Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  He had harbored thoughts of killing the girl and leaving her to the wolves, but decided it was not worth the risk of getting himself shot. The woman was never without the huge forty-four pistol she kept strapped to her side. And she never slept, as far as he could tell. On two separate nights on the trail, he crawled silently from his bedroll only to find her staring at him wide-eyed, causing him to mumble that he needed to relieve himself, after which he would make a show of going off into the woods. After those attempts, he gave up the notion of killing her and was content to simply run off and leave her when the opportunity came. She would probably wander around in the mountains for days before she starved to death, or a grizzly or mountain lion got her. Perhaps he should double back and trail her till she got herself in trouble. Then it would be a simple matter to surprise her and take the rest of her money. He paused to consider the wisdom of it, then shook his head. No need to be greedy, he thought. I’m free and clear of it. Still, it would be nice to have the pistol. He rolled that thought around in his mind for a moment before turning his attention back to his supper.

  Suddenly he tensed. The unmistakable sound of a soft hoofbeat below his camp caused him to become instantly alert. He grabbed his rifle and rolled out of the circle of light created by his campfire. How the hell did that bitch find me? was his first thought, as he strained to catch sight of his visitor. Then logic told him it was highly unlikely. There was no way she could have trailed him. So he waited, watching the trail below his camp intently, his rifle ready.

  “I’m coming in,” a husky voice announced, followed immediately by the appearance of a rider.

  Sam could not help but feel a shiver of alarm. This was no ordinary rider. The dark form seemed monstrous as it came into the light. He was not sure what he was seeing was not an apparition, a mountain of fur mounted upon a scrawny Indian pony, until the form spoke again.

  “Hold your fire.”

  Sam rose to his feet and walked back into the firelight, his rifle still ready. “Damn, you ain’t gonna live a long time out here, riding up on folks like that.”

  The huge stranger did not reply. He walked the pony right up to the fire and sat there without dismounting. The firelight caught enough of the man’s face to cause Sam to inhale sharply. “Damn! You look like you tangled with a grizzly.”

  Still, the stranger did not reply. He sat on the pony and continued to stare at Sam. Breaking his gaze away from the nervous half-breed, he glanced at the two horses tethered beneath the trees, then scanned the campsite as if taking inventory of Sam’s wealth. Satisfied, he returned his relentless gaze to lock on the half-breed. Sam was about to ask him what he wanted when he detected a slight movement of the heavy skin robe as it opened barely enough to allow the barrel of a pistol to peek through. Sam saw the pistol a fraction of a second before it exploded into his face, sending a bullet into his brain.

  Cobb dismounted. Taking his time, he walked over and stood looking down at the lifeless body at his feet. He rolled him over with the toe of his boot and watched him for a few moments more to make sure he was dead. He felt no need to waste ammunition. Satisfied, he holstered his pistol and searched the corpse for anything that he might find useful. The man meant nothing to him, a damn Injun who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was just his misfortune to get in Cobb’s path. Cobb needed a horse, a rifle and some ammunition, and some food and supplies, and he didn’t have time to talk about it.

  For two long months Cobb had stayed alive on little more than pure hatred. Any other man would have been dead long ago, long before he scratched and clawed his way out of the ravine with one thought burning his brain: Dakota! He would find Tom Allred and kill him. Left for dead with a hole in his side and a crease across his skull, his face slashed and torn by the pine limbs as he crashed down to the bottom of the ravine, he had lain there for two days. But he was too mean to die. He simply refused to before he settled this score.

  On the third day, he cut some thin strings from his hide shirt and sewed up the hole in his side. It was two weeks of hell before his wounds healed sufficiently to permit even a few painful steps at one time. All the while Cobb kept Tom’s face foremost in his mind, nursing himself with thoughts of the revenge he would take, and nourished by the pure bile of his hatred. At times he almost welcomed the pain, thinking that he would repay Dakota in kind for every gut-wrenching stab of pain that punctuated his every step. He would find Tom and kill him, and all the demons in hell would not stop him.

  When he could walk, he started out of the wilderness on foot, every step in agony. Another day had passed when he stumbled upon the Blackfoot’s emaciated pony. By the time he happened upon Sam Running Fox’s campfire, the Indian pony was near death, ridden into the ground by the vengeful giant on his back.

  * * *

  Little Wolf rode easy, his body becoming as one with the untiring gait of the Appaloosa. Though seemingly relaxed, as his body rolled gently with each movement of the horse, Little Wolf’s eyes and brain were constantly working, searching the trail ahead for any threat of danger. He was still a wanted man, though many believed him dead, and he did not like the idea of leaving the security of his valley. Behind him, Squint Peterson rode silently. There was not a word spoken between them for hours on end as they stayed doggedly to the trail. A few years before, they might have taken turns at the lead. But time was beginning to chip away at Squint—Little Wolf saw more and more evidence of that lately. His eyesight was failing. There was never anything said about it by either man, but Squint never offered to take the lead when they were on the trail. He needed eyeglasses, but they were too far from any city large enough to boast an eye doctor. Squint would probably have been too vain to wear them anyway. He never mentioned it, but Little Wolf knew Squint was troubled by the first signs of approaching age. For that reason, he was careful to avoid any comments that might call serious attention to it. He would playfully tease Squint and call him “old man,” but there was a clear line drawn between the banter that the two had always indulged in and serious criticism.

  On the fifth day, they sighted the outskirts of Bozeman. After considerable discussion, Squint convinced Little Wolf that it would be best for him to go in alone and try to find Tom. Squint would try to talk to him if possible, and look over the setup. Then the two of them could decide on the best way to break him out.

  “You know,” Squint remarked, “it would be a helluva lot easier if you would dress like a white man. Then we could both ride into town.” He felt he had to say it, knowing full well what Little Wolf’s reaction would be.

  “I am not a white man. I am Little Wolf of the Cheyenne nation. My father was Arapaho and my mother was Cheyenne. Why should I try to be a white man?”

  “Because your dang hide’s white, same as mine, that’s why,” Squint returned, more than a hint of irritation in his tone. They had held this discussion at regular intervals over the years. Squint could not convince his friend of the wisdom of losing his identity as the renegade Cheyenne war chief sought after by the army. Little Wolf was stubborn in his pride and refused to abandon his adopted people.

  He simply smiled at his old friend. “In the dark, it won’t matter anyway. That’s when I’ll strike.”

  * * *

  Squint rode leisurely into Bozeman, making note of the layout of the assortment of rough structures that made up the town. His mind was searching for the best possible escape route, provided he and Little Wolf were successful in freeing Tom. He would have to look over the jail itself before even attempting to come up with a plan. He had done a lot of things during his lifetime on the western frontier, sometimes on one side of the law, sometimes on the other. But this would be his first try at a jailbreak. He wasn’t quite sure he liked the idea of gaining this experience, but he had no doubt that freeing Tom Allred was the right thing to do. At the moment, though, he had not the faintest spark of a plan. But the two of them were going to get Tom out of jail if they had to fight the whole town to do it
.

  The jail and the sheriff’s office turned out to be one and the same, a couple of cells having been built onto the back of the structure. Squint rode around behind the building and paused momentarily to take a quick look at the barred windows. He made a mental note that it would more than likely take both Joe and Little Wolf’s Appaloosa to pull the bars out. If they didn’t come up with any better plan, that might be the way they had to go. Trying not to be too conspicuous, he circled around the drygoods store next to the jail before riding up to the front of the building.

  * * *

  “Danged if that boy ain’t got popular of a sudden,” Sheriff Aaron Crutchfield remarked. He leaned back in his chair to get a better look at the huge stranger who was blocking the sunlight through the open door. “You’re the second one come lookin’ for him this morning.” Crutchfield wore a smirk on his wide face. “You’re near ’bout the same size as that other feller. You boys is just too late for this one. I reckon the law beat you to him.”

  It seemed to Squint that Crutchfield got a great deal of satisfaction from his remarks, words that lost their significance on Squint. When the sheriff noticed Squint’s confusion, he asked, “Ain’t you a bounty hunter, too?”

  “Hell, no,” Squint was quick to reply. “I’m a friend of his’n. I just want to see him.”

  “Oh, I thought you was another bounty hunter.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Well, I reckon you could. Only he ain’t here. I expect he’s halfway to Corinne by now.” He watched the big man puzzle over that one for a moment. “What do you want with Tom Allred, anyway?”

  “Just wanted to see him. Like I said, I’m a friend of his’n.” Squint was still puzzling over what he had just been told. The only Corinne he knew about was a week’s ride, down in Utah territory.

  Crutchfield stretched and shifted his bulk in his chair. The conversation seemed to bore him. “A friend of his, huh? ’Bout like that damn Cobb is a friend of his’n. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him this morning. I don’t cotton much to bounty hunters in my town, and you shore look like another bounty hunter to me.”

  “Well, I ain’t”

  Crutchfield leaned forward, his eyes suddenly serious. “Well, if you was, I’d tell you that you’re wasting your time on that one. He’s in the hands of a federal marshal now. Him and my deputy are taking him down to Corinne to get on a train back to Kansas. Left yesterday, so I reckon this just ain’t your day.”

  Squint stood there for a few moments, mulling over this latest development. He hadn’t counted on this. After a long silence, during which the sheriff studied his face intently, Squint simply muttered, “Much obliged,” and turned to leave.

  “All that reward money…gone,” Crutchfield called after him. Squint could hear the sheriff chuckling to himself as he stepped up in the saddle.

  * * *

  Upon hearing Squint’s report on the status of his brother, Little Wolf immediately packed up his few camp items and prepared to mount his horse. Squint, unsure of his friend’s resolve to ride farther from his base in the Bitterroots, watched with interest. When Little Wolf was mounted, Squint asked, “North or south?”

  Little Wolf looked surprised. “Unless they moved it, Corinne lies to the south, don’t it?”

  Squint grinned. “I reckon. And we better git a move on because that there bounty hunter might be having a notion to spring Tom hisself.”

  * * *

  The trail to Corinne was rough, and one that neither man had traveled before, so there was no thought of shortcuts. The stage road was barely more than a trail and had evidently deteriorated a great deal from winter’s fury. But at least it was a trail. They had little choice but to follow it and hope to make up the head start the U.S. Marshal had on them. They kept the eastern ridges of the southern end of the Bitterroots on their right, while off to the left the lofty spires of the Tetons could be seen whenever they crossed the high ground. Squint was glad that Little Wolf could not see into his thoughts because, as each day passed, he became more and more convinced that theirs was a useless mission. They spent two long days in the saddle, pushing the horses as hard as they dared, never stopping to camp until there was no light left. Squint was beginning to think the two lawmen escorting Tom were pushing just as hard to complete the trip as he and Little Wolf were. Still, in vain or not, he felt they had to make the effort to overtake them. He was not certain what was going to happen when they did catch them. He could not guess what Little Wolf’s reaction might be. He was still ninety percent Cheyenne as far as Squint could tell. His idea of a rescue might simply be to murder the two lawmen by picking them off with a rifle. Squint wasn’t sure how he felt about that. When the time came, if it came at all, he wasn’t sure he could let Little Wolf do it. These thoughts weighed heavily as Squint followed behind his Cheyenne friend through the mountain passes. He hadn’t a clue what Little Wolf was thinking—Little Wolf’s expression never changed from the stoic concentration upon the trail ahead.

  Chapter XVIII

  The past couple of months had not been especially pleasant for Tom Allred. Almost a week had passed since Breezy Martin had laid him out with his rifle barrel before the ringing headache disappeared. The force of the blow had split the skin and raised a lump that was tender to the touch for several days. Doc Brewster had bandaged him up, and now, two months later, he was still a little unsteady as he rocked back and forth to Billy’s steady gait, his hands tied to the saddle horn. Up ahead, Breezy rode along on a scruffy-looking paint that appeared as unkempt as his master. Behind him rode the U.S. Marshal, Alvin Pickens. A straightlaced, no-nonsense lawman, Pickens was intent on doing the job he was paid to do. Tom felt that the man had no emotions about anything. As far as he was concerned, his prisoner could just as well have been a keg of molasses or a barrel of flour he was consigned to deliver.

  Breezy Martin was another matter. He seemed intent on tormenting Tom at every opportunity, both verbally and with a kick now and then. Tom was certain Breezy’s attitude could not be totally due to Tom’s haying shot two soldiers, both of whom attacked him. It had to be more than that. Tom had played cards with the man for the better part of two weeks. And a man’s character showed itself pretty quick at a poker table. Breezy Martin would not give a damn when one soldier shot another. Tom was sure of that. No, it had to be something more. He claimed he had been with the Seventh at Little Big Horn and wanted to see Tom punished for letting Little Wolf escape. Maybe so, Tom thought, but it still didn’t figure that Breezy gave a damn about that either, as long as he wasn’t one of the men in Custer’s battalion. He decided that Breezy was just one of those bullies who had a wide mean streak and delighted in tormenting anybody when he had the upper hand. Well, Tom thought, it’s a long way to Utah territory, and anything could happen. Tom could only hope the opportunity might come to repay Breezy for his attentions.

  “Be damn keerful how you handle my horse there, Injun-lover,” Breezy taunted as he pulled back to let Tom catch up to him.

  Tom didn’t answer. Breezy chided him all the way from Bozeman about his horse, telling him he was claiming Billy as soon as they got Tom on a train to Kansas. Tom was careful to show no emotion in response, but he galled at the thought of Breezy Martin on Billy’s back. I’d rather that damn Blackfoot back on the Yellowstone had him, he thought.

  “I might just use him for a packhorse,” Breezy said, pretending to give the matter deep thought. “I don’t reckon he could hold a candle to ole Sparky here,” he added, referring to the scrubby paint he rode. “’Course I know you don’t mind. You ain’t got no need for a horse where you’re going.” He scratched his chin whiskers as if in serious thought. “I don’t know though.” He called back over his shoulder, “What do you think, Mr. Pickens? You reckon they ride horses in hell?” He paused a moment, leering at Tom, his obstinate grin painted across his whiskered face. When Pickens did not bother to reply, Breezy started up again. “Let’s see now. What else you got that I
might can use? Crutchfield’s got your rifles. That there Forty-five-seventy Winchester’s a dandy, too. That the one you’re ’sposed to be so damn good with?” He stared at Tom, hoping to provoke some response. He was not discouraged when Tom continued to ignore him. “Hell, I know somethin’ I could use. Warn’t you kind of sweet on that little Clay gal? She come to see you, you know. Only Aaron wouldn’t let her. Too bad, ain’t it?” He let his hand drop down to his crotch and made a point of rubbing himself there. “Yeah, I reckon I might go callin’ on that little gal when I git back to Bozeman. She looks like she needs a man that can ride her hard, and I’m just that kind of man. Yeah, if I recollect, she’s got a right fine lookin’ behind on her. Just my style. Tell me, Mr. Dakota, is that ass of her’n as good as—”

  “Shut up, deputy.” Pickens spoke without emotion, but with a generous helping of authority. “Git on back out front and watch the trail. I didn’t bring you along to irritate the prisoner.”

  Breezy laughed, but did as he was told. Before pushing the paint up to the lead, he tossed one more barb at Tom. “I’m gonna git me some of that little gal.”

  Breezy Martin’s harassing did not bother Tom. His thoughts were hundreds of miles away. But the deputy’s rantings did serve to bring him to focus on Ruby. He had been in the Bozeman jail for over two months. Why, he wondered, did she not bother to come to see me? There were things he wanted to say to her before he was taken away. He was unable to understand why she stayed away. Now, thanks to Breezy’s constant harassing, he learned that Ruby had tried to see him. The realization provided a tiny feeling of warmth. This would explain Jubal’s reaction to his inquiries about Ruby. Of course, Jubal thought that Ruby had been to visit him and, consequently, acted surprised that Tom asked about her. Tom, for his part, thought that Jubal was simply reluctant to discuss his daughter with a man headed for the hangman’s noose. Tom really couldn’t blame Jubal for feeling that way, so he didn’t push the issue. And now he found that Ruby had been there to see him. It didn’t matter as much that Crutchfield wouldn’t permit the visit. Just the thought that she wanted to see him gave him a small ray of sunshine.