No Justice in Hell

by Charles G. West

  “Mighty fine,” Hawk expressed while chewing up the first bite of the fried pork chop. He shook his head for emphasis and said, “You’ve still got every other cook in the territory whipped. No doubt about it.”

  Pleased, she carried the coffeepot over to fill her waiting customer’s cup. “What the hell are you in such a big hurry for, Henry? I know you ain’t in no hurry to get back to work.” She went back to the kitchen then, but she returned when Hawk was finishing up his pork chops and sat down at the table to talk. “You gonna be back in town awhile?”

  “Reckon not,” Hawk replied. “Gotta catch up with a fellow that passed through here the other day.”

  She thought about that for a moment before asking, “Ain’t you still scoutin’ for the soldiers?”

  “Well, yeah,” he answered, “but I need to see this particular fellow for a reason that ain’t got nothin’ to do with the soldiers.”

  “Has it got anything to do with the feather that ain’t in your hat no more?”

  “What? No.” He started, amazed that she even noticed the absence of his hawk feather, then he changed his mind. “Well, yeah, in a way I reckon it does, at that. I just need to catch up with him.”

  “Dark, sorta mean-lookin’ fellow, ridin’ a horse darker and meaner-lookin’ than him?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he replied, surprised. “How’d you guess that?”

  “’Cause he’s the only stranger I’ve happened to notice in town for the last few days,” she declared. “I saw him when he rode outta town.”

  She sparked Hawk’s interest with that statement. “Headed east, toward Big Timber?”

  “Not the man I saw,” she replied. “That fellow on the dark gray horse didn’t go out the east road. That fellow took the trail straight up the valley, headed north.”

  “Are you sure?” Hawk exclaimed at once, taken totally by surprise. He was so sure that Dubose was heading for the Hog Ranch at Big Timber. “You sure he wasn’t just ridin’ around behind the general store?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” Sadie replied. “Think I don’t know what I’m lookin’ at? I stopped and watched him ride up that trail between the hills, headed toward the Big Belt Mountains. At least the fellow I told you I saw rode up that way.”

  “Dark, heavyset fellow, riding a dappled gray horse?” Hawk pressed.

  “Yes,” she emphasized impatiently. “That’s what I said.”

  There could be no doubt, it had to be Dubose! He hadn’t given any thought toward the possibility that Dubose would head back north. It just made sense that he would want to put that territory far behind him and look for greener pastures up toward Billings or beyond, maybe Miles City. But the trail he took would lead him back to Helena unless he intended to turn and pass to the east of the Big Belts, possibly heading for his old haunts around Great Falls. He was stunned by the realization that he had been about to set out toward the Yellowstone, while Dubose was riding toward Helena. Then he became suddenly aware that Sadie was staring at him, puzzled by his sudden mental departure.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you? You look like you swallowed a bone or a piece of gristle,” she said. “You need some more coffee, or somethin’?”

  “No, I reckon I’d best get on my way.” He got to his feet and reached in his pocket for some money. The wheels in his brain were turning so fast, he could barely concentrate on how much he was putting on the table. The distinct possibility occurred to him that Dubose might be heading back to Helena to take his revenge on Bertie and Blossom. He thought about what Bertie had told him, that Zach Dubose was possessive to the point of brutality. Even though Hawk had spoiled his plan to kill Blossom that night at the Last Chance, she knew he would try again. The only thing that would stop him from trying was if he was dead. Thinking about that now, Hawk should have figured Dubose was on his way back to get to Blossom—especially when Dubose thought the one man after him had been sent off to chase shadows down in Mormon country. He would think he had free rein in Helena with no one to stop him.

  Hawk turned to leave, but Sadie caught his sleeve. “Here,” she said. “You don’t owe me that much for one plate of food.” She picked up a dollar and handed it back to him. “You sure you’re all right?”

  He quickly brought his mind back to focus on her. “Yeah, I’m all right,” he said, then grinned. She had surely saved him from riding off on a fruitless chase. “Thanks,” he blurted. “I’d give you a big kiss if I wasn’t afraid you’d whop me over the head with that coffeepot.”

  She smiled, the first one he’d ever seen on that no-nonsense face. “You’d do well to restrain yourself,” she said. “Now, get on your way, so I can clean this table up.” He gave her another big grin and headed for the door. If I was about fifteen years younger, she thought as she watched him leave.

  * * *

  He had planned to rest his horses a little longer, but he knew they were up to the task because it had not been a long ride from Lem Wooten’s place that morning. Rascal seemed willing, as usual, and there was no balking on the part of the red roan packhorse that once belonged to the late Johnny Dent. Unfortunately, he had no distinct trail he could follow after leaving Bozeman, for he saw several sets of prints heading north, including a set of wagon tracks. When about a half mile out of the settlement, the tracks split off in two different directions, east or west, with only one pattern left by two horses continuing north on a trail very familiar to him. He had traveled that trail many times on his way to Helena. There was no question in his mind now as far as an obligation to report in to the army at Fort Ellis. The urgency caused by the thought of Dubose heading to Helena to harm Bertie and Blossom was foremost in his mind and all that mattered at this point. When he came to a wide, rolling plain of grass, the tracks he had followed disappeared, but he was not inclined to take the time to try to find them again. It was a good twenty-five miles to the southern foot of the Big Belt Mountains, so he held Rascal to a steady pace. He remembered a good stream that came down out of the mountains on its way to empty into the Missouri. He had rested his horse there before. He would scout that area for any signs that could tell him if Dubose had veered more to the east, or headed more westerly on the eastern side of the Big Belts. That would depend, of course, on whether or not Dubose happened to stop at that particular spot. It was the obvious spot to camp, however, as witnessed by the traces of old campfires that he always found there.

  It was late afternoon when he reached the stream and the popular campsite beside it. He immediately dismounted and looked around the short stretch of trees that framed the stream, but there was no evidence of a recent campfire. “Where the hell did he camp?” he asked his horses. It occurred to him then that Dubose might not have camped there, but merely stayed long enough to rest his horses before pushing on. He hadn’t thought to ask Sadie if it was morning or afternoon when she saw Debose leave Bozeman. “That would make a helluva difference,” he told Rascal, annoyed with himself for not asking the question. He relieved his horses of their packs and saddle and left them to graze on the plentiful grass. Only then did he begin a thorough search up and down the stream for any evidence of a camp, or save that, a trail leading more to the east.

  His scout of the area around the stream bore no fruit. There was no recent sign of anyone ever having been there, only adding to his frustration and his sense of urgency. Maybe, he thought, he was chasing a ghost. He had lost Dubose’s trail, if in fact he had ever found it in the first place. He saw no choice for him, however, except to assume Dubose was heading to Helena, so he determined to get there, himself, as quickly as he could. And that was at least fifty miles from where he now stood, a long day’s ride. He kept reminding himself that if Blossom and Bertie were now in danger, it was his fault for being so gullible in buying Loafer Smith’s tale about Dubose going to Salt Lake City.

  It was out of the question to start out again before resting his horses. He decided to ride part of the way at night after they were rested to cut tomorrow�
�s journey down to half a day to reach Helena. So he threw some sticks and branches together and built a fire. He didn’t feel the desire for food, but a little coffee was desperately needed, so he filled his pot from the stream and waited for his fire to burn hot enough to make his coffee.

  * * *

  Zach Dubose sat beside a small fire on the bank of a wide stream two miles from Helena, eating a strip of sowbelly and drinking a cup of coffee. He was watching his horses drinking from the stream, but his mind was not focused on them at all. He was thinking of the last time he had seen Helena, and the thought of it caused a light pain in his shoulder, a reminder of the bullet that struck him as he, Red, and Hog had fled town. It had happened so suddenly that they didn’t have time to see who was shooting at them and whether or not they should try to stand and fight. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t fight with a bullet in his shoulder and Red and Hog were already running. Even after Doc Sumner took the bullet out of his shoulder and the three of them decided to leave Great Falls, they weren’t sure what they were running from, a single lawman or a posse. He didn’t know for sure until he caught up with him in Nevada City. When he found out it was a single lawman, it was too late to face him. Loafer had already sent him off toward Utah. Otherwise, he would have chosen to deal with the man himself. And the more he thought about it after the fact, the more certain he was that he would have killed him right there in Nevada City. It galled him now to think that he had been on the run from one single pursuer, even though it amused him to think of a lawman wandering blindly in search of him now in far-off Utah.

  With his lone hunter off in the wilderness, it left him free to return to Helena and the bitch who had run out on him. All the time he had run since then had caused his mind to dwell on the trouble Blossom and her mother had caused him. He intended to make them pay for it. The thought of Blossom’s expression when he showed up again brought a wicked smile to his face. Further thoughts on the pleasure he was to have upon seeing his wife again were interrupted momentarily by the sound of the back door closing at the farmhouse fifty yards away. “That’ll be my biscuits,” Dubose mumbled. A few minutes later, a young boy named Caleb appeared, carrying two biscuits wrapped in a cloth.

  “Mama said you don’t have to bother yourself with the rag,” Caleb said. “Just hang it on a limb and I’ll fetch it after you’re gone.”

  “You tell your mama I ’preciate it,” Dubose said. “I’ll be ridin’ on as soon as my horses are rested up a little. And thank you for bringin’ the biscuits.”

  “Yes, sir,” Caleb replied. “Weren’t no trouble.” He hesitated for a moment to watch Dubose take a bite out of one of the biscuits before turning to return to the house.

  Dubose watched the boy until he got back to the kitchen door, and he snorted a derisive chuckle for the boy’s parents’ gullibility. When he came upon the simple farmhouse a couple of miles from town, he decided it was an opportunity to find out what was going on in Helena. Most important, he needed information regarding the law. Red Whitley had shot the sheriff when they fled the town before—put a slug right in his gut. Dubose needed to know if the sheriff died, or if not, was he recovered from the gunshot? If Red killed him, did they have a new sheriff? These were questions he wanted answers to before he rode in. He wanted no surprises. Thanks to his cleverness, he had been able to get all the answers to young Caleb’s father—and a couple of biscuits to boot. He chuckled again when he thought about the story he had spun for them about his being a deputy U.S. marshal, chasing a fugitive. So now he was ready to ride into town and dare anyone to try to stop him. The sheriff was still laid up in bed and there was nobody in the sheriff’s office. His horses didn’t really need a rest, he was just biding his time until dark. There was no point in being careless and taking a chance on some do-gooder citizen taking a shot at him. He was counting on no one recognizing him, since he would be riding in on a horse drastically different from the Palouse he had ridden before.

  When the light had faded away to the point where he felt it dark enough, he kicked his fire out and stepped up in the saddle. When he rode by the house, the boy and his father stepped out on the porch to watch him. “Good luck with findin’ that outlaw,” Caleb’s father called out to Dubose.

  “Much obliged,” he returned.

  The boy and his father remained on the porch to watch the ominous man on the dappled gray horse until he disappeared into the growing darkness. “That is one scary-looking man,” the father commented to his son. “I almost feel sorry for that outlaw he’s after. That can’t be a very pleasant sight, to see him coming after you on that dark horse.”

  “He didn’t rest his horses very long, did he?” Caleb asked. “Didn’t even take the saddle off.”

  “I reckon he knows what he’s doing. It looks like he mighta roped that horse outta the devil’s herd. Maybe it doesn’t need any rest.”

  * * *

  Gladys Welch sat at a table alone in the half-empty saloon after the two miners she had been gabbing with finished their drinks and got up to leave. They didn’t even offer to buy her a drink. In the old days, one or both of them might have wanted to go upstairs with her for a ride. But that was in the old days and she was undecided as to whether or not she was glad those times were past. For certain, she missed the money, and maybe the attention, but she could honestly say she didn’t miss the rest of it. Nowadays, about all she was good for was conversation with old men, like the two leaving the saloon now, who were lacking the inclination or the ability, or both. She could lament about missing the good old days, save for the fact that there weren’t any good old days in her memory. Times had always been hard ever since she left her father’s home in Missouri to wake up one morning a week later to discover the lover she ran off with had left while she was still asleep.

  Weary of such thoughts, she shifted her gaze to Bertie Brown, just coming from the storeroom carrying several bottles of whiskey in preparation for the busy nighttime customers. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Bertie and her daughter. Sam Ingram had turned almost all the management of the saloon over to Bertie, and Gladys had to admit that Bertie knew how to run a saloon. She had worked with Bertie before, quite a few years back, and Bertie was capable back then, even while practicing the “oldest profession” herself. Like Gladys, Bertie was too old for anything more than management now, but at that, she was good. In the short time since Bertie had been here, Last Chance Saloon had already begun to recover some of the business it had lost to the Gold Nugget. Blossom was, of course, the main attraction, but business should improve even more since Bertie had persuaded Ginger Plover to leave the Gold Nugget and come to the Last Chance. Ginger should give Blossom some competition. Gladys had to give Bertie credit, and her thanks as well, for not kicking her out the door, even when Sam suggested it. Bertie convinced him that he needed someone who could serve as an available ear for the old ramblings of his older customers—ever encouraging them to buy more whiskey. So Gladys guessed that’s what she was now. Bertie even had a name for it. She was a “persuader.” She shook her head when she repeated it to herself.

  When Bertie went back to the storeroom again, Gladys decided the “persuader” should get up and find another customer to visit with. Halfway up out of her chair, she was stopped by the sight of a man standing just outside the front doorway and looking in. Something about him looked familiar, but not like she would remember a regular customer. Then it struck her where she had seen him before and she sank back down in the chair, immediately alarmed. Zach Dubose, Blossom’s husband! She looked around the room hurriedly, then remembered Blossom was upstairs entertaining a cowboy called Tex. Gladys didn’t know what to do. Bertie was in the storeroom and might walk out at any minute, and Gladys was afraid that if she suddenly ran to warn her, Dubose would see her at once.

  Thinking she couldn’t just sit there and do nothing, she eased herself up out of the chair again, telling herself to appear casual. So far, he didn’t seem to pay her any attention
, standing just outside the doorway, scanning the room, searching for his prey. She forced herself to affect a casual stroll toward the storeroom door. When she opened it, she almost ran headlong into Bertie, who was carrying more bottles to the bar. Acting quickly then, Gladys pushed Bertie back into the storeroom and closed the door. “What the hell, Gladys?” Bertie exclaimed, almost dropping the bottles.

  “It’s him!” Gladys blurted. “He’s come back!”

  “Who?” Bertie demanded, getting a better grip on the bottles. “Who’s come back?”

  “That evil son of a bitch your daughter married,” Gladys exclaimed. “He’s standin’ in the door and he’s lookin’ for Blossom.”

  Horrified, Bertie almost dropped the bottles again. She had never expected to see Zach Dubose again after he had been forced to run for his life. “Where’s Blossom? Is she downstairs?”

  “No, at least not when I came in here. She’s still upstairs with that young fellow named Tex.” She started wringing her hands, frightened. “If he finds her, he’ll kill her. He said he was gonna kill her last time he was here.”

  Bertie tried to calm herself to gain control. “Not if I can help it,” she declared, and placed the bottles down on a table while she tried to decide what to do. “I’d know what to do if I had my damn rifle in here.” She looked around her, frantically searching for something to use as a weapon. “I owe that son of a bitch one,” she declared as she reached up and felt the scar on the side of her forehead where he had knocked her senseless with the butt of his rifle. Unable to find anything to use for a weapon, she picked up one of the full bottles of whiskey and then opened the door just enough to peek out into the barroom. She felt a tremor of anger surge through her body when she saw his defiant swagger as he approached the bar. She saw Dewey suddenly freeze when he looked up and recognized Dubose. “Keep your mouth shut, Dewey,” she mumbled to herself, afraid the bartender would tell Dubose where Blossom was.