A Ghost Town on the Yellowstone by Elliot Paul

Author:Elliot Paul [Paul, Elliot]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Criminals & Outlaws, Rich & Famous, Social Science, Ethnic Studies, Native American Studies, History, United States, 19th Century
ISBN: 9781789120202
Google: jDxODwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2018-02-27T02:39:37+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN—Developments after a Shooting Case Is “Closed”

THE coroner of Dawson County and nearly all the inhabitants and transients, after the neat report to the effect that Lazio Richter, described simply as “an Austrian laborer,” had died from a shot fired “in self-defense” by Chester E. Donaldson, assumed that the incident had ended. So did the thirty-nine sad and resentful Bohunks who started, two and two, down the valley, that hot Sunday morning. They knew they had no chance for justice, or even explanation.

Chet Donaldson swaggered and blustered around his camp, phoning his agent in Glendive for more men, and trying to get the burned bunk-house and warehouse replaced. But Anne Prentice was occupying the major share of his thoughts. Lots of women had fallen for Chet, his debonair ways and handsome features. He had not lost his head about one for years, and he knew, this time, that he was out of his depth. He had to have Anne, and to get her he must marry her. Chet felt no remorse for having shot a Bohunk. Before the smoke had cleared from his six-shooter, however, he had begun to worry about how Anne would take the news. So he dressed himself with care, slicked up his red hair with Ed. Pinaud’s hair tonic, and presented himself at the Prentice camp.

It was the hottest hour of the day, and one of the hottest days of the summer. Chet found Noel Prentice sitting morosely in his office shack, checking payroll figures with the time-keeper. Noel was employing about eighty men, all told, just then, and half of them were Bohunks. The other half, encouraged by the fact that the foreigners had been “run out” of Donaldson’s camp, were muttering in groups and there had been some talk of a similar move to rid the “Americans” of unfair competition.

Like men of his type, today glibly classified as paranoiacs, Chet was able, on occasion, to act contrite, sympathetic and humble.

“I feel like hell about what happened,” Chet said. “I suppose you heard.”

“Yes. I heard,” said Noel.

“If I hadn’t stepped in when I did, there’d have been a lot of bloodshed,” Chet said.

“Men who carry guns end up by shooting somebody,” said Noel.

“I’ve got a tough bunch over there,” Chet said.

Prentice made no further comment.

“Is Miss Anne at home?” Chet asked.

“She’s still asleep,” Noel said. He did not suggest that Chet sit down and wait.

“I’ll take a ride over to B. F. Shoat’s camp, and stop in on my way back,” Chet said.

Noel said nothing at all.

Meanwhile, at Trembles, Walt Murray was experiencing a few of the worst hours of his life, thus far. He had awakened at noon with a smarting, bandaged right hand, a splitting headache that kept white lights shooting under his eyelids, a taste in his mouth that made him think of camels, and a blank in his memory. When he could sit up, he saw through a crack in the door, ajar, Ah Flunk with a dustpan and broom. Slowly, bit by bit, he was able to place himself.

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