During the next couple of days, Tom found that the sheriff was one of the few people to show any measure of hospitality toward him. Evidently, Scarborough had managed to spread the word throughout the whole town that the recently arrived stranger bunking in the stable was none other than a wanted gunman named Dakota. Not that anyone gave Tom any trouble. To the contrary, he was politely avoided everywhere he went. He found it difficult to believe, in a town that small, the entire population could manage to avoid even casual contact with him. He might as well have had the plague. Even some of the recently arrived pilgrims, people who had so welcomed his help when they were struggling through the snowy foothills with Scarborough and Butcher, walked around him. Queer, he thought, they weren’t so particular when I saved their bacon from the Blackfoot raiding party. It wouldn’t have mattered then if I was Satan himself. He didn’t like the notoriety he had suddenly found. His intention all along was to lose his identity in hopes of starting over, far away from the army and the bounty hunters. Occasionally thoughts of moving on farther west crossed his mind, maybe striking out to find his brother Little Wolf and Squint Peterson, if they were still alive. He could see few choices and little time to make them. Crutchfield was friendly enough, but Tom had no doubts that the sheriff meant what he said. Two weeks and the lawman would likely turn his mean side.
The one person who still remained friendly, of course, was Jubal Clay. But Tom did not push this relationship because of his feelings for the man’s daughter. Still, he saw Jubal occasionally, usually in the saloon, where Tom spent most of his daylight hours. Jubal was busy in his brother’s store, getting ready for the spring when they planned to add on to the original structure and bring in new stores of drygoods from Kansas City. Tom had more or less made his temporary headquarters at the corner table, where he took his meals from the old Oriental, sometimes sitting in on a small-stakes poker game with Doc Brewster, the town physician and veterinarian, and Crutchfield’s two deputies. The fact that the deputies were sociable did not surprise Tom. He was sure they were there by design to keep an eye on “the gunfighter.”
The game was friendly enough and helped to pass the time during the cold winter days. Nobody won or lost very much, and none of the three players seemed to think anything about Tom being a wanted man. A man was taken pretty much at face value as far as Doc Brewster was concerned, at least in this part of the world. Times were too hard and the land was too harsh to worry about what a man had done in his past. If rumors could be believed, Doc himself was hardly one to criticize another man’s past life. Carlton Clay said Doc had left a practice, along with a wife and children, back East. And, as Carlton pointed out, folks figured it was Doc’s business and none of theirs. He was the only doctor around, and folks hereabouts were glad to have him, even if he was half drunk most of the time. In fact, more than a few people felt he was better at doctoring when he was drunk—his hands shook too much when he was sober. The long cold winters of Montana had turned more than one man to drink. Doc was fond of talking about any subject and, drunk or sober, Tom found the man an entertaining companion.
As for Crutchfield’s two deputies, there could not be two more directly opposite men. One was an older man of perhaps fifty. His name was Breezy Martin. He sported a full beard of gray whiskers that spread in all directions like a bramble bush, and dirty gray wads of hair hung limply around his neck. He always wore a wide-brimmed hat with a pointed crown, the kind most folks called a “Montana Peak.” The hat never left his head, and, during the whole time Tom was in Bozeman, Breezy never changed his woolsey shirt or the dingy gray underwear underneath. When it came to talking, he could converse on as many subjects as Doc could, leading Tom to suspect why he was called Breezy. Tom found it a humorous coincidence that he shared a name with his old horse, Breezy, the main difference being that the horse was somewhat windy on the other end.
Will Proctor, the other deputy, was a much younger man. He didn’t talk a great deal. Perhaps, Tom speculated, this was because there was very little opportunity to get a word in edgewise with Doc and Breezy around. But he seemed friendly enough, and he did provide a fourth for poker.
Tom had not seen Ruby since the first day he arrived in town. According to Jubal, she was settling in just fine with his brother’s wife, helping her around the little farm Carlton owned outside of town. He thought about her a lot more than he wanted to. He just couldn’t help it. She would creep into his thoughts at odd times of the day and night, and he would find himself wondering what she was doing at that moment, and if she ever thought about him. Then he would have to remind himself to rid his mind of the girl. He could offer her no future, so he had no choice but to forget her. But he soon realized that it was going to take more than whiskey and poker to shut her out of his thoughts, thoughts that were beginning to make his life miserable. He knew it was time to move on.
* * *
Young Will Proctor had never had a great deal of ambition to do anything, especially if it entailed hard work. At age twenty-two, he had already tried his hand at working cattle and sheep, as well as spending a short time as a farmhand. He didn’t care for any of it, and he was always looking for a softer deal. For that reason, he jumped at the job of deputy when Aaron Crutchfield offered it. And he was pretty much satisfied with life for two years. But now, with another new year beginning and still no increase to his thirty-dollars-a-month salary, he started looking around for an even softer deal that offered more money. Bozeman offered few prospects for a man with the particular ambitions of Will Proctor, that is, until an outlaw called Dakota came to town. Crutchfield had no use for bounty hunters and no interest in collecting a reward himself, saying it was unlawful as long as he wore a badge. But Will didn’t always agree with Crutchfield’s philosophy. Wanted handbills on dozens of outlaws came in from all over every month, when the stage could get through. It didn’t take a long search through the stacks of papers before Will found what he was looking for. His eyes grew as big as saucers when he saw that the reward for a man named Tom Allred, alias Dakota, was twenty-five hundred dollars. Dead or alive! He was dumbfounded. This man with whom he played cards almost every night for the past week seemed like a sqare enough fellow, yet he was worth twenty-five hundred dollars to the U.S. Army!
Will figured his prayers had been answered. His own gold strike was sitting right there at the corner table of The Miner’s. He needed little time or thought to make up his mind. He would resign his job as deputy. The thought of having that much money in one lump sum was enough to overshadow any notions of wearing a badge until he was as old and fat as Aaron Crutchfield. His decision made, and the course of his future laid out for him, Will became even more diligent in keeping an eye on Dakota, going so far as to befriend the man he planned to collect on. And so it happened that Tom found himself with an almost constant companion during the final week of his stay in Bozeman. In fact, Tom began to realize that it was near impossible to turn around without finding Will Proctor standing there. Tom did not suspect anything, however. He just assumed Will was a bored young man with little else to do during the slow months of winter. Will Proctor may have figured he already had a claim on the reward, but he found that he had competition when it came to the pursuit of blood money.
It happened one evening at suppertime. Tom was seated in his customary corner chair eating, when the two strangers walked into The Miner’s. He paid little attention to the pair as they walked slowly over to the bar and called for whiskey. The warm sanctuary offered by Sheriff Crutchfield, along with the congenial company of his poker companions, had effectively blunted the edge of Tom’s alertness. He assumed he was safe as long as he was in town with the sheriff’s blessings. This assumption was a mistake on his part. He soon learned that a wanted man could never relax his guard. Given the same situation two weeks before, he would have noticed every detail about the two men the moment they entered the room. Now, he didn’t even bother to glance up as they stood at the bar drinking, talking in hushed mumbles while they stared at the solitary man eating in the corner.
Pete, the bartender, was not as unconcerned as Tom, for there was something about the pair that made him want to keep his eye on the cash drawer. They had a look of uncut meanness like that of half-starved coyotes, both as thin as knife blades with heavy whiskers spilling over their stained hide coats. Both men wore two pistols, a fact made obvious by the twin bulges under their coats. Pete moved down to the end of the bar where his shotgun was hidden, then made a show of polishing his shot glasses while he watched the two out of the corner of his eye. When one of the men reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, studying it intently while whispering to his companion, Pete motioned for his son. “Boy,” he said, “run on down to the sheriff’s office and tell Aaron it might be best if he was to come up here. Hurry now.” The boy nodded and disappeared out the back door.
Tom, still intent on finishing the boiled beans on his plate, was unaware of the two men until they were suddenly standing right in front of him. In that instant, he became fully alert to the danger facing him. He was familiar with the sensation now, a cold dead feeling that penetrated his bowels and seemed to set his spine tingling. The first time it happened, and maybe the second, he thought it to be cold fear. But he had learned to identify it as a signal to his nervous system to ready his mind and body to fight for his life.
With no outward sign of concern, he slowly placed the knife and fork on his plate and slid it a few inches away from him. He said not a word, but his eyes never blinked as he measured the two men confronting him. He slowly withdrew his hands from the table and placed them in his lap. His rifle, propped against the wall, had not escaped the notice of the pair. Both men had unbuttoned their coats and pushed them aside to reveal holstered six-shooters. Their reluctance to draw their weapons in the crowded saloon before making sure they had the right man was about the only advantage in Tom’s favor. Judging from their glances at the rifle against the wall then back again at him, Tom figured they were pretty sure they could draw their pistols before he could reach for his rifle and cock it. He had to agree. His options were bleak. He just sat and waited.
“What you callin’ yourself these days? Dakota or Allred?” one of them asked. He appeared to be older than his partner. Tom figured them to be brothers, and the one who spoke looked like he was accustomed to doing the talking. He was rawboned and grizzled and sure of himself. The younger one, though apparently carved from the same pine knot as his brother, seemed nervous and edgy, glancing from side to side at the other patrons of the saloon.
“Mister, what I call myself is my business.” He met the man’s glare with a steady gaze. “What’s on your mind?”
“Ha!” he snorted. “I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. I got a wanted poster on you right here in my pocket, and I reckon I’m hoping you make a try at that there rifle so’s I can put a bullet right between your eyes. That’s what’s on my mind. What you say to that?” He glanced briefly in his brother’s direction, a smirk painted on his face.
Tom’s expression remained the same, showing no sign of being overly concerned. He studied the man before him and then the younger one behind him for a moment before answering. “I say that would be a damn fool thing to try with a pistol aimed right at your balls.”
This sobered the expression on the man’s face momentarily as he considered Tom’s reply. Then the smirk returned to his face. “Is that so? You ’spect me to believe you got a gun under the table?” The smirk spread into a wide smile. Without taking his eyes off Tom, his hand resting on the handle of his holstered pistol, he commented to his brother, “Says he’s holding a gun on me under the table. What you think, Quincy? Think he’s got a gun under there? Or maybe he might be thinkin’ he can buffalo us.”
Quincy scoffed, “He’s lyin’. He ain’t got no gun.” With that, he pulled one of his pistols from the holster and leveled it at Tom. With the appearance of the drawn pistol, the other customers in the saloon immediately backed away, giving them plenty of room. A couple of the less stouthearted patrons bolted for the door. Pete edged over toward the shotgun under the bar.
The older brother grinned openly now. “You know what, Mr. Dakota? I think Quincy’s right. I think you ain’t got no gun under there.” He slowly drew his pistol from the holster. “Watch him, Quincy.”
“This is all the warning I’m going to give you,” Tom stated with a fatal calmness in his voice. “You and your brother put those weapons away and get out of here.”
“Ain’t he the feisty one, Quincy?” His smile stretched even wider. “You’re bluffing. If you got a gun under there, then let’s see it.” When Tom did not respond to his challenge, he said, “I thought so.” He slowly bent down to look under the table, his eyes locked on Tom’s until his face was level with the table. “Watch him, Quincy,” he warned before letting his gaze drop beneath the tabletop.
The explosion of the pistol sounded as loud as a cannon in the crowded confines of the saloon, startling everyone there as if the whole room had blown up. The bounty hunter’s face could not have been more than a foot from the muzzle when the bullet knocked a hole right through his forehead. It was followed a split second later by another shot from the doorway that dropped Quincy where he stood, his gun still leveled at Tom.
Tom, expecting a shot from Quincy as soon as he pulled the trigger, kicked the table over and rolled on the floor behind it. He thought at first that Quincy had fired the second shot, and he stared in amazement as the younger of the bounty hunters slumped to the floor, dead. Tom whirled around, ready to return the fire, only to find himself aiming at Will Proctor standing in the doorway. They froze, their pistols aimed at each other. Then Will suddenly grinned and let his gun hand drop to his side.
“I reckon it’s a dang good thing I was in the office when Jimmy here come running in,” Will said, replacing his gun in his holster. “Aaron’s out to his ranch, be there all week. Looks like I got here just in time.”
Tom relaxed. “Looks like you did.” He stuck his pistol in his belt and slowly got to his feet. “I’m damn glad you did, too. I wasn’t real sure I could get the other one before he got me.” He instinctively reached for his rifle, feeling more comfortable with it in his hand.
Will walked over to look at the two bodies sprawled on the floor in grotesque fashion. He rolled the younger one over with his foot, revealing the pool of blood that had gathered under the man’s chest. Satisfied that no spark of life remained, he then looked at the older brother. The bounty hunter wore a look of horrified surprise, an expression no doubt affixed no more than an instant before his death. His face was covered with a gray powder burn spreading from the ugly black hole in his forehead. “I reckon you broke him from peeping under tables,” Will said.
By this time, the customers who had fled when the shooting started were crowding back into the saloon, along with a few other curious spectators. Will was about to send Jimmy for Doc Brewster, who was also the town’s undertaker, but Doc walked in at that moment, having heard the gunfire. Doc paused to scratch his scraggly chin whiskers thoughtfully as he glanced from one corpse to the other, which was the extent of his examination of the bodies. “Well, gentlemen, I suppose this will delay the poker game for a bit.” He asked a couple of the spectators to help carry the bodies out.
Will turned to Tom. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”
As they stood at the bar, Tom tossed his whiskey down quickly and watched for a moment while Jimmy went to work on the bloodstained floor with a scrub brush and a pan of water. After a moment, he turned back to Will Proctor and asked, “Are you gonna be in any trouble over this?”
“With Aaron? Naw. Hell, everybody saw it. I couldn’t just stand there and let him shoot you. Besides, Aaron don’t care much for bounty hunters coming in town here and taking the law in their own hands.” He gave Tom a pat on the shoulder. “Anybody here would say you shore as hell didn’t start it.”
“I guess you’re right. I appreciate what you did. I just wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble for saving my bacon.” Now that it was over, Tom began to reflect on the circumstances that had resulted in yet another notch on his kill stick. This, he supposed, would further complicate his life, adding more to his already too-infamous reputation, no doubt sending more bounty hunters his way. When he glanced around him at the curious patrons of The Miner’s, he noticed that the respectable distance they had always maintained was now even wider. They stared openly at him as if gawking at an animal in a zoo, looking away the moment his gaze met theirs. He didn’t like the portrait they had painted of him. Once again it was time to move on.
* * *
It was a gray, cheerless morning. The sun seemed to have abandoned the town entirely, having not shown its face for more than a week. Tom had thought to wait for good weather, but he decided it would never come and besides, he felt he had worn out his welcome in Bozeman. Though Will was friendly enough, Aaron Crutchfield made it plain that Tom’s presence there was not exactly comforting to the townfolk, and this was before the shooting. He wasn’t likely to be overjoyed when he heard the latest news. Tom figured it best to leave right away, before Aaron came back. So, on this cold and cloudy morning, he tied Billy and his two packhorses up in front of Clay’s Store and went in to say good-bye to Jubal.
Jubal truly hated to see him go, but he understood why he felt he had to leave. Tom expressed his desire to say farewell to Ruby, and Jubal encouraged him to do so. Tom said he would swing by Carlton Clay’s farm on his way. Not wanting to prolong the departure, he quickly shook Jubal’s hand and wished him well. Jubal watched from the door as Tom wheeled Billy and rode out of town.
It was about an hour’s ride to the farm, but it was still the middle of the morning when he turned into the narrow path that led to the house. Carlton Clay had built himself a cozy little log house atop a grassy knoll. There were no trees around the house, making it easier to defend in case of attack by hostiles, a feature that Tom figured to be of prime importance a couple of years back. Now, the threat of Indian trouble had diminished to the point where it had become a rarity this close to town. He could already feel a chill down in his bones from the short time he had spent in the saddle, and the sight of the stone chimney, with its thin ribbon of smoke cheerfully reaching up toward the gray clouds, was a mighty welcome sight. He admonished himself for getting soft, sitting around in a saloon in town. He would have to get used to the bitter cold again.
The door of the log house opened as he crossed the yard, and Ruby Clay stood in the doorway. She watched him as he pulled Billy up and dismounted stiffly. Not until he tied his horses did she speak.
“Well, good morning.” She glanced toward the pack animals, then back at him. “Looks like you’re getting ready to light out for somewhere.”
“Morning, Ruby. Yeah, I guess it’s time for me to move on.”
“It’s kind of a bad time of year to go traveling, ain’t it?”
He laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is. Believe me, if I thought I had a choice, I’d wait till spring.”
He was beginning to wonder if she was going to keep him standing out in the cold when Charlotte Clay, Ruby’s aunt, looked over Ruby’s shoulder and greeted him. “I bet you could use a good hot cup of coffee. Ruby, are you gonna ask him in or make him stand out there all day?”
Ruby blushed. “I’m sorry, Tom. Come on in.” She stood aside to let him pass. “You want a biscuit? There’s some left from breakfast.” The sight of his horses all packed up and obviously ready to travel had caused her to forget her manners for a moment. She had been here at her uncle’s house for almost two weeks, and she wondered when, if ever, Tom Allred was going to show up for a visit. Now when he did, it was apparent it was just to say good-bye.
Charlotte poured coffee from a large gray pot that sat on the back corner of the stove and placed the cup on the table next to a plate of biscuits. It had been a long time since he had had the opportunity to eat a biscuit baked by a woman who knew how to bake biscuits, and even longer since he had been served coffee in a china cup. Charlotte, pleased by the obvious enthusiasm he showed for this simple fare, stood watching him eat, her hands on her hips, ready to fill his cup again if necessary. Ruby poured herself a cup and sat down opposite him at the table.
When Tom had finished the second of the two biscuits he had taken from the plate, Ruby broke the silence. “So, you’re moving on again. Where are you heading to?” She attempted to make her voice as casual as possible.
“I don’t know for sure, west I guess, Flathead country maybe.” She made no comment, but the look in her eyes searched for an explanation. “I reckon Jubal told you about the trouble last night.”
“He said you shot a man.”
Although it was a simple statement with no apparent condemnation, he felt the need to defend his actions. “I didn’t have any choice. He was gonna kill me as sure as I’m sitting here now.” He searched her eyes for understanding.
“I know. Pa told me. He said Will Proctor shot the other man, so I don’t see how anybody’d blame you for it.”
“He didn’t give me any choice,” he repeated.
“Then what are you running for?” she asked.
He had to think for a moment before answering. “I don’t know, to avoid more trouble, I reckon. It seems like it has a way of finding me.”
“Tom,” she implored, impatient with him now, “it wasn’t your fault, no more than it was with that soldier in Pa’s store.”
“Huh,” he responded, the irony of her remark etched in his tone. “That’s true. It wasn’t my fault. But it sure landed my name on a wanted poster.” He shook his head when Charlotte Clay started toward him with the coffeepot. “No thank you, ma’am, I’ve had plenty.” Turning back to Ruby, the fire still in his eyes, he continued, “That fellow last night won’t be the last one. There’ll be another one, and another one. I don’t know how much I’m worth now, but you can be sure the ante’ll keep going up every time something like last night happens.”
She shook her head, exasperated with him. “You’ve got to stop running sometime. Maybe, if you settle down around here, Aaron Crutchfield might help you get your good name back.”
“Ruby,” he replied impatiently, “Crutchfield already gave me two weeks to get out of town and that was before last night! He’ll probably want to put me in jail now!” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’ve got to find someplace where I can get a new start, where nobody knows me. Hell, I’m probably putting a noose around my neck now for sitting here when I ought to be riding.” He looked into her eyes, searching for understanding, wanting her to see what he could not yet bring himself to say. “I just didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye to you.”
Charlotte Clay was still standing at the corner of the table, listening to the conversation between the two young people. It took but a moment more, as they sat in silence, gazing into each other’s eyes, for Charlotte to realize there was something stronger than mere friendship smoldering between the two, and she at once felt her intrusion there. “Well, I’ve got chores I’m getting behind on.” Pulling a heavy coat down from a peg by the door, she said, “I’m going out to the barn to see to the chickens.”
They sat for what seemed a long time after the door closed behind Charlotte, still looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Finally, Tom broke the silence. “Ruby, I don’t know what to say. I just wanted to see you again before I left.”
“I know,” she whispered. Her eyes softened. Then, as if she realized she had shown a weakness, she laughed and added, “You better know you couldn’t leave without saying good-bye.”
Her attempt to lighten the situation was lost on him. He already felt the pain of having to ride out of her life again, especially now, when he had all but admitted to himself that his feelings for her ran a lot deeper than he thought sensible. He got up from his chair. “I guess I better get going.” He paused. It was hard for him to say it. “I mean to tell you what I wanted to say Christmas when you brought my supper up on the hill. What I mean to say, I guess, is that I think about you a lot. Hell, I guess I think about you all the time.” She started to reply, but he stopped her, holding up his hand. “Wait. For God’s sake, let me finish. It took me long enough to get up the courage to say it. What I want to say is, if I wasn’t in the trouble I’m in, I’d be asking you to marry me.” Again, before she could respond, he quickly added, “You’d probably say no, but at least you know how I feel about you.”
She stood up and faced him. “Maybe not,” she said, her eyes softening again. She took both his hands in hers. “Tom Allred, you know damn well I’ve loved you since you first set foot in Ruby’s Choice, half-froze to death.” That said, she reached up to put her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to meet her lips.
Her kiss was like fire to him, not hot and burning, but warm and soft like the flames on a warm hearth, and he could feel the loving gentleness of her passion. The sensation caused his brain to whirl. He drew her up tightly against him, feeling the softness of her body on his. In that instant, all impressions he had had about the girl, her flippant and cocky manner, her bold and callous attitude, all of it was swept away. At this moment, she was everything he could ever want. He had never known a moment like this, and his only thought was that he never wanted it to end. He kissed her hard and long. She eagerly returned his passion, pressing her body even more tightly against his until suddenly she broke away from his embrace.
“We better not go too far,” she whispered breathlessly. “Aunt Charlotte may be back any minute.”
He felt desperate. “Dammit, Ruby, I don’t know what to say to you. You know I love you and I want to marry you, but I don’t have the right to ask you to go with me. I can’t stay here. You see that, don’t you?”
She took his hands in hers. There was a sadness in her eyes as she spoke. “I know that. I know you have to run. And I love you, Tom, but I can’t go running off into the wilderness with you. I just can’t. I’m not some squaw that can follow you everywhere, from camp to camp.” She dropped her gaze from his and looked down at her feet. “I reckon the Good Lord has His reasons for things happening the way they do. I know you’re a good man, but you’re an outlaw, and, even though it ain’t your fault, they’ll still be coming after you until you’ve found a place to hide…or you’re dead. And I don’t want to be around when that happens. I couldn’t stand it. I won’t stand it. I’d rather not know about it.” She hesitated a moment, then reached up quickly and kissed him once more before she broke away from him. “Go on now, run, before I start crying.”
His helplessness was paralyzing. “Ruby—” he started, but she placed her fingers over his mouth, silencing him.
“Don’t say anything, Tom. Just go. It won’t work for us. For God’s sake, go!” She opened the door and pushed him toward it.
His heart felt like a lead weight as he slowly placed his foot in the stirrup and stepped up into the saddle. Billy immediately backed away from the hitching post. Tom could only gaze forlornly at her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured softly. She could not look at him and, closing the door, left him alone in his despair. He turned Billy and rode out of the farmyard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlotte Clay standing in the doorway of the barn, watching him as he rode away. He pretended not to notice her, ashamed for her to see the tears in his eyes.
* * *
Charlotte put down the bucket of chicken feed she had been carrying and closed the barn door. If she knew anything about young girls, she was sure Ruby needed someone to talk to right about then. Ruby was a cheerful and hardworking girl. There wasn’t much that could serve to dampen her mood. But Charlotte had sized up the situation as soon as Tom Allred walked into the house. Ruby was not the type to share her intimate thoughts with her aunt, but Charlotte would have to be blind not to see the fire burning between Ruby and Tom. Judging from the look on Tom’s face when he left, she decided she had better give Ruby a few minutes more alone, in case she needed time to regain her composure.
When she felt enough time had elapsed, she started back across the yard toward the house. She had almost reached the door when she heard hoofbeats on the road up to the house. Thinking that Tom had decided to come back, she waited, looking down the road until she caught sight of the rider approaching. As soon as he came into view, she could see that it wasn’t Tom after all. It was a single horse. Curious as to who might be their second caller in a single day, she waited outside the house, watching the rider. When he was close enough, she recognized Will Proctor.
“Well, Will, what brings you out this way?”
“Morning, Miz Clay,” he called out cheerfully.
“There might be a little bit of coffee left in the pot,” she offered.
“Oh, no, ma’am, thank you, ma’am. I’m kinda in a hurry.”
“Oh? Well, what can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Dakota—I mean Tom Allred. Mr. Clay said he might be headin’ this way. I borrowed ten dollars off him, and I’m afraid he might be leavin’ before I pay him back. Did he pass this way?”
“Why, yes, he did. You just missed him as a matter of fact. Couldn’t be gone more than a half hour or so.”
“He didn’t happen to mention which way he was headin’, did he?”
“Well, no, he didn’t say. I was in the barn when he left, but I noticed he headed west, toward the pass I would guess.”
“Much obliged, Miz Clay.” He wheeled his horse and galloped out of the yard.
* * *
Tom let the horses drink from the tiny stream that made its way around the rocks and down the slope toward the valley. While they drank, he dismounted and walked to the top of the hill. He stood there for a while, studying his backtrail. Maybe it was just a routine precaution, or maybe something just told him to watch his back. Whatever prompted him, it turned out to be justified, for on the horizon some three or four miles back, a lone rider was coming on at a fast pace. Could be he was tracking him. Or it could be that he was just in a hurry to get where he was going, and just happened to be going the same direction Tom was. There was nothing so unusual about that. If a man was heading west, as Tom was, the easiest route was to cut through the pass and then traverse this low ridge to the valley on the other side. Still, he thought, that rider is pushing his horse pretty hard, like he was trying to catch up with someone. Since he was the only rider on the trail, Tom decided it might be a good idea to find out if he was being trailed.
He went back to the horses, mounted, and rode out across the ridge. Once he had traversed the low ridge and reached the valley, he changed his direction, heading on a more southerly course. He rode on for another mile or so, climbing up into the low hills again, until he came to a good place to stop and again watch his backtrail. From the cover of the trees growing on the small knoll, he could see almost back to the stream where he had changed directions. It wasn’t long before his suspicions were confirmed. The rider stopped, studied his tracks, then turned south and followed Tom’s trail.
He quickly tied the horses off in a deep gully and, pulling his rifle from the saddle boot, ran back up the trail to a large rock outcropping that gave him a good defensive position to check out his pursuer. He lay on his belly and waited. His wait was not long. The rider soon came into view. They saw each other at the same time. Tom rose to one knee, his rifle leveled at the rider. The rider abruptly reined to a stop, his horse’s hooves plowing up snow and dirt.
“Tom! Hold it!” he called out, fighting to control his horse, which had been spooked by the sudden appearance of the man before him. “It’s me! Will Proctor!”
Tom released the hammer on his rifle and stood up. “Will, what the hell are you doing out here?”
Now that his horse was quieted some and under control, Will smiled and dismounted. “Trying to catch up with you,” he said.
Tom was still cautious. “Sheriff’s business?”
Will flashed his smile again. “Naw, hell no,” he was quick to reassure. “You don’t see no badge, do you? I quit this morning.”
“Quit? What for?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m sick of being a lawman. Time I was moving on.”
Tom made no attempt to hide his opinion on the matter. “Damn, Will, I don’t know if that was a smart thing to do or not. Looked to me like you had it pretty nice there, working for Aaron. What the hell else are you going to do that’s any better?” He slid down from the rock he had been lying on. “It might have been a better idea to at least wait until spring.”
“Maybe, but I figured to catch up with you. I didn’t know you was plannin’ on leavin’ town today.”
Tom was puzzled. “Why did you want to catch up with me?”
Will shrugged. “Hell, I thought maybe you and me could be partners, do some trapping, pan for gold…something.”
Tom found it difficult to believe what he was hearing. Will Proctor was too lazy to root hard for anything, and here he was talking like a schoolboy about panning for gold and trapping. Will was young, but this talk was too naive, even for him. He didn’t want to tell him how dumb he sounded. After all, the man had saved his life. If Will hadn’t been there, who knows whether Tom would have been fast enough to get both bounty hunters. It was probably a fifty-fifty proposition at best. Also, Will had made it a point to befriend him while most of the townspeople avoided him. He couldn’t forget that. Will’s proposal to join up with him seemed even more naive when Tom noticed that all he brought with him was his horse and a saddle roll. If he was planning to start out on a new life, he sure as hell didn’t come very well outfitted.
“Will, I appreciate that you want to go with me, but take my advice—go on back to town. Tell Aaron you made a mistake. He’ll understand. You don’t want to team up with me. Hell, I don’t know myself how I’m going to get by. Nobody’s found any gold around here in a year and trapping’s dead—has been for a long time. Believe me, if I had a situation like yours, I’d sure as hell stick with it. Take my word for it, it gets mighty miserable making camp in the snow.”
Will stood there looking at him for a long time before answering. He seemed uncertain about what he wanted to say. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I oughtn’t to go with you.” He smiled and shrugged. “Well, anyway, have you got any coffee? Maybe we could make a little coffee before I go back. I didn’t have no breakfast this morning, and it’s a long ride back.”
Tom hesitated. “Coffee? Well, yeah. I guess we could build a fire and make some coffee. I hadn’t planned to stop to eat till I made camp tonight, but I guess I could.” He was somewhat taken aback by the request. It seemed like a rather strange thing for Will to ask. A germ of suspicion began to grow in Tom’s mind. Will was acting mighty peculiar. A moment ago he was hellbent to set out with him to God knows where. Then one word from Tom, and he was ready to change his mind completely. Suddenly the whole scene didn’t sit well with Tom.
“Where’s your horses?”
“Back down in that gully,” Tom answered.
“Well, lead the way to that coffee. My bones are cold.” His tone was a mite too cheerful.
Tom didn’t say anything and started down through the trees. He carried his rifle casually, but something inside warned him to be on his toes. There was already a round in the chamber, and as he made his way down the slope toward the gully, he quietly cocked the hammer back. Will followed behind him, leading his horse, keeping up a steady stream of idle chatter.
They had scarcely covered twenty yards when Tom heard the distinct click of the hammer behind him. He didn’t wait for the next sound. He suddenly dropped to the ground, whirling as he did so. The roar of the rifle startled him, it happened so fast. Tom had pulled the trigger without even knowing he was doing it. Will was already doubled over from the first slug that caught him in the gut before Tom could remember clearly seeing the drawn pistol in his hand. From simple reflex, Will fired two shots into the ground beside him, his gun hand hanging harmlessly at his side. In less than a second, Tom pumped two more slugs into Will, who was already mortally wounded and sliding to the ground. His horse, panicked by the explosion of gunfire, bolted, dragging Will a few feet before the dying man released his hold on the reins.
Tom lay on the ground for a few moments. He was stunned. Will Proctor was lying a few yards from him. His initial thought, beyond disbelief that it had actually happened, was that he was thankful there was a gun in Will’s hand when he turned. Otherwise, it would have been murder, pure and simple, for Tom had reacted so fast to the sound of the hammer cocking that he actually shot Will before he had time to make sure he was holding a gun. For a moment he was overcome with remorse for having killed the young deputy. This was quickly replaced by anger. Suddenly he was aware of Will’s groaning, and he crawled over to the dying man.
Will’s eyes were open, though it appeared they were not focusing. They rolled from side to side as if searching for something. Then they stopped moving and he squinted in obvious pain. “Oh, God, it burns!” He clutched Tom’s arm, his grip like a vise, as he fought against the pain. Then he relaxed a bit, his eyes now clear. “Damn, Dakota, you’re as fast with that damn rifle as they said you was.”
“Jesus, Will, why did you try it?” He knew the answer, but he still found it hard to believe.
Will forced a smile, although it was obvious it required great effort. “I’m sorry, Tom. Honest to God, I wish I hadn’t done it.” His speech was becoming more and more difficult, his breath coming now in short gasps. Tom tried to hold his head up when it seemed his lungs were filling with blood. A large patch of blood spread across the front of his coat. “The money,” he gasped. “The money, I wanted the money. Nuthin’ against you, Tom. I swear…”
Tom tried to move him to ease the pain, to get him in a position that might make his breathing easier. “Dammit, Will, I didn’t want to do this to you. You gave me no choice. I had to do it!”
“I know, I know!” he whispered, his eyes closed tightly against the pain. “I ought’na tried it.” He clutched Tom’s arm tighter, almost squeezing off the blood flow. “Tom, don’t leave me out here for the wolves. Please Tom…”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Tom tried to reassure him.
Will relaxed. “It don’t hurt so much now,” he whispered. “I think I might make it.” Tom held him while the life drained from his body. A moment later he was gone.