He was a wiry little man, rough in his ways, with the conscience of a weasel. Bent over his campfire, his heavy skin robe draped over bony sloping shoulders, he looked like a coyote hunkered down over a kill. So intent was he on the small snow hare he was turning over the flames, he was unaware he had a visitor until the man spoke.
“Evening.”
Startled, the little man almost fell into his own campfire as he tried to get to his feet. He tripped over the tail of his robe and landed on his backside in the snow.
“God damn! You could git yourself kilt, sneaking up on a man like that!”
His warning rang a bit hollow when he realized the situation he found himself in. His rifle was on the opposite side of the fire now, and he was seated in the snow while his visitor stood on the edge of the camp, his hand resting casually on the handle of a heavy Frontier forty-four, six-shooter. With the sharpened sense of a weasel that had been cornered, he found himself at a distinct disadvantage. There was nothing for him to do but sit there and await whatever fate had caught him by surprise.
The visitor stood there for a long while, watching the little man. He seemed as large as a grizzly from the weasel’s perspective, his heavy coat made of animal skins opened and pushed back from his hips so as to leave his pistol free. He seemed to take no notice of the little man’s fright or his discomfort at having his backside in the snow.
“Smelled your rabbit cooking,” he stated simply and moved in close to the fire. He sat down beside the weasel’s rifle, seeming not to notice it, and held his hands out to warm at the fire. “Name’s Cobb. What’s your’n?”
Weasel hesitated a moment while he struggled to his feet. “Smith,” he said, brushing the snow from his pants. He eyed the stranger suspiciously, wondering how a man that size was able to slip up on him without his being able to hear him. His horse didn’t even give him any warning. “What the hell you doing, walking around out here? Ain’t you got no horse?”
Cobb looked at him, unblinking, his eyes dark and deep as night. Then he grinned, not a warm smile, but sinister, a leer that gave weasel a chill down his spine.
“Yeah, I got a horse. I left him back there a piece.” Without waiting for an invitation, he reached over and pulled the rabbit from the spit and tore off a leg. “I didn’t wanna just come riding right in. You might not a’been friendly. You know what I mean, Mr. Smith?” His malevolent smile stayed in place while he tore the flesh from the hare’s leg with his teeth.
The outright brass of the huge man made the hackles rise on the smaller man’s backbone, but there was nothing he could do about it. The stranger was sitting right beside his rifle. He had the feeling he was being toyed with, the way a cat plays with a mouse. He could do nothing but sit and watch Cobb eat the supper he had cooked for himself. He wasn’t sure what manner of man had taken over his camp. Maybe he would eat and be on his way. All he could do was wait and hope for a chance to get his rifle.
Cobb paused in his chewing and seemed to be studying his reluctant host. With one long, dirty fingernail, he worked at a piece of rabbit’s flesh that had stuck between his teeth, until it loosened enough so he could suck it out. That done, he cocked an eye at the weasel and winked. “You know what I think, Mr. Smith? I think you don’t want me eatin’ your rabbit. I don’t call that very neighborly. Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?” He paused, still grinning at the hapless little man. When there was no response, he continued. “You know what else I think? I think your name ain’t Smith. If I had to guess, I’d say your name was Rupert Slater. Now what do you think about that?”
There was a definite reaction to Cobb’s statement. “I told you,” the little man blurted, “my name’s Smith.” He began to fidget in an effort to move closer around the fire toward the rifle. “I don’t know no Rupert Slater.”
“That so?” Cobb answered casually, seeming to be unconcerned as he pulled another leg from the rapidly disappearing rabbit. “Too bad. I got a wanted poster in my saddlebag that says this here Rupert Slater’s worth a hundred dollars for a little piece of work he done back in Kansas. I don’t ’spose you’ve run into him, have you?” He paused while he licked some grease from his fingers. The weasel did not answer, so Cobb continued, obviously enjoying the discomfort the little man displayed. “’Course I ain’t got no picture of him to show you, but I can tell you what to look for in case you run across him. He’s about your size, rides a horse just like that bay over there, and he’s got a long knife scar from his ear, down across his face, just like that one on your face.”
Slater knew his situation was hopeless. He could sense his life running out as he sat there staring at the uninvited guest who had just devoured most of his supper. He had to make a move. He couldn’t sit there and wait for the slaughter. And he had the distinct feeling this damn bounty hunter would just as soon shoot him as not. He leaned slightly toward his rifle, but Cobb quickly reached over and picked it up.
“Now this here’s a mighty fine rifle. Mind if I look at it? You warn’t about to reach for it, was you?”
Slater tired of the cat-and-mouse game that was providing so much entertainment for Cobb. He was caught, and he knew it. Finally he gave in. “All right, you got the jump on me. I’m Slater. Maybe we can talk this thing over. You say the reward’s a hundred dollars? I got some money hid in a cabin over near Virginia City. What if I give you two hundred to let me go?”
Cobb rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if he was giving the offer deep consideration. “Well, the problem is, Rupert, I ain’t really shore you got that two hundred dollars. And I’m pretty shore I can git the wanted money from the sheriff over in Bozeman. You know, two hundred dollars is a lot of money, but I ain’t got time to go to Virginia City. I got bigger fish to fry than you.”
Slater was doing his best to keep his nerves from showing, but it was impossible. The expression burned into Cobb’s dark features bordered on being gleeful. “Hell, man, it’s a lot of trouble to take me all the way back to Bozeman, ’specially in this kind of weather,” Slater tried.
Cobb shook his head thoughtfully. “No, it ain’t really that much trouble. See, the poster says dead or alive.”
That was all the warning Slater needed. In a panic, he scrambled to his feet. His intention was to run, but in the process he stumbled and fell, sliding a few feet, face first in the snow. Cobb calmly waited for the terrified man to struggle to his feet again and start running before he carefully raised the man’s rifle and cut him down. That done, he sat where he was and finished the last of the rabbit. He picked up a battered copper kettle that had been resting on some stones beside the fire and swished the contents around while he peered at them. Pleased to find that it was coffee, he poured himself some in the dead man’s cup. Satisfied with his day’s work, he sat back and enjoyed his coffee.
After a short respite, Cobb sighed and told himself he had to pack up and get ready to leave at morning light. If he waited much longer to load Slater’s body on his horse, it would be too stiff to bend. He picked the dead man up with very little effort. “You’re a scrawny little rat,” he said as he threw him over the saddle and tied his hands and feet. “If it was me, I wouldn’t give no hundred dollars fer ya.” He smiled to himself when he noted the two bullet holes in the man’s back. Most of the men he brought in had bullet holes in their backs. It was sort of his signature. As he always insisted to the law, if they hadn’t been trying to escape, the holes Would be somewhere else.
Slater wasn’t a big payday for Cobb, but a hundred dollars was a hundred dollars. It would sure as hell carry his expenses while he was hunting a bigger payoff: an ex-army officer named Tom Allred, and some other fellow named Dakota. Cobb had his suspicions they were one and the same. There was a thousand dollars offered on Allred and five hundred on Dakota. If he could convince the law that they were the same man, he still might collect both rewards.
He slapped the dead man on his backside and stated, “Rupert, you’re just expenses. That’s all you amount to, just expense money.”
First light found Cobb already in the saddle, winding his way out of the narrow valley that had been Rupert Slater’s hideout. Slater’s horse, bearing the body of the unfortunate little fugitive from the law, trailed along behind. There was some disappointment for Cobb when he found that Slater had very little property of value to salvage. He had hoped the man at least had a packhorse. It always helped to have another horse to sell, a kind of bonus on the deal. As it turned out, there was little to offer in the form of bonus goods—a pretty good rifle, some supplies and ammunition, but nothing else. He would have to be satisfied with the hundred dollars. He could get enough for the one horse to take care of his expenses in Bozeman while waiting for the reward money to come.
It was a two-day ride to Bozeman, two cold days. But Cobb didn’t seem to mind the cold weather. He never paid much attention to it. He was cloaked in layers of skins that never came off during the winter months. The top layer was a buffalo cape with a hood that could be pulled up if needed. He was padded with so many layers of hides that he appeared to be a foot wider at the shoulders than he actually was, which was bigger than most men west of the Missouri. With his greasy, shoulder-length hair and dark furry beard, he presented a frightening vision to men like the late Rupert Slater, often terrorizing his quarry upon encounter. Cobb was smart enough to realize this advantage. It gave him an edge. He was not fast with a handgun, nor did he find it necessary to be, preferring to kill his prey at long range if he was unable to take them by surprise at short range.
Emerging from the valley out onto a long, flat stretch of prairie, he stopped and climbed down to urinate. While he stood there relieving himself, he studied the horizon all around to spot any sign of other human activity. Satisfied there was none, he walked back and checked the body to make sure it was riding all right. The thought flashed through his mind that, if that was Tom Allred or Dakota, he would be worth a lot more money. This started him to thinking about the man. He was convinced it was one man he was searching for. After talking to witnesses and hearing their descriptions of the killings, it was too much coincidence for two men to be as fast with a rifle as that. No, his instincts told him that Tom Allred and Dakota were the same man, a man too dangerous to get careless around. For now, it was no more than a general search effort, for he had no trail to follow. His man had disappeared. But Cobb was confident he would resurface and, when he did, Cobb would pick up his trail. Once that happened, he was as good as dead, for Cobb had over ten years’ experience tracking outlaws. Once he picked up the trail, he would follow it to hell if necessary, and dare the devil to get in his way.
* * *
Sheriff Aaron Crutchfield took his fork and punctured the soft yolks of the three eggs resting on top of his fried potatoes, then paused a moment while he watched the runny, yellow ooze seep into the crevices. Then, with his knife, he cut the brick-hard salt-cured ham into small chunks. When it was all sliced down to pieces he could handle, he mixed the ham, eggs, and potatoes together and covered the entire mixture with a layer of salt and pepper. Then, with a fork in one hand and a slice of bread to help load the fork in the other, he set upon his breakfast in the earnest fashion of a man who knows no higher priority in life. On this morning though, his breakfast would be interrupted, an occurrence he always met with a scowl.
His young deputy, Will Proctor, stuck his head in the door of the saloon and announced, “Sheriff, they’s a feller wants you over to the jail.”
Crutchfield took another huge mouthful and without looking up from his plate, asked, “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, bounty hunter, I reckon. He’s got a dead man. Sez he’s wantin’ the reward money on him.”
“Shit!” Crutchfield grunted. He didn’t like bounty hunters, and he didn’t like to have to bother with their prisoners, or corpses as was usually the case, and have them hanging around town while he sent for the money. He washed the mouthful down with coffee and loaded up another forkful. “Dammit, I’m eating!”
“Want me to tell him to come up here?”
“Shit, no. Tell him I’ll be there when I’m done.” He continued to eat.
“Yessir, but don’t be too long. He’s a mean-lookin’ son of a bitch and big as a house. Looks like a cross between a buffalo and a grizzly bear.”
Crutchfield was unimpressed. “Tell him I’ll be there when I’m done.”
When he had consumed the last bite, he took the last small piece of bread crust and wiped the plate dry with it, then ate it. After draining his coffee cup, he pushed back from the table and sat there a moment, waiting for the satisfying belch he knew would come. Contented, he got up and left the saloon.
He picked his way carefully across the muddy street. Although it was referred to as a street, it was in reality a dark, sticky river, churned by the hooves of horses and the wheels of mule skinners’ wagons. Crutchfield swore repeatedly as he tried to avoid the worst spots, punctuated by a loud “Goddammit!” whenever he misjudged a step and splashed mud on his twenty-five dollar Justin boots.
The bounty hunter was waiting for him outside the jail. He stood by his horse, seemingly oblivious to the mud he was standing in. Will Proctor was right. He looked like a cross between a buffalo and a grizzly bear. A meaner looking man Crutchfield had never seen, and, though he had never seen this man before, he needed no introduction.
“You’re Cobb, ain’t you?”
Cobb smiled, pleased that his reputation was so widespread. “I’m Cobb,” he answered, “and this here gentleman is Rupert Slater. I got paper on him.” He produced a wanted poster from his saddlebag and handed it to Crutchfield.
Crutchfield took the piece of paper, unfolding it while he eyed the huge bounty hunter. Glancing down at the written description on the paper, he looked for references to identifying marks. Then he walked around to the dead man’s horse, and with the poster in one hand he grabbed the corpse by the hair and attempted to pull his head up in order to get a better look at him. The corpse was frozen stiff, however, and his neck wouldn’t bend. He had to stoop down on one knee to look him over. It was near impossible to tell for sure that the man was, in fact, Rupert Slater. There was the long scar from his ear down across his face, and the body was about the right size. It could be Slater. Crutchfield didn’t really concern himself that much. It was never easy to identify a man from a wanted poster anyway.
“You’re pretty sure you got the right man here, I reckon,” he finally said.
“It’s Slater,” Cobb stated matter-of-factly.
“Didn’t feel like surrendering, I suppose,” Crutchfield said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Reckon not.”
“I notice he got it in the back.”
“He run.”
“Yeah, I reckon,” Crutchfield replied. “From what I hear, most all the fugitives you bring in come in draped across their saddles instead of settin’ in ’em.” He made no effort to disguise the disgust he held for bounty hunters in general, and this one in particular. It irritated the sheriff further to see that his words had no effect on the bear of a man standing before him.
“One hundred dollars,” Cobb calmly stated. “The poster says he’s worth one hundred dollars. When do I git it? I got other business to attend to.”
Crutchfield eyed the man for a long moment before answering. He truly had no use for this manner of man, and yet there was little he could do about their existence. “Well, it won’t be anytime soon—I can tell you that. He’s wanted in Kansas. That’s where the money will have to come from, Kansas City.”
Cobb eyed the sheriff coldly. “I reckon they can wire it, can’t they?”
Crutchfield did not try to hide his impatience. It was cold, standing outside, and he didn’t have a mountain of hides draped over him as Cobb did. “Yeah,” he answered gruffly, “they can wire it, but you didn’t notice any dang telegraph lines coming into town, did you? You’ll get your damn blood money, but first I’ll have to send the papers on the stage to Corinne, in Utah territory. That’s the closest railroad. Then they’ll go by mail train to Kansas City. Then you’ll have to wait for them to send the money back the same way.”
Cobb’s eyes narrowed. He was not pleased by the conversation. “How long?” he asked.
“Hell, I don’t know, four, six weeks, if they feel like gittin’ on it right away in Kansas City. That is, if the weather don’t turn bad and close up the passes between here and Corinne so the stage can’t git through. Then, it might take two months.” Crutchfield took a certain amount of satisfaction in the reaction caused by his prognosis and the bounty hunter’s obvious distaste for the news. “’Course, if that ain’t fast enough to suit you, you can haul him on down to Utah. Maybe they’ll telegraph for the money for you.”
Cobb stared hard into the eyes of the sheriff. He was not pleased with the turn of events. He wanted his money, but he wanted to rid himself of the dead man more. After thinking it over for a moment, he said, “No, I’ll pick it up when it gits here.”
Crutchfield was disappointed. He hoped Cobb would take his dead man and ride out of town. “All right,” he said sighing. Turning to his deputy, he directed, “Will, untie him and see if you can unbend him enough to get him off his horse.” He watched the deputy struggle with the frozen corpse for a few minutes. “Hell, we might have to bury the horse with him.”
Cobb was quick to interject, “That there’s my horse. His’n got shot.”
Crutchfield looked hard at the bounty hunter for a moment before a slow grin formed on his face. “Yeah? It sure was lucky you had another one, wasn’t it?”
“Warn’t no luck to it, Sheriff.” Cobb’s eyes narrowed. Crutchfield was getting on his nerves. “I always have what I need to git the job done.” He was thinking to himself that it would be a great pleasure to come across this self-satisfied, potbellied sheriff alone somewhere out on the prairie. He didn’t like the idea of any man looking down his nose at him, especially a lawman.
The paperwork didn’t take long to complete, in spite of the sheriff’s complaining. Cobb had done it dozens of times before. All that was required of him was to make his mark on an affidavit claiming the reward. Crutchfield sent Will for the undertaker to certify the death, then he confirmed Slater’s identity and that was it. Promising to return to Bozeman in three or four weeks to get his money, Cobb got on his horse and rode down to the livery stable to sell Slater’s horse and saddle. With some of the money, he bought supplies and ammunition. Then, after a hot meal at the saloon, he rode out of town, back toward the Musselshell. Cobb had very little use for towns of any size. He preferred the frozen mountains and prairies. Besides, he had a notion that it wouldn’t hurt to visit the Broken-T again. Allred had worked there before, and might have decided to return. It was a four-day ride back to the Broken-T if the weather held, maybe twice that if a winter storm hit. Cobb didn’t concern himself with it. Good weather, or bad weather, it was all the same to him. He had camped out in the open in weather most men wouldn’t leave the hearth in. There was a meanness about him that defied even the elements.