Montana Revenge Read online

  “You’re lucky, good help’s hard to find.”

  Herschel agreed. “Did Hanks have words or get into any scuffles up there tonight with anyone that you know about?”

  “No, not that I seen. He danced a lot and with lots a females. You know Hanks. He was a real hand at that dancing and he could swing them ladies.” Tipton smiled for the first time, like he was recalling the evening’s entertainment all over again.

  “Scrambled eggs fine?” Marsha asked him.

  “Heavens, Marsha, I’m a bachelor and any kind’s fine with me, so long as I ain’t cooking ’em.” Then he laughed.

  Herschel rose and turned when he heard Kate coming in the back porch door. She smiled and pushed her way into the kitchen, her right arm holding the tin pail half full of milk, the lamp in the other hand. Herschel stepped over and put the bucket on the dry sink for her.

  “Go okay?” he asked her when they exchanged smiles.

  “Fine—hateful thing. She switches her tail at me all the time.” Kate tossed her braids and went to wash her hands.

  “Cows can be cantankerous,” he said with a grin, and went to sit back down. Marsha began putting their breakfast on the table.

  “Can you think of one person hated that boy?” he asked Tipton, and took his seat.

  “Naw, I had all the way in here to think about that. I can’t point at no one.” The rancher busied himself filling his plate.

  “Bet you’re tired, Cove, being up all night and everything?” Marsha asked him, refilling his cup.

  “Why, ma’am, I ain’t had time to think about it.”

  “We’ll have to take the body to the coroner. Then I need to ride up there and look the place over if you can make that ride back?” Herschel said to Tipton.

  Busy forking food in his mouth, Tipton looked up. “I’ll be fine ’cept I’ll miss church with Lucille.”

  Herschel winked privately at his wife. This business with the widow woman and Tipton must be getting serious. Tipton was in his early forties, never married, but it sounded like the younger widow might have him on the string.

  “I bet she’ll understand,” Marsha reassured the rancher.

  “Oh, she’s a real understanding woman.” Tipton took two more biscuits, popped them in half on his food-stained plate, and lathered fresh butter on them. “Guess she’ll learn all about this when everyone else does.”

  And Herschel knew outright that this hanging would be sure to upset lots of folks. Small outfits would start blaming the big ones for this crime, and he wasn’t ruling that out either. There was still bad blood, even after Herschel’s upset win over the old regime of crooked politicians serving the big outfits’ interests.

  He blew the steam off his coffee. No one said this job was going to be easy, but hanging Billy Hanks was like a knife stuck in his guts. There was no way that he could be everywhere and prevent every bad thing from happening. He only wished it hadn’t happened so soon on his watch.

  TWO

  EVEN before sunup on Sunday morning, a body draped over a horse drew the curious. Herschel had gone up to knock on the coroner’s door. After some time, a sleepy-eyed lady wrapped in a robe and nightcap came to the door, and with a dry voice inquired as to the nature of his business.

  “I’m the sheriff, Herschel Baker, and I have a body out here for Mr. Peabody to examine.”

  “Oh—”

  “Is he up? I know this is dreadful early, but I need his opinion.”

  She blinked her eyes and leaned to see past him in the darkness. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but—”

  “Well, then, you have the answer. I am sure it can wait until Monday morning, and Mr. Peabody will be in his office then.”

  “I need him to examine the body—tonight.”

  “Well.” She lowered her voice and looked peevish. “He can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause he’s not here.”

  “Very good. Where is he?” Herschel asked in a lowered voice.

  She gave him a hard look before she spoke. “Where he is at every Saturday night.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I can tell you. He’s down at the Big Horn sleeping with some dove.”

  “Yes, ma’am, sorry to bother you.”

  “Yes,” she said with finality, and closed the door in his face.

  “He ain’t here?” Tipton asked under his breath when Herschel reached the gate.

  “No, you take the body to Nelson’s Funeral Parlor. I’ll go round up Peabody and meet you there. Don’t do any more to the body than unload him.”

  “What’s going on, Sheriff?” one of the four onlookers that appeared out of nowhere asked.

  “A man got killed last night. Take him down there,” he said to move Tipton along. “You can all hear the story later.”

  “Who is he?”

  “That can wait, too,” Herschel said, and hurried Tipton off in the predawn light. He still had to get Peabody from the whorehouse—what next? He’d need to have a hearing with a justice of the peace. “Lots to do,” he muttered to himself, making long strides over mud puddles and around the flooded spots, all the time wishing he’d brought his own horse along to town. Being sheriff sure wasn’t a glamorous job. He needed to send word to have his deputy, Barley Benton, meet them where the body was found. Benton was a real tracker and any help was better than none on the scene.

  He checked the sky, which was beginning to lighten up. The rain looked like it was over for the time being. He entered the new two-story courthouse and bounded up the stairs. The night jailer, Wally Simms, came from the jail office door to meet him.

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s been a lynching up at Sharky. I need some help. I need Art Spencer woke up so he can be in charge while I’m gone to see about all this. I want Barley Benton to meet me at the murder site.”

  “Best we send that Fellars boy up there to get word to Benton. And I guess Spencer’s sleeping at the boardinghouse, isn’t he?” Herschel agreed and led the way back to his office. He lit a lamp on his desk.

  “Who got lynched?” Wally asked.

  “Billy Hanks. Cove Tipton found him last night before the rain.”

  “My Lord, what did they hang him for?”

  “I don’t know. Who’s in the jail?”

  “Them two cowboys robbed the Cross Creek Store and a couple of town drunks.”

  “They’ll be fine till you get back. You go send that Fellars boy after Benton and tell him to meet me at the Sharky Schoolhouse. I’ll go wake up Art. Give him the news. Guess I can find Peabody, too.”

  Wally cocked a thick eyebrow at him. “Where’s he at?”

  “Sleeping with some dove at the Big Horn.”

  Wally laughed aloud. “Lordy, I’m learning a lot tonight.”

  “So am I, Wally. So am I.”

  Ten minutes later, Herschel had Art Spencer awake in his boardinghouse room and was explaining the problem. The shorter barrel-chested man combed his hair back with his fingers, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to wake up.

  “Sounds like a mess to me. Anything you need done at your place?”

  “No, but if you can, go fetch Peabody out of the Big Horn.” Herschel watched his man shake his head and then grin as Herschel completed explaining his plans. “I’ll go home, get Cob, and meet you at the funeral parlor. I’ve sent word with a boy for Barley to meet Cove and me up there at the Sharky later this morning.”

  “You reckon the big outfits are behind this hanging?” Art was up, busy buttoning his shirt and getting dressed.

  “No. They’d spell better than whoever wrote the note that was pinned on the body. It was crudely written.”

  “Who do you reckon did it, then?”

  “Maybe someone wanted him out of the way?”

  “Who in the hell would that be?”

  “Art, if I knew that I’d be a fortune-teller.”

  The man yawned and nodded. “I’
ll get Peabody out of the whorehouse. Meet’cha at the funeral parlor in twenty minutes.”

  “Good. Be thinking about this. There’s a rhyme and a reason to everything. We’ll find out who did this.”

  The rain’s passage left a northerly wind to usher in some cooler weather. The wind hit Herschel’s face like a slap to waken him when he exited the boardinghouse. He reached his house and hurried into the kitchen. Marsha was feeding the girls breakfast, and their faces all turned to greet him, filled with youthful questions their mother had no doubt already answered.

  “Morning, you all going to church?” he asked, and kissed Marsha on the cheek.

  “Yes,” came the chorus.

  “Well, I have some sheriff business to attend to and won’t be able to go with you this time.”

  “I really liked Billy Hanks,” seven-year-old Nina said.

  “I guess he had lots of friends.” He tossed the blond curls of four-year-old Sarah and winked at her. “How’s your doll this morning?”

  “She fine. Herschel, you see a pony today, we sure need one.”

  “Sarah!” Marsha frowned in shock at her youngest. “Don’t you be pestering him about no pony.”

  With effort, the youngest scooted off the chair and beat a path to him. She held her arms high, and he swooped her up. “If they’ve got any ponies up at Sharky today, I’ll try to buy one.”

  “Yay!” Nina shouted.

  “Girls,” Marsha said with a hard look. “Herschel has bought us this nice, warm, big house. We have a good place for the cow, our chickens, and the pigs. Let’s not ask for everything.”

  “Aw, ponies ain’t everything.” Herschel put down Sarah with a wink.

  “These girls, I swear.”

  “Pretty nice crew. I’m going up and meet Barley at the schoolhouse and maybe we can find something.”

  “A pony,” Nina said, and went on eating her pancakes.

  Herschel shook his head and hugged his wife, laughing as he did so. “Might not be back tonight. Can’t tell, but I’ll try.”

  “It’s important for you to be careful,” Marsha said, fussing with his vest.

  “I will.”

  He saddled his big roan gelding, Cob, in the barn alley-way, loaded his bedroll on behind the cantle, and tied it down. The sweet smell of alfalfa filled his nose, and the cow in her stanchion mooed to some far-off one. He led Cob outside and cheeked him by the headstall close to his knee. The grain-fed rascal might buck. Wouldn’t be the first or the last time either. In the saddle, he let go of the cheek strap and checked him with the reins. For the first hundred feet, the roan walked on eggs. But after that, he settled into a long swinging walk and Herschel headed him for the funeral parlor, hoping all parties would be there. And grateful his frisky horse hadn’t bucked.

  At the funeral home, Tipton jumped to his feet and came to meet Herschel when the overhead bell rang.

  “Anyone else here?” Herschel looked around the empty room.

  “Only me and Tom Nelson. You never found Peabody?”

  “I sent Art Spencer after him, and that Fellars boy to get Barley Benton to meet us at Sharky.”

  “Good. Tom has him laid out. I was napping in the chair.”

  “I bet you could use some sleep.”

  Tipton stretched his arms. “I’ll be okay. What’s Peabody got to do?”

  “A coroner has to fill out a report on any unusual death, and then I need to have a J.P. hold a hearing.”

  “Guess there’s more to being a sheriff than I ever figured—here they come.”

  Lots more than Herschel had ever figured. It wasn’t just catching criminals or preventing crimes; it was lots of paperwork, too.

  “He have any money or valuables on him?” Herschel asked.

  “None. That’s funny. He didn’t even have a jackknife on him. Reckon they took it?”

  “No idea.” Herschel shook his head. The lynchers must have taken some items from him—was that their real motive? Robbery? Too much remained unanswered at this point.

  A scowl was etched on Peabody’s face when he came in the door and put his bowler hat on the hall tree. Art Spencer came in behind him.

  “Where is he?” Peabody asked.

  “Back room,” Tipton said.

  Herschel and Tipton followed the man in his rumpled green suit into the back room. Tom Nelson looked up from his desk and said, “Good morning.”

  His greeting only drew a grumpy growl from Peabody, who took off his coat, hung it up, and then went to the prone corpse. He picked up the short piece of rope trailing off the table and scowled.

  “Boston hemp. Kills them every time.” Peabody turned to Tipton. “You cut him down?”

  “Yes.”

  “His feet were how many feet off the ground?” Peabody asked Cove.

  The rancher held out his hand about chest high.

  “Death by strangulation. He still alive when you reached him?”

  “No.”

  “Then at the hands of parties unknown. That’s my report.”

  “Good, fill it out and we’ll have a J.P. investigation next week,” Herschel said.

  “Waste of time.”

  “The law requires it.”

  “I know that, I’m the coroner.”

  “Sorry to bother you,” Herschel said, and turned back to Art. “You watch things here. We’ll go meet Barley.”

  Art nodded. “I can handle it if it don’t get any worse.”

  When the bell rang as Peabody left by the front door, the three men looked at each other and then laughed at Peabody’s behavior.

  Nelson came over and shrugged. “Guess I’ll fix Hanks up. Funeral will be at two tomorrow, if that’s all right?”

  “I can’t see doing anything else about it,” Herschel said. “Try to send word to the Bar 9 outfit, he worked for them.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Cove and I are headed back up there. Rain and all, I doubt we can even find the tracks, but we may.”

  “Good luck,” Art said after him.

  “Yeah, thanks for finding Peabody.”

  “Oh, anytime.” Art shook his head and smiled. “I’ll go by and check on the jail and keep in touch.”

  “Good,” said Herschel. The ex-teamster was a great head deputy. Herschel always felt covered with the man in place during his absence.

  Two hours later, Herschel and Tipton crossed the last rise and could see the grove of cottonwoods and the Sharky bell steeple. Wagon tracks sliced the wind-whipped short grass and wound up to the front door of the whitewashed schoolhouse. Herschel dismounted and wrapped his reins on the hitch rail.

  “Guess Barley ain’t made it,” Cove said, looking around.

  Herschel agreed and headed up the steps for a look around the classroom. “He’ll be coming.” The front door on the right opened with a twist of the knob, and he stepped inside. A faint aroma of perfume, food, and body odors was still contained in the large closed-up room. Sunshine poured in the south windows, and a red-covered tablet was on the table along the wall. He picked it up, lifted the cover, and turned it to the light. There on the paper was the indention off the previous page. HOSS STEELER.

  “Find anything?” Cove asked, coming inside.

  “They wrote the note on this tablet.”

  “Pretty damn brave. I figured several folks were camped all night up here after the dance.”

  “Give me some names.”

  “Ralston, Scopes. Fred Danberry’s bunch.”

  “Guess I better ask them some questions.” He drummed his fingertips on the table. When he raised his gaze, he looked through the distorted glass panes and watched a buckskin horse and rider coming out of the creek crossing. Barley Benton had arrived.

  “They had lots of nerve,” Cove said. “Coming back here and stealing the paper for the note.”

  “Or was it organized?” Herschel rubbed his mouth with his calloused hand and considered his latest theory. Had they held vigilante court in the building after t
he dance?

  “I swear I never heard a word of it at the dance,” said Cove.

  “I ain’t accusing you.” Herschel turned and nodded to Barley entering the door. The man was in his fifties. He wore a buckskin shirt, and an eagle feather trailed from his hatband. The white-flecked beard stubble looked a few days old, and the steel-blue eyes shone like deep pools of sky.

  “Boy said you had trouble up here last night.”

  “We sure did. Someone lynched Billy Hanks after the dance.”

  Barley frowned, then pushed his hat back on his shoulders by the leather string at his throat. “What in the hell for?”

  “Left a note pinned to him that he was a horse thief.” Herschel handed Barley the folded paper to look at.

  “And they wrote it on this tablet,” Cove added.

  Barley held the paper at a distance to read it. “They must have went to my school. Can’t write or spell worth a damn.” A chuckle rose in his throat and he smiled, handing the paper back. “What else have we got to go on? You know who wrote this?”

  Herschel shook his head. “Cove’ll show us where he found him last night before the rain struck.”

  “I take it you ain’t buying the horse-rustling business?”

  “All I know is a cowboy was hung last night. Horse thief or not, we’ve got laws in this territory and taking the law in your own hands is over.”

  “Let’s go see where they hung him,” Barley said, and nodded to Cove.

  “I’ll show you. Been a heckuva long night for me.” Cove went out the door shaking his head.

  “Bet it has been,” Barley agreed, clapping the rancher on the shoulder as they walked to their horses.

  Herschel closed the door behind them and looked over the sparkling, clear countryside. Rain would sure boost the grass. Lots of folks had had a good time in the school the night before. Someone had sure ruined it all, and it was his job to solve the crime. He hurried on to his horse.

  The hanging tree stood a mile east of the school on the creek road. To the left and up the hill, Herschel could see how, with the lightning brightening the sky so much, Tipton had seen the corpse. The heavy rain had obscured the tracks around the site. Barley came back afoot, leading his horse and shaking his head. “Not much left here.”