Left Hand of the Law

Pushing their way through the evening crowd at the Cowboy’s Rest Saloon, the two deputy marshals scanned the busy room as they approached the bar. When the bartender got to them, they ordered a drink; then Barrett showed his badge and asked, “Have you seen a man with a long scar across his face in here lately? Maybe in the last couple of days?”

“Much obliged,” Barrett said. He tossed his drink back and turned to leave. “We’ll take a look around town.” He stopped then, just remembering. “You remember if this feller was with somebody?” When the bartender said that he was, Barrett asked him to describe the man.

“I don’t know,” the bartender started, trying to recall. “Kinda short feller, older than the jasper with the scar—rough and tumble lookin’, though. That’s about all I can tell you, except he’s got a full crop of whiskers.”

There were not that many business establishments in the town, so it was not a major task for the two lawmen to cover them all, hoping to find some clue that would tell them where Ben Cutler was heading when, and if, he had left Ogallala. “I reckon Martin DePriest is still the sheriff here,” Ike said when they made their way through a gathering of cowboys in front of the hotel. “You think we oughta let him know we’re in town?”

Their search of the town came up empty, and Barrett’s frustration was growing by the hour, for there was no possible way to track Cutler out of town. He could have gone in any direction. Just when they were about to decide they had been beaten, they got the break that set them on Ben’s trail again. It came from a boy who worked in the stables. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I saw that man you’re talkin’ about. I couldn’t rightly say where he was goin’, but I saw him and his friend ride out of town with a feller by the name of Marple that’s been campin’ down by the river for about a week. Mr. Marple was ridin’ a horse bareback.”

” ’Bout a half mile up the North Platte,” the boy replied. “It’s him and his wife, and his daughter, I think. They’re in a wagon on their way to the Black Hills. He brought the wagon in here to get a wheel fixed.”

Barrett and Gibbs lost little time in putting Ogallala behind them. With detailed directions from the stable boy, they were able to find Jonah Marple’s campsite. The wagon was gone, but there was no doubt that it was the right camp and there was a trail to follow. The sandy strand near the river was covered with hundreds of tracks. Most of them were left by cows, but there were the distinct tracks of a wagon pointing the way. Barrett stood looking north in the direction the wagon had been heading. “I told you this jasper would most likely head to Deadwood, where the easy money is. Damn it, I know how he thinks! And I’m gonna haul his ass back to prison.”

“You know,” Ike felt it his duty to remind his partner, “we’re already one helluva long ways outta our jurisdiction.” Barrett seemed not to even hear him. “Might be time to forget about this feller.”

Barrett heard that. “Forget about him?” he demanded. “Like hell I will. I don’t give a damn about jurisdiction. I’m takin’ him back to Lansing, either settin’ in the saddle, or lyin’ across it. I don’t care which.”

Ike studied his partner for a long moment, wondering just how much deeper this fugitive was going to get under his skin. Barrett had the same attitude about any criminal he was sent after, but this particular man seemed to present a personal challenge to his record of arrests. It was especially puzzling to Ike because this man, Ben Cutler, seemed to have the best wishes of most of the folks in Crooked Fork. Ike himself could understand the man’s need to avenge the murders of his wife and son, but he left the right and wrong of it to the judges and juries. In his opinion, however, he and Barrett had gone far enough in pursuit of Cutler. It was time to hand the job off to Dakota Territory marshals and go on home. After a few moments more, he decided to express his thoughts. “I’m gonna tell you the truth, Graham. I think you’ve let this feller get into your head. It’s time we was headin’ back to Topeka and passin’ this on to the marshals in Dakota Territory.”

“What’s the matter, Ike?” Barrett scoffed. “You startin’ to miss home cookin’ and a soft bed? I ain’t about to stop now. I’m gonna follow these wagon tracks right up Ben Cutler’s ass. Hell, we’ve got him now. We oughta catch him before he gets to the Black Hills if he’s ridin’ along with this wagon.” Seeing the lack of enthusiasm in Ike’s face, he was moved to say, “If you’ve lost your stomach for it, you might as well turn back, and I’ll go after Cutler alone.” He was surprised by Ike’s response.

“Maybe I will,” he said. “I figure one of us oughta be workin’ in the territory we’re assigned to. The more I think about it, the more I’m thinkin’ that feller ain’t done no more than what you or I woulda done if it was our folks who got killed.”

“Damn!” Barrett swore. “You, too? You’re startin’ to sound like those people in Crooked Fork. Go on back to Topeka. I ain’t sure you’d be much good to me with that attitude. That’s the same reason I don’t aim to turn this over to the marshal’s office in Dakota Territory. That sorry crowd up there don’t wanna ride more’n a mile or two outta Sioux City.”

“I expect you know me better’n that,” Ike replied softly. “I think you’re too damn stubborn to let go because of your reputation, but I think we’ve followed this feller long enough. I’m goin’ back to headquarters. I’ll see you when you get back.” He climbed back in the saddle and turned his horse back toward Ogallala.

“Never figured you for a quitter,” Barrett chastised, making no attempt to hide his disgust for his longtime partner. “You go on back, and I’ll finish the job we were sent to do.” Ike responded with no more than a sigh of exasperation before touching his horse with his heels. Fully angry then, Barrett pulled his pistol from the holster and aimed it at Ike’s back. He held it there for a few moments before gradually lowering it and replacing it in his holster. With new determination, he climbed aboard the black Morgan he rode and set off to follow the wagon tracks.

Ben had wondered how long it was going to be before the young son of Victoria Beaudry asked that question. The boy had stared at him all day long whenever Ben happened to ride close to the wagon. He picked up another limb from the little pile he had gathered and threw it on the fire. “I fell on a crosscut saw,” he answered, seeing no reason to tell the youngster how he really happened to be scarred.

“Yeah, I reckon it did,” Ben said, although when he thought back about it, he couldn’t recall the pain when he was struck—only the severe pain afterward when he came to. “So you’d best remember to be careful if you’re usin’ a crosscut when you get a little older.” Seeking to change the subject then, he asked, “How old are you?”

“So you’ll fill up that hand on your next birthday,” he said. It brought a smile to Caleb’s face. Ben thought about his late son. Danny would have been seven on his birthday. These were things Ben had striven to ban from his thoughts, but talking to Caleb now made it impossible.

The comment caused a chuckle from Ben. “Mr. Cleve does a lot of things I don’t do. It’s just better if I stay outta your ma’s and your grandma’s way.” That and the fact that they always look like they’re afraid I’m gonna cut their throats, he thought to himself. Caleb got to his feet and started back toward the wagon. The distinct aroma of pan-baked biscuits triggered some interest on Ben’s part, and he gazed after the boy.

As she waited at the rear corner of the wagon for her son to come to supper, Victoria’s gaze met that of their puzzling traveling companion. He immediately averted his eyes and turned his head away. She was not certain yet what to make of him, but she suspected that there must be an unhappy past that caused him to seem so withdrawn and melancholy. She also had a feeling that it was firmly connected to the silver chain that she had seen him holding when he thought no one noticed. She found a sadness in the way he held it close to his chest before returning it to his pocket. It was obvious that he made an effort to have as little contact as possible with his traveling companions—in sharp contrast to his partner. There had been only a few stops for meals since they had joined up, and Cleve had been the one to pick up two plates of food and bring them back to their separate fire. Her thoughts on the subject were interrupted by the arrival of her son by her side. “Come on,” she said. “Time to eat your supper.”

As he was staring at the wagon again, since the woman had returned to the fire, it appeared to Ben that Cleve had sat down with Jonah’s family to eat, instead of bringing two plates as usual. Damn, he thought, am I gonna have to go get my plate? He preferred not to, but he didn’t intend to skip supper, so he struggled to his feet. He didn’t take a step toward the wagon because, at that moment, he saw Victoria heading toward him, carrying a plate of food.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Victoria assured him. “Why don’t you just eat with us at mealtime? We won’t bite.” She tried to make an effort not to stare at his face, although she found it equally insulting to him if she appeared to be looking away when she spoke to him. She knew her mother was frightened by the man, and she would be alarmed to know Victoria had invited him to their fire. But it just did not seem right to treat him like a leper.

“Nonsense,” Victoria replied, at once feeling remorse that it had been so obvious. “I put an extra biscuit on there, since Cleve said you both had been wishing you had some flour to bake some. I made these. I hope they’re as good as you would have made.”

“Ha!” Ben blurted. “They’re bound to be a sight better’n any I could make, and I don’t know if I’d risk eatin’ any Cleve made.” He shifted his gaze to his boots when he realized she was looking into his eyes.

Suddenly she was visited by a feeling of sympathy for this horribly scarred man, for she sensed that he was a decent person, respectful, even soft-spoken, and not at all what his appearance indicated. In spite of his discomfort, she studied his face closely while he continued to stare down at his boots. She decided that he had been a rather nice-looking man before his accident with the saw. Her precocious son had told her the cause of Ben’s disfigurement. It didn’t seem right that a man should be branded by the appearance of his face. “I must apologize for my inquisitive son,” she said. “I hope he hasn’t been too much of a bother.”

She laughed. “Sometimes, I guess,” she said, then paused before speaking again. “Come on,” she decided, “you’re going to have to get used to putting up with my family.” She took the plate out of his hands and started back toward the wagon. He was left with no choice unless he wanted to break out some of his bacon and dried beans, and wait until they cooked.

Almost skulking, he followed her to the fire and quickly seated himself on the far side of Cleve, who was grinning openly at him. When he was settled, Victoria gave him his plate again, then poured him a cup of coffee. Noticing her mother’s worried expression, she decided to expose it and speak boldly on Ben’s behalf. “Look, everybody. Ben’s joining us for supper. Everybody look at Ben’s face. Isn’t that a nasty-looking scar left by his fall on that crosscut saw?”

Ben immediately flushed scarlet. Jonah and Mary Marple both recoiled in astonishment at their daughter’s insensitive remark. Cleve couldn’t help laughing upon seeing the collective reaction. “Crosscut saw, huh? Is that what done your face like that?” He smiled at Victoria then and said, “I never thought to ask.” As blunt and rude as it had seemed, it was successful in destroying the violent image they had created in their minds about the man accompanying them to Deadwood.

Mary was the first to offer words of sympathy for one she now judged to be acceptable company, since his injury had not been the result of a barroom brawl, or some such lawless activity. “Why, it’s not that bad,” she said. “When it’s had more time to heal, it probably won’t be that noticeable at all. Did Victoria put enough bacon on that plate for you?”

Victoria smiled to herself, pleased with the success of her questionable approach to solve the problem. After that evening, meals were taken together. Victoria’s efforts served to eliminate an awkward relationship between the family from Omaha and the two rough-appearing prospectors, for they would be bound together for a trip of a month or more. Because of the slow pace of the wagon, they would be lucky to average ten miles a day. Jonah and his family learned to appreciate the sacrifice their escorts were making, especially when realizing that Ben and Cleve could have made the journey in a week and a half or so on horseback. After a couple of days, the two were already Uncle Ben and Uncle Cleve to young Caleb Beaudry, and the boy would certainly have adopted them both if it had been left up to him. Victoria became completely at ease with Caleb’s attraction to the rugged pair, never worrying about the time her son spent tagging along behind them. In fact, she worried more about the aggravation Caleb might cause them.

The first week found them approaching the Niobrara River. Ben, scouting far ahead of the wagon, came upon a herd of antelope sweeping across the prairie before him. Following the fleet-footed beasts at a safe distance, he was finally able to get close enough for a shot with his rifle when the antelope crossed over a low ridge and filed down into the river bottom to drink. He was able to bring down two of them before the rest scurried out of rifle range. By the time Cleve and the wagon caught up to him, he figured he would likely have already skinned and quartered one of the animals.

Beyond the low grassy ridge about a half mile to the east of the creek, six mounted Sioux hunters halted their ponies to speculate on the origin of the two rifle shots they had heard only minutes before. “I think someone has beaten us to the antelope,” Wolf Kill said. He and his friends had been trailing the herd since early morning, but the animals seemed to know they were being stalked. Consequently, they had continued moving, never stopping to graze for more than a few minutes at a time.

“There was only one rifle, I think,” Dead Man, the leader of the small band of warriors, said. It was pure speculation, for there was really no way to tell if it was one rifle firing twice, or two rifles firing once. It had not sounded like the carbines the cavalry soldiers carried. But they could not be too cautious, being one of many bands of warriors who had refused to go to the reservation. They were constantly being hunted by the cavalry patrols. Dead Man turned to the others and said, “Wolf Kill and I will climb up to the top of this ridge and see if we can get a look at who’s doing the shooting.”

Lying on their stomachs at the top of the ridge, they scanned the trees along the banks of the narrow creek, at first finding no sign of the hunter. “There!” Wolf Kill suddenly exclaimed, and pointed to a horse grazing beyond a screen of willows near the water’s edge. They both concentrated their gaze upon the stand of trees. After a few moments, Dead Man said, “There is only one man, a white man.”

They were able to determine that the white man was in the process of skinning and quartering an antelope carcass. “One man,” Wolf Kill repeated. “We can kill him and take the meat for ourselves if we ride up the river some distance and work our way back down to his camp.”

“This is true,” Dead Man replied. “He is only one man, and not a soldier, but maybe it would be a wise thing if we wait a little while to see if he really is alone. He might be a scout for an army patrol. Maybe they are not far behind him.” Dead Man knew they were in no shape to battle a patrol. He and Wolf Kill had seven-shot carbines just like those carried by some of the soldiers, but the other four in their party had old surplus single-shot weapons from the war between the white men.

“You are right,” Wolf Kill quickly conceded. “It would be best to watch this lone white man for a while.” He turned his head to smile at Dead Man. “It’s best to wait to kill him after he finishes butchering the antelope, anyway.”

Dead Man moved back halfway down the ridge and signaled for the others. Leaving their ponies at the bottom, they joined Dead Man and Wolf Kill at the top of the ridge where they waited and watched to see if a detachment of soldiers would arrive. In a short while, a wagon appeared, following the line of the ridge toward the river on the west side. A man on a horse rode beside the team of two horses. Other than the one driving the wagon, there appeared to be no other men. Beside him on the wagon seat, one woman sat, while another walked beside the wagon with a small boy. A ripple of excitement immediately ran through the line of Sioux warriors lying in the grass atop the ridge. Still, Dead Man cautioned his friends to be patient. “Let’s make sure there are no others following.” When it was obvious that there was no one else to come, Dead Man led his warriors along the east side of the ridge to a point where they could intercept the wagon before it reached the man butchering the meat.

“Fresh meat!” Ben yelled back. That was all the time there was for conversation, for all hell broke loose in the next second in the form of six charging savages, firing wildly as they swept through a notch in the ridge, their blood-chilling war cries echoing off the slope behind them.

Both Cleve and Ben reacted instantly, Ben running to get in the best position to fire, while Cleve slid off his horse, drawing his Winchester in the process. Terrified, Jonah froze. His initial inclination was to try to run for it, but Cleve yelled for him and Mary to drop down in the wagon. It was too late to run. Next Cleve picked Victoria up and deposited her roughly in the back of the wagon. Not having to be told, Caleb scrambled up in the bed of the wagon by himself. “Jonah!” Cleve shouted. “Get that shotgun out and get busy!” He then positioned himself behind the wagon with his horse and prepared to defend. From the front of the wagon, he heard a blast from the shotgun. “Jonah!” he cried again. “Wait till they’re in range of that damn shotgun.”

While Cleve was preparing the wagon for defense, Ben was running to gain a low mound in the valley floor in an effort to intercept the charging Indians before they reached the wagon. With bullets thumping the grass-covered hump, he made it just as the raiders came into a comfortable range for his rifle. He wasted no time in flattening himself behind the mound and selecting his first target. A squeeze of the trigger, and the warrior disappeared from the racing pony’s back. Another second and the Indians were parallel with him now. He knocked another rider from his horse as they swept by him at a distance of forty yards. Now they were in Cleve’s range, and he unleashed a blistering volley of fire, shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger and cock his rifle again.

Dead Man realized too late that he had made a fatal error in judgment. Behind him galloped three Indian ponies with empty saddles, and all around him he heard the whine of rifle slugs singing their deadly song. “Run!” he yelled to the others, and pulled his horse sharply toward the ridge. His cry was unnecessary, as the two remaining warriors had already scattered to escape the blistering volley. Ben was on his feet again, running toward the wagon as one last shotgun blast caused one of the riderless horses to kick his hind legs in the air when it caught a load of buckshot in its rump.

“We’re okay,” a shaken Mary Marple managed to utter. She looked at her husband, who was still holding his shotgun at the ready in case the Indians returned. Then she looked back in the wagon at her daughter. “Are you all right, Victoria?”

“Yes, but I was scared to death for a while there.” She smiled at her son then. “We were scared for a little while, weren’t we, Caleb?” Caleb immediately insisted that he was not. Then she said what her mother and father were thinking as well. “Thank God you and Cleve were with us.”

Cleve walked over to confer with Ben. “I think we mighta gave them Injuns more’n they wanted. I doubt if they’ll try it again, now that they know what kinda firepower we’re totin’. And we cut their number in half. They’d be crazy to try us again. Whaddaya think?”

“You’re probably right,” Ben said. “But I think we’d best move on up the river a ways before we think about makin’ camp tonight. They might wanna come back for the ones we killed, and there’s a couple of horses roamin’ around out there somewhere. I didn’t see but one of ’em followin’ the Indians over the ridge.” Cleve nodded in agreement and Ben said, “I’ll go get my horse and we’ll get started.” He turned to leave, then stopped abruptly. In all the excitement, he had forgotten. “I’ve got fresh antelope meat over by the river. I don’t know why I killed two of ’em. I guess I figured we’d rest a day and we’d have time to smoke it, but we can take the best parts and have a big feast tonight.” He looked up at Mary, who was settling herself in the wagon seat again. “It’ll save a little of that salt pork.”

Graham Barrett sat somberly in the saddle, his eyes focused on the northern horizon, as he held the big Morgan gelding to a gentle lope, following the faint wagon tracks in the grass. As much as he wanted to maintain a brisk pace, he knew he was going to have to rein the horse back to a walk pretty soon. He had been struck with a little bad luck after Ike Gibbs turned back at Ogallala. His horse had thrown a shoe and he had to turn back himself to find a blacksmith. The delay had worsened his already frustrating pursuit of Ben Cutler. It can’t be much farther before I catch up with that wagon, he thought. His determination to run Cutler to ground increased with each mile he traveled until he sought restitution from the fugitive for every bit of bad luck he encountered. He even blamed Ben for the thrown horseshoe. These thoughts were swirling around in his mind when he was abruptly jerked back to reality by the sudden sound of gunshots.

His initial reaction was to check to be sure his rifle was fully loaded and riding easy in the saddle scabbard. The shots had come from beyond a line of low ridges directly on his path, and from the sound of them, he could identify several different rifles. He immediately thought of the wagon he followed. They must have been jumped by a Sioux war party, he thought, for he felt certain that he had almost caught up to them. By his reckoning, he figured he could not be too far from the Niobrara. Maybe they had stopped there for the night. Foremost in his mind now was the thought that the Indians might have killed the entire party, depriving him of the satisfaction he needed in apprehending Ben Cutler. There was no concern for the fate of the other members of the party. Further thoughts along those lines were interrupted then by the sudden appearance of three Indians galloping over the crest of the ridge.

Barrett hauled back sharply on the reins and guided his horse into a gully, the only protection handy at the moment. He was lucky because the Indians were preoccupied with making their escape from the withering rifle fire on the far side of the ridge. Barrett slid off his horse with his rifle ready, but the warriors veered off toward the west, never even looking his way. The gully wasn’t deep enough to completely hide his horse, and before they changed directions, the Indians had passed within a hundred yards of him. He also realized then that because he had not been forced to defend himself, there were no rifle shots to alert the folks with the wagon. It was easy to speculate that the people with the wagon had successfully repelled the Indian attack, considering the state of flight he had seen in the war party. He felt his pulse quicken with the thought that he had caught up with his quarry.

Telling himself to be patient, he climbed in the saddle and started for the ridge the Indians had crossed. He needed to see what the situation was on the other side, mindful of the possibility that Cutler and the people he was with would be wary of another attack by the hostiles. I’ll just bide my time, he thought, and see what kind of hand I’ve been dealt. He really had no way of knowing how much opposition he would face.