TWENTY-FOUR
SUNDAY morning, Thurman went to the stables that Buster had recommended, Pascal’s, and rented a horse. He tossed his saddle on a black horse that looked sound enough and cinched him up. The young man on duty was filling out a form.
“Name?” he asked.
“Thurman Baker.”
“You any kin to the sheriff?”
“I’ll have to ask him.” Thurman dropped the stirrup.
“You kinda look like him. Maybe you’re a cousin. He sure rides a tough horse. I wouldn’t try that damn roan horse. He’s a tough sumbitch. Why, he’d put you in a pile in a minute.” The youth shook his head as if in awe.
“Guess he likes the sheriff.”
“I guess. You want to cross the Yellowstone, use the ferry.”
“Can’t this old black swim?” Thurman teased.
“That’s the boss’s orders.”
“I won’t swim across the river.”
“Good.”
Thurman caught the bridle headstall and cheeked the horse’s head near his left knee when he swung aboard. No fancy riding that morning. Mary was washing clothing and diapers at Maude and Buster’s house. That way, Maude got to rock the baby since the restaurant was closed on Sunday. Buster had offered to take Thurman around, but Thurman knew the man was in pain from his stiffness and declined the offer.
He discovered the assortment of folks living along the river. Tepees and tents and log dugouts pocked the area. One person even had a covered wagon box for a residence. Thurman found the ferryman half asleep, and the man looked put out that he had to crank the barge across the river.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
“Horse Creek.” That was where Buster said Thurman’s son and wife owned a ranch. He wanted to see the operation so he’d know what might keep Herschel from leaving Montana.
“Hmm, you got business down there?” the old man asked.
“Just looking.”
“Quiet down there now. They had a helluva lot of trouble down there a year ago.” He used both hands on the reel and grunted with his efforts. “Tried to burn down the guy who’s sheriff now. Shot the last sheriff down there in a double cross. Lots of trouble.”
“Quiet now?”
“Oh, yeah, real quiet.”
“Guess it would be a good place to settle, huh?”
“Might be.”
On the south bank, Thurman unloaded the black and remounted. “Thanks, see you later.”
“Reckon you will if you want back across.” He made a hyenalike laugh.
Thurman recalled hearing one like it at a circus in Austin once. He sent the black into an easy lope down the well-worn road. Later, he passed a crossroads store and saw folks all dressed up for church in buckboards and on horseback. With a tip of his hat to the ladies, he followed Buster’s instructions. Crossing the bridge that marked the north end of the ranch, he turned the horse off the road and struck the ridge to find a high point to view the country side.
He hitched the black in a grove of pine trees, dug out his field glasses, and carefully cleaned the dust off the lenses with his handkerchief. Then he walked to the east side of the ridge to view the country that rolled off to the east—grass country for a cowman. Water and rich grass made beef.
Then he caught movement and thought he heard someone shouting—it could have been ravens. In the glasses, he found a man afoot while driving a light team of horses hitched to a sled. It carried a freshly skinned beef carcass. Why butcher in the summer? Then he saw the woman coming behind him, whirling around looking in all directions, holding a rifle on her hip. He could read the turmoil on her hard-set face. It was a dangerous, desperate look that said she’d shoot to kill if she saw anyone.
They disappeared into a draw, only to reappear with the man flailing the team with the reins and shouting obscenities at them that carried on the soft wind. He was running behind the horses to keep up. The woman was doing the same.
Thurman wondered if he could see their destination by going to the end of the point. He made his way, keeping out of easy sight of anyone below. Finally, he could see the alfalfa and grass hayfield along the winding creek. Nearby were a neat log cabin house and several sheds and pens. Once or twice, he saw the woman in the lens as she moved between the buildings and obstacles down there with her ready rifle.
In a short while, the man drove out with a team of big Belgium horses pulling a farm wagon with something tarped down in the back. Thurman took the road back toward the crossroads. He intended to follow the man and try to learn what would happen to the beef. Not in any hurry, he went back to the black, put the glasses up, and rode off the ridge long after the wagon had rumbled over the bridge headed for the crossroads.
They were singing a hymn in the church when he got on the Billings road following the wagon’s tracks. No one else was around. Who’d ever think a man would steal a beef on Sunday?
The tracks turned off onto a little-used lane. Thurman decided to take to a ridge on the right and see if he could find out where the wagon was going. Pushing the black through the brush, he caught a glimpse of something in the canyon. He rode the black over on the south side and hitched him, hoping his presence had not been discovered. Getting as close as he dared, he watched two men hauling blocks of ice out of a dugout and icing down the beef carcass in a newer wagon. Smart move. There was a windlass there, too. That was probably how they moved the carcass from one wagon to the other.
The second wagon was hitched to a pair of large black shires. They would not be hard to locate. Soon, the men had the beef tarped down, and the man from Herschel’s ranch drove off in a big hurry. The other man closed up the dugout door and piled some things against it to keep it insulated. Then he drove the high-stepping team off to the north. Satisfied there would be no problem finding him and his big team, Thurman rode the black off the ridge and rode south again to see more of the country.
The cat’s away, the mice will play. Did Herschel’s man know his boss was up north somewhere at a dance?
They were still having church services when he rode on south this time, and in a few miles he discovered a sign. He reined up to read it. It indicated the boundary of the Crow reservation and warned that no alcoholic or spirited beverages were allowed.
He could hear some moaning; at first, he thought it might be ravens in the distance. Then he decided that it was something else. An Indian wearing an unblocked black hat and two eagle feathers twirling on the back came around the bend riding a black piebald horse. He wore a fancy beaded vest and looked as solemn as any buck Thurman’d ever seen.
Behind him came three white men, hands tied behind their backs with a reata tied around their necks daisy-chain fashion. They were barefoot, too. They stumbled along behind the Indian, moaning. Then a girl in her teens brought up the rear on a paint and leading two packhorses.
Thurman nodded to the Indian, who reined up his horse.
“You have prisoners?”
“They are for the sheriff.”
“You are one of his deputies?”
“I work for him.”
“What did they do?”
“Rob a store.”
“My name is Thurman.” He pushed his horse over to shake the man’s hand.
“My name is Black Feather. I live at Billings. I am learning to be a white man.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“My tepee is down by the river. You must come and see me. We can smoke and talk.”
Thurman nodded.
“You will come. I can tell.” Black Feather pointed at his own eyes with two fingers. “I see in your look you will come and you will talk with me.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good.” He booted his piebald to go on and the three prisoners moaned in protest, but they rose and hurried to follow him.
“Will you be in Billings tonight?” Thurman called after him.
“Tonight. Next day. Who knows?” Black Feather shrugged as if the matter was unimportant to him.
Thurman understood. What were days to a Crow? He tipped his hat to the girl in her teens on the paint and leading the packhorses. Then he rode around them and headed back to Billings in a short lope.
On the ferry in late afternoon, he asked the old man if he knew the name of the man with the shire horses.
“He’s a Dane named Olsen.”
“He live in Billings?”
“No, he lives somewhere over east. He’s a mean sumbitch. Growled at me to hurry. And when I asked him about the guy who used to drive that wagon who was murdered, he said I’d better mind my own damn business if I wanted to go on living.”
“The guy got killed who used to drive it?”
“Wally. They shot him in the back twice.”
“Who shot him?”
“Damned if I know, but I’d bet that Olsen does.”
Thurman nodded, and rode on to Buster and Maude’s house. Buster was sitting in a rocker when Thurman hitched his horse to the picket fence entwined in morning glories.
“Don’t get up. I’m coming.”
“Learn a lot?” Buster asked.
“It’s a nice ranch. Good hay and alfalfa fields, well watered. I met an Indian called Black Feather today.”
“He tell you he was learning to live like a white man?”
“Yes, he did.”
“He’s got two or three wives.”
“Maybe this one today made four.”
Buster slapped his legs. “He ain’t learning fast.”
“He’s bringing in three prisoners on a leash and barefoot.”
“Three, huh? Must be the store robbers. You’re saying three?”
“He’s got three. He’ll be here in another day.”
“Got them on a leash?”
“Oh, yes.” Thurman shook his head. “You’ll have to see them.”
“He’s a dandy.”
“Who runs that place of Herschel’s down there?”
“Sonny Pharr. You see him?”
Thurman shook his head. “You know much about him?”
“Naw.”
“I just wondered.” He shrugged it off.
Mary came to the door and Thurman looked up at her. “You get your washing done?” he asked.
“Yes, dried and folded. We are having supper here tonight. Maude invited us. Would you two like some coffee?”
“Sure. Where’s the baby?”
“Sleeping.”
He winked at her. “Who was the guy got murdered?” he asked Buster.
“Wally Hamby. No one knew much about him. Shot twice in the back. I think that’s why Herschel’s up at Soda Springs for the dance. Checking on things up there.”
Thurman nodded. He had some bits and pieces to discuss with Herschel in the morning. There was a lot going on he might not know about—a whole lot.
That evening when they were in their bed at the hotel, Thurman raised up and kissed Mary good night. Then he looked at the small bundle between them in the starlight that was coming in the window.
“I had a good day today, Cheyenne. Your brother Herschel has some problems we’re going to discuss tomorrow. Hope he listens.”
“He will,” Mary whispered.
He hoped she was right. ’Cause he had lots to tell him.