Montana Abbott 8: Montana's Golden Gamble

By Al Cody

Every killer in the West was heading to town. It was gold they were after. And every gunslick, braggart and bandit in town, Helena quickly became known as Last Gulch. Montana Abbott could smell blood in the air. His gun sense told him to move on. But when he got tangled up with a beautiful wildcat woman, he decided to take the gamble to stay. Trouble was, a greedy outlaw with a gun was betting against him—and the stakes were in blood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005296841

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.

Book preview

Chapter One

A HORSE COULD be almost as companionable as a woman, a man’s best friend on a far trail; or as perverse and ornery a critter as pranced on four legs. Montana’s chose to demonstrate that fickle strain by a sudden jump sidewise at sight of a dead dog, lying in the middle of the square. It had fallen across the ancient buffalo trail which had served as a pattern for the street, and most wayfarers had been content to circle the obstruction, though some merely stepped across.

Jumping with the suddenness of a supposedly somnolent frog, the pony failed to unseat its rider, but had better luck with his big hat. It fluttered like a gunned hawk to sudden ruination as the scrambling cayuse placed a hoof squarely in the middle of the crown. Abbott swore mildly.

That’s the third headpiece I’ve lost in as many weeks, he observed. The wind caught one, and a jackrabbit couldn’t have kept in sight of it. This fool horse went and rolled on the other, no doubt figurin’ it was my pack, but it wasn’t too much of a loss. Somebody’d put a bullet through the crown before I acquired it.

Dismissing the hat’s loss with easy philosophy, he studied the new mining camp with the respect which its prodigality deserved—both as to production of gold and riotous reputation. The dog seemed not to detract from the pretentiousness of the buildings which fronted each other across the intersection. Three of them were saloons.

The Dixie flaunted the largest sign, proof that a lost cause was not forgotten; also, that a liberal sprinkling of the population of this northern gold camp was of southern extraction. Opposite, the Beer Bucket showed an overflowing keg, while a single word below emphasized its chief product, Whiskey. But Gentleman Johnny’s Place advertised Wines and Choice Liquors for a Discriminating Clientele.

The edifice which occupied the fourth corner was squat and unlovely, hardly at home in such surroundings. The sign said: POWDER HOUSE, EXPLOSIVE.

Peg-Leg Pete, otherwise known as The Bear-Trap Kid, eased in the saddle, lifting his gaze from the ruined hat and the hound’s remains. Report ran that he had lost his right leg, below the knee, when it had been caught in the crushing jaws of a trap designed to hold a grizzly bear. The wooden peg which he wore in place of the missing foot was thrust snugly into a leather pocket, fitted to the right stirrup. Waving an encompassing hand, he grinned at Montana.

Welcome to Last Chance Gulch, he observed, known to some as Helena—though some shorten that to one syllable. Light down, and we’ll sluice the dust from our gullets, and I’ll buy you a new hat.

Looming solid in the saddle, Montana Abbott was even more striking when dismounted. Without a hat, he suggested even more the loose, easy bigness of a grizzly bear. His glance ranged the square inquiringly.

Which one?

Peg-Leg’s shrug was eloquent. Poison’s the same by whatever name. Might be a shade better in Gentleman Johnny’s—though that title’s as much of a misnomer as the one I wear.

Abbott’s eyes studied the sprawl of the camp, from the crowding hills at one end to the opening valley northward. Here and there, the pockmarks of the diggings resembled the patternless eruptions of countless gophers. There were both resemblances and differences between the camps at Bannack and Virginia City. The one thing which all three had in common was the richness of the gold fields.

You mean your leg? he asked.

Peg-Leg nodded, lurching as he came up under the neck of his horse.

The same. Makes a good story, that I lost it in a bear trap. Usually I don’t dispute such fancies, but what really happened was a Yankee bayonet. I was with Pickett, takin’ that charge where so many of the boys cashed in their chips. A sojer in a blue coat was aimin’ his slicer for my middle, me being one of the few that almost made it. He come at me like a hungry wolf. I was sweatin’, and it wasn’t all on account of .that ol’ sun burnin’ down. Then all at once he stumbled, and his sticker slashed into my leg. Didn’t seem exactly like a favor at the time, but I guess it was. It lost me the leg, but saved my life. You know how it was, Cap’n. You was there.

Remembering only too well, Montana nodded. Hell had been abroad that day. Since then, a lot of water had gone down the river. Now, both of them were a long way west. Peg-Leg, according to report, had been one of the luckier ones in Helena. He had a claim, rich enough so that other men were working it for him. The report ran that he had refused an offer of a quarter of a million dollars.

On the ride into town, he had casually mentioned its acquisition.

"Luck’s a funny thing. After the shootin’ stopped, I drifted this way, a cripple and next thing to a bum, and what happens? I’m as tender-footed on this range as any sojer you’d find on the longest march; even trustin’ enough to ask an old-timer where would be a good place to set my stakes. He sizes me up for what I am and suggests I grab off a piece of ground that everybody else has passed up, as being too worthless even to sink a shovel in. I fall for it, and it turns out they laugh out of the other side of their mouths, that ground being as full of gold as a dog of fleas. The luck of fools and tenderfeet.

So now I’m an old-timer, and like some others, rich and lucky, if you ain’t too choosy about pickin’ your words. I’ve a bull by the tail and no way of lettin’ go.

Pushing open the door to Gentleman Johnny’s he shouldered through with a heave and a lurch. Montana followed.

Two swift, violent reports, almost like pistol shots, greeted them.

After the brightness of the mountain sun, the interior of the saloon was murky. The windows were inadequate even at midday, and the lamps had not been lighted. Silence, as tense and crackling as the aftermath of a thunderclap held the room in thrall.

Abbott stared with an astonishment which matched that of the other onlookers. A man stood poised in flaming anger near the far end of the bar. Taller than average, he would have been outstanding in any crowd. Eyes which usually gave a mistaken appearance of sleepiness were wide and glaring. Splurges of red marked both cheeks, from which vicious slaps had momentarily driven away the blood.

Abbott had no need of Peg-Leg’s muttered word to be sure that this was the proprietor, Gentleman Johnny.

A woman had slapped him. That followed, since a man would have resorted to fists or guns. Facing him, she was equally striking. Fury blazed like white-hot irons in her eyes, and her voice vibrated like a too taut fiddle-string. Deep and full-throated, the words were both amazing and contradictory.

Keep your hands off me, Johnny Pierre! I’m not your property … yet!

Pierre’s breath was audible across the room. He lifted a hand, fingering a cheek, then, surprisingly, smiled. And that was more terrible than open anger.

Of course, Kate, just as you say. You know, you’re quite a woman, Kate … quite a woman! That’s why I find it hard to wait, especially when it’s so foolish for you to go on hoping. Miracles have a way of not happening. But I’ll wait, my dear, till there’s skating on Satan’s pond, if I have to.

You’ll wait, Kate agreed tensely. I pay my debts, but push me and I’ll kill you. I’m not giving up—not yet. Dick’s alive. And don’t forget the promise he made you!

A flicker, like heat lightning against a stark horizon, disturbed the avid quality of Gentleman Johnny’s black eyes. Again Peg-Leg supplied information, sotto voce.

Last thing Dick Webberly ever said to Pierre was, you overstep one inch, and I’ll come back, from Hell if need be, and cut you in little chunks, a piece at a time, so you’ll be as slow dying as a snake’s tail.

A shiver rippled along Montana’s spine. He could understand the illusion. A rattlesnake might be killed at high noon or even while dew was on the grass, but tradition had it that the tail would remain alive till the going down of the sun.

Kate Webberly turned suddenly, pushing through the onlookers, who opened a path silently, respectfully, to make way. She was almost at the door before she saw Peg-Leg and started. Only then, as she turned half blindly to the prospector, did Montana perceive that her eyes were streaming with tears.

Oh, Pete, she gasped, take me home.

Chapter Two

PEG-LEG LURCHED along the uneven trail which had superseded the street, Kate clinging to his arm. Clearly, the scene at the saloon had left her emotionally spent. Abbott, leading the horses, followed. They had missed the drink for which they had entered, but any need for it was replaced by a stronger stimulant—the sure sense of danger.

He’d felt such premonitions before, and all too often they were right. Peg-Leg would call it a hunch. By whatever name, this situation spelled trouble, and that was the last thing he had wanted. It had been in his mind to rest awhile, to look over the country and its possibilities, before making a deliberate choice of occupation. Instead of becoming involved, the sensible move would be to swing back into the saddle and ride.

Which, of course, he couldn’t do. This situation was too intriguing, just as Kate Webberly was too beautiful to be accorded such cavalier treatment. To turn his back upon her was out of the question.

They climbed a slope, then approached a small cabin on the outskirts of the camp. A scraped deerskin covered the window, and as far as size or location went, it did not differ markedly from the others. Still, there was a difference. This house was surrounded by a picket fence, which had been whitewashed to a gleaming brightness. The air of neatness was enhanced by flowers near the doorway, a brave show of color amid drab surroundings.

Kate started automatically to turn in at the gate, then stopped. Her sudden smile was like the sun after a shower.

Thanks, Pete, she breathed. I feel better now. But come in, please—both of you. For the first time she gave Abbott her full attention, and seemed to like what she saw. I’d like to talk awhile.

Sure, Kate, sure, Peg-Leg agreed. We’ll tie the horses, then be right in. This is Montana, Kate—Montana Abbott.

Montana? From her inflection, it was apparent that she had heard the name and was impressed. I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Abbott. I’ll put on the coffee pot.

Tying the horses, Montana’s glance ranged inquiringly. Peg-Leg explained:

"Sure, she lives alone here, but she couldn’t be safer. Everybody knows about Dick Webberly, her husband—also that she’s sort of held in hock or trust by Gentleman Johnny, as his property."

Montana had been interested as well as puzzled. Now he was intrigued. Peg-Leg led the way inside, the open door its own invitation. There were three rooms: kitchen, bedroom, and what in a large place would be the parlor. Instead of packed earth, the floor was of rough-hewn boards, covered by a woven rag rug. Dishes gleamed behind the glass door of a small cupboard, showing a fineness which could have graced a household in old settled country.

Kate smiled a welcome as she extracted cups and saucers of fine china, pieces