Chapter 13

“John Carson!” Shorty blurted in surprise when Carson walked in the back door, carrying Millie in his arms. “Man, am I glad to see you!” He, along with the others who came running into the kitchen when they heard him exclaim, were stopped speechless by the sight of the formidable man as he lowered Millie onto a chair by the table, for he was clearly not the same man they had known.

“Millie!” Nancy cried out in alarm. “What happened?”

“I think she’s gonna be all right,” Carson said. “Just let her rest a little bit.”

Concerned for her sister, Nancy hurried to Millie’s side. She glanced up at Carson when he stepped away from the table, and was the first to express what everyone was thinking. “I wasn’t sure it was you,” she declared, amazed. “You’ve changed so much.”

“Damned if you ain’t,” Shorty agreed after taking a few moments to realize the transformation that had taken place. “What happened?” he asked then while Nancy and Lizzie comforted an obviously shaken Millie.

He answered with two words. “Duke Slayton.” Frank and Shorty both reacted in alarm, but Carson told them there was no danger at the moment. “He’s dead.”

“Well, by God, that’s four of ’em,” Shorty announced. “I don’t know how many that leaves, but that’s four that won’t be shootin’ at us.”

“But what happened to Millie?” Nancy interrupted. There had been no explanation for her sister’s obvious state of distress.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Millie spoke up then, somewhat recovered from the shock of her near-death experience. “That monster grabbed me when I came out of the outhouse.” She went on to tell of her experience as she had lived it, from knowing she was going to die, to sudden deliverance in the form of John Carson.

When she finished, Carson told Shorty that he had come upon the gang of outlaws gathered on the ridge, and worked in close to hear them revolt against Duke Slayton’s orders. “He was dead set on rubbin’ out everybody here,” he said. “But the other fellers didn’t like the odds of more of ’em gettin’ shot, so they took off and left him up there. I followed ’em down the other side of the ridge to make sure they weren’t plannin’ on doublin’ back on the barn. But they didn’t, so I went halfway back up the slope to where there was one horse standin’. I figured that had to be Duke’s, so I waited for him to show. When a good bit of time passed and he never showed up, I figured I’d best go look for him. By the time I found him, he’d already grabbed Millie.”

“What do we do now?” Frank asked.

“I reckon we’ll go to war,” Shorty answered him, “if you don’t wanna lose all your cattle.”

“That’s another thing we talked about,” Millie said. “Me, Nancy, Lucas, and Frank—we talked it over and decided all of us own the cattle. Since Papa and Justin are gone, we need you, and Mule, and Clem, so we think it’s fair if all of us own equal shares in the ranch—Lizzie, too.”

Her statement caught Shorty without words for once in his life. When he finally remembered some, he exclaimed, “You mean that?” She nodded and smiled. “That’s mighty generous of you folks,” he said. “Wait till I tell the fellers in the barn!” It occurred to him then that they were no doubt wondering why he had never returned. “I’d best go get ’em, anyway, ’cause we’ve got to decide what we’re gonna do to keep our cattle.”

Nancy spoke up then to remind them that Lucas had been sent to Big Timber to contact the law. “Should we wait till we hear from them?” she asked. “Maybe they’ll send a posse to go after that bunch of murderers.”

“By the time a posse got here,” Frank answered her, “our cattle would be in Canada.”

“Frank’s right,” Carson said. “We need to stop ’em before they cross the Musselshell. Why don’t you get the boys ready to start out at first light in the mornin’ and head for the river? Maybe you can catch ’em before they round up a sizable herd and try to cross.”

With no better idea of his own, Shorty nodded, then asked, “What about you? You’re ridin’ with us, ain’tcha?”

“Reckon not,” Carson replied. “I don’t like the odds. There ain’t but four of you against them, so I expect I’ll leave now before they get too far ahead. Maybe I can cut the odds down a little better tonight.”

Relieved when he understood Carson’s meaning, Shorty nodded and said, “That would sure help some.”

“You be careful you don’t go get yourself killed,” Millie blurted. When she saw the look of surprise in the faces of Nancy and Carson, she flushed slightly, then quickly added, “We need all the guns we can get.” She received a disapproving glare from her sister then, so she grimaced and said, “I never thanked you for saving my life. I appreciate it.” Nancy’s eyes shot up toward the ceiling.

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Carson said.

“And quit calling me ma’am,” Millie responded. “I’m not your mother, or your aunt.”

“Yes, ma’a . . . I mean Millie,” he said, confused, wondering how he had happened to make her mad this time. Looking at Shorty then, he said, “I’d best get goin’. I’ll see you sometime in the mornin’.”

* * *

Even in the darkness, he had very little trouble following the tracks of the gang. As he suspected, they made straight for the largest concentration of M/C cattle, and they found them dispersed over a broad valley by a creek some five or six miles north of the M/C ranch house. When he caught sight of the herd, he held back to try to see how the rustlers were going to organize their drive. Watching from a low line of hills, he saw two of the men split from the others and ride out, one to the east to round up a pocket of strays, the other to the west, toward him, to do the same. It appeared that the other rustlers planned to hold the main herd there in the valley until the strays had been brought back. Carson took only a few seconds to decide his plan of attack.

He dismounted and, under the cover of darkness, moved in among a small bunch of cattle that had gathered in a pocket at the mouth of a shallow ravine. There was no feeling of conscience or guilt for what he was about to do. This was war, and these men had killed Mathew Cain and his son. They had made the rules. Now they were to die by them. He stood waiting for them, his rifle ready.

Not quite able to determine what the upright object was in the midst of the group of strays, the rustler continued to approach, until suddenly the object moved and a rifle shot ripped the darkness, leaving an empty saddle. Wasting no time, Carson ran back to his horse and galloped toward the eastern side of the herd.

“What the hell?” Roy Perkins blurted when he heard the shot. “The damn fool will have us in a stampede,” he cursed, for he first thought the man had fired his rifle to get the strays moving. The main herd, bedded down before him, were starting to move about, frightened by the shot. There were no more shots after the first one, so he decided to wait to find out the reason for such a stupid act. In about fifteen minutes, he heard another shot, this time from the east of the herd, and he realized what was actually taking place. “Sid!” he yelled to his brother. “We got some trouble! To hell with the strays, let’s get this bunch movin!”

“What about the rest of the boys?” Sid yelled back.

“They can hold ’em off while we get this herd movin’,” Roy replied, not realizing the two he had sent to chase strays were dead. “They can catch up with us before we get to the river.” Pulling his pistol then, he fired a couple of shots into the air to get the cattle started. When Sid and Bad Eye did the same, they soon had a stampede pouring over the dark prairie.

Racing along the flank, Carson managed to overtake the lead steers and turn them away from the river. The rustlers behind the cattle could not guess why they had turned to the east. Intent upon catching up to the lead cows, Sid whipped his horse brutally to gain on them. When he succeeded, he was surprised to find a rider already ahead of him, but in the darkness, he could not tell who it was. “You’re turnin’ ’em, damn it!” he shouted to the dark horseman.

“I sure as hell am,” Carson replied, and leveled his rifle at the approaching rider. Sid came out of the saddle to land hard on the ground when the .44 slug ripped into his chest.

Behind the herd, Roy and Bad Eye heard the shot. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” Roy demanded. The cattle were continuing to turn in a circle. There were no more shots on either flank, and none behind them. “Where the hell are Mutt and Fred?” he asked, referring to the two men who were supposed to be catching up to them.

Bad Eye stood up in his stirrups and pointed behind them. “Look yonder!” he exclaimed. Roy looked in the direction pointed out to discover two horses with empty saddles following them. “They got us surrounded!”

Not certain what was happening, nor where the rest of the men were, Roy wasn’t sure what he should do. Something had gone dreadfully wrong. “We need to get up ahead and see where Sid is,” he decided.

“I don’t like the look of this,” Bad Eye declared. “I already got a hole in my shoulder. I don’t need another’n. Let ’em have their damn cows.” He wheeled his horse and kicked it into a hard gallop. His retreat served to incite the others to think about the possibility of more victims, and thinking Bad Eye might be right, they took off in another direction.

“Wait!” Roy shouted, but they were long gone. “Damn you,” he cursed, furious over the desertion when he wasn’t sure if his brother was in trouble or not. He turned his horse toward the front of the herd, which had been successfully turned back on itself, causing the cattle to mill around and eventually settle down again. At the head of the bawling steers, a dark figure sat his horse, patiently waiting. “Sid?” Roy called out. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” Carson answered.

“What the hell happened?” Roy asked as he approached. He didn’t realize his error until there was little more than twenty yards between them. With no time left for questions, he went for his gun, but was not quick enough to draw his weapon before the rifle already aimed at him took his life.

Carson checked to see if Roy Perkins was dead, and then he stood staring down at him for a few minutes. He had never seen the man before, but he had killed him as he would kill a rattlesnake, to prevent him from doing more harm. By his count, four men were dead, and there was no sign of the others. The herd had settled down to mill about peacefully, and it appeared the threat was ended. Suddenly he was very tired, and he remembered that he had not slept since the day before. He took his saddle off the bay and released it to graze, knowing it would not stray far away from him. Then he sat down and reloaded his rifle, content that he had done all he could to avenge the deaths of Mathew and Justin Cain. The decision to be made now was whether to wait for Shorty and the others to show up in the morning or to move on, since he had ended the war by himself. Weary, he leaned back against a low hummock and closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again until the sun came up to awaken him.

* * *

Bad Eye wasn’t sure where he had ended up after almost running his horse to death the night before. But he had made it to sunup with no sign of anyone on his trail. His problem now was the stinging from the bullet hole in his shoulder and the gnawing of an empty stomach as he walked through a grassy ravine, leading his exhausted horse. He had nothing to eat in his saddlebags, not even the makings for a pot of coffee, or a pot to boil it in, so he felt as if he might expire if he didn’t get either a cup of coffee or a drink of whiskey pretty soon. Seeing a double row of sage and small trees ahead, he hoped to find a stream. Halfway down the ravine, he spotted smoke from a campfire. At once alert, he proceeded more cautiously lest he walk into an ambush.

Maybe, he thought, I best back away and take a wide circle around it. But the hint of a rabbit roasting over the fire caught his nostrils and reminded him that he wanted to eat. He hesitated, undecided for a few moments, until a voice called out, “You comin’ on in, or you gonna stand out there smellin’ the coffee?”

Startled, Bad Eye started to back away but decided he’d already been spotted, so he might as well find out if the camp was friendly or not. “I’d sure like to have a cup of that coffee, if you’ve got some to spare,” he finally responded.

“Sure, come on in and have some,” the man called back. “Maybe you could eat a little somethin’, too,” he added when Bad Eye led his horse down by the fire. “You look like you been on the run,” he said, nodding toward the bloodstains on Bad Eye’s shirt.

“Yeah, I ran into a little bad luck a ways back,” Bad Eye offered as explanation.

The man grinned at Bad Eye’s obvious nervousness. “You ain’t got to worry about me,” he said, making a quick judgment on a man out in the middle of the prairie, with a bullet hole in his shoulder, walking an exhausted horse, with no sign of anything to make camp with. “I been on the run before, and I’ve been shot before. So sit down and drink some coffee.” When Bad Eye confessed that he didn’t even have a cup to drink out of, it caused his host to laugh. “Mister, you’re really on the run, ain’tcha?” He couldn’t help taking a look back the way Bad Eye had come. “You ain’t led the law down on my camp, have you?”

“Nah, it ain’t the law I’m runnin’ from,” Bad Eye answered, “and I’m sure I lost ’em last night.” He took the cup offered him, feeling that he had been lucky to chance on an obvious outlaw, like himself, and one who could sympathize with his plight, even though he looked more Indian than white. “Where’re you headin’?” he asked.

“I’m lookin’ for somebody,” Red Shirt replied, “somebody I need to settle a score with, and I ain’t had much luck in findin’ him. The son of a bitch rode with me for a couple of days before he turned on me and left me with this damn hole in my side.” He pulled his shirt up to show an ugly scar. “Damn near killed me, but I’ll find him one of these days.”

The man looked pretty dangerous. Bad Eye felt sure it was going to be bad news for the man he was after. “You think he’s in this part of the country somewhere?”

“That’s where he was headin’,” Red Shirt replied. “He was ridin’ with a man and woman, headin’ this way. I got a little unfinished business with them, too.” One of them had fired the shot that destroyed part of his lung, leaving him unable to breathe without pain.

It would be an almost impossible coincidence, but the thought popped into Bad Eye’s mind. “Carson Ryan,” he blurted, remembering that Duke Slayton had told him of a run-in with Carson on the Musselshell.

Red Shirt almost dropped his cup when he heard the name, the muscles in his arms tensed to the point where his veins stood up as if to burst. His face transformed into a mask of black hatred. “You know where he is?” he demanded.

The sudden look of the man frightened Bad Eye, causing him to stammer in his reply. “I know where he might be, but I didn’t lay eyes on him myself.” He wondered if the mysterious force that methodically killed the cattle rustlers could have somehow been connected to Carson. He told Red Shirt how to find the M/C, but said that he couldn’t go with him. “Once you get to Sweet Grass Creek, you ought’n have any trouble findin’ the ranch.”

“I ’preciate the information,” Red Shirt said, and got to his feet to fetch the coffeepot. “Lemme fill that cup for you.”

“Much obliged,” Bad Eye said, and tilted his head back to drain the last swallow, never realizing that Red Shirt was still standing directly behind him until he felt a powerful hand grab his hair and the razor-sharp knife as it sliced his throat. He didn’t go back to the M/C with Red Shirt, but his scalp made the trip.

* * *

The range war between the M/C and the Bar-T was effectively over after the night of the avenger was ended. When Shorty and the others arrived at the site of the battle, there was no longer any enemy to fight. Instead, they found a sleeping warrior in the midst of a large herd of M/C cattle. They could not appreciate the magnitude of his accomplishment until they started rounding up the riderless horses and finding the bodies. When the total tally was complete, there were four bodies, one less than the gang of raiders who had left Duke Slayton behind at the ranch. It served to cast a different light upon the person who was John Carson, and not completely to his liking. He had no wish to be defined as a one-man war party.

Shorty and Mule decided it best to move the cattle to the south range until some arrangement could be worked out to round up the Bar-T cattle, since there was no more Bar-T. There were decisions to be made, one of which was whether to combine the two spreads or keep them as two separate ranches. As Shorty put it, “There’s sure as hell gonna be a job for ever’body.”

One who was not certain as to whether or not he would be a part of the newly formed partnership of cattle owners was John Carson. There was still the matter of a wanted poster with the name Carson Ryan on it, and he could not see any possibility of proving his innocence. Frank and Nancy begged him to stay on. They tried to convince him that no one of the few who knew his real name would ever tell the authorities, should they ever arrive at the M/C. “Doggone it,” Nancy pleaded, “we need you—Frank needs you, Lucas needs you—they can’t run it without your help.” Shorty, Clem, Mule, they all supported her argument. Only Millie kept her thoughts on the matter to herself, keeping her distance from the boy who had morphed into a man. All were unaware of the danger lurking along the ridge that lay north of the house that Mathew Cain had built in the form of a half-breed Lakota outlaw who watched the house, waiting for an opportunity to seek his revenge. He was patient, for he had searched for a long time to find Carson Ryan, and he would not jeopardize his chance of success by acting in haste.

Red Shirt’s patience finally paid off. Early one morning, the crew of men came out of the bunkhouse and saddled the horses, all except Carson. The men mounted up and headed out toward the east range. Red Shirt remained in his lookout position on the lower end of the ridge until Carson finally came from the bunkhouse and walked toward the barn. Red Shirt’s heart began to beat rapidly. At last his chance had come when there were none of the other men to help Carson. He quickly descended the ridge, circled the smokehouse, and approached the barn.

Carson pulled his saddle off the rail in the tack room. His mind was not on the chore he had assigned himself that morning. Rather it was on the moment the day before, when Millie had come to the barn to check the chickens’ nests for eggs, and he had turned around quickly to catch her staring at him. He had caught her eye on other occasions, and just as she did on those occasions, she had turned immediately away. This was what he was thinking of on this morning when he heard a tiny squeak from the back barn door. Determined he was going to face her down this time, he walked out of the tack room only to be confronted by the business end of a .44 Winchester in the hands of what appeared to be a ghost.

“You’ve changed, Carson,” Red Shirt gloated triumphantly, knowing Carson was helpless to make a move. “It took me a helluva long time to find you. You’ve caused me a lot of pain and trouble. This time, I ain’t gonna throw my rifle aside, so say your prayers. I got a new scalp lance since I saw you. I’m gonna tie your scalp right at the top of it.”

“You’d better take damn good aim,” Carson said, “’cause I’m gonna be on you before you get off the second shot.”

Red Shirt grinned in evil anticipation. “I will,” he said, and raised his rifle.

The shot reverberated loudly in the confines of the barn, but Carson felt nothing as he steeled himself for the impact of the bullet. Astonished, he saw the grimace on Red Shirt’s face as the half-breed staggered against the side of a stall. He tried to lift his rifle again, but was stopped cold by a second shot that slammed the side of his head. “Damn you! Damn you!” Nancy Thompson screamed. “This time you’ll stay dead!” To be sure, she shot the already-still corpse for a third time. She looked at Carson then with eyes wild in panic. “You have to stay alive, John Carson. If you don’t, Millie never will get married.” Her knees started to fail her then and she would have fainted had not Carson rushed to catch her. The revolver she held dropped to the floor of the barn.

The sound of gunfire brought Frank and Lucas running from the house with guns at the ready. They were met by Carson coming from the barn with Nancy in his arms. “I think she’s all right,” Carson quickly assured Frank. “After what she just did, I ain’t surprised she fainted. She sure as hell saved my life.” He placed Nancy in the outstretched arms of her husband, and told them what had caused her distress.

Before he was finished, Millie came running and promptly told Frank to take Nancy to the porch. Then she sent Lucas to the pump to wet a cloth and bring it to her. “I’ll be right there to help you with her,” she told Frank. Then to reassure him, she said, “She’ll be all right. I was supposed to be the one gathering the eggs, but she said she’d do it this morning, even though she was feeling poorly.”

“Is she sick?” a worried husband asked. “She didn’t say she felt ill.”

Millie met his question with the look of one who is impatient with the naïveté all men seemed to exhibit when it came to their wives. “Most women have these little spells when they’re carrying a child,” she said.

“What!” a startled husband blurted, causing Carson to quickly grab his elbow when he showed signs of fainting himself.

“Better let me take her back,” Carson said, and took Nancy from Frank’s arms. He carried her to the porch and lowered her onto a chair. Frank sat down in a chair beside her. Leaving them in the care of Millie, he went back to the barn to dispose of Red Shirt’s body. He couldn’t help hurrying to make sure the body didn’t vanish again, as it had done the first time they thought they had killed him. Finding Red Shirt where he had last seen him, he grabbed him by the heels and dragged him out the back of the barn. When Lucas came to help, he told the boy to hitch up the wagon. “I don’t wanna bury this piece of shit close to the house,” he told him. “He might turn the soil sour.” Riding to the other side of the east ridge, he had plenty of time to think about the incident just finished, and he thought back on Nancy’s words in the middle of her execution of the hated half-breed. He was not sure what he thought he heard was, in fact, what she had actually said. Maybe when she’s feeling better, I’ll ask her, he thought.

* * *

Frank Thompson, on a rare visit to Big Timber, stopped in the post office to post a letter. While there, he commented to the postmaster, “I don’t see that wanted notice for that fellow Carson Ryan up on your board anymore.”

“No,” the postmaster replied, “I got a notice to take it down. I guess they caught him.”

This was good news to Frank. He could hardly wait to get back to the ranch to tell everyone about it. The fact of the matter was the U.S. marshal in Omaha received a letter from Robert B. Grimes, a civilian doctor located at Fort Laramie. In that letter, Dr. Grimes requested that the marshal should get in touch with Robert T. Patterson, who was now a congressman for the state of Texas. The purpose was to verify Carson Ryan’s employment as a drover for Mr. Patterson in Ogallala on the date Ryan was accused of murder and rustling a herd seventy miles away. Mr. Patterson verified that Carson Ryan was in fact with him in Ogallala at that time.

* * *

Almost a month had passed since young Lucas Cain had ridden to Big Timber to telegraph the territorial governor for help before that help showed up in the form of U.S. Deputy Marshal Marvin Bell. He was met at the front door by Millie. She walked out on the porch to talk to him. “Well, Mr. Bell,” she commented, “when we sent for help, we were hoping for a detachment of cavalry to fight a gang of murdering cattle rustlers. I guess it’s lucky for you that we had enough men to drive the gang away ourselves. It would have been a helluva job for one deputy to take on.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bell replied respectfully. “Sometimes we don’t get the whole story, so I was sent up here to find out. You’re sayin’ you drove the rustlers off, and there ain’t no more problem here?”

“That’s right,” Millie said. “All the cattle have been recovered, and everything’s back to normal.”

“No range war, then?”

She chuckled. “No, no range war. Is that what they told you?”

“Like I said, sometimes we get the wrong information.” He was obviously relieved to find out that his visit was going to be brief. “And what is your name, ma’am?”

“I’m Millie Cain,” she answered.

He was distracted for a moment when he saw Carson ride up to the barn and dismount. “Is that one of the hands?”

“Oh, that’s my husband, John,” she quickly replied. You picked a helluva time to come riding up to the barn, she thought. “He must have forgotten something.”

“Well, sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Cain. I think I’ll go down and talk to your husband.” He turned to descend the front steps.

“I’ll go with you,” she replied at once, and immediately followed him down the steps, fearful now that she might have gotten them in trouble by trying to distract the deputy.

As soon as they reached the barn door, she called out, “John, there’s a deputy marshal here to talk about the wire we sent for help.”

This was not news that Carson wanted to hear. He had been thankful that there had been no response from the governor. He walked out to meet them, still holding the bush ax he had come to get. “You wanna talk about the cattle rustlin’?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Bell replied, “although your wife has pretty much told me there ain’t anything to investigate.”

“My wife?” Carson responded without thinking.

Millie quickly spoke up. “Yes, me. I know you tell me to let you do the talking, but I just told Mr. Bell here what happened, that’s all.” She turned to the deputy. “John thinks it’s not ladylike for me to talk to the authorities.”

Carson realized then what she was doing. “I suppose I am a little protective when it comes to the little lady.”

“Well, I don’t see anything wrong with that,” Bell said with a chuckle. “I reckon there’s nothin’ more for me to do here.”

“It was pretty cut-and-dried,” Carson said. “We were able to drive ’em off.” He glanced at Millie, who frowned when a new thought evidently just then popped into her head. He was not prepared for her next comment.

“I thought you were here to investigate the death of Red Shirt,” she said.

“Red Shirt!” Bell exclaimed. “Red Shirt, the half-breed outlaw? Whaddaya mean, his death?” Her remark had triggered a definite interest on the part of the lawman, but Carson could only think that she had betrayed him.

“That’s the one,” Millie replied smugly. “I know the word was out that he had tried to attack our family, but we killed him. I can show you where he’s buried. It hasn’t been that long. You might wanna dig him up to make sure it’s him.”

What are you doing? Carson thought while trying to keep a calm face. He tried to catch Millie’s eye, but she purposefully avoided it.

The visit to the M/C suddenly took on new importance to Marvin Bell. Red Shirt had long been wanted all over the territory, but no one had been successful in tracking him down. And if what the girl claimed was true, it would definitely be a feather in his cap. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “I surely would like to verify it. Can I borrow a shovel?”

“Of course,” Millie replied. “John, why don’t you get a couple of shovels and help Mr. Bell dig Red Shirt up?” Carson had little choice but to comply. When he went into the tack room to get the shovels, Millie said to the deputy, “I’ll be right back.” She hurried then to the barn door where Carson had left his horse, and drew the Winchester from the saddle scabbard. Back to the waiting deputy just as Carson returned with the shovels, she handed the rifle to Bell. “This is the rifle we found with him. John naturally didn’t bury it with him.”

Bell took the Winchester and examined it carefully. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered softly when he turned it over to discover the letters L. Moody carved on one side of the butt. “Well, I’ll be . . . ,” he started to repeat. “I’m gonna need to take this with me as evidence,” he said. “Now let’s go take a look at that body.”

A close look at the decomposing body convinced the deputy that it was in fact the notorious outlaw Red Shirt, and there was little doubt that he had killed Deputy Marshal Luther Moody to have had the rifle in his possession. He looked up at Carson and smiled. “This was sure enough a worthwhile trip. I wanna thank you both for your help, Mr. and Mrs. Cain.” He didn’t linger after the grave was filled back in. So anxious was he to return to Helena with his news that he refused an invitation to stay for supper.

They stood watching for a minute or two as the deputy rode off toward the north. Then Carson could hold his tongue no longer. “Mr. and Mrs. Cain?”

“He just made the assumption since I told him my name was Millie Cain,” she replied. “I didn’t think it was a good idea to tell him your name was Carson.”

“I reckon you’re right,” he said. “I’ll tell you the truth, though. For a while there, I thought you were fixin’ to get rid of me for good.” He shook his head and repeated, “Mr. and Mrs. Cain.”

“Well, we’ve got chores to do,” she finally announced. “We can’t stand here working our jaws all day.” She spun on her heel and headed for the house, but stopped and turned back to him. “I guess my name will be Millie Cain till the day I die if somebody doesn’t get busy and start courting me.” She turned again and continued on her way.

“You don’t mean—” he started.

Without turning her head, she called back, “Well, I’m not going to ask you.”

Read on for a look at another exciting historical novel from Charles G. West

LONG ROAD TO CHEYENNE

Available from Signet in July 2013.

Cam Sutton wheeled his buckskin gelding around sharply to head off a reluctant steer and drive it back into the shoot that led to a holding pen by the railroad siding. That’s the last one, he thought, unknotting the bright red bandanna he had bought in Cheyenne and wiping the sweat from his face. He then turned the buckskin toward the lower end of the corral where his boss, Colonel Charles Coffee, stood with a tally sheet, watching the loading. The colonel turned to look at him when he rode up and dismounted.

“You ain’t changed your mind?” Coffee asked hopefully. Young Sutton was a hardworking drover and had been ever since he’d hired him three years earlier. Coffee hated to lose him, but he understood Cam’s desire to leave. Coffee owned Rawhide Ranch in Wyoming’s Rawhide Buttes, but lately the better part of each year was spent driving cattle from the Wyoming counties of Niobrara and Goshen, a short distance across the line to Nebraska, where the colonel had established Coffee Siding. Cattle shipped from Nebraska were cheaper than cattle shipped from Wyoming because of the higher freight rates in Wyoming.

“I reckon not,” Cam answered the colonel’s question.

“Well, I guess I can’t say as I blame you,” Coffee said. “You’re still young enough to have a hankering to see what the rest of the country looks like. I’d be glad to keep you on to work at Rawhide Ranch, but the days of free range are numbered. The settlers will be moving in before much longer.”

“That’s what I figured,” Cam said, “and like you said, I’ve got a hankerin’ to see some of the rest of the country before I decide to squat in one place.” He had been thinking a lot lately about his future in the cattle business. It was his feeling that the colonel’s range was going to be severely cut back in the near future. Coffee owned several ranches, but he didn’t own the land they sat on. It was all free land, government owned, and open to homesteading. Already some sections of their range had been fenced off, and unlike some of the other large ranches, the colonel was averse to using violent tactics to scare homesteaders away.

When Cam looked his situation straight in the face, he couldn’t say that he was unhappy riding for the Rawhide. If he had to define it, he would say it was more of a restless feeling, an urge to move on. Of course, he could always head back down to Texas and sign on with some outfit pushing a herd of cattle up north, but he was tired of playing nursemaid to a bunch of brainless critters. It didn’t help his restless feeling when he witnessed the increased traffic on the Deadwood Stage Road taking adventurous souls to the mysterious Black Hills.

Soon after the Black Hills were opened to prospectors, the stagecoach line had established a line of changeover stations from Cheyenne to Deadwood in Dakota Territory. Colonel Coffee’s ranch in Rawhide Buttes was set up as one of the stops to change horses, so Cam had plenty of opportunity to see folks from all walks of life, all intent upon realizing the riches the Black Hills promised. Passengers were not the only cargo the coaches transported over the road. Every so often, a team of six horses pulling an ironclad Monitor coach, with a strong box bolted to the floor, and a couple of extra “messengers” with rifles aboard, rolled into Rawhide on its way back to Cheyenne. He really didn’t know much about prospecting for gold, but he confessed that he was one who was always tempted to go see the elephant. So he had decided to head up Dakota way to see for himself what all the fuss was about. He could then decide if he wanted to be a part of it or to simply move on someplace else. He had no family to concern himself with, so he was free to follow the wind if he chose. His thoughts were interrupted then by a comment from the colonel.

“I’ve got your wages here, up through the end of this month,” Coffee said. “You thinking about heading out right away?”

“Well, if it’s all right with you, I thought I would.” Nodding toward the buckskin, he said, “Toby ain’t worked too hard this mornin’. Might as well head on up toward Hat Creek. If it’s all right,” he repeated.

Coffee smiled. “Of course, it’s all right with me.” It was typical of the young man to concern himself with the thought that he might not be entitled to a full day’s wages if he had officially resigned. The colonel handed Cam an envelope with his pay inside. “I added an extra month’s pay in there. You’re liable to need it. And listen. You come back anytime you feel like it. I’ll always have a job for you.” He extended his hand in a parting gesture, joking as he and Cam shook hands, “And don’t go telling the rest of the boys in the bunkhouse about the bonus. They’ll all quit, probably wanting the same deal.”

“I won’t,” Cam replied, grinning. “I ’preciate it, sir.”

“You earned it. You take care of yourself, boy.” He turned and walked toward the head of the siding.

* * *

Larry Bacon cracked his whip to encourage the matched six-horse team to maintain their speed up the incline. “Ha, boy, get up in there!” he called out to them. The team was not fresh, but still had enough left to respond, and they would be changed at the Hat Creek Station, about five miles away. The horses answered Bacon’s urging, hauling the big Concord coach through a notch in the breaks south of Sage Creek. Inside the colorful yellow coach were six passengers: Travis Grant, a businessman headed for Deadwood; a man named Smith who claimed to be a cattle buyer; Wilbur Bean, an extra stagecoach guard; Mary Bishop, a widow; and her two daughters, Grace and Emma. Riding shotgun in the seat beside the driver was his grizzled partner, Bob Allen. Like Bacon, he was a veteran of the three-hundred-mile run between Cheyenne and Deadwood.

It was an unusually light load for the big eighteen-passenger coach, but there was additional freight that warranted the extra guard, or messenger, as the company called them. In the strongbox bolted to the floor was a neat bundle of currency totaling thirty thousand dollars. And the only nervous passenger in the coach was Travis Grant, who was planning to invest the money in the creation of a bank in the thriving town of Deadwood.

There had been frequent holdups of the Deadwood stage, four in one month’s time by the notorious road agent, Sam Bass, and his gang. However, Bob and Larry were not expecting trouble on this run, in spite of the money they were carrying. Their reasoning was simple. The big gold shipments that the bandits were after were on the stages coming from Deadwood, and they were headed toward Deadwood. If any of Bass’s agents were watching the stage when it left Cheyenne or Fort Laramie, they would see that there was not a full load of eighteen passengers aboard, so it was not a worthwhile payday to go after. To be safe, however, the company sent Wilbur Bean along for extra protection. For these reasons, Bob Allen was taken completely by surprise when they topped the rise and he suddenly discovered three men standing in the narrow notch, their pistols out and aimed at him. He reached for the shotgun riding beside his leg as Larry hauled back on the reins to stop the coach.

“That’d be your first mistake,” a voice warned from the side of the hill above him, and he turned to see the muzzle of a rifle aimed at him. “Suppose you just pick that scatter gun up by the barrel real gentle-like and toss it on the ground.”

Bob had no choice but to comply, so he did as he was ordered. “Damn,” he swore as he dropped the shotgun over the side, exchanging a quick glance with Larry. Both men were thinking the same thing, hoping that Wilbur Bean wasn’t asleep in the coach.

“Now you just drive them horses nice and slow down to the bottom of the hill,” the gunman said after he jumped down to land on top of the coach. “Mind you, this here forty-four has a hair trigger, so you’d best take it real easy.”

“You fellers are goin’ to a lotta trouble for somethin’ that ain’t worth the effort,” Bob said. “Hell, we ain’t got but six passengers and three of ’em’s a woman and two children. You ain’t gonna make much offa this holdup. We ain’t carryin’ no gold shipment. Hell, word of this gets out and folks will be laughin’ at Sam Bass and his gang.”

“Who says it’s Sam’s gang?” the gunman asked.

“Well, if I ain’t took leave of my senses, that feller with the black hat and the black mustache standin’ in the middle of the road down yonder is sure as hell Sam Bass,” Bob replied. “Ain’t that right, Larry?” The two partners had had the unfortunate opportunity to meet Mr. Bass on another occasion while driving an ironclad coach between Custer City and the Cheyenne River crossing, so they were not likely to forget the man.

“I can’t say for sure,” Larry said, and shot a warning look in Bob’s direction. “That was a while back. It’s kinda hard to identify anybody after that length of time.”

Seemingly amused by Bob’s comment, the gunman prodded Larry in the back with the barrel of his rifle. “You just ease on down there, and we’ll see if it’s worth our time or not.”

Realizing just then what Larry was trying to tell him, Bob said, “I reckon you’re right. I don’t recall ever seein’ Sam Bass up close enough to know if it was him or not.”

Inside the coach, the passengers were now very much aware of what was taking place. Mary Bishop’s two daughters moved in close to their mother’s sides for protection, their faces tense with fear. “Ever’body just stay calm,” Wilbur Bean whispered, and slid off the seat to crouch at the door, his rifle ready. A second later, he felt the impersonal barrel of a Colt .44 pressed hard against his back.

“I’ll take that rifle, unless you’re ready to meet your Maker right now,” Mr. Smith informed him, and Wilbur released it immediately. Smith, whose real name was Cotton Roach, then addressed Travis Grant. “I’ll take that pea shooter you’re carryin’ in your inside coat pocket too. And while you’re at it, you can come up with the key to that strongbox—save us the trouble of havin’ to break it open with a cold chisel.”

His face drained of color, Grant hurried to do as he had been directed, knowing that the nightmare he had feared was even now unfolding before his eyes.

As the stage pulled slowly to a stop, the three men on the ground immediately surrounded it, brandishing their weapons and yelling orders for everyone to get out. Bob and Larry both locked their eyes on the door, anticipating some move by Wilbur Bean, expecting the possibility that he might come out firing. Neither of them had been relieved of their handguns, so they were poised to act when Wilbur surprised the bandits. They were almost stunned when he opened the door and calmly climbed down, Mr. Smith right behind him with a gun in Wilbur’s back. A firm tap of the rifle barrel on the back of Bob’s neck then reminded him that the gunman was still there. “Now, with your left hand, reach over and pull that pistol out of the holster and drop it on the ground,” he ordered. “One at a time!” he scolded when Larry started to do the same. When Bob dropped his weapon, the gunman told Larry to do likewise. “Now, both of you get on down.” He remained standing on top of the stage while he watched Bob and Larry climb down to stand away from the coach with their hands raised. “Have any trouble in there?” he asked Cotton Roach.

“Nope, no trouble,” Roach replied.

“Where’s the man with the key?”

“He’s comin’,” Roach said. “He’s peein’ his pants right now, but he ain’t gonna give us no trouble.”

The outlaw still on top of the stage nodded to the man standing at the door of the coach now. Motioning toward Bob Allen, he remarked, “He said he recognized you.”

Sam Bass nodded slowly, then turned to address Bob. “You think you know me?” he asked.

“I told you we shoulda wore them masks,” one of his men said.

“Shut up, Joel,” Bass responded while never taking his eyes off of Bob.

Knowing he might have placed them all in jeopardy by his earlier remark, Bob tried to lessen the damage. “What I said was I thought you favored Sam Bass a little bit. Hell, I don’t have no idea who you are.” He glanced at Larry, who rolled his eyes heavenward in response. Both men shifted their gaze to the weapons lying in the dirt a dozen yards away.

Reading their thoughts, Bass said, “You wouldn’t make it halfway there before we cut you down.” Getting back to the business that prompted the holdup, he ordered, “Get yourself outta that coach!” When Travis Grant placed a trembling foot on the step, Bass grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked the terrified man out of the coach to land on his hands and knees. “Cotton,” Bass called, “you got that box open yet?”

“Yeah, I got it, but we got some more folks in here.”

“Well, tell ’em to get on out here,” Bass said. He stood by the door then and politely helped Grace and her sister down from the coach. He then extended his hand to offer Mary Bishop his assistance, but she ignored it.

“I can manage myself,” she commented curtly, and climbed down to join her daughters.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said with a wide grin, “you surely can.”

At that moment, Cotton Roach sang out from inside the coach. “It’s all here, just like Ike said. I ain’t counted it yet, but it sure looks like as much as we thought.”

It was then that Wilbur Bean made his decision. Standing closer to the coach than Bob and Larry, he could see the barrel of his rifle on the floor where he had been forced to drop it. With the bandits distracted for the moment by Roach’s announcement, he suddenly dove for the rifle. It was a brave but futile effort. The gunman still on top of the stage cut him down before he could reach the door. The reaction of the outlaws was immediate, with guns trained on Bob and Larry before they could even think about making a move. The two young girls screamed and pressed closer to their mother. The frightened Mr. Grant shrieked almost as loudly as the girls.

“I had a feelin’ he was gonna try somethin’ like that,” the shooter said nonchalantly. He glanced up then to catch a scalding look from Sam Bass. “Hell, Sam, I didn’t have no choice. I couldn’t let him get to that rifle.”