Eagle Man (Cutler Western #3)

  Reissuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  It didn’t add up. Settlers were being murdered for no apparent reason. A beautiful Indian girl had been raped and killed.

  The people of Guthrie were frightened and they needed help. That’s why they called for John Cutler. Cutler was a trapper who could follow the trail of man or beast and had a reputation for being one tough hombre.

  This time, though, things were different. Cutler was pitted against an enemy who was his equal in strength and cunning. It was to be a battle to the death, and it was anyone’s guess which one would survive.

  EAGLE MAN

  JOHN CUTLER 3

  By H. V. Elkin

  First Published by Belmont Tower in 1978

  Copyright© 1978, 2014 by Vernon Hinkle

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: April 2014

  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.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  It was early spring in the Big Horn Mountains, and as he had promised himself, John Cutler was there. It was really a little too early for most bears to have come out of hibernation. But the grizzly Cutler was after was no ordinary bear; he was a killer, a rogue, the kind of animal that killed without reason—not out of instinct, not out of hunger or anger or fear. Cutler’s grizzly killed out of madness. It was a threat to everyone and everything, especially to Cutler himself, for if he could ever find peace, it had to be on the other side of the death of that bear.

  Cutler’s eyes misted, maybe from an old memory or maybe from the blinding brightness of the sun exploding on the snow. Cutler shook his head to clear his vision, and the deep-set gunmetal eyes used to squinting from looking long distances toward the light almost vanished into thin slits. He pulled the brim of his flat-crowned sombrero down toward the large nose on his big, craggy face. He stood on a high jutting rock, his battle-hardened fists pushed hard against his hips. A deep breath of mountain air made his thin waist thinner and expanded his barrel chest, but his broad sloping shoulders sagged, the only clue that this statue of a man felt defeat.

  He had found the grizzly’s den already empty. He had followed the characteristic trail of the bear with a stump where the left hind foot used to be. And now the trail was lost somewhere beneath the massive snow slide, so large that he could not see the end of it from the high rock. He had only wasted energy in making the climb.

  Maybe the bear was buried beneath the snow. Maybe nature had done Cutler’s job for him, but he doubted it. Animals and men were the same. Some extra sense protected them when they were drunk or crazy. Very likely the bear went through ahead of the snow slide, and he could be anywhere in the mountains from there to Montana, or anywhere out of them.

  Poking around the edge of the slide was the giant Airedale. From Cutler’s vantage point, he could see the Airedale’s muscles rippling with anticipation beneath its curly, rusty red coat. It began to walk over the slide, but the farther it ventured the deeper it sank.

  “Red!” Cutler called. “Back!”

  The dog looked up, confused by the snow and Cutler’s order. Only the game should stop the tracking. With his master, the dog had found the den, smelled the scent still lingering in the air. Together they had trailed the bear from the high country, through the forests where the bear had rubbed against sticky spruce. To be stopped from the chase by snow and master was more than the Airedale could understand.

  “Back!” Cutler repeated.

  The dog obediently retreated from the snow and sat at the edge, tongue lolling, looking up at Cutler.

  “Red, stay!”

  Cutler disappeared down behind the boulder and shortly reappeared in front of it, sticking the flat heels of his boots into the sodden ground to keep himself upright as he inched down the steep grade toward the dog. Reaching the bottom, he squatted by the dog and rubbed behind its ears roughly.

  “The day’s comin’,” he muttered. “But this ain’t it.”

  Each time he lost the bear, he still got closer. The grizzly always stayed ahead, almost as though it had an uncanny sense about how to avoid its pursuer, always ranging on, never stopping like its kind to map out a territory of its own. The bear was a vagabond, and it forced Cutler to be the same. It was the kind of life that hardened a man, made him wonder if victory would be as grimly accepted as defeat.

  “Come.”

  The two hunters retraced their steps down another steep incline to a place where the land leveled briefly into a trail. There waited the rest of Cutler’s family, the magnificent bay gelding and the matched pair of young, sleek black mules. There was Cutler’s home, the spring wagon covered by a tarp stretched over hoops. The Airedale leaped up to the front seat and waited.

  Cutler unhitched the horse Apache from the back of the wagon. Apache did not need leading but would follow in the trace down the narrow, steep mountain trail.

  Then he rough locked the back wheels with chains, climbed up onto the seat beside Red, made a clucking sound with his tongue and held the reins loosely in one hand, the other hand working the brake, as the mules backed in the breeches and the outfit made its way down the steep incline toward Powder River Pass, on the way to Tensleep.

  Cutler knew that even though the bear had turned him into a wanderer, he had to have some kind of headquarters. If Cutler was ever going to capture the rogue grizzly, he would have to depend on far-reaching reports of its whereabouts. He told the story to every rider he met, left word in every town he stopped in. If you see or hear of a big, snake-headed bear silvertip without a left hind foot, one that has a blaze of white streaked across its shoulder, probably hit by a hunter’s bullet, probably what made it mad... if you see such an animal, cut yourself a wide, wide trail around it. This grizzly ain’t a bit shy, and it doesn’t try to avoid trouble like others. This grizzly is a killer. If you see that grizzly, send word to John Cutler. Send word to Tensleep, Wyoming... John Cutler, care of Iris Shannon. Spread the word.

  In the last year, Cutler had created an ever-widening network of scouts. That’s how he knew he’d find the bear again. Eventually, inevitably, he’d get word, and he’d get what he was living for.

  This was the third time people in Tensleep had seen Cutler in their town. They no longer gawked at the trapper and his rig as they came down the muddy street. They knew the jangling sound was many steel traps hung on the hoops under the tarp. They knew that the man and his animals were all of an independent nature, yet sensitive to the moods of each other, so much so that they seemed to communicate in some way unknown to anyone else, like it was said some Indians could do. They also knew from the set of Cutler’s body and the coldness in his face that he had not yet killed his bear. That is why no one stared at him. When Cutler looked like that, it was wise to stay out of his way, at least until he’d done all the things they knew he would do that night.

  The hostler was waiting for Cutler. Together they unhitched the mules and led them to the stable where feed was ready. Then the gelding, too, was led inside and taken care of. By now, the hostler was as well trained as Cutler’s animals, and words were not necessary. Nothing was said. No questions were asked. The only clear sign of friendship was when Cutler left and he roughly thumped the hostler on the shoulder. The hostler nodded solemnly as though something had been said.

  Outside the stable, Cutler fed Red beef and bones from a gunnysack in the back of the wagon, some water alongside. He waited patiently for the Airedale to finish.

  “Red, guard!”

  The dog leaped to the wagon seat and sat there very still. It may have been an unnecessary precaution. By now, no one in Tensleep would approach Cutler’s rig without his permission, but there might be some stranger in town who didn’t understand, and you just didn’t take any chances with things your life might depend on someday, not to mention your livelihood. There was nothing in the wagon that wasn’t useful, nothing extra. Cutler needed the Winchester .30-30 saddle carbine for most things. But the Krag .30 caliber high-powered repeater was needed for more distance. The twelve-gauge shotgun could do things the others could not, spreading the shot to be sure of a hit, in some cases stopping without killing.

  Then there were the traps, mostly Newhouses and a few Oneidas. The small single-springs were for mink and otter, the double-spring number twos for foxes, number fours for bobcats, coyotes and wolves, number fives for black bears and cougars... and the large-jawed bear traps. Cutler didn’t go after the smaller game anymore, not since his wife was killed by the grizzly.

  That was the end of the inventory. There were many other things in the wagon that were important to Cutler—the water barrel, the bedroll, the supplies—but the thought of his wife brought the painful lightning flash striking up from deep inside him. He should not have waited for it to come. All those wee
ks in the mountains, intent on his tracking, sensing each moment that he was closer to the kill, closer than he had ever been before, these things had kept the memory buried. But it had only been waiting for the right moment. There was no remedy. But there was something that would dull the pain.

  He reached inside the wagon and snatched out his big, battered leather suitcase and strode rapidly to find the medicine.

  He headed directly for a small log building with the sounds of men yelling and laughing inside. As he shoved open the door, the noise stopped abruptly. He stood there a moment, his steely eyes automatically looking about the saloon, a habit he’d acquired from his years as a lawman in Indian Territory. He recognized all the faces, and he went up to the bar where he clanked a gold coin down and waited. In less than a second a bottle of Kentucky bourbon was set in front of him. He nodded to the bartender who’d brought it, picked it up, pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a long drink that emptied a third of the bottle. No one said anything, and everyone tried not to watch.

  Cutler could feel the heat of the bourbon meeting his pain somewhere in the middle of his large chest. It was a little better then, and he looked up to see Iris Shannon standing at the end of the bar, watching him, unafraid.

  Even in his state of mind, Cutler couldn’t help noticing and appreciating the way Iris looked. She was dressed more simply than the last time he’d seen her. This time she wasn’t wearing that ridiculous bird-shaped hat to hide her golden hair. Nor did she wear the small jacket that would have hid the full round breasts and slender waist. Her features were clean and honest, a straight nose, a strong chin. And her eyes were gray and secret, the eyes that looked at him so steadily, with the comfortable intimacy of one who knew everything a woman could know about a man.

  She did not move toward him. She only waited for him to finish what he had to do. Then they would be together, later, after he had gotten rid of the undeniable smell of a wolfer, later when the bitter memory that wanted to tear him up inside had been surrounded by whiskey and put to sleep for the night. Then, when he was drunk, they too would sleep.

  Cutler managed a smile toward Iris. She was the kind of woman every man wanted, the kind who did not have to be told when to shut up. Iris always seemed to know what to do ... and when.

  The suitcase in one hand and the bottle in the other, Cutler left the saloon, vaguely aware that the noise resumed inside as soon as he pulled the door shut. Outside, he took another long drink and went along the rough-board walk to the barbers.

  “John.” The barber nodded as Cutler entered and jerked his head toward a door at the back.

  Cutler nodded and went on into the next room where a large washtub of hot water was steaming and waiting for him. He took off his holstered Colt and his cartridge belt and his Case sheath knife and laid them carefully within reach by the tub. Then he took off the rest of his clothes, all muddy and tattered from weeks of wear in the mountains, rolled them into a ball and threw them into a corner. The barber would know what to do with them. Instructions always were that they be burned, but Cutler had seen some of his old clothes later worn by people in town who could not demand the high prices Cutler got for his work. There may have been a lingering smell about them, but the wearers didn’t seem to mind, and Cutler always pretended not to notice. Out here the poorer people might be forced to wear rags sometimes, but those were always, almost always, covered by a strong, armor-like dignity. It was real and Cutler understood it.

  The big, muscular man lowered himself into the tub and sat there for a long time letting the heat loosen up his tense muscles outside and the whisky take care of the rest of him.

  Later, in the perfumed room with the barber chair, Cutler looked at himself in the mirror and drained the last drop from the bottle. He was clean and shaved. His shaggy black hair with wisps of gray had been carefully cut and combed. He felt more human, less like the animal he became in the mountains. The whisky had not affected his head at all, but it had done the job it was meant for.

  “Jess,” he told the barber, “you’ll find my old stuff in the corner back there. You can burn ’em.”

  “Yes sir, John. I’ll take care of ’em.”

  “Any news, Jess?”

  “Not that I can tell yuh. But I hear tell Iris got somethin’ for yuh.”

  Cutler nodded matter-of-factly, paid the barber and retraced his steps to the saloon.

  This time when he opened the door, the noise subsided only for a moment, then resumed. This time, Iris came over to him and went with him to a table in the corner. Out of habit, Cutler took the corner chair and sat with his back against the wall. Iris signaled to the bartender who was already on the way over with another bottle of bourbon, this time with two shot glasses. He put them down.

  “John,” he said and went back to the bar.

  For a long moment, Cutler stared at the new bottle. Iris folded her arms on the table and leaned over, her breasts resting enticingly over her arms. She looked puzzled.

  “Don’t you need it?” she asked.

  Cutler thought a moment. “Guess I want it though.”

  She smiled and poured whisky into the glasses. She drank her own in one gulp. Cutler smiled appreciatively, then drank his own and poured for both of them.

  “Hear you got somethin’ for me.”

  “I’ve always got something for you, John. Guess it’s no secret.”

  “Too small a town for that and too much nothin’ all around. But I don’t think what I’m talkin’ about’s the same thing you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Got it right here,” she said and reached into a skirt pocket and pulled out an envelope. “It came a few days ago.” Her English accent still nestled among her words. “It’s from Oklahoma.” She handed it to him.

  Cutler cursed beneath his breath. Even his crazy grizzly could not have got that far east by now. It had to be about something less important, probably a job.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Cutler shrugged and opened the letter.

  It was written in a shaky scrawl and was pencil smudged in spots. Cutler had to study it for a long time, and it was several drinks later before he could make it all out.

  “Dear John Cutler,” the letter began. “Although it’s been many a moon since you left these parts, maybe you’ll remember a feller called George Eustis which is the same what’s writing this, only a lot older. When you wuz working for the hanging judge, I got called in to help out on an Indian problem. Remember, John, we worked together to stop some of the likker traffic in the Osage Hills, must be seven or eight years ago. Well, John, your reputation as a hunter and trapper of rogues has got all the way back to your old stomping grounds. Well, we got one of them rogues right here. It is a very touchy situation, too. And your old saddle pal is hereby requesting your help. I understand you come high, but I figger you can get about any price you ask for if you can get results. I don’t want to write down the details cuz I figger you got to be here to really get it. Important thing is you get here as quick as you can. If you ain’t coming, send word. Otherwise, hurry up! I’m having all I can do to keep things from turning badder than they are already.”

  It was signed, “Your Old Friend, George Eustis,” and there was a postscript, “P.S.—Sorry to hear about your wife, John. She wuz a nice lady. Real sorry.”

  Cutler’s great black eyebrows furrowed. He handed the letter to Iris and let her work to decipher it for herself.

  One point George had neglected to mention was the fact that Cutler might be dead now if George hadn’t been around. Generally, the men who sold whisky to Indians were furtive like cougars. They didn’t care about the results of what they did as long as they were far away when it happened. But also like the cougar, you couldn’t predict what they would do. Some, maybe most, tried to avoid trouble and seldom came into direct conflict with the enemy. But, now and then, there would be one who was just plain mean and could become offensive in more ways than one.

  It was the latter kind that Cutler and George Eustis had run into in the Osage Hills. They’d trailed the outlaw to a saloon in Coffeyville, Kansas. He saw them coming and hid behind the bar. As Cutler was walking among the tables, he almost got shot in the back. But Eustis who’d been around longer anticipated the trick and shot the man through the shoulder, breaking some bottles on the shelves behind. It wasn’t enough to stop the renegade, but it spoiled his aim. It gave Cutler the time he needed to open fire and turn the man into an ex-whisky trader. That was when Cutler learned to keep his back to the wall and pick positions where he could keep his eye on the whole room, especially in saloons.