Left Hand of the Law

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Harvey Green asked when he glanced up to see the two strangers in his doorway. He didn’t see a lot of new customers in his little store on the south edge of Wichita, and these two weren’t typical of the folks who traded with him for seed, flour, tools, and the like. Taking a closer look, he decided they were either outlaws or lawmen, hard-looking men, one of them big, and the other one bigger.

“Is that a fact?” Harvey responded. “I told my wife that man had a downright mean look about him. He talked nice enough, though. Didn’t cause no trouble. Just bought his coffee and left.” He paused to shake his head as he thought about it. “Murdered a deputy . . . Well, I’ll be . . .”

“No, but he said he was lookin’ to hire on with a trail outfit. I told him there wasn’t much goin’ on in Wichita no more, told him most of the herds were goin’ to Dodge City. He didn’t say he was goin’ to head for Dodge, but I think he was thinkin’ on it.”

Eager to help, Harvey led them out the door to the front yard. “Yonder,” he said, pointing toward a gully that led down to a creek. “He crossed the creek between them willows, climbed up the bank, and followed the sun toward that line of ridges.”

Barrett shook his head as he climbed up in the saddle. Ike lingered, however. “I need somethin’,” he told Harvey. He reached in a pocket of his saddlebag and produced a couple of coins. “Lemme have two of them peppermint sticks on the counter back there.” Harvey hurried to fetch the penny candy, and with one in his saddlebags for later, and the other jammed in his mouth like a cigar, Ike followed Barrett to the creek.

When he caught up to him, Barrett was already out of the saddle, squatting on his heels while he studied the creek bank for hoofprints. “Take a look at this, Ike,” he said without looking around, his finger tracing the outline of a print. “I’ll bet you a month’s pay that wide hoof is that buckskin he’s ridin’.”

“Maybe so,” Ike allowed, already thinking it was probably Cutler’s horse because of the simple fact that they were the only set of prints leading down between the two willow trees that the store owner indicated. Both men got back on their horses then, crossed the creek, and followed the tracks up the other bank, stopping at the top to gaze out in the direction the hoofprints were leading. “I’d say he drew a bead on that notch in that ridge yonder,” Ike said. With Barrett in agreement, they set their course for the same notch.

At least two days old, the tracks were faint, but still in evidence, as the two marshals arrived at the notch, although they were forced to search in a wide circle at the top of the ridge before Barrett’s sharp eye found a partial print in the grassy plain. “I say we oughta stay on the same line we’ve been ridin’ on,” Barrett said. “He ain’t geed or hawed from this line since we left that store back yonder.” Ike agreed, so they picked a spot to guide on atop another low ridge in the distance and continued on.

It was late in the day when they crossed over the ridge and surprised a flock of buzzards dining upon two carcasses. Squawking and screeching, the greedy birds protested the intrusion of the two law officers, refusing to leave their banquet until Ike took out his rifle and shot one of them. Only then did the defiant diners back away long enough for Barrett and Ike to identify the main course as the remains of two Indians. “Wonder if our boy had anythin’ to do with this,” Ike said. “Judging by what’s left of them bodies, I’d say they were probably killed about the time Cutler would have been this far.” Leaving the buzzards to return to their task of tidying up the prairie, they rode on up to the bank of a stream some fifty yards farther, where they found the remains of a campfire. “Looks like this is where he camped. I reckon the Injuns tried to jump him and he picked them two off.”

“He’s hooked up with somebody,” Barrett called from the line of cottonwoods by the stream. “There were a couple of horses tied here in the trees, judging by these turds. Maybe it was some other feller’s camp and Cutler just happened on it.” This new finding served to complicate their job, for now it was necessary to determine if Cutler actually joined whoever was in the camp, or if they went their separate ways. Which was Cutler and which was the other? Theirs was no choice but to scout the camp carefully, working in a big circle around the camp. Tracks of more than one horse were soon found leading off on a more northerly course. Barrett was inclined to follow that trail, but could not until they were absolutely certain there was not another trail left by the horse they had been following since Wichita. Darkness set in before he could confirm his suspicions, forcing them to wait until morning to continue the search.

“How do you know that?” Ike asked, not really caring, but merely amusing himself by watching his intense partner stew over the fact that they had not yet run Ben Cutler to ground. Personally, Ike didn’t care how long it took and, unlike Barrett, could live with it if Cutler escaped them altogether. He’d still draw his pay, win or lose. With Barrett, however, it was twisting his soul into a knot every day that Cutler remained free. Ike stirred his coffee with the remaining peppermint stick, a contented smile upon his face as he gazed at Barrett, who sat silently staring into the fire.

“Well, hell, then,” Ike joked, “why don’t we just go on ahead to wherever he’s goin’ and wait for him, instead of followin’ him all over hell and back?” Barrett’s expression told him that he was not amused. But then, Ike thought, Barrett never was.

As soon as it was light enough to scout the area carefully, they were back working the circle around the camp. There was no evidence of any other trails out of the camp save the one that led to the north. Certain then that there was no single trail continuing west, they followed the larger trail along the bank of the stream as it led through the stand of cottonwoods. They had gone no farther than a mile and a half when they came upon the ashes of a second campfire and evidence of another camp. Another party? There was no increase in the number of tracks, so they finally concluded that they had simply decided to move their camp for whatever reason. After considering all they had found the night before and the present morning, they agreed on a situation as it had probably happened. Cutler had joined another traveler, helped him kill the Indians they had found, then moved the camp before they were attacked again.

“One thing we know now,” Barrett told him, “is Cutler ain’t headin’ to Dodge City no more since the only trail outta here is headin’ north, and I was hopin’ he was. It’s gonna be a helluva lot harder to find him if he’s wanderin’ off to God knows where.” He had been quite confident that they would find their man hanging around a saloon in Dodge. “Damn the luck,” he cursed, already hating the unknown partner Cutler had just taken on. “Let’s go,” he hurled impatiently in Ike’s direction. “I want this son of a bitch.”

With a feeling of confidence that any marshals who might have been chasing him had by now given up, Ben rolled comfortably with the steady gait of the buckskin gelding. They were no more than a day’s ride from Ogallala, a town that prompted memories of his life as a drover. With Cleve leading the way ahead of him, he let his mind wander back to the days before his life was violently tossed away. A Texan by birth, he had either been a hired hand or a partner on half a dozen cattle drives of Texas longhorn cattle to cow towns of Abilene, Wichita, and Dodge until he promised Mary Ellen he would stay put in one place. He had also committed to try his hand at raising crops, but in the back of his mind there had always been a plan to start a herd of cattle. Maybe small at first, but with plenty of good grazing land, he could eventually increase the herd to a profitable business.

All the herds he had driven up from Texas had been sold in towns like Wichita, but the big cattle barons who bought them more often than not moved them to Ogallala, where the Union Pacific Railroad had built holding pens. The little town between the forks of the Platte River had become a favorite place to hold cattle. The older ones were shipped out to the markets in the East, while the younger ones were held to winter range on the abundant grass there, even though it was covered with snow for much of the winter. If his plans had not been brutally shattered, he had envisioned raising his cattle a short drive from Ogallala, the town he was about to see for the first time.

Soon after breaking camp the following morning, they began to pass through vast numbers of cattle long before sighting the outline of stores that would be Ogallala. It seemed to Ben that there were cattle everywhere as he and Cleve moved slowly through the sea of bellowing critters. Approaching the town, he was surprised to see the unimpressive size of it. The main street was no more than a block or two in length, boasting a few stores, two saloons, and a hotel. It was hard to imagine that there were such huge sums of money exchanged there. When he commented on it to Cleve, the wizened little man replied, “I don’t know about that, but I know a man can buy a drink of whiskey at the Cowboy’s Rest, and that’s what I’m thinkin’’bout now. It’s a right lively town this time of year, but if you was to ride through here in January, you’d think the whole town had died.”

Ben had been to a few cow towns before and he knew them all to be wild and lawless when the cowboys hit town after months on the trail. He expected this one to be the same. Cleve told him that was not the case with Ogallala. “Oh, I wasn’t foolin’ when I said it was lively. You can get everythin’ you want here, but Ogallala’s got law and order. It ain’t like Dodge City if Martin DePriest is still sheriff. He’ll let the drovers have their fun. Hell, he came up here from Texas himself, but if the fun starts to get outta hand, he’ll come down hard on you—him and his deputy, Joe Hughes. The last time I was here, two years ago June, ol’ DePriest run some cowboys outta town for takin’ target practice at the lamps on the undertaker’s rig. They decided they was gonna hoorah the town then to show him who was boss. When they showed up in front of the Ogallala House, DePriest was waitin’ for’em. He ain’t a tall man, short and stocky, but he’s hell in a free-for-all. He waded right in the middle of them cowboys, and it didn’t take long before those fellers from Texas decided they’d had all they wanted of Sheriff DePriest.” Cleve paused to laugh at the memory of it.

Ben wasn’t sure if that was good news for him or not. He couldn’t be certain that his description hadn’t been telegraphed all over the territory, so he would have preferred a lawless town at this particular point in his life. “Maybe I’d better lie low outside of town, in case they’re lookin’ for me up here.”

“Hell, ain’t no need for that,” Cleve insisted. “There’s so many cowboys in town, and a good many of ’em probably has scars on their faces, ain’t nobody gonna pay you no mind. Besides, we’re in Nebraska Territory now. They’re most likely just lookin’ for you in Kansas.”

Grinning, for he knew Cleve had no money, Ben said, “Why, that’s right sportin’ of you, partner, but I insist on springin’ for the drinks myself.” He knew that Cleve figured he had some money, but he wasn’t sure how much. Ben was afraid that if he told him, he might try to buy the saloon. He tilted the brim of his hat down low on his forehead and followed Cleve inside. Although it was still early in the day, the saloon was crowded from front to back with the trail hands and the soiled doves who were eager to entertain them. Those not crowded around the gaming tables were either sitting at the other tables or standing at the bar. With so much to occupy their minds, Ben began to think Cleve was right. No one was going to take the time to notice him. That was not to be the case, however.

“Damn, feller. . . ,” the bartender exclaimed when they found an empty space at the bar. He caught himself before continuing, because of the sinister appearance Ben’s scar gave him. “What’ll you have?” He quickly recovered, although still staring at Ben.

“Whiskey,” Cleve replied gleefully. “Whiskey for me and my partner.” Ben immediately wondered if he had made a mistake in coming in, but he stood silently waiting while the bartender poured. “Here’s to good times and a good partnership,” Cleve said, and tossed it back. Returning the empty glass to the bar with a flourish, he asked, “Does Bill Tucker still own this place?” When the bartender said that he did, Cleve said, “Bill told me whenever I got back in town to come in the Cowboy’s Rest and have a drink on the house.” He then looked at the bartender expectantly.

Taking a little more time to enjoy his second drink, Cleve looked around him at the noisy barroom. The riotous celebration of trail’s end obviously pleased him, judging by the wide grin on his face. At the far end of the room, a fiddler was doing his best to offer some musical entertainment, his efforts all but unnoticed in the steady clamor of boisterous laughter and the voices of the patrons, yelling to be heard above the din. To Cleve, it was the ultimate celebration of life. He looked back at Ben and smacked his hand on the bar. “Let’s have one more for the road,” he suggested gleefully. Ben nodded to the bartender.

The cowboy standing next to Cleve left the bar and a fragile-looking, gray-haired man slid in to take his place. He immediately ordered a drink, gazing at the bottle in eager anticipation as the bartender poured. Placing his money on the bar, he picked up the glass and took a moment to look at the amber liquid before bringing it to his lips. Then as he brought it up to his mouth, a rowdy young cowhand jostled him roughly, causing the whiskey to spill on the bar. The cowhand turned to see the consequences of his roughhousing and laughed when he saw the drink splashed across the counter. Looking back at his friend who had shoved him, he said, “Damn it, Travis, look what you made me do.” His complaint brought more laughter from his friends.

With no particular interest in the incident, Ben watched the reaction of the victim of the horseplay. It struck him that the willowy little man was as out of place there as any man could be, and was obviously not one of the drunken trail hands who had caused him to lose his whiskey. The accident seemed to be of no concern to the two whose rough play had caused it. The man said nothing as he stared at his empty glass, and when he turned to look at the bartender, the bartender merely shrugged his shoulders. Still the man said nothing.

Witness also to the incident, Cleve was a step ahead of Ben in interceding. He tapped the young cowboy on the shoulder. It took a couple of times before the cowboy turned to face him. “Your horsin’ around caused this feller to lose his drink.” His statement was met with a look of indifference. “You owe him a drink,” Cleve said.

The young man’s friends were suddenly silent, interested now in what he was going to do, and obviously amused by the situation. “Yeah,” one of them said, “you owe the gentleman a drink, Tom.” The injured party had still not uttered a word, and it was obvious to Ben that he never would.

The man called Tom turned back to sneer at the puddle on the counter, concerned now that his friends were waiting to see what he was going to do. “Well, hell,” he said, pointing at it, “you ain’t lost it. You just gotta lap it up off the bar.” Again, his comments brought a wave of laughter from his friends.

The little gray-haired man turned to leave, wanting no further humiliation at the hands of the cowboys. He didn’t get far before being caught by the arm and stopped in his tracks. Ben had seen enough of the senseless bullying. He pulled the man aside to stand next to Cleve, then roughly spun Tom around to face him. Having paid no attention to the silent man on the other side of Cleve, the cowboy was not prepared to confront the angry visage suddenly before him. The anger in the searing eyes seemed to set the long ugly scar ablaze, causing Tom to think that he had seen the devil in that instant. “You owe the gentleman a drink,” Ben said softly, his tone deadly calm.

His vocal cords paralyzed by a shock of cold fear that raced down his spine, young Tom was unable to speak for a few moments. His voice returned simultaneously with his common sense. “Why, I was gonna buy him a drink all along,” he stammered while digging into his pocket for his money. “We wasn’t lookin’ to cause no trouble.”

Cleve took over then. “Course you wasn’t. Just cowboys havin’ fun, and no harm come of it. I knowed you wanted to do the right thing.” He glanced at Ben, having seen for the first time that violent display of anger, and he wondered what his new partner was capable of if really enraged.

“You ain’t had your drink yet,” Cleve told him, and slid the now full shot glass before him. Looking as if he had no choice, the man quickly drank it down, turned, and headed for the door. Tom and his friends moved farther down the bar, talking quietly among themselves. “I reckon we’re done here, too,” Cleve said. “We’ll walk out with you.”

Outside, the meek little man turned and waited for them. “I want to thank you for what you did in there,” he said, extending his hand. “My name’s Jonah Marple and I guess I had no business in that saloon. I was just gonna slip in and get a drink of whiskey real quick before I went back to the wagon. My wife will be getting worried. She’s afraid to come into town as long as it’s overrun with these wild drovers from Texas.”

Jonah went on to explain the circumstances that brought him to be camping outside Ogallala. “We left Omaha a little over a month ago, my wife, our daughter, her son, and me, on a journey to join my son-in-law in Deadwood. My son-in-law, Garth Beaudry, went to the Black Hills to prospect for gold last spring. The last word we had from him was from Deadwood, and he said that he was seeing some success, and is working for the largest mine in the area. My daughter was determined to go out to join him, and we didn’t want to see her make that journey on her own. So I sold my farm, lock, stock, and barrel and went with her. We hired a man named Seth Barnhill to take us out there.”

“He took his total payment, too,” Cleve said. Again, Jonah nodded, looking quite embarrassed to admit it. “Well,” Cleve continued, “you ain’t the first that’s been took by a low-down scoundrel that preys on innocent folks. He’s most likely headed to Dodge with your money, if you’re thinkin’ about lookin’ for him.”

“Well, I’ve been talking it over with my wife and daughter. We certainly can’t stay here, but I don’t know if I could find Deadwood if I just started out over this endless prairie country. So we decided the safest thing for us is to follow the river to Fort Laramie. I’ve heard that the government cleared a road from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie, and on to Deadwood. They say it’s a stage road, and there’s a lot of traffic of all kinds on it, so I think I can follow it to Deadwood without fear of getting lost.”

“That’s one way to get there,” Cleve conceded, “and a smart way for someone who don’t know the country.” He studied the timid little man for a few moments more before asking, “How do you make your livin’, Jonah—farmin’?”

“What are the possibilities that we might go with you?” Jonah asked, quick to see an opportunity. When Cleve hesitated to answer, he pressed. “I don’t have much money left, but I can pay you and your friend to guide us, and we wouldn’t have to lose the time it would take to go to Fort Laramie before heading back north again.”

Cleve looked at Ben. It was plain to see that Ben was no more enthusiastic about such an arrangement than he. Looking back to meet the hopeful gaze of Jonah’s, he hesitated before answering, “I don’t know, Jonah. A wagon would slow us down an awful lot, and there’d be a chance we’ll run into some of them renegade Injuns that have been causin’ trouble between here and the hills. You might be a helluva lot safer goin’ the way you was plannin’ on.”

Ben could see right away that Jonah was not going to be discouraged. Like Cleve, Ben had no interest in acting as a guide to a family from Omaha. He listened as Cleve tried to point out every reason he could think of to dissuade the frail schoolteacher, but also like Cleve, Ben did not have the heart to just come out and tell the man no. He felt sympathetic toward Jonah’s predicament, and frankly felt sorry for the two women and the child who had to depend upon Jonah in the event of trouble. When Cleve turned to give Ben a helpless look, Ben simply nodded his okay.

“You said you was a teacher. I’ll guide you to Deadwood if you’ll teach me how to read and write my name. That’s my price.” An expression of pure joy captured Jonah’s countenance. “You’ll have to talk to Ben about his price,” Cleve said then, and Jonah looked at once toward the solemn man with the horrendous scar.

Jonah scrambled up on the back of the one horse at the rail with no saddle and led Ben and Cleve past the stables and out the north end of town. About a half mile outside Ogallala, they came to a small creek that emptied into the Platte. On the east bank sat a four-foot-byten-foot farm wagon with canvas covers. A horse, the other half of Jonah’s team, was tethered nearby, and around the wagon in every direction cattle grazed on the rich prairie grass. “Maybe you oughta go on ahead and talk it over with your wife,” Cleve suggested. “She might not want to head straight across the prairie with the likes of me and Ben.” He was thinking that there still might be a chance that the deal just struck could be rejected by the little woman—at least, he could hope for it. He and Ben reined their horses back and let Jonah continue.

They watched from a few yards away as Mary Marple appeared from the other side of the wagon to greet her husband. She was joined in a few moments by her daughter and grandson. They all looked inquisitively at the two strangers idly watering their horses at the stream while Jonah explained their presence. A look of alarm flashed across Mary’s face when she was told of the arrangement Jonah had made with the two ominous-looking riders. “Jonah!” she exclaimed, keeping her voice down so as not to be heard by Ben and Cleve. “What on earth were you thinking?” She turned to take a longer look at the two, which only caused her more concern. The scruffy-looking older man looked to have just come from a saloon, but the younger one with the scarred face was downright scary. “Seth Barnhill was a lying no-good drunk and a thief, but those two look like they might murder us in our sleep.”

“In a saloon?” Mary retorted, not ready to let that matter pass without comment, then turned to give Victoria a bewildered look before chastising Jonah once more. “If you were looking for someone more dependable than the last scoundrel we hired, you sure picked an odd place to do it.” She paused to take another look at Ben and Cleve, who were beginning to realize that Jonah’s sales job was not going well. “Besides,” Mary said, turning back to her husband, “that big one scares me. How did he get that awful scar across his face?”

“I don’t know,” Jonah replied, growing weary of the conversation. “I didn’t think it polite to ask him. You can ask him.” He threw up his hand then and beckoned. “Come on in and meet the family,” he called, ignoring the daggers from Mary’s eyes.

Like her mother, Victoria experienced a feeling of cold dread as the two strange men crossed the stream and rode up to the wagon. She unconsciously reached down and placed her hand on her son’s shoulder when she felt him press against her leg. Upon closer inspection of their visitors, she and her mother both instinctively took a few steps closer to the wagon and the shotgun Jonah kept by the seat.

Standing a few steps behind Cleve, Ben sought to appraise the family he would be traveling with. Mary Marple was a short, stout woman with plain features and a ruddy complexion, no doubt the result of the many days spent traveling in a wagon. Her daughter looked very much like her, an unremarkable young woman in appearance, though unlike her mother, slender as a reed. At the moment, she exhibited a frown of apprehension, but he imagined hers a pleasant face in lighter circumstances. In an effort to ease some of her concern, Ben asked, “And who’s this young man hidin’ behind his mama’s skirt?”

“Cutler,” Ben supplied. Being more sensitive to the air of uneasiness than his partner, he sought to further alleviate their fears. “Jonah here talked to us about travelin’ to Deadwood together. You women might not feel comfortable with that, and I wouldn’t blame you. Cleve and I are a pretty scruffy-lookin’ pair. Like we told Jonah, it might be safer for you folks to follow the river to Fort Laramie and take the road from there to Deadwood. It’s all the same to Cleve and me. We were on our way to the Black Hills, anyway. If you want to go along with us, that’s all right with us, too.”

There was a short silence that followed. His remarks had surprised both women, for they had prejudged the man because of his threatening appearance, and had obviously not expected anything from his mouth resembling intelligent conversation. Mary was the first to respond. “Well, Mr. Cutler, I’m sorry if we seemed a bit concerned. You have to understand that we had not discussed the possibility of hiring any more guides after our experience with Mr. Barnhill.”

She glanced at her daughter, searching for her leaning, and discovered a noncommittal expression. Looking back at Jonah, she was met with a wide smile. Ben’s soft tone had somewhat disarmed her. “Well, I suppose it makes sense.” She allowed herself to smile then. “I guess we’ll have company for supper, Victoria.”