The Drummond Band Read online

  The Drummond Brand

  Luther Drummond, owner of the Diamond-D ranch, the largest cattle spread around the Montana township of Bridger Butte, is buying up land vacated by settlers who have been forced out by a ruinous winter. Rumours abound, however, that many of the misfortunes suffered by the settlers are not the result of nature but are directly attributable to Luther’s son, Dagg.

  Ethan Brodie, a Pinkerton detective, becomes embroiled in the affairs at Bridger Butte when he is accused of murder and stagecoach robbery. Teaming up with Claire Dumbril, the daughter of the dead stagecoach driver, Ethan vows to track down her father’s killers. How will the brave duo fare and what perils await them along the way?

  By the same author

  The Hanging of Charlie Darke

  The Drummond Brand

  Will DuRey

  ROBERT HALE

  © Will DuRey 2011

  First published in Great Britain 2011

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2324-4

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Will DuRey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  For my sons, Matthew and Philip

  CHAPTER ONE

  With the sleeves of her dress pushed back above her elbows, the woman brushed her brow with her bare forearm. The day was hot, but at this time of year heat came with the morning sun and clung on stubbornly long after the great orange orb had dropped behind the distant Rockies. The land cooled in the blackest part of the night but it never grew cold. Not even the infrequent rain shower caused a drop in temperature; it merely brought a momentary refreshment that disguised the pervasive heat. But there was no rain this day and the faultless blue sky offered no hint at such a possibility. Not that the woman was seeking any respite from the heat. She knew that the heat of a Montana summer was as extreme as the cold of a Montana winter. The hostility of the land and weather had been here before her and would still be here when she’d gone. Surviving was struggle enough without wasting energy wishing for what couldn’t be altered.

  She’d lived on this stretch of land most of her life. Lived in this very ranch house that had been built by her father and extended over the years by him and latterly her husband. It was a single storey building, which had spread outwards rather than upwards, the original building having been a simple cabin, the front part of which had been the living and cooking quarters while the rear part had been the sleeping area. That had been back in 1854 when the family had first settled in the valley. Now, almost thirty years later, the whole of the original cabin was a comfortable, well furnished living room on to which had been added three bedrooms and a cooking area. In addition, a bunkhouse had been erected some fifty yards away and stables and barns had been built as the ranch stock had developed.

  The front of the ranch house faced west and an elevated porch had been constructed either side of the door. This provided a sitting place for those warm evenings when chores were completed and the long shadows to darkness stretched across the land. On the north side of the house a lean-to shelter had been added, a shaded place in which the woman could do the laundry away from the glare of the sun. It was in that shaded area that she now stood, wiping her brow and raising her gaze to the shimmering view of the distant, snow-topped mountains. It was a vista she loved and had done since the day her father had halted the team pulling their Connestoga wagon and declared they need travel no further. Time stood still whenever she paused to take in this view, momentarily, the everyday sounds of birdsong and lowing cattle were blotted from her consciousness. The heat was forgotten and she stood in a still and silent world. Then, the moment of relaxation over, one more arch of her back to ease those muscles which had tightened while bent over the wooden wash tub, she turned to gather up the pile of damp clothes. In this heat they would be dry almost before she hung them in a line.

  She wasn’t quite sure why she stopped and looked again beyond the rail that surrounded the ranch yard. Something had caught her attention out on the low ridge that was the main trail to the growing settlement of Bridger Butte. A movement. There it was again, something white momentarily showing against the green hillside. White, like snow sliding off a shovel, or a bough of blossom swaying in a breeze. There again. A shimmer. A horse’s tail flicking away flies. And yes, a man, a motionless rider looking down on the ranch. She stayed in the shadow of the lean-to not knowing if from that distance – it was almost half a mile from the ridge to the ranch – he had seen her, but when he moved she knew he was heading in her direction.

  The woman watched as the horse picked its way down the hillside to the flat pasture land that separated the ranch from the nearby hills. She recognized neither horse nor rider and, alone at the ranch house as she now was, experience demanded caution. Visitors to the ranch were rare and her pa had always cradled a rifle in his arms when a stranger rode in. The woman had no gun to hand so remained in the darkness at the side of the house and continued to watch as man and horse came closer. They approached slowly, walking, as though proving to the people at the ranch that they weren’t a threat. The horse which, head-on, seemed to have no trace of white about it, carried its head high. Its neck and shoulders were thick and gave the impression of a beast with stamina. Its gait was steady, its stride long. The man on its back barely moved. Little could be seen of his face because the high domed hat he wore cast a shadow down to his lips. He wore a tough cotton shirt which was blue and fastened at the neck with a criss-crossed black lace. When he got to the gateway he tugged gently on the reins and brought the horse to a standstill. He leaned forward, rested his left hand on his saddle pommel and slapped at the horse’s neck with his right. It wasn’t a heavy slap, but dust rose from the beast’s body like flour from worn sack.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see a ranch out here,’ he called, making it clear that he knew the woman was standing in the shadows. He looked back to the ridge. ‘If that trail yonder doesn’t lead to Bridger Butte then I’m lost.’

  Like his approach to the ranch, the rider’s speech was unthreatening. It was neither spoken too fast nor a drawl. His tone and words carried enough humour to dispel most of the caution that experience had schooled into the woman. ‘You’re not lost,’ she said, stepping into the yard so she could be seen. ‘Bridger Butte is another six or so miles.’

  The man removed his hat and wiped the dampness from his forehead with his sleeve. He was younger than the woman had supposed him to be, younger than her by five or six years. His face was weather beaten and it and his clothes were as dusty as his horse. The horse, now that she saw it from the side, was a confusion of colour. It had a sorrel head and front body with white hindquarters, mane and tail. Here and there, splotches of the front colour appeared further along its back, like a painter had used its rump to clean his brush. She’d never before seen a horse with such unique markings and up close she confirmed her first impression that it was a strong horse bred for endurance. The man had attended to it continuously while he’d spoken to the woman, not only patting its neck and shoulder but also reaching forward and gently tugging its ear to show he was pleased with it. She liked that, a sign that his horse was important to him.

  ‘There’s water in the trough over there if your horse needs a drink,’ she said, ‘and you’re welcome to help yourself from that gourd in the shade. I just pulled it from the well a few minutes ago. It’ll still be cold.’

  The man nodded, an appreciation of the offer. He stepped down from the saddle, opened the gate and led the horse through. ‘Kind of you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘My name’s Ethan Brodie.’

  ‘I’m Ellen Hartley.’

  ‘I thought all the ranches were on the other side of the Dearborn.’

  ‘All except this one,’ she told him, then, with a tight little smile that tried to hold back her pride, she added, ‘and this one was here first.’

  The water trough was sited under a hitching rail and Ethan looped the reins twice around the long pole and stood for a moment while the horse lapped at the water.

  ‘He’s thirsty,’ said Ellen Hartley.

  ‘We’ve covered a lot of ground since sunup,’ he explained, ‘but he wouldn’t be so hot if we’d hit the Dearborn an hour ago as I expected.’

  ‘You’re new to the territory?’

  ‘First time this far north.’

  ‘Looking for work?’

  ‘No, ma’am. Just visiting. Someone to see.’

  ‘Extra hands will soon be needed on the ranches hereabout. Nearly time to bring the steers down from the hills. My husband’ll be wanting someone if you’re interested.’ Ethan shook his head but Ellen carried on talking, not really hoping to persuade him to accept employment, just reluctant to let him go without further conversation. She was surprised by how easily she had taken to Ethan Brodie. It wasn’t that he’d done or said anything special, but his demeanour inspired confidence. He was unhurried in everything he did as though sure that whatever he hoped to achieve would be done with quiet efficiency. ‘My husband will be back soon. Can you stay and take a meal with us? I know John will enjoy having someone new to talk to. Since the fight at the Little Bighorn even visits from army patrols seem to have dried up.’


  ‘Very kind of you, Mrs Hartley, but me and the horse have been travelling a few days now. We’d like to get the journey finished as soon as possible. I’ll just take that drink of cold water and we’ll be on our way.’

  Her shy smile was an acknowledgement of defeat and she walked with him to the lean-to where he drank deeply from the earthenware jug. He splashed a little on a hand and rubbed it over his face, clearing away some surface dust but making what was left behind on the edges of his face all the more obvious. ‘Did you say six miles to Bridger Butte?’

  ‘Once you’ve cleared that humpbacked ridge,’ she pointed in the direction he would be taking, ‘you’ll come to the river. There isn’t a bridge but it’s not running high. Just follow the trail for the best crossing point. After that, at a canter, it’ll take forty minutes.’ They walked back to the water trough and he swung up into the saddle. In as undemonstrative a manner as he could muster, Ethan Brodie tugged at the brim of his hat. It was a gesture not just of farewell but also of gratitude for the hospitality and pleasure for the company. Such minimal action, of course, was not Ellen Hartley’s way, but she almost surprised herself when she spoke. ‘If you’re staying around a while do come and visit, Mr Brodie. And remember there’s a job here if you want it.’ She flushed slightly at her forwardness. Hiring and firing had always been her husband’s task. Ethan Brodie clicked his tongue, a message to his mount, which was reinforced by the pressure of his heels. The horse walked forward towards the gate.

  ‘Mr Brodie,’ Ellen Hartley called and ran to catch up to him before the gate was closed again. ‘After you cross the river don’t stray from the trail. You’ll be on Diamond-D land. They aren’t tolerant of trespassers even if it’s accidental.’

  Ethan’s brow was etched with a crease. ‘Diamond-D? I thought Drummond’s land was the other side of Bridger Butte.’

  Ellen was curious as to how Ethan Brodie knew who owned the Diamond-D brand and the location of his main spread, but it didn’t prevent her giving the information he sought. ‘He’s just acquired the land across the river. Bought out Siggi Larrsen last week.’

  Ethan Brodie tugged again at his hat brim. ‘Obliged for the information, Mrs Hartley.’ This time when he clucked at the horse and pressed with his heels Ellen Hartley sensed a degree of urgency in his action. In addition, she thought his expression had lost a little of its warmth. She stood at the gate for several minutes, marking the progress of Ethan Brodie to the trail along the ridge by the startling white hindquarters of his mount.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Not since leaving his parent’s Missouri farm on the Ozark plateau had Ethan Brodie called any place home. For some years he’d wandered the mid-west states working on cattle ranches, labouring in sawmills, hauling goods from depots to growing settlements and, for a short period, had cut hair and supplied bath water in a canvas town in Colorado where a silver strike petered out before anyone got rich. At that time, Ethan Brodie was happy to do anything that flipped a few honest dollars in his pocket and demanded nothing more of him than that he supply the day of labour for which he was being paid. He’d seen the vast ranges of the Texas Panhandle and the fertile Californian valleys, areas that were El Dorado for cattle barons and crop growers but hadn’t proved preferable to Ethan to the movement of a good horse under him. He’d seen them and moved on, happy to live each day as it came and roam the big country, accepting whatever life threw at him at the next town or over the next hill.

  Even when he finally accepted a permanent job it didn’t mark the end of his travels, nor did he consider the rooms he’d rented for the past four years as home. They were nothing more than a functional base close to the offices of his employer, a location of acceptable comfort between assignments. As an agent of the Pinkerton Detective Agency he was deployed on cases throughout the states served by the Kansas Pacific railroad.

  But Ethan had never ridden north of the Oregon Trail. In his years as a saddle tramp, the land of the Yellowstone and Powder Rivers had been home to restless Indian tribes and, at that time, though he didn’t consider himself a coward, he couldn’t view the prospect of skirmishes with hostile bands as anything but foolish. The discovery of gold in the Black Hills had tempted many men north but, to Ethan’s knowledge, panning rivers had made few men rich. The lure of gold wasn’t worth risking the wrath of the tribesmen and, as a young man, he knew of no other inducement that could. Since then, since Custer’s defeat at the Little Bighorn, most warriors had settled on government reservations. Now all territory of the United States of America was available for settlement and development.

  As he sat on the humpback mound above the Dearborn with the snow topped mountains of the Bitterroot Range to his left and the river running away to the flat prairie land to his right, Ethan Brodie was surprised by the thoughts in his head. A group of five pronghorn were drinking downstream. One looked his way in nervous curiosity but dipped its head to the water again before walking gingerly to the cover of trees. For three days, since leaving Billings, he’d journeyed through similar country. It was unlike any he’d seen in his ten years of travel. The gentle sweeps of the low hills were covered with cottonwood trees and tall cedars. Wherever he’d ridden he’d seen an abundance of game, herds of pronghorn deer darting among the trees or sometimes merely grazing by a river. There had been elk and bear – even the scent of the latter was enough to spook his stallion. The grass land was lush and the rivers he’d crossed were clear and cool and full of fish that were big enough to provide a satisfying meal. This was land on which a man could settle, land where he could raise stock or grow crops. Land on which he could build a home.

  Ellen Hartley had told the truth about the Dearborn River: it wasn’t running high. When Ethan Brodie rode across, the deepest part was no more than hock high. The far side was a long, steady climb through a forested slope but the trail was well defined. Ethan had just reached the tree line when he heard the gunshot. The report seemed to still the hillside. Bird song ceased; even the breeze held still, killing the sough as it troubled the branches of the surrounding tall cedars. He reined in, reached forward to rest a hand on the animal’s neck and waited to see if more gunshots would follow.

  After a couple of minutes, with no repetition of the harsh disturbance and the sounds of the forest returning to the commonplace, Ethan urged his horse forward. They travelled cautiously, at walking pace, Ethan listening and watching for whoever had discharged the gun. A hunter, he supposed, garnering fresh meat for the pot, but in a strange country it didn’t pay to take anything for granted. Also, Ellen Hartley’s warning about the territory across the river echoed in his mind.

  His supposition that the shot had been fired by a hunter proved unfounded when he came across a group of men as he rounded a bend in the trail. Three of the men were mounted, the fourth stood over the sprawled body of his dead mount. The horse had a broken leg and a bullet in its brain. The man afoot had a rifle in his hand and an angry look on his face. He was a thickset man of fair complexion and clean shaven. He was a year or two over thirty and wore typical cowboy garb; leather chaps over dark, cord trousers and a single holster gunbelt around his waist. His shirt was plain, off-white calico and a navy ’kerchief hung in heavy folds on his chest. His hat, which had parted company with his head, was light grey and dangled down his back by means of a thick black cord.

  It was clear to Ethan that whatever business the group was about, it was now in limbo because of the dead horse. Whether they were waiting for the unhorsed man’s temper to abate or whether they deferred to him for another reason, it was obvious the mounted men weren’t moving on until he was ready. The man worked the mechanism of his rifle ensuring there was another bullet in the breech. For a moment it looked as though he was going to shoot the dead animal again. A rider spoke. His voice was soft and low and held a hint of mockery. ‘It’s dead.’