High Country Justice

By Robert Kammen

It was called the pass of death, this deep and rock-strewn canyon the small band of horsemen followed up the mountainside. Down in the foothills patches of snow had reached no higher than the fetlock of a horse, but up here in the pine forest of the mountain the horses struggled through belly-deep snow; on the barren places their shod hooves clattered over frozen hardpan. It was about an hour on the dark side of sunup, but the sky was beginning to clear eastward. Except for the sheriff of Red Bluff, his deputy, and the five hired guns, the others were cowhands who worked for Cyrus Danford, the big man riding the rangy sorrel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Longhorn Publishing
• Release date: May 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227247889

Book preview

-One-

It was called the pass of death, this deep and rock-strewn canyon the small band of horsemen followed up the mountainside. Down in the foothills patches of snow had reached no higher than the fetlock of a horse, but up here in the pine forest of the mountain the horses struggled through belly-deep snow; on the barren places their shod hooves clattered over frozen hardpan. It was about an hour on the dark side of sunup, but the sky was beginning to clear eastward. Except for the sheriff of Red Bluff, his deputy, and the five hired guns, the others were cowhands who worked for Cyrus Danford, the big man riding the rangy sorrel.

The Deputy, Boney Tilden, knew that once the day came fully upon the land, a bitter wind would come curling down through the pass. He was a slat-faced and reedy man with red blotches showing through the matted gray-brown beard, and the only man wearing a buffalo coat, which was as shabby as the rest of his gear. Tilden rode hunkered forward in the saddle and kind of awkwardly, with the heavy weight of the whiskey bottle in his coat pocket a constant reminder that he craved a drink. An irritated tug at the reins brought his horse toward the drop-off side of the track. He stared down at a mountain stream cascading along the canyon floor. The darkness and the deep snow below concealed the bleached bones of horses and cattle.

He’s crazy, Boney Tilden muttered as his red-rimmed eyes lifted to the solid walls of rock guarding the top of the pass. Plumb loco.

How many years had he been up there—-ten, a dozen?—-this crazy Scotsman the Blackfeet called the Watcher. Last spring one of Danford’s hands, a Kansan named Cadle, had been killed, and three others wounded, in the rancher’s attempt to drive a herd up into the valley. In the years before, others had tried to kill the Scotsman. One year, Danford had sent up a former scout for the Army, a full-blooded Cree, only to have the Indian return hip-shot and roped to his saddle.

Tilden grabbed a handful of mane and spurred his horse through a snowbank; in the cleared space beyond he yanked back sharply on the reins to keep from running into the rider in front of him. He felt a little better when he rode into deeper shadows cast by some Douglas firs.

Hey, Boney, bet you wish you was back at Red Bluff, said the hand riding behind Tilden at the end of the column.

The deputy hawked spleen into his mouth and spat it down at the track. If it wasn’t for Danford putting up that thousand dollars for the Scotsman’s scalp, we’d all be back there, he retorted derisively. Unlike the others, Boney Tilden had no quarrel with the Scotsman. Before his deputying days, he’d been a handyman, mostly working at the stable or swamping out some saloon. When Sheriff Hack Wycliffe ordered him to saddle their horses, he’d been tempted to hand in his badge. Now, as he rode into the clear again, and though he was only a vague shadow among other shadowy forms, the fear in him surfaced, with only the little pride he had left keeping him in line. When those riding at the front of the cavalcade disappeared behind a rocky promontory, Tilden pulled out the whiskey bottle.

Figured you had a bottle stowed away, Boney.

He removed the cork and took a long drink. Twisting in the saddle, he handed the bottle back to the hand and remarked testily, Guess I ain’t the only one needing some liquid courage.

Though there were some newcomers, Boney Tilden knew most of the hands working for Cyrus Danford’s Rocking D spread. They were a close-mouthed bunch, handy with a gun or a running iron, and if one of them got hurt so that he couldn’t do his chores, he was let go. It was rumored that Danford’s segundo, Curly Hardin, had killed a sodbuster up Piney Creek way.

Good riddance, he thought, for in his opinion sodbusters were worse than sheepherders, tearing up the land that way, stringing that damnable barbed wire. Once he’d seen a good cutting horse gutted by wire when its rider tried to bring some stampeding cattle under control. As for the rancher, Danford, the story making the rounds back at Red Bluff was that once Montana gained statehood, he’d be its first governor. Could be the story was true, figured Tilden, for Danford sure enough had the district judge in his back pocket, not to count local politicians and the sheriff. But if it wasn’t for his money, the man would never get to be governor, for if an election year were held, Danford would be the bottom man on the totem pole. He was a cold-eyed foreigner, in Tilden’s estimation, wanting all the land he could get, and pity the small rancher or sodbuster who got in his way. Boney could feel the whiskey taking hold and driving some of the morning chill away, and, wanting another drink, he twisted in the saddle and stretched out his arm.

You sure got your share, he said sourly as he took the bottle back.

My mama didn’t raise no bashful children, Boney, said the hand around a nervous grin, his eyes going beyond the riders to the rising track before them. Think he’ll be waiting for us?

I just hope he picks the right target.

You mean the sheriff, or Danford—-

But Tilden had already swung back in the saddle and had turned his attention to the bottle.

* * * * * * * * *

The track widened, and Coogan, the hired gun riding point, spurred his horse onto a level spot and under some trees. As he climbed down from the saddle to breathe his horse, the other hired guns rode his way. Coogan pulled out the makings and began rolling a cigarette into shape.

From under the brim of his flat-crowned hat his pale blue eyes flicked to the rancher riding onto the level place and further along the track to a snow-sodden log.

A different breed, Coogan muttered quietly. He didn’t quite know what to make of the Englishman, Danford, and for certain he didn’t like the cut of the man’s clothes, but jobs like this were hard to come by. And this was the first time he’d ridden on the side of the law. Yup, he thought, dragging smoke into his lungs, this sure beat holding up stagecoaches.

Sheriff Hack Wycliffe rode past the hired guns and drew up a short distance from Danford. Wycliffe was a short, stocky man, and had gone soft around the middle, but he could still handle the Navy Colt’s resting in the worn leather holster. He had a red-brick face and evasive eyes below a wide forehead.

This was his second year as sheriff of Red Bluff. It mattered little to him that he was disliked by the townspeople. Mainly he went around enforcing eviction notices brought against those who’d been unable to keep up their land payments by the Cattlemen’s Bank. Danford was the bank’s major stockholder, he owned other businesses in Red Bluff, and though the townspeople resented his heavy-handed ways, they either went along with him or were driven out of town. But the only thing that mattered to Hack Wycliffe was that the pay was good and the hours short, and generally not much ever happened in Red Bluff. Last fall Clay Allison, the gunfighter, had come to town, and he’d left the next day, driven out, most folks thought, by Sheriff Wycliffe. The truth of the matter was that Wycliffe had paid the gun-fighter to leave town, and then had some of Danford’s hands spread the story that Allison had backed down when confronted by the sheriff.

The sheriff didn’t particularly like what lay ahead. To his way of thinking the Cavalry over at Miles City was better qualified to handle something like this. But what really rankled Hack Wycliffe was that Danford was using these hired guns, men outside the law. Coogan, he’d heard, was wanted down Colorado way. And one of the others, Parnell, had been bragging back at Red Bluff that he’d robbed a Kansas bank. No sense getting riled up about them, he thought, because now they were Danford’s problem, and he dismounted stiffly. He moved over to the rancher, who had his back to Wycliffe and a boot propped up on the log.

Mr. Danford, he said hesitantly, seems to be a lot of snow up there. Might be too deep for the horses.

We’ll get through, replied Danford in his cold, clipped voice, and without looking at the sheriff. Then he stepped over the log and went alone through the trees to where he had a clear view of the top of the pass, which was perhaps three-quarters of a mile further up the mountain. His eyes went to the trees ending abruptly at timberline, where patches of snow showed in the day change that was coming upon the land. He was in his late thirties, and ruggedly handsome. His cold black eyes were a barrier few men had been able to penetrate, while the wide mouth gave a clue to his stubborn and arrogant nature. That morning he’d shaven; a daily ritual. He wore a heavy tweed suit, with the trousers tucked into English riding boots, and over the suit an orange and white Hudson Bay coast. The sable cap covered wavy brown hair.

Only seven years ago the small importing business he owned in London had been on the verge of bankruptcy. A compulsive gambler, he’d barely managed to stay one step ahead of his creditors. Then one day an article in ‘The Times’ caught his eye; large tracts of land in America were for sale. Though he was down to his last thirty pounds, the wily Danford persuaded some business acquaintances to form a syndicate so that he could invest their money in a western ranch.

Upon his arrival at Miles City, Montana Territory, he went to the land office, only to be informed that most of the land in the area had been claimed. He moved on west, and upon arriving in Red Bluff, then an isolated cattle town situated some forty miles east of the Absarokas, soon realized that it had all of the apparatus necessary for him to start a ranching operation—-a land office, a bank, and, more importantly, a courthouse presided over by a crooked judge.

Immediately, he set about buying up all the land that hadn’t been claimed. Next, he rode out to see the sodbusters and small ranchers and offered them rock-bottom prices for their land.

Within a year Cyrus Danford had bought up large sections of land, the titles of which he registered in his own name. The district judge was more than willing, for a reasonable sum of money, to forge legal documents stating that the land had been filed in the name of the London syndicate; Danford mailed documents and reports of his progress at the local post office. Every two or three months he would send a bank draft—-not a large sum of money, but enough to make the London people realize that a profit could be made. The accompanying reports told not only of the opportunities for expansion, and of the eastern market’s constant demand for western beef, but of the difficulties involved in such a venture. The monies which he then received from London were used to pad his own bank accounts, in banks in Miles City and Denver, or spent to buy more cattle and land.

The passage of time found Cyrus Danford a rich man, a powerful force in local and territorial politics, with the holdings of his Rocking D ranch encompassing some fifty square miles. But with his wealth came an arrogance, a disdain for the townspeople and his hired hands, and also a driving need to own more land, cattle, people.

Cyrus Danford willed away the past, knowing that they were up here in this pass only because of the drought, and though he hated to admit it, even to himself, because of his intense obsession with this man who had kept others out of the valley, the man known as the Watcher.

One day he’d encountered a buffalo hunter in Red Bluff. The man had told him that several years ago, he’d been up in the valley,