No Justice in Hell

by Charles G. West

  After a couple of hours following Robert along a dark passage between mountains on both sides, Bertie’s feeling of anxiety began to give way to one of hunger. All of this chaos began just before suppertime and now she became aware of the fact she had made no provision for food. “About time to rest these horses, isn’t it?” she called up ahead to their silent guide.

  “Not yet,” he called back. “Half a mile there’s a stream, water for the horses, better place to stop.”

  Bertie looked back at Blossom on the mare, wondering if her bottom was as much in need of relief as hers. It had been some time since either of them had ridden a horse. The last time they had traveled any distance, they were sitting on a wagon seat and the horse she now rode had been on one side of the wagon tongue. They had both stopped looking behind them so frequently, fearing they might see Zach Dubose coming after them. There was a feeling of safety in the darkness between the mountains.

  In a few minutes more, a large yellow full moon rose above the mountains, casting soft light along their way. It happened just at the moment Robert reined up at the stream. He turned to them and said, “We’ll ride up the stream a little way. Good place to camp.”

  “Are we gonna camp the night?” Bertie asked. “Or just long enough to rest the horses?”

  “Up to you,” Robert said. “I don’t think you came ready to camp. Maybe you’d rather go on to my home after the horses are rested.” He saw no signs of blankets with them, and he guessed that the sack they brought held nothing but clothes. He was glad to see they had both brought coats, for the nights were already cold. “You decide after we eat.”

  Leaving the trail some thirty or forty yards, they came to a small clearing in the evergreen trees, wide enough to permit some grass to grow. In the moonlight that shone, though, there was evidence of old campfires. After taking care of the horses, Robert collected wood to start a fire on the ashes of one of the previous fires. When it was burning to his satisfaction, he went to one of his packs and removed a small coffeepot and a sack of roasted coffee beans. It was enough to lift the spirits of both women. Bertie leaned close to Blossom’s ear and whispered, “I thought he was a Good Samaritan before, but now I believe he’s a damn angel.” She was still amazed that he would take the risk of harboring them. To Robert, then, she said, “Here, let me make that for you.” He let her take the pot while he returned to his packs to get some jerky to roast over the flames that were already burning brightly.

  “Did you bring cups in your sack?” he asked.

  “No, we didn’t,” Blossom answered. “There were a lot of things we didn’t think about. Eating was one of them.”

  “I have two cups. One of them is cracked, but it will hold coffee. You can use them. I will wait to drink coffee after you are finished.”

  “No,” Bertie quickly replied, already feeling quite a bit inadequate in their preparation to flee. “Blossom and I can share a cup.”

  They finished the coffee and meat Robert provided almost in silence, for both women were still in a state of indecision and apprehension. The discussion that did take place between them was mostly centered on what they should do after that night. Robert, a young man of very few words, spoke only when asked a question, then answered in as few words as possible. Bertie decided that he must surely have more Indian blood than white. After their simple supper, they decided they would prefer to ride straight through the night rather than trying to fashion a bed out of the boughs from the fir trees, as Robert suggested. He was agreeable, having already told them it was an option. There was also the desire to put as much distance behind them as quickly as they could. So when the horses were ready, Robert led them back down the stream and continued on the trail to the Clark Fork.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, the town of Helena was still under siege from one man. With none of the shopkeepers or merchants willing to attempt to stop this fearsome intruder after seeing the fate of Chad Benton, Zach Dubose was free to search the length of the street unopposed. His search was thorough, with no doors remaining closed to him, and he left a trail of broken locks and damaged merchandise behind him, to no avail, however. So he returned to the Last Chance Saloon, thinking Blossom might have returned in hopes he would not search there again. When he got to the door, he found it barred, forgetting he had barred it himself. It served only to make him believe Blossom must have returned. He put his shoulder to the door, then tried to kick it open, but the door was stronger than he. In a furious rage, he began shouting that if the door was not opened from inside, he was going to smash out the window and kill everybody in the saloon. “I’ll open it, I’ll open it,” came the voice of the frightened Dewey Smith. In a few seconds, the bar was lifted from the door. With his .44 ready to shoot, Dubose started to walk in, but paused for a few moments when he heard the sounds of some of the people leaving town, fleeing his wrath on the other end of the street. It brought a smile to his face, for it served to convince him of his power over the whole town and the fear they had of him.

  Inside, he leveled his weapon at Dewey, who had hurried back from the door to stand behind the bar. “Reach under that counter and take that shotgun out and lay it on top of the bar,” Dubose said. “Do it real easy-like.”

  “Ain’t no shotgun under here,” Dewey said. “Bertie took it with her.” He held his hands up, both palms out. “I swear.”

  “Where’s Blossom?”

  “She’s gone. Her and Bertie, too.”

  “Is that so? Who’s that in the kitchen?” he asked when he heard a sound.

  “That’s just Daisy and Gladys,” Dewey said. “Ain’t nobody else in the whole place, upstairs or down.”

  Dubose cocked the hammer back on his Colt. “I’ll take a look, myself, and if you’re lyin’ to me, I’m gonna put a bullet right through your head.” He was disappointed to hear that he had not hit Bertie hard enough to crack her skull. “Get out from behind that bar. You’re goin’ in the kitchen with me.” He walked Dewey through the door ahead of him. Inside, he found Gladys and Daisy standing by the table, Gladys staring wide-eyed in fear, Daisy with a heavy iron frying pan in her hand. Dubose took a quick look around the room before questioning Daisy. “Just what the hell are you thinkin’ you’re gonna do with that fryin’ pan?” he demanded, thinking it was surely intended to be a weapon.

  “I’m fixin’ to fry some supper,” she replied fearlessly. “With you runnin’ around like a crazy man, ain’t nobody in town had any time to eat supper.” Both Dewey and Gladys cringed at her open disdain for the brutal killer.

  Dubose pointed the cocked pistol at the stubborn woman, gesturing with it as he said, “You’ve got a real sassy mouth on you. It’s liable to cause you to get a .44 slug in it for you to chew on.” She made no reply, other than a defiant snort. “Now, just to be sure you ain’t lyin’ to me, the four of us are gonna go upstairs to make sure ain’t nobody hidin’ up there.” He motioned with his pistol toward the door. When Daisy showed signs of balking, Dewey grabbed her by her elbow and guided her through the door.

  The three of them went up the stairs before him and into each room on the second floor, knowing he was using them as a shield against Bertie waiting somewhere for him to walk in. When he had searched every room, he herded them back downstairs. “Dewey already told you Blossom and Bertie have gone,” Daisy said. “You’da probably had a better chance to catch ’em if you hadn’t wasted all your time scarin’ the good folks in this town.”

  He considered it, glaring at the outspoken little woman for a long moment, but he held back for no reason he could explain. Maybe it was because what she had just said was true. He had wasted a hell of a lot of time searching the town. If they had left town, they had to have horses and that meant he should have checked the stable before anywhere else. “Damn,” he swore, thinking about it. Before leaving, however, he went behind the bar and opened the cash drawer, cleaning out the larger bills and the dollar coins.

  “You ain’t just a murderer, you’re a thie
f, too,” Daisy could not help saying.

  “That’s right, bitch,” Dubose said with a twisted smile, then gave her a blow across her brow with the barrel of his pistol. She fell back to be caught in Gladys’s arms. Dewey started toward Dubose, but stopped when Dubose smiled at him and encouraged him to come on.

  “Stop, Dewey!” Daisy managed to command. “Don’t give the son of a bitch a reason to shoot you.”

  “That’s right, Dewey,” Dubose mocked, “’cause I’d sure blow you straight to hell.” He threw his head back and laughed as he went out the door.

  “Right now is when I wish I had a gun,” Daisy said as they watched from the window until the belligerent bully climbed on his dark dappled gray horse and loped off toward the stable. She stood still then while Gladys wiped the blood from her face with a clean bar towel. “I hope Bertie and Blossom ain’t hidin’ down at the stable.” All they knew for sure was that the two women had fled to the stable with the intention of leaving town.

  “There wasn’t nothin’ I could do,” Dewey pleaded for his failure to act.

  “I know there wasn’t, hon,” Daisy assured him. “I’da never forgave you if you’da tried to do somethin’ stupid and got yourself killed.”

  * * *

  “Oh Lord,” Frank Bowen muttered when the dappled gray gelding pulled up at his stable door. He had been lucky so far, but it now appeared that he wasn’t going to be spared the harassment his fellow citizens had suffered. Peering up the street from the door of his stable, he had seen Dubose come out of the Last Chance and climb on his horse. Much to his dismay, the brutal outlaw did not ride out of town, but started directly toward Bowen’s stable. Bowen was faced with a decision that had to be made quickly. He had strapped on his gun belt with his .44 in the holster and was carrying his rifle in his hand in case he would be forced to defend himself. Now it occurred to him that he might be in more danger being so armed. Maybe he’ll just look around and leave me be when he doesn’t find Blossom here, he thought. But if I’m carrying weapons, he might think I plan to fight. He quickly made his decision, took the gun belt off, shoved it in a feed bin, and leaned his rifle in the corner behind the door. Stripped of all weapons, he hurried out to meet Dubose as he climbed down from his horse.

  “You can save me a lot of time and maybe stay alive if you just tell me right off where my wife is hidin’,” Dubose blurted.

  Hoping to appear innocent, Bowen answered. “Why, I surely don’t know. They’re not here. You can look around if you want to.”

  “Damn right I can,” Dubose threatened, “and I will.” He was smart enough to pick up on a slip Bowen had just made. He had asked where Blossom was, and Bowen said that they weren’t here. He figured Bowen wouldn’t know the two women had run off together unless they had come here, so they must have gotten horses here. “Now, me and you don’t know each other very well,” he said, “but I’m the kinda feller you don’t wanna tell no lies. ’Cause, if you do, I’ll shoot you down like the lyin’ dog you are. Bertie and Blossom were here to get horses. Where were they goin’?” When Bowen didn’t answer right away, Dubose drew his pistol and pulled the hammer back.

  “I don’t know where they went,” Bowen answered, stumbling over his words.

  “Wrong answer,” Dubose said, and brought the. 44 up to aim at Bowen’s head. “You’re goin’ to your grave ’cause you tried to save two old whores.”

  “Wait!” Bowen pleaded. “I swear, I don’t know where they were headin’. I asked them, but they said it was better if I didn’t know. I swear.”

  “I’m tired of your damn lies,” Dubose said. “I’m through foolin’ with you.” He aimed his pistol right at Bowen’s eyes.

  “They rode west!” Bowen exclaimed, “toward MacDonald Pass!”

  “That’s more like it,” Dubose said, and lowered his pistol. “But if it turns out you’re lyin’, I’ll be back to see you. You can count on that.” Confident that Bowen had been too scared to lie, he didn’t bother to search the stalls. He didn’t want to waste any more time, so he turned and headed back to his horses. He was almost out the door when he heard the cocking of the rifle behind him. Without hesitating, he spun around and fired. Bowen doubled over in pain with a bullet in his gut. A second bullet finished him off when it struck his chest. “Ha!” Dubose exclaimed, impressed by his speed with a gun, even though his pistol had still been in his hand and not holstered. “He musta had that rifle hid behind the door.”

  He climbed up into the saddle and turned the gray toward the western trail, anxious to get started after the women. Even though he didn’t know the trail well enough to follow it in the dark, he didn’t want to take a chance on making camp for the night too close to Helena. He didn’t want to be caught sleeping in the event there was a breakout of bravery on the part of the merchants. He figured he might not catch up with Blossom and Bertie before morning, but he would catch up with them eventually. He was determined to follow their trail until he did, no matter how long it took.

  * * *

  Hawk rode into Helena in the early afternoon, not sure how far behind he might be in his effort to overtake Zach Dubose. Off to his left, on the treeless hill that served as the graveyard, he saw a couple of wagons, a buckboard, and a small group of people gathered around what appeared to be two graves. He immediately knew they had something to do with Dubose, so he guided Rascal toward the hill. As he approached, he recognized the undertaker, Fred Carver, and a couple of the others standing in support of a woman dressed in black and openly sobbing. He was surprised that one of the mourners was Gladys Welch, a whore from the saloon. The gathering parted to look at him when they became aware of his presence. Getting a little closer, he realized there were three graves instead of two. Out of respect for the woman who had obviously lost someone dear to her, he reined his horses back until the ceremony was completed and some friends led the grieving woman back to the buckboard. When she had gone, he dismounted and walked over to talk with Grover Bramble, who was standing beside one of the graves, talking to Fred Carver.

  “Hawk,” Grover greeted him. “You’re a little late for the funeral.”

  “Looks that way,” Hawk returned. “Don’t look like old age was the cause of death in all three cases.”

  “You can say that again,” Fred commented. “We got visited by that damn monster looking for that new little whore at the Last Chance. He shot up the whole town and there wasn’t anybody to stop him with Porter Willis still laid up in bed.”

  Having already assumed that the funeral was a result of the outlaw’s search for Blossom, Hawk was not surprised. “Any chance one of those graves is Dubose?”

  “Afraid not,” Grover answered, and pointed them out. “That one is Chad Benton. That’s his wife drivin’ off in the buckboard. The one in the middle is Frank Bowen. We found him shot dead in his stable. The other’un is a young cowboy called Tex. Nobody knows his real name. He got gunned down when he tried to face up to Dubose.” He nodded in Gladys’s direction. “That’s the reason she’s here, since he didn’t have nobody to mourn him.”

  “What about the women, Bertie and her daughter?” Hawk asked. “Are they all right?”

  “Don’t know,” Grover replied. “They lit out, accordin’ to what Gladys says, but she don’t know where. She said she helped ’em get away, but they didn’t know where they were goin’—just up in the mountains somewhere to hide. All she knows is they were goin’ to the stable to get that sorrel Bertie owns.”

  “What about Dubose? Is he still in town?”

  “No, thank goodness, he’s gone, so I reckon he found out they took off and he’s still chasin’ after ’em.” He shrugged. “Figure that’s when he took care of poor Frank.”

  “When did all this happen?” Hawk asked.

  “Last night.” When he saw that Hawk was seriously thinking that over, he asked, “How do you happen to be back to town?”

  “I’ve been tryin’ to catch up with Dubose ever since I realized he was headed bac
k here,” Hawk replied, “but I reckon I’m too late. I was hopin’ I could keep something like this from happenin’.”

  “I reckon there’s some folks lyin’ in these graves that wish you’da got here, and especially Betty Benton.” He shook his head as if apologizing. “I swear, Hawk, there ain’t nobody in this town that was willin’ to go up against that monster. Nobody even willin’ to take a shot with a rifle at long distance. I’m ashamed to say I loaded my rifle and found me a place to protect myself behind my forge, but I didn’t go out lookin’ for him.”

  “I don’t reckon it was your job to take on,” Hawk said, fully understanding the reasoning of a man of Grover’s age.

  “It ain’t your job, either. That’s a damn dangerous man to mess with,” Grover cautioned. “He’s a case for the law to handle. We’ve already telegraphed the Marshals Service this mornin’ about Dubose and they said the closest deputy marshal to us is three days away, but he’s supposed to be headin’ here as fast as he can.”

  That was something to think about, to let the law do their job, but the deputy was three days away from where he had to start looking for Dubose. During that length of time, anything could happen. Hawk had no choice but to keep on. Blossom did not deserve to die at the hands of that murderer, nor did Bertie. And he could not live with himself if he did not fulfill his solemn promise to JoJo. “Do you have any idea where they mighta gone?” Hawk asked.

  “For a fact, I don’t,” Grover said, straining his brain to think of anything that might help. Then he remembered. “That young son of Rubin Fagan’s was in the stable sometime before I heard the gunshot that killed poor Frank. He might be able to tell you somethin’, if you can find him.”

  “Who’s runnin’ the stable now?”

  “Nobody,” Grover said. “I’ve been lookin’ after the stock. Frank didn’t have no family, just him.”

  “You gonna take it over?”

  “I’m thinkin’ about it. I’ve been talkin’ to Sam Ingram about it and he said he’d help me get started if I needed it. It might work out pretty good with my blacksmithin’.”