Montana Territory Page 7

  “You’re right, of course,” Conner said. “All right, we’ll do it your way, but you’ll have to show me where to start out after you in the morning.”

  “By the way,” Hawk said, “that little fellow they call Frog is the one who showed me where to pick up their trail. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know where to start lookin’.”

  * * *

  At sunup the next morning, the fires were revived, but only enough to afford a cup of coffee for everyone. Conner planned to stop for breakfast when the horses were in need of rest, and Hawk was of the same mind. Before leaving the patrol, Hawk asked Donald if there was some way he could recognize David Booth, if he was lucky enough to find him. Donald, with Corey’s help, tried to paint a detailed description of the man who had appeared to be such a devout Christian. A big man, they said, dark of hair and features, his seeming vanity would have to be his heavy mustache, which he groomed to curl up at the ends. Other than that, they said, his clothes were plain, like those of all the other men of their church. Hawk tried to form the image of Booth’s face in his mind and promised he would do his best to track him down. When the horses were saddled, he led Conner to the gully where Booth and his partners had left the wagon road and headed north. Conner stood for a few moments, staring down the narrow gully, thinking he should advise his friend. “You know I’m ordered to lead a ten-day patrol, so I can’t keep the men up here indefinitely. I’ll come after you as soon as I can take those folks back to Fort Benton. But if we don’t find Booth and his gang after a day or so, I’m gonna have to head back.”

  “I understand,” Hawk assured him. They wished each other good luck and parted ways.

  * * *

  “I was damn glad to see that store,” Tater Thompson repeated what he had said when they had caught sight of the little trading post owned by Grover Dean on the Teton River. “I was needin’ a drink of likker bad.” It was now several days since they had slaughtered the train of Quakers, then killed Dean and his wife at the trading post, and it appeared that no one was on their trail. Feeling confident he had pulled it off, Booth Corbin thought back to remember the chain of events.

  “Maybe we won’t have to keep moving so fast,” his brother, Jesse, had remarked when they had left the scene of the massacre behind them. “Whaddaya think, Booth?” He always asked his brother’s opinion. He was older than Booth by a good two years, but it was his brother who had formed the small gang of outlaws and was unchallenged as the boss. They had operated quite successfully in Wyoming Territory until the law became too hot on their trail. It was Booth’s idea to leave Wyoming and head for Montana with a purpose to simply lie low until the pressure eased up in Wyoming. And it was Booth who stumbled upon a meeting of the Friends one Sunday and came up with the idea of fleecing those innocent folks out of their life savings. “We’ve put a good bit of distance between us and that hill by the Missouri,” Jesse continued. “After all this time, I don’t think there’s anybody comin’ after us, anyway.”

  “Yeah, Booth,” Blue Davis had said, “who the hell’s gonna know anything’s happened to those damn Quakers? Most likely nobody even knows they’re missin’. I don’t know why we even worried about it. Who’s gonna come after us? Nobody, that’s who.”

  Booth had held the same opinion at the time, but he had still felt the need for caution. And now that they were back in their hideout, he was satisfied that they had gotten away with the assault, free and clear. He had invested a lot of time and sacrifice in setting up the robbery of the Society of Friends. He had joined the society, under the name of David Booth, gone to a lot of meetings, said a lot of amens, even volunteered to help with some of the crops. Now that it had paid off, he didn’t want anything to go wrong, just because of carelessness by any of them. They were probably right in thinking they had pulled off the perfect crime, even though there was no way of knowing if those few who were pushed off the cliff survived. He trusted the reasoning of his brother, and Jesse was of the opinion that they were free and clear. As for the massacre that took place on that hilltop, he had not foreseen the slaughter of the whole group of people. He had planned to take all the mules and leave the people on foot. The shooting had happened spontaneously, when Trip Dawson had suddenly pumped three shots into Brother Adams when Adams tried to save the money. Trip was always quick to use his gun, and maybe the death of all those people could have been avoided, as Booth had planned. Looking back on the incident, however, Booth decided it was better than his original plan, when he realized that it had ensured their getting away and leaving no witnesses. When the massacre started, there were people—men, women, children—running in every direction. Without thinking, he had reacted like the others, shooting to be sure no one escaped to report what was happening there. When all was said and done, things had worked even better than he expected. That mule they led back with them was carrying over thirty thousand dollars. He would not know the exact amount until he had a chance to count all of it. But that was a hell of a lot more than their average bank robbery yielded, with no risk of retaliation. To satisfy his impatient partners, he had counted out a hundred dollars to each man when they had stopped to camp the first night after the shooting. They seemed to have needed some evidence of the reward coming to them, so he gave them a little cash to hold.

  Returning his thoughts to the day of his biggest robbery, Booth remembered announcing to his impatient men, “Yes, sir, I think we’ve all earned a little whiskey and a good supper. We’ll see what that Injun bitch of Grover Dean’s can cook up for five wealthy gentlemen.”

  He remembered how his declaration was met with grunts of enthusiasm. “Now you’re talkin’,” Tater had exclaimed. “If I don’t get some whiskey pretty soon, I’m gonna die!” His testimony was met with guffaws from the others and a race down the bluff to the store.

  Like the murdered Quakers, it had been a fateful night for the unfortunate storekeeper and his wife when Booth decided to stop there that night. Inside the combination store and saloon, Grover Dean heard them when they pulled up in front, so he walked over to the window to see. “There’s that Wyomin’ bunch back here again,” he said to Beulah. “I hope to hell they’ve got some money to spend this time.” Like her husband, Beulah, whose Blackfoot name was Walks Behind, was not enthusiastic about another visit from the rough group of outlaws. She had been with Grover ever since he built his trading post almost ten years ago, doing his bidding like any good wife would do. He called her Beulah because he had a sister with that name, who had died as a child, and he liked that more than Walks Behind. “You might better see if you’ve got anythin’ to cook,” Grover suggested. “They might be lookin’ for somethin’ to eat.” He opened the door and stepped out on the porch to meet them.

  “Didn’t expect to see you boys back so soon,” Grover said in greeting. Then noticing one extra, he said, “Looks like you picked up another rider since you left here.”

  “Howdy, Grover,” Jesse Corbin responded. “Yep, we picked up my brother, Booth, and he’s needin’ a drink of whiskey, same as the rest of us.”

  “Only this time, we want the good stuff,” Blue Davis informed him, “instead of that watered-down trash you sell the Injuns.”

  “I don’t know why you’d say that,” Grover replied, as Blue pushed by him and went inside. “I ain’t got no watered-down whiskey,” he claimed, and hurried to get behind the bar. “I’ve got some high-priced rye whiskey I sell by the bottle. It costs more than the regular corn whiskey I sell a drink at a time.”

  “We’ll take a bottle of that rye whiskey,” Booth called out as he walked in the door behind them.

  “And how ’bout some food,” Trip Dawson ordered. “Where’s that squaw you’re livin’ with? Get her ass in the kitchen. I need some decent food.”

  “Sure thing, boys,” Grover responded. “That’s what I’m in business for, but last week when you were here, you were pretty tight with your money.”

  “Yeah?” Tater responded. “Well, that was last week.” He p
ulled a wad of money out of his vest pocket and slammed it on the bar. “Now get me a drink of that rye whiskey, before I throw a fit.” His antics drew a round of laughter from his partners, prompting a couple of them to slam some money down on the bar as well.

  Grover was properly astonished by their behavior. “Looks like you boys musta held up a bank or somethin’ since you was last in here.”

  His comment had caused Booth to realize the picture they were creating with their frivolous display of money. “It might look that way, at that,” he said. “We’re just celebratin’ ’cause I just got back from Wyomin’ with some money we had buried down there.” From the skeptical expression on Grover’s face, he was afraid he leaned more toward the bank robbery explanation. I wish I had warned them to keep their mouths shut, he thought.

  “Well, in that case, I’d best go tell Beulah to rustle up some food,” Grover said, and reached under the bar and brought out an unopened bottle of rye whiskey.

  * * *

  The celebration had extended past suppertime and on into the night, keeping Grover busy supplying the whiskey and Beulah frying ham and baking biscuits. Finally, a point was reached when the party began to settle into an alcoholic stupor for the most part, punctuated by the sawmill-like snoring of Tater Thompson, as it reverberated off the hard tabletop. The only sober man in the saloon, Grover Dean, was content to enjoy the financial windfall that had come his way, unaware of a confrontation that was to follow. Sitting at the table with the sleeping Tater, Blue Davis sat in a stupor that morphed into a drunken fantasy as he eyed Beulah while the weary Indian woman picked up the dirty dishes from the tables. When she bent over to pull a dirty plate from under Tater’s arm, Blue pointed to her behind. “Now, I’m buyin’ me some of that,” he stated confidently.

  His statement drew an instant response from Grover. “That ain’t for sale.”

  “It is tonight,” Blue said, and started to reach for the startled woman.

  “She ain’t for sale,” Grover repeated, but this time he backed up his words with the double-barreled shotgun he kept under the counter. Just as he had on the hilltop by the Missouri, Trip Dawson had been the quickest to react. He drew his .44 and pumped two rounds into Grover’s chest. Horrified, the Blackfoot woman screamed, then launched an attack upon Trip, only to receive his third shot in her stomach.

  As Beulah collapsed to the floor, everyone seemed stunned except Trip and Tater, who continued to snore. After a moment when no one could think what to say, Booth finally demanded, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “He was fixin’ to shoot Blue,” Trip replied as he casually replaced the three spent cartridges.

  “You damn fool,” Booth said. “He wouldn’t have shot that gun. Blue’s too damn drunk to get up from that chair. Now we got ourselves into another mess.”

  “Least we’re gonna save ourselves a lot of money we spent here tonight,” Jesse said, seemingly not that concerned about the murder of Grover and his wife.

  Rapidly sobering up at this turn of events, Booth got to his feet. “All right,” he ordered. “Let’s drag them outta here in case somebody happens by. We can put ’em in the storeroom.” They did as he instructed, dragging the bodies out of the saloon, although no one really thought there was much chance of anybody else showing up at the trading post at this late hour. When Jesse said as much to his brother, Booth had to admit that he was probably right. They talked about the best thing to do, since it was now pretty late to think about saddling the horses and starting out to find a place to camp.

  “Everything we need is right here,” Jesse said. “We might as well stay here tonight and leave in the mornin’. Ain’t nobody liable to turn up here before we leave. We can take what we need and burn the rest. Hell, Booth, this turned out to be a gold mine, and just like the Quaker business, we’ll leave no witnesses.”

  At the time, Booth had thought it over for a few moments but couldn’t come up with any reason not to do as Jesse advised, now that the killing was already done. “All right,” he agreed. “Let’s get all the ammunition and supplies we can carry ready to pack up in the mornin’. And let’s see if we can find where Grover’s secret hiding place for his money is.” With that decision, the two brothers roused their companions out of their drunken states to help with the robbing of the trading post. All but Tater sobered up enough to help. Even after Blue kicked Tater’s chair out from under him, he hung on the table by his arms until finally dropping to his knees to then roll over on his side, where he slept till morning.

  Booth had seen to it that everyone was awake early when the next morning dawned, and they were soon packed up, including a generous quantity of supplies and ammunition, courtesy of the late Grover Dean. As a final touch, Booth set fire to the building and waited to watch it until satisfied it would continue to burn after they had gone. With heads still fragile from their celebration, the band of outlaws had started out to complete the final day’s ride to the hideout they were now occupying. From Grover Dean’s trading post, their hideout was a full day’s ride, with a tiny settlement about halfway. They had ridden around the settlement, so they wouldn’t all be seen together. In the eight months they had used this hideout, they had been careful not to come to town together. Booth thought it best to quell any curiosity the folks there might have about them. When buying supplies from the store there, Jesse or Blue would go in alone most of the time. There were marshals in Wyoming who would be interested to know a gang of five men were living in a cabin half a day’s ride from the settlement. There was another man more than a little interested in their whereabouts. And on this particular morning, that man was setting out to follow their trail, even though it was already pretty old.

  CHAPTER 6

  From the beginning, the outlaws were careless in leaving a trail, taking no pains to cover their tracks. Hawk figured they weren’t worried about anyone following them and probably thought it a good chance that no one would even know if the mule train of Quakers was missing. He had gone no farther than half a mile when the tracks struck an old trail. He figured it most likely an old Indian trail and the party he was tracking followed it. To make tracking easier, a light rain had fallen on the day of the massacre, or maybe the day after, and it helped to leave solid hoof imprints, especially where there was little grass. He rode on into midday over a treeless plain with the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains standing on the western horizon, never seeming to get closer. Water was scarce, so he was glad to see a line of trees after he estimated he had ridden close to thirty miles, about ten miles more than he liked to run his horse. Judging by the growth of trees and vegetation, he guessed that he was near a river. The trail he followed led toward the thickest part of the trees and then turned to follow the river west. It was plain to see that the men he followed had left the trail here and later returned to take it up again. So, he turned Rascal toward the water and rode down into the trees. As he anticipated, the remains of a campfire told him that the outlaws had stopped there as well. His immediate thought, after taking care of his horses, would have been to examine the ashes of the campfire to try to get an idea how far behind he was. This time, he didn’t bother, since he was so far behind them. “Nothin’ to do but keep ridin’,” he said to Rascal.

  After his horse was rested, he started out again on the trail that now followed close beside the river, wondering if he might be taking on a pointless mission. If the outlaws didn’t hole up somewhere before much longer, he wasn’t confident that Conner and his patrol could ever catch up to him. Conner was not as inclined to abort a mission as Harvey Meade was, but Hawk realized there would come a time when Conner would deem it no longer advisable to continue a search without foreseeable results. These thoughts were interrupted when he spotted half a dozen buzzards circling overhead, so he nudged Rascal into a gentle lope.

  He rode for what he estimated to be about a quarter of a mile before he could see the reason for the buzzards. He pulled Rascal up short of a clearing on the riverbank
and stared at what he guessed to be the charred remains of a house or store. A barn with a corral stood unscathed off to the side of the burned remnants that Hawk decided had been a trading post. He nudged Rascal forward and rode on down into the yard. The story required little thought to determine what had happened here when he saw the buzzards plucking away at the two scorched, half-burned bodies lying among the fallen roof beams. If there had been any doubt before, after the brutal massacre of the Quakers, this new evidence was proof enough that the men he trailed were without the first trace of human compassion. And there was no question who was responsible for this evil act of violence, for the hoofprints left by the little mule were there plain to see at the hitching post, even after this amount of time.

  Judging by the burned timbers, it would seem that he was not that far behind Booth and his gang, which didn’t make sense, since they were more than a few days ahead of him. It could only mean they had stayed overnight at the trading post, possibly two nights. Everything was now a guess on Hawk’s part, so he spent no more than a short time at the burned-out store. He chased the buzzards away from the two charred bodies, but there was little left to worry about burying, so he backed away and let the raucous birds return to clean up the remains of their feast. With ever increasing determination to bring Booth and his gang to face their vicious crimes, he returned to the river trail.

  Back on the road, he rode for another twenty-five miles or so before spotting a small gathering of buildings up ahead. He followed the trail into the settlement, which consisted of a general store, a stable, a blacksmith, and a tent with a crude sign that claimed it to be a saloon. He directed Rascal toward the general store, dismounted, and looped the buckskin’s reins around the hitching post. He was met with a genuine look of surprise by the owner when he walked inside. “Well, howdy, stranger,” Franklin Pierce exclaimed, as he looked the tall, broad-shouldered man up and down. “What brings you to Choteau?”