And, as if to not be outdone by the squirrel, a raven circling overhead added its raspy call. Well, I guess there’s not gonna be any sneakin’ up on these guys, said Josh to himself. But that’ll be okay unless their intentions are bad from the git-go.
As Josh rode along he tried to remain vigilant, constantly scanning the area on either side of the trail ahead, but he soon became aware that his eyes were looking and his mind was elsewhere, thinking about Sarah. From a physical standpoint he couldn’t ask for more: she was a pretty girl. And he thought that she’d had some fetchin’ up in life based on the way she conducted herself since leaving the Gold Strike, but facts were facts and he was having trouble getting beyond the fact that she’d been a whore. It’ll always come down to that, he thought. But maybe if they got clean out of the area and started fresh somewhere else, things would be different. Josh inhaled deeply, as if he needed the air, and then exhaled more slowly. He was getting himself wrapped around a post, thinking about Sarah. There just didn’t seem to be any good end to it. There were too many images that came to mind, not the least of which was the marshal and her. The uneasiness between the two of them on the road yesterday had been as heavy as the smoke from a wet wood fire. It’d be hard to get beyond that image, that near-for-certain fact that she’d been with the marshal.
It was not long after Josh passed the big bend in the canyon that he heard voices. He couldn’t make out what they were saying but they didn’t sound excited. They were coming from down by the creek about two hundred yards up the canyon. Josh pondered the situation for a moment. He reckoned that he might get more cooperation if he wasn’t too heavy-handed with these guys, at least not to begin with. And, although he knew it to be good, he checked his pistol: six chambers loaded and the action working smoothly. Josh was confident of his abilities with a gun—not necessarily that he was the fastest but that he would make his first shot count. Too often, gunfighter types un-holstered their pistol with blazing speed only to miss with their first shot. Josh rode on and soon came to a wide, flat spot in the bottom of the canyon. It looked like lightning had started a fire there some years back, as there were only scattered big trees and a fair amount of grass. Tethered in the midst of this meadow appeared to be the same sorrel and palomino horses that he’d seen above Lester’s cabin last night. To the left of them, down closer to the creek, was a wall tent. A stump with an axe buried in it was situated in front of the tent near a pile of chopped wood. No one was in sight, but then he heard the voices again. They were coming from beyond the tent and up the creek a little ways. Josh dismounted from Thunder, not far from the tent. He loosely tied Thunder’s reins around a branch on a tree that had fallen over during the fire. He paused. He could still hear the voices, talking in normal tones down by the creek. Josh carefully surveyed the camp and the area surrounding it to make sure that he wasn’t surprised by anyone else. It was quiet except for the wind blowing through the trees and the perpetual sound of a waterfall that didn’t exist. Not wanting to make a foolish assumption, Josh moved quietly to the front of the tent. The flaps were down but not tied. Slowly, with his right hand he drew his pistol, keeping his thumb on the hammer but not risking the noise of cocking it, and with his left hand, he parted the tent flaps. There were a couple of bedrolls laid out and some personal effects. Immediately to the right and just inside the tent was a wooden grub box. It appeared to be about the size that would fit inside a pannier for easy packing, and on top of it sat a metal pan full of dishes and utensils. Not much of note, thought Josh. He was about to release the tent flap when his eye caught sight of a pocket watch hanging from the center tent pole near the back of the tent. It looked like one that he’d seen a thousand times before. Quickly looking over his shoulder, Josh turned and entered the tent. He untied the watch from the pole and took it outside to look at it in the light. He opened the watch and read the inscription on the inside cover: Good Luck, Seth. Love, Mother & Father. Read
ing the inscription brought a lump into Josh’s throat. Seth had received this watch from his parents shortly after he had told them that he had enlisted in the army. It was one of his most valuable possessions. He was never without it, so to find it here could only mean one thing. Josh put the watch in his front pants pocket and turned towards the creek. The adrenalin surged within him. There was little doubt, at least in his mind, that one or both of these men were responsible for Seth’s death.
The two men were busy working a sluice box at the edge of the stream and hadn’t noticed Josh walk up. “How ya’ll doin’?” he asked in a non-threatening tone.
Both men instantly turned and looked at Josh. It was obvious they were fearful. They were young, early twenties, and had a look about them that suggested they could be cocky when the advantage was theirs but they wisely perceived the current situation as a draw at best. Both of the men were of medium build with dark, short hair. One of them, however, had a full beard while the other had only a mustache. Both of them were wearing gun belts. “What can we do ya for, mister?” asked the man with the full beard.
“I’m lookin’ for a guy named Leroy Bates,” said Josh as he looked the bearded man square in the eyes. “Ever hear of’em?”
“Who wants to know?” asked the bearded man.
“Deputy U.S. Marshal Josh Morrow, that’s who.” Josh could see the apprehension in the bearded man’s face. He glanced over at his partner, who was equally as nervous.
“Why are ya lookin’ for this guy?” asked the bearded man.
“Well accordin’ to the records at the mining claim office in Bear Creek, he filed over a friend of mine that had originally filed on this very claim that we’re standin’ on. So if I was a bettin’ man I’d say one of ya’ll standin’ right here is Leroy Bates.”
