Trial at Fort Keogh Read online

“I took it out. Somebody mighta thought I was an Injun and took a shot at me.”

  * * *

  Peace returned to the Double-V-Bar over the next month, with no reports of Indians raiding any of the ranches in the valley. Clint figured the occurrence of a couple of heavy snows might have had a lot to do with the absence of cattle rustling—most of the cows that were lost were due to wolves and coyotes. Ben figured the recent snowstorms had caused most of the cattle to show a little more growth of their winter wool to help them make it through till spring.

  For ranch hands, it was a time of year for long dreary days riding in the freezing cold. With heavy coats generally made of canvas with a blanket lining, most of Valentine’s hands rode nighthawk wrapped in woolen scarves with two pairs of woolen socks. And since there was very little need for roping during the winter, they wore socks over their gloves. Some even wore mittens, since they seemed to be warmer than their gloves. Heavy coats made of bear skin or buffalo were too expensive for the average ranch hand. Only Charley Clark owned one, but he would often loan it to one of the others if he wasn’t riding nighthawk.

  On sunny days, when the valley was covered with a blanket of snow, there was always the danger of snow blindness. Most of the men rubbed a mixture of lampblack and coal oil on their cheeks and under their eyes to combat the painful effects of it. Ben used a section of black coat lining to wrap around his face.

  It was a difficult time of year for the men who watched over Randolph Valentine’s cattle, so any opportunity to go into town was welcomed when it was necessary to buy new supplies. As the unofficial foreman, Clint was responsible for taking a couple of men and a wagon into Miles City to get what supplies were needed at Horace Marshall’s general store.

  So early one morning Clint, Bobby Dees, and of course Ben Hawkins set out on the four-mile ride to Miles City. Bobby and Ben drove the wagon with a two-horse team while Clint rode Sam along beside them. Clint knew what to expect when they reached town, since there were two saloons open now. Of the two men with him, he figured it most likely that Bobby might possibly remain sober enough to drive the wagon back to the ranch. As the years began to add up on Ben, Clint saw that his friend couldn’t consume the large amounts he did in the past. So he figured Ben would sleep all the way back.

  “Look yonder, Ben,” Bobby Dees exclaimed. “That place weren’t here last time I was in town. Looks like another saloon to me. What’s that sign say?” Bobby had never learned to read, but the appearance of the structure looked to him like a place to buy whiskey.

  “Frontier Saloon,” Ben responded happily.

  “Hot damn,” Bobby said. “Maybe since the Trail’s End has some competition now, the price of a drink of likker’s come down.”

  “Maybe,” Ben replied, looking the new establishment over as the wagon rolled past.

  “We’re gonna take a little time to have a couple of drinks, ain’t we, Clint?” Bobby asked.

  “Why, sure,” Clint said. “Just as soon as we get the wagon loaded up, you can go down a barrel of it as long as you get it done in time to get back to the ranch before the sun sets. You’ll most likely be blind drunk by then, dependin’ on how much money you’ve got. So that’ll be trouble enough without you tryin’ to drive a team of horses in the dark, too. Let’s get on over to Marshall’s and load up.”

  “Horace,” Lucinda Marshall called out when Ben and Bobby walked into the store. Clint finished scraping the mud from his boots outside the door before following them. Recognizing him, Lucinda smiled and called her husband again. “It’s some men from the Double-V-Bar,” she said, “Mr. Cooper and two others.” She nodded cordially to Clint. Randolph Valentine was a good customer and always paid his bill promptly.

  “Howdy, Clint,” Horace said when he came from the stockroom and saw the three men. “What can we do for you today?”

  “I got a list here of a bunch of things we need,” Clint replied. “Mr. Valentine said you’d put it on his bill as usual.”

  “That I will,” Marshall assured him cheerfully, and took the list from him. “Pretty long list,” he said after perusing it for a moment. He looked up at Clint again and said, “But I’ve got everything on here, and some other things he might wanna try. Canned peaches, they came up on the last boat that made it up the river before that last snow.” Clint showed no interest in the peaches, so Marshall immediately started pulling the items from the shelves, marking them off the list as he did. “You boys can go ahead and start loading if you want to. I’ve got it all right here on the bill.”

  When they were nearing the end of the list, Clint told Ben, “Go ahead. I’ll finish loadin’ up the last of it.”

  There was no hesitation by Ben or Bobby, who started for the door immediately.

  “You sure you don’t need no help tyin’ it down?” Ben asked as he went out the door.

  “Reckon not,” Clint said, laughing. “Which saloon are you goin’ to?”

  Bobby looked at Ben for the answer, and Ben said, “We might as well try the new place.”

  “Frontier Saloon,” Horace Marshall said to Clint after they left, “Frank Hudson’s place. I woulda told you boys to do your drinking there, instead of the Trail’s End. Hudson ain’t been in it long and already’s having a little trouble with the law.”

  “What kinda trouble?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t really know.” Marshall quickly retreated, thinking he’d said more than he should have. “I don’t have any complaints with Sheriff Yeager.”

  It struck Clint as a rather odd comment to make, but he shrugged it off. “Tally up the damage, and I’ll sign it. Mr. Valentine said he’d be in to take care of it before the month’s out.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Marshall said. “When you get back, tell him I said thank you—always appreciate his business, especially this time of year when everything’s slow.”

  Clint loaded the last of his purchases, with a little help from Marshall, and tied a canvas tarp over them. “Don’t look like snow,” he said in farewell to the storekeeper, “but this time of year, you never can tell.”

  “That’s a fact,” Marshall said, and stepped out of the way while Clint tied Sam’s reins to the tailgate. He climbed up into the wagon seat then, drove the team up the muddy street, and pulled up beside the Frontier Saloon, unaware of the interested spectator standing in the door of the barbershop.

  “Well, I’ll be damned . . . ,” Curly James muttered to himself, then turned to inform Bill Blankenship, who was in the barber’s chair. “You ain’t gonna believe this. Guess who just drove a wagon up to the Frontier.”

  “Who?” Blankenship asked, not really interested, being more concerned with the trimming of his mustache at that moment.

  “That feller that got ol’ Mace’s goat out yonder at the fort,” Curly said. “You know, that jasper the soldier was callin’ some kinda hero.”

  “You sure?” Blankenship asked, his interest piqued. He pushed the barber aside and hustled to the door to see for himself. He got there in time to see Clint climb down from the wagon and go into the saloon. “That’s him, all right, bold as brass,” he chortled, already anticipating Mace’s reaction when he found out. “Let’s go find Mace.” He pulled the barber’s cloth from around his neck and tossed it to him. “You can finish me up later,” he said to him, and went out the door to catch up with Curly, who was already hurrying to the Trail’s End Saloon.

  There was no jail or sheriff’s office in the fledgling town, so Simon Yeager had made his official headquarters at Spence Snyder’s drinking establishment. He could be found there most of the time, along with his deputy—his brother, Mace.

  Chapter 6

  By the time Clint walked into the Frontier Saloon, Ben and Bobby were already enjoying their second drink and Ben was engaged in conversation with the owner. He turned toward Clint when Hudson greeted him.

  “Clint, this her
e’s Frank Hudson. He’s the owner of this fine establishment, sold the one he had in Kansas City.”

  “Howdy,” Clint said. “Clint Cooper, pleased to meetcha. I’ll have a drink of whiskey, if Ben ain’t drank it all up already.”

  “There’s a little left,” Hudson said with a chuckle. “Ben here tells me you boys are with the Double-V-Bar. Horace Marshall, over at the general store, told me the Double-V-Bar was about the biggest cattle ranch close to Miles City. I hope I’ll see more of your men in my place.”

  “I reckon you probably will,” Clint said. Then, mindful of a comment that Horace Marshall had made before retreating, he asked, “How are you likin’ Miles City so far?”

  “All right, I guess,” Hudson answered, hesitating before continuing. “The town’s got some ways that take a little getting used to. But I reckon you have to allow for some things you don’t particularly like in most places—especially in my business.”

  “Like a gawdamned crooked sheriff?” Ben asked, not beating around the bush, as was his custom.

  Hudson recoiled, startled. “I didn’t say anything like that,” he quickly insisted, much the same reaction that Marshall had on the same subject.

  “Well, I hope you have a successful business here,” Clint said when it was obvious that Hudson was uncomfortable with the issue. He could see that Ernie had been right when he said the Yeager brothers were holding the town hostage. “I believe I’ll have another little snort. Then I expect we’d better get that wagonload of supplies on back to the ranch.” He looked at his two partners. “Is that all right with you two?”

  “I reckon,” Ben answered reluctantly, “although it’s a while yet till dark.”

  They knew he was right, however, so Ben and Bobby ordered one more drink and tossed it down just as trouble walked through the door. Facing the bar, Clint was not aware of it until he saw the look in Hudson’s eyes and the sudden frown. He turned to see Mace Yeager and his two yard dogs standing in the doorway. The menacing expression on the deputy’s face was in sharp contrast to the gleeful countenances of Curly and Blankenship, who were standing behind him.

  “Well, well, well,” Mace drawled, a contemptuous grin nudging the ends of his mustache. “If it ain’t the . . .” He paused to glance at Curly. “What did they call him? The Sioux Killer?”

  “That’s right, Mace, the Sioux Killer,” Curly said gleefully. “That’s what they called him.”

  “Yeah,” Mace said, the evil grin still on his face. “But there was another thing. What was that other thing they called him?”

  “Angel of death,” Blankenship piped up, eager to feed the fire of Mace’s desire for vengeance. “Like an angel of death, they said.”

  “What the hell are they talkin’ about?” Ben asked under his breath. Clint had not shared the incident that had happened in Ernie’s saloon.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Clint said. “We might be busy right now.” Curly and Blankenship moved out to each side of Mace, so Clint said, “Keep your eye on those two if anything happens. You’ll have to take care of them.”

  “Right,” Ben said in a voice just above a whisper, all business now. “I’ll take this one,” he told Bobby, nodding toward Curly. “The other one’s yours.” Bobby nodded.

  The situation was tense, but so far no one had reached for a gun. The reason was obviously because Mace intended to vent his anger before he provoked his antagonist into a gunfight.

  “Well, Mr. Sioux Killer, you’ve got a helluva lot of gall showing your face in this town. Or maybe it’s just a lack of sense. You ain’t got no army to protect you here.”

  “Well, now, Mr. Yeager,” Clint said. “It looks to me like you still ain’t improved your disposition none. Maybe you ain’t been eatin’ the right kind of grub, keeps you with a sour stomach all the time. You’re right, the army ain’t here to protect me, but with such a fine sheriff and deputy, I don’t have to worry about any trouble here in Miles City. I’d like to stay and catch up on the news with you, but we were just leavin’ your beautiful town when you came in. Maybe next time we can stay and have a drink with you and your friends, but we’d best get movin’ now.”

  Much like throwing gunpowder on an open fire, Clint’s sarcasm caused a rage inside the lean gunman’s head, but he managed to remain deadly calm. “That smart mouth of yours has got you in trouble one too many times, and now you’re gonna pay for it.” His hand moved to hover over the pistol in his holster, a Colt .44 worn high on his left hip with the handle forward. “You’re wearin’ a handgun, so we’re gonna find out right now if you can back up that mouth of yours.”

  “I’m wearin’ one,” Clint said, “but it ain’t loaded. So you’re just gonna have to shoot me down, I reckon. I’m pretty sure I’m faster than you. Ain’t nobody beat me yet, but it’s no use pullin’ it, since it ain’t loaded.”

  Clint was not especially fast with the .44 he wore on his hip. His weapon of choice was his Winchester rifle, but it was resting in the saddle scabbard on his horse. He knew as soon as Mace walked in that he was going to have to fight, and he had hoped that his taunting would serve to confuse him. According to what Ernie had told him, Mace was lightning fast with a gun, and his style was to goad an intended victim into a gunfight.

  Rising to the bait, Mace spat back, “Faster than me, my ass. You ain’t never seen the day you could beat me in a fair fight.”

  “A fair fight?” Clint needled him. “How many times have you been in a fair fight? Back-shootin’ ain’t a fair fight. Hell, I can whip you with my left hand.”

  Mace was almost beside himself with anger. “You son of a bitch, we’ll see who’s the top gun hand in this town. Load that damn pistol. Then we’ll step out in the street where we got plenty of room.”

  “You sure you wanna take a chance?” Clint continued to press him. “I’m pretty damn fast.”

  Ben was as confused as anyone. He couldn’t believe the boasting his friend continued to do, because he’d never seen Clint demonstrate any special ability with a handgun.

  “Load your damn gun!” Mace roared. “Or I’ll shoot you down where you stand!”

  “All right, I’ll load it,” Clint said. “but remember, I warned you.” Taking his time, he pulled the pistol out of his holster, broke the cylinder, and spun it. “Well, I must be gettin’ forgetful. It is loaded after all.” He cocked it and leveled it at Mace. “Anytime you’re ready, you can go for your gun.”

  “What the hell. . . ?” Mace sputtered, completely confused, looking at a cocked .44 staring back at him. He looked from Curly to Blankenship to the weapon trained on him again, as if expecting someone to explain what had just happened. “Put that damn gun away,” he blustered after a moment. “We ain’t drawed yet.”

  “I have,” Clint said coolly. “You saw me draw. I ain’t gonna show you again. That would be pretty damn stupid if I gave you another chance. I told you I was faster than you, but you just had to be shown. Let’s get this thing finished. I’ve got to be gettin’ back to work, so go on; go for your gun.”

  Mace stood dumbfounded, knowing that if he reached for his weapon, he was a dead man. He believed Clint was just crazy enough to shoot him down right there in the saloon. For a long moment, the barroom fell silent with tension that made time stand still as the standoff between the six men continued. Finally Mace yielded.

  “I ain’t no damn fool. I ain’t drawin’.”

  “Well, that decision was the first smart thing I’ve seen you do,” Clint said. “So I’m gonna let you by this one last time, but I ain’t gonna be so charitable the next time you come at me. I still ain’t ready to trust you, though, so me and my friends are gonna back out the door real slowlike. And if I see you or your friends so much as wiggle your nose, I’m gonna have to cut you down. Just to make sure you understand, if either one of these two saddle bums makes a move, you’re gonna get the bullet. Ben, you and Bobby e
ase on out now and get goin’. Untie Sam and leave him by the corner of the porch.”

  Clint stood in the doorway with his pistol still leveled at a fuming Mace Yeager until he heard the wagon pull away. “I don’t know why I’m stickin’ in your craw, Yeager. I can’t think of anything I’ve done to cause it. So why don’t you just let this be the end of it? I’m willin’ to let it go if you are.” He started to move out the door. “Make no mistake, men, I’ll blow a hole in the first head I see stickin’ out this door.”

  He eased out then, but as soon as he was on the porch, he ran, jumped into the saddle, and galloped away, expecting a bullet to follow him at any second. He heard one lone shot, but it was a wide miss.

  As soon as they heard the sound of Sam’s hooves pounding the muddy street, Mace and his two gunmen ran to the door. Outside, they saw that Clint was already too far away for the effective range of a pistol, but out of frustration and anger, Mace threw one shot after the fleeing rider.

  Knowing a pistol shot was a useless endeavor, Curly quickly drew his rifle from his saddle sling and took dead aim at Clint’s back. Mace grabbed the barrel of the rifle and pushed it up in the air before Curly could pull the trigger.

  “What the hell. . . ?” Curly complained. “I had him!”

  “He’s mine, damn it,” Mace snarled. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch. I don’t want nobody else to get in the way.”

  “Whatever you say, Mace,” Curly said, and slid his rifle back in the saddle sling. With Mace still glaring down the street after the rapidly vanishing rider, Curly turned to Blankenship and winked. Blankenship grinned and nodded.

  In a matter of minutes, Clint caught up with the wagon. He reined Sam back and fell in pace beside them.

  “God A’mighty,” Bobby Dees exclaimed when Clint pulled even with the wagon seat. “That was startin’ to get a little sticky back there, weren’t it?” He threw his head back and cackled. “I swear, Clint, you sure buffaloed that deputy sheriff. He damn near filled his drawers when you had your gun on him.”