Bloody Montana
Clay Burnham

EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER TWO

Rafe McDonough is lost near the Crazy Mountains in Montana Territory. A hellish snowstorm freezes the air and dumps more than a foot of snow on him. In little time he will freeze. Then he spots the dead man, gunned down, left to rot. McDonough takes the dead man's coat and hat to keep warm. These things help him survive long enough to reach a windswept town where he seeks shelter. But the moment he arrives he is attacked.

With a smooth toss of his hand, McDonough swept up the Spencer rifle by the barrel and flicked it like a lariat. The thick hickory stock seemed to snap in the air then slam into Pete's rising wrist like a three-pound hammer. The sound of bone cracking echoed an instant before Pete's involuntary spasm squeezed off a wasted bullet, splintering the floor at the gunman's feet. Pete screamed and the revolver dropped to the floor with a thud.

Crying with rage, he fell to his knees and tried to scoop up the gun as he held his useless wrist.

'Don't, friend,' McDonough said. He had flipped the Spencer over in a blurring motion so that the gaping barrel mouth now stared down at Pete, barely three inches from the man's nose. 'I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about me, but I'll kill you if your reach for that hogleg.'

He said it with a pleasant smile on his face, and tossed his gaze at Pete's friends, too stunned now to move. McDonough looked over at Danvers. The bartender had taken several steps backwards, toward the bar.

'Danvers, my old pal,' McDonough said, 'you don't want to be grabbing up any greener might be behind that bar.'

Danvers froze in mid-step and shook his head.

'You'd better get on out of here, mister. Who ever you are,' Danvers told him, squinting desperately.

McDonough laughed. 'And here I thought we was old bosom buddies.'

The motionless friends now came alive. Neither of them reached for their guns, but they turned toward Danvers rumbling with a mix of confusion and anger.

'You half-blind idjit! You know this feller!'

Danvers shook his head. 'No, I don't. An' neither do you fellas. Now git, mister. And don't come back.'

Cradling the rifle in his armpit, McDonough buttoned his borrowed coat and adjusted his hat. Then he grabbed up the saddlebags and backed toward the door. Pete was still on the floor, whimpering, breathing huskily, and babying his broken wrist.

'You best get that looked after, friend.' McDonough said. 'I done you a favor, breaking that wrist of yours. One day you were bound to draw on the wrong fella and get yourself killed.'

'I ain'ta done with you, you sidewinder.' Pete spat the words but made no motion to back them up with gunplay.

Outside in the blustering cold again, McDonough sighed. It made no sense, what had happened, and that angered him. All he wanted was to get warm and have a meal and sleep in a bed for a night before pushing on. Then some hot-headed rummy decided to pick a fight. Fools. No wonder he stayed away from towns.

Slinging the saddlebags over his shoulder McDonough remembered the half-finished letter stuffed inside them. He had one other thing to do in town, if it was possible to do it. He had to find out the name of the dead man and where his woman Clara might be found. She would probably want the coat and mittens and hat, in addition to the letter and money. But maybe she would let McDonough buy them from her. He had grown attached to the warm comfort they provided.

Glancing over at the livery stable he saw that the light was out in the office. The place looked empty. Oh, well, McDonough thought, it's the middle of the day. No sense in wasting good coal oil. Now that he thought of it, that liveryman had acted strangely, too, much as Danvers and Pete had reacted. Afraid, nervous. Like he had seen a ghost.

Glancing down at himself, looking up at the hat on his head, he realized why. They had mistaken him for someone else. The dead man, probably. Both the stable and the saloon had been dark. Too dark to make out facial features. But light enough to see the hat and the coat.

'Blast it,' he muttered aloud. 'What have I stepped into?'

He had been in the saloon longer than he had thought. The sun was dipping down toward a misty horizon. The whiskey had warmed him, but not enough to sustain him long. Already he was feeling the press of the frigid air. Behind him was a hotel, but he figured they'd take his money any time. He was hungry, and the smells coming from the café were too inviting to be ignored. Steeling himself, he put his head down and walked to the end of the boardwalk then stepped down into the snow-crusted street. The reddish glow coming from the café's distant windows beckoned to him.

He met no one on the street, though he did see a few curious faces peering out of darkened storefronts. Ignoring them he slogged on toward the café. He was a few yards from the front door when he heard the thunder of approaching horses.

'There he is!' someone cried out.

Whirling to face them, McDonough dropped his saddlebags and brought the Spencer up to his shoulder. There were six of them atop smoking horses, three of them had guns drawn.

The speaker pointed with his gun and said, 'I've got him, Mr. Forester.' He was cocking the revolver when McDonough sent a shot smashing into the man's shoulder.

The other two fired wildly, their horses spooked by the echoing boom of McDonough's Spencer. Turned around, the riders tried to reach back and throw more lead.

'Stop it, you fools,' a thick-chested, white-bearded man bellowed.

The three unarmed men jumped out of their saddles and rushed McDonough, who was reluctant to fire on them. They swarmed over him, slapping at him, throwing punches down onto him. His borrowed coat took most of the punishment.

McDonough kicked out with a boot and caught one man in the groin. Stepping around the fallen man he swung a heavy fist into the jaw of another, dropping him. The third one took a step back and settled himself, squared his shoulders. He brought thick hands up toward his face and balled them into fists, affecting a fighter's stance. The knuckles of each hand were scraped and bruised. He was close to six feet, with a tight jaw and thin lips. His eyes were too close together, making him look evil. It was sure that this man loved to fight.

With an audible sigh, McDonough raised his own fists, shed of their mittens, and waited.

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