CHAPTER 7
Meanwhile, back at Hunter and Annabelle’s Box Bar B Ranch in the Black Hills west of Tigerville, Dakota Territory, Hunter’s father, old Angus, set a case of his homemade, coffee colored ale into the box of his supply wagon.
Not an easy task with only one arm, but Angus was a stalwart Southern soul, and he always got by. He had no complaint in him. He especially wouldn’t complain in front of his foster grandson, Nathan Jones, whom he saw was smiling admiringly up at the old man as he set his own crate of bottles into the back of the wagon.
“Why the smile, boy?” Angus asked.
“Hunter’s right about you. You got the bark on.” Nathan, a sandy-haired, freckle-faced boy of thirteen clad in denim overalls, work shirt, and stockmen’s boots, smiled up again at Angus.
Angus grinned then, too. “In this world, you got to, son.”
“Sure you don’t want me to ride into town with you, help you unload the beer?”
“Nah, you stay here and look after the place with Casey.” Angus ruffled the young man’s hair.
After the Buchanons had lost most of their men in the attack of the rogue grizzly of the previous year, they’d hired only one man—Casey McQuade, who lived alone in the bunkhouse. They were too short of scratch, as Angus would call the money needed to pay such men. So Hunter, Annabelle, Nathan, and Angus had to do the work of ten, which meant long days. Angus fortified their income by selling his ale in town to saloons.
“You know where my extra shotgun is,” Angus said. “Inside by the front door.” He glanced at the sprawling log ranch house standing amidst pines and painted by the early morning sun. “Any owlhoots show up stirrin’ up trouble, you know what to do and so does Casey.”
“We do.”
“All right, then.” Angus clambered into the wagon, grunting with the effort. The graybeard pinched his battered brown Stetson at the boy, released the brake, and swung the wagon out away from his brewing shed, the area around it rife with the smell of wort and hops. He whipped up the roan in the traces and rolled on out of the yard and into a deep valley hemmed in by high, pine-carpeted ridges.
It was a beautiful morning with birds piping and squirrels chittering in the pine boughs. The sky was a clear, faultless blue, and the sun glistened off the pine needles. The air was spiced with the heady, gin-like aroma of the pine resin. Angus was stove up with arthritis, but he was still alive, gallblastit, and he was going to enjoy the day, maybe even have a beer with Bill Wheatly in the Sundown Saloon. As the wagon rolled along, he found himself humming and sometimes even singing songs his Mam and Pappy had taught him when he’d been just a younker down in Georgia, in the peaceful years before the war during which he’d lost his arm.
He’d ridden a few miles when three riders appeared ahead of him, rounding a bend in the trail. Angus was instantly suspicious, for owlhoots roamed these hills, on the run from the law or looking to long loop a few cattle and sell them to outlaw ranchers. He shoved his foot back under the wagon seat where his double-barrel resided, making sure it was there. These men were gun-hung, he saw as they approached, so he wouldn’t have much time to bring up the twelve-gauge if they made trouble, but he’d do his best, by God.
“Hello, old-timer,” said one of the men as they rode on by him. “Lovely morning, eh?”
“That it is, that it is,” Angus said rotely, and was happy to continue unharassed toward town.
These three had rough faces, mustached or bearded, but they were otherwise well set up in suits and string or foulard ties—tall men, all three. They sat their horses well.
“Hmm,” Angus said as they continued up the trail. He wondered where they were going. There wasn’t much out here except the Box Bar B and a few mine diggings. There was one large mine, the Lady Dancer, so maybe they were ore guards. Yeah, that was probably it.
Ore guards.
He rode on into Tigerville and negotiated his way through the horse and wagon traffic and pulled the wagon up to the Sundown Saloon. He bid good day to several folks he knew as he climbed down from the wagon. As he did, two rough-looking young men in trail garb who’d been standing out front of the saloon, leaning against awning support posts and chinning, stepped off the boardwalk and came over.
“Hey, Buchanon, you old rebel,” the taller of the two said. He was seedy featured and bucktoothed, with a six-shooter thonged low on his thigh clad in baggy, faded denim trousers. “Why don’t you give us a couple of your beers? We’re plum out of jingle, Roy an’ me, and the day is still young.”
Judging by the glitter in their eyes, they’d likely been drinking all night. And doing a few other things, to boot.
Angus recognized the young man who’d spoken as a bottom-feeding near-do-well, Eddie Price. His friend was Roy Shannon—shorter and bearded. They were card cheats, known rustlers, and hay thieves. Shannon had been in jail for beating a doxie.
“Get away from here,” Angus said. “I don’t have the time of day for you two.”
As he reached into the wagon bed to remove one of the beer crates, Eddie Price shouldered him aside. “Here, let me help you with that, you old devil.” He and Shannon both chuckled.
Angus cursed and pulled his shotgun out from under the wagon seat, aiming and cocking rather adeptly for a one-armed man. “You set that crate back in the box, Price, or you’ll have so much buck in you you’ll rattle when you walk!”
“I was only tryin’ to help,” Price said, indignant.
“Set it back in the box. I know what you’re tryin’ to do. You’re tryin’ to steal my beer!”
Shannon stepped forward. “Put that shotgun down, you old rebel dog!”
“I’ll put it down when your ugly friend here returns my beer to the wagon!”
Price and Shannon shared a look. Then Shannon cursed and returned the crate to the wagon.
“Now get the hell out of here,” Angus ordered. “Bottom feeders!”
Both men held up their hands, palm out, and backed up slowly. “Man, you got a temper on you—don’t you, Buchanon?”
“When it come to my family and my beer, yes I do. Not necessarily in that order.”
Angus uncocked the shotgun and had just started to return it the wagon when he saw a shadow slide up beside him. Price grabbed him by the back of his collar. Angus pulled the barn blaster back out, swung around, and drove the barrel deep in the firebrand’s solar plexus.
Price screamed and folded, dropping to his knees.
Shannon drew his six-shooter and Angus planted the twelve-gauge on him, grinning. “You want some o’ this, Shannon? Open wide, you son of a bitch!”
Shannon looked at the big maws aimed at his belly and his dark-brown eyes grew darker. He raised his gloved left-hand palm out. “Now, now . . .” He returned his shooter to its holster. He glared at Angus then reached down to help his partner to his feet. “Come on, Eddie. Let’s head back to camp. There’s no dealin’ with this grayback scalawag.”
“You got that right,” Angus said.
Price glared at Angus and yelled, “You liked to have killed me!”
“You got that right, too,” Angus said.
He watched the two climb into their saddles. For Eddie Price, it was a tender maneuver. They rode off through the dust and the midmorning street traffic, casting angry looks behind them.
Angus returned his gut shredder to the wagon, then reached for a crate of beer, muttering epithets. He’d no sooner got the crate raised once more when a voice said behind him, “Are you Angus Buchanon?”
Angus sighed and turned around, cradling the case against him with his one arm. He was surprised to see the three well set-up men he’d seen on the trail to town. The man who appeared the leader was tall and broad-shouldered. He had blue eyes and a thick, black mustache. He was dressed almost entirely in black. The one to his right was short and fair-skinned, sandy hair curling down from his cream hat to the collar of his frock coat. The other man was thick, stocky, with a big fleshy face and a red beard. Wearing a fancy paisley shirt and red string tie under his black frock coat, he leaned forward against his saddle horn, regarding Angus with a vague amusement in his amber eyes.
Angus said, “Who the hell wants to know?”
“I’m Bryce Jackson,” the lead rider said, then introduced the man with the longish sandy hair and the beefy gent as Leech Davis and Dutch McCrae, respectively. “We’re Pinkerton agents on the trail of a pair of cutthroats and a girl who robbed a train a few days back, down near Denver. They were seen in this area, and we think they’re headed to a cabin they’ve been known to hole up in till their trail cools. The cabin’s up near Ghost Mountain. Now, we know where the mountain is on the map, but we don’t know how to get to it. We’re looking for a guide. In Deadwood, we were told you know as much about these hills as anyone and you’ve guided before. You and your sons.”
“I only have one son left and he’s down in Denver selling horses.”
“Well, damn the luck.” Jackson pulled his mouth corners down in disappointment, then exchanged glances with the other two Pinkertons before turning back to Angus. “We’d still like you to do it.”
Angus laughed as he started hauling the beer crate up on the boardwalk fronting the saloon. “You three are crazier’n a tree full of owls. I’m a stove-up old scudder with just one arm!”
He laughed again, then pushed through the batwings.
When he came out a couple minutes later, they were still there.
Jackson leaned forward against his saddle horn. He gave Angus a direct look. “We want you to do it, Buchanon. Rest assured, you’ll be well paid for your time and trouble.”
* * *
That night in the Buchanon lodge at the Bar Box B, Angus couldn’t sleep.
He went downstairs, brewed a pot of coffee, poured himself a cup, and sat at the long, oilcloth-covered table in the kitchen, sipping the coffee to which he added a liberal jigger of skull pop, and smoked a cigarette. Annabelle would read to him from the book when she and Hunter returned and smelled the smoke; she strictly forbade smoking in the house.
Angus smiled at the young woman’s spirit. But he felt like smoking tonight, by God, so he would; it helped him think. Besides, he was the founder of the Box Bar B in the years after the war, his own self and his three sons. He’d endure Annabelle’s wrath later.
He was in a quandary.
He kept thinking about the steep, mysterious, forested slopes up around Ghost Mountain. He and Hunter and his other two sons—Shep and Tyrell—used to hunt that wild country for elk, staying out for sometimes a week at a time. Those were the days! When he was younger and could sit a horse for more than a few hours without growing cankers.
Could he now?
No. He was old.
But he hadn’t yet made his decision.
Dammit, he was confounded. He hadn’t been able to tell the Pinkertons no or yes. He’d told them he’d think about it overnight and they could ride out and get his answer. He’d made no promises, but he was leaning against it now. At his age, the ride would likely kill him.
But ah, the hunt!
He sipped his coffee and set the cup down, frowning.
He’d heard something.
He rose from the table, moved to the door, and stepped out on the broad front porch.
He stood there, frowning out into the darkness.
Then it came again—the long, mournful bugle of an elk on one of the ridges between the Box Bar B and Ghost Mountain, recalling the memories of those storied hunts once more, when they were all together again.
Abruptly, he turned and went back inside and yelled up the stairs: “Nathan, get yourself up an’ dressed an’ help me pack. We’re takin’ to the trail tomorrow bright and early!”