Hell Hath No Fury

by Charles G. West

Deciding it best not to tell anyone in the cabin, she quickly saddled Jake’s horse, checking to see if his rifle was still in the saddle scabbard. It was, giving her another opportunity to be critical of her brother’s careless ways. If somebody rides in here tonight to run us out, you’d be a helluva lotta good with your rifle out here, she thought, forgetting his near-death condition. Thinking of all three men of her family, she told herself,When I’m through tonight, you’ll have to fight. She led the horse around the cabin, where she wouldn’t be seen from above, before climbing up into the saddle and riding away.

  Without regard for sparing her horse, she rode a wide arc around the foot of the mountain, so she could climb up behind the lone pine at the top. With still enough light to see, she made her way up a narrow ravine that would take her to the mountaintop a comfortable distance from the spot where her target lingered. To make sure she was not spotted before she was in position to take the shot, she dismounted before reaching the top and climbed the rest of the way on foot. With her rifle cocked and ready, she came up out of the ravine no more than fifty yards from the solitary pine only to find Hawk no longer there. Damn! She cursed under her breath and looked quickly around her in case he had somehow detected her approaching behind him, but there was no sign of man or horse. He was gone. It could have been no more than a few minutes, she told herself. He had no doubt given up his vigil for the day and was heading back to the Triple-P. Another thought struck her then and she would be sure to tell her father there was no gang of Triple-P men set to ambush her.

  With no thoughts of giving up on her plan, she hurried back to her horse to give chase. There was more than one trail down the western slope of the mountain, but betting that he was on his way back to the ranch, she picked the most direct one and hoped to catch up with him before he reached home. With that in mind, she guided her horse down the slope as darkness began to descend upon the trail, being careful not to become reckless in her effort to catch up with Hawk. It might be disastrous if he became aware of being followed and she rode into an ambush. As the darkness became deeper, she was forced to slow her pace for fear she would overtake him unexpectedly and consequently alert him to defend himself. This would not do, for she wanted him to have no warning.

  She began to feel moments of panic when at last she reached the floor of the Bitterroot Valley with still no sign of the man she followed. He couldn’t be that far ahead of her, she thought. Maybe he had taken another trail. She nudged her horse to pick up her pace as she began to encounter small groups of cattle and knew she was on Triple-P range now, but she was not concerned under the cover of darkness. She had never been to the Pratt ranch before, but she knew she could not be very far away at this point. Suddenly she saw him! A dark figure of a man on a horse, it could only be the man she followed. But she was not yet close enough to be sure of her shot. She kicked her horse into a lope and immediately began to reduce the distance between them, but reined the horse back to a full stop when the man she followed suddenly stopped and turned to face her. “Is that you, Pete?” he called out.

  Knowing this was likely her only chance, she drew her rifle and brought it to her shoulder, trying to steady it while her horse settled down. As soon as the horse became still, she squeezed the trigger, feeling an instant elation when her target sagged to one side before sliding to the ground. A moment later, she was knocked from the saddle when a .44 slug slammed into her back, leaving her senseless as she lay stunned on the ground. The bawling of the frightened cattle dulled rapidly in her ears until all sound went away completely. She closed her eyes, barely feeling the hand on her shoulder.

  “You!” Hawk exclaimed when he rolled her over, hardly able to believe it was Barfield’s daughter. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, only long enough to see who had killed her. With one painful moan of frustration, she released her final breath. “Damn it,” he complained. “I told you this would happen if you came after me again.” He truly had no idea who had been following him. He assumed it was Barfield, himself, or one of the sons. And while he didn’t like the idea of killing a woman, he told himself it was no different from killing a female rattlesnake if one comes after you. He got up then and went to check on Marvin Tatum, who had been unfortunate to have been riding nighthawk. Luckily, he had escaped with a wound in his side and the bullet had gone straight through.

  “Damn, Hawk,” Marvin gasped painfully when he recognized him, “what’d you shoot me for?”

  “I didn’t shoot you,” Hawk answered. “I shot the one who did, though.” He couldn’t help feeling responsible for Marvin’s wound, however. He had become aware of someone on a horse coming on behind him when he was still only halfway down the mountain. He was thinking now that he should have set up a trap for the rider instead of pulling off the trail to let him pass. But he had wanted to see how far the rider would go and what he would do when he got to the ranch. It still bothered him a little that he had killed a woman, even though he had no choice. He couldn’t have afforded the shooter time to put another round into poor Marvin. When he had warned Lorena that he would shoot her next time, he really only meant it to scare her. The question now was, what was going to happen when Barfield found out he shot his daughter? Have to deal with that later, he thought. “Right now, we’d best get you back to take a look at that hole in your side,” he said to Marvin. “Think you can ride?”

  “Yeah, I can ride,” Marvin said. “I only slid off my horse so they wouldn’t shoot again. It’s painin’ me right smart, but I can stay on my horse.” He stopped to think then. “Who did shoot me?” When told who the shooter was and the circumstances that led up to it, he was amazed. “The daughter, I swear . . .”

  After helping Marvin up into the saddle, Hawk went back to make sure Lorena was dead. Then he picked up her body and laid it across her saddle, intending to take it on in to the ranch to decide how to handle the business of notifying Randolph Barfield.

  * * *

  Since the scene of the shooting was only three quarters of a mile from the ranch house, the shots fired were clearly heard by the folks there. Consequently, Monroe and a couple of the men were in the process of saddling up, intent upon investigating when Hawk and Marvin Tatum arrived. At once concerned, when he saw the body lying across the saddle of the horse Hawk led, Monroe immediately asked, “Who is that?”

  “The Barfield girl,” Hawk replied. “We’d best take care of Marvin. He’s got a hole in his side.” Bob Boston and Pete Little, who were standing with Monroe, moved quickly to help Marvin off his horse. They hesitated for a few moments, however, eager to hear the circumstances that caused the wound, as well as being curious about the presence of Lorena’s body. “She followed me down the mountain, but in the dark she thought Marvin was me, I reckon, and she shot him. So I shot her. Now, you’d best take Marvin into the bunkhouse before he bleeds to death.” Thomas Pratt came from the house to join them in time to hear Hawk’s explanation.

  Even in the dark, he could see the frown of concern deepen on Monroe’s face, so Hawk could well guess what was going through his mind. What would be the results of this when Barfield found out that his daughter had been killed? “I don’t know,” Hawk said before Monroe asked the question. “She was tailin’ me ever since I came down the mountain, so I pulled off into some pines to let her pass on by—just thought I’d see what she was up to. It was poor luck for Marvin, though. She came up on him and I reckon she thought she’d caught up with me ’cause she didn’t hesitate a second, just raised her rifle and shot him. I couldn’t let her throw another shot at him, so I shot her. I didn’t know it was a woman till I rolled her over.”

  Monroe nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I can’t fault you for what you did. I don’t see as how you had any choice. I’m wondering how we’d best handle it now.”

  “Well, I was thinkin’ that over on the way in and I figured the best thing we could do is to get the sheriff involved in it,” Hawk suggested. “It’s a little late to do it tonight, but we could take the girl�
��s body into town to the sheriff in the mornin’. Tell him what happened and let him decide what to do about it. We’d take Marvin in to see the doctor, so the sheriff could see that he got shot. Maybe he’ll see it his duty to tell Barfield about his daughter.”

  Monroe considered that for a few moments, looked at his brother, and when Thomas shrugged, said, “I can’t think of any better way—makes it look like we were trying to handle it with the law in mind. I don’t see as how it’s up to us to notify Barfield about it, but we do need to take her body into the sheriff’s office and let him handle it. And we’re still gonna have to be alert to find out what Barfield will do in retaliation for killing his daughter. Marvin might not be the only one who gets shot.” Thomas nodded his agreement.

  “Well, I thought about that, too,” Hawk said. “I’m thinkin’ there’s gonna be a damn good chance that Barfield and his sons are gonna be lookin’ to take their revenge. And maybe if I take Marvin and the girl into town and tell the sheriff I shot her, then Barfield might just come after me to settle up. That would sure be better than havin’ him and his boys hidin’ out on your range takin’ potshots at your hands every chance they got.”

  “They’d still be coming on our range looking for you,” Thomas said.

  “Not if I move on into town,” Hawk replied, “and let the sheriff know I ain’t out here anymore.”

  The Pratt brothers looked at each other, obviously preferring that the chance of snipers be removed from their home range. “That’s asking you to take all the responsibility for what Barfield might do,” Monroe said nonetheless.

  “I can’t see it as anybody else’s responsibility,” Hawk said. “I’m the one that shot her.” When they hesitated still, he explained his reasoning further. “Look, I’m the one they want. I’ve already shot both of his sons, so I’m the one he’ll come after, and I like my chances better in town than I do out in this open range. Besides, maybe I’ll have the sheriff to help me.” His logic was sound and they appreciated the fact that he preferred to take any chance of danger away from the Triple-P, so they didn’t argue.

  * * *

  “Where’s Lorena?” Pearl Barfield asked. It had been some time since her daughter stomped out of the cabin and it was getting along toward bedtime.

  Clint laughed. “She was pretty hot. I’ll bet she’s settin’ down there in the barn poutin’ ’cause Pa found out about her little business with that Hawk feller. I’ll go see about her.”

  “Tell her I said to get her hind end in here and help your mama clean up them supper dishes still on the table,” Randolph said. “She gets her ass up on her shoulders every now and then and don’t wanna do a woman’s chores.”

  In a matter of minutes, Clint returned to tell them, “Lorena’s gone. She ain’t at the barn.”

  “Musta had to go to the bushes,” Randolph said.

  “That ain’t all,” Clint said. “Jake’s horse and saddle are gone, too.”

  At once alarmed, Pearl said, “Clint, you go look for your sister. She ain’t been actin’ right ever since she went to Stevensville.”

  “Where, Ma?” Clint replied. “I ain’t got no idea where she mighta run off to, crazy as she is. I could be wanderin’ around up in the mountains all night long lookin’ for her.”

  “Clint’s right,” Randolph said. “She’ll come back when she’s good and ready. Do her some good to get it outta her system. Then maybe she’ll be fit to live with.” He got up from the table and headed for the door to get rid of some of the coffee he had consumed at supper before retiring for the night. When Clint followed him outside to perform the same function, Randolph said, “Take a look at Jake before you turn in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Clint responded obediently. They stood side by side at the edge of the cabin’s tiny porch while they emptied their bladders. “Reckon how long Lorena’s gonna be gone?”

  “Hard to say,” his father replied. “Till she gets over her little fit, I reckon. She’s always had too much of that Beecher blood in her,” he said, referring to his wife’s father, Leonard Beecher. “That whole family’s crazy as hell.” When they went back inside, they were met by Pearl, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Now what’s the matter?” Randolph asked.

  “Jake,” she wailed. “He’s gone, Jake’s gone!”

  “Whaddaya mean, gone?” Barfield demanded. “You mean dead?”

  “He’s dead,” she sobbed. “I went in to ask him if he was all right and he didn’t answer me.”

  “Maybe he’s asleep,” her husband said, and went by her to see for himself. Clint followed behind him into the bedroom. They found Jake lying cold and still, his eyes staring up at the rafters. “Damn, he’s dead all right,” Barfield pronounced after laying his ear on Jake’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. “And I spent seventy-five dollars for that damn doctor to saw his arm off. I oughta saddle up my horse and go get that doctor outta bed right now—get my seventy-five dollars back.”

  Pearl stared at her husband, shocked by the callous reaction to her son’s death. “Randolph,” she gasped, “your son is lyin’ dead and you’re just interested in the money you spent tryin’ to save him? Shame on you, Randolph Barfield.”

  “Dead is dead,” her husband replied. “And there ain’t nothin’ you can do about that now. You ought not be mad at me. That feller Hawk, that’s the one to get mad at. He’s the one who shot Jake.”

  “What are we gonna do, Pa?” Clint wanted to know. “Are we goin’ after him?”

  Barfield didn’t answer at once while he tried to decide just what he could do. “Yeah,” he finally said. “We’re goin’ after him. I ain’t about to let anybody get away with killin’ my son.” It was the reaction he felt he should have, and he would dearly love to have an opportunity to shoot Hawk. But he was sane enough to be aware of the possibility that any attempt on Hawk’s life would surely reap dangerous consequences for himself. “There’s too many of ’em for us to take on,” he said. “We’ve got to wait till we can catch the son of a bitch by himself. We’ll wait till Lorena gets home. She always thinks she’s as good as any man. We’ll give her a chance to prove it.” He turned toward Pearl. “For now, you’d best get Jake ready for buryin’ and we’ll put him in the ground in the mornin’.” She nodded in response, her tears starting anew, tears for the passing of her youngest, but also tears of anger for the casualness of her husband’s response to Jake’s death. Shifting her gaze to Clint, she also despaired that he reflected the same indifference.

  * * *

  The night passed, but with the first light of morning there was still no sign of Lorena. Her worried mother dragged herself into the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on the stove. Her husband and her son would expect it to be ready for them when they woke up. As for her, she had not slept during the entire night, keeping vigil over her dead son, while his brother snored lustily on a pallet a few feet away. On the other side of the quilt that served as a wall she could hear the rumbling, guttural noises her husband made in his sleep. Combined with Clint’s snoring, it reminded her of a bunch of frogs in a pond, singing a chorus of indifference, and she suddenly brought to mind a thought she had often had before. I curse the day I ever decided to run off with Randolph Barfield. As before, she shook her head in despair, knowing there was no one to blame but herself. After poking the ashes in the stove around to bring the fire back to life, she went out on the porch to fetch some wood to feed it. Before going back inside, she took a long pause to peer toward the barn and corral, but there was still no sign of Lorena.

  Another hour passed before Barfield roused himself from sleep, and as usual, he roused Clint up as well, thinking that if he was out of bed, everyone else should be, too. He took a short look at Jake and muttered, “Still dead, I reckon,” before going to the kitchen for his coffee. “Where’s Lorena?” he asked Pearl.

  “She still ain’t come back,” his wife answered, never pausing to face him. She cast a glance at Clint as he walked out the door to answer nature’s morning
call. “I expect you’d best go lookin’ for her after you eat your breakfast,” she called after him. He returned an unenthusiastic “yes’m” in response.

  “After you see ’bout the cattle,” his father said.

  “We got a grave to dig,” Clint reminded him.

  “After that, then,” Barfield said, even though Clint was already out the door. With no experience in raising cattle, his idea of tending them was merely to see if they were still there. His plan had been to steal enough to accumulate a herd big enough to drive to market, thinking him and his two sons could manage a sizable herd.

  * * *

  Barfield and his son had just finished digging a grave when Clint spotted a rider approaching, leading a horse with what appeared to be a body draped across the saddle. “Who the hell . . . ?” Barfield blurted when Clint pointed toward the mountain path. Both men scrambled out of the hole they had just dug and ran to the barn, where they had left their rifles. Back outside, they waited, weapons ready while the rider continued to ride toward them. “It’s that sheriff over in Stevensville,” he replied, recognizing the slumped shoulders of Barney Mack. Pearl came out of the barn when she heard that to wait with them for the sheriff to arrive.

  When Sheriff Mack reached the edge of the yard, Clint said, “That looks like Jake’s sorrel he’s leadin’.” A few steps closer and they realized what the long bundle lying awkwardly across the saddle had to be. “It is Jake’s horse. It’s Lorena!”

  Pearl’s knees started to buckle and she would have collapsed had not Clint been close enough to grab her and lead her over to a stump where he helped her sit down. She immediately began to sway back and forth, moaning in her grief. The impact of seeing her daughter’s body across the saddle was too big a burden to bear so shortly after her son’s death. His eyes still on the sheriff, Barfield strode forward to confront him. “Is that my daughter?” Barfield demanded.

  “I’m sorry to say it is,” the sheriff replied. “She’s been shot and I took it on myself to bring her home and tell you folks what happened.”