Bounty Hunter (9781101611975) (14 page)

*   *   *

J
EREMIAH
E
ATON HAD BEEN SEETHING WITH ANGER AND
sick with guilt at not being able to protect his family, but unlike his wife, who sat powerless, unable to do anything, he had at least the small satisfaction that he was taking action.

Jeremiah took some solace in the fact that the boy had value to the man only if he was alive, and distress in the fact that he was an erratic and impulsive man who could not be relied on to make entirely rational choices.

The draft horse was slow, and the shotgun afforded but two shots between reloading, but at least he was doing
something
—though he had yet to decide exactly
what
he would do if he actually caught up with them.

The lightly falling snow allowed Jeremiah to follow their tracks, and to guess the timing of their progress by how much snow had collected
in
the tracks. He could see that the two-year-old mares were moving faster than the old draft horse and extending their lead. He hoped that they would stop at some point and that it would not start snowing hard enough to smother the tracks.

*   *   *

Y
OUNG
T
HOMAS
E
ATON WAS AFRAID FOR HIMSELF AND
afraid for his family. In all his life, he had never been alone with a stranger, or indeed with anyone other than his parents.

He didn't know what he was supposed to think, but he
did
know he did not like this. He had stopped crying, but he was still afraid that the man would hurt him and nobody would be there to see it.

He was so preoccupied with his situation that he had forgotten for the longest time to worry about being cold. Except for the tips of his ears and his fingers, he wasn't, but he expected that later, he would be. He was glad that his mother had earlier demanded that he put on his coat, and he wished that he had picked up his gloves.

He had said nothing to the stranger, and the man had said nothing to him. He seemed to Thomas to be the kind of man who did not like to talk unless he had to.

As the miles went past, the snowfall slowed, stopped for a while, and then started up again, heavier than before. Thomas looked at the flakes settling on the horse's mane and remembered how his mother had told him that every snowflake had a design all to itself, and that no two snowflakes in all the world were exactly the same. He had enjoyed this special time with his mother—last winter, when he was five—and it made him cry to think of how much he was missing his parents.

The woods were thicker and darker now, and Thomas grew more frightened. He choked back his fear, wanting to be the kind of man of whom his father could be proud. He knew that his father was liable to say something about a man not being afraid in a dark forest.

He wondered whether his father would come for him, and whether he would see his mother again.

This made him cry.

The angry man growled when he saw the tears, and Thomas wiped his cheeks.

Soon, Thomas had another worry.

“Mister . . .” he said tentatively. “I gotta pee.”

“Okay,” Jimmy Goode said, after a moment's thought. “Make it quick.”

The boy slid off the mare and began walking up a slight incline toward some trees.

“Where the hell you goin'?” Goode demanded.

“Ma says I should always go into the bushes,” the boy replied.

“Okay,” Goode said impatiently.

Deciding that he too could use a pit stop, Goode climbed off his horse, but he did not venture near the “bushes.”

He paused to congratulate himself on his good fortune. He had made the transition from desperate fugitive to the man in control. He had gotten the bounty hunter off his trail, he had a horse, and he had a
hostage
. He was the man in control.

Nobody would call him “good-for-nothing Goode” today!

With his hostage, he could walk up to a blacksmith and say that he had rescued the kid from slavers. Nobody would question a man with a kid. They'd get to the next town, whatever it was likely to be, and go straight to the blacksmith, and then they'd get something to eat. Goode had no money—he wished now that he had taken some from the homesteading family—but who would deny a
kid
?

The kid. Where was the damned kid?

“
Kid!
” Goode shouted. “
Kid!
Get yourself back here and let's get goin'.”

There was no hint of a reply from the “bushes” to which the boy had gone. Goode cursed himself for not keeping an eye on him.

Where was the damned kid?

He walked up the slope in the direction Thomas had been headed when Goode last laid eyes on him.

“
Kid?
” Goode shouted. “Get yourself out wherever you're hidin'.
Kid!
If you don't show yourself, I'm gonna have to get tough and tan your hide.”

There was no reply.

Goode cursed himself again for not having kept an eye on him, but he dared not allow his mind to drift into thoughts that “good-for-nothing Jimmy Goode” may have been outsmarted by a six-year-old.

Where was the damned kid?

Goode decided to appeal to the boy's emotions.

“Whatcha gonna do when it gets dark out here . . . ?
Oooeee
,” he shouted, attempting to make a ghostly sound. “Whatcha gonna do when it gets
cold
out here? Whatcha gonna do when you get
hungry
?”

No reply.

“Whatcha gonna do when the
coyotes
get hungry? They're gonna
eat
you . . .
eat you alive
!”

Still no reply.

“Okay, kid, that does it,” Goode shouted. “I'm mad. I'm goin' hunting.”

Lifting the muzzle of the Colt, he squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot in the deep pillowy quiet of the snow-blanketed woods was startling even to Jimmy Goode.

“
No.
”

Jeremiah Eaton nearly jumped out of his saddle when he heard the gunshot.

“
No
,” Jeremiah said to himself when he heard the thunderclap reverberate through the trees.

He prodded the big draft horse to run as fast as he could. In his prime, the big horse had had some pretty respectable speed in him, but age had tempered him. He moved as fast as he could, aware that his rider desperately needed him to do so.

“
No!
” Jeremiah repeated as he broke into a clearing and saw a man,
that
man, with a pistol.

He did not see his son. Was the boy lying injured on the ground somewhere? Was he lying . . . ? The anguished father could not finish the thought.

Jeremiah gripped the shotgun with his right hand as the horse closed the distance between them and
that
man. He ached to use the shotgun
now
, but he knew that the range was too great.

Goode turned his attention from the bushes to the oncoming rider and took careful aim. He cursed himself for not tying up the homesteader and chasing the draft horses farther, but fate had given him a second chance. It is not hard to hit an object that is coming directly at you.

Suddenly, a withering pain tore through Goode's elbow.

He felt himself rendered helpless, knocked off balance, and thrown to the ground like a block of salt being kicked off the tailgate of a wagon.

Jeremiah watched this as he came on, clutching his unfired shotgun and wondering who had shot the man.

He arrived near Goode a moment later, slid off the horse, and looked around. The woods were silent but for the heavy, heaving breath of his horse and strange, animal-like sounds being uttered by Jimmy Goode.

As for most of the day he had imagined himself doing, he leveled the shotgun at the man who'd kidnapped his son.

“Where's my
boy
?” Jeremiah demanded angrily. “What did you do with my
boy
?”

“Don't shoot him.”

Jeremiah looked up to see a man emerge from the trees carrying a lever-action Winchester and leading a group of horses. He recognized the man as the same one who had ridden into his homestead that morning. He did not recognize the second man seated on one of the horses, but he
did
recognize the government-issue manacles worn by this man.

“Don't shoot him,” Bladen Cole repeated. “He's mine.”

“Where's my
boy
?” Jeremiah demanded, pointing both barrels at Cole.

“Right there,” Cole said with a nod.

Jeremiah turned to see Tommy running from the bushes at top speed.

“Papa . . . Papa . . . Papa . . .” he exclaimed as he hugged his father. Both of them had tears of joy streaming down their cheeks.

As Jeremiah turned to hug Tommy, he felt the shotgun being lifted from his grip.

“Who
are
you?” Jeremiah demanded of Cole. He made no attempt to retrieve his weapon, as both his arms were now wrapped tight around the sobbing boy. “What do you want?”

“My name's Cole, just as I said when we met back at your homestead.”

He cracked open the shotgun, removed the shells, and tucked them into the breast pocket of Jeremiah's jacket.

“Like I told you, I've been trailing this fellow for a time,” Cole said, handing the shotgun back to the homesteader butt-first and picking up the revolver dropped by the outlaw. This too he emptied and handed to the homesteader.

“You a lawman? He said you were a slaver.”

“A
slaver
?” Cole laughed as he applied a tourniquet to the injured man's arm. “That's a pretty fanciful yarn for somebody with the imagination of Jimmy Goode . . . No, I'm not a lawman, but I
am
the man that got sent to bring back a bunch of killers.”

“Bounty hunter?”

“Yes,” Cole replied. “Can you read?”

“Of course,” Jeremiah said, slightly offended.

Cole took a scrap of paper from his pocket and pointed out the names and charges on the warrant.

“I knew from your manner that you were in trouble when I talked to you at your place this morning,” Cole explained. “When I didn't see your wife, I figured that she was inside your house with a gun to her head, so I just backed off and trailed this man when he left with your boy. I knew that he wouldn't hurt him unless he was provoked, so I wanted not to provoke him . . . It was your boy who provoked him.”

“What?” Jeremiah gasped.

“Gotta give you credit.” Cole smiled at Tommy. “What's your name, son?”

“Thomas J. Eaton, sir.”

“Yes . . . Thomas J. Eaton,” Cole laughed. “Well, I watched where you were hiding. He was not even close to finding you. You were awful brave not to let out a sound even when he started yelling about coyotes eating you.”

“I knew my papa would come to get me,” Thomas said bravely, as the tears poured down his father's cheeks.

Chapter 18

“F
ATHER,
M
R.
P
HILLIPS IS HERE,”
H
ANNAH
R
ANSDELL SAID,
putting her head in her father's office.

The banker looked up suddenly, startled by the sound of his daughter speaking those words. In his subconscious mind, “Mr. Phillips” was his violently murdered colleague, Dawson Phillips, and her use of that name was momentarily jarring. The person to whom his daughter referred was not, of course, the person to which his mind had leaped, but the son of that man.

“Send him in,” Isham Ransdell said, quickly regaining his composure. “And get Duffy.”

“Mr. Phillips,” she smiled at the son and namesake of her father's late colleague, “my father will see you now.”

She brought the younger man into the inner sanctum of the Gallatin City Bank and Trust Company. The proprietor rose to shake the visitor's hand as Duffy came in carrying his notes and ledger.

“Welcome, Mr. Phillips, it is a pleasure to meet you, though I deeply regret the circumstances that have brought us together,” Isham Ransdell began. “This is Mr. Duffy, my accountant, and you've met my daughter, Hannah. She's my . . . uh . . .”

“Assistant,” Hannah interrupted with a broad smile as her father grasped for words. He always did this. One of these days, she thought she might reply with a title that truly represented the work that she did for him. She could imagine his expression if she had said “general manager” or “vice president.”

“First of all, let me say that I was personally acquainted with your late father. He was a fine man and a fine member of our community . . . as was your mother. I am very truly shocked and saddened by what happened to your parents.”

“Thank you, sir,” the younger Phillips said with an obvious lump in his throat. “Your words are much appreciated.”

“The entire community of Gallatin City shares my sympathies. Your parents will be greatly missed.”

Isham Ransdell then turned to the substance of his former colleague's affairs and spoke in generalities for a few moments. When the younger Dawson Phillips followed up with several specific questions, the elder Ransdell merely nodded to his daughter.

Hannah opened a folder and proceeded to explain, in minute detail, the nature and rates of all the many bank accounts and investments held by the elder Phillips. When it came to balances, she named them off the top of her head, each time asking Mr. Duffy whether the number was correct. Each time but once, he simply nodded that her numbers were accurate. The one time that she was wrong, he proudly corrected her to say that she was off by seven dollars and change, as her figure was that of the
fifteenth
of the month.

“I stand corrected,” she said with a smile.

The younger Mr. Phillips began the meeting more impatient than amused that the banker was allowing his daughter to speak of financial matters, but soon he was just trying to keep up with her.

When Hannah had finished, she nodded to her father to name the total value of the elder Mr. Phillips's bank holdings, but he found it necessary to nod back to her for the balance with accrued interest at the end of the coming month.

“So there you have it,” Isham Ransdell said in summary. “Are there any further questions that we might answer for you?”

“Not at the moment,” the younger Mr. Phillips replied. “But there may be after I've spoken with his attorney, Mr. Stocker, about the details of the will.”

“Certainly,” Isham Ransdell said. “We are ready and pleased to serve you, just as we were your late father . . . and once again, you have our fullest condolences . . . Hannah, could you get Mr. Phillips a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, Father.”

*   *   *

“
W
HERE DID YOU LEARN TO DO THAT,
M
ISS
R
ANSDELL?”
Phillips asked when Hannah handed him a cup of coffee and poured one for herself.

“Do what . . . ?”

“The accounts?”

“It's basic banking practice, Mr. Phillips,” she said with a shrug. “I've worked here since I was a girl.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“I went to school in Gallatin City. I was very good in arithmetic. The rest I've learned working here.”

“You didn't go to college . . . or a secretarial school?”

“I doubt that numbers used in secretarial school include any that had not yet been revealed to me by the time that I was in high school.”

Phillips nodded. She had him there.

“If I might be so bold as to change the subject,” he said, already changing the subject, “I was wondering . . . um . . . Miss Ransdell . . . if you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner at the hotel this evening?”

“I would be delighted, Mr. Phillips,” Hannah said with a smile after a brief pause. It had been some time since she had been asked to dine with a gentleman, and his invitation pleased her as much as it startled her.

“Shall we say seven?” Phillips suggested, “I'll . . . I could . . .”

“I shall meet you there at that time,” Hannah replied. She was delighted with the attention of a handsome young man.

“Thank you then, Miss Ransdell,” he said, extending his hand. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go see Mr. Stocker about the will . . . Thank you for the coffee.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Phillips,” she said, shaking his extended hand.

*   *   *

H
ANNAH
R
ANSDELL ASCENDED THE STEPS OF THE
G
ALLATIN
House. The restaurant in the hotel that had been owned by the late Mr. Phillips, Sr., was the fanciest and probably the finest between Bozeman and Helena. The high society of Gallatin City, to the degree that there
was
such a thing as a high society in Gallatin City, dined here. Her father occasionally took clients here, and Mr. Phillips had often entertained her father and his other associates in the bar.

She entered the front door as the hotel's big imported German clock was banging out the seven measured beats of the hour. Dawson Phillips, Jr., who was already present, rose from his chair to greet her. She smiled politely as he escorted her to the dining room.

Over appetizers, they made small talk. She asked, and he explained, about his life in Denver, and she told of life in this city, which he had visited only twice. He had spent his early years in Bozeman, when his parents lived there, but had been shipped off to boarding school in Denver when his parents moved to Gallatin City.

While she was just a tad closer to thirty than to twenty, she guessed him to be a little past thirty. This made him courting age, and had she lived in Denver, or he in Gallatin City, it might have been an opportunity worth encouraging. He was, indeed, a charming fellow, an entrepreneur like his father,
and
he did not seem to look down his nose at a woman working in a bank—at least
after
he had seen her in action.

For Hannah, more than for the man on the opposite side of the table, the subject of courtship was accompanied by the ticking of a clock no less real and tangible than the one in the lobby of the Gallatin House. In moments that alternated with her dismissive criticism of the eligible bachelors in Gallatin City she faced the reality that society had painted a narrow line between the age at which a young woman was suitable for courting and the age at which she was destined for eternal spinsterhood.

For the past few years, Hannah's life had taken its meaning from the pride of knowing she was good at her work. Young Mr. Phillips reminded her that there was more to life and gave her cause to believe that not all men were like the would-be suitors whom she had rejected thus far.

As Hannah had discovered, the typical young man in Gallatin City seemed to be quick to focus his attention on himself, before giving her an opportunity to develop a corresponding interest in him. She mentioned this to Mr. Phillips and learned that he had found much the same to be true of the young ladies whom he had courted in Denver.

“Your father has good cause to depend upon your expertise,” Phillips commented when she explained her duties in the family business. “One does not often find a woman in such a role.”

“‘One' will likely see more, rather than fewer, of us in responsible positions in the future,” she smiled. “You may be aware that earlier this year President Hayes signed a law permitting women attorneys to argue cases before the Supreme Court of the United States. One day, we shall share the voting booth with men as well.”

“Speaking of Mr. Hayes, do you believe that he will run for reelection in the new year?” Phillips asked, deciding that even politics would be safer ground for the continued conversation than women's suffrage.

“After his narrow election, or as some would say his
defeat
by Mr. Tilden in '76, I would expect that he will make good on his promise to let someone such as Mr. Garfield run for his party's nomination.” Hannah smiled, impressing her companion with her knowledge of current affairs.

“This has been a very nice meal,” she said, smiling again as they were beginning their desert. “Thank you again for inviting me.”

“My pleasure.” He smiled also. “And very nice company.”

“Thank you, Mr. Phillips,” she replied, still smiling. “
My
pleasure.”

For both parties, it had indeed been a pleasurable evening. Both were happy to enjoy a dinner with a member of the opposite sex who was well versed in the matters of the day.

“Have you dined often here at the Gallatin House?” he asked.

“Sometimes, though not often,” she replied. “I think of it as a ‘special occasion' type of place. When I was growing up, my family came here for the occasional Sunday dinner. After my mother passed, I came here with my father a time or two.”

“I'm sorry to hear about your mother, Miss Ransdell,” he said.

“That was nearly seven years ago,” she said. “And she died peacefully. I can barely conceive of the anguish you must feel about losing both of your parents so violently.”

“It does cause nightmares . . . which I hope will subside with time . . . I understand that your own father was to have been present at the Blaine home that evening.”

“Yes . . . and I was to have accompanied him,” Hannah said. “I can only imagine the horror of having been present if a fatal shot had found him . . . but
my
nightmares of what
might
have been can only pale by comparison to
your
nightmares of what
did
happen.”

“I will miss my father greatly,” Phillips said, sadly.

“He was a well-respected man,” Hannah said with sympathetic assurance. “He was justifiably proud of this establishment . . . it has a very excellent restaurant.”

“I'm pleased to hear that,” he said. “Um . . . I guess it's
my
restaurant now.”

“I meant to ask how things went with the reading of the will,” Hannah said, merely making conversation, under the presumption that it had been a perfunctory reading.

“Well . . . with my mother deceased,” he said with a gulp, not resuming his train of thought without a sip of water. “The bulk of the estate went to me, except for the trust fund, which as you know, was set up at your father's . . . um . . .
your
 . . . bank for my sister, who is married, and who lives in Cheyenne.”

“That sounds reasonably straightforward.” Hannah nodded.

“Well . . . it
was
 . . . except for one thing,” he said thoughtfully.

“What's that?”

“Are you aware of a tract of land . . . actually several parcels of land . . . that are located north and east of Gallatin City, and which were owned jointly by your father and mine, together with Mr. Blaine and Mr. Stocker?”

“Yes,” Hannah nodded. “I am aware that they were buying land out there. It is not exactly prime real estate. It is in the direction of the Diamond City gold fields, but no gold has ever been found there. I know that they were buying it on the cheap.”

“Were you also aware that their arrangement called for the partners to inherit the shares of their associates? With my father and Mr. Blaine gone, Mr. Stocker and your father are now the sole owners of that property.”

“No . . .” Hannah said with genuine surprise. “I did not know this.”

*   *   *

“
H
OW WAS YOUR DINNER WITH YOUNG
M
R.
P
HILLIPS LAST
night?” Isham Ransdell asked as his daughter came into the bank.

He usually arose before she did and was frequently at his desk very early. She had arrived at the bank on time only once. When he made a comment about her keeping “banker's hours,” she had made it a point thereafter to arrive at work no later than fifteen minutes before opening.