Grabbing his Henry rifle from behind the elk horn rocker, he said, "I love you," and headed outside, his arms so full that he had to fumble with the door to close it behind him.
On the porch he regarded Leon standing with the two mounted men. "I take it I'm gonna need my horse..."
"Yep." Leon nodded.
"I'll meet you around back."
Stillman walked around the house to the old buggy shed, half of which he'd converted into a chicken coop. In the other half, he stabled his bay gelding, Sweets, and Fay's black mare, Dorothy.
He set his coat, soogan, and rifle in the stable, then walked through the adjoining door to feed the chickens he'd wintered over. When he came back to the stable, Leon, Walt Hendricks, and Dave Groom were riding up to the open rear door.
"Come on in," Stillman called above the din of the chickens feeding behind the wood partition. He reached for his saddle. "Fill me in while I leather up."
The three men came into the stable. McMannigle and Dave Groom were smoking. Walt Hendricks was in his early fifties, a stout man with the weathered hide of an aging cowboy. In his crisp denims, string tie, checked shirt, duck coat, and crisp white Stetson, he was all business.
"It's bad, Sheriff," he said, anger flaring behind his sky-blue eyes. “Two of my men were murdered last night in the old line shack they use for woodcutting. Another one was scalped."
Stillman stopped what he was doing to look at Hendricks, surprised. "Scalped?"
"You heard me right. The kid's alive, though. Roy Early found him and brought him back to the ranch. He was shot, too—winged."
"He tell who did it?"
Hendricks stiffened, expressionless. Color moved up his suety face, and his reddish-gray mustache twitched. "Louis Shambeau."
Stillman dropped his saddlebags over his horse's rump and looked at Hendricks again. “The mountain man?"
"That's right."
"Why?"
Hendricks shook his head. "Don't know. The kid was in no condition to go into detail. Lost a lot of blood. You should see his head." The man's head wagged again, his thin-lipped mouth a slash. "The kid had a mop my daughters envied. No more."
"That bad, huh?" Leon asked.
Hendricks made a slashing motion with his right hand, and whistled.
"The man must've gone nuts," the foreman, Dave Groom, said.
"My men wanted to track him themselves," Hendricks told Stillman. "I gave them orders to stay put. I told 'em trackin' killers is your job. We have calving to worry about."
Stillman poked his Henry down his rifle boot, then grabbed Sweets's reins and backed him out of the stall, sharing a meaningful glance with Leon. "Appreciate that."
"You better find him, though, Sheriff," Hendricks said sharply. "Or my men will."
"Pretty riled, are they?"
"Hell, wouldn't you be?" Groom said, blowing cigarette smoke. "Crazy man out there, runnin' loose in the mountains, butcherin' your pals?'
"The boy need a doctor?" Stillman asked Hendricks.
“I’ll say he does."
Stillman told them they'd stop at Evans's place before heading out to the Bar 7.
Groom chuckled dryly. "That horse doctor?"
"You know of anyone else?" Hendricks asked the foreman.
Groom looked at Stillman, then McMannigle. Neither said anything. Groom shrugged.
"Evans's place it is," Stillman said, grabbing his horn and forking leather.
As they rode out, Leon gigged his horse up beside Stillman's. "What do you think?"
Stillman sucked air through his teeth and shook his head.
Chapter Four
THE TOWN WAS starting to come alive when Stillman and the others trotted their horses down First Street, the smell of bacon wafting from the chimney pipe over Sam Wa's Cafe.
"Sure could use a little food in my gullet," Leon groused. He and Stillman rode side-by-side, Hendricks and his foreman behind them. "They came just as I was about to head to Sam's for breakfast."
"Why don't you head there now?" Stillman said.
The deputy wrinkled his curly black brows. "Huh?"
"It'll give me time to get a pot of coffee into the doctor. You know how he is. His pump usually needs some priming after he's been up drinking most of the night... and what nights hasn't he?"
Leon glanced behind him at the eager-looking Hendricks and his foreman. "What about them?"
Stillman reined his horse to a halt and turned to the rancher and Dave Groom. "Why don't you boys and my deputy here have yourself some breakfast while I fetch the doc?"
He could tell the idea agreed with Dave Groom, who glanced at his boss hopefully. Hendricks set his jaw and wrinkled his nose. "You mean so you can wrestle him out of his stupor? That man's drinking is known throughout the county. That and his lechery."
"He does have a reputation," Stillman allowed.
"Well, tell him we don't have all morning," Hendricks grumbled, reining his horse over to the hitchrack before the café. "My wife and daughters are doctorin' that kid, but he needs a sawbones or he's liable to bleed dry. And my men will only wait so long before they take after that lunatic themselves."
"I'll tell him," Stillman said. He gave McMannigle a mock salute then spurred his horse down the street.
At the west end of town, he turned left onto a wagon trail that climbed a bluff overlooking the town and the Milk River in the north. Dr. Clyde Evans's red, two-story house sat atop the butte, flanked by a woodshed, a buggy shed, a two-hole privy, and a well.
Glancing over the outbuildings, Stillman glanced away and then looked back again. Each was right where it had always been, but the privy no longer sat askew, and someone had repaired the gaping hole in the buggy shed's roof put there when a branch had fallen from the great cottonwood standing over it.
In the stable sitting catty-corner to the house, under a large box elder, Evans's stout gelding poked its head out the top half of the Dutch door. Damn, if the door wasn't sporting a new set of hinges, glistening silver in the climbing morning sun!
"Mornin', Faustus," Stillman said, frowning wonderingly as he dismounted before the unpainted picket fence and looped his reins over the hitching post
"Morning."
Surprised, Stillman whipped his head around. It was Evans himself, in the shaded western side of the house, holding a splitting maul in his hands. He was dressed as always, but his brown dress slacks appeared crisper, his white shirt less wrinkled, his vest less worn, and the brim of the bowler less frayed. A customary stogie poked out from under his bushy red mustache, and his round-rimmed spectacles flashed in the soft morning light.
Stillman blinked. "What the hell are you doin' up this early?"
The doctor, who stood five-ten and reminded Stillman more of an Irish boxer he'd once known in Kansas City than your stereotypical sawbones, brought the splitter down cleanly through a pine log, cleaving it in two. He didn't appear to be drunk, which was also a surprise. The only times Stillman had seen the man awake this time of the day, he hadn't yet been to bed—at least to sleep, and he'd been three or four sheets to the wind.
"Early bird gets the worm."
"When have you ever worried about the worm? I thought I was going to have to flush your blood with some black coffee."
"Already had a pot," Evans said, bringing the splitter down again.
"What's goin' on?" Stillman asked as he pushed through the fence gate.
"What do you mean?"
With a wave of his gloved hand, the sheriff indicated the outbuildings. "Who's been doin' all the work?"
Evans looked around and shrugged. "Me, mostly," he said, arranging another log on the chopping block. "Of course, the Dorfman boy helps a little after school." He shrugged again and plunged the splitter through the pine log. "Just had the urge to straighten up the place a little. When it warms up I'm going to paint the house and the fence and repair that gate there, too."
"Jesus jump," Stillman said, eyeing the doctor, befuddled. Was this the
same Clyde Evans he'd gotten to know after moving here from Denver two years ago? The perpetual wisecracking medico with a penchant for whiskey, all-night poker games, and, after so much rye, quoting Shakespearian soliloquies to saloon girls?
"Well, hell, Ben—you're the one's been harpin' on me to get that roof fixed!"
"I know, I know," Stillman said, nodding, "because if you didn't, dry rot would've taken the whole damn building. But I never expected you to take my advice. I mean, it ain't like you ever have before!"
Evans sighed with mock anger and leaned on the handle of his splitter. "If you're done scolding me for my productivity, Sheriff, maybe you'd tell me to what or whom I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
"One of Walt Hendricks's boys is in a bad way. He was scalped last night.”
Evans frowned and regarded Stillman skeptically. "Scalped?"
"According to the kid, Louis Shambeau's the culprit."
"The trapper? What'd he do, go nuts livin' out there all by himself?"
"That's what I'm going to find out. We need you to tend the kid. Leon, Hendricks, and his foreman are waiting for us at Sam Wa's."
"All right, all right" Evans groused, squatting to gather the logs he'd split. "Let me get this wood inside, and I'll grab my bag."
Stillman stooped to gather a load himself then followed the doctor through the porch and into the house where the smell of breakfast rode the air warmed by the big iron range. A woman stood at the stove, and when she turned and saw Stillman, she gave a startled cry and jumped back, slapping her chest with her left hand. In her right she clutched the spatula she'd been scrambling eggs with.
"Oh! Sheriff... good morning...."
Stillman stopped in the entry, wondering when all the surprises were going to cease. The woman standing before him—tall and severe and plainly dressed, but pretty if you looked close, with chestnut hair coiled in a taut bun—was none other than Mrs. Katherine Kemmett, widow of Angus Kemmett, the Lutheran minister who died of a brain hemorrhage two years ago.
Stillman nodded, smiling and sliding his eyes toward the doctor, who dropped his load of wood in the box beside the range. "Mornin', Mrs. Kemmett. Sorry if I frightened you."
"Oh, you didn't frighten me as much as startled me," she said a little breathless, self-consciously smoothing her apron against her dress.
"Well, I'm sorry I startled you, then," Stillman said as he dropped his wood in the box.
Mrs. Kemmett was back stirring the eggs, but a flush remained high in her cheeks. "I'm sure this looks a little strange"—she smiled ruefully—"me being here at this hour. I just... I just want to assure you, Sheriff, that nothing inappropriate has occurred."
The doctor had disappeared, but his footsteps could be heard as he gathered his things in the little room which served as his office and examining room.
To Mrs. Kemmett, Stillman said, "Oh, I didn't think—"
"I mean," she interrupted, "I certainly didn't stay ... I certainly wasn't here last night.... I just came over this morning."
"Of course," Stillman assured her.
"I just came over this morning to fix Clyde's—I mean Dr. Evans's—breakfast. He wouldn't eat a thing if I didn't take matters into my own hands."
"No, he wouldn't," Stillman agreed, his gaze straying around the kitchen, noting that the books which normally littered the small wood table were not only diminished in number but were neatly stacked against the wall. There were no crusted coffee cups or whiskey glasses or uncorked Scotch bottles. The ashtray which usually overflowed with cigarette and cigar butts had been scrubbed clean.
Not only that, but the grease that normally coated every inch of the range was gone!
Noting Stillman's appraisal and no doubt the dumbfounded look on his face, Katherine said, "As you can see, I cleaned up a bit. I mean, I do work here too, Sheriff—as the doctor's assistant and midwife, and that's the reason—the only reason—why I did some ... rearranging. I mean, what a horror for the patients!"
The doctor poked his head out of his office. "Katherine, where did you put my wool union suit after you washed it?"
"I hung it in your closet, Clyde."
"Oh." Evans pulled his head back into his office, and Katherine turned to Stillman, blushing girlishly all over again.
Stillman dropped his chin and cleared his throat. "Well, Mrs. Kemmett, you certainly have been doing your duty and then some. I'm sure the good doctor appreciates every bit of your... rearranging." Stillman couldn't fight off the smile tugging his mustache.
He wasn't sure, but he thought he noted a convivial gleam enter those traditionally stoic, cool eyes of Katherine Kemmett—the eyes of a pious minister's wife. She busied herself by shoveling eggs and bacon between the buttered halves of several biscuits.
"These are for you and Clyde," she said neutrally, wrapping the biscuits in paper. "I take it he's needed somewhere this morning?"
"Yes, ma'am—out at the Hendricks ranch, as a matter of fact." Feeling the need to hurry as well as wanting to avoid having to share the grisly details with her, he said, "You know, I think I'll go out and saddle ole Faustus for the doctor so we can get a move on. Let him know where I am, will you, Mrs. Kemmett?" He raised his hat to her as he backed onto the porch. "And I thank you mighty kindly for the biscuits."
"You're most welcome, Sheriff," she said, smiling. Stillman noticed that she not only seemed lighter of mood and demeanor, but she appeared more youthful as well. Always in the past, she had looked and acted at least ten years older than her thirty-some years. "And please, Sheriff," she added, regarding him directly, her eyes flashing, "please call me Katherine."
Taken off guard, Stillman hesitated a moment, then nodded, returning her smile. "I will do that, ma'am—Katherine. Good morning to you, and thanks again." With that he pulled the door closed and strode across the porch, shaking his head.
He'd bridled and saddled Faustus and was leading the horse outside as Evans walked from the house. Seeing Stillman's grin, Evans scowled, nettled. "What?"
"I see what's happening, Doc." Stillman handed the man his reins and headed for his own horse.
"What are you talking about?" Evans said defensively, climbing into his saddle.
Doing likewise, Stillman said, "You're sweet on Mrs. Kemmett. It sure as hell is obvious she's sweet on you."
"Again, Sheriff, I have no idea what you're talking about."
They were riding out of the yard, their horses snorting, hooves thumping on the trail still damp with snowmelt, spring birds chattering in the brush. Below the butte, a train whistle blew.
"The work you're doin' on your buildings, your new duds"—Stillman grinned at him—"why, Clyde, I'd say you're head over heels in love with that gal!"
"Oh, hogwash," Evans grumbled. "It's a business relationship. She cleans the house and keeps me sober so I don't horrify our patients."
"Call it what you want."
"But you know," Evans said, suddenly wistful, "I have always had the urge, however ignoble, to make a preacher's wife sing—if you, uh, know what I mean." Evans grinned.
Stillman chuckled in spite of himself, shaking his head. "You can fool yourself, Clyde, but you can't fool me. It's more than loin fever that's got you acting almost human." Descending the butte, he swung his horse eastward down First Street. "Come on. We'd better get over to the cafe and rescue Leon from the Bar Seven boys."
Chapter Five
DURING THE RIDE out to the Bar 7, Stillman grilled Hendricks and his foreman for more details about the killings and scalping, but neither man could offer anything more than what they'd already told him: Louis Shambeau had attacked the three in their cabin, killing two lifelong ranch hands named Jackson and Mueller and savagely removing the hair and scalp of a kid named Falk. At least the crown of it, leaving the sides and a little in back.
Since there wasn't much to discuss, it was a fairly quiet ride. The doctor, knowing he was neither respected nor liked by the two Bar 7 men, quoted lines of Homer and Dante Alighieri
, evoking even more of their scorn and completely ignoring it, to their total frustration.
"What the hell language is he speaking, anyway?" Tie foreman asked Stillman.
"The language of love and of the horrors of human mortality, friend," Evans said, riding last in the group, old Faustus plodding along. "Certainly, you must have heard it, lying awake late at night in the darkness of the bunk-house or out under the stars with the wolves howling and the spirits of the cosmos chanting your name?"
Riding up beside Stillman, Leon shook his head and snickered.
Dave Groom peered over his shoulder at the medico, looking as though he'd eaten something rancid. "Jesus God, he's strange!"
"He'd love you to think so, anyway." Stillman chuckled.
They approached the ranch nestled in a high hanging valley a half hour later. Here the air was noticeably colder, and all the men donned coats. Snow lingered in the pines carpeting the north-facing slopes.
Hendricks passed through the main gate. Stillman and the others followed him to the two-story lodge where three women stood on the gallery in shawls, arms folded across their chests as if chilled.
Stillman saw a handful of men lingering in the main corral, bunched and talking amongst themselves, several sitting on the corral fence, heels hooked over the slats. Smoking and sipping coffee from steaming cups, they all turned to watch the newcomers pull their mounts up to the house.
"Ida, where's the boy?" Hendricks asked his wife, a stout, dark-haired woman in a shapeless calico dress.
Stillman took the two girls standing beside her to be their daughters. Both appeared in their teens with pinched faces, dull eyes, and lackluster hair—one blond like her father, the other dark like her mother.
"He's in the bunkhouse," Mrs. Hendricks said, nodding at the long, low structure on the other side of a meandering creek, just south of the corrals. "I tried to get him up here to the house where we could doctor him, but he wouldn't come. Said he didn't want anyone seein' him."
"Well, he's probably bled to death by now!" Hendricks said, admonishing his wife.
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