Montana Abbott 6: East to Montana

By Al Cody

Montana had bought some grazing land on the wide-open plains of his home state. All he needed now was to find a herd of good beef cattle—short of horn, heavy with meat—and settle in for the good life of a ranching man. So with a poke of gold in his saddle bags, Montana headed out across the barren, sun-baked tableland—toward the lush, green valleys of the West.
But he hadn’t gotten far before he was staring down the muzzle of a forty-five—centered on his chest at point-blank range. It was the gun of a hardcase outlaw, a desperate man with enemies at his back—and he needed Montana’s horse for the long trail ahead.
That was only the start of his troubles—for Montana was heading into land claimed by one of the most ruthless cattle barons in the whole western Territory. Before he knew it, Montana was being stalked by a hard-bitten crew of killers. And now that he’d lost his horse, it was a sure bet he’d lose his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005287030

Al Cody

Born in Great Falls, Montana, on July 25th 1899, “Al Cody” was a pseudonym of Archie Lynn Joscelyn. Joscelyn went on to become an enormously prolific and popular writer, especially in the western field, but also authoring a number of novels in the detective and romance genres along the way. In addition to the books he wrote under his own name and that of Cody, Archie Joscelyn also used the names A A Archer, Tex Holt, Evelyn McKenna and Lynn Westland.

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Montana had bought some grazing land on the wide-open plains of his home state. All he needed now was to find a herd of good beef cattle – short of horn, heavy with meat –and settle in for the good life of a ranching man. So with a poke of gold in his saddle bags, Montana headed out across the barren, sunbaked tableland—toward the lush, green valleys of the West.

But he hadn’t gotten far before he was staring down the muzzle of a forty-five centered on his chest at point-blank range. It was the gun of a hardcase outlaw, a desperate man with enemies at his back, and he needed Montana’s horse for the long trail ahead.

That was only the start of his troubles—for Montana was heading into land claimed by one of the most ruthless cattle barons in the whole western Territory. Before he knew it, Montana was being stalked by a hard-bitten crew of killers. And now that he’d lost his horse, it was a sure bet he’d lose his life.

MONTANA ABBOTT 6: EAST TO MONTANA

By Al Cody

First Published by in 1974

Copyright © 1974, 2021 by Running Dog Publishing, LLC

This Electronic Edition: December 2021

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Cover Art by Gordon Crabb

Editor: Mike Stotter

Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

For Peter

Chapter One

HOLD EVERYTHING, FRIEND—reachin’ high, that is! And keep your hands well away from that gun you’re wearin’, just so there’ll be no occasion for this one of mine to go off.

The command was blurted by a down-at-the-heels individual who stepped suddenly from behind a clump of brush where it crowded the narrowing, descending trail. The words, delivered in a high falsetto, bespoke nervousness and a jumpy trigger finger. As though understanding the order, Montana Abbott’s horse stopped instantly, and Montana prudently obeyed, finding the round muzzle of a forty-five centering on his chest at point-blank range.

Montana’s heart skipped a beat, then, as though to make up for the omission, beat faster. This was the sort of thing which, even with repetition, one never quite got used to.

That’s fine, friend—just keep ’em so, the gunman approved, and his tongue ran uncertainly over dry lips. Wouldn’t want to have no mistakes, he went on, nor for anything untoward to happen. That would be just too bad, while we’re havin’ a friendly little discussion. Nope, sure wouldn’t want that.

Leaning forward suddenly, his free hand extracted Montana’s gun from its holster, and he made the transfer to his own belt. His glance ranged calculatingly to the extra pair of horses behind—a hammer-headed bay with a coldly roving eye, which carried the pack, and a brindle which served as an extra mount.

Friendly? Montana repeated, on a note of doubt. His breath had evened, and he had the outward placidity of a sleeping silvertip.

A brief and wholly mirthless smile twisted the gunman’s mouth, but his rejoinder came positively, even while he writhed about to dart a suspicious glance toward the widening valley which could be glimpsed from a turn in the trail below.

Were I as bloodthirsty as I perhaps appear, I could have shot you with never a word of warning, he pointed out. Necessity spurs me to this action, much as I dislike it, but I am no thief—despite what some may say! In proof of which I propose a trade, since a fair exchange is no robbery.

He drew back, motioning with a wave of the gun barrel.

If you will kindly dismount, step down, please—carefully, friend, carefully—we will swap horses. If you will look back and down-trail, you will see mine, making the most of his opportunity to stuff himself, but a good animal, sound of wind and limb, aside from a temporary handicap. Not far back a stone turned under his hoof, so that he is temporarily lame. That is a condition which will pass, but not fast enough for my needs. I confess to being in haste.

Beneath the flood of words his meaning was clear. He was being pursued by someone who regarded him as a thief and who would probably shoot on sight. A fast horse, not slowed by lameness, was necessary for survival.

Since you have an extra animal, you will not be unduly discommoded, he went on, careful to keep a safe distance between himself and Abbott. Were I indeed a thief, I would be tempted to take both animals, but that would be robbery. His sigh of renunciation belied the profession of principle. In a headlong flight for life, to be forced either to lead or drive an extra horse would be a handicap.

Abbott studied the other cayuse, grazing with dragging bridle reins a short distance back and down the slope. It was grayish with darker spots, unusual and distinctive. In size and build it matched his own pony, and he could not detect any sign of lameness as it moved.

The trader’s glance strayed in turn to the pack horse and the bulky load which it carried, a burden in need of adjusting and tightening. For the last half-hour or more they had been steadily descending, dropping down from the high barren tablelands of central Oregon. This was an ancient game trail which wound and twisted, occasionally narrowing, sometimes sharply crowded by an out jutting of the hill or a massive boulder. Apparently the pack had scraped against such an obstruction, loosening and shifting.

The dislocation revealed the corner of a red and black checkered blanket, which the gunman eyed covetously. Keeping a wary eye on Montana, he crossed for a closer look.

You come well equipped with the necessities of the trail, friend, he observed, whereas I have a lack, due to having set out somewhat hastily. And with the summer waning and uplands ahead of me, the nights will become increasingly cold. I need such a blanket.

Seizing the edge, he tugged and jerked, and gradually it loosened, then pulled free. The resultant easing of tightly drawn ropes allowed the pack to slip and sag a little more. Folding the blanket, he tied it behind the saddle which Abbott had just left.

You are thinking, friend, that I am reneging on my promise, seizing additional booty, or even stealing. He sighed. Not so. The horse and saddle I consider a fair exchange. The gun I regret, but as a fair-minded man you will understand the necessity of my keeping it. This should compensate you for both gun and blanket.

In appearance he was a saddle tramp or worse, but that was belied by his diction and choice of words. He felt in a pocket and drew out a greenback, closely folded. This he tossed across, and Abbott caught it and shoved it into a pocket of his own. As it partly unfolded, he saw that it was for twenty dollars and modified his initial judgment. The gunman, whether or not he was thief or outlaw, was holding to his professed standards.

I think that evens it, so, with our transaction completed, I’ll be riding, he added, suddenly brisk. As a friendly word of caution, I advise that you keep on without tarrying. And my thanks to you.

Again he paused, snatching up a pair of saddlebags from the shelter of the brush, slinging them in place behind the saddle and fastening them. Then he mounted, a firm hand on the reins. Abbott’s big animal, normally inclined to resent any other rider, humped uncertainly, then, submitting to the mastery of the reins, swung about and headed back up the trail.

Montana’s extra horse and the pack animal moved uneasily, since they were trained to follow the lead animal. At Abbott’s word of command they came on. By the time he reached the spotted cayuse and gathered up the reins, the trader with his new mount was out of sight.

Philosophically, Montana accepted the situation. He had learned long before not to argue with a man who had the drop, especially one who was so gun- handy; not, at least, unless it was a matter of life and death.

And on balance, he seemed to have come out of this with no real loss—at least up to now.

His new mount moved resignedly, though with no trace of a limp. Sweat had caked it, not only around saddle and withers, but at every point. It had partly dried because of the breather it had enjoyed under the hot sun of late summer. For some time it had been climbing, undoubtedly pushed hard by a man apprehensive of pursuit; and overburdened, for those saddle-bags had made the trader strain and grunt to swing them up.

Montana was thoughtful. That the bags might contain a poke of gold, even as did his own pack, was within the realm of reasonable speculation. The gold country of Northern California was not so far way, and the trader’s admission that he might be deemed a thief by some was interesting.

Probably his flight, ahead of pursuit, had been long. Within a very few minutes Montana realized that the spotted horse was not merely tired but close to exhaustion. Its reserves had been spent, leaving it in no condition for a sudden run if that should be required. That could be at least a part of the reason behind the trade.

Too old a campaigner to take unnecessary chances, Montana weighed the odds. It would be only prudent to shift saddles and mounts, and to rearm himself with the extra gun which he carried stowed in the recesses of the pack. But here the trail descended steeply, winding and twisting. Occasional patches of brush, along with sparse evergreens, clung to inhospitable slopes. Heat seemed to seep up from the valley below, a valley largely invisible. But it should enfold a stream, and water would be welcome.

The narrow, twisting trail was not to his liking as a place to make a transfer. Surprise was too easy. He’d stop as soon as he reached an open space to set the pack to rights, get the gun and shift mounts.

Again he was surprised, this time more pleasantly. The valley below widened suddenly, flattening as it opened. The distant green of brush and trees indicated a creek or perhaps a river, the sun touching it to silver. The other horses scented it, snorting eagerly, breaking into a trot, getting ahead of his faltering mount with a rush. Catching some of their enthusiasm, it tried to quicken its pace.

After long days across a barren, sunbaked tableland, their need for water was easy to understand. It had been a long haul since sunup. With his regular mount, Montana could have controlled the others, but for the moment he had to let them run.

There was a new look to the country, a richer, greener range. Along the widening valley roamed a sweep of easy hills, their own valleys lush with grass. At long last he