Montana Revenge Read online

  “Aw, them newspapers live on that crap. Folks are proud you’re up here in charge. That dumb newspaper ain’t turning no one against you.”

  “Good. Come next election, we may have a battle on our hands.”

  “Bring them on.”

  “Guess you heard about a cowboy being lynched. His name was Billy Hanks.”

  Nels nodded grimly. “We talked about it up at the store. Didn’t get any details, though.”

  “Parties unknown hung him last Saturday at the Sharky Schoolhouse after the dance.”

  Nels nodded. “Vigilantes?”

  “No, I suspect foul play.”

  The big man looked deep in thought and folded his thick arms over his chest. “How can we help?”

  “Listen. Someone knows who did it. They’ll talk eventually.”

  “Got any leads?”

  Herschel shook his head. “Only notions.”

  “You must think he was murdered.”

  Herschel nodded. “I do.” But proving it looked like a hard mountain to climb.

  NINE

  WITH the harmonica in Herschel’s mouth as he sat on the high-back wooden chair, he began tapping his foot for the timing. In the center of the kitchen floor stood his young deputy Phil and a very straight-backed Kate holding Phil’s left hand up. The notes for “Oh, My Darling” began to float from the mouthpiece, and Kate took her stiff student across the room with her. At first her one-two count sounded unsteady, but her voice gained courage, and she soon had the still-stiff Phil moving across the room.

  Under the scrutiny of her two sisters, who’d been warned by their mother against making comments, his deputy’s first dance lesson had begun. Soon, the notion of watching their older sister and him circle the room must have lost its charm, for they began to dance like a couple, ignoring Phil and Kate.

  Herschel played until he gave out, and Marsha served dried-apple pie along with lemonade to the dancers and the musician as well.

  “You’re doing very well, Phil,” she said, handing him his pie and drink.

  “I’m sure it is Kate who’s doing it,” he said, taken aback by her words.

  Herschel shared a private wink with his eldest, and took a forkful of the warm treat. He could tell she was very proud of the invitation to teach the young man. It struck him that he might be matchmaking and that was not a good idea, but he felt Kate was very grown up for her age and hardly some giggly girl.

  So the lesson went on after the intermission, and Phil left about nine. Nina had the last word when the girls started upstairs for bed. “I’m sure glad you’re teaching him. He’s too stiff for me to ever try to do anything with him.”

  Herschel hugged his wife and chuckled. “We have Nina’s opinion now. I need to get up early and ride over to Carson Station and meet Art.”

  “How early?”

  “Like four in the morning.”

  “We better set the alarm. Business?”

  “I wouldn’t get up that early for anything else.”

  “Sounds real early.”

  “I need to meet Art and the stage at the county line.”

  “Fine,” she said, and turned up her face to be kissed.

  How lucky he was.

  The bell on the windup alarm jarred him awake. Short night, he decided on one side of the bed as his wife, on the other side, put on a robe and lighted the lamp.

  “I’ll go down, make coffee and breakfast.”

  “Fine, I’ll saddle Cob and hitch him out front.”

  She paused in the doorway as he put on his socks. “Be very careful today. We need you.”

  “I will,” he said, and drew on his boots.

  “Counting on that,” she said, and was gone.

  The barn smelled of manure and sweet hay. Cob snorted at the lamplight when Herschel opened the stall door talking softly to the big roan. When the saddle was in place, he blew out the lamp and under the cool starlight led Cob around to the hitch rack. Cob’s reins were wrapped on the bar, and Herschel stretched his arms over his head and went in the front door.

  The smell of Marsha’s cooking filled the house.

  “Cool out there?” she asked from her position at the stove.

  “No heat wave, but it’ll warm up in a little while.”

  “You be back this evening?” she asked as he hugged her shoulder and laid his cheek on top of her head.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Try hard. I sleep better that way.”

  “Well, don’t stay up. I may have some problems.”

  “You’re expecting stage robbers?” Coffeepot in hand, she narrowed her eyes as she questioned him.

  He picked up the coffee she poured him. “Art’s been up there working on it. He must think they’ll try a robbery today.”

  “Maybe we should go back to ranching after this term is over.”

  “As I recall, I got beat up and burned out doing that.”

  “Yes, things are not that bad here—yet.”

  He put the mug down and threw his arms around her. Rocking her back and forth, he drew a deep breath. “You have to stop worrying. I’m going to be sheriff until they turn me out.”

  “All right, Sheriff Baker, but your eggs may burn if you don’t release me.”

  They both laughed.

  He took Cob the long way around rather than by the main road to Miles City. In case the robbers were on or near it lying in wait, he wanted to avoid them. No need to spook them. He wanted to catch them in the act. Well past Tow Creek, he took Parrot’s ferry across the Yellowstone River, and was at the Carson stage station by nine o’clock.

  Art came out to meet him when he rode up.

  “Right on time. Anything go wrong while I was gone?”

  “No, quiet in town.” Herschel dropped out of the saddle, put his hands on his hips, and stretched his tight back.

  “We can put our horses in with the stage stock. Argle’s trying to keep any passengers from taking the stage today.”

  “May piss off the mayor,” Herschel said, undoing the latigos on his cinch.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was supposed to be coming back today.”

  “Another day might not kill him.” Art laughed out loud.

  “You feel this is good bait? This shipment today?”

  “Oh, yes. We have over a thousand in currency in the strongbox.”

  “Anyone you suspect of telling them?” Herschel jerked off his saddle and set it on the ground.

  A gray-whiskered man waved at them from the porch. “Come on in when you get him put up. Wife’s got hot coffee.”

  “Thanks, Carson, we’re coming,” Herschel assured him, and led the roan off toward the pens. He put Cob inside the corral, slipped off the bridle, and patted him on the neck with a promise to be back for him. The roan moved off, ears back, toward the other horses to eat at the rack.

  “Getting back to who’s telling them,” Art said as he closed the gate. “I’m still looking.”

  “Maybe we can learn more today. I can see the dust.”

  In a short while, the stage appeared, and Herschel took up the saddle to load. No time for coffee. Argle reined the double team up and shouted to him. “Good to have you two aboard.”

  Carson’s men switched the teams with precision.

  The shotgun guard took Herschel’s saddle up top and with his rifle in hand, Herschel climbed in the coach. He nodded to Art, who already sat on the back bench holding a double-barrel Greener in his arms.

  “You must have got up early,” Art said with a grin.

  “Too early. Guess those buzzards are up the road?”

  “I sure think they’ll try for this strongbox.”

  The stage left in a rocking jolt, Argle’s loud voice in command and the fresh horses off in a hard lope. A few miles farther, the horses began to slow up, and Art stuck his head out in time to hear Argle say, “We’ve got company up ahead.”

  “Masked men on horseback,” Art said at the side window, then sett
led back in the seat.

  “How many?” Herschel asked.

  “I saw three, maybe more.”

  “You use that scattergun on that side and I’ll get out on the other side, while they’re distracted,” Herschel told his deputy.

  “Be careful, they’ve shot one guard,” Art said.

  Herschel agreed with a nod. Things were about to break loose and he turned his ear to listen for the robbers’ words.

  “Throw down them guns,” someone ordered.

  “Easy on the trigger,” Argle said to the highwaymen from on top. “We’re doing it.”

  “Where’s the strongbox?”

  Herschel nodded to his partner as he heard the approach of a horse coming in closer.

  “Get your hands up, we’re the law!” Art shouted, and the blast of the shotgun was echoed by a horse’s scream.

  Herschel bailed out the door on his side and drew aim at the masked rider fighting with his spooked horse. Six-gun in the outlaw’s hand, he could see this one wasn’t surrendering. The rifle in Herschel’s hands spoke, and the masked man pitched face-first out of the saddle.

  In a run, Herschel was soon beside the second team and looked up at Argle and the guard—both appeared to be unscathed. Off in the west, two of the holdup men were burning the breeze down the road. He jammed the stock in his shoulder and took aim, but neither of the next two rounds stopped them.

  “Get me a horse out of these teams,” he shouted, and set down the rifle.

  The guard tossed down Herschel’s saddle and bailed off the seat. In seconds, they had the yoke off the front team and were piling his saddle on a dancing lead horse.

  “Reckon he’s been rode lately?” the guard asked with a grin as he fit the bridle on.

  Herschel gave him a smile, shook his head, and followed the circling horse to tighten his latigos. The big black was lathering at the bit, and moved nervously in a wide circle as Herschel tried to finish cinching up the girth. Argle joined them and nodded toward the outlaw that Herschel had shot. “He’s dead.”

  “We’ve got two of them, but Ford and the other one got away,” the deputy said, joining them. “What do I need to do?”

  “Go get our horses and send the bodies in. I’m going after them,” Herschel said, taking the rifle from the guard.

  “I can ride along.”

  Herschel shook his head. “I need you to load their bodies in the stage and get our horses and catch up with me. We may need them. It could be a lengthy chase.”

  Art agreed with a concerned look on his face. “Be careful.”

  Herschel nodded and with both Argle and the guard hanging onto the upset stage horse’s bridle, he bounded in the stirrup. “Got him,” he said, and drew on the reins.

  Ole Black took off in long bucking strides. He might have been drive-broken, but he sure was not saddle-broke. He ended his first fit in some bone-jarring crow-hops as all four feet struck the road surface at the same time. Herschel slapped him on the butt with the rifle stock, and he shot out in a wild gallop.

  No telling how fast he was. Herschel decided a Texas cow pony would not outrun him, if he could only control him when he found where the robbers left the road. In a few minutes, he could see the robbers in the distance, taking to the sagebrush and headed for a ridge. Whipping their ponies, the two were soon cat-hopping up the steep side of the hill. He set Black in their direction, and the big horse went to leaping over patches of sage. He began to wonder about his choice of mounts, but he was closing in on the pair of outlaws.

  At the base of the hill, he saw them going over the top. If Ford was one of them, he already knew Herschel wouldn’t back off, so he wondered if they’d keep going or try to ambush him. No time for caution. He sent Black up the steep hillside, and was prepared to jump off if he ever floundered.

  Black’s breath roared out his throat, but he never slackened. His efforts came in large lunges that about tore Herschel out of the saddle, but he rode him, sometimes forced to grab leather. The top was in sight. How far ahead were they?

  Then a rifle shot cracked the air. A bullet slapped his mount in the chest, and Herschel felt the horse shudder between his knees clamped to the leather. Black screamed, hard hit, and threw himself sideways. No time to think about it. Herschel shook his boots out of the stirrups and dove to the side, hoping not to be rolled on by the big animal falling over backward. His rifle went one way, he went the other. His back hit hard in the brittle sagebrush; then he went rolling and pitching off the mountain through the blunt sage. When he stopped, his mouth was full of dirt. Out of breath, he tried to clear his head, and simply rolled off the last clump that he’d ended his fall on and lay flat on the steep hillside.

  Screams of the injured horse filled his ears, but he lay still, not daring to move, knowing he still could be in the rifle’s range. His body felt in one sore piece, but he knew the sage had cut his face for the liquid running down his cheek was blood.

  “Come on—you got him—” The voice on the wind sounded confident. Sprawled in the bristled bunchgrass, softly spitting the grit from his mouth, he silently vowed he’d get them.

  TEN

  WILDCAT get’cha?” Art asked, blinking at the sight of him.

  Standing in the stage road, Herschel shifted his saddle to the other shoulder and shook his head. “Worse, sagebrush, when I took wings off that hill back there.”

  He went by Art and tossed his kack on Cob. “It gave them a lead, anyway.”

  “What happened?” Art was off his horse and helping on the other side to reset the girths for the roan.

  “They shot Black out from under me. Oh, say, a hundred feet from the top.” He drew up the latigo on the front D ring.

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “They are, too.”

  “You still going after them?”

  Herschel nodded. “Only more so.”

  “Could I offer my assistance?”

  “Thanks, but you better go and help Phil,” he said. “Give me your rifle. Broke the stock on mine in the fall.”

  Art jerked it out of the scabbard and handed it to him. “You need a doc to look at your face.”

  His foot in the stirrup, he swung his leg over the roan. “I can do that later. You tell Marsha I may be late.”

  “How late?”

  “Don’t know, but if they think I’m dead, they may ease off some.”

  “I’d sure go along—”

  “Thanks, anyway. I need you in Billings. Phil’s good, but he’s just a kid. Be sure to clear those two bodies with the coroner. I’ll see you in a while.”

  Art shook his head in disgust. “You sure can be hard-headed.”

  “My mother said that.” He checked Cob with the rein. “See yah.”

  He booted Cob for the ridgeline bristled with pines. This time he promised himself to find an easier way to the top. A wave to Art and he rode off.

  The sun was bleeding in the west when he found a small outfit nestled in the brakes. No sign that the pair was there, but he loosened the Colt in his holster in case. Lucky he’d found the .45. He’d lost it in the fall off the mountain, but climbing back up, he’d spotted it on the ground. Wonder he hadn’t lost more than that.

  A woman came out on the porch and squinted against the glare. She hushed the barking dogs and studied his descent off the hillside. No sign of the robbers.

  “You looking for your partners?” she drawled.

  “They go on?”

  “Yeah,” she drew out. “Watered their hosses and shook a leg.”

  “How long ago?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Couple of hours ago.”

  She was younger than he first imagined when he rode up to the hitch rack, and he wondered who else was there. “Your man home?”

  “Pa?”

  “Yes.”

  “Naw, he’s gone to look for work. I’m Ida, Ida Crowley.”

  “Herschel. I’d like to buy some supper.”

  She looked pained at him.
“I ain’t selling no supper. I ain’t got much, but you’re welcome to what I have.”

  He removed his hat. “Be pleased to, ma’am.”

  “Oh, heaven sakes, I ain’t that, either. Wash up and come in.” She turned to go inside, and he noticed that she was barefooted. Maybe sixteen. And all alone out here. Wonder someone didn’t take advantage of her with her pa off looking for work. He tied Cob to the rack and loosened the girths.

  “You know those men rode through here?” he asked her, drying his hands from the porch.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, you don’t know them?”

  “One was Casey Ford.” He waited for her response.

  “Yeah, Casey and Chub,” she said.

  “You know they were stage robbers?”

  She slapped her forehead with her palm. “No wonder that they were in such a hurry.”

  “They been here before?”

  “Oh, Pa knew them.”

  “What’s Chub look like?”

  “Bowlegged, must be past forty, hmm—” She cupped her chin and closed her eyes. “A dried-up little cowboy who needs false teeth.”

  “They stayed up here?”

  “Some.” She became tight-mouthed, and dipped him out a bowl of beans from a pot on the stove. “Ain’t much meat in ’em.”

  “They smell good,” he said when she delivered them to him.

  She nodded and closed one brown eye to look at him. “You’re the law, ain’t’cha?”

  “Yes, I’m sheriff of Yellowstone County. That bad?”

  She shook her head, sat down, then put one foot on the chair and hugged her knee, which was covered with the calico dress. “I hoped he wouldn’t get in no trouble.”

  “Who’s that?” He looked up from spooning his beans.

  “Casey, Casey Ford.”

  “Guess you were sweet on him.”

  “Guess he never looked at me. But a girl can dream.”

  “Ida, you can find a better man than him. He’s an outlaw. Killed a man robbing the stage a week ago.”

  “Best man that ever came by here.” She made a face and shook her head in defeat, then hugged her knee. “Till you showed up.”

  “I have a wife.”

  “Too late again.” She threw her hand with the spoon in the air. “Just my luck.”