No Justice in Hell

by Charles G. West

  “Do we shoot after you say three, or at the same time you say three?” Slim wanted to know. Slim was known to be simpleminded, so the question didn’t surprise the other two.

  “You rest your finger on that trigger and when you hear the word three, you squeeze it, all right?” Bevo said. When Slim said, “All right,” Bevo started the count, “One . . .” was as far as he got before the lethal warning.

  “You say three and you’re a dead man.” The deadly promise came from behind him, causing Bevo to freeze.

  Confused, Johnny turned and fired his rifle, but his shot screamed harmlessly up through the trees when a slug from Hawk’s Winchester slammed solidly into his chest. Reacting then, Bevo spun around, but not before Hawk had cranked another round into the chamber and stood with his rifle pointing squarely at the startled man’s face. “Hold on!” Bevo shouted, and dropped his weapon. If Slim Perry had any notions about taking a shot, they were promptly rejected when the sentry came running to investigate. Slim dropped his rifle and stood with his hands up.

  “Everythin’s under control,” Hawk called out to the rapidly approaching guard. “We’ve got a couple of prisoners here with their hands up.” His only concern at the moment was the prospect of getting shot by the sentry. By this time, there was a minor state of chaos in the camp behind the sentry, as the other soldiers scrambled out of their blankets, thinking they were under attack. “Everythin’s under control!” Hawk repeated, but this time it was a yell.

  “Is that you, Hawk?” Lieutenant Conner called out from the small tree he had taken cover behind. “What was the shooting about?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Tell your men to hold their fire.” He looked at the sentry. “What’s your name, soldier?” The sentry responded, still excited about what had just taken place, although he was not yet sure exactly what that was. Hawk called out again. “Me and McQueen are bringin’ in a couple of prisoners, so hold your fire.”

  “Come on, then,” Conner called back, and he and the other men gathered back at the campsite they had just abandoned. That is, all but one soul. The courier, John Durham, never left his bedroll, but had remained cowering there throughout the attack gone bad. He crawled out of his blankets only when all the soldiers returned from the various trees and logs they had scrambled to for cover. He still lingered behind the men as Hawk and Private McQueen marched Bevo Brogan and Slim Perry into the camp. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Conner swore, then turned to the soldier closest to him. “Build up that fire, so we can see a little better.” While the soldier jumped to obey, being as anxious to see as the lieutenant, Conner kept his eyes on the prisoners. “Is that it?” Conner asked. “Where are the rest of them?”

  Hawk directed the prisoners to sit down, so Bevo and Slim did as he ordered and sat down by the fire, which was rapidly gathering strength. “There’s another one back on the other side of the creek I had to shoot.”

  “Another one?” Conner asked. “And that’s all? You mean you’re telling me three men were planning to attack an army escort more than twice their number?”

  “Looks that way,” Hawk answered.

  “See, we figured we could cut down the odds if we was to shoot most of you while you was asleep,” Slim volunteered.

  “Shut up, Slim,” Bevo blurted out, shocked by his simple partner’s confession.

  Addressing Bevo, Conner asked, “How did you know this payroll was going to Butte on this particular day?”

  “Ask him,” Bevo answered, pointing at Durham, who was trying not to be conspicuous. Everyone turned to stare at him.

  Obviously flustered, Durham emitted a small choking cough before responding. “Why are you looking at me? I’ve never seen this man before.”

  “Lyin’ son of a bitch!” Bevo exclaimed. “I ain’t takin’ the blame for this all by myself!” His anger rising now, he charged, “You said there’d likely be two guards ridin’ your ass up to Butte, not a whole damn patrol. And Johnny Dent layin’ dead back on the other side of the creek,” he added. Finding the story more than a little interesting, Hawk recalled his initial thoughts about Durham’s nervousness from the beginning. Then he remembered how Durham, himself, had commented that he hadn’t expected so many in his escort when they picked him up at the bank.

  Barely able to talk above a squeak now, Durham insisted, “The man obviously has a mental problem. I’ve never set eyes on him before and he certainly doesn’t know me.”

  “Is that so?” Bevo replied, determined that if he was going to pay for the attempted robbery, the man who planned the whole thing was going to share the blame. “I know your name is Mr. John Durham and you were a whole helluva lot more anxious to know me and Johnny Dent when you set yourself down at the table in the Trail’s End Saloon back in Bozeman.”

  “That’s right,” Slim piped up again. “I wasn’t with ’em that night. They came to get me later to help ’em out.”

  Hawk almost laughed. If they got those two in front of a judge, it would be a helluva job to keep the simpleminded one from confessing every detail, and possibly owning up to several other crimes. “This is downright entertainin’,” he said to Conner, “but I think I’ll go back and check on that fellow I shot and see if I can round up their horses.”

  “You want me to send a man to help you?”

  “No, no need,” Hawk replied. “I’ll be back shortly.” He whistled softly and in a few seconds, Rascal walked up to be saddled. Hawk didn’t bother with the saddle, however, but jumped on the buckskin’s back. He figured it would be easier to find the three horses with Rascal’s help and this time he’d cross the creek on horseback. His trousers were going to be a long time drying out as it was, since he walked Bevo and Slim across before.

  He found Johnny Dent’s body in roughly the same position he had left it. It appeared that Dent had made a few futile efforts to get up, but he hadn’t made much progress before the devil called him. Hawk relieved the body of its weapons and cartridges, with an eye toward selling the weapons. He had an idea that Connor would not insist that they be confiscated by the military, knowing that Hawk had to count on resources outside his modest pay as a scout. He would leave it up to Conner as to whether or not to bury the body. If it was up to him, he’d leave it for the scavengers to feed on.

  Knowing the horses couldn’t be far away, he rode back away from the creek until he heard one of them give an inquiring whinny to Rascal and he found them tied in a clump of bushes. When he led them back to camp, he saw that Conner had given orders to tie the two would-be assassins hand and foot and leave them by the fire to dry their trousers. Conner was in the process of deciding what to do with Durham. As far as sleep was concerned, it was apparent that this night was shot, for there was already coffee boiling in the ashes of the fire. None of the soldiers were inclined to go back to bed as long as there was so much going on.

  With a thought toward picking up an extra horse, Hawk wanted to identify the one that belonged to the dead man. He was pretty sure where he would get an honest answer, so he stopped by the fire long enough to ask Slim which horse belonged to the dead man. The red roan, he was promptly told. With any other officer, the horse would become government property, but with Conner, there was always a chance he might let Hawk take possession of it. He took the horses over with the army mounts and pulled the saddles off the three he had picked up.

  “To tell you the truth, Durham,” Conner was saying when Hawk walked up to listen, “I’ve never quite had a situation like yours before.” He was obviously not sure what he should do with W. A. Clark’s trusted assistant, whether to tie him up with his accomplices, or trust him to be on his good behavior until they reached Clark’s offices at the quartz mill. Whereas it might seem fit to let Clark deal with him, it might be protocol to place him in jail and notify the U.S. Marshals Service to send a deputy to transport him back for trial. To his knowledge, there was no jail in Butte, however. As for Bevo and Slim, their crime was an assault on a U.S. Army patrol. They would be taken back t
o Fort Ellis to stand trial.

  “I tell you, Lieutenant, you’re making a huge mistake,” Durham pleaded. “It’s my word against the word of two craven outlaws, who obviously intended to steal this payroll and kill every one of us. Surely you won’t take the word of an outright outlaw over one who was trusted enough by my employer to carry this money. This is not the first time I have been entrusted to carry the payroll.” He looked with pleading eyes from Conner to Hawk and back again.

  “There’s always a first time, I reckon,” Hawk commented, firmly convinced that Durham was guilty of the conspiracy to steal the payroll.

  “Here’s what I’m gonna do,” Conner finally decided. “I’m taking your two accomplices back with me to Fort Ellis to stand trial. If you’ll give me your word that you won’t try to escape, then I won’t put you in restraints. But I’ll be taking possession of those saddlebags holding the money. When we get to Butte, I’ll turn you and the money over to your company and they can do whatever they think best.” Durham looked sort of sick about the decision, but had to figure it was better than being trussed up like his conspirators for a full day of riding ahead of them before they reached Butte.

  * * *

  Upon reaching the headquarters of W. A. Clark’s quartz enterprise, Lieutenant Conner, along with two troopers, escorted Durham into the office, where they were met by Clark’s second-in-command. “Well, hello, John,” Marshall Talbot greeted Durham. “I see you made it all right. With that escort, I can see why there wasn’t much danger of trouble.” He flashed a wide smile toward Conner. “Thank you for your help, Lieutenant. We’re always grateful for the army’s protection on these payroll runs.” It struck him then that something didn’t seem right. Instead of responding to his greeting, Durham remained silent and continued to stand behind the lieutenant and between the two soldiers.

  “There was a little trouble on the ride up here,” Conner began. He introduced himself, then went on to inform Talbot about the attempted payroll holdup. He handed the astonished Talbot the saddlebags carrying the money. “Like I said, we have two of the three accomplices in our custody and I see it as my responsibility to take them back to Fort Ellis for trial. I’m turning Mr. Durham over to you to punish as you see fit. I don’t know of any precedent for his actions, so I’m not interested in taking him to a court.”

  Durham pleaded to the obviously flabbergasted Talbot. “Marshall, this is all some terrible mistake. I don’t know why these outlaws who attempted to steal the payroll said that I was a part of it. It’s such an absurd accusation, I would hope you know me better than to believe such a tale.”

  Totally at a loss as to what action he should take, Talbot was struck speechless for a long moment. Who could he believe? He wasn’t sure. It was inconceivable to think John Durham capable of such a crime, but the accusations made by the lieutenant were hard to refute.

  Knowing the quandary he had created for the milling company, Conner found the situation almost amusing. For his part, he didn’t really care what the company did about Durham, he just wanted to be rid of him. So he said, “The army’s responsibility ends with the delivery of the payroll and your employee. Good day, sir.” He turned and walked out.

  Outside, he climbed on his horse and laughed when he said to Hawk, “We sure left that fellow in a pickle. He doesn’t have a clue about what to do with ol’ Durham.” He wheeled his horse and started back. “Let’s get the hell away from here before they try to give him back to us.” Hawk heard him chuckling to himself as he nudged his horse to lope away from the mill. Hawk followed, leading the red roan that had belonged to Johnny Dent. Behind him, the troopers escorted Bevo and Slim, their hands tied together behind their backs.

  CHAPTER 9

  They descended the trail they had arrived on, down from the hill and the diggings to the town of Butte, which was little more than a ghost town since most of the gold and silver miners had given up and moved on. There were a few dreamers still working the veins, but the only productive operations were now the less-precious mines, like W. A. Clark’s. In the town, there was a post office, a general store, and a saloon, the latter of which drew the interest of the soldiers. Lieutenant Conner was a favorite among the enlisted men, not only for his fair-minded manner, but also because of his carefree disregard for strict military protocol. Consequently, it was not surprising that Corporal Johnson pulled up alongside of him and suggested that it would be good for morale if the men were allowed the opportunity to have a drink of whiskey. “We’ve delivered the payroll safe and sound and stopped an attempted robbery,” he said. “It sure would go a long way with the men, if you were to let ’em have a drink or two. I’d go with ’em to make sure it didn’t go any further than that.”

  “Oh, you would, huh?” Conner japed. “You’d make that sacrifice? Well, who’s gonna make sure you limit yourself to one or two?” He let Johnson struggle for a reply for a second or two before giving in. “I wanna find a good spot to camp down here in the valley and we’ll stop here for the night. When the camp is squared away and the horses are taken care of, you can let the men go into town, half of ’em at a time. I want guards on our prisoners at all times. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir, understood,” Johnson eagerly replied. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I don’t want anybody failing to show up here before I’m ready to ride in the morning, Corporal. Is that understood? I’ll send Hawk to look for them with orders to kill.”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnson said. “I’ll tell ’em,” he said, and fell back to give the men the good news.

  Hawk found a suitable place to make camp not too far from the town by a small stream. The rickety remains of an old sluice box bore evidence of past placer mining, but the water was now clear and there was grass enough for the horses. Since every man was supplied with rations for himself, there was normally no particular time when they ate it. On this occasion, however, Conner ordered every man to eat his supper before walking to the saloon. That way, he figured there was half a chance a couple of drinks on a full stomach wouldn’t hit them too hard. “How about you?” Conner asked Hawk. “You wanna go have a drink, too?”

  “Reckon not,” Hawk replied. Thinking of the usual results that followed the release of a group of soldiers to the temptations of a saloon, he decided it might be best to have a few sober men left to keep an eye on things.

  As soon as the chores were done, someone cut some branches into long and short sticks to see who went into town on the first shift. One of the men, a religious man named Solomon, had no desire to visit the saloon, so there were only six sticks cut and Solomon held them for the others to draw. The prisoners watched all this in silence until Bevo felt the urge to complain. “Hey,” he yelled. “What about me? I could use a drink of likker. Ain’t you gonna take care of your prisoners?”

  “Why, hell,” Corporal Johnson replied, pretending to be shocked. “Where’s my manners? Course, you’ll have to promise you’ll come back.”

  Bevo sneered, but made no further comment. Slim, on the other hand, was baffled when Bevo failed to reply. “I promise I’ll come back,” he volunteered, in honest sincerity.

  “Slim, you ain’t got the brains of a pine knot,” Bevo said.

  “I wasn’t really gonna come back,” Slim whispered. “I was just gonna let him think I was.”

  * * *

  Morning came early and painfully for the majority of the seven soldiers after a night of drinking with little or no sleep. Whereas he had been kindly indulgent in permitting his men to visit the saloon the night before, Lieutenant Conner showed no mercy in his marching orders on the morning after. The result was a slovenly column of cavalry that escorted their two prisoners through the mountain pass east of the town on the long march back to Fort Ellis. Of the numerous complaints, none was as legitimate as that from the prisoners, for they had spent the night sitting at the base of a tree, their arms and legs tied around the trunk. Conner confided to Hawk that it had been a mistake to let the men visit the sa
loon, thinking he could trust them to have a couple of shots and return to their duties. Hawk shrugged and said there was no real harm done, since all the men came back to camp. “You didn’t make a mistake in trustin’ the men. It’s the whiskey you can’t trust.”

  It was Conner’s intent on the return march to simply use the same rest stops and camping sites they had used on the trip to Butte. So the first stop was at the Jefferson River to rest the horses and to make some coffee to doctor the aching heads that needed relief. “Lord, I hope to hell we don’t encounter a Blackfoot war party,” the lieutenant expressed to Hawk as they drank a cup of coffee. “We couldn’t put up much of a fight.” With the exception of the guard, Private Solomon, watching the prisoners and Hawk and himself, the rest of his command was trying to catch up on the sleep they had missed the night before.

  “The Blackfeet ain’t on the warpath now,” Hawk said, “at least the village Bloody Hand belongs to ain’t.”

  “You keep telling me that,” Conner replied. “But I know they like to fight. It’ll just be a matter of time and I hope this ain’t the time—not while I’m commanding this gang of drunks.” Hawk laughed, not really worried about the possibility. He glanced over at the two prisoners, seated on the opposite side of the fire from Private Solomon. They were drinking coffee and eating some strips of bacon, their wrists bound together by rope, since the patrol had no handcuffs or chains. “It’s a good thing they had some bacon and jerky with them,” Conner said, “or we wouldn’t have anything to feed them.”

  “If you ain’t in a hurry to get back, there’s got to be plenty of deer up in those hills. I could take a little ride up there this evenin’ and see if I could find one. That’d be plenty of meat for everybody. I expect your boys would enjoy some fresh roasted venison, too.”

  “That is a tempting thought,” Conner said. “I’m not in any hurry to get back, but I hate to have the men lie around here for the rest of the day and put us a half day behind.” He knew that the best time of day to hunt deer was in the morning or evening when they were more likely to come out to feed.