“Where’s your horse?” Too weak to fight, the man whispered an answer, and Mabry rode to the clay bank behind some trees, where he found a beat-up buckskin, more dead than alive.
Mabry saddled him after brushing off the snow and rubbing some semblance of life into the horse with a handful of rough brown grass. When he got back to the man’s shelter he picked the fellow up and shook him. “Get up dison that horse,” he said.
“We’ll start for Hat Creek. Make a wrong move and I’ll blow you out of the saddle.” He took the blankets and threw them around the man to keep in what warmth his body could develop.
It would be cold tonight, but with luck he could make Hat Creek Station. Wind flapped his hat brim and snow sifted across the trail. He lifted the black into a trot. The country about them was white and still. In the distance he could see a line of trees along another creek. His mind was empty.
He did not think. Only the occasional tug on the lead rope reminded him of the man who rode behind him.
It was a hard land, and it bred hard men to hard ways.
KING MABRY followed Old Woman Creek to Hat Creek Station in the last cold hour of a bitterly cold day.
Under the leafless cottonwoods whose bare branches creaked with cold he drew rein. His breath clouded in the cold air, and as his eyes took in the situation his fingers plucked absently at the thin ice that had accumulated on his scarf.
He was a man who never rode without caution, never approached a strange place without care.
There were no tracks but those from the station to the barn.
There was no evidence of activity but the slow smoke rising from the chimney. One thing was unexpected.
Drawn alongside the barn were two large vans, and beneath the coating of frost bright-colored lettering was visible. He could not, at this distance, make out the words.
Nobody emerged as he approached the station. No door opened. There was no sign of welcome.
Everything was still in the bitter evening cold; even the rising smoke seemed stiff in the unfamiliar air.
Hat Creek Station had originally been built by soldiers sent to establish a post on Hat Creek in Nebraska. Unfamiliar with the country, they had crossed into Wyoming and built on Sage Creek. When abandoned by the Army, it became a stage station on the route from Cheyenne to Black Hills, and a post office. From the beginning its history had been wild and bloody. Mabry knew the stories. They had come down the trails as all such stories did, from campfire to card table, from bunkhouse to chuck wagon. It was at Hat Creek that Stutterin’ Brown, a stage company man, emerged second best from a pistol argument with Persimmons Bill over stolen horses. They buried Brown.
A party of freighters bound for the Black Hills was attacked by several hundred Indians near Hat Creek Station, and was saved only by the arrival of a troop of cavalry from Rawhide Buttes.
Near a place known locally as Robbers’ Roost, a few miles from the station, there had been a series of holdups, and it was near there that Boone May, a shotgun guard, killed an outlaw.
Hat Creek Station was a convenient wayside stop for travelers from Cheyenne to Black Hills, and at one time or another most of the noted characters and gun fighters of the West had passed through.
It was here that Calamity Jane was fired from her job as a government packer, for drunkenness. And here, at various times, had stopped such men as Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, Sam Bass, Joel Collins, Scott Davis, Seth Bullock, Big-Nose George, and Lame Bradley.
In short, the patrons of Hat Creek Station were men with the bark on. Swinging around the barn to the door, Mabry stepped from the saddle, pulled the pin from the latch, and, swinging wide the door, herded the two horses in ahead of him. Then he pulled the door shut and fastened it securely. Standing behind his horse, he remained there until his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness within the vast barn. “Nhen he could see again, he located an unoccupied stall and stripped the saddle and bridle from the black. Then he untied the wounded man from the saddle of the buckskin and helped him to the ground.
The man wilted then, scarcely able to keep his legs under him. “Can you walk?” The man looked at him sullenly. “I can walk.” “Then you’re on your own. You cross my trail again and I’ll finish the job.” The man turned and staggered to the door, almost fell there, but caught at the door to hold his balance. Then he pushed it open and walked out into the snow.
Mabry turned back to his horse and carefully rubbed him down, working over him patiently and with care.
Somewhere a door closed and Mabry heard a man coming down the wide aisle between the two rows of stalls.
The hostler was a tall man with an unusually small face, very round and clean shaved.
He halted, staring into the darkness of the stall where Mabry worked. “Come far?” [*reg] [*macr] No.
The hostler puffed on his pipe. He had never seen this man before and it was indiscreet to ask questions, but the hostler was a curious man-and he knew that beat-up buckskin.
He gestured. “Ain’t in good shape.” “Better shape than the man who rode him.” Griffin, the hostler remembered, was considered a very salty customer in some circles. He must have cut himself into the wrong circle. “He has friends.” “You?” “Shuckins, man. I’m just hostler here. Knowed Pete, like most folks.” Mabry had removed the scarf from around his hat and the sheepskin coat hung open. The hostler had seen the guns.
“Admire to know what happened.” Mabry picked up his rifle and saddlebags with his left hand. He did not exactly gesture, but the hostler decided not to leave any room for doubt.
He preceded Mabry to the door.
When they reached it, Mabry said, “He laid for me.” The hostler had suspected for a long time that Griffin was one of that crowd. Knew it, in fact, without having a particle of information. So he laid for the wrong man.
Mabry stepped out into the cold. The thermometer beside the door read forty degrees below zero.
“Man around called Benton. Him an” Joe Noss. They’re partial to Pete Griffin.” “Thanks.” Snow crunched under his boots as he crossed to the station and lifted the latch. He pushed open the door and stepped into the hot, smoke-filled air of the room.
There was a smell of rank tobacco and drying wool, a shuffling of feet and a riffling of cards. The potbellied stove glowed with heat and five men sat around a table playing poker with several onlookers.
All the seated men had removed their coats. They wore wool shirts and suspenders. From an adjoining room there was a rattle of dishes, and Mabry saw another door that led off to the left of the bar. He remained where he was, taking time to study the occupants of the room. His open coat revealed the guns, and he wore no glove on his right hand.
Somebody coughed and somebody else said, “I’ll take three cards.” Chips clicked, feet shuffled.
Alone at the bar was a man who wore a cloth coat, narrow at the waist with a wide fur collar.
He had a round fur cap on his head, the earlaps turned up and tied on top. He glanced at Mabry, frankly curious. There was nobody in the room that Mabry knew until the bartender turned around.
Mabry crossed to the bar and put his saddlebags on top, leaning the Winchester against the bar.
The bartender’s face was flushed. He glanced quickly, guiltily around, then touched his lips with his tongue. He was obviously worried and nervous.
“”Lo, King. I-was Something that might have been amusement flickered briefly in the big man’s eyes. He stared gravely at the bartender. “Know your face, but..
. What was that name again?” “Williams.” The man spoke hastily, his relief obvious. “Bill Williams.” “Sure. Sorry I forgot.” The bartender ducked below bar level and came up with a square, dusty bottle. “Little o” the Irish. On the house.” Mabry accepted the bottle without comment and filled a glass. He lifted it, sighting through the amber whisky to catch the light. “Has the smell o’ the peat, that Irish does.” Mabry glanced briefly at the man in the fur-collared coat, then pushed the bottle toward him.
“The name’s Healy. Tom Healy, of the Healy Traveling Shows.” He lifted the whisky, treasuring it in his hand. “The best they’d offer me was barrel whisky.” They drank, replacing their glasses on the bar.