West Of The War

by L. J. Martin

  As Ian goes to his back, he catches the ankles of the man and he, too, crashes to the deck.

  The thief’s on his feet almost as quickly and tries to run past me, but I have my revolver in hand and crack him one alongside the head, knocking him staggering backward, and into the grasp of a very angry Ian Hollihan.

  The man tries to shove Ian aside and pass, but this time Ian sees him coming and manages to get an arm around the man’s neck.

  But the thief pulls a knife from his belt and slashes at Ian’s arm before I can get to him. A moment too late I bring the barrel of the Colt down and smash his forearm and the knife skitters away across the deck.

  Now Ian has the man’s neck between his bleeding forearm—on the big fellow’s throat—and his other forearm across the back of it with an eye-bulging choke hold. The thief is not easy to handle as he’s lunging back and forth until they crash against the rail and the man flings himself over, but Ian still has a death grip on the neck.

  The thief is hanging over the rail, kicking, and Ian is bringing all the pressure he can. The man’s eyes are bulging and he’s slapping at Ian’s forearm. Ian’s jaw is clamped tightly and I can see he’s not going to release the man until he stops kicking. In seconds, he does, and Ian drags him back over the rail and flings him to the deck.

  Others have seen the scuffle from a distance and come running. I’m thinking of turning the man to his back and binding his wrists with my belt, but then realize his eyes are open…but he’s not seeing.

  “You hung the bastard,” I mumble to Ian, who’s trying to get the bleeding in his forearm stopped.

  “I heard his neck go. Don’t think I hung him, think I broke his bloody neck.”

  The first mate, a fellow named Quincy runs up and kneels by the man. “This is O’Shea, one of our deck hands.” Then he raises up and eyes the two of us. “What happened here.”

  I start to speak but Ian steps forward only a couple of feet from Quincy and snaps, “We caught the bastard in our cabin.” Ian walks over and sees that all our things are in disarray. “Son of a bitch ransacked the place, looking to see what he could steal.”

  “Hummm,” Quincy says, his hands on his hips. “You sure that’s what happened?”

  A short stocky man steps forward from the growing crowd. “I was up on the hurricane deck rail having a smoke. I saw it all. These fellas was coming to their cabin and this old boy burst out and knocked the big fella here down and run right over him. McTavish,” he points at me, “gave him a whack as he ran by and knocked him back into the big fella who got a neck squeeze on him but this guy down here pulled a knife and went to whackin’ at this’n, and the knife went flying and he got his’sef’ hoisted over the rail where he kicked until he didn’t.”

  Quincy had a laugh at that, smiling for the first time. “So, O’Shea was in their cabin?”

  “Sure as there’s water under this here boat.”

  “Okay, okay. A couple of you fellas give me a hand. Let’s haul O’Shea down to the engine deck and get him ready for the sod. Then I’ll get the captain and we’ll schedule a hearing to clear McTavish and…” He turns to Ian, “What did you say your handle was?”

  “Hollihan, Ian Hollihan.”

  “So it’s McTavish and Hollihan. We got to get something done first thing as we’ll be at Benton City before noon tomorrow.”

  But Ian doesn’t wait for Quincy to finish and strides into the cabin, kicking his way through the mess. He reaches under the wash stand and comes out with the leather pouch he’s bought in Bismarck to serve as his poke. Easier to hide than his saddle bags, he said, and he’s proven to be right.

  He gives me a wide grin, holding it out as if it's a fat trout he’s just caught. And as if he hadn’t just broken a man’s neck and sent him to hell.

  I sigh deeply. “Let’s clean up this mess. It’s your night on the pallet.”

  “Damn if it ain’t, but you need to take a needle and some cat gut to this arm first.” He unties the kerchief and shows me the cut and damned if it doesn’t look like it will take more than a dozen stitches to close the gash. I re-tie the bandage and give him a nod.

  “I’ll go wake the purser and see what he’s got in the way of medical supplies. And I’ll grab a bottle of whiskey as you’ll need to douse that gash.”

  He guffaws, "And douse my gullet with a few more if you’re gonna be taking a needle to me."

  “I’d sew your damn mouth shut, should I get the needle. I understand the purser is a fine hand with needle and splint, should it be called for. Use your good hand to clean up this mess while I’m gone.”

  “Humph,” he says, as I head for the crew’s cabin.

  I'm a bit surprised, and dismayed, that the captain decides to leave the matter of O'Shea to the law in Fort Benton, as we're so close.

  Damn it.

  That means Skunk will be deciding our fate.

  We can't let that happen.

  We only sleep in spurts, and rise early, taking only coffee and some bread and jam as nothing is ready yet. Our problem is the stock. We're normally expected to let everyone who wants to disembark do so before we unload the critters, and in Fort Benton all will be leaving the boat. Our only chance to avoid Skunk, the city marshal, is to get off the boat well before anyone else, and well before the captain can send word to get him back to the Glasgow to investigate.

  A twenty dollar gold piece is a fairly princely sum to a man making three dollars a day, so I try that number on the purser, as soon as we have our goods all packed and the stock in headstalls with lead ropes, and our one saddle horse ready to ride. He settles for twenty-five in gold, agreeing to put the aft gangplank down to the quay first which is not normal procedure. The aft gangplank is normally to load and unload freight and supplies, not passengers.

  We plan to be gathered aft, ready to disembark as soon as the deckhands get the lines secured and the gangplank touches down. It's Captain Easton's habit to stay in the wheelhouse for most of a half hour and complete his log after each mooring, and we pray he'll do the same—or possibly longer—as this upstream leg of the voyage is complete, for he'll surely force us to stay aboard. As we’d be up against a crew of at least twenty-five, we’ve got to escape.

  We’ve got to ride…

  Ride where, I'm not sure, but west. I am sure we have to leave Fort Benton far behind.

  Two other side wheelers are tied up along the long quay, and on each end of the side wheelers section a keel boat is under construction, being built to float down with the current. It’s a busy river port, and folks bustle about as if there’s a purpose in their walk. At least two dozen drays, beer wagons, and a stage move about on Front Street, as well as that many, or more, horse backers. Men toting various goods and boxes, and more than one man pushing a hand truck, weave their way from here to there and back.

  We have the stock tied to the rails as the gangplank is swung in place. I lead the saddle horse down first and have to walk him thirty yards to a rail, and when I return to the boat, find a big burly deck hand poking Ian in the chest with a corncob size index finger.

  And his voice rings all the way down the gangplank to where I hesitate re-boarding. “Capt’n says you two are staying aboard till he gets the law here.”

  Knowing that Ian will likely knock the big man on his butt—his look says so—I double time it up the gangway. “Hey there, pardner, no problem. We’ve just got to get this stock unloaded or they can’t move the freight. Ask that big redheaded fella down below. He told us to get the hell out of the way with these animals.” It’s a plausible argument. “We want to get this cleared up more than Captain Easton does.”

  He looks a bit confused, then shrugs. “Okay, but don’t get out of sight. I’ll be watching.”

  “We wouldn’t think of it,” I lie, with a big grin.

  He moves twenty feet down the rail and leans there, rolling himself a smoke.

  Ian leads the pair of mules down, the latter tail-tied to the leader, and I fetch Sadi
e and have a big surprise when I again make the bottom. I glance up at a broad-shouldered black man with one peg leg, and have to grin broadly.

  Damned if it’s not Raymond, Pearl’s brother, my old friend and youthful playmate, my former slave…which now seems a century ago. He has a wide brimmed straw hat shading his face, but it’s definitely Ray.

  “Ray,” I yell. He looks over and does not return the smile. Damned if he doesn’t give me a look that might kill this big percheron I’m leading. He makes no effort to come my way, so I set my jaw and continue leading Sadie to the rail to tie her with the buckskin and the mules.

  Ian approaches with the other two percherons as I finish and stand just staring at Ray, only thirty yards from me, arms folded, hip canted favoring his peg leg, totally ignoring me.

  “Ain’t that…” Ian says.

  “It is. Raymond, Pearl’s brother.”

  “He ain’t exactly happy to see you, looks as if…”

  “No, sir, appears he’s not.”

  “Want me to stuff that peg leg up his backside.”

  “Nope, we got more important business. I can just ignore him at least as well as he can ignore me.”

  “Okay, what now?” Ian asks.

  “Let’s get back onboard and coax that big ugly deck hand down below and get him out of the mix so we can get our satchels and weapons and light a shuck out of here.”

  “A fine plan. String these critters up so they’ll lead. I’ll head down and you find an excuse to get him to follow you after I find a place he won’t see me a’comin’.”

  “Let’s do it,” I say, and spend a few minutes stringing the two mules together. One of us will ride the buckskin, one Sadie, and we'll get out of the way of Skunk and his deputy should they appear. I follow Ian back onboard, and see he’s disappeared down to the engine deck.

  I take a moment to head for our cabin and make sure that our satchels and weapons are ready to join us on a fast trip out of town, and they are nicely lined up on the bed.

  I take a small risk, as passengers are moving about the deck, and leave the door unlocked so we don’t have to take the extra time to mess with it. Quickly, I return to where the big deck hand still leans on the rail, smoking, watching us and the other gangway being placed on the quay.

  I pass him and make the stairway down to the engine deck and descend, then immediately return to the passenger deck, and wave him over.

  “That redhead…the straw boss down below. He wants your help.”

  “Humph,” he says. “I’m a deck hand, not a damn firebox stoker.”

  “Don’t look at me. I’m just passin’ the message along. He says we all got to help move something.”

  “Lazy louts. We’d do all the damn work they had their way.”

  I lead the way, and am pleased he follows. We hit the deck and there are a half dozen other deck hands and engine hands scurrying about. I look one way then the other, and don’t see Ian, then he appears on the far side and waves at me. Then he steps back behind some freight near the far side, where there’s an opening and the river a few feet below.

  “This way,” I say, and wave the man to follow, and he does. I walk all the way across the engine deck to the riverside rail, and lean over. “What the hell…” I say, as if I see something untoward.

  “What?” he questions as he joins me on the rail.

  But he’s only there a second before Ian’s at his back and he’s flying out into the river. He disappears for a moment and I’m afraid he can’t swim. But he surfaces in the fairly fast flowing current and by the time he starts stroking, he’s past the aft end of the boat. But unless he’s a strong swimmer he won’t make the space between riverboats and doesn’t. He’s swept on down the river.

  The quay beyond the boats is a vertical wall six feet above the water, so he won’t be in our hair for a while.

  Another deck hand, who’s seen the man go overboard, runs over to join Ian and I at the rail. “What the hell?” he says, repeating my last statement.

  I turn and give him a shrug. “Damned if he didn’t say he was too hot and wanted to cool off.”

  “Bullshit,” he says, eying the two of us. But we don’t wait to parlay with him, and head for the ladder.

  With our satchels and saddlebags over our shoulders, and weapons in hand, we trot to the aft gangway, now having to tread our way through departing passengers. I’m able to give my friend, Alex Strobridge, a head’s up as I pass. I’ve bought some goods from him that I’m not able to gather, under the circumstances.

  I pause just long enough. “Alex, hold on to my goods. It seems the Capt’n wants us to have a chat with the good City Marshal or Sheriff or whatever the hell Skunk is, and we can’t wait for that conversation.”

  “A wise move,” he agrees.

  “Are you at the hotel?”

  “Got a room at Mrs. Ole’s, ground floor, northwest corner.”

  “I’ll find you, a dark night soon as I can…maybe tonight.”

  He nods, and we’re off.

  He yells after me. “If not there, try Angel’s or Tennessee Slim’s.”

  I wave over my shoulder. As we mount up, I see Skunk striding toward the Glasgow, a deputy following closely behind.

  Raymond is standing as stiff as a statue, watching all this transpire. By his look I’m sure he’ll put them on our trail if he discovers the reason Skunk has arrived and boarded the Glasgow.

  I have no problem killing a thief, but when the thief is a lawman, that could be a bad decision. But it’s a damn sight better than rotting in a cell or swinging from a rope. The McTavish family has seen enough of that.

  Or fill him full of cut up square nails, I will, if it comes to that.

  Chapter 28

  At a brisk walk, as fast as we dare move without attracting attention, we’re out onto the street fronting the river and heading for what I hope is a road up the bluff and out of town. I’m riding bareback and we have no pack saddles, as all our new tack is still with Alex.

  It’s the Mullan Road I seek, built by the military from this terminus of the riverboat trade all the way over the Rockies to Walla Walla, Washington and the Columbia River. The road ties the two great river systems together and weds one side of the country to the other. It's a tenuous fine thread, but the country has finally been sewed together.

  I’ve paid close attention to my new friend, the old trapper, Nester Peabody. In fact, I’ve taken notes as he spun tales of hunting and trapping the country all the way into Idaho Territory.

  But we're not quite ready yet for the Mullan Road; we have to go back and find Alex and get our gear or it’s many miles before we can get supplies and equipment. You can’t hunt gold without picks and shovels and pans.

  Only three or so years ago, Fort Benton, named for Senator Thomas Hart Benton, was nothing more than a ramshackle group of run down log buildings—established long ago as an American Fur Company trading post—now, with the gold discoveries, it’s a growing town with a Miner’s Bank, the only stone building in town; Mrs. Ole’s, a small hotel and boarding house which I make note of as we pass; two mercantile establishments, one of which is still under construction and I presume the Strobridge store; a tonsorial parlor; Angel’s, a brand new saloon and opera house whose owners I know well; McFadden’s Land Office; Polkinghorn’s Assay & Shipping; a blacksmith and leather works; and three saloons, Fanny’s, Bucket of Suds, and Tennessee Slim’s. Mr. Peabody has informed me of two pleasure houses on the edge of town; Garden of Aiden belonging to a woman name Alice Aiden, and The Louisiana French Palace belonging to a mulatto woman from New Orleans.

  A handful of other businesses are on the street inland a block.

  It’s a thriving town. However, I notice no church.

  All but two of the buildings I can see are built below a long bluff rising well over a hundred feet above the river, but a cut, with a road I presume is Mullan Road, comes down from atop. Only two structures are high overlooking the rest. One seems to be a saloon, an
d another the other side of the cut appears to be a house…rather stately and two story.

  As soon as we clear the edge of town and its drays and wagons, and get on top of the slope, we give heels to the animals and lope for a mile until we come to a rocky, dry, stream bed. A path where hoof tracks off the well-marked two-track road will not be easily followed. I swing off the road and clatter along west for a mile, then turn south again back to the river’s edge.

  We have to work our way down a steep cliff side to the cottonwoods on a narrow game trail, but when it flattens it’s belly deep in grass and a small side channel of the river makes easy water. The stock will have no reason to wander.

  It’s mid-afternoon when we settle in. Ian is still healing so I encourage him to find a shady spot and settle down with a bit of fishing line and hook I now carry in my possibles bag, while I gather firewood. There’s an infestation of fat grasshoppers for bait, and as soon as I have a pile of wood, he has a mess of small trout he’s caught from the side channel and a pair of sharpened roasting sticks he’s cut from river willow lining the bank.

  We’re in hog heaven.

  The quarter mile wide cottonwood flat will conceal us and we’ll be able to easily graze and water the stock. It’s my plan to return to town, alone, and fetch our gear.

  When the sun falls and it begins to cool down, I brace Ian, knowing he’ll not favor my plan. “Mr. Hollihan, I want you to stay here and watch over the stock while I slip back into town and get our gear. I’ll ride the buckskin and lead the mules.”

  “And why the hell do you get to have all the fun?” he snaps.

  “Who’s gonna break me out of jail should I get caught?”

  That stumps him for a minute, then he drops his head and gives me a questioning look. “And what makes you think you’ll be an easy catch were I backing you up?”

  “They are looking for two of us. One man dragging two mules won’t be out of the ordinary. They’ll be looking for these white percherons that stand out like a wart on a whore’s nose.”