The Gunfight on Old Woman Hill

Wasey pushed himself hard and by sundown he'd traversed the river and was closing on Old Woman Hill. The temperature was dropping as the sun slowly faded, prompting him to stop and put some more clothes on.

Keeping one eye on the blackening skies to the north, he rummaged around in his pack until he found his pants and other warm clothes.

Darkness was quickly settling through the forest, the shadows gathering his unease. Without thinking he pulled Ravissante's picture out of his hatband and slid it into his shirt pocket, and buttoned the flap. He pulled on his trail-worn pants and struggled back into his knee-high boots.

Back on horseback he made good time as Socrates confidently picked his way through the moonlit forest toward Old Woman Hill. The half-moon had been up for a couple of hours when he came out of a little dell and saw a fire against the night sky. He strained to hear what he thought were angry voices, as the fire seemed to flare.

All those years of being a Mountie had made him a cautious man, so he tied his animals up near the bottom of the hill. He took off his ankle length fur coat and jerked out his Winchester from the saddle scabbard. With a deft pull he undid the straps on his spurs and slipped them in a corner of a saddle bag. He checked the load of his rifle and pistol and stealthily started toward the summit.

The land rose gradually. With every step the voices became louder and the fire brighter. Soon, he could see the outline of four men through the shadows of the forest.

A young Indian was tied up by the horses, while one man stood with his back to a tree, with two others facing him. Wasey worked his way closer so he could get a better look at the men. The loner had a famaliar way of moving, and after he skirted further to his left, Wasey recognized his cousin, Cade McCord. And facing him was Pig Face Boucher.

Law on both sides of the border been chasing the renegade Metis, Pig Face Boucher, for more than ten years, and here he was, out in the middle of nowhere. Wasey put his killing face on and cautiously moved over by the men's horses and mules, so he could watch Cade's back.

Boucher finished taking a swig of liquor and glared defiantly across the fire. "So now yer a trapper, McCord! Look Davey! A mec of many abilities, is dis man. You weren't much of a tracker so I can't imagin' you bein' much better as a trapper. Dat would be too much to believe."

"Well, times change," McCord's lilting Australian accent carried out through the silent night, "and men with them. . .'though I see yore still as handsome as ever."

Boucher's hand flew up to his face where a nasty scar ran the length of his right jaw. Pig Face rubbed the scar and arrogantly gestured at Cade.

"Come McCord, "Boucher spat on the ground. "That's not da way to talk to an ole frehn."

"What about that young bloke tied up over there," McCord asked, "is he another friend of yores?"

Cade straightened up and spread his feet apart. He wanted to make the play, before his two opponents got sorted out. He could kick himself for walking into the camp, before he scouted things better.

"Dat's right mec," Boucher agreed. "And if you dink I treat frehns harshly, you should see me treat enemies."

Wasey could see that Pig Face was near the edge and it wouldn't take much for his anger to erupt in violence. Pig Face's partner walked over and took the whiskey bottle and when he turned Wasey recognized Davey Otter, another man the law wanted.

"I've seen yore handiwork first hand." Cade reminded Boucher, "Or have you forgotten about the beatin' you blokes hung on me? And where are those other bastards that were in on it, Roberts and Red Crow?"

"Dose two ride their own trails and if you wouldn't have been chasin' us you wouldn't got beat!"

"Yore a wanted man, Boucher, that was reason enough to be on yore trail. But what I can't figure was what Red Crow and four men were doin' there. It was like they was waiting for me."

"Dey were," Boucher laughed, "I don't mind telling you. . .Carl Strock sent Davey , when he sighted you in Shelby. Ain't that so, Davey?"

"Dat's right. I dang near kilt my horse ridin' back with da word."

It took a minute but now Wasey knew who Carl Strock was. It had to be that dandy that listened and said little, over at the Marshal's office, when he and Cade first rode into Shelby.

"Yer a lucky mec ta be alive," Boucher blustered, "but how much longer will dat be. Eh, mon ami?"

"I'll live long enough to piss on yer grave, mate," Cade replied coolly. "Yer real tough when yer beatin' a man that has his hands tied. You thought I were dead, didn't you Douche?"

"Damn you Aussie! You should be dead-any run-of-de-mill man wouldn't have lived from dat beatin'!" Boucher grabbed the whiskey back from Davey Otter and finished the bottle.

"Ecouter. Listen old friend. We are all just travelers here and dat was before. . .before I knew what a good mec you are. Can not dis be de start of a new understandin'? "I heard you was quick on da draw, maybe you could throw in with us." Pig face was all smiles, "Tell us of yore winter of trapping, mec, by da looks of yer mule you had a good season!"

McCord stayed silent as Boucher muttered something in French and Cree, to Davey Otter, and then turned back to Cade. "Allons, come and show us yore winters catch of fur. We'll help you decide dere value, mon dieu, so you don't get cheated by da trader at da post.

"Besides," Boucher shrugged, "it's better for you dis way. You damn whites don't know nudin' about furs, need a good mec like me to help you out.

"Davey go and get dat oder bottle, so's our frehn here can have a drink wid his mecs."

Otter nodded and made his way toward the picket line and right at the big gray gelding, with the shotgun tied to the saddle, that Wasey was crouched behind.

McCord tossed his smoke in the fire. "Well, mate, it's like this; I've only been out here a couple of months and haven't really got the hang of this trappin' thing."

"You haven't?" Boucher guffawed, "Den, let's all look at dem bundles of furs, eh?!

"C'est le temps de se dire au revoir!" Boucher yelled in Pidgin, "It is time to say so long!"

As Davey Otter put his hands on the shotgun Wasey came out of his crouch and bashed the outlaw in the forehead with his rifle butt. Otter dropped like a bag of crap while Wasey leveled his Winchester on Boucher.

"Boucher! Keep yer hand away from yer gun!"

Pig Face, stared uncertainly at him. "Calisse! Who da hell are you? You will eat one if you don't stay out of dis!"

"I'm Wasey Bruce and I'll put a hole in yer, if yer don't throw down, now!"

"I herd of yer," Boucher nodded, "Yer a Mountie. . . ."

"Stand off Wasey!" Cade growled, "This is 'tween Pig Face and me!"

"Like hell!" Wasey yelled back, "this renegade Metis is done fer. I'll not take a chance on him shootin' yer!"

"Bloody oath! I said stand off, damn you," Cade snarled, "it's personal with me and Pig Face! Fair dinkum, if he puts me down blow a hole in the bastard, but stand clear now!"

Cade had the bit in his teeth, and Wasey knew it. "Dern yer hard-head! Git on with it then!"

"Well, Douche, shor' as shit yore in a fix. If you draw on us yore likely dead," Cade laughed grimly, "but if you don't you'll hang and be dead, guaranteed."

"Tabernac! Damn you stinkin' Mounties to hell!" Boucher's hand was crawling toward the handle of his gun, a maniacal grin pasted stupidly on his face.

Cade's merciless voice egged Pig face on. "That's it. . .go for the gun yer wog bastard." His words froze the moment into a series of small events: Pig Face paused an instant, doubt jumpin' into his eyes, then gone. With a laugh, the man's bravado overflowed and before another heartbeat, two shots rang out.

Boucher shot wildly, his gun barely clearing the holster before Cade's bullet knocked him two feet back and blew a hole in his chest. The outlaw lay on his back, covered in blood, with his right leg shaking uncontrollably.

Cade walked cautiously over to the outlaw. There was a look of surprise on the ugly face and the eyes were glassy. Cade stepped on Boucher's arm and took the dyin' man's gun from his hand.

"Just yore luck, I'm out of practice and didn't make a clean job of it." Cade leaned over Boucher's face, and made sure the man could see him. "It's goin' to take you a minute or so to bleed to death, so you lay there, mate, and think back on yore miserable life and how we're goin' to enjoy spending the reward money from yore dead carcass."

Pig Face tried to speak but little more than a gasp escaped his lips. Cade grunted and turned away, "Wasey Bruce! You have a nose for trouble better'n a dingo. . .I should've known you'd show up!"

"Yer right, savin' you seems ta be a habit with me," Wasey admitted, "and that's a habit that'll be broke if'n yer ever cuss me out again."

"Well, I didn't need yore help," Cade retorted, "not that I didn't appreciate yore appearance, but I would have got that Injun by the horses."

"It'd have been a real tough play if he'd have got that shotgun."

"Tough or not, I would have made it."

"Dang, yer just mite of."

Wasey reached down and nudged Davey Otter, who groggily staggered to his feet. The man's face and shirt were bloodied from a cut above his right eye and with a groan and a kick in the ass from Wasey's boot the outlaw stumbled toward the fire.

"Git over there, yer piece of dung. . .keep an eye on him, Cade."

"Right there, yer wog bastard," Cade pointed to a spot by the fire. "Sit yer ass on that log and don't move."

Wasey walked over to the young Indian and cut him loose.

"What's yer name, boy?"

"Walter Born With A Tooth, sir."

"Well Walt, if'n yer missed it, in all the excitement, I'm Wasey Bruce and that's Cade McCord." Wasey added dryly, "And I think yer 'quainted with Mister Otter over there."

This is an excerpt from Chapter Two of The Last Best West by Longfellow. Copyrite © 2002 All rights Reserved. No portion or part maybe reproduced by any physical, mechanical or electronic means. Please contact us at for further information or assistance.

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