CHAPTER 6
The night passed peacefully enough with no visit from Roy Nestor. First light found Hawk and Monroe in the saddle, each man leading a packhorse. Crossing the river close to the point of the prior night’s attack, they passed by the two bodies lying near the water, their weapons and ammunition packed on the packhorses. They paused for only a moment to look at them, content to leave them there for the buzzards to feed on. Hawk couldn’t help thinking that providing food for the vultures was most likely the first useful thing the two bushwhackers had ever done. He nudged the buckskin with his heels and set out at a gentle lope, planning to follow the river north through the Helena Valley. Helena was a good forty miles away, but with one stop to eat and rest the horses, they reached the bustling mining town well before dark. Rapidly on its way to becoming Montana’s busiest city, it was still not that far removed from the rough little settlement that evolved around Last Chance Gulch. There were several thriving saloons and a couple of bawdy houses on the main street built along the winding gulch as well as some shops and stores for the more peaceful segment of society.
Thinking to take care of the horses first, they pulled up at the stable where Monroe had stabled his horses while in Helena. Frank Bowen, the owner, was outside in the corral, but came to meet them. “Mr. Pratt,” he called out in greeting. “I see you got back from Fort Ellis. Was the army any help to find your brother?” He latched the corral gate behind him while eyeing the man with Monroe as they both dismounted.
“Maybe,” Monroe answered. “There wasn’t anything else the army thought they could do. They didn’t think it was worth sending out more patrols, but they did send me to find John Hawk.”
“I was wonderin’,” Bowen said. “If anybody had asked me who this feller was, I woulda guessed he was Hawk.” He extended his hand and said, “Frank Bowen, glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hawk.” He had heard people talk about the scout who wore a feather in his hat.
Hawk shook his hand and said, “Mr. Bowen.” He didn’t ask how Bowen could have guessed his name. He hadn’t done any business at the stable before. “I reckon I’m gonna need to keep my horses here for a day or two until we decide what we’re gonna do.” As he had in Bozeman, he made arrangements to sleep with his horse after Monroe repeated an offer to put him up in the hotel with him. With that settled, Bowen turned back to Monroe.
“One of the fellers on that wagon train with your brother brought his wagon in to fix his front wheels this mornin’,” Bowen said. “He might still be over there at the blacksmith’s in case you might wanna talk to him. Maybe he can tell you somethin’ to help you out.”
“Might at that,” Hawk answered before Monroe had a chance to. He figured he was going to need information from any source.
They found Grover Bramble working a new rim onto Henry Denson’s wagon. Denson was seated on a stool under a sheet of canvas, smoking his pipe while Bramble worked. The blacksmith glanced up and nodded when they walked in, then paused and stood up when he recognized Hawk. “Hawk,” he greeted him. Unlike Bowen, Bramble had occasion to do business with Hawk when his buckskin gelding needed shoeing once before. “What brings you up this way again? Last time I saw you, you were scoutin’ for an army patrol, chasin’ some Sioux horse thieves.”
“Matter of fact,” Hawk allowed.
“Whatcha doin’ up here this time?” Bramble asked.
“Tryin’ to help Monroe, here, find out what happened to his brother,” Hawk replied. “Feller over at the stable said this man was on the train with him.” He nodded toward Denson. “Thought maybe we’d talk to him.”
Hearing Hawk’s comments, Denson got up from the stool and came over to join them. He introduced himself, and Monroe told him who he was. “So you’re Jamie’s brother,” Denson said. “He was a fine young man, and his wife was a sweet little thing. We were all disappointed to hear about their bad luck. The army sent a patrol up here to look for them. Did they have any luck?”
“No, sir,” Monroe said. “Hawk and I are trying to see if we can find some trace of them—thought maybe you might remember something that would help. I guess it was bad luck for Jamie when the rest of you decided not to go on after you made it here to Helena.”
“Well, that ain’t exactly the way it happened,” Denson said. “We didn’t intend to stop here. We were all plannin’ to travel all the way to Washington Territory, but our guide quit on us, said he got word that Sioux Indians were slaughtering every wagon train that passed through the mountains west of here. We found out when that army patrol came through that there was no truth in what our guide told us. We just got bamboozled, and he didn’t give us any of our money back, either. The lieutenant leadin’ that patrol told us we could have followed that road ourselves. We didn’t need a guide in the first place.” Thoroughly heated up from revisiting the incident, Denson puffed furiously on his pipe, but it had already gone out. He tapped the ashes out on the side of his wagon and continued. “We got a group of us together to talk about whether we oughta load up and start out for Walla Walla again.” He shrugged. “But we decided we were pretty satisfied with the land right where we are. I staked off one hundred and forty acres near the river about five miles from town. I figure my wife and my three boys and I can make us a nice farm out of it.” He shook his head then and concluded, “I wish I could tell you somethin’ to help poor Jamie and Rachel, but all I know is they pushed on by themselves.”
“I expect you’re fortunate to have come this far, considering the man you hired as wagon master,” Monroe commented. “You’re lucky he didn’t murder any one of you.” He went on to relate the dealings he and Hawk had just experienced with their leader.
“My Lord,” Denson exclaimed. “I figured he was scum, but I never thought he was that evil.”
“Maybe you can tell me where their wagon was found,” Hawk said, looking toward the blacksmith. “I’d like to take a look for myself.”
“I can,” Bramble responded, and nodded toward the back of his shop. “That’s the wagon back there. I put a new axle on the front. The soldiers found it on the side of a stream in Mullan Pass.” He hesitated before continuing, turning his attention to Monroe. “I reckon you could lay claim to the wagon since it belonged to your brother. I wouldn’t give you no argument on it, but if you do claim it, I’d have to get paid for goin’ after it and puttin’ a new axle on it.”
Monroe considered that for a few moments. He hadn’t really thought about the wagon one way or the other. “I reckon you can keep the wagon,” he finally decided. “I don’t want to fool with it right now.”
“I ’preciate it,” Bramble said. Eager to help then, he described in as much detail as he could where the wagon had been found. “You know where the road cuts through that pass they call Mullan Pass, about ten miles north of here, right?” Hawk said he did. “Just as you come to where the road bends around a flat table rock and crosses a stream, that’s where they found the wagon. I saw a helluva lotta tracks around it, and some of ’em was Injun.” He looked quickly at Monroe. “I know that ain’t good news, but leastways there weren’t no bodies.” Looking back at Hawk, he said, “That’s about all I can tell you.”
“Much obliged,” Hawk replied. He turned to Monroe. “I reckon we’d best head up that way in the mornin’.”
“Reckon so,” Monroe said. “Right now, though, I think I could use a little drink before supper. Then I’ll see if there’s a room available at that place I stayed at when I was here before.”
“Where’d you stay last time?” Denson wanted to know. When Monroe said it was the Davis House, Henry said, “That’s where I’m stayin’ tonight. You picked a good place. Gracie Davis runs a nice clean house, but I reckon you know that if you stayed there before.”
“You’re staying in town?” Monroe asked. “You’re not going home?”
Henry answered with a sheepish grin. “Yep, I told the missus the wagon would take a long time and it’d be too late tonight to start back. Farmin’s hard work and a man don’t get a chance to howl too often. So I figured I’d get me a little drink before supper, too, without the little woman givin’ me the fisheye. Maybe I can join you fellers, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Sure,” Monroe responded, “be glad to have you.” He glanced at Hawk to see if it was all right with him, but he showed no sign to indicate he cared one way or the other.
“Last Chance?” Henry asked, referring to the closest saloon.
Monroe looked at Hawk, who shrugged in response. “Last Chance it is,” Monroe said.
“Good. I’ll settle up with Grover and I’ll be right behind you,” Henry said. “Looks like he’s almost done with that wheel, so I won’t be long.” He looked at the blacksmith, and Grover nodded his confirmation.
The Last Chance Saloon, one of the earliest watering holes to open up in Helena, was located in the center of the town. Hawk had rinsed the trail dust out of his throat there on several occasions when passing through on his way to hunt with his Blackfoot friends in the mountains north of Helena. It was not yet sundown, but the saloon was already busy, with most of the tables occupied. Some of them had card games under way and a couple of the saloon’s soiled doves were working the gamblers, especially those who were ahead in the game. “Pick out a table while I go get a bottle and some glasses,” Monroe said, and headed to the bar. There were only a few tables to choose from, so Hawk chose the only one that was not right next to one of the card games.
Standing beside one of the gamblers in a poker game, Gladys Welch could not help noticing the rugged stranger carrying a Winchester. She paused to consider the chances that he might be a prospect for her services. He was kind of interesting, she thought, with the look of a man born to the wild, but it was a fair guess that he didn’t have a lot of money to spend on a woman. While she was still trying to decide if he was worth her efforts, he was joined by another man with a bottle and what looked to be three glasses. Her interest was sparked a bit by that, thinking maybe the third glass might be for a female companion. So she sauntered over to their table just as Monroe pulled a chair back and sat down. “Howdy, gents,” Gladys sang out cheerfully. “Looks like you boys are one short of a party. My name’s Gladys and I’m good at parties.” Being well experienced in her trade, she quickly sized up the man who bought the bottle as a serious, responsible individual. But that didn’t necessarily rule out the occasional dallying when away from home and hearth. As for his companion, she was still not sure how to size him up, him with the hawk feather stuck in his hat. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, more like that of a tawny mountain lion you might admire, but from a distance.
“We’re waiting for a friend to join us,” Monroe told her. “Then we’re just interested in having a drink before we go to supper.” He glanced at Hawk to see if he might have other ideas, but he was as somber as ever, making no comment. “I reckon we’ll have to pass up the opportunity to visit with you tonight, Gladys,” Monroe said, taking pains to be as polite as he could.
“Suit yourself,” Gladys said, and returned to watch the card game.
Hawk and Monroe had finished their first drink by the time Henry Denson came in the door, looked over the crowd until spotting them, then walked briskly over to join them. It seemed obvious in his enthusiastic approach that he had been looking forward to this night out away from the farm. “We’re one ahead of you,” Monroe greeted him, and poured him a drink. “Sit yourself down and we’ll wait for you to catch up.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Henry said, and pulled a chair back. He took the drink just poured and offered a toast. “Here’s hopin’ you fellers find Jamie and Rachel unharmed.” They drank to that, then poured another. “What did they charge for the bottle?” Henry asked. “I expect to pay for my share of the whiskey.”
“The whiskey’s on me,” Monroe said.
“Why, thank you kindly,” Henry responded. “It tastes better already.” After another drink, he turned his chair at an angle, better to watch the goings-on in the barroom. He seemed especially interested in the painted ladies working the customers. After tossing back another whiskey, he turned back to the table. “Looks like I’m doin’ most of the drinkin’,” he declared.
“You just go right ahead,” Monroe said. “I just wanted to cut the dust a little before going to supper. And I haven’t known Hawk but a short time, but I don’t think he ever takes more than two drinks.” He looked at Hawk, who was idly fiddling with his empty glass. “Is that about right?”
“Most of the time, I s’pose,” Hawk answered, surprised that Monroe had had the opportunity to notice. “Special occasions maybe more,” he added. He enjoyed a drink once in a while, but he had never actually been drunk but once, and he didn’t like the feeling of unsteadiness it had caused. To boot, it left him with a powerful headache and a queasy stomach the next morning. He decided to limit his drinking ever since.
Henry Denson was the opposite. He got drunk any time he had an opportunity, and they didn’t come very often, so he took advantage of Monroe’s generosity. In the short time it took for Monroe and Hawk to finish their drinks and announce it was time to start for the dining room, Henry was riding free and easy on the effects of Sam Ingram’s corn whiskey. “What’s your hurry?” he asked when Hawk and Monroe pushed their chairs back. “It’s still a little early for supper. Let’s have a couple more drinks.”
“We’ll leave the bottle with you,” Monroe said, thinking that was the most likely reason for Henry asking them to stay.
“You are a true gentleman,” Henry said grandly, even as he openly gazed in Gladys Welch’s direction. His sense of morality having been loosened considerably by the whiskey he had so quickly consumed, he began thinking about something else he could buy with the money he had planned to spend on drink. He got to his feet when Monroe stood up and started to leave. “Maybe I’ll see you over at the hotel,” Henry said, and took a few unsteady steps in the direction of the door, but stopped when he reached the poker game and Gladys Welch. Tapping her on the shoulder, he said, “I’ve got almost half a bottle of whiskey back on the table. I’d like to buy you a drink.” Surprised, she turned to give him a looking-over. “You ain’t gonna make no money at this table,” he pressed when she exhibited no interest.
Hanging back for no particular reason, Hawk got to his feet and picked up his rifle at about the same moment Henry stopped to proposition Gladys. That ain’t a good idea, Hawk thought. He’d never seen a man get drunk so soon before. The little woman back home on the farm ought to see her husband now. Thinking it foolish, but having nothing to do with him, he started toward the door after Monroe. He passed the poker table in time to hear Gladys’s response to Henry’s proposal. “Maybe some other time, honey,” she said.
Count yourself lucky, friend, Hawk thought, figuring she had saved the drunken farmer from losing whatever amount of money he had. She had obviously decided there was potential for more money from one of the card players. Hawk had not anticipated the more serious trouble he now noticed in the face of the man seated close to her. “I’ll get your whiskey bottle and you can come on to the dining room with Monroe and me,” Hawk said. “You need some coffee and a little food to straighten you out. You drank a helluva lot of whiskey on an empty stomach. Eat some supper. Then you’ll have yourself a better time with the ladies.” He didn’t particularly care to have supper with Henry, but it appeared that the man was going to find himself in trouble if he stayed in the saloon much longer. So he went back and picked up the whiskey bottle from the table.
Unfortunately, it was already too late to avoid trouble. It came in the form of a large, ham-fisted drifter who answered to the name Rafe. Already suffering a losing streak in the card game, he threw in yet another losing hand when the man to his right raised. Hawk could see the look of irritation in the man’s face as he scowled at Henry, still standing stupidly at Gladys’s elbow. “Come on, Henry, let’s get us some supper,” Hawk pressed, guessing that Rafe was looking for some way to vent his anger. And Henry looked to be an easy outlet.
“Henry don’t want no damn supper,” Rafe snarled. “Henry wants to sneak off with my woman. Ain’t that right, Henry?” The card game came to an abrupt pause as the players became immediately alert to the possibility of trouble about to happen. After a long moment of silence, one of the men tried to defuse the situation. “Ah, he ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, Rafe. He’s just a drunk sodbuster that don’t know what he’s doin’.”
With an opinion of her own, Gladys spoke up. “I didn’t know I was your woman, anyway. I sure as hell couldn’t tell it by the amount of money you’ve spent with me.”
“Shut up, bitch,” Rafe growled, and fixed the stunned farmer with an accusing eye. “He knows what he’s doin’, don’tcha, sodbuster? You figure you’re man enough to take her from me?” He rose to his feet then and stepped away from the table.
“He ain’t wearin’ no gun,” one of the other players said.
“Well, somebody get him one,” Rafe bellowed, “or I’m gonna shoot him where he stands.” Henry took an unsteady step backward. Soaring high just moments before on the wings of the whiskey he had downed, he now found himself sobering quickly.
When Hawk had not followed him out the door, Monroe waited a few moments, then stepped back inside to see why. Astounded to discover Henry standing frozen, staring at the brawny drifter like a prairie dog trapped by a rattlesnake, Monroe glanced quickly at Hawk. The rangy scout was standing a couple of steps behind Henry, calmly holding the whiskey bottle, watching the confrontation between him and the man who had called him out. When it became obvious that Henry was too frightened to move, Hawk walked over and nudged him with his elbow. “Come on, Henry,” he said, and pushed him in the direction of the door. Rafe took a step to the side to block him, but Hawk stepped between them. “Let him be, mister,” he said to Rafe. “He ain’t out to cause you no trouble. Take your losin’ out on somebody else. He don’t even wear a gun.” He gave Henry a little shove between his shoulder blades to get him started toward the door.
“Maybe I’ll take it out on you for stickin’ your nose in,” Rafe threatened, still in search of satisfaction.
Thinking he had been as patient as he could manage, Hawk said, “Get on back to your cards and quit lookin’ for an excuse to shoot somebody.” It was enough to ignite the spark of anger Rafe needed to pull his weapon. It wasn’t halfway out of his holster when the whiskey bottle in Hawk’s right hand flattened his nose, dropping him to the floor in a heap. “Damn,” Hawk said, looking in surprise at the unbroken bottle. “That’s a pretty stout liquor bottle.” He changed hands then, switching his rifle over to his right while he sized up the other men at the table. When there appeared to be no interest on the part of the card players to take up Rafe’s cause, he followed Henry to the door, aware of Monroe’s pistol out of his holster and ready to use if necessary.
Outside, a nearly sober Henry Denson changed his mind about staying the night in Helena. He decided he’d had enough of the wide-open town and preferred to drive home after dark. “That’s a wise decision,” Monroe said. “I expect it’ll please your wife to see you drove home after dark because you were concerned about your family.”
“How you feelin’?” Hawk asked. “You want some help to hitch up your wagon?”
Henry declined the help, suddenly anxious to get started for home, although it was fairly obvious to Hawk that a good deal of the whiskey he had downed might soon make another appearance. “I got a room already paid for,” Henry said, and reached in his pocket for the key. “Number three, first room at the top of the stairs. It’ll save you from havin’ to rent one.”
“I appreciate it, Henry,” Monroe said, “but I insist on paying you for it.” Henry made a weak effort to refuse before graciously accepting the money. “Don’t you want to get a little supper before you start back?”
“Thank you just the same,” Henry replied, the thought of eating something threatening to trigger an upheaval in his stomach. “But I’d best be gettin’ started, else it’s gonna be pretty late by the time I get home.” He shook hands with both Hawk and Monroe and took his leave.
They waited only a moment to watch him hurry away to the blacksmith shop where his mules were corralled. “He sure sobered up quick when that jasper called him out,” Monroe said. “I expect we’d best get along to the dining room before the bastard gets on his feet and comes looking for you.”
“I reckon,” Hawk agreed.
They turned and headed for the hotel and the dining room next to it. “Seems to me you make a new friend in every town we visit,” Monroe remarked as they walked, referring to the belligerent drifter Hawk left behind them on the saloon floor, his nose flattened. “Is that a regular thing with you?”
“Well, it ain’t been,” Hawk said. “Leastways not till I made your acquaintance. Maybe you’ve got the sign of bad luck on you. I’m a peaceable man, myself.”
Monroe laughed in response to Hawk’s japing. “Maybe so,” he joked. “But I believe we’re gonna have to give Henry the credit for this one. I’ve never seen a man get that drunk so quick.”
“He sobered up just as fast, too,” Hawk saw fit to comment.
* * *
Hawk, a naturally light sleeper, was disturbed only once during the night when he was awakened by the sounds of a man collecting his saddle from the tack room. He had a friend with him and was noisily explaining to him that he needed his horse even if he had not paid his stable rent. Unaware of the man sleeping two stalls over, he insisted, “Bowen knows I’ll pay him next time I’m in town.”
“I thought you were gonna stay over till tomorrow,” his friend said.
“Hell, so did I,” the obviously irate man fumed. “But I lost every cent I had in that damn poker game, and my credit ain’t no good at the hotel. So I ain’t got much choice, have I? Besides, I can’t hardly breathe through my nose with it flattened all over my face.”
“You need to see the doctor,” his friend advised. “I bet that hurts like hell.”
“Damn right it does, but I’ll have the missus fix it up. She’s used to patchin’ me up.”
Lying quietly in the stall, Hawk listened to the conversation between the two men while holding his Colt .44 in his hand, just in case. When he heard them leading the horse out of the stable, he got up and walked to the door behind them. He waited there until the one called Rafe climbed aboard and rode off up the street and his friend walked toward the saloon. He went back to his stall, replaced his Colt in its holster, and settled down to sleep again.
After a peaceful sleep, he awoke early, so he saddled the horses and waited for Monroe to show up at Sophie’s Diner, right next to Davis House Hotel. When he had left him the night before, they had agreed to eat breakfast at the diner before riding out to Mullan Pass. This was Monroe’s idea, saying that he would like to start out with a good breakfast under his belt. Hawk didn’t insist upon starting out before breakfast for two reasons—Mullan Pass was only about a ten-mile ride from Helena, and Monroe seemed no longer in a hurry to find his brother and sister-in-law. Hawk had finally come to the conclusion that Monroe was convinced that Jamie and Rachel were already dead, surely killed by whoever attacked them. That was the reason he was not in a hurry. He simply wanted to find their remains and, if possible, give them a decent burial. When he had first approached Hawk to help him find them, he still had hopes of finding them alive. Hawk couldn’t help wondering what had changed his mind. As far as Hawk was concerned, as long as he couldn’t find their bodies, there was still hope.
These were the thoughts weighing on Hawk’s mind as he sat at a table in Sophie’s Diner, drinking coffee. He had arrived before the dining room opened for breakfast, but had persuaded Sophie Hicks to let him wait inside until it was time. Being a gracious lady, Sophie had brought him a cup of coffee, which he truly appreciated. A few minutes before all was ready for the day, she sat down at the table with him and had a cup for herself before she became too busy. Curious, and thinking he didn’t strike her as a cowhand, she asked, “What is it you do for a living, Mr. Hawk?”
“Not much of anything,” he answered, never having given much thought before as to what he might call an occupation. “This and that, as long as it ain’t against the law, I reckon.” She shook her head in wonder and smiled. He took it the wrong way. “Oh, don’t worry, I can pay for my breakfast.”
“I never thought that you couldn’t,” she quickly replied. “I wouldn’t have let you in the door if I had thought that.”
“’Preciate it,” he said. “What about yourself? How’d you get set up here, runnin’ a dining room? Right next to the hotel, too. You got a husband back there in the kitchen?”
“No,” she said, laughing at his innocent brashness. “My sister, Gracie, owns Davis House. Her husband built it. He built this place, too, before he was killed in an accident with a runaway wagon three years ago. Gracie and I took over the two businesses. We’re partners in both of them.”
“I’ll be . . .” he started. “Good for you.” He nodded his approval. “So you’re Gracie’s sister, Sophie Davis.”
She laughed again. “No, Davis is Gracie’s married name. I’m Sophie Hicks.”
“Oh,” he responded, feeling a little dumb for his assumption. “I didn’t think about that.” He shrugged and continued undeterred. “You said you didn’t have a husband back there in the kitchen. You got one somewhere else, back workin’ a ranch or something?” She shook her head no, obviously amused by his questions. “Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with the men around here,” he said. “You’re about the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said sweetly, unable to prevent a blush. His remark was delivered with such innocence that it struck her as sincere. She was tempted to linger awhile longer. “I must say, I’ve enjoyed visiting with you, but now I’ve got to go to work.” She rose to her feet and went to the front door to turn her OPEN sign around. She smiled at him as she passed back by the table on her way to the kitchen. “Time to feed the hungry, Martha,” he heard her say as she disappeared through the doorway. About ten seconds later, Monroe walked in along with a couple of other early risers from the hotel. Reading the sign on the table by the door, he unbuckled his gun belt and deposited it there before joining Hawk.
“Good morning,” Monroe greeted him as he pulled a chair back. “How’d you get in here so early? I saw the horses out front, but the dining room didn’t open till just now.”
“Sophie let me come in and have some coffee while she was gettin’ ready to open,” Hawk replied.
“I see she didn’t insist that you leave your rifle by the door.”
“No, she didn’t say nothin’ about it.”
Monroe smiled, remembering the stoic woman named Sadie in the hotel dining room back in Bozeman. She had allowed Hawk to hang on to his rifle there as well. He was beginning to wonder if his scout had a special effect on single women. If that was the case, he was convinced that Hawk wasn’t aware of it. That was another side of the man and it seemed to Monroe that the more time he spent with the soft-spoken, easygoing scout, the less he knew about what made him tick. “Did you have a good night?”
“Sure did,” Hawk answered. “How ’bout yourself?” Monroe said that he did.
Eggs fried in bacon grease, salt-cured ham, fried potatoes, and strong black coffee, served with two biscuits the size of road apples; Hawk decided it was a breakfast worth the late start on the trail. He and Monroe both did proper justice to the food served and when they were sated and walked out the door, Sophie smiled at Hawk and said, “Come see me when you’re back in town.” Monroe shook his head in wonder and followed him to the horses.