Dedication and Chapter 1

Dedication




Of those people I have personally known, it would be impossible for me to choose only one to dedicate this book to, as there were so very many friends and relatives who either helped or encouraged me to write and finish this book. To all those wonderful individuals I wish to thank you for your kind assistance, and I hope you will enjoy the final version of High Country Quest.

I would rather “dedicate” this book to a man who influenced my “style” of writing more than anyone else, even though I never personally met this great man. I did however, read many of his books. His passing away in 1988, left a void which will never be filled.  I have written this book in a style similar to his, in his honor. I consider Louis L’Amour, the best western writer of the 20th and 21st centuries. Therefore, if a dedication is in order, I not only dedicate this book to Louis L’Amour, but in some small way I would like to also honor his memory.





HIGH COUNTRY
QUEST

Copyrighted 2002


By Ira W. Bryant Sr.




CHAPTER 1


    Dusk of early evening settled over the mountains and the prairie like a soft blanket.  The sun had disappeared an hour earlier, crawling slowly behind the Beartooth Mountains, which were on the left of the lone rider heading north on the Meeteetse Trail in the Montana Territory. The rider topped a ridge and paused to survey the landscape around him. He was covered with dust from several days on the trail. He wore a elk bone handled Colt revolver on his right hip. 
    John O'Malley was 42 years old, six feet tall, lean, and muscular. His eyes were blue as the sky in the Montana Territory.  He had a well tanned face from many hours in the sun. His face had a strong chin and was clean shaven except for his mustache which drooped down to almost even with his jaw. His hair was blond and stopped below his ears. He was intense, intelligent, and had learned to survive in the wilderness. O'Malley was riding a steel gray stallion, which he raised from a foal. The stallion had a white star on his forehead inspiring O'Malley to name him Star. The horse and rider knew each other well. Many a time O'Malley gave the horse his head and slept while forked in the saddle without fear. O'Malley loved and revered the horse as only a man who has ridden such an animal for years can.
    O'Malley scrutinized the stagecoach road like an eagle on the hunt. North and East was flat country, treeless, with sagebrush everywhere, as if painted there by an artist. Mountains to the west bore the remains of winter snows nestled in the deep time-scared gorges. In the uninhabited mountain peaks, Fir and Aspen stood magisterially clad in a late summer coat of green. The only moving things were several mule deer and a few antelope. O’Malley was at the edge of the Crow Indian Reservation. He had been traveling the stagecoach road for several days and on the Crow Indian Reservation. He had not seen any Indians, but the Virtue Stage Coach from Billings and Red Lodge had passed him heading South to Meeteetse.
    Instinctively, O'Malley looked over his shoulder. He stared at his backtrail for several minutes, and felt a strange uneasiness, but saw nothing to confirm the feeling. Behind him a hundred miles was the town of Meeteetse, Wyoming Territory. He looked to his East and saw the Pryor Mountains and knew that Chief Plenty Coups’ of the Crow Tribe lived there. O’Malley thought of the many who had fought and died just ten years earlier in 1876, a few miles further East at the “Battle of the Little Big Horn”. Only ten years; O’Malley pondered on what had happened is that short time span that saw the last of the Indians had been beaten into submission. He felt mixed emotions about what had been done to the Indians both the good and the bad. He knew and liked many Indians and knew his Country had not been fair with many of the tribes. He also knew there was little he could ever do to change the past or the future for the Indians.

The ride north had been dry from the Shoshone River until he reached the Clark's Fork of the Yellowstone. As he had traveled north along the stagecoach road he crossed the path that Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, and his tribe had taken in 1877, as they  traveled north to the Bear Paw mountains trying to escape a pursuing US Army. It was in those mountains on October 5, 1877, the poor remains of the Nez Perce people surrendered to the General Nelson A. Miles.

    O’Malley camped that night on the Clark's Fork. He shot a jackrabbit and roasted it over an open fire. He had not seen a living soul other than the Virtue Stage Coach during the two-day ride, but he was used to being alone. O'Malley was a loner. It didn't bother him, only described him. He was also a man of few words and spoke only when it counted. 
    John O'Malley was part cowpoke, had worked as a trail hand, and now owned a small ranch in the Smith Valley, Montana Territory. He was once an Indian scout, working with General Miles, and rode with Buffalo Bill Cody. He could live off the land and keep his scalp when other men were losing theirs. No one knew where O'Malley came from. Some said he was from down south, some thought he was from Florida. O'Malley never said, and no one ever asked. A man's past was his own, to do with as he saw fit. And O'Malley saw fit not to share his. 
    About six miles South of Red Lodge at the northwestern edge of the Crow Reservation, in the gathering dusk, shades of purple covered the land. Orange and dusty red clouds enhanced the sunset marking the end of another day. O'Malley picked a camp site for the night, which was going to be protected from the wind and near a small stream. He picketed Star and the pack horse, gathered wood, built a small fire, made coffee, and ate some elk jerky. As he drank his coffee, he thought about events which had brought him to this spot.  O'Malley still had an uneasy feeling in the back of his mind. Was this the beginning of a dangerous adventure? Dangerous or not, he had to answer his brother's call for help.
	
    After the Civil War he and his younger brother Tom, had gone West to find a future. Each had fought in the Civil War and had survived. Both having been wounded but they recovered. After all the killing each wanted a new start and a better life without the bloodletting on a massive scale. John had taken up ranching and Tom had tried the gold fields, gambling and being a cow puncher. Tom was the type who always looked for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Tom was honest and had never rode the owl hoot trail. 

A letter from his youngest brother, Tom came to him at his ranch in Smith Valley. The letter was a shock. He had never received more than three letters from Tom in his life. He hadn’t seen much of Tom since they arrived in the Montana Territory. John expected bad news as he tore open the letter.
    The letter didn't reveal many details, except Tom could be in a life or death situation. Tom wrote of an opportunity to make a fortune, and asked John to meet him in Meeteetse. Tom was not one to exaggerate. If he said his life was at risk, you could rest assured, it was true.
    O'Malley read the letter again, searching for any hidden meanings. Finding none, he turned and walked to his cabin. He felt the emotions that only a brother can feel for another brother. He had to do everything he could do to help. 
    Reaching above the fire place, O'Malley took down the Winchester. The rifle felt good, almost like shaking hands with an old friend. Working late into the night O'Malley cleaned the Winchester and his Colt .44 and prepared for the long ride to Meeteetse.
    Next morning at dawn, O'Malley saddled Star and put a blanket and saddle bags full of coffee, beans, a little bacon, and elk jerky. He put other supplies on a pack horse. He had no idea how long this trip would take or where it would lead him. He mounted up and headed south toward Meeteetse. He had one stop to make first . He reined Star in at the L Bar B Ranch.  Lonnie Butcher was walking to the main house. Butcher, a pioneer cattleman in Smith Valley, was short and stocky, with lines of a hard life deeply etched into his sun bronzed face. Burned out by the Indians twice, Butcher had seen his wife and two sons shot and killed by Indians. He had stopped two arrows himself. Butcher was too tough to die from a couple of Indian sticks, he said, and would not give up the ranch he had built. 
    Butcher stopped at the front door and watched O'Malley ride up.
    "Mornin’ Lonnie", O'Malley said, looking the leather tough old man in the eyes.
    "What gets you going so early in the morning? Have you got trouble?", asked Butcher, looking behind O'Malley for smoke on the horizon or an Indian war party.
    "Nothing quite that bad," answered O'Malley. "I need to hire one of your men to check my herd to make sure they have water. I'm going to Meeteetse for a few days."
    "Kinda’ sudden ain't it?" questioned Butcher.
    O'Malley respected Butcher, but was irritated by the question. He thought to himself, "Ain't none of your damn business." But he only answered, "I have urgent business with my brother Tom. Can one of your hands do the job?", he asked again.
    Butcher saw he was not going to get any more information, nodded his head, "I'll have my foreman see to it."
    "I'm much obliged to you." O'Malley said. He nudged Star with his heel, turned and rode off leaving Butcher to wonder about O'Malley's sudden departure to Meeteetse.
    Several days of hard riding and O'Malley rode into Meeteetse, about an hour before sunset, heading to the sheriff's office as Tom's letter directed. The sheriff's office was new, with four cells for prisoners. The cells were empty except for one. The prisoner in that cell was tall and lean, and looked part Indian, with eyes like a rattlesnake. Deadly! O'Malley had seen eyes like those before, just before someone died.
    The Sheriff was reading behind his desk, feet propped up.
    "I'm looking for Tom O'Malley or a letter from him."
    The Sheriff was a short, tough man who looked to be about thirty-five, with enough scars on his face to be an ex-prize fighter. He cast a suspicious eye on O'Malley and asked, "What business do you have with Tom O'Malley?"
    "I'm his brother, John O'Malley", he answered.
    From the corner of his eye O'Malley saw the prisoner turn his head.
    Reaching in a desk drawer, the sheriff pulled out an envelope, and handed it to O'Malley, "Tom left town several days ago", he parried.
    "How many days ago? Two, three?"
    The sheriff thought a moment. "Well, let me think, I guess it would be about ten days now. I arrested this jaybird here, two days ago and Tom left about a week before that, so that would make it nine, maybe ten days."
    O'Malley thanked the sheriff and left for the nearest saloon. He ordered a beer, found an empty table in the corner, so he could watch the door, and have enough light to read Tom's letter.

"Dear John,

I can't wait any longer, time is of the upmost importance. Events and information may let a well kept secret become public. I am going to Red Lodge, Montana Territory. It is about a four day ride north and west of Meeteetse, just follow the Meeteetse Stage Coach Road. I will be making final arrangements for something which could make us both very, very rich. However, there is some danger involved, if the wrong people become aware of the fact that I know the secret. 

It is too dangerous to give you anymore information in this letter, in case it should fall into the wrong hands.

John, please meet me at the boarding house in Red Lodge without delay.

Your Brother, Tom"

    John, was intrigued, and irritated at the same moment. What was the "secret" and how could it get Tom killed, and by whom?
    O'Malley folded the letter and drank his beer. He thought about the snake-eyed man in the jail cell. He ordered another beer from the barkeep. "What did the man in jail do to get thrown in there?"
    The barkeep looked O'Malley over, "You a friend of Bob Catman?"
    "Nope, I just happen to be in the sheriff's office and he looked like an unbroke bronc."
    The barkeep wiped the counter slowly, "Catman, is tough as rawhide and fast with a gun. He comes to town from time to time and he's always broke. About two days ago he shows up with a pocketful of money, gets drunk, and shoots up the Blue Slipper Saloon. So, the Sheriff throws him in jail."
    O'Malley thanked the barkeep, paid for the beer, and walked out into the dark.
    At the general store he bought supplies, and rented a room for the night, he read the letter from Tom again and went to bed.
    In the cool gray dawn, O'Malley saddled Star at the livery stable, swung into the saddle and headed north toward Red Lodge.
    The Meeteetse Trail began creeping into the east foothills of the Beartooth Mountains about 15 miles south of Red Lodge. Wild game was to be seen over every rise in the foothills. Mule deer were plentiful. Running, they looked like big jack rabbits bouncing over the sagebrush. In the bottom of small draws he saw several white tail deer.
    At a small creek he paused to let his horse rest and drink. He drank from the cold clear stream and filled his canteen.
    Then looking around, there were the remains of several camp fires, some quite recent. After his horse rested, O'Malley swung back into the saddle and headed north to Red Lodge.
    Red Lodge, was built on the banks of Rock Creek. The creek flowed north out of the Beartooth Mountains starting at Glacier Lake. Down the valley the creek increased in size due to the many snow-fed streams which emptied into it as it coursed it's way down the valley. The old mountain men who had trapped the area had called it "Rocky" Creek, but later the name was shortened to 'Rock' Creek. One of the mountain men who had trapped in the area was Jim Bridger. He established a town named after him 'Bridger', located east of Red Lodge on the Clark's Fork of the Yellowstone.
    The town of Red Lodge was nestled in a narrow prehistoric river bed, which formed a valley. On each side was a bench, one on the east, one on the west. Each was flat and rose a few hundred feet above the town. Red Lodge had rutted, dusty streets in the summer, which turned to rivers of mud in spring and after heavy rains. There really wasn’t a town, just some cabins here and there in no reasonable order, with a store or two and a cafe. 
    Red Lodge was only thirty miles east of the highest elevation in Montana Territory, Granite Peak rose to twelve thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine feet. Also located in the area was a peak which was round and pointed skyward. The Indians said the peak looked like a 'bear's tooth' from which came the name Beartooth Mountains.
    How the name of 'Red Lodge' came to be is not absolutely certain, but one of the stories told was that the town was named after an Indian teepee which was painted red with clay to warn others of sickness in the teepee. When the sickness had passed the "Red Lodge" was left behind as was the sickness. Others say it got it’s name because a red rock formation viewed from a distance of ten or twelve miles, presents a striking resemblance to a huge Indian teepee or lodge. 
     No matter how the name began; on December 9, 1884, a post office was established and the name “Red Lodge” was suggested by E. L. Benton who became the first postmaster of the town.
    The town served the needs of farmers and ranchers in the area, and was a supply point for items brought by wagon from Billings, located about sixty miles northeast of Red Lodge. The Virtue Stage Coach came through from Billings once each week and followed the Meeteetse Stage Coach Road south to Meeteetse.
    O'Malley rode slowly into town, looking for his brother and observing everything. There was no hint of "gold fever". No railroad to support industry or mining activities. It was just a quiet, small western town. What did Tom discover about Red Lodge that would make a man rich? More important, who would want to kill a man for the knowledge Tom had discovered?
    O'Malley spotted the boarding house. A man behind the desk looked up as O'Malley approached.
    "Can I help you?" asked the man.
    "Is a Tom O'Malley staying here?" O'Malley asked.
    The man's face went white. His eyes darted about, “I, I, No.! He is no longer staying here." The man answered visibly shaken and nervous.
    "When did he leave?", demanded O'Malley, not liking the answers he was getting.
    "I am not at liberty to give you any more information," snipped the man.
    O'Malley reached across the desk and grabbed the man by his jacket lapels, pulling him halfway across the counter. Nose to nose O'Malley growled, "When did Tom O'Malley leave?"
    Swallowing hard, the man blurted out, "See the sheriff, he's in charge of the murder."
    "What murder?", snapped O'Malley.
    "Why, the murder of the man you are asking about. Tom O'Malley, of course." Quipped the man, regaining some composure.
    O'Malley felt sick to his stomach and weak. He released his hold on the man and stared in disbelief. "Murdered? When?"
    "About a week ago over by Bearcreek. That's all I know." the man said flatly, "If you have any more questions, see the sheriff. I'm not supposed to talk about the matter until the investigation is over." He turned and walked into a back room, leaving O'Malley standing at the desk.
    The stunned O'Malley, walked slowly from the boarding house and stood outside the front door, trying to regain control. Numbing cold settled over his body. Then, slowly, pain and rage began to build inside.
    "Why? Why? and Who?" Questions would not go away. Nor would they, until he found the answers.
    The Sheriff would be the first step for answers. He might provide some answers, but who ever murdered Tom could still be around. What was the "secret" which killed Tom? All O'Malley knew was that Tom was dead. And for all he knew the sheriff could have shot him. Now was not the time to trust anyone, only himself. Some checking on his own, without letting anyone know he was Tom's brother was vital.
    O'Malley swung into the saddle and rode slowly to the south out of Red Lodge.
    He camped that night just south of Red Lodge on the West Fork of Rock Creek. He picketed Star and the pack horse and there was plenty of grass for them to graze on. A small fire flickered as he sat on the ground drinking coffee, staring into the flames with memories of his young brother flooding his mind. His stomach knotted. Burning pain was in his heart, but tears would not come. He had not cried since his wife Sarah was taken by the fever. O'Malley thought of the task at hand. He would find his brother's killer. Justice would be served western style. The key was the information or knowledge Tom had discovered. Whatever it was would eventually lead to someone. Money, must be involved. Why else would Tom have mentioned becoming very, very rich? How could he, as a stranger ask questions, without arousing suspicion? An idea came to him. As a rancher looking to buy cattle, he could ask questions without arousing too much suspicion. Another name to use. Smith? Jones? No, too common. Roberts? Sure, that would do. John Roberts would work fine.
    O'Malley pulled his blanket over his body, hiding from the cool, night air and stared into the inky, star-studded night sky.
    "God bless you, Tom. You were a good brother, and I loved you. I promise I won't rest until whoever took your life is punished." O'Malley spoke the words aloud and closed his eyes and slept. The Winchester under the blanket laying in his right hand.
Proceed to Chapter 2