Western Short Story : The Chase

Fear sweat ran down my armpits, the kind of sweat that stinks even in your own nose. Terror sweat. I turned in the saddle, checking my backtrail for the thousandth time. Barely two hours out of Malta, judging by the sun, but it seemed like forever.

Jensen would be coming.

Old Gertie couldn't go no faster, neither. Fourteen years if she was a day, smooth mouth for some time now, the black mare was doing her best. She always did her best. But would her best be good enough? Every time I broke her into a trot, that little -snap!- in her right haunch could be heard. Something wrong inside that hip joint, something that'd been wrong for years.

Not noticeable at a walk, thank the sunshine.

Sunshine. If only it would cloud over, rain even. I could handle gittin' wet fer the cover of it. This bright morning, blue sky, left us too exposed. Once we'd left the Milk River, turned off south by southwest to angle toward Choteau, there jist hadn't been cover enough to hide a prairie dog from a rattlesnake.

And Jensen was deadlier'n any rattlesnake.

It was hard to think clearly, hard to think of anything but the hunter on my trail. Or maybe not on my trail; maybe I wasn't that danged important, or maybe they all thought I'd taken a different direction. There wasn't a tracker in the bunch. It was possible nobody had noticed me leaving camp with my saddlebags stuffed fit to bust and my roll behind the cantle.

Possible, but sure no guarantee.

Not until I seen Herman's cabin come into view on Clear Creek did I manage to relax...a little. The sun was halfway down over the Rockies by then. I'd changed direction so many times I like to lost count myself, which helped a bit.

"Hello the house!"

Herman Swanson was as old in man years as Gertie was in horse years, but still mighty sprightly. His stocky frame filled the doorway, no weapon showing, but he'd have that sawed-off Colt .45 stuck in his hip pocket like always.

"Daniel," he grinned, all two of his teeth framing a regular Grand Canyon of a mouth, "Light and set!"

I slept soundly that night for the first time in years, curled up on Herman's floor with the dog. That dog weren't none too clean, come to remember, but I didn't really think about it at the time.

The next day, right after breakfast and three--maybe it was four--cups of coffee, me and Gertie hit the trail again. Jensen hadn't caught me yet; it was looking like I might have made good my escape after all. Maybe half a mile from the cabin, a big dog coyote trotted across the trail not 100 yards ahead of us.

I took that as a good omen.

My optimistic mood lasted all through the day, which was how long it took me to reach Leeman's Boarding House in Chinrock. Gertie had picked up a stone, which I'd gotten out right enough--no self respecting son of my father's would be caught without a hoof pick in his gear--but not before she'd been bruised a bit. She was limping just a little when I turned her over to Cliff Leeman for the night and headed in for supper.

Lenore Leeman saw me coming. "Daniel!" She crowed happily, 55 years and 200 pounds of the best cook on the Clark Fork, "Telegraph come in! Jensen showed up at Syringa, looking for you!"

I'll tell you, the woman could cook, but I'd jist lost my appetite.

It took me till past full dark to trade Gertie and my saddle for a young gelding that seemed like he could make the run. That horse and I traveled straight through the night and on into the next day. I hate riding bareback. By the time I reached Umatilla, don't ask me how many fast-talking trades or how many sunsets later, I was forking a mighty cranky mule and sore-tailed as any cowardly cowboy could be.

And that's the story. I was dead broke, half dead with fatigue, no job prospects, and the most relieved man west of the Mississippi.

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My new best friend bought me a shot of rotgut, shaking his head in pure wonder.

"Daniel," he said quietly, "You've been through Hell."

"That I have," I agreed wholeheartedly, tossing the whiskey down with only the slightest grimace. "That I have. Once you sign on with Jensen, you're taking your life in your own hands iffen you think to leave the outfit. The last man who tried was gunned down like a dog and left to die in the street."

"Well," the lawyer grinned, pushing over the papers for me to sign, "My contacts in Montana continue to tell me there's no danger as long as you stay out of the Territory."

"I'm surely not heading back that way any time soon." I took the quill pen, dipped in the ink bottle, and scrawled my name: Daniel Jensen.

Viper-tempered Rose Jensen had been my third wife...and danged near my last.