Until We Meet Again

By A.R Anderson

The life of the citizens of Tower, Montana, is interrupted by the
appearance and disappearance of a stranger in town, by a violent
act of murder and an influx of drug runners working out of isolated
locations on the prairie.. Peace and quiet are at a premium as Pastor
Sicily Anderson and Deputy Sheriff Jess Spandler find themselves
drawn into a chain of circumstances that can only mean disaster, not
only for them, but others in the community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781469131955

A.R Anderson

Avis Anderson, granddaughter of Scandinavian immigrants, was born and has lived all her life on the Great Plains of Montana and South Dakota. “Big Sky” Country is a predominant influence in her life and philosophy. She spent 25 years as a high school teacher and librarian and currently is a Lutheran minister in her home congregation in Eastern Montana.

Book preview

July

Creaking and groaning, like the arthritic joints of an elderly couple, the stand of old cottonwood trees swayed in the wind blowing across the river, their intertwined branches creating a shadowy canopy. Below, in the dark, a figure stumbled over the roots poking up through the ground and then slipped on the floor covering of dried leaves that were slightly damp in the late-night fog. The remaining wisps of a mist trailed lazily along the river’s edge. The man could hear the sounds of the wind and the water, but it meant nothing in the life-and-death scenario of which he was the main actor. Trying to hide in a place he did not know, the man was an easy target for a searchlight mounted on a pickup door, and after that, it was a small matter for the rifles to sight in on him and put an end to his stumbling.

Like shootin’ coyotes!

Yeah, well. Coyotes and buzzards will take care of whatever’s left before anybody’s out this way again. Let’s go! I got me some serious drinking money now, and Margy’s waiting.

The light went out, doors slammed, and the pickup roared out of the area labeled Spillway, up on to the gravel road, disappearing into the night.

A rancher’s dog whined a little and barked at the red taillights as they winked into the distance. When all was still, a shadow slipped from a ditch alongside the road and hurried down to the body.

The Past Is Always Prologue

1881 August

The wagon wheels screeched as the mules pulled the wagon box over the rocks and dried gumbo along the river. It was an unbearably hot August day, and the men had shed all their woolens, riding in T-shirts and cavalry-issue headgear. The mosquitoes attacked without mercy. The tails of the mules switched back and forth, trying to chase away the bloodsucking insects swarming around their ears, eyes, and nose.

Colonel Brady Connelly rode ahead and turned to watch the progress the wagon was making up the hill. Soon, they would be on Grant’s Flat, up and away from the river. Hopefully, it would make the rest of the return trip easier.

Ten days ago, the single wagon and four men plus Connelly had headed south from Fort Miles along the Yellowstone River to a little town on the Northern Pacific Railroad named Glendive. They were in Montana Territory, soon to become the State of Montana, and Glendive was the western terminus of the railroad tracks at this point. The tracks were being pushed west and would soon be at Miles City, making Fort Keogh more accessible. Eventually, they would be in Bozeman. The military was pushing the railway company hard to get the job done. The Custer Massacre in 1876 had stirred up a lot of bad feelings in the territories west of the Mississippi, and the army needed help to keep the peace. Hopefully, the railroad would make travel in the area easier. This trip was to pick up a military payroll of some hundred thousand dollars. Connelly hadn’t relished the trip in August and knew the dangers of robbery, but he obeyed orders.

Blessed St. Bridget and all the angels, but it was hot. The sweatband around his hat was soaked, but he didn’t dare take off the hat or he would get sunstroke for sure. Suddenly, he heard gunshots. Spurring his horse, he headed back for the wagon and his men, just in time to see at least five men emerge from the gully.

How could they have missed them hiding in the brush? They had gone right past. His men were so hot and tired that they weren’t prepared for this kind of attack. He had been worried about it from the beginning, and then when Kilkenny began spouting off in the saloon in Glendive, it was all he could do not to nail him to the floor! Stupid!

Connelly was in the middle of the melee, firing his pistol, trying to lay some cover for his men so they could get to higher ground. He couldn’t determine how many were attacking them. Suddenly, the driver of the team went flying off the wagon, a red flower of blood blossoming on the front of his shirt. The mules, usually lazy and impossible, suddenly reared up, lost their footing, and, pulling the wagon with them, began to slide slowly over the edge of the coulee and down toward the river.

At that moment, everything stopped. The soldiers and the robbers watched the wagon as it disappeared from view.

Quick! Connelly yelled, getting his men’s attention. Come on! Ride!

In an instant, the other three soldiers were out of the coulee riding fast toward a low stand of cottonwood trees on the flat above the river. As Connelly surmised, once the wagon was gone, the bandits weren’t interested in the soldiers. He watched from a distance as the now seven men appeared and slipped and slid their way down the hill toward the upturned wagon and struggling mules.

Smiling a tight, thin-lipped smile, Connelly turned back to his men. He knew where the hundred thousand dollars were. And it wasn’t at the bottom of the coulee with a couple of sorry mules. It would hold until he was ready for a quick retirement.

Colonel? Are we going after the money?

He looked at the men and thought about the close call they all had had. He needed to be alive to enjoy the money, and they were outgunned.

There’s too many of them. I’ll write a report when we get back to the fort. You boys did a good job defending the payroll. Nothing we can do about it now.

Obviously relieved, the men turned their horses and rode for the fort, now only a few hours away. He’d send a detachment back for the driver’s body. Obviously, Connelly’s superiors would not be pleased, but the reoccurrence of robberies of military payrolls was a common problem. They cabled Washington to send the payroll from Fort Lincoln by steamboat next time. Perhaps that way it might arrive safely.

Colonel Brady Connelly was transferred to Fort Apache in Arizona Territory not long after, and it was there he died in a brawl in a little cantina in 1887. The military strongbox continued to wait somewhere along the Yellowstone River.

1915 March

The two men came fast on horseback. When they crossed a snow-covered flat area, they pulled their horses to a halt, dropped the reins, and hurried into a small log cabin. Rustic was a polite description. The little building had only one window with room inside for a single chair, cot, and a tabletop propped on a couple of wooden apple boxes. A coal stove was the centerpiece of the room with a hod of coal in the corner.

Where is he?

The man who spoke had hard blue eyes, a handlebar mustache, which seemed a little old-fashioned for the day. He pushed his cowboy hat to the back of his head.

I don’t know, was the reply from his fellow rider.

We sent Spike to tell him the ice was going out on the river. Where do you suppose he has the cattle quartered?

Better not be in those corrals down by the river. If the ice breaks tonight, there’ll be flooding up as high as this place.

The second man looked around as if the water was already coming into the room.

Let’s see if we can find him.

Leaving the shack, the two men mounted their horses, and each going a different direction began looking for Bob.

The two men were brothers, John and Melville Whistler, sons of Big John Whistler, a Chisholm Trail cowboy, who ended up in the grasslands of Eastern Montana. It had been free and open range in those days, and Whistler had taken all the land he could get his hands on. His ranch wasn’t only acres; it ran for miles up and down both sides of the Yellowstone River. Too old to ride horseback anymore, he left the running of his ranch to his sons while he and his wife, Maureen, spent their winters in California. It was about time for the old folks to return to the ranch for their summer sojourn, and the boys wanted to be sure everything was in order.

After a twenty-minute ride, John Jr. was the one to spot a lone figure trudging slowly out of a coulee at the river’s edge. Letting out an ear-piercing whistle and a shout, he got the man’s attention and rode down to meet him. A few minutes later, Mel joined them as well. The three men held a consultation.

From where they were sitting, they could see the river. It was still covered with ice, but a week of warm days had preceded this one, and they knew that could mean it was time for the ice to go out. It wasn’t a big problem, but when you had free-ranging cattle, it could be a real issue keeping them safe from drowning.

Where is the biggest part of the herd? Mel asked Bob, a hired ranch hand.

I’ve got them in the corrals on Ellis Island, but I want to get them out of there today. In fact, I was just checking the ice, and I had better get moving or it’s not going to hold them.

Good deal. We’ll come along and help.

It was late afternoon when the last of the herd crossed the river, the ice groaning dangerously. The men were relieved to get them to a corral on higher ground. With a biting wind blowing out of the northwest, they turned up their collars, and waving to Bob, they headed for the ranch house and their dinners.

When Bob got this part of the herd fed, he headed for his little line shack and a pot of stew and hot coffee. It was the last good meal he would ever eat. That night, the ice broke through on the river, and before he could escape, the line shack with him in it was caught up in the roaring waters.