Evil Breed

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  “Well, I see you got your moccasins,” Newt said as Jim approached, carrying his boots in his hand. “What did they cost ya?”

  Jim smiled. “Two antelope hides. They’re right handsome, aren’t they?” He turned a heel up and looked down to admire White Feather’s handiwork. “They’re right comfortable, too. I ain’t gonna throw my boots away, though. There’s still some wear left in ’em.”

  “Yep, they shine smart enough,” Newt said, looking the moccasins over with a critical eye. “You’re lookin’ more and more like a Crow warrior ever’ day. You’re gittin’ mighty handy with that bow of yourn, too. You might not need your rifle back.”

  Jim’s face turned sober at the mention of his rifle. This was what he had come to talk about. “Newt, I reckon I’m ready to trade my hides and get on with my business.” It was time. His wounds had long since healed, but he had become much too content living with Iron Bow’s people. He and Iron Bow’s son, Wolf Paw, had developed a strong friendship, hunting together almost daily. And there were times when Jim went several days without remembering his vow to find Johnny Malotte.

  Newt nodded solemnly. “I figured you was about ready to cut loose. I ain’t tryin’ to tell you what to do. But if it was me, I wouldn’t waste my time taking them skins to the Crow agency. I know they do a little tradin’ over there, but they ain’t never give the Injuns a fair deal. Back in the spring, some fellers opened up a trading post on the Yellowstone—built a stockade close to where the Bighorn ties in. They call it Fort Pease, although it ain’t really no fort. Anyway, you’ll most likely get a better trade up there than you will from an Injun agent.”

  That sounded like good advice to Jim, so the next morning he loaded his hides on one of Newt’s horses, and he and Newt prepared to set out, planning to follow the river to the Yellowstone. Jim didn’t particularly need any help. Newt just had a craving for a drink of whiskey. Jim was glad to have the company. They were joined by Wolf Paw and another young warrior, Leads His Horses. Together the four of them rode out of camp, heading north up the Bighorn valley.

  Chapter 8

  Johnny Malotte turned his head painfully to the side in an effort to squint through the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Mercifully, he had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion two hours before, in spite of being trussed up, hands behind his back, lying with his face in the dirt. The sleep provided some escape from the stabbing pain in his head. But awake now, he found no relief from the aching in his arms and shoulders, and his wrists were bound to his ankles by a length of rope too short to allow him to straighten his legs.

  Unable to see his captor from this position, Johnny bit off a groan as he forced his body to roll over on its side. Hearing the faint cry of pain, Slocum turned to look at the tormented man. “Well, now, did you enjoy your little nap?” Slocum asked sarcastically. Sitting on the end of a log by the fire, the huge man ripped off a mouthful of salt pork while he gazed at Malotte. He scooped up a spoonful of boiled beans and loaded them in with the pork, chewing noisily while he studied his prisoner. “You know, you ain’t been a helluva lot of company on this trip. I almost wish I hadn’t cracked your head so hard.” He paused in his chewing for a moment. “Almost,” he added, grinning at his humor. “While you was layin’ around sleepin’, I’ve been fixin’ us some supper. I bet you could eat a little, couldn’t you?” When there was no response from Malotte, Slocum got up from the log, lifted the iron pot from the coals, and walked over to stand before the prone figure on the ground. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” he said. “I wouldn’t waste the beans on you, but if I don’t keep you alive, that prissy-ass captain won’t give me my money.”

  “I ain’t Jim Culver,” Johnny forced through swollen lips.

  “Course you ain’t,” Slocum said, grinning broadly. “Here, here’s you some beans.” He spooned out a little pile of beans on the ground in front of Malotte. “I hope you’ll excuse me, but I musta misplaced my tablecloth.”

  Johnny stared at the beans piled on the bare ground. He wanted to tell Slocum where he could shove them, but he had not eaten in two days and he was hungry. “Untie my hands,” he said.

  Smiling, Slocum slowly shook his head back and forth several times. “Now, Jim, you don’t really expect me to do a damn-fool thing like that, do you? Git down there and eat ’em like a dog.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Johnny growled.

  Still grinning, Slocum went back to his seat by the fire. “Eat ’em or leave ’em, all the same to me.”

  Johnny tried to restrain himself out of sheer defiance, but his hunger was overpowering, and he knew he must take nourishment or he would grow steadily weaker. After only a few minutes, he rolled over on his belly again and stuck his face in the beans, gulping them down as fast as he could. Slocum chuckled softly in the background.

  Johnny had tried repeatedly during the first couple of days on the trail to convince the obstinate giant that he had captured the wrong man, but it was to no avail. Slocum had put two and two together and it had come up four in his mind, and he was not one to be swayed. To a man who made his living tracking down fugitives, Johnny’s claims were not in the least unusual. Slocum would have been surprised if Johnny had admitted he was Jim Culver. Johnny had even confessed that he had killed Jim Culver and taken his horse and rifle. This was after trying to convince Slocum that he had bought them from an Indian. Slocum just displayed that contemptuous grin until he was tired of hearing Malotte complain. Then he had silenced him again with the butt of Jim’s rifle, which had caused the swollen eye. Johnny had given up after that, convinced that there was no chance to alter the single-minded bounty hunter’s convictions. He would hold his tongue and hope for the best when they reached Fort Lincoln. It had been bad luck that led him across Slocum’s trail. But luck just might swing over to his side before this was over and done with. He promised himself that if he got the chance, he wouldn’t waste it. He’d open the big son of a bitch’s throat from ear to ear. That would give him a nice scar to match the one down the side of his face.

  * * *

  Captain Thomas Boyd looked up from his desk when Master Sergeant Cochran appeared in the doorway. The bugle had just sounded Recall minutes before at eleven-thirty, signaling the end of morning drill. “Captain Boyd, sir,” Cochran said with his customary absence of emotion, “Major Rothmeyer wants to see you.”

  “Now?” Boyd asked. “He wants to see me now—or sometime today?” Boyd was preparing to go to the officers’ mess. He would prefer to see the adjutant after he had eaten.

  Cochran shrugged. “He didn’t say, sir. I reckon he meant now.”

  “All right,” Boyd replied with a heavy sigh. Cochran paused for a second, then turned and left the room. The captain slid his chair back and got to his feet. He didn’t care much for Major Rothmeyer, and he was satisfied that the feeling was mutual. “What’s the old son of a bitch complaining about this time?” Boyd muttered to himself. Boyd had been led to believe that he would be given the position of post adjutant when he was assigned to Fort Lincoln. Instead the post was held by Philip Rothmeyer, a blocky, gray-haired officer who had been a schoolteacher before the recent War Between the States. He claimed to be a distant cousin to Phil Sheridan, the general in command of the Division of the Missouri. Boyd suspected that was the man’s chief qualification for the position he held. It chafed the captain to have to report to Rothmeyer, but he had no choice in the matter.

  Rothmeyer was busy shuffling through some papers when Boyd entered. “Ah, Captain Boyd,” the major greeted him. “Take a seat,” he said, waving his arm toward a chair in front of his desk.

  “Sergeant Cochran said you wanted to see me,” Boyd said.

  “Yes. I’ve just been looking through these papers you filed on this civilian in Fredericksburg. This case has been open for quite some time with no progress toward conviction that I can see. I’m trying to clean up all the old dead files, and I think this is one we can close out. If I read th
is correctly, it appears we are paying this man, Slocum, to track the fugitive on a per-diem basis. I’m not sure how you got that approved, or even if the army is legally bound to honor the arrangement. There is no contract that I can find.”

  Incensed by the implication, Boyd replied. “It was a spoken agreement,” he insisted. “You approved it yourself.”

  Rothmeyer seemed unimpressed. “I did, did I? You must have caught me in a weak moment. Anyway, since I approved it, as you say, then I’m officially disapproving it now.” When Boyd started to rise to his feet in protest, the major stopped him. “You don’t stand a chance of convicting this man Culver, even if your bounty hunter finds him. The only witnesses to the shooting, four enlisted men and a civilian sheriff, have all testified that your Lieutenant Ebersole fired at Culver first.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir—” Boyd started, now on his feet, but Rothmeyer interrupted.

  “I think you may have a personal interest in this, but there’ll be no more discussion on the matter. The army can’t afford to pay some lazy bounty hunter who’s probably lying around with some squaw somewhere. General Custer has ordered that we stop wasting time on matters that are unrelated to this post. I’m sorry, Captain, but this matter is closed. I’m authorizing one month’s pay for Slocum, no more.”

  Boyd made one more attempt to protest, but Rothmeyer cut him off again and told him he was dismissed. Feeling the anger all the way down in his boots, Boyd snapped a sharp salute, did an about-face, and left the room. Outside the major’s office, he grumbled to himself about the incompetent ex-schoolteacher. He was one of Lieutenant Colonel Custer’s boys—still addressing the post commander by his brevet rank, currying favor at every opportunity.

  Captain Boyd was no longer passionate about trying Jim Culver for Ebersole’s murder. That emotion had waned over the months. He was livid, however, over the treatment he had received from his immediate superior. Who the hell was Philip Rothmeyer to make judgment on the case? As far as the tracker Slocum, Boyd had not heard anything from him since he left Lincoln. He had planned to cut off his per diem in a week or two anyway.

  * * *

  At approximately four-thirty on a cloudy afternoon, Slocum rode into Fort Lincoln, leading his prisoner. The bugle’s last notes of Stable Call were drifting over the parade ground as the two riders approached the adjutant’s office. The hulking bounty hunter riding the iron-gray horse scowled as he met the inquisitive stares of the troopers on their way to the stables. Slocum didn’t have a lot of use for soldiers—too many rules. Snorting his contempt, he turned away and guided the horses to the building where he had first talked to Captain Boyd. He dismounted and tied the horses to the corner post of the porch. After untying the rope under Toby’s belly that had held Malotte’s feet in the stirrups, he grabbed his prisoner by the shirt and pulled him unceremoniously to the ground. Johnny grunted when he landed hard on his side, then cursed Slocum. Slocum paid him no mind. His thoughts were now on the anticipated payday for bringing the prisoner in.

  A young private stood gaping at the grizzled bounty hunter as he stepped up on the porch. “Go fetch Captain Boyd, sonny,” Slocum said. “Tell him I brung him something.”

  When Boyd was told that a man who looked like a grizzly bear wanted to see him, he knew immediately who it was. It could be no other than the vile manhunter Slocum. The private said he had a prisoner with him. This was enough to cause Boyd to rise quickly from his desk, anxious to see Jim Culver in irons. In spite of the recent order from Major Rothmeyer, Boyd at once revived thoughts of pleading his case again. With the prisoner in custody, Rothmeyer might change his mind about trying Culver.

  Boyd stepped out on the porch to confront the intimidating figure of his hired bounty hunter. Having once been exposed to the fearsome countenance of Slocum, he thought it inconceivable that the man’s image could fade from memory. Yet Boyd was still taken aback somewhat to confront the tracker face-to-face again. “Slocum,” he said, nodding acknowledgment; then, looking past the huge bulk of the man, he stared at his captive. Johnny Malotte stared back at him in angry defiance. “Who’s this?” Boyd asked, puzzled.

  Confused by the captain’s question, Slocum let the malevolent grin slowly fade from his face, and he turned to look at Malotte. The defiant prisoner, standing on the bottom step with a rope around his neck, much like a dog on a leash, stared back at Slocum with a smirk on his face. Slocum looked back at the captain. “Jim Culver,” he replied, “the son of a bitch you’re paying me for.”

  Boyd stepped down off the porch to take a closer look. Even with Malotte’s battered face, there was no uncertainty in Boyd’s mind. Still, he studied Johnny’s swollen features for a few long seconds. Then he turned back to Slocum. “I don’t know who the hell this is, but he’s damn sure not Jim Culver.”

  Slocum was stunned and, for the moment, speechless. He jerked his head around to gape at his prisoner. Johnny found his voice. “I told you my name’s Johnny Malotte, you dumb son of a bitch.” He looked at Boyd then. “I tried to tell him all the way between here and Fort Laramie, but he’s crazy. You need to lock him up for trying to kill me.”

  Boyd was now faced with a dilemma. He hadn’t the faintest notion of the identity of the man whom Slocum had mistakenly captured, nor did he particularly care. His orders were to terminate Slocum’s services, and that was what he was about to do. The battered man at the end of Slocum’s rope was probably justified in demanding Slocum’s arrest, but Boyd knew the army had no interest in pursuing that. At this point he just wanted to be through with both of them. Before he could speak, Slocum recovered his thoughts.

  “What the hell you mean, he ain’t Culver?” he demanded. Stalking down the steps, he stood beside Toby. “This is Culver’s horse. There ain’t no doubt about that. And this here’s sure as hell that fancy new Winchester he carries—got his initials carved right in the stock.” He held Jim’s rifle up to show Boyd.

  Boyd paused to think about it again, peering at Johnny Malotte, reassuring himself. “They might be Culver’s,” he quietly agreed. “But this man’s not Jim Culver. I’d know Jim Culver if I saw him. A bullet from that rifle passed right under my arm before it took the life of Lieutenant Thomas Ebersole. No, this isn’t Jim Culver.” The matter finished as far as he was concerned, he turned to go back inside. “I suggest you turn that man loose, and the two of you go on about your business.”

  “Wait a minute, here,” Slocum protested, catching the captain’s sleeve to detain him. “You owe me pay for tracking Culver.”

  Boyd glanced down at the hand on his sleeve for a moment, waiting for Slocum to retract it. When he did not, Boyd jerked his arm away. “I don’t owe you anything,” he pronounced curtly. “You weren’t being paid to go chasing after this saddle tramp.” Then the thought struck him. “What are you doing with that horse and rifle, anyway?” he demanded of Johnny.

  Malotte hesitated for a moment, sensing he might yet be in trouble with the army. “I bought the outfit from a fellow at Fort Laramie. I didn’t ask him his name.”

  “You lying bastard,” Slocum exclaimed, getting madder by the minute. “You told me you killed Jim Culver.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I just said that. I never killed nobody.”

  Slocum jerked his head back to confront Boyd. “He’s still hiding out there. I’ll find him for you,” he insisted.

  “The army no longer needs your services,” Boyd coldly replied. “We have no further interest in Culver.” Once again he turned to go inside.

  “So that’s how it is,” Slocum growled. “I track all over Injun territory for you, and you ain’t gonna pay me for it.”

  Boyd paused. He was authorized to pay Slocum for one month’s wages—Rothmeyer had told him that—but he had decided against it. He felt the army shouldn’t finance a wild-goose chase that resulted in the capture of the wrong man. “It was your decision to waste the army’s time chasing after the wrong man. You’re dismissed.” He turned to the private standi
ng on the porch who had witnessed the entire confrontation. “Private, untie that man.” Looking back at Malotte, he said, “Both of you clear out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnny Malotte replied cheerfully as the private loosened the knot around his neck. Luck had clearly shifted over to his side, so he was quick to take advantage. “That there’s my rifle he’s got.”

  “Give him the rifle,” Boyd instructed the private.

  Slocum was seething, his huge body trembling with a rage that was steadily building, but he did not protest when the trooper pulled the Winchester from the strap on his saddle. He had been cheated, and he didn’t take being cheated well. The mocking smile on Johnny Malotte’s face, as his former prisoner took the rifle and climbed aboard Toby, was almost enough to set the angry giant off in spite of the appearance of several additional soldiers attracted by the loud discussion. But Slocum said nothing as he watched Johnny ride across the parade ground. There would be a reckoning. Johnny was a dead man.

  With a brief glance at the soldiers gathered around the captain, Slocum then turned back to lodge one final protest. “You hired me to go after Jim Culver. All I had to go on was that damn horse and his rifle. I didn’t have no damn picture of the man. I done my job.” Then, in slow, deliberate motions, he untied the iron-gray horse from the corner post and stepped up into the saddle. With a hard glint, he favored Boyd with one last glare, an unspoken promise, before turning the gray to follow after Malotte. Feeling the anger like a hard knot in his belly, he fervently wished the day would come when he caught the arrogant captain away from the fort and his soldiers. Dismissed, am I? We’ll see who is dismissed, all right. Slocum was due for payment, and he meant to have it, if not in U.S. currency, then in blood. And the memory of Johnny Malotte’s snide smile was burning in his brain like a white-hot coal.