Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (15 page)

“It was,” Council agreed, “but like you just said, not at the risk of having the good folks of Fort Smith up in arms. We might have the women marching on city hall.”

Grayson nodded thoughtfully as he considered Council's comments. He realized that he was in danger of losing the thousand dollars he was promised, and he needed that money. He had been damn-near broke when John Council approached him on the deal, and it had cost him even further to equip himself for the task. He could recoup all of his expenses with the sale of the horses and saddles. That much he was certain of, but that thousand dollars would have carried him a lot farther. He decided to go back to see Otis Wainwright.

*   *   *

“You're talking about making a silk purse out of a sow's ear,” the undertaker said when Grayson asked about his progress to make Billy's body presentable for public viewing. “How long did you say you hauled him around after he'd been shot?” he asked, but did not pause to let Grayson answer. “His skin is already black, and his innards are coming out of every orifice. Any day now his skin will start sliding off every time he's moved. They don't need to be showing this body off. They need to get it in the ground right now to get rid of the smell. The only thing that ain't turned to complete mush is his head, and that's got his eyes and tongue bulging out like he's seen the devil, which I wouldn't be surprised if he had.”

The last comment gave Grayson a glimmer of hope. “Can you fix his head up so it looks like Billy?”

Wainwright shrugged. “I can fix it up some, but you can't stick his head out in front of the gallows on a pole. The town won't stand for it.”

“Yeah, but you could get his head lookin' pretty good from a distance, anyway?” Grayson asked. Wainwright shrugged again, so Grayson continued. “Who's that over there?” He nodded toward a body laid out on a table on the far side of the room.

“Him?” Wainwright answered. “Nobody. Some drifter that got himself shot in an argument at the poker table. Sheriff Thompson had him brought to me to get him ready for burial. He's going in the ground tomorrow.”

Grayson stroked his chin thoughtfully, then commented, “Seems to me you could put Billy's head on that fellow's body.”

Wainwright paused for a long moment before answering, not sure Grayson was serious. “Well, yeah, I reckon I could, but why in the world would I wanna do something like that?”

“I can think of one good reason,” Grayson replied. “The state of Arkansas has authorized John Council to pay me six hundred dollars if I brought Billy Blanchard back in good enough condition to put on public display. With his body all rotted out like it is, they won't display it, so they won't pay me the money. Now I'm thinkin' if you can fix Billy's head up a little, and put it on that other body, I'd be willin' to split that six hundred dollars with you fifty-fifty.” It was apparent that he now had Wainwright's full attention. He lied about the amount of the reward, but felt that three hundred dollars was a decent payoff for the deceit.

“I can't do something as unethical as that,” was Wainwright's initial response, but Grayson could see that the undertaker was thinking about that three- hundred-dollar bonus. “What would people think if they found out I did something like that? Why, they'd run me outta town.”

“I ain't gonna tell 'em,” Grayson commented calmly.

Wainwright was still thinking it over. “I wasn't even gonna embalm that body. He was going in the ground right away, 'cause there's not going to be a funeral. There's nobody to come to a funeral.”

“I expect you'd need to embalm him if he was gonna be on display for a few days or more,” Grayson said.

“You surely would,” Wainwright said, counting that three hundred dollars in his mind. “But, hell, that fellow over there is a good bit bigger than the corpse you brought in.”

“Nobody around here knows how big Billy Blanchard was,” Grayson said. “You're the only one here who knows how big a man you cut outta that piece of canvas. And from what you tell me, the only people who saw that drifter are the men around that poker game in the saloon. And they ain't gonna know the difference if he's got another head on him.”

Wainwright's eyes were shifting back and forth as he considered the possibilities, but still he hesitated. “Oh, I ain't saying I couldn't pull something like that off. I could do a little surgery on Billy and sew his head on that other body so you couldn't see the stitches—close his eyes and mouth, so he'd look like he was asleep.”

“Anythin' you can do about the color of his skin?” Grayson asked. “It's kinda black-lookin'.”

“Oh, hell, I can paint him up a little. You'd have to look real close to tell.” He paused again while he rehearsed it in his mind. “By the time I got him fitted out in an open coffin, I could make him look like President Rutherford B. Hayes if I wanted to.”

“When can you have him ready for John Council to see him?” Grayson asked.

Once again, there followed a lengthy pause while Wainwright stopped to think about what he might be risking. “Damn, Grayson, I don't know. . . .” He grimaced with indecision. “How do I know you won't tell somebody?”

“Why would I?” Grayson answered. “It would cost me the money I'm supposed to get for bringin' that bastard in. To tell you the truth, there ain't no harm done to anybody. Both of them are dead and gone, and beyond carin' what we do with their carcasses. So whaddaya say?” He stuck out his hand.

Wainwright shook it. “Three hundred dollars, right?”

“Just as soon as Council pays me the money,” Grayson replied, satisfied that Billy Blanchard was going to be on display as a warning to those who sought to ply their evil skills in Oklahoma Territory.

*   *   *

“Where you been, Ike?” Red Mullins, owner of Red's Hotel, greeted a customer in the dining room of the shabby inn in Okmulgee. “I ain't seen you in here in over a week.”

“I was over to Fort Smith,” Ike replied, “went to see my brother and his wife. They got a little farm outside of town.” He pulled out a chair and sat down at the end of the long table, nodding politely to several other men who took their meals routinely at Red's. Most of them he had seen at one time or another, except for the two strangers seated at the other end.

“What's the news from Fort Smith,” Red asked.

“Nothin' much,” Ike answered. “Damn place is gettin' too damn crowded to suit me. I never saw so many folks in one place.” He took a sip from the cup of coffee Red set before him. “Tell you what I did see, though. You remember that feller that robbed the bank down in McAlester, and shot a teller? I saw him. They got him in an open coffin, propped up on the gallows with a sign on him that warns outlaws that think they can hide out in The Nations.”

“He killed a deputy marshal that tried to arrest him, too,” Red said. “I reckon they musta sent a posse of deputies out to run him down that quick.”

“From what I heard, it wasn't a marshal that got him. A bounty hunter brought him in, feller name of Grayson.”

“Did you see the hangin'?” Red asked.

“There weren't no hangin',” Ike replied. “He was dead when Grayson brought him in.”

The conversation continued with none of the other patrons noticing the sudden tensing of the two strangers at the end of the table until one of them spoke. “Did I hear you right?” Slate Blanchard asked. “He was dead when Grayson brought him in?”

“Yes, sir, that's right,” Ike said, “shot twice in the back is what they said, but you couldn't see no bullet holes in the corpse on account he was lyin' on his back in the coffin. Besides, they put a new shirt on him.”

“The goddamned coward!” Troy swore in anger. “Murdered him!”

“Shut up, Troy,” Slate warned when his brother's outburst caused the room to fall silent and everyone to stare at the two strangers. “We need to get movin'. We've got at least two days ride ahead of us. Come on.” He pushed back from the table and got to his feet, a look of grim defiance on his face. None of the regular customers at the table said a word until the two strangers had left the room.

Chapter 10

“Well, I can certainly use the money,” Wanda Meadows commented when Grayson handed her a six-month rent payment in advance. The money was to reserve his usual room upstairs when the present renter left. “You must have won big at the poker table or robbed a bank,” she joked.

“I got paid for the last job I did for the marshal's office,” Grayson said. “Figured it'd be a good idea to make sure I had the room I wanted, while I had some money in my pocket.”

“I expect the least I could do is offer you a cup of coffee and a slice of that pie I made for supper,” she offered, “. . . anybody that pays that much in advance.” She had just finished baking two large apple pies to serve with supper that night, and she was sure there would be a serving for everyone, with a little left over. She had only three boarders in addition to Grayson at present, anyway. “Whaddaya say, Grayson,” she asked with a warm smile, “can I interest you in a piece of apple pie not an hour out of the oven?”

He smiled in return. “I reckon it'd be impolite to say no.” It wasn't often he had the opportunity to enjoy fresh baked pie, and he couldn't recall if she had ever offered him anything between regular meals. “I swear, though, Mrs. Meadows, I'm already gettin' so fat from eatin' your cookin' for the last few days that I might need to buy some new britches.”

“You could use a little fattening,” she said with a laugh. It was not the first time she had entertained thoughts along those lines. “Sit down at the table and I'll get you some coffee. I might join you in a piece of that pie. I'm kinda interested in seeing how that crust turned out. When I rolled it out, I tried not to work it too much. The last one I made, I think I overdid it a bit and it made the crust a little tough. Or maybe it was that lard I was using. Anyway, I want to see how it turned out.”

He smiled again. “I'll bet you ain't ever made a pie that wasn't good in your life.”

“You wouldn't say that if you had tasted a piece of the first one I made after I got married,” she replied. “And my poor husband, bless his heart, sat there and ate every bite of it.” She had to laugh at the memory. There was a time when memories of her late husband would bring moments of melancholy, but enough years had passed to heal the pain of losing him so young in her life.

She cut two slices from one of the pies, placed them on the table, and poured two cups of coffee. Seating herself across from him, she smiled as she watched him staring at his pie for a moment before looking up to meet her eyes. His gaze was questioning and she was confused by it until he spoke. “I know there's some talk about what an uncivilized man I am, but I do know how to use a fork.”

“Oh,” she burst into laughter again, “I'm sorry. I guess we could use some forks.” She jumped up and got a couple from the drawer. They said nothing for a few moments while they sampled the pie, but her thoughts were concentrated on the usually somber man sitting at her kitchen table. He had rented a room in her home, off and on, for quite a few years, and this was the first time she had had a conversation with him that consisted of more than a half a dozen words. His reputation was one of a cold, emotionless hunter of men, some said a cruel administrator of justice. For evidence of this, she could easily consider the wanted outlaw he had just brought in, dead from gunshot wounds. But he had never shown anything but polite respect for her and her boarders. Which was the real man she wondered? In fact, who was Grayson? No one really knew much about him, except that he had once been a deputy marshal. Where had he come from? She wondered if maybe she might be better off not knowing. Still, she could not deny a certain fascination for the man. She almost surprised herself when she suddenly asked, “Grayson, have you got a first name?”

He looked up, astonished. “Joel,” he answered, surprised that she didn't know.

“Joel,” she echoed. “Why, that's a nice name. I shall call you that from now on. Grayson sounds so stern.” She looked up to see him pausing to gape at her, a large bite of apple pie in his mouth waiting to be masticated. She couldn't help but laugh at him. “You don't spend much time in the company of women, do you, Joel?”

“Reckon not,” he said, then resumed his chewing.

“Well, we've known each other too long for you to keep calling me Mrs. Meadows. You must call me Wanda. All right?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied.

“Not ma'am, either,” she corrected. “Wanda.”

He grinned. “All right, Wanda.” He pushed his empty plate aside and reached for his coffee cup again. “You make mighty good pie,
Wanda
.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied sweetly, and refilled his cup.

He was confused. It was almost as though the lady was flirting with him, but surely not, he thought. No woman ever had before, and he found himself wondering how old she was.
What the hell do I care?
he asked himself. She was a fine-looking woman, though. Odd he had never noticed before, but he had just never paid attention, his mind having always been focused on things of a more grim nature. He might have been astonished had he known that the lady was wondering about many of the same things he was.

She had never really given any man the slightest encouragement since her husband had almost chopped his foot off when a large tree he was cutting down bucked on the stump as it started to fall. It resulted in knocking him down and pinning his leg under the tree when it fell in the wrong direction. There was no one around to help him, and the only thing he could think to try was to attempt to chop the trunk in two and free his crushed leg. Able to reach his axe, he did the best he could to swing it from the awkward position on his back. But he soon found out how ineffective his attempts were. In frustration, he swung the axe as hard as he could muster. The axe glanced off the tree trunk and sank deep into his ankle, all the way to the bone. When her father-in-law found him, he had bled so much he was almost unconscious. The doctor told them that the leg might have been saved had not an infection set in. The infection spread so rapidly that his leg had to be amputated above the knee. He never really learned to use crutches, because less than a month after the surgery, he pressed his revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger, leaving a young wife widowed at the age of eighteen.

If I was interested in another man
, she thought,
it surely wouldn't be someone who lived by the gun, even if it was on the side of law and order.
It was difficult not to compare the two—they were so different. She was certain that she would never love another man like she loved her late husband, even though she found a certain fascination for the somber man at her kitchen table—now that she had discovered there was a living soul inside the emotionless body. “Well, I've not got time to sit here and visit,” she suddenly announced. “I've got to get supper started, or you all will be complaining and wanting your money back.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied at once. “I'm sorry I've took up so much of your time.” He got up to leave. “I thank you very much for the coffee and pie. It was the best apple pie I've ever had.”

She smiled. “Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it, but I've had better.”

“You're sellin' yourself short,” he said and started out the door where he paused, looked back at her, and added, “Wanda.”

She gave him another smile and thought to herself,
I don't know, Wanda, girl. You might be thinking about taming a leopard
.

*   *   *

By coincidence, the two brothers rode up before the gallows just as Otis Wainwright and his assistant were in the process of removing the casket from the platform where it had been on display. “Hold on, there,” Slate called out as he dismounted.

“If you're thinking about taking a look at the body, you're a little too late,” Wainwright said. “We've already put the lid back on.” In fact, there were only a couple of nails tacked in to hold the cover in place until they carried it down the steps where it would be easier to finish nailing it shut. “Let's take it down, Johnny,” he told his assistant, and picked up one end of the coffin. Johnny hefted the other end and they started down the steps with their awkward burden.

Slate motioned for Troy to remain calm when his brother started to react to the undertaker's refusal to let them see the body. “Let 'em tote it down,” he said quietly. They watched silently while their brother's coffin was carefully carried down the steps of the gallows. It was not an easy task for two men, especially since neither was of a particularly brawny build. When they reached the ground without dropping the wooden box, and started toward their wagon to load it, Slate stepped in front of them. “Set it down right there,” he said, “and take the lid off.”

Wainwright hesitated for a moment while he and Johnny stood holding the coffin. “I'm sorry, mister, but the viewing period is over. If you wanted to see the body, you should have come before this. It's been on display for almost a week, and we have to get it in the ground right away.”

Slate's heavy brows narrowed in an angry frown as he looked Wainwright straight in the eye. “Put the damn thing down and take the lid off,” he commanded, “before I rip it off, myself.” Troy stepped up beside him, his hand resting on the handle of the .44 in his holster.

“Whoa!” Wainwright exclaimed. “Hold on there, mister!” He turned at once to his assistant on the other end of the coffin. “Set it down, Johnny.” When it was down, he stepped away from it as if it might explode, while he unconsciously looked around to see if anyone was witness to the confrontation and might come to his aid. “There's no need to get upset here. If you want to see the body that bad, we'll open it up for you.” He had not paid that much attention to the two men when they first rode up. He decided now that it was best to do what they wanted, and without delay. “Johnny, hand me that hammer.”

He backed the few nails out of the top and he and Johnny lifted it off. Then they both stepped back while the two strangers moved up to take a close look. The reaction shown in each man's face told him that they were not pleased with what they saw. “Damn,” Troy muttered, drawing the word out in disbelief. “What the hell did you do to him?” Although the repair job Wainwright had performed on the deceased had suffered serious deterioration, he could still recognize the face as Billy's.

“You ought not'a had him stood up here that long,” Slate said, giving Wainwright an accusing glance. “It's Billy all right, but his body don't look right. It don't look like Billy.”

“It looks bigger'n Billy,” Troy said.

At once distressed, Wainwright was quick to offer an explanation. “After this amount of time, there's usually a certain amount of swelling in the body. Sometimes—as in this case—it can change the look of the body, so that it's difficult to recognize it.” Slate and Troy exchanged uncertain glances. “You gentlemen understand that I have no connection with the law, I hope,” Wainwright added. “I'm just the undertaker.”

“Put the lid back on,” Slate ordered, and there was no hesitation on the part of the undertaker to comply. “Grayson brought him in, already dead, right?” Wainwright said that was correct. “The bullet holes was in his back is what I heard.”

“Well, he was killed by gunshots,” Wainwright admitted, “but I have no way of knowing the circumstances of the shooting.” He was reluctant to speculate on how Billy was killed, for he truly did not believe that Grayson murdered the outlaw, especially since his reward was originally based upon a living prisoner.

“He was shot in the back, though. Right?” Troy demanded.

“Well, yes, he was,” Wainwright replied, afraid the menacing man might take the lid off to see for himself and discover no wounds in the back.

“That spells murder to me,” Slate said. “That low-down son of a bitch murdered him.” He grabbed Wainwright's shirt and pulled him up to him, face-to-face. “Is Grayson still in town? Where does he stay?”

“I don't know,” a severely frightened Wainwright blurted. “I don't have any idea, I swear.”

“How 'bout you, Johnny?” Troy asked sarcastically. “Do you know where Grayson is?”

“N-no, sir, I don't have any idea,” Johnny stuttered, shaken from a near-paralysis of fear.

“All right,” Slate said upon deciding they would get no further information from the two frightened undertakers. “Give him a decent burial and do it quick.”

“Yeah,” Troy added, “you might be gettin' some more business soon.”

Wainwright and Johnny busied themselves loading Billy's remains on the back of the wagon until the two strangers had ridden off toward Garrison Street. They paused to watch them until they rode out of sight. “Right in the middle of town!” Wainwright exclaimed, astonished, unable to believe what had just transpired. “I thought this was a civilized town.”

“They must have thought they were still in Indian Territory,” Johnny said. “I expect we'd better alert the sheriff about those two, and tell him to warn Grayson if he's still in town.”

*   *   *

Grayson was still in town, and planned to be for some time yet, for there was nothing on his mind that needed tending to anywhere else. During the past couple of days, he had given a great deal of thought toward the rest of his life and what he might make of it. He really didn't know much about making a living beyond chasing after outlaws. There were very few pay days like the one-thousand-dollar reward he had just cashed in on. He thought of the extra horses he had acquired when he went after Billy Blanchard. Maybe he could take what he had left of the reward after the payoff to Wainwright and use it to set himself up to raise horses. At least that would be something he had an interest in, unlike farming. He supposed he could possibly go back to work in the U.S. marshal service as long as it was not in the Omaha office where his employment was ended over an incident with another deputy.