Blood on the trail, p.3
Blood on the Trail, page 3
He unwrapped the reins from the branch and brought the animals about.
“Come on, girl,” he said to his mare. “Let’s see if we can’t make Silver Cloud by dinner time.”
CHAPTER 4
Zimmerman eyed each of the remaining members of the Hudson Gang who huddled around the large cook fire they had built. They had just finished a delayed breakfast of coffee and biscuits as there had been no time to eat before Halstead had tried to sneak Hudson out of Rock Creek at just before dawn that morning.
There had been ten of them then, Zimmerman recalled. There were eight of them now. He was surprised the men still had appetite enough to eat so much. He supposed even outlaws had to eat sometime.
Night was fast approaching, and the men had settled in for another cold night in the highlands of Montana. Zimmerman wondered how they would handle a night spent out in the elements. The whole gang, including himself, had grown soft in the three months they had occupied Rock Creek. They had grown accustomed to three hot meals a day, shelter from the elements, and the warm company of women whenever they had sought it.
Zimmerman had not been immune. He found himself missing Bridie’s down bed and plush blankets as the cold crept its way into his bones.
He was sad to see all of the remaining men were as uncomfortable on their bedrolls as he was. He was sad to see what they had allowed themselves to become. The Hudson Gang had once been a group of hard-riding, hard-killing men. Their time in Rock Creek had reduced them to a bunch of gun-shy old men pining for the comforts of hearth and home, even if that home had been a whorehouse.
Zimmerman noted that none of the men had said much since the last pistol shot had echoed out from the pines several hours before. There had not been much to say. Their horses were exhausted and needed rest. Halstead had ridden off with their leader, probably headed for Silver Cloud, the next town between here and Helena.
Harry Hudson was dead. His body was still a heap on the ground in the same place where it had fallen. Zimmerman and Bandit had ridden into the pines after they figured Halstead had ridden on. They found Weasel on his back with two neat holes in his heart and two empty shells next to his corpse.
The ground had already frozen over, so burying either of the men was out of the question. They could have found rocks to cover them with, but they all knew it would only be a matter of time before wolves or coyotes dug them out and had at their remains anyway.
Besides, the remaining members of the Hudson Gang were well acquainted with death. They had little honor for the sanctity of life and saw no reason to protect the dignity of the dead.
But as quiet as they may have been, Zimmerman could sense something stirring in the men that had only grown stronger as the sun began to set below the western mountains that surrounded them.
Of all the men, he was surprised Cliff was the first to break the silence by chucking a rock into the fire. “Damn it, boys. If none of you are man enough to say it, I guess I will. Letting that bastard ride off with John after killing Harry and Weasel doesn’t sit well with me. Doesn’t sit well at all.”
Pole was mindlessly making designs in the dirt with a stick. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Just don’t seem right that we’re letting that damned half-breed get away with killing our friends, even if he’s the law.”
“Sets a mighty bad precedent, boys,” Bandit added. “Mighty bad.”
“President?” Mick repeated. “What the hell does President Harrison got to do with any of this?”
Zimmerman enjoyed the puzzled looks Bandit drew from the other men. “Not president. Precedent. You know, like a rule or an example. Letting Halstead live after killing us will make us look bad when word gets out is what I meant.”
“Then say what you mean next time,” Bug yelled. “Don’t go using no ten-dollar words when talking to men without a nickel’s worth of education.”
“Speak for yourself, bug-eyes,” Mick said. “I’ve had my share of schooling. I can even read Latin, by God.”
“Lot of good it’s done you,” Cree said as he pulled his poncho closer around his shoulders. “All that learning, and you’re still dumb enough to be out here freezing your ass off like the rest of us.”
Ace said, “Brains have nothing to do with this, boys. Mick can read Latin. I’ve heard Cree speak Spanish and French. Bandit’s got charm and the rest of us have our own skills. Mine happens to be cards. None of that matters much now. Weasel and Harry are dead and John’s going to hang.” He looked down in his cup and swirled his coffee. “Just bad luck is all.”
“Luck?” Bug glared at him. Zimmerman thought his eyes looked even wilder in the flickering light of the fire. “What’s luck got to do with it? And since when have we ever needed luck to get what we wanted? We didn’t get to be the Hudson Gang by luck. We got it by stepping on anyone who got in our way.”
Zimmerman was glad Ace was cool-headed enough to not rise to Bug’s bait. “And what would you call John shooting the mayor like he did? Good fortune?” He looked at the other men in turn around the fire. “How many times did that old boy give John a good ribbing with never a crossed word between them? Must’ve been dozens of times by my count. John just went along with it and gave it back to him. Nothing but laughs all around. Hell, he had the mayor in his back pocket, so what did he care if he joshed him around a little? We ran that town. What did words matter? But just look at what happened. The mayor told him he had a face only a mother could love on the very anniversary of Mama Hudson’s death.”
Ace looked at all the men around the campfire again. “Out of all the things he could have said and all the days he could’ve said it, he just happened to say that on the wrong day to the wrong man and John took it bad enough to drill him for it.” He held up a finger to prove his point. “You boys might not call that bad luck, but I sure do. And now we’re here, and John’s on his way to hang.” Ace drained his coffee and grabbed the pot to fill his cup. “That’s all there is to it.”
Zimmerman sat in silence, watching the men absorb everything that Ace had told them. They were brutal, violent men. Among the worst sort Zimmerman had ever ridden with save for one man. That man had taught him the importance of cunning, and it was cunning that made him keep his silence now. He did not want to offer his opinion like the others had. He wanted to be asked for it. Only then would he be able to begin to put his plan into action.
Cree was the first one to look at Zimmerman and say, “What about you, Ed? You’re the only one who ain’t said anything yet.”
Zimmerman waited to speak until he saw every man looking at him. “I didn’t know I was riding with a bunch of philosophers all this time.”
The remark made the men laugh and ease some of the tension that had settled over the group. The outlaw who had been his mentor had used humor in times like these and with the same affect. “Every one of you has a point in your own way. Cliff is right. We should’ve run Halstead down and probably caught him, too, if our horses hadn’t been half dead. But I didn’t see any of you in a hurry to charge into those pines after old Harry hit the dirt. Didn’t see anyone in a hurry to go in after we heard that last shot that killed poor Weasel, either. I’m not chastising you boys. I didn’t ride in there blasting, either.”
“No,” Bug said. “You just stood there. Frozen in fear like a damned deer.”
Zimmerman did not allow the notion to sit too long in the minds of the men. “Not frozen and not fearful. I stayed put and watched. I observed. I wanted to see what all of you would do. I watched you run. Even Bug here ran when he got his horse shot out from under him and grabbed Harry’s.”
He leaned forward closer to the fire so the men could get a better look at his face. “But I wasn’t just looking at you boys. I was looking at Halstead, too. Or rather, I was looking where I thought he was. I wanted to see if he was going to take a shot at me after he killed Weasel. He could’ve done it. I was no further away from him than Bug had been when his shot killed his horse. He could’ve drilled me right then and there. He knew he’d rushed the first shot at Bug, but he had plenty of time to aim at me. Probably could’ve hit me square between the eyes if he’d taken the time to try. But he didn’t try.”
“Why do you think that is?” Cliff asked.
“I don’t know,” Zimmerman admitted. “I can only explain why I did what I did. I stayed where I was because I was studying the man. I wanted to see what he’d do. In a way, he told me something about himself. He didn’t shoot me because he didn’t have to. That showed me he’s not some mad-dog killer with a star on his chest. This man’s a thinker. He’s got control.”
“So?” Cree asked.
“So, you can’t go after a thinking man the way you would, say, men like us. You’ve got to go after him carefully or you’ll end up like Harry and Weasel and who knows how many others he’s put a bullet in. I’d say quite a few, seeing how he handled himself out there today.”
“Jesus, Ed.” Bandit took a pull on his flask. “Almost sounds like you admire the son of a bitch.”
“Not admire,” Zimmerman said, “but I do understand him. Or at least I’m beginning to understand him.” He looked into the fire as he decided to share a bit of information that might help his cause. “Had a run-in with his father a while back. Bet you boys didn’t know that. Silent Sim Halstead they called him. He was quite a fighter in his own, quiet way.”
The men now all traded looks. Zimmerman could almost taste their intrigue.
“What happened between you and his old man?” Cree asked.
“You kill him?” Bug added.
Zimmerman shook his head. “No, but one of the men I rode with did. I had already separated from the group by then, but my impression of the man has stuck with me all this time. And if the son is anything like his father, which I believe he is, then I think I know how we can beat him.”
A great chatter rose up from the group as they all began to ask him the same question in their own ways at the same time. All of the babble boiled down to a single word. “How?”
Zimmerman was all too glad to tell them. “By killing him the same way my friend killed his father. By using his sense of duty against him.”
The outlaw smiled as he watched the notion sink in with them. Some reached the conclusion faster than others, but in the end, the decision was the same. If Zimmerman knew how to defeat him, then he was probably the best one to lead them.
Which was what Zimmerman had wanted all along. He could not take command of men like this by force. It had to be their idea or else it would never stick.
And that thought was sticking with them now.
Bug asked, “Think we can still get John sprung free?”
Zimmerman could not have cared less about what happened to the mindless thug, but for now, he served a purpose. “That’s why we’re out here, isn’t it?”
The assurance settled over the men as the possibility of success reached them.
Mick looked at him from across the fire. “Seeing as how you’re the only one whose got an angle on this Halstead fella, I guess that kind of means you’re in charge now, don’t it?”
That was when Zimmerman knew he had them eating out of his hand. His mentor, Alexander Darabont, would have been pleased. “If you insist. And I happen to have an idea about how we could begin to pull him down this very night.”
Cliff squinted at him with his remaining eye. “How?”
Zimmerman pointed at the gambler. “It involves Ace. Now, let me tell you what I’m thinking.”
CHAPTER 5
Dusk was already coming to an end by the time Halstead reached Silver Cloud. He had been able to see the town for a good mile or so away, but the dying light prevented him from making out much detail.
He could tell the town was comprised of one long stretch lined with buildings of every type on either side of the street. The only discernable feature was a clock tower that rose twice as high as any other building in town. He figured it was either a church or a bank since time seemed to be a preoccupation of the faithful or the wealthy.
There did not seem to be much of the town beyond that main thoroughfare, though it was too dark for him to be certain. By then, just the only things he cared about were a jail to house his prisoner, a livery to stow his horse, and a place to sleep for the night. If he managed to find a place where he could get something to eat, all the better. But if not, it would not be the first time Jeremiah Halstead had gone to bed on an empty stomach.
He was glad to see the sign for the County Sheriff’s Office & Jail at the edge of town. He had been in the saddle for most of the day with only one break since his run-in with the Hudson Gang, so the sooner he could walk on his own two feet, the better.
He noticed the jail was across from a saloon that sounded like it catered to a lively crowd. The hand-painted sign on the window said it was The Green Tree Saloon, and he was glad it was in close proximity to the jail. He had never been much of a drinker, but he figured a quick whiskey or two might be just what he needed after such an arduous journey.
Halstead ignored the looks he and his prisoner drew from the few people on the boardwalks on both sides of the thoroughfare as he wrapped Col’s reins around the hitching post in front of the sheriff’s office. After securing the reins of the second mustang to the rail, he produced his father’s Bowie knife from the back of his pants and easily sliced the rope binding Hudson’s feet and legs together beneath the horse. He tucked the knife away as the unconscious prisoner slowly slid back along the saddle until his feet hit the ground. His legs gave way and the rest of him hit the compact dirt of the thoroughfare with a heavy thud. Halstead had not intended for his prisoner to fall but did not care that he had.
Some of the curious townspeople who had been watching him gasped when the bound prisoner hit the ground like a side of beef. Halstead heard the murmurs among the crowd as he nudged Hudson with his boot to get to his feet. The outlaw flailed on the ground as he tried to get up on his own power. Halstead grabbed him by the collar and jerked him to his feet, steering him up the stairs and throwing him through the open door of the sheriff’s office.
The bits of chatter he heard from the crowd was nothing he had not heard before.
“Who does that half-breed think he is, handling a white man like that?”
“Why, it’s a shame what these Indians think they can get away with these days.”
“Wipe ’em off the face of the earth, I say. They’re savages. All of them.”
Halstead heeled the door shut behind him. Such words had lost their effect on him long ago.
He was surprised to see both desks empty since the front door had been open. “Hello? Anyone here?”
Hudson was trying to say something, but still had the gag in his mouth. While still holding him by the collar with his right hand, Jeremiah pulled down the gag with his left.
Hudson flexed his jaw now that it was finally free of the gag that had bound him since morning. “Looks like you picked a great place to hole up in, marshal.”
Jeremiah pushed Hudson toward one of the chairs against the wall and, by some miracle, he managed to sit in it without falling down. “Keep your mouth shut, Hudson, or the gag goes back on. And I’m a deputy, not the marshal. You’ll be seeing him soon enough at your hanging.”
Normally, he would not have allowed a prisoner to sit without being tied to the chair, but Hudson was so dizzy from spending the day slung over a saddle that Halstead knew he was in no shape to go anywhere.
He walked to the door that he figured led back to the cells. He tried to open it, but found it locked. He looked through the small notch cut in the door to see if the sheriff or his deputy might be back there tending to a prisoner, but the cells were empty. A ring of iron keys hung on a nail next to the door.
Where is everyone?
He got his answer when a voice behind him said, “Don’t you move a muscle, chief, or I’ll blow you right through that door.”
Halstead cursed his foolishness. It served him right for turning his back to the front door, even if it had only been for a second. Mackey would have been mighty sore about the oversight. Uncle Billy, too.
Halstead did not hold up his hands but held them away from his sides in plain view. “My name’s Jeremiah Halstead, and I’m a deputy United States Marshal.”
“So, you say. How do I know for sure?”
Halstead did not turn around. “You Sheriff Boddington?”
“What if I am?”
“Then you must’ve gotten a telegram from Marshal Aaron Mackey telling you that I was coming and bringing the prisoner John Hudson with me.”
“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t,” Boddington said. “So how about you turn around real slow, chief, so we can get a better look at you?”
Jerry complied and turned around as slowly as he could manage. He made sure he kept his hands away from the Colt on his hip and the other holstered above his belt. He stopped turning when he faced Boddington fully. The silver deputy marshal star was clearly pinned on the lapel of Halstead’s black coat.
He saw Sheriff Barry Boddington aiming a shotgun at his belly. He was a stocky man in his late thirties or early forties. He sported black hair and a thick black moustache. His brown duster coat was filthy with coal dust, and his brown shirt looked as if it may have been white once upon a time. If it had not been for the sheriff star pinned to his vest, Halstead could have easily taken this man for a member of the Hudson Gang.
A fat, pink-faced deputy stood in the left side of the doorway behind Boddington. His gunbelt hung well below a massive stomach, and his pistol was aimed at Jeremiah’s head.
A crowd had gathered behind them. Men and women pressed their faces against the glass to get a good view of what was happening inside the jail. Why a jail would have such a large window was beyond him and a question to be answered later.
Boddington let out a low whistle as he looked over Halstead. He took his time taking him in. The black pants and the black coat and the flat brimmed black hat that shielded his eyes. But it was the silver handles of the Colts on his hip and belly that drew his admiration. “You don’t look like no marshal I ever saw.”
