The Sundown Chaser

HERSCHEL checked the packhorses and the diamond hitches with a lantern. He had one of the rustled horses, a big dun, saddled for Thurman. At the sound of other horses coming up the street in the dark, Herschel nodded at his father. “These men are all real posse men. They’ll back us in whatever we get into. I believe in them.

“Art and Lem Pascal are going down to arrest the man on my place, Sonny Pharr. And try to find a man called Olsen, if he’s around up here.

“Meanwhile, the rest of us’re going to arrest Roscoe Hatch and anyone with him. Once we secure him, we’re going to ride up to this place where Thompson is at and arrest him.”

“Offering to buy stolen horses brought over a state line. It’s a federal law. My deputy U.S. marshal badge will be good anywhere.”

“Yes. Black Feather and his bride are coming, too. He’s our tracker if we need him.”

“No, but I have a man’s been there, Bailey. He’s meeting us at Soda Springs.”

Thurman nodded and reached back to hug Kate, who was there with her bucket and lamp to milk the cow. “Don’t let old Sukky kick you milking her.”

They mounted up and rode out. Art and Lem went south. Herschel led the way north for the others.

“Shultz, meet my dad,” Herschel said as they rode by dark houses and past a few with lights on in their sheds.

“That’s John Frank over there, Shultz, and Curly Manning. Bailey said he’d join us at the schoolhouse site.”

At mid-morning, they reached the burned-out school. There were half a dozen men, black-faced with soot, using wheelbarrows and scoop shovels to clean it all up. Herschel nodded at them in approval.

“We’re going to have her ready by Saturday to start back up. Lumber’s coming.”

“Keep it up, boys. I’ll try to be back by then. We’re going to arrest a few lawbreakers.”

“Hatch and his whole gang. You know any more in his bunch, let me know.”

He smiled and waved at them. Bailey came short-loping in on a good-looking bay horse to join them.

They crossed the rolling grass country, the ridgetops bristled with pines. It was a vast land supporting lots of cattle that were shedding winter’s long hair and licking their sides.

Late afternoon, Bailey drew them down. “Hatch’s spread is over this next rise. There’s several pens, sheds for them to hide in. The main house faces the south. We’ll have the sun to our back riding in.”

“I don’t know how many are here,” Herschel said. “Those three kids we saw last weekend at the dance, they say, do the work around the place. They won’t fight. But they say Black Fox is up here. He’s a son of Crazy Horse. You know him, Black Feather?”

“Tell your woman to stay here with the packhorses,” Herschel said to Black Feather. “The rest of you spread out at least fifteen feet or so apart. We’ll go in together like that. First one of them offers any resistance—open fire.” Herschel turned to his father. “What else? You’re the veteran.”

In position, Herschel waved them on. They went over the rise in formation, and soon looked down on the place. Halfway off the hill, Herschel saw someone shade his eyes against the slanting sun to look at them. Then he took off screaming and running for the house.

Herschel held his men up. “I’m the law,” he called. “Put down those weapons and get your hands in the air. One deputy dies and you’ll all hang.”

Herschel nodded. “Watch him. It may be Hatch or that gunman Black Fox.”

They swung wide of the ranch, and Bailey’s dun really turned on the power. On the next high point, they caught sight of the one who’d run off, but his horse was slowing and the man had to beat him to make him gallop.

He set his spurs to the dun and charged off again. He was three or four lengths ahead of Thurman when Bailey jerked out the rifle and stood in the stirrups to take aim. When he shot, the rider’s horse broke in two and went to bucking. He threw the rider off, and Thurman and Bailey raced up.

Thurman pointed his pistol at the hatless ’breed holding his hands up. “Just stand there. I’m checking you for weapons.”

Thurman took two knives and a pearl-handled six-gun off the man. He put them in his saddlebags. Bailey rounded up the man’s horse and brought him back.

There were soon four rustlers in irons, and Curly found the hide pile in a shed. He stuck his head out the door. “Hell, boys, they’ve got brands from everywhere in here.”

“Maybe they don’t know,” Thurman said. “I sure don’t. You already said they were his dumb help, and that slant-eyed buck ain’t going to tell you shit.”

“When they realize they are not only facing rustling charges, but murder, they may talk.”

“We can check that place over by Miles City. It’s got lots of cowhides, too. But I don’t think he stays there.”

“That was going to be my next stop. I’m sending two men, John Frank and Curly, back with the prisoners using a wagon and a team they have here. We’ll need to load those hides as evidence.”

“Sounds good,” Thurman said, then lowered his voice. “But you better chain that ’breed up good. He’s the cagy one.”

“I took a fancy Smith and Weston pistol off Black Fox. I was going to say for you to give it to Bailey to keep. He’s the one that got Black Fox.”

“Damned if I know.” They walked over to his horse and took the revolver out.

“.38-caliber Smith and Wesson.” Herschel spun on his boot heel and walked over to Black Fox.

Herschel shoved the gun in his face. “This is the pistol that shot Wally Hamby.”

“Put them all in leg irons, too.” Herschel scowled at them. “I want the judge to hang ’em all.”

One of the younger ones paled and looked ready to faint. Herschel stepped over and jerked him up by the shirt. “Did you kill Hamby?”

“No. No. I wasn’t even there. I swear to God. Oh, mister, I never done no killing, I swear.”

“Hatch, Olsen, they were there. But I swear to God, none of us were there.”

Herschel let him go and shook his head in disgust. “Load them in the wagon. In the morning, you can take them into jail.”

Herschel clapped him on the shoulder. “I know you don’t need any practice at it.”

They all pitched in and made a meal. It was past sundown when they finally sat down cross-legged on the ground, eating off tin plates in the fire’s glow. Herschel told Thurman and the others his plans.

“John Frank and Curly are taking the prisoners back to jail in the morning. The rest of us are riding for this ranch that Thompson runs. That’ll cut us to five men. He might have an army on that payroll. Anyone wants out, speak up now.”

No one said a word. He continued. “I’m arresting Thompson as a deputy U.S. marshal for being an accessory to rustling horses from Nebraska. I figure he has a bunch of tough lawyers that are going to fight it. But I hope to implicate him in Hamby’s murder at the same time.”

Hard as they pushed, it took them two days. They arrived in late afternoon and with their rifles across their laps, they rode double file up the lane between the pole-rail fencing. The main house loomed larger than most hotels. Herschel had been seeing men running around as they approached.

Thurman agreed, and looked over at the short cattle buyer riding beside him. “You do much of this kind of work?”

“Only when he needs me.” Then Shultz shook his head like he’d been in better deals than this one.

“Spread out,” Herschel said. And when they reached the yard, each posse member moved aside until they were stationed fifteen feet apart.

A man in a starched white shirt came out on the high porch and looked them over. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Herschel noted there were now several ranch hands at the front of the house. Some were armed. They all looked hard at his posse.

“I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Herschel Baker and I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Thompson showed no emotion. “Oh, I know your boss, Chief Marshal Earl Martin, very well. I talked to him in Butte just a week or so ago. He never mentioned any charges being brought against me.”

“Mr. Thompson. I’m here to arrest you, sir. Any resistance on your or your men’s part will be met with force by my posse.”

“Come now, my good man. I’ll post a bond and be at the hearings whenever they are scheduled. I run a large operation here and my presence is very important to its economic soundness. I am certain you have not discussed this matter with your superiors. A twenty-thousand-dollar bond should be sufficient. I’ll—”

“There’s no need for this show of force. I have several men you can see that could, on one word from me, shoot all of you.”

“Yes, sir, we do.” Herschel stuck his rifle in his scabbard and dismounted. He took a pair of handcuffs out of his saddlebags and started for the steps. He never looked aside at any of the ranch’s men on either side of the house. His full attention was on Thompson.

When he reached the man, he took Thompson’s right hand and locked the bracelet on that wrist, then his left one.

Herschel ignored his threat. “If you want a jacket and a hat, say so now.”

“Tell someone to saddle you a horse, or you can ride belly down over a packhorse.”

“One of you go saddle him a horse and bring it around,” Herschel said toward the ranch crew.

Herschel stepped aside, and then he went inside the door. From a wall rack, he took a fancy-tooled gun belt and holster with a pearl-handle Smith and Wesson pistol in it.

“Why, Thompson, this gun will be evidence, sir.” Herschel patted his palm with the barrel. “Yes, you shot Wally Hamby with this very gun.”

“You’re crazy. Mad. Why, I’ll have you incarcerated in the state mental hospital when this is over.”

A butler brought Thompson’s suit coat and hat. He handed them to Herschel.

“Wire my lawyer and tell him to meet me in Miles City,” Thompson said to the butler. “Tell him I have been arrested by a madman who is beyond reason. Wire the governor, too.”

“For him to order my immediate release from custody. What is your name again?”

Herschel guided Thompson down the steps. At the base, he stuck the hat on Thompson’s head and laid the coat over his arm. “You can put that on later.” He took the bridle from the cowboy who delivered the horse. “Get on.”

When his prisoner was in the saddle, Herschel led him over and put a lariat around the horse’s neck, then mounted up. With a sharp farewell nod at the ranch hands, Herschel turned to leave. When Cob made his first step for the driveway, the skin under Herschel’s shirt collar crawled. Soon, he had Cob trotting and one by one, his posse filed out after him.

Thurman rode up on the opposite side of Herschel from the sour-looking Thompson as they left the drive and turned south. He reached down in his saddlebag and produced a pint of whiskey. He cut the seal and took the cork out with his teeth as they rode.

“Here, have some,” Thurman said, handing Herschel the pint and then letting out a deep breath. “That was the toughest deal I think I’ve ever been through to come out unscathed.”

Herschel nodded, took a pull, and handed the bottle back. “It ain’t over yet.”

Thurman tried a snort of it, then reined the dun in beside Shultz and handed him the bottle. After Shultz gave it back, Thurman rode in beside Bailey and handed him the bottle. “After you get some, give it to Black Feather. He needs some, too.”

Last time Thurman saw his pint, Black Feather’s woman was emptying it. She tossed it aside and never missed a beat, leading the packhorses in a short lope.

That evening when they made camp, Hershel talked to them about not finding Hatch. “I hate that he wasn’t there.”

“We never checked around there very good for him either,” Thurman said.

Shultz laughed out loud. “I was about to crap in my pants anyway. I’m glad you didn’t send me to look for him.”

“I’m glad, too. That whole deal at Thompson’s was damn spooky for me, too,” Bailey said.

“I wonder where he went.” Herschel got up and walked over to where Thompson sat on the ground. “Where’s Roscoe at?”

Sunday morning, Herschel and his posse arrived in time for church services at Soda Springs. The new structure was framed in fresh lumber and looked commanding. The folks left the new schoolhouse, and several came over to congratulate Herschel. Others stood back and talked behind their hands about his prisoner.

“Hatch.” A quiet wave went over the crowd. Even the children fell silent.

“His days are numbered,” Herschel said. “We’d stop and share your services, but our horses are jaded and we’ve not been home in five days.”

“Then, Sheriff,” Preacher Green said, “let us thank God for handing over these criminals to you so we may again live in peace.”

They all removed their hats. Shultz booted his horse over and jerked off Thompson’s hat.

“Our Dear Heavenly Father, we thank—” The prayer was lengthy, and Green even prayed for the outlaws’ souls.

Herschel thanked them, told them the schoolhouse framing looked great. He and the posse had ridden out of the schoolyard and come off the long hill to cross the creek when he noticed what he thought was a man swinging in the breeze by his neck from a tall cottonwood.

Thurman rode in close beside where Herschel had stopped in the road and said, “Thou shall not ever burn down a schoolhouse.”

Shultz checked his horse and twisted in the saddle to look back before he said, “And the meek shall inherit this earth.”

“Damnit to hell, I still don’t like it.” Herschel rode over and cut him down.

They wrapped his corpse in a blanket, and it required Herschel, Thurman, and Shultz to load his heavy body over a packhorse.

Hanging a man even as bad as Hatch was not the way to make Montana a place to raise your family. They had laws to handle his kind. They had courts and prisons. Herschel slapped his leg hard with his reins. They had lawmen to enforce those laws. He was one of them.