TWENTY-EIGHT
THURMAN was sitting near his dead horse when out of the north two cowboys came rattling up in a large farm wagon pulled by two black draft horses.
“What happened to your horse, mister?” the driver asked, reining up his team.
“Someone didn’t like him,” Thurman said. “I’d sure appreciate a ride into town.”
“Throw your kack on. Is the guy that shot it gone?” The driver and his sidekick were looking all around.
“Yeah, they quit me about an hour ago,” Thurman said.
“They want you or the horse?”
“I think they wanted me, but they were up in those bushes and that’s too far for their rifle.”
“I see what you mean. I take it they didn’t want to get close to you.”
“I guess.” He tossed his gear on the wagon and climbed in the back. These two must be going for supplies. He found a seat on the floor and took the rocking on the springless wagon as the team trotted southward.
“Guess you’re going to Miles City?” the driver shouted back.
“That’s fine.”
When the wagon stopped on top of a hill to give the horses a breather, Thurman and the cowboys climbed down to get the kinks out. Shaking his stiff legs and stretching, the driver asked, “You the law?”
“Just a cow buyer,” Thurman said.
“I never knowed anyone get mad enough to shoot one of you fellars.”
“We all have our enemies.”
“Where did they go?”
“Lost their nerve, I guess. And rode on. Or they figured I was dead and left.”
“So that I don’t ever insult them shooters, what’s their names.”
Thurman shook his head. “It don’t matter.”
“Could I ask what you’re going to do about it?”
“Send ’em to Hell.”
“Yes, sir. Good place for them. Let’s load up. I need a drink—bad.”
So did Thurman. In fact, his teeth were about to float away for one.
It was past dark when Thurman sent Herschel a telegram.
FOUND HIDES STOP NOT FOUND T STOP THURMAN
He went back to the livery and slept a few hours in the hay. Then, brushing out his clothing, he went in the predawn for breakfast. Nothing defined a man as dirt poor as looking like he’d slept in a haystack the night before. He had early breakfast at a café filled with construction men, and he shared a table with two railroaders, a conductor and a brakeman.
“Railroad’s coming along?” he asked.
“Slow. The demand for new rails everywhere has them in short supply.”
“Hard to get, huh?”
“Yeah, we’re weeks behind, and you can’t build railroads in deep snow.”
Thurman nodded. He paid for his breakfast and walked outside picking his teeth. A bullet crashed in the front glass of the café and shattered it. He dove at the hooves of the horses tied at the hitch rack, and on the ground drew his gun. If they shot anything, it would be the horses.
On hands and knees, he tried to locate the pair, but the upset horses were milling around until a walleyed one broke his reins and jerked loose. When the cow pony tore out into the street, it left a small opening and Thurman shot through it. His bullet cut down one of the gunman standing on the porch across the street. The other gunman hightailed it around the corner.
“Who in the hell are they?” an irate man who stormed outside demanded to know.
“Pistoleros.” Thurman ran across the street and then between the buildings into the alley. He could hear someone running over a stack of bottles. Where was he?
Thurman sprinted down the alley and saw the pistolero round a corner. The gunman stopped and swung around to use his pistol. Thurman’s two shots took him out and he crumpled in a pile.
Thurman walked over and found money in the man’s pocket. From the roll of bills, he took seventy-five dollars and when the out-of-breath marshal arrived, he handed him the rest of it. “That should fix the damages they caused.”
“Who in the hell are you?”
“My name’s Thurman. His name is Petrillo. He’s a hired gun from Mexico. He and Sanchez, the one around there on the porch, hail from the same village. They have been trying to kill me for two days. They shot my horse out from under me yesterday morning. I took out money for for the horse that they shot, and the rest is yours. Now I’m going to go have a glass of whiskey.”
“Stick around town. Sheriff may want a hearing on this.”
“He knows who I am.”
“You heard me.”
One of the onlookers that Thurman passed used his finger for a gun. “Bang. Bang. You dead.” Then he laughed. Thurman smiled. One less obstacle in his way to having a sane life again.
In the Liberty Saloon, he bought a bottle of whiskey and went to a back table with two glasses. He sipped his first splash in the tumbler.
A large man came in the batwing doors and looked around. The bartender nodded toward Thurman. The man walked up to the table. “You must be his old man.”
“You must be the sheriff.”
Sheriff Harold dropped in the opposite chair, and nodded when Thurman went to pour him some whiskey in the other glass.
“Rich Mexicans. Had over four hundred bucks on them,” the lawman said.
“I took seventy-five to buy a new horse. They shot mine.”
“Hell—” Harold lowered his voice. “I thought you were up here on the rustling deal.”
“I am. This was leftover baggage. Sorry it happened here.”
“What did you learn? Anything new?”
“They break down the beef at a place Hatch owns up the road. There’s enough hides up there with brands on them to send everyone away. But Herschel wants Thompson. What can you tell me about him?”
“Big man. He runs a large corporate ranch up north on the Milk River. He’ll be hard to attach to the rustlers.”
“Means he can hire sharp lawyers that will tie things up in court, right?”
Harold nodded. “Talk rings around these county prosecutors.”
“Then we better get things right. I’m going to wire Herschel to get ready to start out and hope we can get enough of them to testify against Thompson. When does the stage go back to Billings?”
“Sometime this morning.”
“I better be on it. What about those two?”
“Foreigners. I don’t know what they were doing here anyway. Self-defense.” He raised his glass. “Tell him good luck.” He grinned at Thurman. “I damn sure see what tree Herschel came from.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Oh, and Thurman, you ever need work, you come look me up.”
“I’ll do that.”
Thurman hurried to get his saddle and bought a stage ticket for Billings.
It was close to ten o’clock that night when the stage arrived in Billings and Thurman climbed down. The cab was there, and the man who drove it nodded to him. “I’m here to take you home, sir.”
Thurman put his saddle in the back and climbed in. “How are you doing tonight?”
“Fine, sir. Very fine.”
“So am I. So am I.”
When they arrived at Herschel’s house, Mary rushed out to hug him, and he swung her around in the starlight.
“I’m so glad you are all right. I had a bad dream that they shot your horse.”
He set her down and looked hard into her face. “They did.”