by John Hansen
“Yes, thank you, Lester,” added Sarah. “I appreciate it.” And then it occurred to her that once again Josh had assumed responsibility for her well-being; the only problem with that was he seemed to be motivated by some sense of obligation to be a Good Samaritan and not much else.
In due time, Sarah had Josh’s breakfast ready. She was a good cook, something that she hoped he took note of. She’d made hotcakes, scrambled eggs, and even fried up some bacon. And although Josh ate a lot, the inevitable time for his departure came much too soon for Sarah.
“I reckon I better be headin’ out,” announced Josh, and with that he pushed his chair back from the table. “That was some good vittles, Sarah.”
Sarah was sitting at the table across from Josh. She knew it would do no good to try and talk him into delaying his departure, and so she said in a tone bordering on indifference: “Thank you.”
Lester, who had been leaning against the wall near the open door so he could spit tobacco juice periodically, took the last sip of his coffee and approached Josh. Setting his coffee cup on the table with his left hand, he extended his right to Josh. “Watch your back,” he said while firmly shaking Josh’s hand.
“Thanks for everything, Lester,” replied Josh.
Lester turned to leave; glancing briefly at Sarah he said: “I’ll be down to the crik. Come on down when you’re ready.” And with that he and Rufus left.
Sarah took a cloth sack from a shelf above the stove and extended it towards Josh. “I fixed you some food for the trail.”
Josh reached for the sack, causing their hands to briefly touch. It was casual, it was incidental, but it was tingly for both of them. “Please be careful,” said Sarah.
Josh cared about Sarah but he wasn’t sure in what way. At times he had himself convinced that he could ignore her past, but then it would come full circle and he wasn’t so sure. Case in point would be working with the marshal and knowing, or at least pretty certain, that he’d been with Sarah for money. Josh couldn’t bring himself to say words that he wasn’t committed to, but perhaps, unwittingly, his actions spoke louder as he reached out and rested his hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about me,” he said.
Josh’s touch had made her shiver. Sarah had wished that he would have wrapped his arms around her, but it wasn’t to be. And so once again she stood and watched as he left her, not knowing if he would return or if he did, would it really matter in the long run?
Chapter Fifteen
It took time, valuable time for Hollis to dispose of the half-breed O’Fallon’s body. From the stream crossing where he had killed him, he took O’Fallon, draped over the saddle on his own horse about a quarter mile down Chokecherry Creek. There, out of view of the main trail, he simply dumped O’Fallon’s body for the dining pleasure of the turkey vultures, ravens, and coyotes. It’d only be a matter of days and O’Fallon would be unrecognizable—not that it mattered all that much as Hollis figured there was probably little love lost over O’Fallon’s departure from the gang. Nonetheless, there was no point in possibly getting them riled up, he reasoned, by making a spectacle of the dead half-breed by leaving his body smack-dab in the middle of a well-used crossing on the Chokecherry Creek trail. After unsaddling O’Fallon’s horse and setting it free, Hollis collected the dead man’s weapons and tack and threw them in a beaver pond, where they sank in about four feet of water. “Well, the hell with it,” said Hollis aloud as he watched O’Fallon’s saddle sink out of sight. “That’ll have to do. Besides, I’m the sheriff.”
Hollis had little information to go on concerning the marshal’s plans. All he knew was what Rudy had said about the marshal camping in Chokecherry Canyon and Stevenson riding out to meet him. He’d assumed, since Stevenson had ridden out and back from town in what sounded like a few hours, that the marshal must have been camped somewhere near the mouth of the canyon. But, then he pondered that a smart man would move his campsite, maybe somewhere different every night. It’s kinda like huntin’ deer, thought Hollis; being a creature of habit can get you killed. He was assuming also that the marshal would be on the move today because today was when Stevenson was to leave Bear Creek for Boise. However, the bottom line was that he was doing a whole lot of assuming and supposing about what he thought the marshal was going to do, and now the sun had dropped below the western horizon and he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the guy. He’d pretty much run the course of Chokecherry Canyon, as he was now at the far end of it where the switchbacks began that would take you up out of the canyon and ultimately over onto the main wagon road to Boise. Hollis couldn’t figure how he could have missed the marshal unless the marshal had left yesterday, got a late start today, or he’d rode on by while he was tending to the half-breed’s body. “Be just my damned luck,” mumbled Hollis aloud as he sat atop his horse and looked back down the trail coming up the canyon. As the shadows in the canyon grew longer and Hollis had still seen nothing, he reconciled himself to the reality that he’d probably missed the marshal and so he decided he was probably better off to make camp for the night. Hollis allowed his horse to have its head as it meandered to a place about seventy-five yards off the trail amongst some scattered trees, but where he still had a good view down the canyon. There was a good amount of grass for his horse and the place where he would lay out his bedroll afforded him some cover, but at the same time, he had relatively unobstructed views from at least three different approaches. Confident that this was a safe place for the night, Hollis unsaddled his horse and tethered it with a 50-foot rope tied to a young ponderosa pine. He then carried his saddle and saddle blanket into a more secluded area between several big trees and laid the saddle on the ground with the blanket folded and lying across it. He was in the process of untying his bedroll when he saw a wisp of light blue smoke drifting up from a stand of Douglas fir trees about a half mile down the canyon. As far as he knew, there’d been no lightning in a good while, so the smoke could mean only one thing and that was somebody was just setting up camp. His mind instantly went to the possibility that this could be the marshal. As thick as the trees are and as much as the trail snakes around through’em, thought Hollis, it could easy enough be him. He sighed heavily as he stood and watched the smoke. It’d been a long day; he was tired and hungry. Having to deal with O’Fallon hadn’t helped matters. It felt good to be out of the saddle, and now it appeared that opportunity might be knocking. He was torn. Round trip, it’d be a decent hike for nothing if it wasn’t the marshal. Be dark by the time he got down there, but if it was the marshal and he was carrying gold, it could be his ticket out of Bear Creek. There’d be no more O’Fallons or Kreggs or Menaghers or any of the other riffraff that he’d been dealing with in his life. He’d be a respectable gentleman someplace far from here. Hollis sighed again deeply. “Well, shit,” he mumbled aloud. “Might as well get started.” And so, in an effort to maintain the element of surprise, off he went on foot towards what he hoped was the marshal’s camp.
The bottom of the canyon was fairly heavily wooded with mature pine, fir, and right along the creek, aspen trees. They were so tall and thick that Hollis could see clearly in only one direction, and that was straight up. He’d lost track of the smoke; he could neither see nor smell it. The light was fading fast amongst the big trees and it was to be a new moon tonight. The trail, in this part of Chokecherry Canyon, was not well defined at times due to the occasional blow-down tree that blocked the trail and caused a diversion around it. However, finding a way around an eighty- or hundred-foot downed tree often led to more entanglement and the need to extend the diversion in order to get back to the established trail. It was, in large part, these diversions that gave the trail its snakelike character that so frustrated Hollis. There were also numerous dry pine cones on the trail which Hollis took painstaking care to avoid—looking, analyzing each step that he took. It made the going slow but when stepped on, the cones crunched loudly. When that happened, a guy might as well just holler out, “Here I am.” It was nearly dark
now and Hollis still hadn’t found the mystery camp. He reckoned that he’d come far enough but there was no sign of it. He couldn’t afford to be stumbling around in the dark in this timber and get surprised by whoever was camped here. His concern was growing rapidly and then his senses caught it: just a hint, but it was the smell of smoke. Hollis stood dead still, straining his senses to locate the source of the smoke. And then he heard it—the soft, contented nicker of a horse. It was just one time, but he was pretty certain that it had come from down close to the creek. It was maybe a hundred yards off the trail. Hollis drew his pistol and cocked it. He wasn’t taking any chances with this guy getting the drop on him. And so he stepped off the trail, pistol in hand, and started cautiously towards where he’d heard the horse; pine cones and twigs littered the ground. He’d taken about a half-dozen steps when he encountered a stronger smell of smoke. He paused and looked intently into the darkness and thick trees, unable to see a fire or anything that resembled a camp. It was deathly quiet except for an owl that had just started calling off to his left. He stood frozen in place for perhaps thirty seconds before continuing on, one carefully placed step at a time. The anticipation, and maybe a little fear too, had created a good amount of adrenalin within him. There was tension in the air such that he felt like he could just reach out and grab a handful of it. Where is this sonovabitch, said Hollis to himself. He sighed deeply. There were times when he questioned how or why he had ended up where he was in life and this was one of those times. Ought to be home in bed with the wife, he said to himself and then his mind drifted to a kaleidoscope of the last time that he’d been with her in that way. But then in the next instant, the reality of what could happen to him if the marshal continued snooping around exploded onto his mind’s stage in the form of him standing on the gallows. He’d seen men hang and it wasn’t pretty. No, he’d go down fighting before that’d ever happen. Just the thought of being the one with a hood over your head hanging from the end of a rope with your neck clearly snapped sent shivers through him. He moved on and then within a couple of minutes he saw it: a faint flicker of open flame. He dropped to one knee. His heart rate quickened as he visually scanned what little he could see of the area next to the fire. He couldn’t tell much other than there appeared to be a small clearing where the fire was located, but it was difficult to get an image of how the camp was laid out due to the tree cover. He had to get closer. Slowly, he got to his feet, not taking his eyes off of the campfire. He’d taken only a few steps when he saw movement near the fire. Hollis stopped dead in his tracks. He felt a surge of adrenalin that was almost painful. He’d heard this marshal fancied himself as a gunman. But then it came to him that he might be getting worked up for nothing. Maybe this wasn’t the marshal; there was only one way to find out. From where he was standing, it was evident to Hollis that if he moved to his right about fifteen feet that he would have a better view of the fire and the man near it. And so with all of the stealth-like ability that he possessed he moved right, to the spot where his view was less obstructed; his efforts were rewarded. A man was kneeling beside the fire, tending, it appeared, to something that was cooking. His back faced outwards into the night. Hollis knew that he would have to confront the man to determine who he was, and so he began to slowly creep forward, one carefully placed step at a time. And then, when he was about thirty or forty feet away, it happened—he stepped on a pine cone. He realized it the instant that it happened, but there was no way that he could’ve prevented his weight from coming down short of just falling over sideways, which definitely wouldn’t have been a good thing to do. Hollis had his pistol trained on the mystery man’s back, expecting him to wheel with gun drawn, but that was not the case.
“Supper’s ‘bout ready,” said the mystery man without moving. “C’mon in if you’ve a mind to.”
Hollis was taken aback by the man’s actions. He knew somebody had the drop on him, but he didn’t panic and most likely get himself shot. The guy’s not stupid, thought Hollis. He’s gonna wait until the odds are in his favor. And so Hollis stepped into the shadowy light of the campfire with his pistol in hand, hammer back. The mystery man, still on his knees by the fire, turned to face him. “Evenin’, name’s Hank Burkin,” he said far more calmly than one would expect from a man with a pistol pointed at him.
Hollis gave the stranger a quick size-up. He wasn’t wearing a badge, but then Hollis didn’t figure that the marshal would be. Still pointing his gun at the man, Hollis said: “My name’s Tom Hollis. I’m the sheriff over at Bear Creek. Been lookin’ for a fellar that I heard was in these parts.”
The mystery man turned his head to the side and spit some tobacco juice. “And you think I’m that guy,” he said with just a hint of irritation in his voice.
Hollis had never seen the marshal before, but some of the things that he’d been told about him fit this guy. For one thing, he wore his pistol in a cross-draw position. It was a double-action Starr .44 caliber, the kind of gun that a pistolero type might fancy. “Well, now that I see you up close I don’t reckon you’re that particular man. He was a half-breed with just a plum nasty disposition.”
“That bein’ the case then,” said the mystery man, “I’d appreciate it if you’d point that pistol somewhere’s else.”
“Well, Mr. Burkin,” said Hollis with some sarcasm, “I would, except this breed fella had some associates that were a little on the unsavory side. I ain’t so sure that you’re not one of ‘em.” Hollis paused to let this settle with the mystery man, and then in an effort to smoke out the man’s true identity, he added: “In fact, I’m kinda leanin’ towards thinkin’ that you might just be this Buster Kregg fellar. From what I hear you look a lot like him.”
Initially, there was mild shock that came to the mystery man’s face, which quickly turned to anger. “No offense, Sheriff, but you’re about as full of shit as a grain-fed goose.”
Hollis continued his agitation of the mystery man. “Well, if you ain’t Buster Kregg,” he said, “you got some means of provin’ otherwise.”
The anger within the mystery man was growing, but he hadn’t reached the point of folding his hand and revealing his true identity—not to the sheriff of Bear Creek, anyway. “I’m telling ya, Sheriff, I ain’t this Kregg fella that you’re lookin’ for. Why hell, it don’t even sound like to me that you know what this guy looks like and here ya are pokin’ your gun in my face and callin’ me a liar. If you ask me, it’s a piss-poor way for a lawman to conduct himself.”
Hollis took considerable offense at the mystery man’s criticism of him, and so he said in a voice that made no attempt to disguise his anger: “You know, Mr. whoever-the-hell-you-are, you’re about one dumb sonovabitch. In case you had’t noticed I’m the one holding the gun here, so I’m thinkin’ you might want to show me a little more respect.”
The look of anger in the mystery man’s eyes was immediately replaced with regret. He’d pushed the sheriff too far, but it seemed to him that the sheriff strongly suspected who he was already and was just playing a sick little game of cat-and-mouse with him. He wasn’t about to apologize to the sheriff, but he said in a more subdued tone: “I didn’t mean to rile ya but like I told ya my name’s Hank Burkin and I’m headin’ to Boise.”
Hollis eyed the man for a moment. He was beginning to doubt himself. Maybe this wasn’t the marshal after all. You’d think, he said to himself, that if he was a marshal he’d just own up to it ‘cause he’d figure that lawman to lawman this conversation would be over. He didn’t want to kill the guy unless there was good reason, but at this point it was beginning to look like he could be telling the truth, and if he had something of value it wasn’t apparent by the light of the fire. And so Hollis slowly lowered the hammer on his pistol and holstered it.
The look of relief on the mystery man’s face was obvious. “Much obliged,” he said. “Got me a fool’s hen this afternoon,” he said, nodding to the grouse suspended over the fire by a green willow. “You’re welcome to some of it.
”
Hollis was hungry. He eyed the grouse and the flames licking up around it. There was a small pot of coffee too, nestled in the coals at the edge of the fire. When the firelight caught it just right, he could see the steam rolling out of the pour spout. And he could smell the coffee; its allure was the equal of a good chew or cigar. And there were preserves too, most likely strawberry judging from the unopened jar near a cloth sack that undoubtedly contained biscuits. Damn, it would taste good, he thought. And then it happened: the nicker of a contented but hobbled horse as it moved from the darkness of the trees into the shadowy light of the fire. Instinctively, Hollis’ eyes moved from the mystery man to the horse in the shadows. His eyes widened as he recalled Rudy’s words about the marshal’s horse: “Same big ole gray.” Standing just beyond the mystery man was a big gray horse. Its significance to Hollis was instantly apparent to the mystery man. Hollis knew it but it couldn’t be helped. It was like touching your finger to a hot stove; how does one disguise that? His eyes had just met those of the mystery man when he recognized that terrified urgency, and in the next fraction of a second he had an awareness—not a tangible feeling, but an awareness because it was happening so fast—of drawing his pistol and firing. But his had not been the first shot. He’d felt a jolt on his left side, but this had become secondary to the image of the mystery man being rocked violently backwards, teetering momentarily on the backs of his legs and then still in the kneeling position falling over sideways away from the fire.
Hollis’ heart was pounding wildly. It felt like it was in his throat. His grasp of the here and now was limited by the massive adrenaline rush that he was feeling. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. Little by little his sense of feeling returned. He had kind of a burning wet sensation on the outer edge of his left hip. The mystery man’s bullet had grazed him. He was bleeding a fair amount, but he’d seen these types of wounds before. They tended to clot up if a guy put a bandage with some pressure on it. But first he needed to satisfy himself that he had in fact killed the marshal from Boise and that there might be a big payday awaiting him somewhere amongst the marshal’s stuff. He walked, now with a limp on his left side, to where he was standing over the dead man. The flames of the campfire danced in the dead man’s eyes, giving him almost the illusion of life. Hollis studied the man for a moment and then cautiously kicked the pistol away from his hand. Kneeling, he began rummaging through the man’s shirt pockets; in the left was a sack of Bull Durham tobacco and cigarette papers, and in the right there was a plug of chewing tobacco and behind it something metallic. Hollis knew before he brought it into the light what it was. It wasn’t a big badge but it clearly read: U.S. Marshal. Hollis looked at the badge for a moment, turning it over in his hand, and then he threw it as hard as he could into the night. And then looking down at the marshal, he said: “Ya shoulda showed me some respect.” Hollis reached over and grabbed one of the marshal’s lifeless arms, and rising to his feet began dragging the body to the darkness beyond the light of the fire; when he reached that point he was breathing hard and his hip was bleeding worse, and so he didn’t just simply drop the arm—he flung it forcefully back across the marshal’s torso. “Sleep tight,” he said sarcastically to the dead man, and then he began limping back towards the fire. By the light of the fire Hollis could see that the blood trail from his hip wound had now stained his left pant leg to just below the knee. He was eager to look for the gold that he hoped the marshal was carrying, but he was getting concerned at the amount of blood that he was losing. He looked about for something made of cloth that he could use for a bandage, and then he saw the biscuit sack. It would work for a bandage, but he intended to eat the biscuits so he didn’t want to just dump them on the ground. There was a wooden pack box further into the shadows. He picked it up and brought it into the light of the fire. It was deceptively heavy for no more than it had in it, mostly some small bags of flour, sugar, beans, and salt. Hollis became suspicious of what was really in the box. He opened each of the bags and probed with his fingers to see if there was anything, like gold, hidden within them but there was not. He hefted the box again; it was far heavier than flour and sugar should weigh. He set the box down and studied it for a moment. He must be missing something, he thought. And then it came to him; he took the bag of flour, which stood upright inside the box, and placed it upright next to the box on the outside. The bag was about three inches shorter than the top of the box, yet when it was placed inside it was nearly flush with the top. Hollis’ discovery caused him to quickly remove the other bags from the box. He thrust his hand into the darkness and searched for any kind of latch or knob that would allow him to lift its false bottom. He was almost gleeful as he ran his fingers along the seams of the box, but he could not find any means to pull the bottom out. Frantic, he turned the box upside down and began pounding on it with his fists until suddenly he heard it give way inside. He pushed the box over and there sitting atop a board, perfectly sized to fit flush within the box, were twelve small canvas bags. Hollis was beside himself with excitement. He opened one bag and then another to examine their contents: most contained gold but a few had currency or coins in them. There were thousands of dollars in the box, and there was another box just like it that rode in the pannier on the opposite side of the pack horse to balance the load. Hollis was ecstatic as he sat there on the ground next to all of the gold. Between that and what he had in the bank in Boise he was set—he could go somewhere new and live a life of leisure. He was almost to the point of fantasizing what that life would be like when reality set in. He was sitting not more than forty feet from the body of a United States marshal that he had just murdered and thousands in gold that belonged to Stevenson. In time, somebody would undoubtedly come looking for both, and they would not be friendly people. Hollis sighed aloud. There was little that he could do about any of that now. The adrenalin high of a short while ago had now given way to the fatigue and hunger that he had been feeling earlier. The food that the marshal had prepared was there for the taking. He’d even laid out his bedroll. Hollis’ hip throbbed and it continued to bleed. He needed to bandage it and just get off his feet for a while so that it would clot up. In Hollis’ mind it all made for a convincing argument to spend the night in the dead marshal’s camp, eat his supper, and sleep in his bed. After all, to the victor go the spoils.
