While Cobb loaded a packhorse and set out east from Bozeman to strike the Yellowstone, the man he hunted was making camp after one day’s ride from the Broken-T. It had been a long frigid day, although the snow that had fallen the night before was not deep enough to impede Billy’s progress. Tom could have made a few miles more before daylight faded, but he felt a strong desire to make a camp and warm his bones. His spirits could stand a little lifting after the episode with Little Joe, and he figured a warm fire and a hot cup of coffee might go a long way toward perking him up. He had sworn that he would never spend another winter alone in the wilderness after he nearly froze to death in his dugout cave the previous year. But it looked like he was about to do it again. It seemed that every place he tried to light, people spawned another unpleasant encounter for him. And this time it had resulted in the useless killing of a young boy, one he had counted as a friend. Maybe he was better off being alone after all.
When he said farewell to Eli and Smoky that morning, he decided to follow the Musselshell west. There was a court-martial waiting for him back East, so there were very few choices left for him. He considered Canada but he was unsure of that territory, that and reports of trouble with the Gros Ventres and the Assiniboines as well as the Blackfeet. Maybe he could find himself a little valley somewhere away from the army and the bounty hunters, a valley where the streams were still loaded with beaver, as it used to be in the Musselshell country before the American Fur Company trapped it out. Tom recalled the disappointing price he had received for the plews he had trapped that fall; three dollars for prime. It was discouraging but, at present, he could think of no other way to earn a living.
Sighting a clump of cottonwoods and willows that promised to offer some protection for a campsite, he decided he had ridden far enough that day. Upon riding up under the trees, he discovered that he was not the first to camp there. Someone else, probably Indians, had camped there before. From the signs, it wasn’t recent. There were large patches of grass where the snow had melted during the day, so he tethered Billy where he could graze. He turned the packhorse loose to forage for himself. He wouldn’t wander far and, if he did, Tom had Billy to go after him. He ground up a handful of coffee beans, and before long he sat before the fire, bundled up in his buffalo robe, eating his supper. As darkness approached, he roused himself from his warm cocoon and took his rifle for a quick scout around his camp just to make sure he was alone. Everything seemed to his satisfaction. His packhorse was down by the water, grazing on some shoots and weeds along the river’s edge. Billy seemed quiet enough. As a precaution, he took some extra blankets and made up three dummy beds around the fire. This was a trick he had learned from Squint Peterson. Squint figured it at least increased his odds in the event he was caught napping, which Tom doubted ever happened, and gave him a one-in-four chance of getting the first bullet. Tom had taken to using the dummy beds when he learned about the bounty hunter, even though he was not overly concerned. He figured he was probably the only fool out in this kind of weather. Anybody with any sense, Injun, white, or breed, would be sitting by a warm fire. Tom wanted to remain alert, however, sleeping with one eye open that night, just in case someone from the Broken-T might be tracking him. Big Joe allowed as how the death of his brother was no fault of Tom’s and couldn’t have been helped. Still, Tom figured there was the possibility that after it worked on his mind for a while, Joe might see things in a different light and decide he was honor-bound to avenge Little Joe’s death. It wouldn’t pay to discount trouble from that direction. Despite all of his intentions, fatigue overtook him and he was soon sound asleep.
The morning broke clear and bright, sending the first rays of light snaking through the cottonwoods that ringed his campsite. He was at once alarmed by the lateness of the hour, having daylight catch him still in his blankets. He was about to deliver a good scolding to himself for his laziness when he discovered a more serious predicament—Billy was gone!
He rolled out of his blankets, clutching his Winchester. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly scanned the trees that surrounded him. He suspected the worst. Billy would not likely have broken his tether. A moment was all that was necessary to confirm his fears. The sign was not hard to read. Someone, Indian by the look of the tracks, had run off with his horse while he slept. He felt hot with anger and disgust for his carelessness.
As he ran down toward the river, hoping to find his packhorse, a flood of questions troubled him. Why didn’t Billy make a sound? How had the thief—the tracks indicated only one man—been able to approach within that distance without his having heard? Another thought, more puzzling than these, was why the thief had not killed him? Any Indian, even those who were considered friendly, would not hesitate to kill and scalp a lone white man out on the prairie. It didn’t make sense. But he would have to think about it later. Now he had more urgent things on his mind.
At the river’s edge, he took cover behind a large boulder while he scanned the horizon for signs. It appeared that he was the only man within miles, alone and on foot. It was plain to him, from the tracks in the hard frozen sand and the snow patches, that the Indian forded the river on foot. Probably tied his horse on the other side near a sprinkling of willows, Tom figured, led the packhorse a few yards downstream and tied it to a tree while he went around the other side of Tom’s campfire and got Billy. From the way the moccasin was made, he figured the thief to be a Blackfoot. The more Tom read the sign, the madder he got, though not as much at the Blackfoot, for stealing horses was an honorable pursuit. No, he was disgusted with his own stupidity for being taken like a rank greenhorn.
“Well, greenhorn, now what the hell are you gonna do?” He stood there a moment longer before deciding to return to his campfire and get something to eat. He was going to have to leave this place right away. Whoever had stolen the horses was not likely to ride off and leave a man on foot with his saddle pack and harness, not to mention guns and ammunition. He could only wonder why he had not been attacked when the thief took his horses. He puzzled over it while he stirred up the coals and ate a piece of dried jerky. It was only one man. That much Tom was sure of. And since he was alone and not with a hunting party, he must be a renegade or someone in disfavor with his tribe. Otherwise, he most likely would not be by himself in this winter wilderness. Kinda like me, Tom thought. The man must have been poorly armed, or he would have simply shot Tom where he lay. Possibly the dummy beds made him hesitate. If he thought there were actually four men, he might have figured it was not worth the risk. But, hell, Tom reminded himself, there weren’t but two horses. Did he think four men were riding two horses? The more he thought about it, the more it began to make sense. One Indian, probably armed with nothing more than a bow and a lance, didn’t have to take a chance on getting shot once he stole the horses. He was probably sitting back right now, behind one of those hills, watching to see how many white men came out of the trees. He had to figure if it was only one, he could not carry the saddle and pack with him. He would have to leave everything but his weapons if he had any notion of walking. Then it would be a simple matter to ride into the camp and load the white man’s belongings on the stolen horses. Then, with the natural patience of the Plains Indian, he would track the man until he became exhausted from trying to cross the snowy hills on foot, or until a blizzard struck and the man froze to death. If Tom elected to hole up in the cottonwoods where his Winchester could keep the Indian at bay, then the Indian would no doubt decide to share his plunder with his brothers and go back to his village for additional warriors. That is, unless he was the renegade that Tom suspected he was. Everything considered, Tom decided he’d rather be on the move than sitting still. So he figured he had little choice but to start walking and hope that his enemy would make the mistake of coming within rifle range of the Sharps.
As quickly as he possibly could, Tom rigged a backpack using half of his saddle pack. In it, he carried enough jerky to last him a week, a blanket and as much ammunition as he thought he could carry. He cached his saddle, along with everything else he had left under a deadfall near the bank of the river. That done, he propped his Winchester over one shoulder and his Sharps buffalo gun on the other. Keeping low behind the willows, he set out along the riverbank and left the camp behind. If he was being watched, he hoped he could keep out of sight long enough to get a head start. Before leaving the cover of the cottonwoods, he forded the icy river and headed south. He was not absolutely certain how far he had ridden the previous day, but he figured if he struck out straight south, he would have to reach the Yellowstone in about three days’ time. Then he would follow the Yellowstone west until he found a settlement or, if he had to, until he walked all the way to Bozeman. His original plan to stay away from any towns was now overridden by the necessity to get another horse. At present, aside from the obvious threat of attack, his biggest concern was the weather. If he got caught out in the open by a blizzard, he was as good as dead. As far as the Indian tracking him, he didn’t worry that much. He had his rifles and he was confident he would come out on top should the two of them meet. In fact, he sincerely hoped the lowdown thief would track him. He’d let him get within about five hundred yards and then introduce him to Mr. Sharps.
As much as he possibly could, Tom kept to the coulees and draws, but inasmuch as his desperate situation required him to maintain a more or less true course to the south, he was occasionally forced to take the high ground. From habit, he took some pains to cover his trail whenever he could, but he was on foot, and the snow patches were too frequent and broad. At best, his efforts might gain him a few minutes’ time. Whenever he topped a rise, he paused momentarily to scan his backtrail. For a good hour or so, there was no sign of anyone behind him. He guessed the Indian was no doubt scouting his campsite, searching for the goods that had to be left behind. He only hoped he had hidden his cache well enough. Tom’s driving thoughts now were simply to make haste. There was always the possibility the Indian would decide not to trail him. An Indian would sometimes change his mind for no other reason than he was an Indian.
Tom was moving at a good pace, a rifle in each hand, as he alternated between a slow trot and a fast walk. He was not accustomed to traveling on foot, and his breath became heavy after only a short while, necessitating longer periods of walking. Coming to a slightly higher rise, he kept below the crest as he topped it, keeping his profile below the hilltop. As he started down, his foot slipped on an icy rock, and he sprawled in the snow. He lay there for a few moments to let his breathing calm down, then crawled back to the crest of the hill to check his backtrail.
“Damn!” he uttered under his breath. The Indian was on his trail all right, perhaps a mile behind him. He would close that distance in no time at all. He quickly looked around him from side to side, and decided this was as good a place as any to wait for him. He had the high ground and, as long as he had the rifles, the open prairie was to his advantage. So he made ready for his adversary. He brushed the snow from a flat rock at the top of the rise and laid the Sharps down. Then he checked the load in both rifles. Satisfied that his weapons were ready, he settled back to wait for his target to approach. He didn’t have long to wait.
“Thieving son of a bitch,” he muttered when the hostile closed to a point of flat prairie, close enough now for Tom to confirm that it was indeed an Indian who stalked him. He was riding a scruffy-looking pony. Behind him Billy and the packhorse trailed along on a tether. It made Tom’s blood boil to see Billy being led by the thieving savage. One of the few ways a warrior could gain status within the tribe, outside of bravery in battle, was stealing horses. Tom understood this and accepted it, but it was different when it came to his own horse. Stealing Billy was more akin to kidnapping a family member. His anger may have caused him to act a little prematurely, for he cocked the Sharps and sighted on the Indian, allowing him to get to within only about four hundred yards before he squeezed the trigger and felt the solid kick of the weapon against his shoulder. He easily could have waited until the man closed another two hundred yards, a distance from which he could have placed his shot right between the eyes. But, he told himself, there was a slight rise between them, about one hundred yards out, and he might lose sight of his target if he allowed him to approach it. As soon as he pulled the trigger, he knew he was too rash and cursed himself for being a damn fool. As it was, the shot caught the Indian high on the shoulder and knocked him off his horse. Tom hurried to load another cartridge in the Sharps, but the Indian’s reactions upon finding himself shot were too quick for Tom to get another clear shot. The wounded man rolled when he hit the ground and, quick as a fox, grabbed his lead rope and led the horses down into a gulch and out of sight.
“That was another damn greenhorn thing to do,” he berated himself. “Now I don’t know which direction he’ll be coming from.” He made haste to strap on his pack again and scramble down from the hilltop. As he hurried to find a better position to wait for the Indian, he tried to evaluate the damage done by his shot. The man, though knocked off his horse, seemed spry enough when he pulled the three horses down in that gulch. Tom could only guess that he had barely nicked him. A forty-five bullet, with one hundred and twenty grains of DuPont’s finest black powder behind it, would have knocked a hole as big as a fist in the man’s shoulder, if it hit solid meat. He could have kicked himself for firing so soon. If he had waited another couple of minutes, he’d probably be riding Billy now instead of puffing along on foot.
There was no way he could hide himself for very long before the Indian would discover his hiding place. The country was too open with only occasional trees. The good news was that the Indian would not likely be able to sneak up on him as long as it was daylight. Tom’s guess was the man would most likely hobble the horses in the gulch and stalk him on foot, making an effort to circle around behind him. His plan of defense was to find another spot on high ground where he could watch the area around him. Then, when night came, he would get on the move again, and it would remain to be seen who was the better hunter, Tom or the Indian. So, when he came to a rise that appeared to stand a bit higher than the surrounding terrain, he dug out a shallow trench with his knife and settled in to wait. His wait was a long one.
The sun was almost directly overhead when he dug in on the rise. Now it was sinking ever closer to the tops of the peaks in the western sky. Tom, lying in the cold earth of the trench, shifted his position constantly in an effort to keep a watch on the area around him. As the hours passed with no sound nor sign, his body became stiff with inactivity as the cold began to creep into his bones. Maybe he’s hurt worse than I figured, Tom speculated. It was a possibility, but he knew it was more likely the Indian was watching him from some point, patiently waiting for darkness, for why should he risk Tom’s firepower when it would be far less risky to steal upon him under cover of a deep prairie night? He had no choice but to match the Indian for patience, so he made himself as comfortable as possible while keeping his eyes peeled. He got some jerky from his pack and ate. Too bad, he thought, there’s no wood to make a small fire. Coffee would be good. Then he remembered that he had no means to boil coffee anyway. All his gear was cached by the riverbank, if the Indian had not found it that morning. Maybe the Indian was enjoying a cup of hot coffee. There were fewer than two hours of daylight left when he heard a shot.
He scrambled to one knee, scanning the prairie around him. There had been only one shot, but peering out across the rolling hills, he could see no sign of man nor beast. The shot had not been aimed at him, of that he was certain. Or, if it was, whoever fired it missed the whole damn hill. No, it seemed to have come from the gulch where he had last seen the Indian, but he could detect no puff of gunsmoke over that way. He wondered if the Indian had been armed with a rifle after all. From the sound of it, Tom guessed it to be a repeating rifle and not one of the needle guns that many of the Indians had traded for. The mystery was not explained for fully another hour, during which time Tom watched the prairie anxiously, but saw nothing. Long shadows from the hills had begun to form dark pools in the draws and low places, when a man suddenly appeared, coming out of the gulch, leading four horses.
“Hallo up thar! Hold your fire, I’m comin’ up.”
Tom was amazed. It was no Indian. That much he was sure of, for this was a fair-sized hulk of a man. From that distance, he looked to be the size of Squint Peterson, who was the biggest man Tom had ever met. He was cloaked in skins, and the fur of his cap seemed to be a mere extension of the heavy growth of his beard. Tom figured him to be a mountain man, a prospector or trapper. He came on toward Tom, holding up a dark flag-like object about the size of a bandanna. He was calling out something to Tom as he advanced, but Tom couldn’t make out the words. Billy whinnied as he recognized Tom, and Tom stood up to receive his guest.
“Blackfoot!” the huge man called out and Tom realized the dark bandanna was in reality a scalp. The man waved it over his head a few times more before carefully folding it and stuffing it in his buffalo coat. “Reckon he was figurin’ on gittin’ your’n ’stead of losing his’n.” He dismounted, looking Tom over with a curious eye. “Reckon you was in a fix till I come along.”
“I reckon I was.”
“I’m thinkin’ this here rig belongs to you,” he said, indicating Billy and the packhorse.
Tom smiled. “That’s a fact.” He was wary of the grim-looking stranger, no matter how cheerful his talk, so he was relieved to hear he was willing to acknowledge the horses as his.
“How’d you come to be in a fix like this?” the stranger asked, whereupon Tom proceeded to relate how the Blackfoot had stolen the horses during the night, leaving him on foot, but holding all the cards as far as weaponry. Tom, in turn, wondered how this giant of a man managed to get the jump on the Blackfoot.
“Hell, he war so interested in you, he didn’t pay me no mind. What with that and him tryin’ to fix up that hole you put in his shoulder, it war easy. I just left my horses back in them willows and tippy-toed up behind him and blowed a winder in the back of his head.”
At any rate, Tom felt it to be his good fortune that this man happened along. They talked a while longer about the incident, and then, since darkness was not long in coming, they decided to find a more hospitable place to make camp. “I reckon I owe you a better feed than I can offer,” Tom said, “but you’re welcome to share the jerky I brought with me. Maybe sunup we can find some game.”
The stranger smiled, or attempted to. It seemed to Tom that the man had precious little practice in that exercise, the finished product resembling a scowling exhibit of his upper teeth. Tom formed the distinct opinion that the man was generally uncomfortable with pleasantries, but was making something of an effort to appear cordial.
“Why, tain’t no call to eat jerky when I got a rabbit hangin’ on my saddle pack,” he replied. He watched Tom fashion a rawhide halter and slip it over Billy’s nose. “Name’s Cobb. What’s your’n?”
Tom started to reply, then paused while he swung up on Billy’s back. This trapper probably hadn’t the slightest care whether he was a wanted man or not. Still, there was no sense in being careless. “Johnson,” he replied, “Tom Johnson.”
They made camp near the banks of a small stream that divided a stand of cottonwoods. The ground was devoid of grass for the horses, but the bark of the cottonwoods offered some nourishment. After Tom had peeled a quantity of small limbs to feed his animals, he went about helping Cobb with a fire. The two men went about their business of making camp, neither man speaking for a long period of time, evidence that both men were accustomed to camping alone. Tom noticed that Cobb saw to his own needs before looking after his stock, a practice Tom disapproved of. Every man had to do according to his own beliefs, so he would never criticize. But Tom had always been taught that a man took care of his animals first, and when the going got hot and heavy, the animals would take care of him. It was more than that, however. There was something else about the huge grimy man that told him he had better sleep with his rifle handy. Cobb seemed to be friendly enough, but it seemed a mite less than sincere, and after they had settled in and cooked the rabbit, he had a tendency to ask an awful lot of questions.
“Tom Wilson, you say your name was?”
“Johnson,” Tom corrected him. He suspected Cobb knew he hadn’t said Wilson.
“Oh, that’s right, Johnson—you did say Johnson at that.” He appeared to mull this over for a while then he asked in a manner meant to be casual, “Where you headed for, Mr. Johnson?”
“Bozeman,” Tom answered.
“Bozeman—I just come from Bozeman. What you aiming to do in Bozeman?”
“Find a place to get warm. I hadn’t thought about it much further than that.”
“Well now, ain’t that strange? I’m headin’ back to Bozeman myself,” Cobb lied. “We might as well travel together. Be a lot safer in case we run into any of that there Blackfoot’s friends.” He had been studying Tom as he moved about making camp and Cobb’s naturally suspicious mind began to work over several small details in Tom’s behavior.
“Maybe,” Tom replied with little enthusiasm. “You might not want to wait for me though. I’ve got to double back and get my possibles I left cached back there a’ways.” He was beginning to get a feeling about his camp partner, a feeling that didn’t sit well with him. He might be better off alone than with this sinister-looking wild man.
“I see you got you one of them repeating rifles. Winchester, ain’t it?” Tom nodded. “I seen you plugged that Blackfoot with that there Sharps, but that Winchester there, now that’s a dandy rifle.” He stretched his massive arms and resituated himself against the tree trunk he was leaning against. “I knowed about a feller over to Miles City had a Winchester like that. Folks over there said he was a helluva shot with it, too. Cut a soldier boy damn near in half with it.” He paused, watching Tom closely.
“That so?” Tom answering, feigning boredom.
When the response was not forthcoming, Cobb continued, “’Course, myself, it don’t make a tinker’s damn to me if he kilt that there soldier, or a hundert more. It ain’t none of my affair. But I would like to see a man shoot like that.”
Tom didn’t answer, but he was immediately alert. He didn’t like the direction of the man’s conversation. It was a hell of a coincidence for this stranger to bring up the subject. Now, as he looked more closely at his chance companion, he remembered Eli and Smoky’s warning about a bounty hunter. A mean-looking son of a bitch they called him, a big fellow. Well, this fellow Cobb surely fit that description. If it was him, Tom figured he wasn’t sure of Tom’s identity, but he was mighty suspicious. The sooner he got clear of this fellow, the better. Although his every nerve ending was alert, Tom maintained a calm, disinterested expression. It wouldn’t do to let Cobb see that his talk made him nervous. “Well,” he said as casually as he could effect, “I think I’ll turn in. It’s starting to get a mite chilly.” He made a show of arranging his blanket. He had no intention of closing his eyes that night, and if all went well, he figured to pull out before Cobb woke up the next morning.
Cobb continued to talk as he took a few steps to the edge of the firelight and untied his buckskin britches to relieve himself. “I don’t mind the cold myself. Matter of fact, I’d just as soon make a cold camp.” Finished with his toilet, he laced up again. “Think I’ll take a look-see around, make shore they ain’t no Blackfeet sneakin’ around the horses.”
Tom watched him walk out of the firelight toward the tethered horses. When he was sure Cobb was not looking back at him, he quickly ejected the cartridges from his Winchester. Taking a quick glance to make sure the Sharps was loaded, he slid it inside his blanket so that it lay across the inside of his right boot. Then he propped the empty Winchester up beside a tree and backed up against it himself, as if he were ready to sleep. From the darkness, where the horses were tied, he heard Cobb call to him.
“Say, Johnson, this here horse of your’n looks like he’s limpin’ some. I’ll take a look at ’em. Does he kick? What’s his name? I don’t want to git kicked in the head.”
“Billy. But you better watch him. He don’t take up with strangers,” he answered. He thought, Unless you’re a damn thieving Blackfoot and then he’ll let you run off with him. Billy would hardly kick but he didn’t like the idea of Cobb fooling around with his horse.
A few short moments of silence passed before Cobb stepped back into the circle of firelight. He wore an expression like that of a coyote with a prairie dog pinned under his paw. “I reckon there warn’t nuthin’ wrong with your horse after all. Billy, you say his name is?” He moved over to Tom’s side of the fire, making a show of warming his hands over the flame. “You never asked me what my line is, Mr. Johnson.” When it became apparent that Tom was still not going to ask him, he continued with obvious relish in his discourse. “I’m a trapper, kind of like you say you are. Only I don’t waste my time on beaver. I trap skunks and polecats, the two-legged kind.” He paused for a moment, but was still met with no response from Tom. Suddenly, in one swift move, he reached down and grabbed the Winchester. When there was no reaction from Tom, he stepped back a few feet and grinned, the same twisted grimace that Tom had seen earlier. “Like I said before, this here is shore a fine lookin’ rifle. The polecat I’m trackin’ now uses one just like this one. He cut a soldier plum nye in half with it over to Miles City. They said it was a feller called hisself Dakota, rode a horse named Billy. That’s what the stable man said.” He stood over Tom then, waiting for his reaction, the smile slowly fading into a scowl. “Now there’s just one thing I want to know before I cut you in half with this fine-lookin’ Winchester. They ain’t no doubt you’re the one they call Dakota. The description fits you right enough. But you can satisfy my curiosity about something. Your name’s Tom Allred, ain’t it? You might as well tell me. You’re a dead man anyway, and they ain’t no sense dying with a lie on your lips.” He brought the Winchester down to level at Tom.
“What if you don’t have the right man?” Tom asked, his voice calm and deliberate.
“I reckon that’d be too bad for you, wouldn’t it? Besides, if you ain’t Dakota, then I reckon it’ll just be my mistake. Either way, your bones bleach out here come summer, and I’ll just keep on lookin’ till I find the real Dakota.”
“That rifle’s not loaded,” Tom stated coolly.
Cobb grinned. “The hell it ain’t,” he sneered, firm in the knowledge that a man who lived in this part of the world never went to sleep with an empty rifle beside him. He paused but a moment, the grin implanted on his grisly features. Then he cocked the hammer back and pulled the trigger. A look of astonishment replaced the grin, and he quickly cocked the rifle again and pulled the trigger. Once more there was no sound save that of the dull metallic click of the firing pin on an empty chamber. With an angry snarl, he threw the rifle away and pulled his heavy buffalo coat aside to uncover his pistol. The grin returned to his face when Tom slowly raised his right leg up off the ground. A feeble effort, Cobb thought, to ward off a bullet. Cobb’s hand had not quite touched the handle of his pistol when he was knocked backward, landing squarely in the campfire.
Tom did not move for a moment, the roar of the heavy Sharps almost startling him, it was so loud. He stared at the smoking hole in his blanket where the bullet went through. In the next instant he scrambled out of his blanket, pistol in hand. Cobb roared like a wounded grizzly and managed to roll out of the fire, which he had almost smothered with his bulk. His buffalo coat was smoldering from the countless sparks that had lit up on his back and shoulders. Tom was quick to make sure Cobb didn’t draw his pistol. He stood with his own pistol aimed at Cobb’s head, ready to finish him. But Cobb was in too much shock to pull his weapon. Tom’s bullet had torn a sizable hole right through Cobb’s side, and the bounty hunter was trying to hold his insides in with both hands. Tom stood over him.
“Damn you,” Cobb spat. “Damn you to hell. You gut shot me.”
“It was you or me,” Tom replied, his voice emotionless as he watched the writhing agony of the man who, moments before, sought to kill him. Cobb, trying desperately to keep his intestines from spilling, snarled like a wounded animal. He tried to pull his pistol but blood gushed from the wound in such profusion that he quickly jerked his hand back over his side.
“Damn you! Damn you!” he continued to spit at Tom, his eyes beginning to glaze over in pain. Tom watched him for a moment, then slowly pulled the hammer back on his pistol. The move did not escape Cobb’s notice, and at once there appeared a calmness in the doomed man’s face. “Tell me, you son of a bitch, are you Tom Allred?”
“Ask the devil when you see him,” Tom replied coolly and pulled the trigger. The huge man jerked once when the bullet tore through the top of his thick fur cap, then he settled heavily on the ground and was still.
Tom felt very little emotion for the deed he had done. The thought that he had killed a man never entered his mind. It was more like killing a buffalo or a steer for slaughter. Suddenly he felt tired. Not wanting to look at Cobb’s body any longer, he took him by the heels and dragged him over to the edge of a deep ravine. It was at least fifty feet down. There were mature lodgepole pines growing up from the bottom, and their tops barely cleared the top of the ledge. He rolled the body to the edge of the ravine and then, with his boot, sent it crashing down into the pines and rocks below. That done, he returned to the campfire, rolled up in his blanket, and went to sleep. If there were any Blackfeet waiting for a chance to take his scalp, they were welcome to it. Right then he didn’t give a damn.
* * *
He awoke the next morning shivering with the cold. Cobb had smothered most of the fire when he fell in it the night before, and Tom had been too tired to bank what remained of it. Now he was paying for his negligence as he scurried about gathering up something to use as tinder. He gave not a thought to the body at the bottom of the ravine while he loaded the horses with what possessions of the late bounty hunter he deemed useful. He had two packhorses now in addition to Cobb’s big bay with the white stockings on three of his feet. He cut the Blackfoot’s scrubby pony loose and let him go. Then he climbed up on Billy and, pausing to tip his hat toward the ravine and the late Mr. Cobb, doubled back on his trail to get his saddle and belongings from the cache.