Joe would have no choice except to take the loss, act as if nothing had happened, and wait for another chance. But he wouldn’t have to like it. Twelve years was long enough to wait for satisfaction. He knew he ought to move on. But that didn’t mean he was ready to give up.
With wind blowing the surface of the snow, the road was slow going, but with his powerful team, Joe was making steady progress. By now the sun was well above the horizon. A glance at his pocket watch told him the time was coming up on 9:00. The bank opened at 10:00. Miles City should be a little over an hour away. Even if Benteen had arrived in town ahead of him, it might still be possible to beat him to the door of the bank. He pushed the horses as fast as he dared, their huge hooves and strong legs plowing through the drifts.
A few yards ahead, on the right-hand side of the road was a large, snow-covered lump. He was about to drive on past it, but then slowed the team for a closer look. He knew the road well. Nothing like this had been here before. What if some traveler had been trapped in last night’s freezing storm?
Anxious as he was to get to Miles City, Joe knew he couldn’t move on without taking a moment to investigate. Stopping, he shoved the buffalo robe off his lap and climbed out of the sleigh. He could see no movement, no visible tracks anywhere. Whatever he was looking at had been here long enough for the blowing snow to cover it all.
Pushing through knee-deep snow, he reached the roadside and gave the mound a light kick. His boot struck something solid. Bending, he brushed away the snow with one gloved hand—enough to reveal what lay beneath. It was a dead horse, partly frozen and still wearing its saddle. It had been shot through the head.
Puzzling, Joe walked around the horse, half expecting to find some poor soul lying there, dead of cold. Instead, what he saw was a hollow space next to the horse’s belly. Partly filled in by blowing snow, it was the size and shape of a huddled body. As his view of the scene changed with the angle of the sun, he could make out faint tracks, almost hidden by drifting snow. They were leading away from the horse, in the direction of Miles City.
As he freed the sleigh runners, climbed back onto the seat, and urged the team forward, his cold-numbed mind struggled to make sense of what he’d just seen. What had happened here, when had it happened, and where was the missing rider?
Piecing the clues together, the best he could figure was that someone had taken this road last night before the weather moved in. The storm had worsened. The horse had slipped, broken its leg, and had to be put down. Unable to forge ahead in the blinding snow, the rider had hunkered down next to the horse, using its body for warmth and protection, until sometime toward morning, when the storm had cleared enough for him to get up and continue on foot.
Could the rider have been Benteen?
Could someone at the funeral have overheard Joe’s conversation with Florence Ransom and passed him the word that there was a second offer on the ranch?
Not every man could make it to Miles City on foot, in the deep snow, after spending a night in the freezing cold. But Benteen Calder was as tough and determined as any man alive. If anybody could do it, he could.
Time was getting short. Joe leaned over the reins, urging the horses faster.
Twenty minutes later, he spotted a figure ahead of him, in the road, stumbling along through the snow, half falling forward, then staggering up and pushing on again, making progress a few steps at a time.
Even at a distance, Joe recognized the rangy, broad-shouldered frame of Benteen Calder.
With less need to hurry now, he slowed the team and pulled up alongside the struggling man.
Benteen glared up at him. His hat was missing, but he’d tied a scarf around the lower part of his face and over his ears. Where the scarf didn’t cover, his hair and heavy eyebrows were coated with frost. His face was gray, his bloodshot eyes rheumy and rimmed with red. Under the thick sheepskin coat he wore, his body was stooped with fatigue.