CHAPTER ONE
Briarwood, Montana Territory
August 5, 1884
Colton Dawson reached the ravine and looked over the edge into the river below. He’d ventured far enough from the ranch and town to make him wonder if the men he currently tracked knew something about the area he didn’t.
Not likely.
There wasn’t a copse of trees, a body of water, or a mountain peak within one hundred miles that Colton hadn’t scouted, drunk from, or climbed since his arrival in Montana a decade earlier. The Gallaghers’ ranch had spanned more than thirty-five square miles ever since they tore down the fence between Hawk’s Peak and the former Double Bar Ranch. All of it had been explored at one time or another by a Gallagher and half the men who worked the land, cattle, and horses.
The cattle were a prize to any rustler and it was well known throughout the territory that the Gallaghers’ horse breeding operation produced the most highly valued stock in the area. No one had yet been able to figure out whether the cattle or horses drew the raiders onto Gallagher land, but they intended to find out.
Colton gentled his horse until it stood as silent as its rider. He listened to the wind move through the trees and caught the scent of summer pine. The river below rushed over rocks and echoed through the gorge. He knew the land leveled and the river rose a few miles to the south, where it wound back again toward the ranch.
The tracks pressed into the soft ground indicated the riders had shifted direction and now headed north, away from the river. Colton concluded the men didn’t know where they were going, which gave him the advantage. The mountains and forests that stretched north is where Colton gained his education, where he’d learned how to trap, hunt, and track.
His horse scraped a hoof over the ground and sidestepped back from the ravine, but it wasn’t the drop or the water below that bothered the gelding. Colton smelled the fire and the burning flesh, and he searched the sky on the other side of the river for signs of smoke.
Flames licked the damp air and the fire sizzled with each drop of rain. Sunshine quickly made way for dark, rolling clouds, and Colton doubted the two men in the makeshift camp had anticipated the sudden change of weather. He followed the smell of the fire and wasn’t surprised when some of the rustlers’ tracks crossed the same path.
He dismounted and crouched behind a boulder, his horse now six yards away. Colton watched the men scramble to keep the flames alive by tossing wet sticks onto the smoky pile. They were no longer on Gallagher land, but the meat roasting over their fire no doubt came from Gallagher stock. A carcass lay a dozen feet away from the camp, on the ground in the open for any animal to find.
Idiots, Colton thought. He despised fools and rustlers alike, and these men were both. If he moved closer, he knew he’d find the staggered HP brand of Hawk’s Peak Ranch on the remains. He listened and waited. The tracks told him more than two men rode with the outfit currently making rounds of cattle ranches in the region. Hawk’s Peak was bigger than most in the state, which made rustling the cattle tempting. More cattle meant more land to cover, and people of a mind to steal might figure a few head here and there would go unnoticed.
A good cattleman always noticed.
Ethan Gallagher, head of the family, had put a bullet in one two nights ago, and the culprit now sat in the Briarwood jailhouse awaiting transport or a judge, whichever came first. Three men who lived in or close to town were rotating the watch at the jail, but it had been a heavily spoken-about topic for some time. His younger brother, Gabriel, was able to catch another one, but the thief managed to ride away into the night.
They needed a sheriff, someone with experience they could trust. Ramsey Cameron, Eliza Gallagher’s husband, was an obvious choice. He pinned on his marshal’s badge when needed, though they knew he did not wish to make it a long-term profession. Ben Stuart, Hawk’s Peak foreman and close friend of the family, had the necessary experience, yet he was more valuable at the ranch. Colton knew it was only a matter of time before more of these rustlers were brought to jail, the doctor, or the undertaker. He didn’t care which one.
The rain fell hard from the sky, dropped from branches, sizzled on the dying fire, and slickened or muddied every surface. The men scrambled, shouting at each other. Colton could handle two of them without worry. He watched the direction where the other riders had gone and heard nothing.
He raised his rifle and stepped out from behind the boulder. He was close enough to the men, and he didn’t have to shout over the weather. “Meal time’s over.”
They both turned. Colton followed a low curse with, “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Ike?”
Ike didn’t answer. His partner raised a pistol to Colton, who fired, disarming the other man and putting a hole through his hand.
“What you go and do that for!”
“You’re next, Ike, if you pull that shooter from its holster.”
“I ain’t goin’ to jail.” Ike’s hand hovered over the butt of his gun. “We didn’t harm no one.”
“You’re rustling. You’ve worked the land. Hell, you’ve worked one of the ranches that
have lost stock.”
Ike spit on the ground. “Not no more.”
Colton knew Ike had a reputation for spending too much time at the saloon. It was why when he first inquired about work at Hawk’s Peak, they had turned him away. “It’s your drinking that keeps you out of work, not the ranchers.”
“Them Gallaghers never gave me a chance.”
Colton kept Ike’s partner in the edge of his sight while he spoke with Ike. He preferred taking both in alive. “The Gallaghers offered you a train ticket out of Bozeman to a place where no one knows you. You could have a new start, Ike.”
“Money is what I need.”
“Stay sober and you might keep a job. But not this time.”
Colton recognized the panic in the other man’s eyes. He looked like someone who believed he didn’t have options. Ike’s hand returned to the butt of his pistol.
“Don’t do it.” Colton aimed, his finger on the trigger of the Winchester rifle that had seen him through a decade of life in these mountains. “There’s still a way out of this.”
“To jail?” Ike’s hand gripped his gun handle. “It wasn’t my drinkin’ this time, I swear it. Couldn’t do it no more, scrapin’ and beggin’ from these ranchers. They don’t deserve any of it more’n I do!”
Colton had heard it before, from drifters and out-of-work cowboys who detested wealthy cattle ranchers because they’d been in the right place at the right time and worked hard to build their empires. He knew some came by their spreads through less than honorable means, but most fought to carve out a life in a land where most folks found it tough to survive.
“You’re going to jail. Nothing you can do about it.”
Ike’s eyes softened around the edges. His shoulders relaxed. Colton saw defeat and expected Ike to make the second worst decision of his life. The first had been to join up with the rustlers. Ike drew, but before he pulled the trigger, a bullet from Colton’s rifle sliced through Ike’s upper thigh. The pistol dropped from Ike’s limp fingers and his companion became bold, reaching for the fallen gun.
“It would be a shame to lose the use of both hands.”
The rustler pulled his uninjured hand away from the gun. “Who the damnation are you, mister?”
Somewhere Outside of Briarwood, Montana Territory
August 5, 1884
Her hands slipped for the second time. She struggled to remove her gloves and remain on the wagon bench. A few more minutes and she would lose the battle with speed and gravity. She reached for the reins and prayed for a miracle.
The driver was slung over the bench, lying between Ainslee and the brake. Not far ahead, she saw a turn in the well-traveled dirt road. Beyond the bend was a thick copse of pines.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sykes.” Ainslee heaved with all her strength and rolled the body off the bench.
The pair of geldings pranced at the sudden shift of weight. Ainslee fought to maintain her balance while keeping the reins in her grasp. She failed. One of the leather straps flew forward, snapping against the right horse's rump before flailing to the side of the speeding animal. She glanced up. The turn was no more than a few hundred yards, and the horses would cover the distance faster than she could regain control—a doubtful prospect. Her untamed riding over the hills in her beloved homeland did not prepare her for a runaway team of horses and a wagon more suited to the firebox.
With one strap in hand and a silent prayer, Ainslee pulled, much to the annoyance of the animals. They tugged and she pulled again. "Please! Dinna dae this to me now, laddies!"
Gunfire. Ainslee had spent enough time in the company of hunters, primarily her father and his brothers, to know the sound of gunfire. Not rifles or shotguns. Her father boasted an impressive collection that included an original Thomas Guide creation from 1646. What she heard now was newer and too close. She wondered what kind of bullet had put an end to her driver.
The horses jerked and shifted course, away from the turn and off the road. The wagon slowed as the team pulled it over rough terrain in an open meadow, heading toward a forest so heavy with pine trees, she saw no light beyond the first branches. Ainslee looked over the side at the ground. It appeared to be moving but she knew that couldn't be right. A rush of dizziness overcame her, and she fought it back before she contemplated jumping.
The rumbling of riders, horses' hooves pounding over earth, drew closer. A stranger rode up alongside one of the animals, reached for a loose rein, and pulled back on the harness. Ainslee didn't know how he managed to get so close or why the team pulling her wagon—Mr. Sykes's wagon—chose to listen to the man rather than to her.
Ainslee righted herself and continued to hold tightly to the back of the seat in case the animals got the idea for another run. The pair of horses breathed heavily, and Ainslee imagined they needed water. She faced the man.
Filthy. No other word in any language was more apt. With his hair matted in tangles and dirt, she couldn't tell the color. Light brown, perhaps? From his torn clothes and muddy boots, to the thick beard and yellow teeth, Ainslee nearly gagged. It was one thing to see such a man described in the pages of a novel and another to be so close that even the breeze didn't mask his putrid scent. Her parents had guarded her from such men back home, and for the first time since she reached adulthood, she silently thanked them.
Ainslee considered her options and thought of the dirk in her valise. The worthy weapon had been used by Highlanders in battle. Surely it could get her out of this mess, if she could reach it. A gun would be beneficial, but it fell from Mr. Sykes’ hand when the bullet hit.
"Lucky we came along, missy."
We?
End of preview. More at https://www.mkmcclintock.com/excerpt/wild-montana-winds
Excerpted from Wild Montana Winds by MK McClintock. Copyright © 2019 by MK McClintock. All rights reserved.
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