North to Montana

by Colin Bainbridge

  North to Montana

  When Buck Nation rides into Gunsight, he little knows what trouble awaits him. He has been left an abandoned ranch, but did its former owner really die in an accident? Questions mount and Nation is bushwhacked. Is Selby Rackham, the owner of the biggest spread around, the Grab All, somehow involved?

  Nation’s quest to discover the truth takes him on a long ride from Wyoming to Montana, with an old-timer, a woman and a dog for company. On the way, it is not only Rackham’s gunslicks they have to face, but the past with its buried secrets and hidden fears.

  By the same author

  Pack Rat

  Coyote Falls

  Guns of Wrath

  Six-Gun Nemesis

  Shotgun Messenger

  Blood on the Range

  North to Montana

  Colin Bainbridge

  ROBERT HALE

  © Colin Bainbridge 2013

  First published in Great Britain 2013

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2436-4

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Colin Bainbridge to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chapter One

  The lone rider brought his horse, a blue roan gelding, to a halt. He took out his field glasses to take a closer look around. As he swept the rough terrain he could see nothing unusual. Yet he was convinced that something was not right. It wasn’t just his own instincts that warned him of danger. The horse was sniffing the air as it shifted restlessly, its ears erect. He was sure that it could sense something, something unfamiliar and threatening. He put the glasses back into their holder and touched his spurs to the horse’s flanks. He hadn’t gone too much further when the worn frame buildings of the town of Gunsight came into view. The place looked a lot smaller than he had imagined. It certainly had a tired look about it. Well, if there were any answers to the questions that puzzled him, it was in Gunsight he would find them. He glanced about him once more before riding on.

  The appearance of the town did not improve as he rode down the main street. There were few people about. He carried on till he saw a man sitting on a cane chair with its back propped against the wall of a dilapidated building. As he approached, he saw that the man was an old-timer. There was a dog lying at his feet. He drew the horse to a halt, swung down and tied it to a veranda rail.

  ‘Be careful,’ the old-timer said. ‘If that horse skitters, the whole place is liable to come down.’

  The stranger looked at the old man and then at the mangy dog lying at his feet, snoring.

  ‘The dog got a name?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ the old-timer said. ‘He’s called Midway.’

  ‘Funny name for a dog.’

  ‘Called him after a remount station on the Pony Express route.’

  ‘You rode for the pony express?’

  The old-timer chuckled. He turned his head and spat. ‘Nope, not me. Just helped out at the station. That was a job for youngsters. Nope, siree.’ He glanced at the stranger and there was a reflective gleam in his eye. ‘Elwood, Seneca, Marysville, Hollenberg.’ He paused and seemed to draw himself together. ‘I could go on,’ he said, ‘but I guess you got other things to do than listen to my ramblin’s.’

  The stranger looked up. ‘Any place I can get supplies?’ he said.

  ‘There’s old Ma Winslow at the grocery store. You could try her.’

  The stranger nodded and turned away. He walked slowly down the street. The grocery store sign was splintered and flaked so much it was hard to read its faded letters. As he opened the door and pushed inside, a bell rang. A few moments later, a large, grey-haired lady emerged from the back. She peered at the new arrival through thick, horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘I’ll be needin’ some things,’ the stranger said.

  While she was attending to his order, he glanced through the grimy window pane. The old-timer had tilted his chair back and seemed to have joined his dog in having forty winks. A few more people had appeared on the street. ‘Things seem very quiet,’ he remarked.

  The old lady paused. ‘Cholera,’ she said. ‘The place never got over it.’

  ‘That why the graveyard seems so full?’ he asked.

  ‘You look on some of those headstones,’ she replied. ‘If you can still read ’em, that is. You’ll see the year 1872 a lot. Those that don’t carry the war years.’

  ‘I already did,’ he replied.

  She put the last of his purchases in a bag. ‘I haven’t seen you around,’ she said. ‘Don’t seem right friendly not to know your name.’

  ‘Nation,’ he said. ‘Buck Nation.’

  At the mention of his name, she started. ‘Nation,’ she repeated. ‘Why, there’s folk with that name in the graveyard.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I noticed that too. But their gravestones weren’t marked for 1872.’

  ‘There used to be some folks by the name of Nation owned a little spread not far out of town. I think they used to call it the Forty-Five. You wouldn’t. . . .’

  ‘Relatives,’ he said. ‘A different branch of the family.’

  ‘I thought I didn’t recognize you,’ she said. ‘Still, that wouldn’t mean anythin’. Folks change, after all.’

  ‘They do, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘They surely do.’ Grabbing the parcel of groceries, he touched his hand to the brim of his hat and walked out the door. The bell jangled again and the woman stood motionless for a while before moving from behind the counter to the window. She peered outside. The sun was low in the sky and she put her hand to her eyes. When they had adjusted she saw the stranger riding away, his horse’s hoofs kicking up dust. He seemed to be heading in the direction of the old Nation property.

  Darkness had fallen by the time he came upon the remains of a broken-down sign which indicated that he was entering the old spread. The sign had once read Forty-Five but it had faded and what was left of it looked like a noose. He continued to ride but the horse seemed agitated again. Its ears pricked and it grew skittish. Nation was alert to possible danger. A little further he waded through a shallow stream and then, seeing the looming shape of the ranch-house ahead of him, dropped from the saddle and knee-haltered the horse. It was tossing its head and Nation decided he would go the rest of the way on foot. He drew his six-gun and began to move stealthily forward. As he expected, the place was deserted. He crept through the yard and stepped onto the dilapidated veranda of the ranch-house. The door had swung open and he was about to step inside when he suddenly froze in his tracks. He thought he had heard a sound. He flattened himself against the wall, holding his gun at the ready. There was a quiet moment, and then a crashing in the brush. From among the trees a dark form, huge and cumbersome, lumbered into the open.

  Nation raised his gun and fired towards it, but the last vestiges of daylight had faded and the moving shadows were deceptive. It seemed he must have missed because the next moment the dark mass was upon him, growling, snarling and smelling foul. Nation realized it was a grizzly bear and the gunshot had made it furious. Like a doll he was bowled over but he managed to roll aside and stagger to his feet. The bear turned and reared up on its hind legs. Nation had dropped the gun and faced it now with his knife in hand. The bear was roaring and gnashing its teeth. Foam flew from its mouth and dribbled down its face and neck.

  Not waiting for it to attack, Nation seized the initiative and rushed in, attempting to d
rive his knife into its stomach. With a roar the animal swiped at him and Nation felt the sharp claws tear across his chest. As the bear closed in, attempting to squeeze him, he sprang back. He lifted the knife once more but it had snapped. The bear dropped to four legs and as it rushed at him Nation took to his heels, heading towards the stream. He plunged in and waded to the opposite side. The bear came charging after him but as it approached the water it veered away and went lumbering back into the undergrowth.

  Nation looked down at his chest. His thick sheepskin coat had saved him from serious damage, but the grizzly’s razor-sharp claws had slashed through the material and there was a bad cut across his chest. He waited for several minutes before wading back into the stream and splashing the icy cold water over his wound. It was quite deep and bleeding badly. He came out of the water and cautiously began to make his way to where he had left the roan. He felt fairly sure that it was the presence of the bear which he had sensed on his way into Gunsight and which had so alarmed his horse. Maybe there was more than one of them in the neighbourhood.

  He soon reached the horse and felt in his saddle-bags. He always carried some basic medical supplies and he bound up the wound as best he could. He had suffered worse and at least it did not seem to affect any movement in his arm. So far he had not opened the flask of whiskey he carried, but now he took a long swig. The liquid coursed through his body and he felt better. He had intended staying in the ranch-house but, with the bear around, it was too dangerous and he resolved to find somewhere else to make camp.

  By the time he had found a suitable spot at a safe distance from the Forty-Five, his chest hurt badly but the bleeding had stopped. He rubbed down the horse and fed it with corn the woman back in town had provided. Using bark, leaves and dry branches he soon had a small fire blazing among some rocks. He filled the kettle with icy water from a brook to make coffee. It tasted good. Firelight flickered and danced and reflected from the rocks, providing warmth as well as a deterrent to any hostile wildlife. Somewhere nearby a hoot owl called its lament. From time to time the horse snickered or stamped. He lay his head against his saddle and tried to sleep but the pain in his shoulder seemed to be growing worse. The night was well advanced before he finally managed to fall into a troubled slumber.

  Something large with burning eyes was pursuing him. He strained every sinew to escape but no matter how fast he tried to run, he made no progress. He could not get away from whatever was behind him. He felt its hot breath on his neck and he awoke with a start to find an amorphous shape looking down on him. He tried to move but a wave of pain engulfed him and he fell back into a yawning abyss which yet somehow seemed oddly comforting. His head throbbed and he felt as though he was burning. He heard a droning in his ears, which he slowly realized was someone’s voice.

  ‘How are you feelin’?’ the voice said. ‘Not so good, I guess.’

  He opened his eyes again and the amorphous shape began to condense and take on features. It was the grizzled face of an old man. It looked vaguely familiar. He struggled to remember and then he realized it was the old-timer he had met when he first rode into town.

  ‘Take another sip of this,’ the old-timer said. He held a flask to Nation’s lips and tipped it gently. Nation took a few sips but most of it got spilled. ‘I got somethin’ stronger,’ the old-timer added, ‘but right now I figure water’s what you need.’

  Although he hadn’t swallowed much, Nation began to feel a little improved. He began to take cognizance of his surroundings. He seemed to be in the same place he had set up camp. It was daylight but he still felt cold inside his sheepskin coat. Summoning up some reserve of strength, he succeeded in sitting up.

  ‘What are you doin’ here?’ he asked.

  ‘Just as well I came by,’ the old-timer replied. ‘Fact is, I felt kinda guilty. I should have warned you about that bear. He’s been causin’ trouble ‘round these parts for quite a time. When I didn’t see you come back to town, I figured you might have run into the varmint. So I rousted out my old mule and took a ride to the Forty-Five. It didn’t take me long to figure out what happened.’

  Nation was beginning to feel better. ‘Did you say you had somethin’ stronger in your saddle-bags?’ he asked.

  The old-timer’s face creased into a toothless grin. ‘Sure have,’ he said. He walked away to where the mule was standing and returned in a few moments with a flask in his hand which he handed to Nation, who took a sip and then gasped.

  ‘Hell,’ he said. ‘What you got in there?’

  ‘It’s my own recipe,’ the old-timer replied. ‘Mainly raw alcohol, but with a few extra ingredients thrown in.’

  ‘What ingredients?’

  ‘Liquid coffee, burned sugar, chewin’ tobacco, red pepper.’

  Nation took another swig. His throat burned and his eyes felt as though they were popping out of his skull. All the same, once he had recovered from the initial effects, he had to admit it made him feel a whole lot better.

  ‘By Jiminy,’ he said, ‘I ain’t felt anythin’ burn like that before.’

  ‘That’ll be the creosote,’ the old-timer replied.

  Nation handed the flask back. ‘Leave some for the bear,’ he said. ‘It’ll sure fix him once and for all.’ He struggled to his feet. For the first time he realized that his chest had been bandaged. ‘Did you do that?’ he asked.

  ‘It should work,’ the old-timer replied. ‘I packed some salt pork in there to help stop any infection.’

  ‘You’ve worked as a doctor as well as with the pony express?’ Nation asked.

  The old-timer disregarded any trace of irony. ‘You remembered?’ he replied. ‘I ain’t got no diploma, if that’s what you mean, but I picked up a few tips along the way. In fact I used to run a medicine show one time. That’s a patented medicine you just swallowed.’

  Nation looked down at his chest. ‘Well, I guess I owe you,’ he said. ‘Sure appreciate what you done. Say, we haven’t been properly introduced yet. The name’s Nation, Buck Nation.’ He held out his hand and the old-timer took it. His hand felt like the rough bark of a tree.

  ‘Glad to make your acquaintance,’ he said. ‘Folks call me Muleskin.’

  ‘I take it that ain’t your proper name?’

  ‘I guess maybe not, but I’ve had it so long I plumb forget bein’ called anythin’ else.’

  Nation glanced around. ‘Hey, where’s the dog?’ he said.

  ‘Midway?’ Muleskin replied. ‘I left him behind this time. He’s gettin’ kinda old like me. He’ll be wonderin’ where I’ve got to.’ He looked at Nation. ‘If you like, you could come back with me. I wouldn’t advise goin’ too far just yet, not till that wound has healed some.’

  Nation considered his invitation. It made a lot of sense. The old-timer was right; he wasn’t really in a fit condition to carry on straight away. He had business with the old Forty-Five ranch, but he was operating in the dark. Maybe he could pick up information in Gunsight. Muleskin might know something. He remembered the way the old lady in the general store had reacted to the mention of his name. If it stirred any reaction in Muleskin, he certainly hadn’t shown it.

  ‘That’s mighty nice of you,’ he said. ‘Just so long as I won’t be causin’ you any bother.’

  Muleskin grinned and spat out a long jet of phlegm. ‘No bother at all,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ll be glad of some company.’

  Nation began to remove the traces of his camp. Muleskin moved towards the mule and as he did so, Nation noticed for the first time that he walked with a pronounced limp. When they were ready, they mounted up – Nation on the roan and Muleskin on his mule. Then they set out towards Gunsight.

  It wasn’t a lengthy journey, but to Nation, in his depleted state, it seemed to take a long time. It came as a relief when he saw some shacks ahead of them which indicated that they were almost there. Now that they were near, he felt he owed it to the old-timer to check that he hadn’t changed his mind about putting him up.

  ‘Like I
said,’ Muleskin replied, ‘I’d be honoured to have you. That place you saw me outside of yesterday used to be the Broken Wheel saloon. The lady who ran it still lives there. She gives me room.’

  Nation considered his words for a moment. ‘Maybe she’ll object to somebody turnin’ up out of nowhere.’

  Muleskin laughed and spat again. ‘Hell no,’ he spluttered. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. The place is too big for us both. We just rattle around in there like two old peas in a pod, a large pod. We hardly see each other from one day to the next.’

  ‘What’s she called, this lady?’ Nation asked.

  ‘Don’t rightly know that either, not for sure,’ he replied. ‘She was always known as Annie: Double-Cinch Annie.’

  ‘Funny name.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Ain’t gave it any thought. That old saloon could get mighty rowdy. Guess she always managed to stay in control.’

  They had reached the main street of town. To Nation’s eyes it seemed slightly bigger than on his first impression, and there were more people about. As they clattered by, a few faces were turned in their direction. They came to a halt outside the old saloon and tied their horses to the hitch rack.

  ‘There’s room out in the yard,’ Muleskin said. ‘I’ll take ’em round later.’

  As they mounted the steps to the boardwalk, there was a sudden commotion and through the faded batwing doors the dog came scampering. He ran to the Muleskin and jumped up at him, then dashed backward and forwards, falling over as he did so.

  ‘Good boy, Midway,’ Muleskin said.

  Nation bent down as the dog turned its attention to him, its tongue lolling out, and tickled it behind the ear. ‘That’s a nice welcome,’ he said. He noticed that, like its master, the dog was limping slightly and there was a big swelling on its left leg.

  ‘He’s an old fella now,’ Muleskin said, ‘but he does all right.’ With the dog at their heels, they stepped through the batwings.