Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  They rode until just before dark, when Pickens spotted a stand of lodgepole pines that still bore evidence of a long-past lightning strike. Many of the trees were still stunted from the fire that had ensued. They were separated from their more stately cousins by a wide stream that the fire hadn’t jumped. This was where they made camp.

  “Untie him,” Pickens ordered.

  Breezy ambled over and began to work on the knots binding Tom’s hands to the saddle horn. A rope under Billy’s girth held Tom’s feet together in the stirrups. Tom was ready for him this time. The night before, Breezy untied his hands before untying his feet. When Tom kicked his feet out of the stirrups to make it easier for Breezy to get to the knot there, Breezy gave his hands a hard jerk, causing Tom to spin sideways and land on his head under his horse, much to Breezy’s entertainment. This night, Tom anticipated Breezy’s little game and kept his feet in the stirrups. When Breezy freed his hands from the saddle horn, Tom braced himself, keeping Billy’s reins firm. As expected, Breezy made a sudden move to jerk Tom out of the saddle. But Tom timed the move with one of his own, hauling back hard on Billy’s reins. It was a surprised Breezy who was suddenly yanked off his feet from the powerful surge of the horse. He landed on his belly in the gravel and pine needles.

  “Gawdam you!” he screamed and scrambled to his feet.

  Tom backed Billy away a few feet, waiting for the irate man to charge him. His gaze was stone hard as he fixed on the stout little deputy he had come to despise over the last few weeks. Both men were stopped cold, as if suddenly suspended in time, brought back to reality by the distinct sound of a lever action rifle cocking.

  “I reckon that’ll be enough,” Pickens’s cool monotone advised. There was no mistaking the authority behind it. “Deputy, go fetch some wood and git a fire going.” He turned to Tom, the rifle cocked and looking in his direction, leaving no question as to his command of the situation. “Your hands are free. You can untie your feet yourself.”

  With Pickens standing guard, Tom dismounted and took care of all three horses. When that was done, Pickens cuffed his hands around a lodgepole pine about a foot in diameter. He would stay that way until the marshal released him to eat.

  Tom had decided that Alvin Pickens was a fair man after the first day on the trail, and he was thankful he was. If his fate had been left with Breezy Martin alone, there was no doubt that he would be dead by now. “Shot while trying to escape,” he would say. Breezy was a bully. But Pickens gave the impression he could handle three or four like Breezy Martin. He was as lean as an axe blade, with dark eyes deep-set under heavy eyebrows—a seriousness approaching melancholia. Words were never wasted by Pickens and were not employed at all if a nod or a gesture would suffice. Under different circumstances, Tom might have liked the man.

  * * *

  Tom was awake long before Pickens freshened the campfire and roused Breezy out of his blankets. He slept fitfully, catching short periods of sleep before his arms would become so uncomfortable he would wake up and have to shift his body in an effort to relieve them. Finally, he gave up trying to sleep and waited for his captors to awaken.

  Pickens didn’t allow any time wasted on breakfast. Jerky was enough to sustain them on the trail as far as he was concerned. His one concession in the morning was coffee. He would allow that, fixing it himself to his own satisfaction, which was black and strong as a rattlesnake’s bite. He let Tom remain shackled to the tree until he had started the coffee. Meanwhile, Breezy crawled out of his blankets, scratching and complaining.

  “Gawdamn, Mr. Pickens, it wouldn’t hurt to take a few minutes to stir up some pan bread or fry some salt pork before climbing in the saddle.”

  Pickens did not look up from his coffeepot. “We’re burning daylight. Let’s git moving. We got a piece to go yet.”

  “Burning daylight?” Breezy whined, “Hell, the sun ain’t even up yet.”

  “Coffee’s boiling. If you want some, you better git moving. I ain’t gonna wait around all day for you.”

  Breezy stared at the back of the marshal’s head for a prolonged moment. Pickens did not bother to turn around, choosing to ignore him. After a few moments, Breezy grumbled something about being put under unnecessary hardship. Pickens continued to ignore him. Getting no satisfaction from the marshal, Breezy turned his attention to the prisoner.

  “Well, good mornin’, sweetheart,” he cooed sarcastically. “Did you have a good sleep huggin’ that there tree all night?” He shuffled over to stand at Tom’s feet, leering down at him. “I bet it warn’t the same as huggin’ that little Clay gal’s fanny, was it?”

  When Tom refused to rise to the bait, Breezy undid his trousers and proceeded to empty his bladder. Tom was forced to jerk his feet away quickly to avoid having them urinated on. Breezy laughed and stepped toward him in an effort to splash his boots. Tom pulled both feet up to him and then kicked at his tormentor. He landed both boots directly on Breezy’s kneecaps, causing them to buckle, dumping the squat little man on his backside, spraying himself with his own urine in the process. Breezy howled as if his legs were broken and scrambled to his feet in an effort to redirect the flow of his bladder before his trousers were soaked.

  “Gawdamn you, you son of a bitch! I’ll kill you for that!” He reached in his bedroll and pulled out his pistol.

  “Put it away.” The command was soft but stern.

  Breezy turned to Pickens. “Gawdammit, Marshal, I ain’t gonna let a man do that to me! ’Specially a damn no-good Injun-lover like him!”

  “Put it away,” Pickens calmly repeated.

  Breezy knew by the marshal’s tone that he meant business. Still he complained. “What the hell is so all fired important about taking this son of a bitch to Kansas anyway? If you hadn’t showed up in Bozeman, we’da done hung him by now. This is just a damn waste of time and effort, nursemaiding this coyote all over the territory. Why don’t we just string him up right here and now and be done with it? They gonna hang him in Kansas anyway. I say do it now and save the trouble.”

  If Pickens was the least bit concerned about Breezy’s rantings, he gave no indication. He moved over beside Tom and unlocked the handcuffs. “If you’re gonna take a leak, better git to it. You can git yourself a cup of coffee before saddling up.” That said, he turned to Breezy, who was still standing there glaring at him. “I’ve had about enough of your foolishness. If you can’t leave this prisoner be and keep your mouth shut, you can git on that damn horse and head on back to Bozeman.” He paused to fix the deputy with a cold stare. “Or, if you’re thinking about using that pistol of yours, you can try that, too. But I wouldn’t advise it.”

  Breezy hesitated to consider the rifle hanging casually in the marshal’s right hand. When it got right down to anteing up, Breezy wisely decided he didn’t hold a strong enough hand to call out Marshal Pickens. “Ah, hell, Marshal, I was just having a little fun.” He stuck the pistol back in his holster and turned to fetch his horse.

  There was a knifelike chill in the wind that sauntered through the passes, even though the sun was high over the treetops. It seemed that old man winter was reluctant to release his hold on the mountains, coveting little pockets of snow in the shaded draws and ravines. They made no conversation as they steadily plodded along, the only sound the creaking of saddle leather and the soft bumping of the horses’ hooves, punctuated occasionally by some incoherent mumbling from Breezy.

  Having had fitful nights with very little sleep, a result of having his arms locked around a tree trunk, Tom was almost asleep in the saddle. Billy’s easy motion served to rock him to sleep. He was awakened by Breezy calling back something to Pickens.

  “I don’t know,” Breezy was saying. “Looks like a bear…or a pile of furs stacked up by the trail. From here, I cain’t say fer shore.”

  Pickens rode up to take a look. “Keep your eye on him,” he said to Breezy and the deputy fell back alongside Tom.

  Tom looked up the trail to see what Breezy and Pickens were
peering at, and he could see the object of their attention. Something up ahead beside the trail looked like a small haystack. None of the three could decide what they were approaching, but there was no doubt it was something that didn’t ordinarily belong there. The object, whatever it was, prompted no caution from Pickens, merely curiosity. They advanced to within one hundred yards of the mound before they were able to tell what they had been staring at. It turned out to be a huge buffalo robe, draped over the head and shoulders of a man, a large man by the look of it. He was simply sitting by the trail, his back partially turned toward them. If he was aware of the horses approaching, he gave no sign.

  When they were within fifty yards of the man and he had still not moved, Tom began to wonder if he was dead. It was too far into spring for a man to sit down and freeze to death. A snort from a clump of aspens off to the side caught his attention, and Tom spotted two horses tied up almost out of sight. He glanced at Pickens and saw that the marshal had also seen the horses. Tom watched Pickens closely to see his reaction to this unusual encounter.

  Pickens, though not overly concerned, was not careless in his approach to the buffalo mound by the side of the trail. Tom noticed that he opened his heavy coat so as to clear his holstered pistol while silently motioning for Breezy to stay behind him with the prisoner. More than a few old mountain men were wandering around half-crazy from the long lonesome winters and the rocky mountain winds whistling through their ears. This was more than likely one such mountain man. They were almost in front of the man now.

  “How do?” the marshal called out.

  When there was no immediate response, Tom thought that they were indeed addressing a dead man. Then, finally, the mound moved. It turned to face them, and Tom gasped in surprise. It was Cobb! No mistake, it was Cobb…or Cobb’s ghost. Tom wasn’t sure which, because he had left the man for dead when he kicked his body over the edge of the ravine. When Cobb slowly rose to his feet and stepped out in front of Pickens’s horse, he looked real enough. His huge body seemed to block the trail, leaving them no room to go around. Pickens pulled up.

  “Somethin’ I can do for you, mister?” Pickens asked calmly. He was not a man to get overly excited no matter how fearsome the obstacle. His hand fell naturally to rest on the butt of his pistol.

  “I’ll take my prisoner,” Cobb said, pointing at Tom. “He belongs to me, and I’ve come to git him.” He either did not notice Pickens’s hand resting on his gun handle, or didn’t care. His eyes were locked on the marshal’s.

  Breezy, recognizing the bear of a man who had brought the body of Rupert Slater in for the reward, pulled up beside Pickens. “It’s that damn bounty hunter.”

  “That right?” Pickens asked, returning Cobb’s stare, steel for steel. “You a bounty hunter?”

  Cobb ignored the question. “That man belongs to me, and I aim to git him,” he stated.

  Pickens had had about enough of this conversation. “Look here, mister, I’m a United States marshal. This man’s in my custody. There ain’t no reward no more. You’re too late. Now, back outta my way.”

  “I’ll take my prisoner,” Cobb demanded. “I don’t care about no damn reward.”

  For a brief moment, there was a stand-off. Tom, his hands and feet tied, didn’t like the way things were shaping up. He tried to slowly back Billy up to allow a little more room between him and the sinister figure holding Pickens’s horse by the bridle. Breezy moved his horse in closer to Tom’s, forcing him to remain where he was. Tom was between Breezy and Pickens when Pickens made his move.

  “Mister, I’ve had about enough of you,” Pickens stated with little more emotion than if he had asked for the time of day. His hand closed around the handle of his frontier model Colt. The barrel was not even halfway clear of his holster when Cobb raised the double-barreled shotgun from beneath his robe and fired at point-blank range. The blast knocked the surprised lawman out of the saddle. He landed in a heap beside the trail.

  When the roar of the shotgun ripped the still mountain air, all three horses reared in startled fright. Tom lost a stirrup, but managed to hang on. Breezy Martin’s paint bolted, and instead of checking him, Breezy kicked him hard with his heels. His only thought at the moment was to save his own hide. Cobb whirled and fired the other barrel after him. He hit Breezy in the back, but by that time, he was far enough away to escape mortal damage. He kept on going. Without hesitating, Cobb pulled the rifle from Pickens’s saddle and sighted down on the deputy. He took his time aiming, confident he had plenty of time to make the shot. When the sights were on him, he squeezed off two shots, both of which caught Breezy between the shoulder blades. Breezy rolled off the paint, his body landing with a thud on the rocky trail.

  Tom held back on Billy’s reins. He knew it was useless to run. For now, he was staring down the barrel of Pickens’s rifle as Cobb brought the weapon to bear on him. His hands were tied, but, if his feet had not been held together by a rope under Billy’s belly, he would have lunged at the man, knowing that anything would be better than sitting there waiting for the fatal bullet. As it was, he was helpless. He couldn’t even make a run for it like Breezy, for now Cobb had Billy’s bridle in one huge hand. Tom braced for his own execution.

  “Well now, Mr. Tom Allred…” He pronounced the name slowly in a deep, guttural voice, rolling the words across his tongue as if tasting them, savoring the pleasure they obviously brought him. “Mr. Tom Allred…” he repeated, his eyes deep and aflame with the vengeance and rage pent up in anticipation of this meeting. When Tom made no reply, he hissed, “You thought I was dead, didn’t you?” He reached up and grabbed a handful of Tom’s coat, pulling him down until his face was almost in Tom’s. “Well, I ain’t dead, but I’ve been to hell. I got you to thank for that. Now I’m gonna let you see what hell is like.” He drew a long skinning knife from his belt and cut the rope between Tom’s feet. Then he pulled him from Billy’s back as easily as if Tom had been a sack of flour.

  Tom landed hard, but his instinct for survival took over, and he quickly scrambled to his feet. Cobb anticipated the move and caught him beside the head with a blow from the rifle butt. Tom tried to dodge the huge man standing over him, swinging the rifle like a club, but he was unable to escape the blows. At a distinct disadvantage against this mountain of a man, with his hands still tied together, Tom fought for his life. Rolling and dodging as best he could, he tried to lessen the impact of the beating he was taking. At one point, he succeeded in catching the flailing rifle butt in his hands. Both men paused for a tense moment. During that brief moment, their eyes locked, and Tom knew that he was staring directly into the face of death. The brute was half-crazed with anger. His eyes burned with the intensity of live coals, boring deep into Tom’s mind. Then the moment was over, and the struggle for the rifle ensued. It was no contest, for Cobb was a man of enormous strength, and he tore the weapon from Tom’s hands and smashed it against the side of his skull. The earth beneath him started spinning, and he knew he was losing consciousness. Still Tom tried to fight, aiming his foot at Cobb’s groin. It did some damage, but not enough to prevent the last blow from the rifle butt. Then everything went dark.

  * * *

  Gradually, the veil of darkness that had engulfed him melted away, and Tom became immediately aware of the pain. At least this told him he was still alive. At first, he wasn’t sure where he was, but it was only a moment before it all rushed back to his conscious mind, causing him to lunge upward in an effort to get to his feet. He almost cried out with the pain that resulted. His efforts served only to bring pressure on his arms and legs, causing him to lie back on his side. He forced himself to remain calm and take inventory of his condition. When the fog cleared a little more from his brain, he realized that he was trussed up hand and foot with his arms tied behind his back. There was no slack in the ropes, so every time he struggled against them, a sharp stab of pain resulted. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that his left arm was broken because of the excruciating bolt of pai
n that surged through it when he tried to roll over off his side. He was helpless.

  Near exhaustion from his efforts, Tom lay there resting. He heard no sound to indicate there was anyone else around. It was dark, but a good-sized fire was burning brightly about fifteen feet from him. As his senses gradually returned to normal, additional aches and pains now pushed their way through to his conscious mind. His face was swollen, and his whole head seemed to throb with each beat of his heart. On the ground where his head had rested, a dark circle of blood was nearly dry. He had to slide forward a few inches to avoid putting his face back down in it. Then, from behind him, he heard Cobb approaching. He knew his plight was hopeless. The only thing Tom had left was his pride and the will to die with dignity. He resolved not to give Cobb any satisfaction for his efforts.

  He jerked involuntarily when the cold water hit him, causing him another jolt of pain in his arm, and he grunted with the agony. “Well, you ain’t dead yet, are you? That’s too bad—too bad for you.” Cobb took hold of the rope around Tom’s ankles and dragged him over toward the fire. Tom bit his lip hard in an effort not to scream with the pain it caused. “I just wanna tell you somethin’, Mr. Dakota. You gon’ wish you was dead a hundert times before I finish you off. You left me with a world of hurtin’, with a hole in my innards, and my head all tore up. But I promise you, you gon’ hurt a lot more than that before I finish with you.”

  “Kiss my ass, you son of a bitch,” he spat at his tormentor. It was painful even to say it, but words were the only weapons Tom had left.