No Justice in Hell

by Charles G. West

  When he failed to see any sign that he might be catching up with them, he had to conclude that the man he had hit with that one rifle shot was not hurt bad enough to slow them down. He felt sure now that they were going back to Great Falls, the place they had started out from. So it became a matter of getting there as soon as he could and hoping to find them at the shack Blossom had described. He wished now that he had paid more attention to where it was located. He hadn’t a notion at the time that he would be trying to find it one day. If he could rely on his memory of the times he had ridden up this way, it was a good two days’ ride from Helena to Great Falls. In an effort to gain on those he pursued, he planned to push his horses a little beyond what he would usually ask for in a day’s ride. The buckskin would respond with little trouble, but he was restricted by the packhorse. He could only speculate that the outlaws were pushing their horses just as hard, and they had no packhorses to contend with.

  * * *

  After two hard days’ riding, the three gunmen reached Luther Trotter’s trading post. They found Luther sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, smoking his pipe. Seeing that Blossom was not with them, he said nothing, but he feared that they had found her and Dubose had done what he had threatened. It would be a shame if he had. Luther had always liked Blossom, more so when she was Blossom Brown instead of Blossom Dubose. When he realized that Dubose was wounded, he could hold his curiosity no longer. “Well, I see you boys got back all right. What happened to you, Dubose? Did you find your wife?”

  “Yeah, I found her,” was all Dubose would offer. “What about that doctor? Is he still up in that lumber camp on the Sun?”

  “Far as I know,” Luther replied. “He ain’t doin’ no real doctorin’, you know.”

  “I know it,” Dubose said, “but he oughta be able to dig a bullet outta my shoulder.”

  “I expect so,” Luther allowed. “I reckon he’s patched plenty of ’em up after some of them wild fights up at that camp. A bullet, huh? You ain’t said how you got shot.”

  “No, I ain’t,” Dubose snapped.

  Hog laughed. Seeing no reason not to tell Luther what happened, he said, “We went deer huntin’ and the damn deer shot back at us. We got us a buck and a doe, though.”

  Red laughed with him, but Luther, assuming the doe he referred to was Blossom, was not amused. Knowing the reputation of the three outlaws, he was not prone to alienate them, plus the fact that he enjoyed the money they spent in his saloon. So there was nothing he could risk saying that would show his disgust for the three of them. “If you’re gonna go see Doc Sumner, you’d best get up there before dark if you wanna catch him sober,” he said. It was not shallow advice. Doc had been a surgeon in the Confederate army during the War between the States. He was sent to the Confederate prison at Andersonville, where he operated on enough Union prisoners to turn any man to drink.

  “That sure is a fact,” Hog said. “Ol’ Doc’s been known to take a drink or two. You might better ride on up the river. Red and me can meet you back here at Luther’s. Then we can ride out to your shack when Doc’s done with you.”

  “I need to have you and Red go with me,” Dubose responded at once. “In case Doc gives me some kinda medicine that knocks me out or somethin’, I need you boys to make sure none of that bunch up there tries anything.” In truth, he didn’t trust either of them not to ride off with his horses and everything of his in that shack while he was getting doctored. Of special concern was the cash box under one of the floorboards that held a few dollars over six hundred. “We’ll split up after I’m done with Doc Sumner.” This brought forth another hearty chuckle from Hog.

  “You ain’t worried about one of us taking more than his share of the flour and bacon, are you, Dubose?” Hog japed.

  “I just think we’d best stick together till I’m fixed up and then we’ll make sure everybody gets a fair share of the goods,” Dubose stated calmly, but there was no mistaking the threat in his tone.

  “I don’t have no problem with that,” Hog said. “Red, you got any problem with that?”

  “I don’t give a damn, one way or the other, but let’s get started,” Red informed them. “I don’t intend to hang around here waitin’ for somebody to come lookin’ for us. I’m ready to see other parts of the territory.”

  “Couldn’ta said it better, myself,” Hog said. “Let’s get goin’.”

  * * *

  For the second day in a row, Luther Trotter had a visitor he wasn’t expecting. Sitting at a table in the saloon half of the big, open room, he was having a cup of coffee with Juanita Lopez when Hawk walked in. “Well, I’ll be . . .” Luther started. “I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. Last time you was in here you was with an Injun and you was lookin’ to trade some pelts.”

  “That’s a fact,” Hawk said. It had been more than a year since he had been to Great Falls, and he remembered that Luther had not been willing to give much for the deer hides he and Bloody Hand had brought in. “How’s business, Luther?”

  “Not worth spit,” Luther replied. “This place ain’t attracted all the people everybody said would be comin’. Any coffee left in that pot, Juanita? Maybe Mr. Hawk would like a cup. Have you et your breakfast, Hawk? Juanita baked a pan of biscuits this mornin’, so you caught us on a good day.”

  “I’ve had breakfast,” Hawk said, and sat down at the table. “But I don’t usually pass up a fresh-baked biscuit with some coffee.” He had chewed on some deer jerky that morning early, but had not wanted to waste the time to go to the trouble of making coffee. He figured he was already almost a half a day behind Dubose and his two friends because of the arrangements he had made to be sure JoJo was going to get a proper burial, plus the time it took to ready his packhorse for what might turn out to be a long search.

  Juanita got up to fetch the coffeepot and a couple of biscuits for him. Returning to the table, she placed them before him, paused, and asked, “Are you a morning person?”

  He knew what she meant. “No. Thank you just the same, but I’m in a hurry this mornin’.” She shrugged indifferently and sat back down.

  “What’s your hurry?” Luther asked. “What brings you up this way?”

  “I’m lookin’ for three fellows that had to come this way last night,” Hawk said.

  Before he could finish, Luther blurted, “Zach Dubose, Hog Thacker, and Red Whitley.”

  “That’s right,” Hawk replied, surprised by Luther’s willingness to supply the information.

  “Did you put the bullet in Dubose’s shoulder?” Luther asked. When Hawk nodded, Luther said, “Good, then there won’t be no charge for the biscuits and coffee. Too bad you didn’t place that shot a little farther to the right.”

  “I intended to, but he was a little too far and he was on a gallopin’ horse at the time.” He was disappointed to hear the wound was not more serious.

  “They was in here last night, braggin’ about shootin’ a man and a woman down in Helena. I swear, I was afraid Blossom was gonna end up dead. She ought’n never to have married that mean son of a bitch in the first place. Bertie tried to tell her.” He looked toward Juanita for confirmation. She verified it with a nod. “I swear that gal had a lot goin’ for her,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Blossom ain’t dead,” Hawk said. “He shot the girl called JoJo, and the man one of ’em shot was the sheriff.”

  “JoJo!” Luther exclaimed. “What the hell did he shoot JoJo for? Poor little homely gal, she had a lotta spunk, but she never hurt nobody. Just pure mean, that son of a bitch.” Not waiting to be asked then, he volunteered what information he had. “They stopped by here last night, wantin’ to know if Doc Sumner was still up at that lumber camp on the Sun River. Dubose was bellyachin’ about gettin’ that bullet outta his shoulder. I told ’em Doc was still there, so they bought a bottle of my corn liquor and took off right away, and I was glad to see ’em go.”

  “Blossom said Dubose has a shack somewhere around here. You know where that is?”<
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  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” Luther answered, and looked toward Juanita, whose dull expression had shown growing interest as the talk progressed. “You, Juanita?”

  “She say Hound Creek one time,” Juanita answered.

  “You know where that is?” Hawk asked, and Luther told him where it broke off from the Missouri. “What about that lumber camp? They might still be there.” Luther told him how far the camp was up the Sun River. “Much obliged,” Hawk said. “I reckon I’d best get a move on. Thanks again for the coffee and biscuits.” As was his custom, he paused long enough to compliment Juanita on the biscuits, then he headed toward his horses.

  Luther walked out with him and watched while he climbed up into the saddle. “Take that trail up the river,” he reminded him. “About two miles, you can’t hardly miss it.” Hawk nodded. “Good huntin’. Come back to see us.”

  “Will do,” Hawk replied, touching a finger to his hat in salute. He turned Rascal toward the Sun River. It was not a river he was unfamiliar with. In fact, he had just come from Walking Owl’s camp on the Sun, but that was some distance west of the river’s confluence with the Missouri. He had gotten a good look at all three men the day before in Sophie’s Diner and now he knew the names of all three. Thinking back to the diner, he was sure he could take a fairly accurate guess as to which one of the three was called Hog, the heavyset boisterous one. He figured the dark, brooding one to be Dubose, leaving the wiry one with red hair to be Red Whitley. Hog and Whitley had to pay for their part in it, but Dubose was the one who killed JoJo. Hawk had witnessed that shooting, and he was afraid he would never be able to rid his mind of that picture.

  * * *

  As Luther had said, the sawmill was not hard to find. Brought up the Missouri by steamboat by a man named Samuel Guzman, it consisted of a single circular blade, run by a steam engine. It was set up under a large shed with two logging wagons beside it. Next to the shed, Hawk saw a small shack that he guessed was the operator’s office. There were several men guiding logs into the blade and the only other structures were half a dozen tents set up close to the river. These were evidently the homes of the workers. The question now was where to find Doc Sumner, and Hawk figured someone at the mill should know. So he turned Rascal toward the building next to the mill.

  His arrival caught the interest of the men sawing lumber, and work came to a stop when they all paused to eyeball the stranger riding the buckskin. Pretty soon a man came to the door of the office, no doubt to see the cause of the interruption in the saw’s noise. Seeing Hawk, he stepped outside to meet him. “How do?” Guzman greeted him and received a nod in return. “You interested in buying lumber, or are you looking for work?” Guzman asked.

  “Neither one, I reckon,” Hawk replied. “I was hopin’ you could tell me where I might find Doc Sumner.”

  “Well, I guess I can help you there,” Guzman said. He turned and pointed up the river. “Last tent on this side of the river.” For a few minutes he studied the broad-shouldered man wearing a deerskin shirt, until Hawk started to turn his horse away. “Are you a lawman?”

  “Nope.”

  “Three fellows came by here last night looking for Doc Sumner. One of ’em looked like he mighta been shot. They friends of yours?”

  “Nope.”

  “You know Doc doesn’t really practice medicine anymore. Maybe you knew that,” Guzman said.

  “Yep. Much obliged.” A gentle touch of his heels sent the buckskin off at a lope past the row of tents.

  “He’s a real talker, ain’t he, Mr. Guzman?” the man standing by the steam engine commented.

  “A regular chatterbox,” Guzman replied. “Those three who came by here last night looked like they’d murder their mother to steal her broach, but that one looks like he didn’t have a mother—looks like somebody chiseled him outta stone.” It was an understandable observation, because JoJo’s senseless killing had drained the gentleness and humor out of John Hawk.

  He made special note of the horses grazing near the water and those tied close to some of the tents he passed, looking for a Palouse, but there was none. When he came to the last tent in the row, he found a man seated on a stool in front of it. He was dressed only in his underwear and he was staring at an empty whiskey bottle as if seeing an illusion. Hawk reined Rascal to a stop and dismounted, seemingly unnoticed by the man on the stool. “Are you Dr. Sumner?” Hawk asked.

  “Does that bottle look empty to you?” Doc asked, ignoring Hawk’s question.

  “I reckon so,” Hawk replied.

  “Then, I guess I drank the whole damn bottle last night,” he said. “Damn, I wish I could remember. What about you, my good man, did you bring any whiskey with you? A little hair of the dog, maybe?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid I ain’t got a drop of whiskey with me,” Hawk said.

  “Damn,” Sumner swore. “Those are the saddest words a drinking man can hear.”

  “Are you Dr. Sumner?” Hawk repeated.

  Sumner looked at him as if discovering him for the first time. “You’re the second time I’ve been asked that this morning. Dr. Samuel H. Sumner, at your service,” he announced grandly, then released a heavy sigh. “What is it this time, young man? Gunshot? A boil on your ass? Rotten foot?”

  “I don’t need any doctorin’,” Hawk said.

  Before he could continue, Sumner interrupted. “Then what the hell did you come to the doctor for?”

  “I’m lookin’ for three men that came to see you last night. One of ’em had a gunshot wound.”

  “Left shoulder,” Doc said at once, remembering then. He looked at the empty bottle in his hand. “Brought me a bottle of whiskey—good thing, ’cause I ain’t much good without it. What is it you wanted?”

  “I’m lookin’ for ’em.” Hawk could see that he was wasting his time with the doctor, who was obviously traveling a drunkard’s path between the real world and the world that came in a bottle. He asked, anyway, “I’m thinkin’ maybe you heard them say where they were headed after they left here last night.”

  “Can’t say as I did,” Sumner said. “But I removed that bullet and applied a bandage—did a right neat job.” He got up from his stool then, still unsteady on his feet. “Now, if there’s nothing more I can do for you, I think I’d best head to yonder woods.”

  “Much obliged,” Hawk said, knowing he had wasted his time in coming here, but there had been the possibility that Dubose’s wound had been bad enough to have kept him there overnight. He turned away and went back to his horse while Doc Sumner hurried to reach a stand of pines a few dozen yards behind his tent. He heard him curse in disgust before he reached the trees. Reckon he didn’t make it, Hawk thought. Well, at least I know one place where Dubose ain’t. That doesn’t leave but about a hundred places where he might be. He headed for Hound Creek on the chance that Juanita had heard correctly when Blossom mentioned the location of Dubose’s shack.

  * * *

  “It’s a damn good thing you boys listened to me when I said we needed to keep some ready cash hid, in case we needed some in a hurry, right?” Dubose gloated, as they gathered around the loosened floorboard to count the hidden stash. He pointed his finger at Hog. “And you didn’t wanna do it. Now, who’s the smart one?”

  “Hell, I never said it wasn’t a good idea,” Hog insisted. “What I wasn’t wild about was lettin’ you keep it. You messin’ around with that whore at Trotter’s, I was afraid you and her was gonna take a notion to take that money and run.” He favored Dubose with a sly grin. “And then me and Red woulda had to track you down and take it outta your hide.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t tell that whore you had our money under the floor,” Red commented, “or she’da run off a long time ago. How much did we put under there? She mighta found out about it and helped herself to a little travelin’ money.”

  “It’s all here,” Dubose said, and divided it into three equal piles. “Two hundred dollars each with one dollar left over and we
can odd man out to see who gets the extra dollar. I reckon we’d best get our possibles together and cut outta here right now. I know I ain’t gonna hang around here. Blossom’s most likely already told a posse where this shack is, so I’m headin’ down toward the Yellowstone. Then I’ll decide where I’m goin’ from there. I ain’t made up my mind yet.”

  “Me, neither,” Red said. “How ’bout me ridin’ down there with you and we’ll split up down there?”

  Dubose shrugged. “All right with me.”

  “Might as well all of us ride down there together,” Hog said. “I ain’t decided where I’m headin’, either, and we might be better off, the three of us together, in case there is a posse already comin’ after us.”

  “Hog’s right,” Dubose decided. “They might get up a posse right away, but the three of us oughta stop a bunch of farmers and store clerks if they get on our trail. They ain’t gonna want to get too far from home, anyway. I ain’t worried about a posse. I just think it’s time to get the hell outta here before they send some U.S. Marshals over here lookin’ for us for killin’ that sheriff.”

  “What was the name of the feller that owns that hog ranch on the Yellowstone where we holed up after hittin’ that bank in Bozeman—where you got that fancy Palouse horse you’re ridin’?” Hog asked. “Where that little yellow-headed gal with the buckteeth worked. What was that feller’s name?”

  “Oscar Jacobs,” Red answered when Dubose had to pause to try to recall. “Big Timber Hog Ranch,” he said

  “Right,” Hog said. “That’s the place. Why don’t we ride down there? Hell, it was damn lucky for us before.”

  “Hell, that’s about a four-day ride from here,” Dubose said. He was recalling the card game where he won the Palouse gelding from a herder from Texas who was too drunk to know he was being dealt from the bottom of the deck. When he finally realized it, he made the mistake of calling Dubose out and wound up lying dead in the middle of the street.