Hurricane Mountain: The Sequel

Hurricane Mountain

A Sequel

Copyright 2017 Darryl Hurly

Published by Darryl Hurly at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Maps

Illustrations

Ranching Queen of Montana

Two Letters

Quandary

Clyde and the Flatheads Revisited

That Equestrienne from Montana

Fateful Decisions

Bounty Hunters

Next Stop, Butte

Interlude

The Prodigal Returns

Twists of Fate

A Truly Courageous Man

Wild Blue Yonder

At the Apex of Power

Glossary of Anthropological Terms

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Algernon Blackwood’s eerie, spellbinding, short story, The Wendigo, served as the springboard for Graeme’s adventure in the Precambrian Shield north of Rat Portage (modern-day Kenora ON). Indeed, this episode may be enjoyed as a sequel to Blackwood’s immortal tale. Additional information was sourced from Wendigo in Wikipedia.

Information regarding early commercial aviation and airmail was sourced from the following web sites:

Araneus. 1920s U.S. Airmail Beacon System in XPLANE.ORG.

Airmails of the United States in Wikipedia.

Commercial Aviation 1920 to 1930 in Century of Flight.

Information regarding bootlegging in Montana was sourced from the following web sites:

Lahey, Ed. The Thin Air Gang. Book review by Henry Gonshak in Montana Standard, March 3, 2013.

Lincoln, Marga. Prohibition in Helena in Independent Record, Oct. 27, 2013.

Mueller, Geo. D. Bootleggers and Crooked Cops in Central Montana Historical Documents.

Information on Carrie Chapman Catt was sourced from the following web sites and books:

A Ride on a Handcar in B. A. Botkin and Alvin F. Harlowe, eds. A treasury of Railroad Folklore. New York: Bonanza Books, 1953.

Carrie Chapman Catt in Wikipedia.

Carrie Chapman Catt in Women’s History.

Votes for Women: Carrie Chapman Catt in National American Women Suffrage Association Collection.

A vote of gratitude is due my son, Dennis, who not only provided valuable editorial suggestions but enthusiastically accompanied me to Montana for a few days in the summer of 2005, and with whom I spent an especially pleasant half-day exploring the reaches of Marias Pass on the main line of what is now the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad.

My appreciation is warmly extended to Jack Hayne of Dupuyer, Montana, who kindly provided valuable historical material about the western part of the state as it existed in the 1890s, and who cheerfully guided the writer and his son around the region described in the story when they visited Montana.

And here’s to my talented wife, Bonnie, who designed the cover, the maps and the illustrations for Hurricane Mountain: A sequel. Her valuable editorial comments throughout the project greatly strengthened the narrative.

Maps

Map of Western Montana. B Letourneau

Map of Rocky Mountain Front, west of Dupuyer, Montana. B Letourneau

Illustrations

Illustrations follow chapter The Bounty Hunters

Rocky Mountain Front west of Dupuyer. D Letourneau

Hurricane Mountain. D Letourneau

Circus Train at Shelby, Montana circa 1900. J Hayne Collection

Circus Train animal cars and flat cars, Shelby, Montana. J Hayne Collection

Clyde’s Cabin. B Letourneau from photo by D Letourneau

Curtiss JN-4 Jenny WWI Trainer, used by Barnstormers. Web site: commons.wikipedia.org

Ranching Queen of Montana

"I’m sure you’ll find everything in order, Miss Morgan," affirmed Maj. Walton Abrams of the Quartermaster General’s purchasing board.

Her face remained solemn, expressionless; she didn’t even bother to look up, let alone acknowledge. Seated at her mahogany desk, she was scrupulously poring over a tentative contract with the U.S. Army’s Quartermaster Corps. By its terms her expansive ranch and those of her neighboring stock raisers would be enjoined to furnish a recurring quota of horses and mules – especially mules – to be pressed into service as draft animals.

It was the summer of 1917. The U.S. government had just declared war on the German Empire of Kaiser Wilhelm II, and an Expeditionary Force of American ‘doughboys’ would soon be shipping out to France to fight the Hun. The contingent’s logistical needs would be staggering, and despite the appearance of the motor lorry and the heavy tractor in increasing numbers, the Army would have to rely on draft animals to haul much of its artillery and materiel wagons through the mud-churned battlefields of the Western Front.

Major Abrams leaned forward in his comfortable leather armchair, resting his elbows on his knees, idly fidgeting with his forage cap. His eyes followed her right hand as it painstakingly, agonizingly, turned the pages one by one. Finally closing the document, she contemplated its contents as she drummed the fingers of her left hand on the desk. Then she opened it again and, reaching for a pencil, slowly turned the pages. Abrams brooded impatiently: Why so overcautious? The terms were straightforward – simple enough. Her meticulous scrutiny was beginning to try his forbearance.

He inhaled deeply and sighed, his gaze idly wandering from her hand to his surroundings. Burgundy-tinted, velvet wallpaper with its gold-flecked brocade made its way around her small study above lacquered panels of oak wainscoting. Nestled under tapestried window curtains, a mahogany coffee table sported an ornate porcelain vase filled with a colorful bouquet of prairie wildflowers. An oxblood leather chair studded with brass tacks – a mate to the one he occupied – shared the space with his in front of her lustrous desk.

A tassel-shaded porcelain lamp shared the desktop with a silver-filigreed inkwell-pen holder, a porcelain pencil receptacle, and an upright telephone. The phone’s horn-shaped mouthpiece topped the instrument’s shiny brass-plated mast, next to which hung a matching brass earpiece.

All told, the appointments of her study alluded to comfort, affluence and, oh yes, power – a great deal of power!

Shifting his attention to the oval portrait adorning the wall behind her, he found the piercing blue eyes of its subject staring back at him. Beneath an Australian slouch hat with its wide leopard-skin band, a tanned face sporting a pointed Van Dyke filled the oval of the hat’s chin strap. The man’s bust was garbed in a beige quasi-military tunic – perhaps a safari jacket. A sky-blue scarf shrouded his throat ascot-style, its tails tucked between the jacket’s lapels.

Pointing to the gilt-edged portrait, Major Abrams remarked, Quite an imposing gentleman.

Yes. And a very dear friend, she replied matter-of-factly, her eyes never straying from the document. He passed away a long time ago.

Her response prompted Abrams to focus on the slender fingers of her left hand as they drummed on the desk. No wedding ring! Notwithstanding the absence of the nuptial band, he presumed her relationship to the man in the portrait must have been very special if she chose to hang his likeness in a place of honor. His curiosity was piqued, yet Abrams didn’t dare interrupt her concentration to inquire further about the man in the portrait.

Instead, his eyes turned to the small fireplace that adorned the inner wall of her study. On its marble mantle sat a magnificent mahogany clock, whose strident ‘tick-tock’ was only subdued by its Westminster chime which struck 2pm as he stared. He listened to it toll a higher-pitched version of Big Ben’s familiar melodic peal, which he’d heard nearly every day when he was attached briefly to the U.S. embassy in London.

Over fireplace and mantle clock stretched an unusually long, twin-bore rifle. Its hand-crafted stock and intricately-etched barrels signified it as a very personal weapon – one of a kind. Major Abrams stared into the ominous openings of its business end. Such a large caliber! he marveled. A European-made elephant gun no doubt. What did they call those things . . .? He searched his memory. Yes . . . an Express!

Glancing up, he instinctively linked this awesome implement of death to the figure in the portrait. But where were the hunter’s trophies? Apart from the portrait and the Express, the walls of her study were bare. Abrams reckoned there must be a den somewhere wherein the heads of exotic big game animals hovered over inquisitive guests. I’d like to see the head of a rhinoceros up close, mused Abrams. Must be monstrous! But again, he didn’t venture to ask.

At length losing interest in the rhino, the rifle, the portrait and the décor, Abrams sighed once more and turned back to his hostess who was flipping pages in contemplative silence for the third time. It was only then that he began to appreciate what a near-perfect icon of dignified elegance was seated behind the desk.

Her long chestnut hair was tastefully coiffured in the classic upsweep of a ‘Gibson’ girl. Beneath it, a face shaped like an ace of hearts curved toward her neck. Face and neck were deeply tanned, suggesting this enterprising matron ran her ranch from both saddle and study. Lustrous ebony earrings hung from delicate ears, matching the oval cameo at her slender throat. Within the longest eyelashes he could remember nestled two alert hazel eyes. Between their deep pools a narrow nose with slightly-flared nostrils led to a pair of full lips that closed in a slight pout. Her countenance – its purity unspoiled by makeup – was complimented by a figure belonging to a woman half her age, although he judged her to be around forty.

This comely spinster of means was a fetching catch. For the life of him, Abrams couldn’t understand why she’d apparently never married. Surely, there’d been no lack of suitors! But, as he tried to fathom this enigma, Abrams couldn’t shake the feeling of uneasiness that overcame him. There was something about her he couldn’t quite grasp.

Troubled, he probed her mannerisms, trying to catch a glimpse of her inner being. Whenever she chanced to glance up while taking her pencil to scratch marginal comments, her fleeting smile appeared feigned. She exuded little warmth, seeming at pains to remain distant, as though familiarity would chip at her prima donna masquerade and reveal a more-emotive, feminine side to her character. She seemed so remote.

Suddenly, his conjecture soared to revelation. Yes, that’s it! he surmised. It’s clear to me now. Her aloofness reflected an overbearing need to dominate the interview. Indeed, he was now of the opinion this atypical persona of the ‘fair sex’ sought to control everything in her life.

Well, drawn as he was by her magnetism, here was one bachelor who found her domineering aura too intimidating for his taste! Perhaps so had her suitors – all except for the hunter in the portrait. His perceived strength of character may very well have matched hers. Who knows!

Major Abram’s hostess abruptly put down pen and contract, and addressed her guest. If the Army can agree to the suggestions I’ve made in the margins, we have a deal, she said crisply.

With that, she scooped up the sheets, fastened them back together in one corner, and held the document in her outstretched hand. Major Abrams took the contract and flipped through it cursorily, perusing her notations. On first glance, I see no insurmountable differences of opinion here, Miss Morgan, he said, stuffing the contract into his brief case. I’m sure we can work something out to your association’s entire satisfaction. I’ll take this straightway to my superiors at Fort Keogh.

Very well, major she acknowledged, raising her chin to assume an erect posture as she cast a supercilious gaze in his direction. I trust I’ll hear back from you before long, then?

Yes, miss, you surely will, replied Abrams, putting on his hat. Rising from his chair, he raised his hand to his hat brim as though deferring to a superior officer. Coming to his senses, he stayed his indiscreet half-salute; then wondered how her aura of sovereignty could have so bedeviled him like that.

Outside, Abrams paused to take in the fresh air, and felt the tension within release its hold. Turning to his hostess, he shook her hand firmly before stepping lightly off the porch. Somehow, he managed to fold his lanky frame into the sidecar of a waiting motorcycle and bade his driver move off. The sergeant’s foot cranked the starter several times before the bike sputtered and coughed to life.

Major Abrams survey the wide expanse of open prairie stretching before him to the distant mountain front; then turned and shouted over the din with a sweep of his hand, This is really quite a spread you have here, miss. . . . Most impressive! Josie cracked a faint smile and waved.

The goggled occupants of the motorcycle and sidecar bounced away in a swirl of fumes and dust while Josie followed their progress with mild curiosity. As the haze shrank to a smudge in the distance, she turned on her heel and reentered the house. Li Yung, she summoned upon stepping into the parlour. Her little Chinese housekeeper came bustling into the hallway and bowed. Li Yung, get one of the hands to ride out and find Jess. Tell him to report to me here.

Yes, missy, replied the housekeeper, shuffling away with another courteous bow.

The owner of the J-bar-M sat back down at her desk in a pensive mood. Her thoughts turned to a grazing range fairly bursting with livestock. Once again, she marveled at the potential windfall that was about to fall into her lap. Not only would her sales of horses and mules expand phenomenally, but her beef cattle, sheep and raw wool would also be in demand, thanks to the coming of war.

For over two years now, agents of the British Army had been requisitioning draft animals from breeders in the East and Midwest. Now, with the U.S. itself finally at war, the competition would be rife, spilling across the Mississippi into the Great Plains and the Far West. She sensed the Army would wish to move swiftly once this contract was ratified; so, she decided her general foreman should start cutting out the older horses and mules from the main herds without delay. These animals had to be corralled together and inspected by the military before being shipped overseas.

Major Abrams wasn’t the only one in awe of her.

Neighboring ranchers and others who came to know her figured there was something uncanny about her phenomenal ability to reach out for and grasp success with such apparent ease. Presiding over the most prosperous ranch in northwestern Montana, Josie was well aware of her stature as a key player in the state’s ranching community. Because of her high profile, the Dupuyer district’s stock raisers all realized the Army would likely approach her first for draft animals.

Confidently relying on her shrewd bargaining skills to negotiate a highly-remunerative contract for everyone, her colleagues voted Josie the locus of power in an ad hoc association aptly dubbed the ‘Dupuyer Stock Raisers Alliance.’ The Alliance’s sole task was to bargain with the Quartermaster General’s purchasing board. Indeed, the DSRA had been Josie’s brainchild; in the ensuing contract negotiations it would speak with a single voice: hers!

Sensing she was now on the verge of achieving the DSRA’s contractual goal – and then some, Josie phoned the other dozen or so Alliance members to impart the good news. At length replacing the earpiece in its cradle, she smiled with satisfaction. Things couldn’t be turning out better! Josie grasped the wooden arms of her swivel chair and sunk smugly into its padded leather upholstery. Yes, Major Abrams, she thought to herself, most impressive, indeed!

While she never went out of her way to dispel the myth of invincibility that surrounded her, Josie knew better than to believe in it herself. She was too astute for that. Quick to recognize that some of the circumstances which had so dramatically shaped her life had been in play long before she came into the world, Josie was under no illusion where credit was due for her ability to grasp the upper hand in negotiations.

Louella Morgan’s only daughter was born in 1876, at a time when the West was sparsely populated by an unpolished, rough-hewn society; men and women like her parents whose lives, outside of a few burgeoning towns and small cities, were still dominated by the land and the forces of Nature.

Generations of women pioneers like Louella had not only persevered in their traditional roles of homemaker and mother, they’d toiled uncomplaining alongside their men to homestead and carve