Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (14 page)

They were both envisioning the amount of plunder in the form of horses and saddles, plus guns and ammunition, that waited to be taken. Unfortunately, there was also the image of the ominous bounty hunter, lying in wait as well. “We could just wait him out till mornin',” Rampley suggested. “Somethin's bound to happen by then, one way or the other. And we could see then.” They thought about it for a while longer until a three-quarter moon climbed up over the hills far to the east. “Won't have to wait much longer before we'll be able to see a little better.”

This gave Stover something more to think about. “You know, that son of a bitch coulda come outta that creek and he could be sneakin' around behind us while we're settin' here decidin' what to do.” He glanced around, thinking about how exposed they would be with a moon overhead. He voiced as much to Rampley.

“Well, we need to do somethin', instead of waitin' for him to come after us,” Rampley decided. “Looks to me like ol' Iron Foot's dead, so we're either gonna sneak up closer to that creek and see if Grayson's dead, too, or get on our horses and get the hell outta here.”

There was a short silence, with both men considering their choices. Neither man was enthusiastic about moving on the camp, but the possibility of gaining all the plunder gathered there was too much to abandon. Stover was the one who broke the silence. “It's still two to one, us against him. I don't care how big a stud he is, the odds are in our favor. I think we oughta move in a little closer to see what's goin' on, and if it turns into a shoot-out, we got him outnumbered. I can't stand the thought of ridin' off and leavin' all them horses and stuff for some Injun to find, and all the time Grayson bein' dead.”

“That suits me,” Rampley said. “Let's get goin'.”

Leaving their horses tied to some berry bushes close to the riverbank, they made their way cautiously along the bank until seeing the dark outline of trees that bordered the creek and the gully it formed. It was only a short distance of perhaps forty yards or so to the gully's edge, but there was very little cover in the open ground between it and the point where they now stood. There they remained, reluctant to cross the open area and chance the possibility that he was watching and waiting for that to happen. After a short while, they realized they were no better off than they had been back on the mound. They had come this far, however, so they were not ready to give up and run. Neither did they want to risk crossing the open ground.

“Why don't we work on down the river to the mouth of that creek, and come up on him that way?” Rampley suggested. “Chances are pretty good that, if he ain't dead, he's probably watching for us to come across that open piece, same as Iron Foot.”

“That might work,” Stover agreed, and they climbed back down the riverbank and started making their way through the thick brush that lined the water. It was not easy in the dark, but by the time they reached the mouth of the creek, the moon had risen high enough to enable them to see to push through the brush more quietly. They then split up, one on each side of the creek, and began their cautious advance toward Grayson's camp.

They had not gone twenty yards when they first heard Iron Foot's weak call for help. “Rampley,” the pitiful wail called out. “I'm dyin'. Help me. Stover.” Over and over it went as the dying half-breed moaned, his breaths coming in shorter gasps. It was an unnerving plea, stopping both men in their tracks.

At first, Stover was confused, thinking that Iron Foot was somehow aware that they were working their way up the creek. If Iron Foot knew they were in the creek, then Grayson might, too. But then he reasoned that the half-breed didn't know where they were. He had probably been babbling out of his head ever since he was shot. Still, Stover was getting a worried feeling about the wisdom of their approach. “Whaddaya think we oughta do?” he whispered across the creek to Rampley.

“Nothin',” Rampley replied, also in a whisper. “It was his damn-fool idea, so I reckon he oughta knowed he could get shot.” He paused to consider what effect, if any, this development had on their plan to stalk the camp. The thought occurred that maybe Iron Foot had succeeded in killing the ex-lawman. Otherwise, Grayson would most likely have shot Iron Foot again to shut up his moaning. “Come on,” he whispered. “Keep goin' and we'll see about helping Iron Foot after we take care of Grayson.”

“You sure we wanna get any closer?” Stover asked, starting to get cold feet. The mournful wailing of their wounded partner served to put a lethal pall over the dark gully.

“Keep goin',” Rampley replied, feeling more confident now. Moving in a crouch, carefully placing one foot in front of the other so as not to misstep and make a sound, he continued until reaching a slight bend in the gully. He hesitated, for he could now see the embers of the fire a dozen yards up ahead and the pale image of the canvas-wrapped bundle lying on top of the gully just above it. He also saw Iron Foot's body beside the bundle. He held his rifle ready to fire, but there was no sign of Grayson. Hearing a sound like the splashing of a fish, he looked across the creek for Stover, but Stover was gone. And he realized that the sound he had heard was made by Stover running down the creek. Instantly furious to discover Stover had run out on him, he started to back up when his foot slipped on a sizable rock at the edge of the water. Stumbling awkwardly to keep from falling in the water, he glanced up to see the dark outline of the man he sought to kill standing above him at the rim of the gully. The two rifles fired barely an instant apart, and Rampley staggered backward before falling in the water, while the bullet from his rifle plugged harmlessly into the side of the gully.

Grayson ejected the cartridge and walked along the gully's edge, watching Rampley's body bobbing gently in the creek. By all appearances, Rampley was dead. Grayson pumped one more shot into him to make sure. His partner had run when he glanced up and saw Grayson standing, waiting, at the edge of the gully, so he felt pretty sure it was the last he would see of him. Still, it was his careful nature to make sure, so he set out after Stover. It was too dark to pick out tracks, but there was no doubt the two men had come down the river, so he cut directly across to the riverbank, instead of going down to the mouth of the creek and then turning upriver. He had run almost thirty yards along the bank when he heard the sound of horses' hooves beating a hasty exit on the prairie floor on the other side of a low mound. He was satisfied then that he was finished with the “carpenters” as the sound of the hooves faded away. He turned to walk slowly back to his camp.

It had been a long night and he was tired, so he took only a few moments to look at the body beside Billy. The half-breed had suffered a painful death, and Grayson felt that he had most likely deserved it. But he would have put the man out of his misery if he had been certain his partners were not set up close by to ambush him. He couldn't help wondering why the breed came in alone, but he didn't give it more than a moment's thought. “I reckon the folks in Muskogee will have to find somebody else to build their church for 'em,” he said with a grunt of amusement, as he looked down at the pained expression on Iron Foot's face. He reached down and picked up the Spencer carbine lying beside the body and checked the action of the lever. He would pack it with all the other weapons he had collected, more weapons than he knew what to do with, he thought. But the weapon seemed to be in good working order, so he pulled out his knife and cut the twine that tied a poorly looking scrap of gray hair to the barrel. He left the half-breed's body where it was, thinking it could feed the buzzards and coyotes, and probably serve its only useful purpose.

It might have been a wise decision to pack up and move his camp someplace else for the rest of the night, but he felt certain enough that when Stover lit out, he had no plans to come back. So he built the fire up a little and turned in for the night.

Chapter 9

He was slowed considerably by the string of horses he had acquired, so he pushed on as far as he could before daylight faded away, but he figured he was still a good two and a half days from Fort Smith. And this was depending upon whether or not he encountered any more trouble along the way. He constantly checked his back trail, watching for any sign of someone else trying to overtake him, because he felt certain that Jacob Blanchard was not the kind of man to accept defeat in his efforts to save his son. As he sat watching his herd of horses grazing peacefully near the river, he almost forgot the danger stalking him. He had to admit they were a fine-looking lot of animals, especially the Appaloosa, the blue roan Tom Malone had ridden, and his gray. His pack horse, a sorrel, was a pretty stout horse as well. And the two he had acquired from the two would-be assassins were strong, broad-breasted horses, built for endurance, but he wouldn't rank them above his packhorse. The herd was a sizable bonus to the thousand dollars he was to receive when he reached Fort Smith. However, he would certainly turn Malone's blue roan over to the marshal, but the others he would keep. So this could be considered a profitable endeavor for him—
if
he made it to Fort Smith without further trouble.

This thought brought his attention back to the inflexible canvas horseshoe now lying several yards away, far enough from the fire to hopefully keep it as cool as possible. To this point, Billy's body was still stiff, and had given off no unpleasant odors. He didn't know how much the tightly wrapped canvas had to do with this, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before he was going to have to make sure Billy was downwind. This reality was incentive enough to get an early start the next morning.

Another day of hard riding found him still a full day's ride from Fort Smith. At least there had been no trouble from any of Blanchard's people. All was not rosy, however, for he was struck by a putrid odor from his canvas bundle when he started to remove it from the horse's back. “Damn!” he gasped and took a backward step to recover. Knowing that he couldn't leave it on the horse overnight, he summoned his resolve and stepped up to the body again. Thinking to roll the corpse off the horse as before, he was surprised to find that it was no longer stiff, and sagged when he took hold of one end and attempted to heave it over on the ground. He didn't know much about dead bodies, but he had seen bodies that had begun putrefying, so he knew that they had no longer been stiff at that stage, and had given off the foulest odor he had ever smelled. “Damned if you ain't makin' me earn my money,” he charged as he grabbed the canvas sack and dragged it off the horse to land on the hard ground with a muffled thump. There was no trouble in deciding which way the wind was blowing that night, and no doubt about the time it shifted in the predawn hours. As a result, Grayson was awake and saddling the horses long before the sun made an appearance.

Near the end of the day, there was no improvement in Billy's bouquet. Grayson was sorely tempted to rid himself of the foul-smelling burden, and to hell with the thousand dollars. But he was within five miles of Fort Smith, he had endured for this long, and he couldn't help feeling resentment over the governor's insistence that the body be produced. “By God, they think they want this stinkin' piece of shit. Well, I'll sure as hell deliver it, and we'll see what they think then.” With only five miles to go, he would have pushed on into town, but it was too late to catch John Council in his office that night, and he wanted to make sure there would be someone there to receive the trophy. After one final night, worrying about possible shifts in the wind, he loaded his putrid cargo and rode into Fort Smith.

*   *   *

Knowing he would be turning the late Deputy Tom Malone's horse over to the marshal, he had put Billy's saddle on Malone's horse and loaded Billy's corpse across it. He intended to keep Billy's Appaloosa, and he figured Billy was in no position to object. Besides, he felt he had earned it. His first stop was at Bob Graham's stable at the edge of town where he normally kept his horses when in Fort Smith. “Mornin', Bob,” Grayson said as he rode up.

“Howdy, Grayson,” Bob returned. “Looks like you've been doing some horse trading.”

“You could say that,” Grayson replied. “I wanna drop off all but mine and the black. I'll be back in a little bit, soon as I deliver him to the marshal's office.”

“All right,” Bob said, his interest now attracted to the blue roan and the bundle lying across the saddle. “I'll take care of 'em for you.” As he moved to take possession of the horses, he suddenly wrinkled his nose and remarked, “Whatever you got in that bundle is startin' to spoil.”

“Yeah, I reckon,” Grayson replied. “It was rotten from the start.”

The streets of the town outlaws called Hell on the Border were already busy when Grayson led the deputy's horse down the center. People walking or riding close to him paid little more than casual curiosity to the canvas bundle lying across the saddle, but parted to form a wide wake as soon as it passed them. He proceeded to the courthouse, which housed the offices of the court and John Council, as well as the jail on the lower floor, and tied the horses out front.

“What the hell?” Sid Sowers murmured when he spotted Grayson as he descended the porch steps. Sowers was a clerk in Judge Isaac Parker's court and he was more than familiar with the somber ex-deputy. It was certainly not the first time he had seen Grayson bringing a prisoner in, but they were usually sitting up in the saddle. “Is that a body on that horse?” he asked while still halfway down the steps. When Grayson answered that it was, Sid asked, “What are you gonna do with it? Why don't you take it to the undertaker?” Then the wind shifted slightly. “Damn! That thing's ripe.”

“I didn't take him to the undertaker's because John Council told me to bring him here,” Grayson answered. “My instructions were to bring him in, alive if possible, dead if not. And I'd just as soon get him offa my hands.”

“I can sure see why,” Sid replied. “I'll fetch John for you.” He turned to go back up the steps, only to meet John Council coming down.

“I saw you from the window,” John said as he passed Sid on the steps. The look of astonishment on his face was noted by the clerk, and prompted him to follow John down to hear the story. “Grayson,” Council exclaimed. “Is that a body on that horse?”

“Yes, sir,” Grayson replied. “That's Billy Blanchard. I brought him in, just like you said, and I'd like to see about gettin' my money for him.”

“Jesus!” Council snorted like a dog that had gotten too close to a skunk. “How long has he been dead?” Not waiting for an answer, he charged, “You were told to bring him in alive. You weren't supposed to shoot him.”

“I didn't,” Grayson answered, without emotion as usual, “at least not the shot that killed him. I did put a bullet in his leg, but it was one of Jacob Blanchard's own men that killed him. So I brought him in, anyway, 'cause that was the deal I struck with you.” He waited for a few moments for Council's response, but the usually calm U.S. marshal was obviously flabbergasted. In was not the scenario he and the governor had envisioned when they sent the notorious bounty hunter after Billy Blanchard.

“Damn,” Council swore softly. “We can't put him on display if his body is deteriorated as bad as he smells through that canvas you've got him wrapped in. For Pete's sake, how long's he been dead?”

“Four days or so,” Grayson answered, then paused while Council grimaced. “I woulda preferred that he'd shot him closer to Fort Smith, but he didn't seem inclined to cooperate.” He waited again while Council stewed over the situation some more. “I haven't looked inside that canvas since I first wrapped him in it, but I suppose you can still tell that it's Billy. But like I told you when we made the deal, I brought his guns, and saddle, and horse, if you have to have proof that it's him.”

“Oh, hell, Grayson.” He was thinking now what he could tell the governor. “Take him on over to Wainwright's. I don't want to open that damn package up here. The whole courthouse will smell to high heaven.”

“You sure you don't wanna check to make sure that's Billy Blanchard in there?”

Council looked exasperated. “Hell, I take your word for it. Take him to Wainwright's and tell him to see if he can fix him up somehow.”

“All right,” Grayson said with a shrug. “I reckon I can do that, but I'd like to collect my money as soon as possible. I had a lot of expenses goin' all the way to Kansas to get him.”

“I'll have to talk to the governor about that,” Council said. “It may take a little time. I don't keep that kind of money in my office. I guess you've got Billy's horse, haven't you? You can keep it to make up for some of your expenses.”

“Much obliged,” Grayson said, having already decided that he would claim the horse, and in the event he was told it belonged to the court, he planned to tell them the horse had been shot. He also did not see fit to volunteer the information concerning the other horses he had acquired along the way back from Kansas. “I hope I don't have to wait too long for my money,” he reminded Council one more time before taking the body to the undertaker. “I took care of my end of the deal.”

“I know, I know,” Council replied impatiently. “I'll see what I can do.” He knew, however, that it was going to be a difficult task to convince the governor to authorize one thousand dollars for a putrefied corpse.

Grayson delivered Billy's body to the undertaker, and Wainwright was as equally enthusiastic about receiving it as Council had been. “I don't know what they expect from me,” he complained. He took a knife and cut a big enough hole in the canvas to give him an idea of the state of the corpse, although he could guess fairly accurately by the foul odor escaping. As he suspected, the body had advanced well into putrefaction, with eyes and tongue bulging, the skin having already gone from green to purple to black. “Why in the world don't they just let me put him in a box and bury him. I can't get him looking anywhere close to an open casket, if that's what they're thinking.”

“I don't know,” Grayson said as he prepared to leave. “That ain't my department.” He stepped up in the saddle and turned his horses back toward the stable, relieved to be rid of the remains of Billy Blanchard. His thoughts now were of a good hot bath to soak all traces of Billy out of his skin, then to see if his usual room was available at Wanda Meadows's boardinghouse.

*   *   *

The room that he usually rented whenever he was in Fort Smith was not available. So the large room on the second floor, with the windows that allowed him to look out on Garrison Street, had to be given up for a small room on the first floor near the kitchen. “You're lucky I've got that room in the back, Mr. Grayson,” Wanda Meadows told him. “I'm getting more long-term renters lately, and they're all wanting the larger rooms on the front. If you had left me a deposit, I could have saved it for you, but I didn't have any idea when you'd be back. I never do.”

“It ain't no problem, ma'am,” Grayson said. “I reckon I'll do just fine in the other room.” Over the years, he had had a couple of different arrangements with Wanda when it came to his room. When he was enjoying periods of prosperity, he often paid for his room two months in advance. Other times, as in this latest case, he had been hard-pressed to save enough money for cartridges before heading out after Billy Blanchard. He could always ride a little way out of town, make camp by a stream, and roll up in his blankets for the night. He even had a favorite spot to do this, where a stream flowed into the Poteau River. After just getting back from a long trip, and sleeping on the ground every night, however, he had a hankering for a bed with clean sheets, and the opportunity to sit down at Wanda's table for a good home-cooked meal. Wanda had a reputation as the best cook in Sebastian County, and she was a handsome woman to boot, and a church-going woman. He knew that she was a widow, and he sometimes wondered what was wrong with the bachelors living in Fort Smith. There should be a line of them starting at her front steps.

His first night back in town went a long way toward making up for the many restless nights spent on the trail from Black Horse Creek, so much so that he might have slept right through breakfast if his room had not been next to the kitchen. Feeling refreshed, he went to the outhouse, then washed up at the well instead of using the dry sink in his room. After a hearty breakfast of fresh eggs and ham, weighed down with a couple of Wanda's biscuits and honey, he went to the stable to see if Bob Graham was interested in buying some good horses. The two men came to no agreement, but Bob said he'd think about it. Grayson had traded with Bob before, so he knew the stable operator was just playing a bluffing game and they would come to some agreement before it was over. The bargaining for that morning over with, Grayson said, “Well, you know the price I've gotta have for 'em, especially that Appaloosa. You can think on it.” Then he left to check with John Council again.

“I'm sorry, Grayson,” Council told him. “I can't give you any final word yet. I'm gonna be honest with you, the telegram I got this mornin' said he wasn't pleased with the condition of Blanchard's body. And he let me know that under no circumstances was I to put a rotting, worm-eaten corpse on public display. In my wire to him, I asked him about your money, and he said he was gonna hold off on that until we see if the mortician can fix the body up so it doesn't look so bad.”

“Sounds to me like the governor ain't fixin' to pay me like he promised,” Grayson said, “unless the undertaker can get Billy where he won't shock the good people of Fort Smith.” Council didn't respond, but his expression told Grayson that what he'd said was true. “I thought the idea behind this thing was to give outlaws a picture of how they're liable to end up if they're robbin' and killin' in this territory.”