Montana abbott 1, p.1
Montana Abbott 1, page 1
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Montana Abbott had tested his courage on the bloody battlefields of the Civil War, sharpened his killer instincts in savage hand-to-hand fighting and had seen enough slaughter to last him forever.
But he had promised to drive his brother’s cattle to Missouri and knew he’d have to use all his lethal skills to get back alive. For the trail was held by hostile Indians, who’d had sooner butcher a white man as a cow, and outlaws who had killed for so long, they enjoyed it. Montana figured that if there was any dying to be done, he’d take a lot of men with him.
MONTANA ABBOTT 1: THE TEXAN FROM MONTANA
First Published by Manor Books in 1976
Copyright © 1976, 2021 by Running Dog Publishing, LLC
This Electronic Edition: 2021
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Cover Art by Gordon Crabb
Editor: Kieran Stotter
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Chapter One
It was a good country to have behind rather than lying ahead, waiting to be crossed—that haunt of lost and lawless men which some called The Nations. It was big and wide, starkly impressive, at times beautiful. Gila monsters and diamondback rattlers also had elements of stark beauty, but all three were savage and untouchable.
Now the Nations were behind, and Texas was ahead. It was homecoming, in a sense, after the long, bitter years of war. Lee had surrendered.
The warm scents of spring, of earthy, growing things, were pungent in the nostrils. Here, where only the backwash of war had touched, was a deceptive air of peace and security, golden with promise. Jogging bareback astride a big mouse-colored mule, Montana Abbott resisted the impulse to kick his steed into a run. It was better to cover the miles at a steady pace, but to keep a reserve of speed and energy against the need of possible emergencies.
Fate had its odd quirks, like dark laughter. Two letters had reached him on the same day, delivered at Bozeman, Territory of Montana. One had been his discharge from the Union army, making him his own man again after the long years of war. It meant release, a chance, to search and explore, perhaps to find a fortune in the gold camps…
Such thoughts had been in his mind, but the second letter was a checkmate. It had been a long time on its way, usually weeks or months behind him, finally catching up—the first word from home in more than two years.
The news it contained was grim, though not unexpected. There had been a lung fever in part of Texas during the late summer and fall of ’63. Lung fever was as good a name as any for the ravage of epidemics. Both his father and mother had succumbed.
His brother Tom had survived the scourge, but now he was no more than half a man. Writing the news, Tom had said he hoped that Bill would live to return to the ranch on the San Saba. What he did not say was starkly implied between the lines. The once prosperous ranch was on the verge of bankruptcy, cattle poor as was all of Texas.
Wasting no time, he had set out, taking the long trail south. The home ranch was not for him, nor would it ever be. He had been named William Montana Abbott, and now he was known as Montana, which to him was both satisfying and fitting. He belonged to Montana, and in it; it had become his country.
But he owed it to Tom to pay him a visit, to help him if he could. That came first.
One emergency had arisen suddenly, amid a leafy meadow, some days before. Trouble was there, and he’d ridden straight into it.
That he might avoid it had occurred to him, but only as a passing thought. Experience had taught him that playing at being a Good Samaritan was usually a thankless job and dangerous one. But men and women were there, under attack by a scurvy crew who could be designated as outlaws or renegades if one were prone to understatement. The presence of women in such a situation was reason enough for him to act, and to cap it he’d heard the frightened wail of a child—
A folly even bigger than his must have led the train of three wagons into such inhospitable country. Even a modicum of good sense indicated that at least ten times three should band together for reasonable safety. But there they were, three wagons only and under siege, and it was too late for other considerations.
The element of surprise sometimes played a big part, as he had learned as an officer of cavalry. Here he was only one man, but at least he was a big one and not expected. He charged into the fray with a wild rebel yell, giving the impression there were at least half a dozen men with blasting guns.
He hadn’t done too badly. Before the outlaws understood, they had panicked and retreated, and the trio of wagons had succeeded in getting under way, through a narrow neck between the hills where the odds had been heavily against them. The last he’d seen, all of them with their occupants had been at a wild run, vanishing in the distance.
Some of the startled attackers had rallied, and it had been hot work while it lasted. He’d found himself unhorsed, forced to fight on foot, his revolver empty, swinging a clubbed rifle. Before that terrible flailing the remnant had scattered, but only in the nick of time. He’d stumbled and gone down from a clout to the skull which brought night in the middle of the day even as they broke.
By the time he was able to shake off the dizziness and get unsteadily to his feet, he was alone. The horse with which he’d set out from Montana was gone, strayed or stolen. The clubbed rifle was broken, useless.
Partly by way of compensation, he’d come upon the mule, standing motionless, big ears tipped forward, sheltered by a clump of trees and brush. He guessed that it had been with the wagons, breaking loose during the attack, sagaciously keeping out of sight.
Now he rode tall, showing a soldierly carriage despite the lack of a saddle and the weariness brought about by an endless trail. The gaunt look induced by years of war was gradually being replaced by a taut but healthy leanness, and his mustache above a clean-shaven face had a rakish tilt. There was a whimsical set to his mouth, an easy swing to his broad shoulders.
He was getting deep into Texas. Spring had exhibited its usual capriciousness as he journeyed, blowing hot one moment, rawly cold the next. But here, along the middle reaches of the San Saba, it seemed to have made up its mind, nestling snugly in the hollows, where the full green of spring lay tossed like a rumpled blanket. In the smiling sun was the promise of summer. The aches and stiffness of the cold years of war seemed lifted from his bones.
He was returning to Texas with almost the same worldly goods as when he’d left the clothes on His back, a mule instead of a horse between his legs. Remembered landmarks brought an unexpected lump to his throat. Home lay just over the hill.
He flinched at the sound of guns booming in the distance. Guns were an old story, but these were different. Texas was vast and stuffed with potential wealth, but like most of the South, it lay prostrate, gripped by poverty. Overrun with vast herds of cattle for which there was no market, peace—or the end of war had brought what some called opportunity, others a plague.
Hides could be sold to Gulfport packing houses or traded for lumber, for other desperately needed goods from the South, perhaps even from the North. So men were shooting cattle, killing them for their hides.
To Montana that seemed a dreadful waste, almost wanton slaughter. Cattle were meat as well as skin. But to get them to a market where the meat would bring a market price was so hazardous as to be counted impossible.
Water made a glint in the sun, a small stream crowding close beside the road. Wildcat Run. Many a time he’d fished it as a boy, wandering barefoot.
The mule turned and dipped its nose gratefully into a pool, and Montana swung down, easing the stiffness of outthrust legs about the barrel of the mule, strongly aware of the sweat and grime. He drank at a spot upstream, then frowned down at the reflection in the clear waters. Somehow, thinking back to the boy who had ridden away long years before with high hopes and the thrill of adventure, he felt as if he were meeting a stranger.
The crisp mustache was reddish and with a jaunty curl, in contrast to the black hair above, in which hints of frost mocked the memory of the boy. The eyes could warm to match the sky, but that was the only similarity to the youthful eyes. The hope had mostly washed away, leaving them with the calculation of a man who had companioned too long and often with death. The lines of the mouth, tight-set below the mustache, suggested a quality of relentlessness unknown to the boy.
Half a decade had produced changes, but he was one of the lucky ones. At least he had survived, and to the outward glance he was sound of wind and limb. A saber scar was hidden by his shirt, and its sharp slash had missed his heart, though by a scanter margin than either he or his opponent had planned. A Minié ball had passed through the muscles of his upper left arm, again missing his heart by inches, but the arm, aside from recurrent aches on cold nights, was as strong if not as supple as before. A bayonet thrust had left him with only a slight limp, noticeable at day’s end when he was overly tired.
& nbsp; He climbed back, and the mule began its patient plodding, topping the rise, halting of its own accord. Montana eased a deeper breath into his lungs. There it was, much as he remembered it—the long, sprawling ’dobe between great trees, thick-walled, massively unlovely, yet with a beauty of its own. The big log barn below, the weathered poles of the corrals and the outbuildings stood intact. Even a twist of smoke rose from the kitchen chimney.
The buildings were nearly a mile away, but Montana’s eyes were keen. Sharp vision was more important than a rifle in a hostile community. A man came from the house, looking around, almost as though he had heard or scented the approach of an enemy. He could hardly have divined Montana’s return, but the listening attitude, of wolf-like wariness, was not to be mistaken. Nor was the face below the big Texas hat, heavy-jowled, beard-stubbled.
“Watson,” Montana murmured. “Jabez Watson on Abbott land. What the devil is he doing there?”
Speak of the devil! In Watson’s case, it was appropriate.
The Watsons had been neighbors of the Abbotts for as long as Montana could remember. Their spread encompassed most of the drainage of Stowaway Creek. They were Texans, and by that token Southerners, but all that was simply a result of geography. The Watsons had given neither loyalty nor service to either the Union or the Confederacy, but solely to die furthering of their own interests.
There had been antagonism and occasionally bad blood between the Watsons and the Abbotts for as long as the rival outfits had crouched along the reaches of the San Saba; but during those years, the Watsons had learned to respect the Abbotts.
What had occurred since Tom had written that letter, that a Watson was now on this spread, acting as though he owned it?
Watson turned back into the house, but reappeared almost at once, and several men came up from the barn at his call. They secured horses, then headed along the road toward where Montana waited. It was hardly possible that Watson could know anything of his return, though it almost seemed as if that were the case. But he was clearly giving the orders.
Pulling his mule behind a screen of trees and brush, Montana watched as the riders came up, then went on past. There were nine, armed and well mounted. Five rode horses with the Flying W brand on their right hips. The others were on cayuses with the A Bar on their right shoulders. All seemed to be from one outfit.
It might be better to ascertain what the existing situation was before riding the rest of the way, or barging in with the questions or demands. A few more hours, after so many years, was not likely to make much difference. But whatever the situation, Montana doubted that Watson would welcome him with much cordiality.
The years had taught him, if not patience, at least the control of impatience. Montana headed away from the road to a half-wild, secluded glen. Here the years had made no change. He picketed the mule, then with hook and line snagged fish from the nearby run. Roasting fish or game had become a ritual of the trail. He ate in the last glow of sunset, then prepared for a few hours of sleep. Once the others were asleep as well, he’d go on for a better look.
He roused at a warning instinct, starting to sit up, to throw back his blanket, but the motion was a second tardy. Something was upon him, silent but savage, beating him down into a blackness darker than the surrounding night; into a pain-shot nightmare where the gloom was complete.
Montana’s head throbbed as though the regimental drummer were beating a tattoo on his skull. He lay for a while, wondering confusedly if he was back on a battlefield. But there were no other wracked bodies as he pried open his eyes; only the clear dawn. Memory returned painfully.
The big mouse-colored mule was gone. The sun, slanting sharply against the ache of his head, was driving away the dew, though he was shivering. The reason for that was all too apparent. The rumpled blanket no longer covered him. He was in his long, ragged underwear and nothing else. His somewhat frayed and worn clothing of the trail was gone, stripped from him while he was unconscious.
A hand to his skull explained the ache as well as the robbery, disclosing a sizable lump and a smear of dried blood. He had been slugged as he struggled to awake.
There were other factors which surprised him. As though left in exchange for his own clothes, a uniform had been tossed, in apparent haste, onto the ground. It was a captain’s uniform, such as he had worn through the first years of the war a Confederate uniform. In contrast with his own clothing, these garments were nearly new, in fairly good shape. There was a hat nearby to complete the outfit.
Montana examined them disbelievingly. Along with the uniform was a pair of revolvers, Colt’s forty-fives. Nor were these ordinary weapons. They were long-barreled, and the handles were of pearl, gold-mounted and fancily embellished.
Chapter Two
Shivering, Montana reached for the discarded uniform and pulled it on, and was not much surprised to find that the outfit fitted him as well as his own had done. The matter of size would have been taken into account by whoever had traded with him so unceremoniously.
Intrigued, he studied the new outfit. The trousers were of regulation bluish-gray, with a gold stripe running up and down. The coat had a broad belt; the sleeves were elaborate with braid. It was fancier than his own had been, more elaborate than the Union blue which he’d worn in the last months of the war, on a fighting rescue mission against the Indians west of the big river.
Under the coat, as though carelessly stripped off, was a cap and a pair of leather gloves. Such uniforms had been fairly common during the early days of the struggle, but had become increasingly rare, as hardship and poverty, together with a lack of goods, compelled even officers to make do with whatever they could come by. Uniforms had often been a weird combination of Yankee and Confederate, in all sizes and designs.
To find such a uniform here, after the war had ended, was doubly strange, though no more so than the fancy guns. They were loaded, well oiled, in excellent condition. Thrown back in the brush, not quite out of sight, was an officer’s artillery belt and holsters for the guns. These, by contrast, appeared plain and worn.
There must have been some compelling reason to cause the wearer to attack him and make the trade under such circumstances, especially to discard so fine a brace of guns. Probably it was because they would be as distinctively recognizable as the uniform. But at least these clothes were warm, in better condition than his own had been after the long journey down from Montana, and for him it was not a matter of choice.
Thrusting his hands into the pockets, he went taut with surprise. This grew to amazed disbelief as he brought the pair of coins into the light. Fingering them, he’d expected silver or copper at the most, but these were gold, each a double-eagle. They jingled pleasantly, and a close look assured him of their genuineness.
He eyed them with increasing wariness. Such hard money would scarcely have been left behind as an oversight. They suggested that the owner of the uniform had not been troubled, like the majority of the defeated army, by any lack of funds. In certain respects, the transaction added up more nearly to a trade than a robbery. At that, it’s no more than my mule was worth, Montana decided. And the money, like the fancy guns and the uniform, might be a trap, making him a marked man. He’d looked for trouble from Watson, but it had come from a totally unexpected source.
He’d better move warily, but move he must. His return to the ranch must be delayed. He’d head instead for Willow Run, the sleepy town of his boyhood days. Yesterday he’d by-passed the town, preferring to arrive at the ranch unannounced. Today there was a difference.
Exercise proved good for his headache, the throbbing gradually subsiding as he swung along, keeping well back from the road. Despite what he had seen at the ranch buildings the day before, the mystery of the night attack and the evidences of hardship which gripped the land, he knew a pleasurable excitement. Once more he was on familiar ground, country where he’d walked and ridden a thousand times. The easy roll of hills, the run of water, sweep of field and meadow were unchanged. So were the herds of cattle, grazing in the distance.
This had been cattle country for as long as he could remember, and now it was even more so. The range had become endangered by overgrazing. Though people had felt the impact of war, Texas cattle had never had it so good. Markets had dried up, blown away by the smoke of battle. Herds which had been pretty well domesticated had been left to run as they pleased, reverting in a few generations almost to the wild. Montana moved behind a screen of brush or through gulches. A man on horseback was safe enough, but on foot he’d attract their interest, and with it, a lively curiosity which might change to hostility. Wild longhorns might run from a man, but they might just as readily run at him, to gore and trample him.
