No Justice in Hell

by Charles G. West

  “Come ahead,” Hawk said, and held his rifle ready to fire. In a moment, he saw Red’s head and shoulders emerge from the dark hole. Anticipating a sudden attempt, he aimed his rifle at him, ready to react in case he was foolish enough to try something. Out of the hole and on his feet, Red suddenly wheeled around and fired a fraction of a second too late, for Hawk’s bullet caught him square in the chest before he could aim the derringer pocket pistol he carried. He staggered backward out the smokehouse door, his shot striking one of the two hams hanging from the rafters to cause it to swing back and forth. Hawk walked out to make sure he was dead. He was. “I gave you your chance,” he said. This one’s for the sheriff, he thought as he looked down at the still body.

  He picked up Red’s weapons and cartridge belt. They were worth money in trade, and since he was not going to be receiving pay from the army for a while, he was going to need money to pay his expenses. He received a bonus when he thought to search Red’s pockets, and found two hundred dollars. “Damn,” he remarked, expecting to find a dollar or two. “I expect it’s only right for you to pay my expenses for huntin’ you three bastards down.”

  He looked toward the front of the little hog ranch complex to discover a somewhat larger group of spectators, the gunshots having brought additional gawkers. Leaving the body for someone else to deal with, he walked back to the cabin with the red door. Looking in the open window, he saw Lizzie sitting on the floor, holding her baby. “You can get up now,” he said. “It’s all over. Come over to the window.” She did as she was told, afraid not to. “Here, Red wants to settle up with what he owes you, plus a little extra for the whuppin’ he put on you.” He handed her fifty dollars.

  She was speechless for a moment, but that didn’t stop her from eagerly accepting the money he held out to her. “Thank you, sir,” she finally managed. “Thank you!”

  “He didn’t say where his two friends were, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t say anything about ’em,” she said. “I know they both left here this morning. I’m sorry I can’t help you.” He nodded and turned to walk away. “Thank you,” she said again. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “You probably don’t need to know it,” he tossed back over his shoulder, and kept walking. He saw no use in working on a reputation for himself, especially with the clientele of a whorehouse. There were most likely a lot of customers who considered themselves handy with a gun who might like to gain a reputation at his expense.

  The spectators stepped aside to clear a path for him as he walked back to the front of the saloon, where his horses were tied. No one made a sound until he had passed. When he turned the corner of the saloon, coming to the front, he was disappointed to find Ned standing by the rail. I ain’t got time for this, he thought. He did not hurry his step, but continued walking toward the massive brute, now sporting a bandage tied around his head. Hawk shifted his Winchester up to grip it with both hands. Ned watched him, but said nothing until Hawk reached his horse.

  “I figured you might wanna know somethin’ I heard those two friends of his talkin’ about,” Ned said.

  Caught completely by surprise, Hawk nevertheless managed to maintain his indifferent manner. “Yeah? What was that?”

  “They were talkin’ about splittin’ up, to make it harder for the law to track ’em down.” This captured Hawk’s attention at once, so Ned continued. “I don’t know where the feller named Dubose was headin’, but the other one, the heavyset one, told that one called Red that he was goin’ back to see his wife in Coulson.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I thought you mighta wanted to know that. They both rode outta here early this mornin’.”

  Hawk could hardly believe the huge man’s contrite manner. “Much obliged,” he said. “I appreciate the information.” He climbed up into the saddle. “I’m sorry we got off to a bad start.”

  “Me, too,” Ned replied. “When I thought back about what I heard them talkin’ about, I got to thinkin’ that maybe you had a good reason to come after ’em.”

  “You’re right. A mighty fine young girl is dead because of them.” He backed Rascal away from the rail. “And they shot the sheriff in Helena.” He wheeled the big buckskin and rode away.

  CHAPTER 7

  Oscar Jacobs stood in the yard outside his saloon, talking to the working women still gathered there. “Who the hell was that fellow?” Oscar asked, but no one knew.

  “He just walked through our cabin, polite as you please, looking for somebody,” one of the prostitutes replied. “When he didn’t find him, he went out the back, just as sudden as he came in.”

  “Well, I reckon he found who he was looking for,” one of the other women said. “He shot that little redheaded fellow that was shacking up with Lizzie.”

  Oscar shook his head, feeling impotent for not having been able to prevent a threat to one of his customers. It was certainly not an incident he wanted to get around. Customers had always felt a sense of safety within his complex and an occurrence like the one just witnessed could hurt business. He took one look at Ned, still standing by the hitching rail, his head bandaged. He was still unclear as to why Ned had not seen fit to detain the man, or what had happened between him and Ned in the bar earlier. His bartender’s accounting of the incident didn’t make sense, either, so he just shook his head again and went back inside the saloon.

  * * *

  Rascal and the packhorse had not really had much rest since Hawk had ridden into the hog ranch that morning, so he decided that was the most important thing to do at the moment. He needed time to think about what he should do at this point, anyway, so he rode down by the river until he found a place that suited him. He let his mind work on what had happened so far that morning while he gathered branches to start a fire. One of the three men he hunted was dead—the one who actually shot the sheriff. The one he wanted the most was the man named Dubose, but he had no idea where to look for him. He considered searching up and down the Yellowstone, hoping to run across something or somebody who might help him get on Dubose’s trail. On the other hand, he knew where Hog Thacker was heading, and Hog was equally guilty of the fate that had befallen JoJo. But damn it, he thought, Dubose is the one who pulled the trigger. He worried over it while he filled his coffeepot with water. No matter what, he knew he would find no peace until he settled with Dubose. Even then, it was unlikely he could ever rid his mind of the image he saw on that day. Even at the distance from which he witnessed the shooting, he thought he could see the agony in JoJo’s face when Dubose’s bullet slammed into her chest.

  He worried over the decision until it was time to start, then he told himself he would be foolish to abandon a search for Hog, when he knew where to look for him. Once he settled with him, he could spend the rest of his life looking for Zach Dubose, if that’s what it took. He was not bound by any obligations to anyone or anywhere. Major Brisbin might wonder what had happened to him, but he felt sure he had a job with the army whenever he needed it. As long as Lieutenant Mathew Conner was stationed there, he would have a friend who would always vouch for him. So he set out for Coulson, knowing it to be about a two-day ride. By now, Hog had about half a day’s ride on him, depending on how big a hurry he was in. Possibly, he might catch up with him before he reached Coulson. If not, then Coulson was not much more than a small settlement, and it shouldn’t be too hard to find someone like Hog Thacker.

  * * *

  Ethel Thacker guided her mule between the two-story hotel built by John Alderson and the Paddle Wheel Saloon, following a path that led along Stinking Creek. She was tired. It had been a hard day, like every day at the hotel, where she was lucky enough to work. But today there were two beds destroyed with the contents of some drunken cowboy’s stomach and bowels after a night in the saloons. The rooms had to be mopped as well as the hallway where one of them had tried to make it to the outhouse. She sorrowed in the thought that tomorrow would bring more of the same. Still, she was grateful for the job of cleaning lady for the hotel. Without
it, she could not make it. If she were younger, or pretty, she wouldn’t hesitate to sell her services as a prostitute, but the years had taken a toll on her and she had nothing to offer that a man would pay money for. At least she had a shack where she could go for peace and quiet every night. That was one thing Horace had done for her before he left one day and never came back.

  She could not say that she missed him, but he didn’t seem so brutal when they married. She was younger and homely, but he was not a man whom women found attractive in the least. So it seemed a workable arrangement for them both. It was such a short time before she became old and homely and Horace turned into the image that inspired his nickname, Hog. When he started running with Zach Dubose, it somehow brought out the brute in him and she knew they were getting more and more involved in illegal activities. Before long, Hog started leaving home for long periods, always returning with no more money than before, having spent in the saloons whatever he had stolen. She soon learned not to ask him why he managed to find money enough to come home drunk, but none to buy them food and supplies. To ask such questions usually brought physical violence upon herself. So when he failed to return after a month, she almost rejoiced.

  Why her mind happened to be dwelling upon her abusive husband on this late summer evening, she could not say. Maybe it was an omen of the bad luck headed her way. When she rounded the sharp bend in the creek, she suddenly pulled the mule up short when she saw the strange horse tied up at the front of the shack. Not sure what she should do, she hesitated there for a long while watching the cabin. She pulled the shotgun she carried from the saddle sling. Even with a weapon, she was reluctant to ride on in and inform her visitor that the shack was occupied, for that was who she suspected, a homeless drifter who had discovered what appeared to be an empty shack. With the lock on the door, he should have known it was not abandoned. Maybe she should turn around and go back to the hotel. Mr. Alderson had told her before that he would make room for her behind the kitchen. But she felt like this shack was all she owned and she did not want to lose it. So she resolved to claim what was hers and inform the drifter that he had to leave.

  She rode up before the shack, noticing the splintered doorframe, evidence of the door having been kicked in. Frightened by who might be waiting inside, she remained in the saddle and aimed her shotgun at the door. “You in the cabin,” she called out in as husky a voice as she could affect, “come outta there with your hands up.”

  A long moment passed before the door opened a crack. “Put that damn shotgun down, Ethel, before you shoot yourself with it,” the voice came back, a voice she recognized at once.

  A cold shiver raced up her spine and her fingers went cold on the shotgun. “Horace?” All of a sudden her deepest fears came rushing back to her mind and she felt helpless to stop them.

  “Who the hell else would it be?” came the reply from inside. “Put that damn shotgun down, or I’m gonna blow you outta that saddle.” He opened the door wide and stood in the doorway, his ample body outlined by the fire in the fireplace behind him. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been here since this afternoon. I come home and you ain’t here. I wanna know where you’ve been and don’t even think about tellin’ me no lie.”

  In spite of her fear of the man, she stiffened her spine at the audacity of the brute. “You’re somethin’, askin’ me where I’ve been. Where have you been? You walked outta this cabin over a year and a half ago to go have a drink with that friend of yours, that Mr. Dubose, leavin’ me with nothin’ to eat. And now you come back here askin’ me where I’ve been. What did you expect? I’d be waitin’ here with open arms?”

  “A man with a decent wife expects her to be ready with some supper when he comes home. Don’t matter when he comes home. I’ve been ridin’ hard for two days to get here and I’m hungry, so get down off that mule and fix me somethin’ to eat.”

  “What if I ain’t got nothin’ to fix?” she replied as she got down from the mule and walked up to the door. “A woman with a workin’ husband would have somethin’ to fix. Did you bring some food with you, or is it always like it used to be, you don’t come home with nothin’ but whiskey on your breath?” She pushed past him and went inside to see if by chance he had brought some food with him. The only additional thing she saw was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table and her pantry looking as if it had been rifled by a bear. She turned to confront Hog, only to be knocked off her feet by a vicious backhand.

  “Now,” he commanded, “things are gonna get back to where they was around here. I can see you’ve forgot who’s the head of this family, so I’ll damn sure straighten you out.”

  She lay there for a few moments, the dreadful memories rushing to her brain with the throbbing in her cheekbone. Her nightmare had returned and she wanted to scream out against it. But she fought to contain it, having learned in the past that her crying seemed to infuriate him, bringing even more abuse upon her. She got up on her hands and knees while he stood over her like a conqueror over a fallen foe, waiting to deliver the fatal blow. “There ain’t nothin’ in the house to cook but some side meat,” she finally whimpered. “There is some coffee and a little bit of flour. I can fry some of the meat for you.”

  He took a step back. “If that’s all you’ve got, then it’ll have to do.” He continued to watch her closely as she got to her feet. “How come you ain’t got no food? What was you gonna eat? You don’t look like you’ve been missin’ any meals.”

  “I eat at the hotel,” she said.

  “The hotel?” He almost exploded again. “How the hell can you eat at the hotel?”

  “I work there,” she explained, “so they let me take my meals there.”

  “Doin’ what?” he asked, already thinking the worst and preparing to administer punishment for it.

  “Cleanin’ lady and help in the kitchen,” she said. “How else do you think I could make it with you gone and not bringin’ home any money when you were home?”

  “Watch your mouth,” he warned, then snuffed contemptuously. “I thought you mighta took to whorin’. You mighta made two or three cents, if you got a man drunk enough.” He chortled over the thought of it. “You think I don’t ever have any money to buy food? Well, I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do tomorrow. You’re goin’ to McAdow’s store and buy somethin’ to put in that damn pantry with money I’m gonna give you. Now that I’m home, I’m gonna need somethin’ to eat. So get up offa the floor and find me somethin’ to eat right now.”

  Surprised that he actually had money to spend on supplies, she got up to do his bidding, disheartened to find that he was planning to stay for a while.

  * * *

  At the time of Ethel Thacker’s unhappy reunion with her husband, the man whose mission it was to track him down was encamped approximately twenty miles west of the little settlement of Coulson. Rascal and the sorrel packhorse grazed on a grassy slope between scattered growths of cottonwood trees, while Hawk sat near his campfire idly watching a strip of sowbelly roast. Come morning, he would ride on into Coulson, planning to first make the rounds of the saloons, thinking if anyone knew Hog Thacker, they would most likely be in a saloon. It had been quite some time since last he rode through Coulson. The town was little more than a post office and a sawmill, plus two saloons then. He had heard that there was now a hotel and another saloon along with a general merchandise store and some other businesses.

  When the sowbelly looked to be done, he poured himself another cup of coffee before taking the meat off the spit he had improvised from a green cottonwood branch. As he ate, he pictured the man he had seen in the dining room, Hog Thacker. According to what Ned had told him, Hog had said he was going to visit his wife. In spite of his reluctance to do so, he allowed himself to wonder about the man’s wife and if there were also children. He allowed himself to dwell on that for no more than half a minute before telling himself that all three of the outlaws were involved in the shootings of JoJo and Sheriff Willis. He’d be doing the world
a favor if he killed Hog Thacker. He turned in that night with resolve to take care of business.

  The next morning, he saddled his horses and rode the remaining twenty miles into Coulson, planning to get some breakfast there. Signs of growth since he had been there were easy to see as he walked his horses the length of the short street. At a glance, he decided the Paddle Wheel was the busiest saloon at this late hour of morning, so he pulled Rascal over and tied up at the rail. He took a good look at a couple of men sitting on a bench outside the door before entering the saloon. There was some concern that he might not recognize Hog again. He had seen him only that one time up close. The next time, he had been flailing a galloping horse, riding low on the horse’s neck on his way out of town.

  Inside, he paused at the door to look the dozen or so customers over before walking over to the bar, happy to see a man standing at the end, drinking a cup of coffee. He was talking to a man dressed in a morning coat who was standing behind the bar, and Hawk figured he might be the owner, since the bartender was easily recognized by the apron he wore. Hawk moved down the bar closer to the two men talking. “Name your poison,” the bartender greeted him.

  “It’s a little bit early for me to start on the hard stuff,” Hawk said. “Can I get a cup of that coffee those two fellows are drinkin’?”

  “Well, I don’t see why not,” the bartender said, “if you’ve got a nickel.”

  “That’s reasonable enough,” Hawk responded, and reached in his pocket to find a nickel.

  The bartender walked over to the stove, where a large gray pot was resting, and returned with a cup of strong black coffee. “Want some sugar?” When Hawk declined, the bartender said, “Five cents, one refill for no extra charge.” He paused there a few moments, studying the tall man in the buckskin shirt. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in here before, friend. You new in town or just passing through?”