Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

Broadus Sims, Tom discovered, kept a clean stable and his rates were reasonable. He welcomed Tom’s animals, and after thinking the proposition over for barely more than a few seconds, agreed to rent Tom the back part of the tack room for temporary living quarters. Tom assured him that it would only be for a short period, at least until he decided to find a permanent place in Bozeman or to move on in the spring. After he got himself settled, his horses taken care of, and his belongings put away, he left the stable and went in search of some supper and maybe a drink of whiskey to warm his bones. Mr. Sims had recommended the Miner’s Saloon for supper, simply because it was the only one that served food. So Tom walked up the muddy street to the Miner’s.

  After one stiff shot of whiskey that seared his gullet all the way down to his groin, he moved over to a table in the corner of the room and waited for his supper. In a few minutes, an old Oriental man shuffled out of the kitchen with a plate of beef stew and beans. Without a word, he placed the plate down in front of Tom and turned to leave.

  “Coffee?” Tom called after the man.

  The Oriental stopped and nodded his head vigorously up and down, then disappeared through the kitchen door.

  “He don’t understand much English. You’ll be waiting for that coffee till hell freezes over.” Tom was startled by the voice beside him. He had been so engrossed in his supper that he hadn’t even noticed the huge man when he moved silently up beside him. “Pete!” the man called out to the barkeep, “feller here wants some coffee.” He pulled a chair back and sat down. “And tell that little squint-eye of your’n to bring me a cup, too.”

  “Much obliged,” Tom said, eyeing his guest curiously.

  “My name’s Crutchfield,” the man said as he settled heavily into the chair. The chair creaked in protest from the bulk of the man. He flashed a wide smile that seemed to be friendly, but Tom could feel the man’s eyes searching his face. Almost casually, as if he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, he unbuttoned his coat and let it fall open enough to show a badge. “I’m the law around these parts,” he said, in case Tom didn’t notice the badge.

  Tom’s muscles tensed. He didn’t think he was wanted in this territory, and the sheriff didn’t seem to recognize him. He admonished himself to remain calm. After all, the man was friendly enough. Maybe he was just being neighborly. He probably didn’t know Tom from Adam. Tom returned the smile and continued to eat.

  “I reckon you’re just passing through our little town.”

  It was a statement, but Tom recognized the question in it. He finished chewing a tough mouthful of stew meat before answering. “Well, I hadn’t decided yet, to tell you the truth.”

  Crutchfield paused and waited while the Oriental set two cups of coffee on the table. “Well, let me see if I can help you make up your mind.” He turned his head and yelled over his shoulder, “Pete! Give me some of that sugar you keep hid behind the bar.” He turned back to Tom, his smile again in place. “Makes out like he ain’t got no sugar, like it was too damn scarce to give away.” He looked at Tom for a long moment with a twinkle in his eye. It was almost as if he was about to share a wonderful secret. “You come in with that mule train, didn’t you?” When Tom nodded that he did, he continued, “I was talking to another feller come in with that train, feller by the name of Scarborough. And he was telling about a young feller that joined up with ’em just a few days back, went by the name of Dakota.” Crutchfield could see he was hitting close to home by the sudden steeling of Tom’s eyes, though he gave no other sign of concern. Crutchfield continued, “This Dakota feller’s supposed to be a real mean character, gunned down some people over in Miles City. Now, you seem to be the only stranger in town that fits that description. I figure you’ve gotta be Dakota.”

  “Maybe,” Tom replied coolly. He didn’t care for the way the conversation was shaping up. He glanced quickly at his rifle, propped against the wall beside his chair.

  Crutchfield followed his glance. “Now don’t get excited. You ain’t in no trouble with me…yet.” He paused to stir some more sugar in his coffee. “There’s just a few things we need to get settled right from the start, that’s all. The main thing is, I don’t intend to have no trouble in my town. Now, I reckon if I go over to the office and start looking through the handbills, I might find some paper on somebody named Dakota, or maybe somebody under another name. I ain’t concerned about that. As far as I know, you ain’t wanted for nothing around here. Being a lawman, I can’t collect no reward anyhow. Tell you the truth, I’m damned if I don’t just about have less use for bounty hunters than I do for the outlaws they’re huntin’. All the same to me. Don’t see no difference.” His smile faded into a deep frown. “What I’m concerned about is this town, and I ain’t gonna stand for no trouble here. That’s why I’m giving you some friendly advice right now that it might be better if you make your visit here a brief one.”

  Tom took his time in responding. He gave the sheriff’s words a few moments’ thought, then answered quietly, “Sheriff, you have my word, I’m not looking for anything but a place to get warm and fill my belly. If there’s any trouble here, somebody else will have to start it. I just want to mind my own business.”

  The smile returned to Crutchfield’s face. “Well now, I hoped you’d say that. You look like a sensible enough young feller. But I think your visit here still ought to be brief. I got a feeling you might attract bounty hunters and I’ve done told you what I think of them. They’d be most likely shooting at you, and you’d most likely be shooting back at them. And me and my deputies would most likely be shooting at both of you. And, with all that shooting going on, some of the town’s law-abiding citizens might git hit with a stray bullet.” He paused to let his words sink in, enjoying his own wry way with words. “And I can’t have that in my town.”

  The sheriff’s condescending air was not lost on Tom. Crutchfield obviously endeavored to run the town completely, and, despite his cavalier attitude, Tom harbored no doubts that the man could get pretty nasty if the occasion called for it. After a moment, Tom sighed. “All right, but give me a couple of weeks to rest up some and get my backside warm. Then I’ll move on. Whaddaya say? Is that asking too much?”

  Crutchfield laughed. “Fair enough.” He seemed to mellow a little toward the young stranger. He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. He thought for a minute, then said, “You know, there was already one bounty hunter through here a while back, and he went looking for somebody back toward Miles City.” He looked quickly at Tom. “He went lookin’ for you, didn’t he? Big ole ugly feller, name of Cobb.” He searched Tom’s face for confirmation.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Crutchfield’s eyes fairly sparkled. “That feller’s a mean one. He’ll be back any day now lookin’ for some reward money from Kansas City.”

  Tom shrugged, unconcerned. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t? Why not?”

  “I think he lost interest.”

  “Is that so?” Crutchfield’s smile broadened to an open grin. “Is that so?” he repeated. He seemed to be highly amused by Tom’s remark. “You know, Dakota, I kinda like your style. Too bad you’re only gonna be in town for a couple of weeks.” He got up to leave.

  “Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate it.”

  Chapter XIV

  During the next couple of days, Tom found that the sheriff was one of the few people to show any measure of hospitality toward him. Evidently, Scarborough had managed to spread the word throughout the whole town that the recently arrived stranger bunking in the stable was none other than a wanted gunman named Dakota. Not that anyone gave Tom any trouble. To the contrary, he was politely avoided everywhere he went. He found it difficult to believe, in a town that small, the entire population could manage to avoid even casual contact with him. He might as well have had the plague. Even some of the recently arrived pilgrims, people who had so welcomed his help when they were struggling through the snowy foothills with Scarborough and Butcher, walked aroun
d him. Queer, he thought, they weren’t so particular when I saved their bacon from the Blackfoot raiding party. It wouldn’t have mattered then if I was Satan himself. He didn’t like the notoriety he had suddenly found. His intention all along was to lose his identity in hopes of starting over, far away from the army and the bounty hunters. Occasionally thoughts of moving on farther west crossed his mind, maybe striking out to find his brother Little Wolf and Squint Peterson, if they were still alive. He could see few choices and little time to make them. Crutchfield was friendly enough, but Tom had no doubts that the sheriff meant what he said. Two weeks and the lawman would likely turn his mean side.

  The one person who still remained friendly, of course, was Jubal Clay. But Tom did not push this relationship because of his feelings for the man’s daughter. Still, he saw Jubal occasionally, usually in the saloon, where Tom spent most of his daylight hours. Jubal was busy in his brother’s store, getting ready for the spring when they planned to add on to the original structure and bring in new stores of drygoods from Kansas City. Tom had more or less made his temporary headquarters at the corner table, where he took his meals from the old Oriental, sometimes sitting in on a small-stakes poker game with Doc Brewster, the town physician and veterinarian, and Crutchfield’s two deputies. The fact that the deputies were sociable did not surprise Tom. He was sure they were there by design to keep an eye on “the gunfighter.”

  The game was friendly enough and helped to pass the time during the cold winter days. Nobody won or lost very much, and none of the three players seemed to think anything about Tom being a wanted man. A man was taken pretty much at face value as far as Doc Brewster was concerned, at least in this part of the world. Times were too hard and the land was too harsh to worry about what a man had done in his past. If rumors could be believed, Doc himself was hardly one to criticize another man’s past life. Carlton Clay said Doc had left a practice, along with a wife and children, back East. And, as Carlton pointed out, folks figured it was Doc’s business and none of theirs. He was the only doctor around, and folks hereabouts were glad to have him, even if he was half drunk most of the time. In fact, more than a few people felt he was better at doctoring when he was drunk—his hands shook too much when he was sober. The long cold winters of Montana had turned more than one man to drink. Doc was fond of talking about any subject and, drunk or sober, Tom found the man an entertaining companion.

  As for Crutchfield’s two deputies, there could not be two more directly opposite men. One was an older man of perhaps fifty. His name was Breezy Martin. He sported a full beard of gray whiskers that spread in all directions like a bramble bush, and dirty gray wads of hair hung limply around his neck. He always wore a wide-brimmed hat with a pointed crown, the kind most folks called a “Montana Peak.” The hat never left his head, and, during the whole time Tom was in Bozeman, Breezy never changed his woolsey shirt or the dingy gray underwear underneath. When it came to talking, he could converse on as many subjects as Doc could, leading Tom to suspect why he was called Breezy. Tom found it a humorous coincidence that he shared a name with his old horse, Breezy, the main difference being that the horse was somewhat windy on the other end.

  Will Proctor, the other deputy, was a much younger man. He didn’t talk a great deal. Perhaps, Tom speculated, this was because there was very little opportunity to get a word in edgewise with Doc and Breezy around. But he seemed friendly enough, and he did provide a fourth for poker.

  Tom had not seen Ruby since the first day he arrived in town. According to Jubal, she was settling in just fine with his brother’s wife, helping her around the little farm Carlton owned outside of town. He thought about her a lot more than he wanted to. He just couldn’t help it. She would creep into his thoughts at odd times of the day and night, and he would find himself wondering what she was doing at that moment, and if she ever thought about him. Then he would have to remind himself to rid his mind of the girl. He could offer her no future, so he had no choice but to forget her. But he soon realized that it was going to take more than whiskey and poker to shut her out of his thoughts, thoughts that were beginning to make his life miserable. He knew it was time to move on.

  * * *

  Young Will Proctor had never had a great deal of ambition to do anything, especially if it entailed hard work. At age twenty-two, he had already tried his hand at working cattle and sheep, as well as spending a short time as a farmhand. He didn’t care for any of it, and he was always looking for a softer deal. For that reason, he jumped at the job of deputy when Aaron Crutchfield offered it. And he was pretty much satisfied with life for two years. But now, with another new year beginning and still no increase to his thirty-dollars-a-month salary, he started looking around for an even softer deal that offered more money. Bozeman offered few prospects for a man with the particular ambitions of Will Proctor, that is, until an outlaw called Dakota came to town. Crutchfield had no use for bounty hunters and no interest in collecting a reward himself, saying it was unlawful as long as he wore a badge. But Will didn’t always agree with Crutchfield’s philosophy. Wanted handbills on dozens of outlaws came in from all over every month, when the stage could get through. It didn’t take a long search through the stacks of papers before Will found what he was looking for. His eyes grew as big as saucers when he saw that the reward for a man named Tom Allred, alias Dakota, was twenty-five hundred dollars. Dead or alive! He was dumbfounded. This man with whom he played cards almost every night for the past week seemed like a sqare enough fellow, yet he was worth twenty-five hundred dollars to the U.S. Army!

  Will figured his prayers had been answered. His own gold strike was sitting right there at the corner table of The Miner’s. He needed little time or thought to make up his mind. He would resign his job as deputy. The thought of having that much money in one lump sum was enough to overshadow any notions of wearing a badge until he was as old and fat as Aaron Crutchfield. His decision made, and the course of his future laid out for him, Will became even more diligent in keeping an eye on Dakota, going so far as to befriend the man he planned to collect on. And so it happened that Tom found himself with an almost constant companion during the final week of his stay in Bozeman. In fact, Tom began to realize that it was near impossible to turn around without finding Will Proctor standing there. Tom did not suspect anything, however. He just assumed Will was a bored young man with little else to do during the slow months of winter. Will Proctor may have figured he already had a claim on the reward, but he found that he had competition when it came to the pursuit of blood money.

  It happened one evening at suppertime. Tom was seated in his customary corner chair eating, when the two strangers walked into The Miner’s. He paid little attention to the pair as they walked slowly over to the bar and called for whiskey. The warm sanctuary offered by Sheriff Crutchfield, along with the congenial company of his poker companions, had effectively blunted the edge of Tom’s alertness. He assumed he was safe as long as he was in town with the sheriff’s blessings. This assumption was a mistake on his part. He soon learned that a wanted man could never relax his guard. Given the same situation two weeks before, he would have noticed every detail about the two men the moment they entered the room. Now, he didn’t even bother to glance up as they stood at the bar drinking, talking in hushed mumbles while they stared at the solitary man eating in the corner.

  Pete, the bartender, was not as unconcerned as Tom, for there was something about the pair that made him want to keep his eye on the cash drawer. They had a look of uncut meanness like that of half-starved coyotes, both as thin as knife blades with heavy whiskers spilling over their stained hide coats. Both men wore two pistols, a fact made obvious by the twin bulges under their coats. Pete moved down to the end of the bar where his shotgun was hidden, then made a show of polishing his shot glasses while he watched the two out of the corner of his eye. When one of the men reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, studying it intently while whispering to his companion, Pete
motioned for his son. “Boy,” he said, “run on down to the sheriff’s office and tell Aaron it might be best if he was to come up here. Hurry now.” The boy nodded and disappeared out the back door.

  Tom, still intent on finishing the boiled beans on his plate, was unaware of the two men until they were suddenly standing right in front of him. In that instant, he became fully alert to the danger facing him. He was familiar with the sensation now, a cold dead feeling that penetrated his bowels and seemed to set his spine tingling. The first time it happened, and maybe the second, he thought it to be cold fear. But he had learned to identify it as a signal to his nervous system to ready his mind and body to fight for his life.

  With no outward sign of concern, he slowly placed the knife and fork on his plate and slid it a few inches away from him. He said not a word, but his eyes never blinked as he measured the two men confronting him. He slowly withdrew his hands from the table and placed them in his lap. His rifle, propped against the wall, had not escaped the notice of the pair. Both men had unbuttoned their coats and pushed them aside to reveal holstered six-shooters. Their reluctance to draw their weapons in the crowded saloon before making sure they had the right man was about the only advantage in Tom’s favor. Judging from their glances at the rifle against the wall then back again at him, Tom figured they were pretty sure they could draw their pistols before he could reach for his rifle and cock it. He had to agree. His options were bleak. He just sat and waited.

  “What you callin’ yourself these days? Dakota or Allred?” one of them asked. He appeared to be older than his partner. Tom figured them to be brothers, and the one who spoke looked like he was accustomed to doing the talking. He was rawboned and grizzled and sure of himself. The younger one, though apparently carved from the same pine knot as his brother, seemed nervous and edgy, glancing from side to side at the other patrons of the saloon.