Bill Cotton’s wound was healing nicely, a testimony to P. D. Wildmoon’s surgical skills. It still pained him some after a full day in the saddle, and with P. D. giving the orders a full day meant from sunup to sundown. It had taken him three days to reach Virginia City when he fled the trading post, and that included pushing on past sunset on the first night. P. D. seemed intent on cutting the time required to cover the same distance.
“I’ve gotta go in the bushes for a minute,” Cotton announced as they followed the Yellowstone beyond its confluence with another river, one that Cotton couldn’t name for them. The disturbance in his bowels made him wonder if the side meat they had packed might have turned rank. No one else seemed to have any complaints.
“We ain’t got time to stop,” P. D. said. “Get your business done and catch up with us. Bo, you drop back and wait with him.”
“Yessum,” Bo responded, and immediately reined his horse back.
“I don’t reckon I need nobody to watch me,” Cotton said.
“I know you don’t, Bill, darlin’,” P. D. said, a smile of amusement playing faintly upon her lips. “But there may be Injuns around that we don’t even know about, and Bo can keep watch for you.”
Cotton made no reply, simply giving the grinning Bo a glance before guiding his horse toward a clump of berry bushes near the river. It ain’t much different than taking a shit with a dog or a horse watching you, he thought as he shucked his gun belt and fumbled to get his britches untied, feeling a sudden need for haste. As his troubled bowel rushed to divorce itself from the tainted meat, Cotton gave thought to another thing that puzzled him. He didn’t believe for one second that Bo had been left behind to watch for Indians. It was a thought that had occurred to him the day before. Some one of the Wildmoon family was always watching him. It was almost like he was a prisoner. Why, he wondered, would they suspect he might desert them? The promise of five hundred dollars was incentive aplenty for an outlaw mind like Cotton’s. Maybe they’re worried I might go after that wad of money P. D. carries, he thought, smiling to himself between grunts. I wonder how much that ol’ bitch has got on her. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that it was the reason he was being watched all the time.
He had speculated a great deal about the party he had joined during the first two days on the trail. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that he was being played for a fool. P. D. needed him to take her to that Crow village. Once she found Slaughter, Cotton would indeed be a fool to think she would pay him the money promised. She would most likely tell him that he had to wait until she received the balance of the bounty from some jasper in Virginia—that, or simply shoot him in the back and be done with it. Of the two possibilities, he figured the second most likely. The joke’s on her, he thought. Bill Cotton ain’t that easy to skunk. I don’t exactly know where that Crow camp is, and I sure as hell ain’t got no idea where Slaughter is. He issued a final grunt of relief, and pulled some leaves from the berry bushes. I expect I’ll get my chance to catch Miss Wildmoon and her boys sleeping long before we start looking for that Indian camp.
It was late afternoon when they reached the point where the Boulder River joined the Yellowstone. A few hundred yards east of that, they came upon the ruins of the Frenchman’s trading post. The stockade was still intact, untouched by the flames that had left the store a pile of charred timbers. The gate faced the east, so they could not appreciate the degree of destruction until they rode around to the far side of the compound. Approaching the gate, they were met by Bordeaux’s mongrel dog, the only other survivor of Slaughter’s vengeance. With fangs bared, the snarling beast challenged the strangers. In a motion that was quick but casual, P. D. drew her pistol and shot the surly cur. “I ain’t got much use for dogs,” she said.
“That dog never got along with nobody but Luther Rainey,” Cotton commented. “We always figured it was because Rainey wasn’t much smarter than the dog, hisself.” He pulled up to gaze at the two bodies close by the door of the store. “Funny thing, ain’t it? I figured that dog would be long gone by now.”
“Hell,” Arlo replied, pointing toward a charred lump inside the burned-out back wall. “He warn’t about to run off and leave his food supply. From the looks of this’un, that ol’ hound liked his meat cooked.” He laughed at the thought. “I reckon he’da started on them fellers out in the yard next.”
Cotton dismounted and stepped closer to view the ragged remains that had once been Luther Rainey. Blackened and baked to a turn, Rainey’s half-eaten carcass triggered an amused grunt from his former partner. Cotton found it ironic that the dog had chosen the only person he liked to start in on.
P. D. walked her horse around the ruins, looking the situation over. “There ain’t nothin’ left worth takin’,” she decided. “He musta cleaned the place out before he burned it down.” She turned her horse toward the gate. “Let’s get outta here and find a place to camp. Somewhere upwind,” she added. “These corpses is startin’ to get ripe.”
“Reckon we oughta bury ’em, Ma?”
P. D. turned to look at her youngest. Of her three boys, Wiley was by far her favorite. P. D. didn’t have many soft spots in her heart, but Wiley came the closest to being one. Maybe it was because, of the three different men who sired her sons, she had a casual fondness for Wiley’s father, enough to have taken his name for her own. Possibly she nurtured a germ of compassion for the boy because he was slow-witted. Whatever the reason, he was the only one for whom she exhibited any show of patience. “I reckon not,” she finally answered his question. “We’ll just let the buzzards and the wolves feed off ’em.”
Bo, standing next to his younger brother, rapped Wiley on the back of his head with an open palm, knocking his hat off. “Reckon we oughta bury ’em?” he mocked. “I swear, Wiley, you’re dumber’n dirt.”
Wiley quickly reached down to snatch his hat from the ashes of the cabin wall. When he came up again, he had his pistol in his hand. “Put it away, Wiley,” P. D. commanded, and guided her horse between the two brothers. “Get on your horse, and let’s get outta here.” She watched him with a stern eye until he holstered the weapon. While he turned to step up in the saddle, she rendered a quick swipe across Bo’s face with her quirt.
“Goddamn!” Bo howled, and grabbed his cheek. “I was just funnin’ with him,” he complained. “The dumb bastard,” he added under his breath.
The family squabble dispensed with, P. D. turned to question Cotton. “Which way to that Crow camp?”
“Back yonder,” he replied, pointing toward the Boulder River. “Up that river.” He had no idea if the Crow village was up that river or not, but whenever Indians from the village had come to the trading post, they had followed the river. He figured he could trust to luck, and maybe they would stumble on it. “’Course, there ain’t no guarantee they’re still in the same place.”
“How far?” P. D. wanted to know.
Now Cotton was really out on a limb, but he didn’t want to admit that he had no idea. A confession such as that might convince P. D. that his services were unnecessary. “Why,” he allowed, “as near as I remember, no more’n half a day’s ride.”
“As near as you remember?” P. D. questioned. “Hell, back in Virginia City you said you could lead us right to it.”
“Well, I could, but like I said, the damn Injuns mighta moved their camp since then.” Cotton decided at that moment that P. D. was starting to question his story, and maybe his best bet was to take the first opportunity to kill the lot of them, and be satisfied with what money the suspicious ol’ gal had on her.
P. D. said nothing more on the subject, but continued to give Cotton a cold eye for a few moments longer before announcing, “Sun’s gettin’ low. We’d best find us a place to camp.”
Retracing their trail for a few hundred yards, they started up the Boulder River toward the towering Absarokas, riding no more than a mile before P. D. picked a spot for their camp. “Suit you, Bill?” she remarked pointedly, as if his opinion meant something.
Cotton shrugged. “Suits me fine,” he said, and dismounted.
They unsaddled the horses and hobbled them after taking them to drink. P. D. took care of building a fire while Arlo took care of her horse. Cotton laid out his blanket a little apart from the other four, next to a sizable rock that extended a foot or more out into the river. The rock would partially shield his movements should he decide to move about any during the night. From that position, he was also a little above the other four. As he finished arranging his blanket, he felt P. D.’s eyes upon him. When he looked around, she was indeed watching him, and when he met her gaze, she smiled. Like a cat watching a mouse, he thought. Thinking how good I’m gonna taste when she eats me. He returned her smile. She’s on to me, he thought. She’s thinking I don’t know where that village is, and she doesn’t need to share that reward with me. He had little doubt that P. D. would put a bullet in his back with no more compassion than she had with Bordeaux’s dog. Well, this is one mouse that ol’ cat ain’t gonna get the chance to taste.
The eye contact was broken when Arlo and Bo started rummaging through the packs that held the supply of bacon. “What are you boys doin’ in them packs?” P. D. demanded.
Bo answered, “Lookin’ for a little piece of bacon. Me and Arlo’s gonna rig up a line to see if we can catch us a fish for supper.”
“More’n likely you’re feedin’ our supper to the damn fish,” P. D. retorted. “I didn’t tote that slab of bacon all the way out here for you boys to throw in the river.”
“We’re just gonna take a little piece,” Arlo said while his brother cut off a small corner of the slab.
“Wrap that meat up like you found it,” P. D. prompted. Then she looked at Cotton and smiled again, like any mother of a couple of rambunctious cubs.
It struck Cotton how much she looked like a man; even more than before with her newly cropped hair. He thought back to the incident in her hotel room, amazed that he had been able to accommodate her. Her attitude had changed perceptibly since they had stopped to make camp. The gruff exterior had given way to something remotely akin to a mannerism approaching femininity. He considered the possibility that she might be thinking along the same lines as during that tussle in the hotel. He quickly rejected that notion. She was getting friendly for a decidedly different purpose, he thought, to put him at ease so she could put a knife in his gut while he slept. We’ll see about that.
There was nothing approaching romance in P. D.’s mind as she studied her temporary partner. You lying bastard, she thought, sitting there grinning at me. You don’t know where that village is, and you don’t have any idea where to look for Slaughter. I’m giving you one more night. That damn camp better be where you said it was. In the meantime, I’m going to watch you like a hawk. Her thoughts were interrupted when Bo’s excited whoops distracted her. Looking toward the river, she saw her son climbing the bank, holding a fish up for her to see.
“What’d I tell you,” he blurted proudly. “I caught a big’un, and Arlo ain’t caught shit!” He brought the fish up for her to examine. “What kinda fish is that, Ma?”
“Hell, I don’t know, son. Fish is fish. We’ll cook him up for supper.”
The fish was fairly large, but not enough to feed five people, so P. D. cut it in chunks and mixed it in with the bacon. After they had eaten, they sat around the fire for a while. “There’s liable to be Injuns here-abouts,” P. D. said. “It’s best we keep a lookout while we’re sleepin’.” This especially caught Bill Cotton’s attention. Noticing, P. D. continued. Talking directly to Cotton then, she said, “We’ll let these young boys take turns watching. They don’t need their sleep like us older folks, like you and me, Bill.”
“Hell, I’ll take my turn,” Cotton quickly volunteered. This looked like the opportunity he was hoping for. “Nobody has to stand in for Bill Cotton.”
“No, no need,” P. D. retorted just as quickly. “We’ll let the boys do it.” Then, ending all discussion on the matter, she turned to the three disappointed young men. “Wiley can take the first turn. Arlo, you and Bo can decide who goes when after that.”
Later, when Cotton walked up into the trees to empty his bladder, P. D. called Arlo over. “I ain’t worried ’bout no Injuns. I want you and your brothers to keep an eye on ol’ Bill, there—make sure he don’t get to wanderin’ around during the night.”
Arlo grinned. “Yessum,” he replied. “We’ll watch him.”
The night passed peacefully enough, with nothing untoward to distract from the serenity of the river valley. P. D. snored in contented slumber, oblivious to the night sounds. Cotton, on the other hand, slept fitfully, not at all comfortable with being watched all night long, and frustrated to know that the opportunity he had hoped for was lost to him. Several times during the long night, he awakened and looked around to see if the “sentry” was alert. Each time, he discovered one of P. D.’s boys up and on the job. It was blatantly obvious to him that they were stationed in a position to watch him rather than to look for anyone approaching the camp. Along toward morning, he gave up and went to sleep.
He was awakened by the toe of P. D.’s boot, prodding him in the back. “Come on, Bill, you’ve done sawed enough logs,” she cajoled. “We’ve got some ridin’ to do if we’re gonna reach that Crow camp before noon.”
Cotton bolted upright, startled that he had over-slept. In the process of scrambling out of his bed, he became tangled in his blanket, causing him to trip and land on the ground again—much to the amusement of his audience. “It’s a good thing we ain’t Injuns,” Wiley said, delighted by the confused man’s efforts to disengage himself from his blanket. “We’da done had us a scalp.”
Bill Cotton was not possessed of a sense of humor. Bitterly mortified for being the butt of the joke, his face reflected the anger he felt inside. “Maybe, maybe not,” he uttered as he finally threw off the blanket to reveal the .44 revolver in his hand.
There followed a protracted moment of dead silence as the Wildmoon family stood staring eye to eye with their new partner. P. D., her hand casually resting on the butt of her pistol, finally broke the silence. “Was you expectin’ trouble, Bill?”
“I’m always expectin’ trouble,” he answered gruffly. Looking around him then at the faces watching him with eager looks of anticipation, he holstered the weapon, ending the confrontation. Realizing the odds were definitely not in his favor, he said, “No harm done. I expect we’d best get movin’.”
* * *
Cotton wasn’t comfortable with P. D. and her sons behind his back, but he had little choice but to ride out in front, since his value to the hunting party was as a guide to take them to the Crow village. He glanced up at the sun, now almost directly overhead, as he followed the trail through another narrow gorge. It was beginning to look like he had made a poor guess when he assured P. D. that the camp was a half day’s ride from the trading post. He began to doubt whether the village was even on this river. The farther they rode, the more mountainous canyons they encountered with no suitable places to set up a large Indian camp.
He resigned himself to the fact that the showdown with P. D. and the boys was going to be a lot more difficult than he had hoped. At some point, he was going to have to separate Arlo and Bo from their mother. Wiley was of no major concern. Of the four, P. D. was his primary concern, and by far the most dangerous. The element of surprise was going to be the key. If the timing was right, he could gun down the woman and her youngest before Arlo and Bo knew what was going on. He was running out of time, because it was already noon, and P. D. would be asking questions before much longer. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea to stop and rest these horses a little,” he called out behind him. “I could use a little coffee, myself.”
P. D. pulled up beside him on a path so narrow that their stirrups were rubbing together. “We oughta been comin’ to that village by now, if what you said was right,” she said. “I ain’t seen a spot big enough for a camp in these damn canyons. I believe you mighta been tellin’ me a story when you said you knew where that village was.”
“It ain’t much farther,” Cotton assured her. “We’ll find us a place to rest the horses before long. After that, it won’t be far.”
He was beginning to believe that there was no end to the steep river canyon, but eventually they came to a pass where the river made a turn, creating a small grassy meadow inside the crook of the bend. Relieved, Cotton called back, “See, I told you there was a place up here to rest a spell.” He rode on ahead, and dismounted in the meadow close to a sizable boulder sitting by the water’s edge. While he waited for the others to file in behind him, he made his mental preparations for the task he was getting set to perform. The ol’ bitch will send a couple of the hoys to water her horse, he thought. While they’re watching the horses, it’ll be easy to shoot her and Wiley before they know what hit them. Then I can use this rock for cover while I pick off the rest of them. It was as good a plan as any. He was satisfied that he could take down the four of them, maybe before any of them had time to get off a shot. Hearing her horse walking slowly up behind him, he turned to greet P. D. with a smug smile of anticipation on his face, only to have it freeze when he looked into the barrel of her pistol. There was not even an instant of time to realize what was happening before the revolver discharged in his face, ending Bill Cotton’s worries in this life.
“Whup!” Bo whooped, as startled by the gunshot as Cotton. “Godamighty,” he exclaimed excitedly.
“He ain’t got no more idea where that Crow village is than Wiley has,” P. D. casually announced, as Cotton’s body fell back against the boulder and slid slowly to a sitting position on the ground. “He was just after my money.”
“Ma, I ain’t got no idea where that Crow camp is,” Wiley said, confused by his mother’s remark.
P. D. smiled patiently. “I know you ain’t, son.”
“Dumber’n a stump,” Bo mocked, and reached over and knocked Wiley’s hat off his head.
“Leave him be, Bo,” P. D. scolded her middle son, then turned to Arlo, who was standing over Bill Cotton’s body to see if he was dead. “Get his gun belt and that pistol he was aimin’ to shoot us with, and anything else you can find on him. Bo, you can lead his horse. That saddle looks to be in good shape. Leave it on. We might as well take it with us.”
“Yessum,” Bo replied, leaving young Wiley standing there staring at the corpse.
“How we gonna find that Crow camp now, Mama?”
With patience she had only for her dull-witted son, P. D. explained. “The same way that son of a bitch was hopin’ to find it. I’m guessin’ he just figured it was up this river somewhere. Go get back on your horse. We’ll find it, and when we do, there’ll be somebody there that knows where Slaughter’s holed up.”
She sat there on her horse for a while longer, watching Wiley go back for his. Every once in a while she wondered why she had a soft spot in her heart for her simpleminded son. In a litter of puppies, Wiley would have been the flawed one that got knocked in the head. Knowing her compassion for him was because of his father, Buck Wildmoon, she almost sighed when she thought of Buck. Damn, he was hell between the sheets, she thought. Trouble was, he wasn’t particular whose sheets he was working between. It always brought a smile of satisfaction to her face when she recalled the night she walked into that hotel room in Omaha and put a bullet square in the middle of Buck’s naked backside. Dismissing the thought, she aimed a final glance at the corpse slumped against the boulder. You were good for a ride, too, but not as wild as one with Buck Wildmoon.