Montana abbott 1, p.2
Montana Abbott 1, page 2
Something moved in the brush. Montana swung, looked, then approached with caution. His big mule nodded as though in greeting, waggling long ears. The bridle bit was in its mouth, the reins dragging.
Not far beyond, face down in the grass, he found the dead man. Almost concealed by intervening brush, the body was stiff to the touch, a sure indication that he’d not lived long after their prior meeting. From the way he huddled, oddly clumped, Montana deduced that he’d tumbled from the mule after being shot in the back. The wound tended to confirm that assumption.
As Montana had expected, he was about Montana’s size and build, and he wore Montana’s old clothes.
“But making the change didn’t do you any good,” Montana murmured. “Whoever was after you knew you anyhow—and bushwhacked you, as you knew they intended to.”
Here perhaps was poetic justice, but the near-certainty that the rifle bullet might have found a target in his own back but for chance or mischance was not pleasant. No matter how often a man looked upon death, it was always grisly.
Apparently, the killer had been satisfied with the results of his shot, not approaching to disturb the body or steal the mule. Montana turned the dead man so that he could see the face, but it brought no recognition. There was a superficial resemblance to his own, but it was not close enough to be striking.
Methodically he made an examination. There were no papers, nothing which furnished any clue to the dead man’s identity. But in one of the pockets he found several more gold pieces.
Pondering, Montana took them. In normal times, such a death should be reported to the authorities. But these times were far from average; also, he doubted if there would be any proper officials to whom a report might be made. Doing so would not help the dead man, and it might put more hindrances in the way of his own homecoming.
He solved the dilemma to his own satisfaction, carrying the body to the bank of Wildcat Run, where high water, probably a flash flood, had undercut the nearer bank. Tucking the dead man back into the shady recess, he jumped on the shaky soil above, caving it down. It was an adequate grave, better than many an honest soldier had received after the sweep of battle across a field.
“Rest in peace, friend,” he adjured softly. “Perhaps I’ll learn something more one of these days, maybe even find a way to take action—not that it makes much difference to you now, I guess.”
It was pleasant to be astride his mule again, as he had long since acquired an aversion to walking. Boy and man, he’d pretty much lived on a horse’s back, and the armies, appreciating his skill, had each assigned him to the cavalry. He was not out of place, clad again in the uniform of a captain of cavalry.
Willow Run appeared to have slumbered through the years of strife, unchanged and uncaring. Montana tied his mule to a chewed hitching rail and eyed the only restaurant hungrily. Its paint had been weathered to a ghostly grayness, but it seemed still in business, except that it lacked more than an hour of noon. So he crossed instead through soft dust to the barbershop; the dim interior was pleasant after the bright sun of the street.
Old Zeb Porter rose wheezily from his bench by the window and took up his shears. There was no recognition in his glance, though he addressed the uniform politely.
“You want a ha’cut, Cap’n, or mebby more?” he inquired, still without any show of interest.
“Haircut and shave,” Montana instructed, settling himself in the chair. His whiskers had gone several days untended. “Leave my mustache and sideburns.”
It was pleasant to relax, while Zeb worked and the long accumulation of hair grown on the trail littered the floor. A fly buzzed, skimming near the ceiling, and the increasing heat of midday crowded the room. Finally Zeb held a small mirror so he could inspect himself, and he regarded his smooth face with mild pleasure. Zeb stared, and equal surprise and pleasure spread over his own face.
“Why, why—bless my soul and bootlaces, if it ain’t Bill Abbott!” he exclaimed. “Just at first there I didn’t know you, not with you grown to a man and an officer and all. You’re back, boy—and a captain to boot! Well, for everlasting! Welcome back, Cap’n Abbott!”
Knowing Zeb as he did, Montana wondered how much of the warmth of that greeting was occasioned by the officer’s uniform, and how much by himself. Not that it mattered. He saw no reason to explain that in a sense, he was masquerading, wearing a uniform not his own. That was no one’s business, and such a disclosure would undoubtedly lead to trouble.
The barber required only a little encouragement to regale him with much of the local history which had taken place since his going away half a decade before.
“Mostly, things have been kind of quiet here, leastways in comparison with what I reckon you’ve been accustomed to,” he observed, and there was something oblique and sly in his tone and his glance. “But things do happen. I reckon you knew about your Ma’s passin’ a couple of years after you left. She hadn’t been well for quite a while. Sort of pined—maybe worryin’ about you. She was a mighty fine woman—mighty fine.
“Your Pa soon followed her. By then, manpower was getting mighty scarce, which caused problems, but your brother Tom managed to keep the place up, even with that bad arm of his.” The arm had been broken when he had fallen from a horse as a boy, and had been stiff and partially useless since. “Quite a job for him, but he managed—till that accident about a year ago.”
“Accident?” Montana repeated.
“Didn’t you know? Team ran away; wagon tipped over. When they found him, he was pinned under the box, pretty bad stove up. He’s just gettin’ so he can walk now. Threw his crutches away no more’n a week back.”
“I’ve had no news for a couple of years,” Montana explained tightly. “Is he here in town?”
“Yeah. Had to have a lot of nursin’. Reckon he’ll be glad to see you.”
That would explain in part what Montana had seen the day before. With Tom helpless, the ranch would be taken over. Accidents happened—or sometimes they were contrived.
“So, with him helpless, Watson moved in.”
Porter nodded wheezily, his gaze drifting from the tight set of Abbott’s jaw to the handsome uniform with awe and respect.
“Yeah, Watson sort of took over,” he acknowledged. “He gave out that he’d bought the outfit, for debts, through old Judge MacKinnon. Tom, he claims it was cheatin’, and not legal. But I guess he was so sick he was out of his head for a while.”
“MacKinnon, eh,” Montana repeated. “I’ll have to have a word with him. He still have the same office?”
The tone, like the question, was quiet, but Porter’s jowls quivered at the sharp backward jerk of his head. He remembered reacting in much the same fashion, many years before, to the sudden warning of a rattlesnake coiled almost at his feet.
“Yeah—the judge hangs out at the same place.” Porter’s’ voice took on a note of relief. “There’s Tom now, comin’ down the street.”
Chapter Three
Montana moved quickly to the door, then paused. Familiar as he was with the ravages of illness, this was shocking. Tom Abbott looked and moved like an old man, hobbling in the sun. He halted, staring with slow disbelief as Montana stood before him, raising a hand as though to clear his eyes. His voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Bill!” he said. “It ain’t—it can’t be!”
It was easy to understand how Watson had taken over the ranch, but hope began to renew itself in Toms eyes once he was assured that he was not the last of the Abbotts, and a dead end, at that. They crossed the weed-grown street to Charley’s Place, watched covertly by furtive eyes. The restaurant looked run down, matching everything else in Texas. A long strand of cobweb dangled from the ceiling, picked out by the sun’s rays as they were filtered by a dirty window. The lower pane had been broken and replaced with a cracked board. The screen door was rusty and full of holes, so that flies clustered about the table.
There were two customers besides themselves, one a lean and hungry-looking man who wolfed his food, glancing up to eye them sharply, then going back to the business in hand. The other was Judge MacKinnon, grayer, portly, resembling a not too sleek badger. With a napkin tucked under his triple chins, he was clearly enjoying the repast set before him. He was alone at a small table, on which was food enough to serve several. It was apparent that MacKinnon, contrary to the rule, had prospered.
He directed a brief glance their way, nodding slightly to Tom, eying Montana with no sign of recognition. It was not until old Charley emerged from the kitchen, stumping on a wooden peg, and exclaimed, that the judge looked up again, then choked on a mouthful of steak.
“You gentlemen want dinner?” Charley began. Then his voice changed to a mixture of surprise, disbelief and welcome. “Bill Abbott—I beg pardon, suh! Cap’n Abbott!”
“How are you, Charley?” Montana stood and extended his hand, warming to the cordiality of the old man’s beaming face. “Sure, bring us something good, Charley.”
“I’ll do that, Major, and it’s a pleasure to welcome you back. We—what I mean is, some folks were beginning to wonder, it being so long, and not having heard from you—”
“It’s a long way from Virginia to Texas,” Montana returned, “especially by way of Montana.” He was aware of the sudden taut silence as he added the last, and Charley glanced expectantly toward the judge, then stumped back to the kitchen.
MacKinnon scraped his chair back, whether to call a greeting or make a sudden departure was unclear. Thinking better of it, he went on with his meal, a man clearly ill at ease. Presently he sidled out, leaving a slab of pie untouched, his plate only half-emptied.
“Looks like the judge wasn’t too hungry today,” Tom observed, and his voice was stronger, more confident. “He usually enjoys his food and eats for another half-hour.”
“What happened to you—and the ranch, Tom?” Montana asked.
It was the sort of story he expected, which was already becoming all too commonplace not only in Texas but through much of the southland. While he lay too ill to resist, Watson had moved in and taken over. MacKinnon had provided an aura of legality with sonorous phrases and the claim of a mortgage, long overdue.
“But Pa never put any such mortgage on the land,” Tom said angrily. “I know that. But I couldn’t do anything, and now—” He shrugged; then his tone changed. “Now that you’re back, maybe something can be done.”
“We’ll get the ranch back,” Montana promised. “You’ll be able to run it again.”
“Why not the two of us? I was hoping you’d stay—” His voice trailed off on an uncertain note. Montana shook his head.
“It’s your ranch,” he said. “I’ll be heading back North one of these days.”
“Meaning that it wouldn’t support more than one of us? I guess you’re right. Men are cattle-poor, with no market. Now they’re being killed for their hides, and at that, they’re hardly worth the trouble.”
“They tell me there’s a market in Missouri, Tom. Low prices for beef, but good enough to make you well off if you took a herd and sold it there.”
Tom smiled tiredly.
“I’m in no shape to make such a drive,” he pointed out. “Even if I was, there’s a catch to that. Quite a few ranchers have tried to reach that market. Mighty few have succeeded.”
Montana knew what he meant. Missouri was a long way off, and such a drive to market would have to be made through a wild and inhospitable land; country infested with men as wild as the mavericks, outlaws, scourings from both armies, who exacted a price from any who sought to cross range which they arrogantly proclaimed as their own. At best, their toll was so heavy as to wipe out any profit. More often than not, the outlaws took entire herds, murdering the drovers.
The hungry-looking man scraped his chair around to join in the conversation.
“That’s for sure,” he observed bitterly. “If it was just a case of getting a herd and driving it to market, I could be rich, ’fore the summer’s over. There’s cattle for the taking, and men and horses for the job. But there’s no use even thinking about driving to that market. Everybody knows how those varmints work. Somewhere along the route, they strike. All they have to do is wait, and pick and choose. They got all the advantage, and those renegades are meaner’n a blind rattlesnake. Most men with any sense would rather stay poor than die in such fashion.”
“Such as?” Montana prompted.
“Such pretty little tricks as crucify in’ a man on a wagon wheel—then setting the wheel a-rollin’! Or stakin’ a man out alongside a rattler, the snake staked just beyond strikin’ distance of his face, with a rawhide thong run through a cut in its skin, just back of the head. Havin’ such a critter jump at you can be bad enough, but finally the thong stretches, or the skin tears—things like that.”
Charley edged in from the kitchen. “But why?” he asked. “What possible excuse is there for such savagery?”
“Mister, most of those outlaws have been killers for so long that they like it. And they’re so far beyond the pale of the law that they can’t ever go back to a decent life.” His eyes flicked palely over Montana with a strange gleam; then he went on, “So that gives them a chance to take out their pizen hate on anybody they can catch.”
He added another, even more convincing reason.
“Generally they know that anybody coming up from Texas is as poor as Job’s turkey. But just supposin’ a man has a lot of luck, and gets all the way, sells his stock, and has a pile of money to take back. How is he to get it back past them vultures? A man can try hidin’ it—maybe hollow out a place in the wagon frame, or even have false soles on a pair of boots. I reckon a fellow could come up with any number of ingenious methods to hide the stuff. But the ways they have of loosenin’ a man’s tongue—” He shivered.
“You know of anybody that such things have actually happened to?” Charley persisted.
“I’ve talked to a couple. Somehow they lived to get back, but not much longer. Most never make it back. Oh, it’s a bad nest of devils, all across that country. There’s the Border Witch—and Abbott—” he stared hard, his gaze unchanging, then went on – “and plenty others, each a little meaner’n the rest.”
Abruptly he turned and left the restaurant. Montana did not inquire concerning this renegade namesake. He had not missed the suspicion, the implication that, turning up after a long absence, coming down from that same country, he might be one of the outlaws.
Already he had made up his mind. His first job was to get Tom back on the old ranch, back in business. There was just one way really to put him on his feet again. He would take a herd to Missouri. There were big risks, as the hungry man had pointed out, but with the dangers were compensations.
There would come a time when the Yankee government would take care of such predators, putting a stop to outlawry, but that day was not yet. After the disorganization of war, with large sections of the country in ruin, law and order could not be restored in a day. When that happened, the markets would be open. But then the vast herds would move fast and freely, and the market would be flooded; prices would plummet. Now was the time to cash in—for anyone able or bold enough to get cattle to an eager market.
Having survived the years of war, Montana figured he was as tough as any of the lawless breed. Where there was dying to be done, at least it would not be one-sided. He would get a herd through.
He had an added advantage—some knowledge of the general route. Not only had he come down through that lawless land this spring, but he had traveled much of that stretch as a youth, before the eruption of war. Such knowledge might make all the difference.
“We’ll go talk with the judge,” he informed Tom, “get you back on the ranch; then I’ll round up a herd and take it to Missouri.”
Chapter Four
Montana stood and looked about in the sharp wash of the sunshine, Tom beside him. Some of his confidence was transferring itself to his brother. Even so, it was a strange homecoming. He was aware of the sharp, suspicious scrutiny which his fancy revolvers attracted, and it came to him that he was definitely under suspicion as this outlaw named Abbott who was a terror of the strip. It would be a waste of breath either to explain or deny the identification.
They moved to MacKinnon’s office, finding it empty. Zeb Porter, moving past, paused.
“Likely you’ll find him in The Texas,” he suggested. “I saw him duck in there, soon as he came out from eatin’. Usually he waits till the middle of the afternoon for a drink, but mebby he’s worked up a thirst.”
The big saloon was all but empty. MacKinnon was at a small table, a half-empty bottle before him. He started nervously at sight of the Abbotts, then seized the bottle for a long deep gulp. He was wiping his mustache, looking up uneasily at their approach. Shoving back his chair, he got uncertainly to his feet.
“Uh—it’s Captain Abbott, isn’t it? This is indeed a surprise, suh—a pleasant one, of course. Particularly for you, eh, Tom? Welcome back to Texas, Captain. Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?”
“Why, yes, there is. There are matters to be talked over, MacKinnon.” Montana ignored the outthrust hand, as pointedly omitting the complimentary title of ‘Judge.’
“I hope my return didn’t spoil your appetite,” he added.
“Spoil my—heh, heh, now that’s a good one. But this is a surprise. Somehow I couldn’t believe that my eyes were not playing tricks on me. It has been generally accepted in the community, suh, that you were not coming back—though the name of Abbott has not been forgotten nor neglected.” He tempered the illusion with a suave shrug. “I mean, many of our gallant lads who marched away have failed to return.”
