Once a Renegade

by Peter Brandvold

  "He still out?"

  Evans nodded. "Oh, he'll be out for quite some time. You don't have to worry about him. Sleepin' like a baby." Evans frowned and wrinkled his nose as he washed his hands and arms in a steaming kettle on the stove. "A rather smelly baby, however."

  "Why, Clyde," Katherine Kemmett exclaimed in a mocking tone, "how sensitive your nose has become. It certainly couldn't have been that sensitive before I started cleaning up after you." She glanced at McMannigle. "You should have seen the mess I found in here, Leon. Just scandalous!"

  "Oh, Katherine, I don't think it was that bad."

  "No, it was worse."

  Leon chuckled and wagged his head. "I swear if I didn't know better, I'd say you two were married."

  Right away he knew he'd said the wrong thing. Neither Evans nor Mrs. Kemmett said a word. She fooled with the instruments boiling on the stove, and Evans's cheeks shone vaguely red as he dried his hands on a clean towel.

  "Well," the doctor said with a sigh, changing the subject and glancing at Leon, "I suppose you'll be here till your prisoner wakes up?"

  "I can't let him out of my sight, no matter how deep asleep he is. Sorry. I hate to put you out, Doc... Mrs. Kemmett."

  "Not at all," Katherine said. "I have to fix Clyde's supper as he's absolutely useless in the kitchen. I might as well fix yours while I'm at it. Then I have to get over to Mrs. Grenville's place."

  "Oh, is she sick?" Leon asked.

  "Yes, but not in a bad way," Katherine said, her prim cheeks coloring a little.

  "She's about to deliver," Evans said, placing his open hand along his mouth, as though sharing a secret.

  "Clyde!" Katherine scolded him.

  "Oh, for God's sakes, Katherine. There's nothing scandalous about giving birth. My mother did it, Leon's mother did it, and, yes, even your pious mother did it— though how in the hell she ever got pregnant, I can't imagine!" Evans glanced at Leon and grinned devilishly.

  "Such talk, Clyde. Another man comes around, and you lose all sense. Well, I'm not listening to another word!"

  With that she produced two beefsteaks from the icebox and dropped them into a fry pan on the range.

  Evans opened a cabinet over the icebox and produced a bottle. "A predinner libation, my good man?" he said to Leon as he dropped heavily into a chair at the small kitchen table.

  Leon's mouth watered at the sight of the bottle in the doctor's hands, but he turned a wary eye to Mrs. Kemmett, the minister's widow.

  "Oh, don't worry about me, Leon," Katherine said as she sliced potatoes into a pan. "I'm quite used to the doctor's 'libations,' as he calls them. They don't bother me a bit." She turned to Evans pouring several fingers of whiskey in two water glasses. "As long as he uses moderation and it doesn't interfere with our practice, that is."

  Leon frowned, puzzled. " 'Our' practice?"

  Evans shrugged and scowled down at his drink. "Yes ... well... she's become a ... partner. In the business," he was quick to add. "She's still my assistant but has combined her midwife practice with my medical practice. So, we're ... partners."

  Katherine smiled, self-satisfied.

  McMannigle cut his eyes between them and nodded slowly. "Well, I guess one drink wouldn't hurt," he said, eagerly taking a chair across from the doctor.

  Evans shoved a glass over to Leon's side of the table and lifted his own in salute. "To all good things in moderation!" he said with a wink.

  Leon shrugged his shoulders and cracked a smile that set his inky black eyes ablaze. Obviously, there was more of a flirtation going on here than either of these two realized. "To partners!" he said, nudging Evans's glass with his own.

  The doctor only scowled at him suspiciously, saying nothing. Neither did Katherine. Grinning, Leon threw back half his whiskey and set his glass back down on the table.

  Before Katherine left, Evans finished his drink and made a show of returning the bottle to a cabinet. As soon as she'd gone, having shoveled the steaks and fried potatoes onto two plates and setting the plates on the table. Evans retrieved the bottle with a devilish chuckle and tipped it over Leon's glass.

  "Better not, Doc," the deputy said, waving him off. "I best stay clear this evenin’.”

  "Clear for what? Him?" Evans gestured at the closed door to the examining room. "I told you, he'll be out till morning. I doubt he'll even start batting his eyes before noon."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Certain-sure."

  "Well, all right, then. I guess one more drink won't hurt."

  Evans talked the thirsty, trail-sore deputy into one more drink before they dug into their suppers, and, reassuring the man that the trapper was dead to the world, into "just one more" when their plates were cleaned.

  "Well, you up to some poker?" Evans asked as he dropped their plates into a pan of water simmering on the stove.

  McMannigle had checked on the sleeping trapper and was softly closing the examining room door. "Ah, you don't have to entertain me, Doc. Go on about your business."

  "Where's my business?" Evans said, looking around. "The only patient I have is in there dead to the world. Normally, I'd head down to the Drovers to skin the cow-pokes at five-card-stud, but I reckon I'd better keep an eye on ole Shambeau. So, it's just you and me. Why not entertain each other over a friendly game of cards?"

  Leon cocked his head suspiciously and frowned. "Okay, but you aren't gonna try to get me to drink with you, too, are you?"

  Evans held up the bottle. "You aren't gonna make me drink alone, are you?"

  "Ah, come on, Doc!"

  "He's dead to the world!"

  "What about Mrs. Kemmett?"

  "She won't be back till morning." Evans grinned. "I've gotten very good at hiding the evidence."

  Leon wagged his head in defeat and sat down. "Oh, all right. But just one more, and that's it!"

  Five hours later both men were drunk. The doctor was drunker than McMannigle, who'd had only one drink for every two of Evans's, but he was drunker than he should have been while guarding a prisoner. Throwing in his cards with disgust at himself and anger at Evans for luring him into this situation, he shoved back his chair, stood a little unsteadily, and headed for the examining room.

  Evans had checked the man's wound several times over the course of the night, but Leon wanted to be reassured the man was still there. Not that he could possibly go anywhere in his condition.

  Leon gently twisted the knob and cracked the door. Yes, sir, there he was, God bless him—a long black hump atop the bed at the other side of the dark room, snoring raucously through his open mouth.

  "Well, I reckon we'd better call it a night," Evans said, tossing back one last drink. "Remember, Deputy—you're on duty." Standing, he corked the bottle and noticed it was empty. "Oh, Jesus, what if Katherine sees?" he mumbled, tossing the bottle in the trash and stumbling off to his room.

  " 'Night, Doc," Leon called dryly. "Thanks ... for everything."

  Then he sat down, planted his elbows on the table, and rubbed his face. He yawned and checked his watch. Midnight. Shit. He was tired and drunk and it was going to be one hell of a long time till morning.

  How in the hell was he going to stay awake?

  Looking around, he saw the book on which Evans's overflowing ashtray was perched. He slipped the volume out from beneath the ashtray and turned it over to read the spine.

  The Agememnon of Aeschylus. Huh.

  He set the book on the table and turned to page one.

  The next thing he knew his head was on the table. Giving a startled grunt, he jerked up and looked around.

  The eastern windows were pale, and Evans was walking down the stairs, yawning and smacking his lips.

  Leon jumped to his feet, causing his vision to swim and his head to pound. He turned as Evans walked into the room.

  "What time is it?" Leon asked him with an air of desperation.

  "Around six-thirty," Evans said, running his hands through his sleep-mussed hair. "How'd it go?"


  "Christ!" Leon jumped to the door of the examining room and turned the knob. Peering in, he froze, eyes wide.

  The bed was vacant, the covers thrown back. The twin lace curtains danced around the open window like wings.

  Stillman and Fay were having breakfast at their kitchen table—scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and baking powder biscuits. Both were dressed and ready for the day, having risen earlier than usual so Stillman could get over to Evans's place to relieve Leon.

  Stillman ate the last of his eggs and tossed back the last of his coffee. He put his hand on Fay's and gave her a lascivious wink.

  "Had fun last night?"

  She looked up from the papers she'd been grading while she ate. "A lady and a gentleman do not talk of such things." She smirked.

  "Well, you might be a lady, all right, but you sure weren't acting like one last night."

  "Nor you a gentleman!" She laughed as he got up and took his plate to the washtub.

  "And that's just how I like it," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "I have to go. See you tonight."

  "Good-bye, Ben." She kissed his lips. “I love you."

  He grabbed his hat off a wall peg and donned it. Heading for the door, he yelled, "Give 'em hell, Teacher!"

  "You, too, Sheriff!"

  Closing the door behind him, Stillman heard the thunder of a galloping horse. Stopping on the stoop, he looked up at Leon McMannigle approaching on his snorting steeldust.

  Stillman's pulse quickened, knowing instantly something was wrong. "What's the matter?" he said as he headed for the gate.

  Leon drew up before the picket fence and shook his head. He was breathing hard and his face looked drawn and pale beneath its natural mahogany. "I really messed up bad, Ben."

  "What is it?"

  "Shambeau. He got away from me."

  "How?"

  "He slipped out the window up at the doc's place last night. I'm sorry. I let the doc talk me into taking a few drinks, and I fell asleep."

  Stillman stood there, his pulse whistling in his ears, trying to pull his thoughts together. He had to admit that part of him rejoiced at the news. The other part—the part that knew he had to bring Shambeau back in—was screaming with exasperation.

  He looked at Leon. "Did he get a horse?"

  The deputy nodded. "I rode over to the stable first thing. Auld wasn't even there yet, but the barn doors had been jimmied open, and the trapper's horse was gone." He shook his head, wincing as if in physical pain. "I checked out his tracks beneath the window up at the doc's, Ben. He made them hours ago. He's gone with the wind, sure enough!"

  "Shit."

  "I'm really sorry, Ben. Damnit!"

  “Take it easy," Stillman said. "It could've happened to anyone."

  "If you want my badge, you got it."

  "When I want your badge, I'll ask for it. Why don't you start tracking him? It'll take me awhile to get my horse and gear. No doubt he headed south, so how 'bout if we meet at the south side of Squaw Butte in about an hour?"

  "You got it," McMannigle said. He shook his head and stared at Stillman beseechingly.

  "Forget about it now," Ben admonished him. "Ride!"

  Leon reined his horse around, aimed him south, and put the steel to him. In moments, horse and rider were out of sight

  Stillman turned and walked back to the house. Fay stood just inside the door. "What happened?"

  Stillman told her.

  "Oh, God."

  Stillman's sentiments exactly.

  Chapter Ten

  AT THE SOUTH edge of town, Stillman gave Sweets the spurs and galloped along the two-track wagon trail which ambled across the prairie, down ravines, and over hogbacks, toward the Two-Bear Mountains looming before him, their first front showing green-gold in the climbing morning sun.

  Squaw Butte was a rocky-topped, copper-colored cone standing above the prairie about four miles south of Clantick, just beyond the brush-choked cut of an unnamed coulee. The coulee ran swift with snowmelt, and Stillman had to find a shallow ford before crossing. Afterward, he spurred Sweets up the other side of the coulee, through juneberry and hawthorn bramble, and across the last hundred yards to the butte.

  He found Leon sitting his steeldust on the south side, the deputy's black, flat-brimmed hat tipped against the chill breeze which toyed with his bright red neckerchief and blue plaid mackinaw. The holster containing his Smith & Wesson revolver poked from beneath the coat and was tied by a rawhide thong to his thigh.

  "What'd you find?" Stillman asked him.

  "I followed his tracks southeast and lost them in a muddy hollow." Leon shook his head. "He's a cagey son of a duck. I just don't see how he's makin' it with that shoulder all torn up. And the damn doc, he promised me the man would be out cold until noon!"

  Stillman stared southeastward. "Damn," he muttered.

  "I feel just awful about this, Ben."

  "I know you do, I know you do. And you're not gonna like what I have to say, but here it is: I want you to go back to town and manage things while I go after him."

  "What!"

  "You heard me. It could take three or four days to track this man down, and we can't both be away from town that long. I want you to go back and hold down the fort."

  "Uh-uh, Ben," Leon protested, wagging his head. "I let the devil get away. I'm tracking him down!"

  "I'm all outfitted for several days ride," Stillman said, reaching back and patting his saddlebags. "You don't even have a bedroll on your horse."

  "Well, I'll ride back and get one!"

  Stillman shook his head. "No, Leon. I want you to watch over the office while I track him."

  "Ben, I'm the man who lost him. Besides that, I'm your deputy. I should be goin' after him while you manage the office!"

  "I know that, and under normal circumstances I'd let you do it, but I have to go. It has nothing to do with your ability. I hate to pull rank, but that's what I'm doing."

  McMannigle stared back at him, his brown forehead creased deep with scowl lines. Finally, the deputy gave a reluctant sigh and shook his head. "Okay," he said. "You're the boss. But you really shouldn't be heading out there alone."

  "I don't intend to. I'm gonna see if Jody Harmon will give me a hand."

  "Jody?"

  "He's lived in those mountains all his life, knows every hoot an' hollow."

  "I don't doubt that." A faint humorous glint shone in Leon's eyes. "Think Crystal will let him go—with her havin' a new baby and all?"

  Stillman shrugged. "Well, her sister's stayin' with them, so she wouldn't be alone...."

  "Jody'd be about as good a guide as you'd find. He's half Indian, too. Might be able to second-guess some of Shambeau's ways and means."

  "That's what I'm hoping," Stillman said. He gigged his horse southward and called over his shoulder, "Keep the home fires burnin'."

  "You watch your ass, damnit."

  Stillman rode down the grade, carpeted with tender green grass shoots and gray-green sage tufts, and hooked up with the main wagon road on the other side of a low hill. As he followed the road southward, he tried to reason out why it was so important to him that he be the one to track Shambeau. He came up with nothing solid.

  Did he feel a kinship with the man or feel he knew the man better than anyone else because he'd known so many others like him?

  He wasn't sure. It just felt important, deep down, that he be the one to track him. That, if need be, he be the one to kill him.

  An hour later he was cantering down the trail leading to the Harmon ranch, the cabin, barn, and corrals of which sat nestled in the buttes along Whitetail Creek. Smoke puffed from the cabin's wide stone chimney, and as Stillman rode through the front gate, he heard the clang of a blacksmith's hammer.

  "Hello. It's Ben," he hailed as he brought his horse up to the windmill in the center of the yard.

  Nearby, a little blue-eyed boy of about two sat shoveling dust with a wood spoon. He wore a blue wool coat and mittens, bu
t his hood hung down his back and his thin, white curls danced atop his head.

  "Well, hello there," Stillman said, leaning down from his saddle to give the lad a friendly grin. "What you got there? A spoon? Well, don't you look as happy as a dog fox in a pullet house!"

  The boy looked up at him, a bright-eyed grin spreading across his dirty, pudgy face. He cackled and showed Stillman the spoon.

  "Hey, Ben!"

  Stillman turned toward the blacksmith shop where Jody Harmon stood wearing a leather apron and wielding a hammer in one hand, tongs in the other.

  "Hello there, young man." Stillman jerked a thumb at the kid playing in the dirt. "Now, I know they grow fast, but this can't be the one Crystal delivered during all that craziness last winter..."

  Jody grinned and set the hammer and tongs on the forge, then pulled off his gloves as he stepped out from the blacksmith shop and tucked them inside his apron. He was a stocky young man with straight black hair and a strong, chiseled face. His father, Bill Harmon, had been an Irish frontiersman and Stillman's old hide-hunting pal, and his mother had been a full-blooded Cree from Canada. He picked up the chattering little boy, who was still staring wide-eyed at Stillman.

  "No, this is little William Ben's cousin, Luke. Luke, can you say hi to Sheriff Stillman?"

  The boy extended the spoon toward Stillman and said, "Ca! Cha-ca-caaaaa!"

  "Well, hello to you, too, Luke, and yes, that's one mighty fine lookin' cha-ca-ca."

  The child giggled delightedly.

  Stillman laughed. Jody held up his hand for Ben to shake. "How you doin', Sheriff?"

  "Not very well, I'm afraid."

  "Oh? Light and come on for a cup of coffee and tell me about it."

  Inside, the kitchen smelled of diapers and warm milk. Jody's wife, Crystal, sat in the rocking chair beside the range. She'd been nursing the tiny baby in her arms and was now pulling her blouse down to cover her bosoms.

  "Oh, sorry, Crystal," Stillman said, flushing, stopping suddenly, and averting his gaze.

  Crystal, a pretty blond tomboy who'd grown up in these mountains just as Jody had, gave a husky laugh. "Oh, come on in, Ben—unless you're shy around exposed teats. I was just finishing up nursing little William Ben here, but I'm liable to start again just as soon as he starts bawling for it."