Hanging Woman Creek (1964) Page 7

  During all that time we had no trouble. Our work was hard, rough, and cold, but we stayed with it. Once in a while we’d take a day off, and sometimes we’d box or practice for an extra hour or so. But all the time I had an uneasy feeling that we were living in a fool’s paradise.

  There was an itch in me to ride over to Parley’s outfit, but I held back. I had sense enough to know why I wanted to go, but sense enough, too, to know that such a girl as Ann Parley would never be interested in a forty-a-month cowhand, even if he spoke decent English, which I didn’t.

  Nobody had shot at the cabin since I’d got back, nor had we found any of those leather-shoe tracks around.

  Everything stayed quiet, until one morning we rode out and found that during the night somebody had made a gather of the cattle we’d been driving in. Sixty or seventy head had been rounded up and driven south.

  “We’d better pack some grub,” I said to Eddie. “This may take a few days.”

  “We going after them?”

  “You ain’t just a-woofin’,” I said.

  The sun wasn’t an hour older when we rode out of there and headed south, following a broad trail up the valley of the Hanging Woman.

  Chapter Nine.

  Riding south along that trail gave me time to do some thinking. The trail was wide enough and plain enough, and it was obvious the rustlers were either not worried about being followed, or else they felt strong enough to take care of themselves. In either case, Eddie and me were likely to find ourselves in all kinds of trouble.

  Yet that was not what kept me studying. I was trying to pull together all the loose threads, some of which were plain enough.

  The starting point had to be Jim Fargo. If he was a Pinkerton man, that would account for Ann Parley’s lawyer knowing about him. He had been hunting Van Bokkelen, but the last we’d seen of Van Bokkelen was back in Dakota—unless that was him I’d glimpsed on the street in Miles City.

  That accounted for Fargo, anyway. And if he was a Pink, he might have been taken off that case and shunted out here to handle the rustling investigation. The Pinks usually only worked on train holdups and the like, but they had worked at times on rustling too.

  There in Jimtown I had come across Duster Wyman, and he was working for my old friend Tom Gatty. He had money; and Gatty, according to what I’d heard, had money. And it had come from somewhere.

  Thanking back over what I knew of Gatty, I decided it wouldn’t surprise me none if he took to rustling, and he would know the best trails out of Montana and Wyoming into the Dakotas.

  No thief ever knows when he’s well off, and every one of them thinks he is going to be the one who gets away with it. To be a thief at all, a man has to be either a damned fool or mighty egotistical, and it could amount to the same thing.

  These fellows had been stealing cattle and they were getting self-confident, and when a man gets over-confident he invites trouble. They always make light of honest men, but what they never seem to realize is that honest men can get mad. And from the way Stuart, Justin, and Bohlen were talking, I surmised the time had come.

  But none of my thinking explained the leather-shod horse, although it was a cinch that horse was somehow involved. Of that I was sure.

  “Pronto,” Eddie asked, “if we find those cattle, what do you figure to do?”

  “Ain’t decided. Maybe we’ll hike back and round up some help; or I may just go bulling in there and bring them out my ownself.”

  He looked at me, but he didn’t say anything. This was some of the finest grazing land in the world when the season was right. If you had rain, or good winter snows that could melt and sink in, you had grass, and a lot of it. And these rustlers were driving the cattle right up the Hanging Woman. I began to ride a first-rate hunch.

  “They’re headed for Squaw Butte,” I said to Eddie, “and from there they’ll drive across to the Bear Lodge Mountains.”

  “How many do you think there is?”

  “I’ve seen the tracks of four, maybe five riders, and by the time we get to Squaw Butte we won’t be more than an hour behind them, probably less. The way I figure it, they’ll hustle those steers right along.”

  We camped under a shoulder of rock on Trail Creek, where there was a small space of hard-packed sand and a trickle of water from a spring. There were no trees, just some low-growing willow and chokecherry, but there was some grass further down the hollow where we staked our horses.

  Our coffee we fixed over a fire you could cover with your hand, that let the smoke rise through the willows so it would be dissipated by the branches, had mighty little of it there was.

  Bedded down there, I lay with my hands clasped behind my head and stared up at the stars. What worried me most was those tracks I’d seen around Philo Parley’s place, the tracks of the man who killed Johnny Ward. And with this worry, Ann Parley’s face stayed with me … some man was going to be mighty lucky to get her. Thinking about that, I fell asleep.

  We cut out before sunup, riding fast toward Squaw Butte. It was in my mind that they would hole up there overnight, and be in no hurry to start out at dawn. They would have reached the Powder River too late to cross last night, and they wouldn’t attempt a crossing until full daylight. The Powder wasn’t deep, but there was quicksand in some places and cattle could get mired down and have to be hauled out.

  An hour later, as the sun was just topping out on the far-off hills, we reached the shadows west of the Squaw Butte. If they were smart they would have had somebody up there on the butte watching their back trail, but by now they must feel pretty sure of themselves. And even if they had somebody up there, I had an idea we’d made it into the deeper shadows before it was light enough to see movement out on the open plain.

  We worked our way up the side of the butte, keeping under cover of the pines as much as we could, although in places the cover was sparse. When we topped out on the ridge we were under cover of the trees, and we could see the herd down there below us, a couple of miles off. It was right close to Cabin Creek, and we could look across the herd toward Spotted Horse Creek.

  We worked our way south along the crest of the butte, keeping under cover, and presently I saw a trickle of smoke coming up, and then I could see the dust where one of the rustlers was working out one of his rough string. The horse was giving him trouble, but he stayed with him. The man himself I couldn’t make out.

  Studying the country below, I spotted a draw through which a man might work his way close while still under cover. Pointing it out to Eddie, I led off along the hill. When we were closer, I took another look. Near as I could make out, there were four riders down there, but I couldn’t tell who they might be—and that might make all the difference. There’s some men will fight, no matter what; and there’s others who simply won’t. Neither kind worried me much. It was the in-between ones that bothered me, the ones who might do any fool thing.

  We swung around and crossed the river upstream of the herd and cut back into the Powder River breaks to the banks of the Spotted Horse. As I’d guessed, only one rider had crossed with the cattle, the others were behind them, pushing them on. And that one man was Shorty Cones.

  He came up out of the willows, trying to keep the cattle bunched, and was within thirty feet of me before he saw me. And when he laid his eyes on me he was looking right into the barrel of a Winchester.

  Now, Shorty was a cocky, belligerent man, but he was no damned fool. He drew up quickly and reached for the sky with both hands.

  “Eddie,” I said, “put a loop over that one, and get his guns.”

  Like I’ve said, Eddie was a hand with a rope. He’d learned from the trick ropers on the Buffalo Bill show, and he flipped a noose over Shorty’s shoulders, snaked it tight, flipped a loop of the rope over him, and moved in to get his guns. He did a quick, expert frisk for hideout guns, and then we took Shorty off his horse and rolled him into a neat bundle. We stuffed a gag into his mouth and left him there. Then we rode out after the others.

&nbs
p; It was simple as a ‘coon pickin’ persimmons. They just rode out of the Powder and right into our hands.

  We disarmed them and tied them up, bunched together, and then I said, “Where you takin’ these cows?”

  Actually, none of them were cows, but we used the term loosely in those days.

  Nobody answered, and I hadn’t expected it, really.

  “Now, look,” I said, “I got nothing against you boys but a long ride and a lot of trouble, none of which pleases me. We’ve got the rope and we’ve got the tree, and there’s nothing to stop us from stringin’ you up.

  “In fact,” I added, “they’re settin’ up an order of vigilantes to do just that. If you boys were wise you’d light a shuck for Texas. And I’m going to give you a chance.”

  None of the lot were known to me but Shorty Cones, although one of the others I’d seen somewhere. They were a low-down outfit, all told, but it wasn’t in me to see a man hang without he had a chance. Although Roman Bohlen wouldn’t be apt to give them any show at all.

  “I’m taking your horses, and your guns, but I’m going to turn you loose. My advice to you boys is to get out of here like you was a bronc with a fire under his tail. You come around again and I won’t be so easy on you.”

  Nobody said a word. Eddie rounded up their horses, and we loosened the knot on one man’s ropes. Then we started our cattle back across the river and toward home.

  “You may be sorry for that,” Eddie commented mildly. “That Cones … he don’t like you none at all.”

  “They have their chance.”

  If they were smart, they’d ride out of the country, and they’d start right away; but knowing something of people’s unwillingness to believe, until too late, that anything could happen to them, I doubted if they would go. Nonetheless, I wanted nothing to do with hanging any man.

  We kept close check on our back trail, but nobody followed us.

  “You’re a kindly man, Pronto,” Eddie said, “but you can only be kindly up to a point, when you live in a world where evil men go armed.”

  He was right, of course, and I was realist enough to know it. And I knew myself well enough to know that I’d go along with being kindly just so far, and then I was going to spread my feet and start swinging. Last thing I wanted was trouble, but I’d had it before, a-plenty, and met it.

  During the night there was a light fall of snow, but it was gone by noon the next day. There was good grass, and we grazed the stock as we went back.

  Two nights later we were sitting in the cabin by the fire. Eddie was reading an old copy of the Police Gazette, and I was studying through a beat-up old History of England that somebody had left there. It had been there all the while, but I hadn’t thought of opening it up until I’d talked with Ann Parley.

  I’d scarcely got started reading when there came a call outside. “Halloo, the house!” And after a minute or two, “Pike? Can we talk?”

  Eddie reached for his rifle, and I got up, dowsing the lamp. I had known that voice.

  I opened the door and called out, “Tom? Tom Catty?”

  “Sure as shootin’!” came the answer. “You old Scuwegian, you! It’s good to see you!” He came riding up, but walking his horse easy so there wouldn’t be any mistake. “You alone?” he asked. He tried to peer past me into the blackness of the cabin, but I knew he could see nothing. There was a red glow of fire on the hearth, but Eddie was out of sight near the window.

  “I owe you ten dollars, Tom,” I said. “I’ll pay you when I draw down my first pay.”

  “Aw, forget it! What’s ten dollars?” He was riding a fine black horse with a new saddle and bridle. He looked prosperous, all right.

  He hooked one leg around the pommel of his saddle and started to build a cigarette. “You were kind of rough on my boys,” he said. “You set them afoot.”

  “They didn’t have to walk as far as they made us ride after them.”

  He threw me a sharp look. “How’d you figure that?”

  “Tom, you forget who you’re talkin’ to. I’ve known you too long, and right away I pegged it. The way they pushed their stock I knew they’d have to have horses stashed and waiting for them somewhere. Knowing you, I knew where that would be—just where we camped one time a few years back. I recall you made some comment at the time, how hard the place would be to find unless somebody knew about it. You had horses waiting in that notch back of Dead Horse Creek.”

  He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He was sore to think I’d remembered that place. Maybe he’d forgotten how he found it with me along.

  “Pronto, why don’t you two throw in with us? We’re going to get rich, believe me.”

  “You know Roman Bohlen?”

  “You wouldn’t even have to rustle,” he continued. “You could handle one of our camps.”

  “Roman Bohlen,” I said, “is going to sweep this country, and he’ll be carryin’ extra ropes. If I was you I’d light out, Tom. No, I’ll be damned if I throw in with you. You know me. I always rode for the outfit, and I always will.”

  He was irritated, but I thought he was worried, too, but not about Bohlen. “Pike, there are some of the boys who didn’t favor me coming here tonight. They were for burning you out, and either running you off or leaving you dead. If you don’t come with us, get out … I won’t tell you again.”

  “Tom,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “you know better than to try scarin’ me. I don’t scare.”

  He swung his horse. “The hell with you!”

  He started to ride off, then he stopped. “Pronto, who rides a horse with leather-shod hoofs?”

  “Whoever rides that horse,” I said, “killed Johnny Ward. There will be deputies down here hunting around.”

  Then he rode away, but it left me thoughtful. Tom Gatty didn’t know who rode that horse any more than I did, which meant it was hardly likely the rider was a rustler—at least, not one of his outfit, anyway.

  Actually, few rustlers were killers. They stole cattle, and if they killed a man it would be while running off the cattle or during a capture; it would be during a fight, and not by intention.

  Ice froze on the creek that night, and with daylight I was out showing Eddie how to chop a proper drinking hole for stock.

  Chapter Ten.

  There followed a week of as pleasant a time as any working cowhand is likely to have. On the second day Eddie stayed in and made a washtub full of bear sign, and whenever we went out a-horseback we taken a saddlebag stuffed with those doughnuts.

  It was clear, cold, and still most of the time. We kept the holes in the ice open for the cattle, checked the tracks in the snow, and snaked one big old steer out of a brushy bottom where he got himself tangled up. Toward the end of the week, Eddie killed a mountain lion that was stalkin’ a calf. Two days later I rode into a pack of wolves and killed two of them.

  Because of the hard work we had done in the weeks before the first snow we had most of the Justin stock in an area not over five miles square. There was shelter from the wind if they wanted to seek it, there was a plenty of feed, and there was water. That same stock had been scattered over thirty miles of country before we went to work.

  Nobody came by our way, and we saw no more horse tracks of any kind.

  Eddie was as good a hand as a man could wish, and he learned fast and stayed with it. Had this spell in my life come to me before Eddie put that idea in my mind, I’d have enjoyed it more. Maybe it wasn’t Eddie alone, for from time to time, and more often of late, I’d been somehow discontented. Now the idea of going back into town and whipping Butch Hogan didn’t seem the way it had. Nor did the thought of just being holed up warm and snug for the winter please me as much as I’d expected. I kept thinking of next spring, when I’d be no further along except for my winter’s wages—little enough in cash, when a man came to think of it.

  Maybe the realization that Ann Parley was just over the rise in the mountain worried me, too. Supposing I met a girl like that, supposing
I wanted to ask her to have me, what could I offer her? Life on a cowhand’s wages?

  So all the time I rode the range my mind kept worrying with the idea of what to do. From time to time I’d recall what Tom Gatty had said about getting rich, but that idea didn’t take any hold in my mind, and I’d no sooner think of it than I’d throw it out and turn to thinking of something else. But how was a cowpoke to get ahead?

  Late one afternoon who should come riding in but Tom Gatty again.

  “Pronto,” he said, “I hadn’t figured to come back nohow, and now that I’ve come, it’s to ask a favor.”

  “Go right ahead and ask. You’ve favored me a time or two.”

  “Well,” he said, “it ain’t good for me in Miles City right now. Folks take notions, like you advised when I was here last. I can’t go into town, and I’m fresh out of Vegetable Balsam, and if I don’t get some I’m likely to die.”

  “We’ve got some Gardner’s Horse Liniment,” I suggested. “Have you tried that? Good for man or beast.”

  “I got to have the Balsam. And don’t take nothing else, Pronto. Don’t let them talk you into no cheap, untried medicines. I don’t want nothing but Dr. Godbold’s Vegetable Balsam of Life.”

  “We’ve got some Dr. Robertson’s Stomach Elixir,” Eddie commented. “My mama swore by it.”

  Tom Gatty eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t know. That there Balsam is the best I ever did see, and nobody has tried more patent medicines than me. Ain’t that right, Pronto?”

  “Oh, sure! Back in the bunkhouse, days when we punched cows together, Tom had his own shelf right over his bunk. You never did see such a pile of medicines.”

  “Hell, Pronto, I’m a sick man! You know that. I’ve always been ailin’ and might have died years ago if it hadn’t been for that Home Medical Adviser I found in the line cabin that winter. Why, I was coastin’ right down the slope into the grave until I learned what all was wrong with me.”