Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (2 page)

Black Horse Creek had no official mayor, since no one presumed to question the policies of Jacob Blanchard. A few of the citizens, Louis Reiner in particular, had approached Blanchard about the possibility of establishing a town council, but Jacob rejected the idea as unnecessary. The town was not without authority figures, however, in the form of a sheriff and deputy sheriff. The positions were filled by Slate and Troy Blanchard respectively, and it was commonly accepted that these were not posts filled by the election process. There were folks in the town who had concerns about the feudal arrangement they had sold themselves into, but chose not to discuss them openly for fear they might lose all they had invested.

*   *   *

It was early afternoon when Billy rode across the narrow bridge that his father had built over the creek at the lower end of town. Riding easily, he walked his horse up the street, leading the blue roan behind him. He reined up briefly in front of the sheriff's office, and after seeing no sign of anyone around, continued on toward the Black Horse Saloon. He needed a drink after riding since early morning, and he figured that was the most likely place to find his brothers as well. Tying his horses up to the rail, he paused to look up and down the street to see if anyone had noticed his arrival. Somewhat disappointed when it appeared that no one had, he stepped up on the short stoop and took a look inside the saloon before pushing through the swinging doors. As he had suspected, his two brothers were sitting at a table in the back corner of the saloon, enjoying a glass of beer. He stood in the doorway a few moments longer, but when his presence still went unnoticed, he pulled his .44 from the holster and fired a round into the floor. It had the desired effect.

Both Slate and Troy jumped to their feet, sending beer glasses skidding across the table to land on the floor. Pistols drawn, they faced the door, ready to return fire, only to find their younger brother standing there, laughing at them. “That's a damn good way to get yourself shot,” Troy told him, not at all amused by Billy's idea of a joke. His comment served to add to Billy's amusement.

“Why, brother Troy,” Billy mocked, “you don't seem glad to see me, and after I've been gone for so many weeks, too.”

Slate, the eldest brother, simply shook his head and holstered his pistol. He had learned long ago that this type of behavior was to be expected from Billy and might as well be tolerated, because there was no way his youngest brother would likely change. “Where you been, Billy?” he asked. “You're all Pa talks about lately—where's Billy? Wouldn't hurt if you let the old man know from time to time that ain't nobody shot you.”

“Where the hell
have
you been?” Troy echoed Slate's question. “Me and Slate coulda used some help keepin' the nesters from movin' in upriver.” One of the primary functions of the sheriff and his deputy was to keep settlers from infringing on Jacob Blanchard's empire. No one was permitted to settle on the vast acreage upstream on the Cimarron. Jacob intended to take no chances that someone above his ranch might control the water that his cattle and his town needed. Consequently, he charged his sons with the responsibility for making sure no free-range cattlemen or sheepherders decided to settle on that land. The fact that it was not legally his, or anyone else's, did not enter into it. He planned to eventually own it. In the meantime, he made it clear to his sons that any means to protect that land was justified and acceptable.

“Hell,” Billy said as he pulled a chair back from the table and signaled for Roy, who had dived behind the bar when the shot was fired, to bring him a glass, “you don't need no help runnin' off a bunch of sheepherders. I had more important things to tend to.”

“Like what?” Troy wanted to know.

Billy grinned, self-satisfied. “Oh, I don't know—there was a lot of ladies that needed tendin' to, and there ain't nobody that can take care of 'em like I can—makin' sure the banks ain't holdin' too much money, and the law ain't got too many deputies—things like that.”

His brothers were not as impressed as he thought they would be. “Why, you damn-fool idiot,” Slate questioned. “You ain't shot a marshal, have you?”

“Just as dead as hell,” Billy replied smugly, “and a teller, too.” His lips spread in a wide smile of self-satisfaction. “That hard-assed deputy, Tom Malone, ain't gonna be hasslin' nobody no more.”

“And now you led the law straight back to Black Horse Creek,” Slate responded.

“Don't nobody know where I went,” Billy claimed. “Besides, that was in The Nations, Injun Territory. Black Horse Creek is in Kansas. Ain't no lawman gonna wanna ride this far lookin' for me.”

Slate and Troy exchanged impatient glances. It was useless to try to talk sense to Billy. They both knew it, and it was a source of resentment for the two, because their father favored the young hellion, taking pride in Billy's disregard for rules. “One of these days you're gonna run into somebody who don't back down to you,” Slate said.

“If I do, I'll shoot the son of a bitch, just like I did with that damn deputy marshal,” Billy replied.

*   *   *

The Creek woman, Rachel, who cooked Jacob Blanchard's meals and took care of his house—and responded to any of his other needs, some reluctantly—was in the process of setting the table for supper when Jacob got up from his chair on the porch. The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he watched the three riders approaching the barn. He walked to the door and called in to Rachel, “Set an extra place at the table. Billy's home.”

Billy's face lit up with a wide smile when he saw his father striding from the house to meet them. “Looks like you boys picked up a stray in town,” Jacob called out, his face reflecting Billy's smile.

“Yeah,” Slate replied. “I reckon we ain't strict enough on who we let ride into our town.”

“Howdy, Pa,” Billy greeted his father, dismounted, and handed the reins to a young hired hand who worked in the barn. “Reckon a feller could get a good meal around here?” Billy asked.

“Maybe,” Jacob said, “if he's got the price. Feller's gotta work for his chuck on this ranch. Ain't that right, Jimmy?”

The young man, waiting to take the reins from Slate and Troy, grinned in response and replied, “That's a fact, Mr. Blanchard.”

Jacob stepped back to give Jimmy room as he led the horses toward the corral. “I see you got yourself a new horse,” he said when the blue roan was led by. “Came with a saddle, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy said. “I got him at a good price.”

“The price of a couple of cartridges,” Troy interjected. “And I expect there'll be somebody showin' up around here lookin' for the rest of the price. That's Tom Malone's horse.”

“Not likely, Pa,” Billy quickly responded. “I got this horse down in Injun Territory, three or four days ride from here. Ain't nobody knows which way I headed.”

Jacob preferred not to hear details of what Billy was up to when he rode off to cater to his wild impulses. He knew his son had no concern for right and wrong, the same as himself, but he did wish that Billy was a little smarter about it. “You shot a marshal?” he exclaimed. “What in hell did you do a dumb thing like that for?”

“It was him or me, Pa. I just did what I thought you'da done.”

“No way you coulda got around it?”

“No, sir. He was fixin' to arrest me and take me back to Fort Smith to hang.”

“Well, what's done is done,” Jacob said. “You're sure nobody is on your tail?”

“I'm sure, Pa. I wouldn'ta led nobody back here,” Billy said. Troy looked at Slate and rolled his eyes upward. Billy could tell their father that he'd shot Christ, Himself, and Jacob would pass it off as a boyish prank. All of the Blanchard men had innocent blood on their hands. It was easier to kill and steal what other men had worked for, than to work for it themselves, but Billy delighted in flaunting his superiority with his six-gun at every opportunity.

“I don't know what else you've been into,” Jacob said. “And I don't wanna know, but your brother's right—there may be somebody showin' up in Kansas lookin' for you. It'd be a good idea for you to ride up to stay in the line camp at Rabbit Creek for a while.”

“Ah, Pa,” Billy protested, “I just got home. I don't wanna lay around that damned old shack.”

“I ain't sendin' you up there to lay around,” Jacob informed him. “Won't hurt you to shoulder some of the work around here. I expect you to look after our strays up there, and make sure there ain't no nesters tryin' to move in on our land.” He then softened his tone and added, “You can stay here at the house a couple of days before you go, but first I wanna know the truth. Is there a lawman on your trail?”

“No, sir, not no more.” He could not suppress the smile that spread across his face again.

The implication carried by his smug reply was not lost on his father. There was no taming Billy Blanchard. Jacob glanced at Slate for confirmation and his eldest shook his head in disgusted response. “Yeah, he killed him,” Slate said.

“Damn,” Jacob uttered softly as he considered the possible problems that may have followed Billy home. After a moment, he concluded, “Yeah, it's best you hide out in the line camp till we make sure you didn't bring home no lice with you.” The tone of finality in his voice was enough to prevent any further protests from Billy. “And take that damn horse with you, in case somebody comes lookin' for it. Now, let's go to the house and see what Rachel's cooked up for supper.” Troy made it a point to smirk in Billy's direction before turning to follow his father to the front porch.

Chapter 2

“I got word you wanted to talk to me,” the tall, somber man said as he walked into the office of U.S. Marshal John Council.

Council looked up from his desk to greet his visitor. “Grayson,” he said in greeting, and closed the expense ledger he had been making entries in. “I see Rufus found you.”

“I wasn't hard to find,” Grayson replied. “I've been back in Fort Smith for about a week.” He unbuttoned the dark woolen morning coat he wore and let it fall open. “It's hot as hell in here,” he commented abruptly and cast an eye toward the little iron stove in the corner of the room, the belly of which had acquired a dull rosy glow. “What are you gonna do when winter really gets here?”

“Get a bigger stove,” Council replied in response to Grayson's thinly veiled sarcasm. He knew it was the humorless man's way of chiding him for getting off a horse and mounting a desk.

Grayson grunted his version of a laugh. Thinking that was enough small talk between two old acquaintances, he got down to business, as was his custom. “What did you wanna talk to me about?”

“I thought you might be interested in a little hunting expedition,” Council said. “It would damn-well be worth your time.”

“I'm listenin',” Grayson replied with no real show of interest. Council didn't expect any. He had known Grayson for more than ten years, and their relationship had always been on a strictly business basis. Council doubted the stoic man had any friends. Not many people could say they really knew Grayson. Council was aware that Grayson had at one time ridden with the Texas Rangers, and for a few years he rode for the U.S. marshal service out of Omaha. Something had happened, Council never learned the details, but whatever it was, it caused Grayson to resign his job as a deputy marshal. Since that time, Grayson had operated more or less as a bounty hunter, seemingly whenever it suited him to do so.

“I lost Tom Malone a couple of weeks ago,” Council said, “my best deputy, a man I can't afford to lose, shot down in a dingy little trading post on the Canadian River.”

“I heard,” Grayson said. “Tom was a good man.”

“The best,” Council replied, “and I'm sorely gonna miss him, because I don't have anybody else with his experience.” He paused to cast a wry smile at Grayson. “I don't suppose you'd be interested in going back to work in the service.”

“Reckon not,” Grayson said.

“I didn't think so, but you might be interested in doing a little job for me. Tom was gunned down while attempting to arrest Billy Blanchard on a murder charge.”

“I heard that, too,” Grayson deadpanned. “He let Billy get the jump on him, was the way I heard it.”

“Well, I guess you could say that,” Council conceded, reluctant to believe that a deputy with Tom Malone's experience could have been less than careful. “I sent Bob Aaron over there to check it out, but that fellow that owns the trading post where it happened suddenly lost his memory. He said he ain't even sure it was Billy that fired the shots, that he thought it mighta been a stranger just passing through.”

“Ed Lenta,” Grayson remarked. “I'm not surprised.”

“Yeah, that's the man,” Council continued. “Anyway, Lenta said he didn't know which way Billy went when he left his store, and he didn't notice which direction the stranger was heading, either. Bob looked around the place, but he couldn't turn up anything to help, so he came on back.”

“Might as well forget about the stranger,” Grayson said. “I doubt he exists. Billy was the one done the killin'.”

“Well, that's what I figure, too,” Council was quick to say. “But like I said, Bob didn't have any idea which way he ran.”

It was not difficult to figure out why Council had sent for him, so Grayson got down to business. “Billy's most likely gone home to his daddy's place up on the Cimarron, and since that's over the line in Kansas, you don't want to send a deputy out of The Nations to look for him.” He paused, but Council said nothing. Grayson continued. “So you want me to go up there and find Billy for you.” He paused again before asking, “How much is it worth?”

“My superiors want justice to be served on this one for sure,” Council emphasized. “You know, yourself, how many deputies have been killed in this territory in the last ten years. My boss wants to set an example with Tom Malone's death and show these murdering outlaws that they're not going to get away with killing a U.S. deputy marshal. He wants to have a public hanging with all the newspapers covering it.” He paused to make sure his next statement had the desired effect. “My superiors have authorized me to offer a one-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of Billy Blanchard.” He nodded to confirm it when he saw Grayson's surprised look. It was a lot of money for a low-life piece of trash like Billy Blanchard, so Council went on to justify the amount. “Like I said, we want Billy brought back alive to stand trial for the murder before we hang him.”

“Things don't always work out that way,” Grayson said. “You know that.”

“If at all possible, we want him alive to stand up before the judge. But if there's no way to avoid killing him, I can't take your word that he's dead. Judge Parker wants proof in the form of Billy's body. So if you have to kill him, you're gonna have to produce his body to collect the reward—his guns, his horse ain't enough evidence—we've got to have the body.” He waited a moment to make sure Grayson understood the terms. “This ain't going out on a regular wanted poster, because we don't want some wild, half-drunk cowboy taking a shot at Billy and sending him into hiding. We're just giving you the opportunity to slip over into Kansas and bring him out before anybody knows about it. I've got a paper signed by the governor of Arkansas that authorizes you to act on the state's behalf as a representative of the U.S. marshal service. So whaddaya say? You want the job?”

“I reckon,” Grayson replied dryly. “It ain't always easy to bring 'em back settin' upright in the saddle, though.” He felt he needed to emphasize that fact. “And that's a helluva long way to escort a prisoner, and that's providin' he ain't run off to Montana or somewhere else.”

“One thousand dollars,” Council said. “That's the reason the reward is that much.”

“You tellin' me that if Billy gets his hands on a gun the day before I get him back to Fort Smith, and I have to shoot him to keep him from killin' me, you ain't gonna pay me the money?”

“No,” Council replied. “I ain't saying that. I'm saying do everything you can to bring him back alive, but you'll get your money dead or alive. But not without Billy's body. Dammit, we're going to hang him up for everybody to see what happens to people who shoot deputy marshals.”

“Just wanted to be clear on that,” Grayson said. “I'll go get him for you.” He got up to leave, but hesitated before the door. “I'm gonna have to buy cartridges and other supplies.”

Council stopped him before he went further. “Damn, Grayson, we don't ever pay bounty hunters' expenses. You know that.”

“Just thought I'd ask.” He took hold of the doorknob. Nodding toward the stove in the corner again, he suggested, “Woulda been a good idea to have a coffeepot on that stove if you're gonna keep a fire goin' in it.”

*   *   *

There had to be a pretty thick film of dust and dirt on the floor before Ed Lenta could be motivated to sweep. The store having reached that condition several days before, Ed procrastinated no longer, and put his broom to work. A small dirty cloud of dust formed over the back step of the building as Ed swept it through the door. Taking wide sweeps with the broom in an effort to send the dirt as far out in the yard as possible, he suddenly paused when he thought he heard something. Not certain that he had, he turned back toward the front door. “Damn!” he blurted in surprise to find the imposing figure standing between him and the bar, casually holding a rifle in one hand. “Grayson,” he remarked. “You ought not sneak up on a man like that. You coulda gave me a heart attack.” Still holding on to his broom, he walked over behind the bar. He had seen the notorious hunter of men several times before, and it seemed like a person never heard him coming. Even the gray gelding he rode seemed to tiptoe.

“Hello, Ed,” Grayson replied. “You looked awful busy there. I didn't wanna disturb you.”

Ed knew full well why Grayson was there, but he planned on playing dumb. His livelihood depended almost exclusively upon outlaws that sought refuge in The Nations, and his business would soon dry up if it became known that he had cooperated with the law. Grayson was no longer officially a representative of the law, but he may as well be, for he did their work for them. “What brings you out this way?” he asked.

“I came over from Fort Smith just because I was curious to see if you've got your memory back.”

“My memory?” Ed replied, confused. “Whaddaya talkin' about? If you're talkin' about that deputy that got shot a while back, there ain't nothin' to remember. Another deputy's already been here and took care of that.”

Grayson favored the nervous storekeeper with a knowing smile. “Is that a fact? The way I heard it, you told that deputy that you weren't sure who shot who. To tell you the truth, Ed, you ain't the smartest fellow in the territory, but you ain't so dumb that you can't remember Billy Blanchard shootin' Tom Malone down right here in your store.” He shook his head impatiently, keeping his intense gaze locked on Ed's eyes. “Now you oughta know the law ain't gonna let Billy get away with that. Did you think they'd just say, ‘Too bad. Some stranger musta done it, but he got away'?”

“I never said Billy done it,” Ed quickly reminded him. Seeing the expression of amusement on Grayson's face, he insisted, “There's lots of strangers come in my place. I can't remember all of 'em.”

“I doubt there's that many,” Grayson said. The smile disappeared from his face and the steely gaze intensified, signaling an end to the meaningless banter. “Billy shot that deputy. You know it, and I know it. You ain't in any trouble so far. All I want outta you is to make sure I don't waste any more of my time. I'm thinkin' Billy more'n likely headed straight back to his daddy's place up near Black Horse Creek. I'm also thinkin' he mighta said somethin' about it before he left, unless he was of a mind to take off for someplace else.” He paused to observe Ed's reaction to that suggestion. There was none. “Here's the thing, Ed. It's gonna rile me somethin' awful if I ride all the way to Black Horse Creek and find out that Billy didn't go that way, that he headed in some other direction when he left here. You see where this is leadin'? I'm not a patient man, and I know damn well you know which way he rode outta here.”

Not positive there was a definite threat behind Grayson's rambling talk, but suspecting there might be, Ed sang out, “Billy didn't say anythin' about headin' anywhere else in The Nations. I can't say he was headin' for Kansas, but he didn't say he was goin' anywhere else.”

Grayson studied the uncomfortable storekeeper's face a few moments longer before deciding Billy had gone home, just as he had speculated. It may have been a waste of his time, sparring verbally with Ed Lenta, but he had thought to pick up a clue in case he had been wrong about second guessing Billy.
Hell
, he thought,
it's on the way to Black Horse Creek, anyway
.

Ed walked outside and watched the solemn bounty hunter as he made his way across to the opposite bank of the river, just as he had watched Billy Blanch-ard depart from his store. He told himself that he could be proud of the fact that he had not told Grayson that Billy casually mentioned going home to lay up for a while. Another part of him hoped Grayson would catch up with the insolent young gunman.
I sure as hell wouldn't want that mountain lion after me
, he thought.

*   *   *

Two days in the saddle brought him to the point where the Crooked River flowed into the Cimarron. He didn't know exactly where the territorial line between the Oklahoma Outlet and Kansas was, but he knew he was close to it. He made his camp at the confluence of the two rivers, planning to follow the Cimarron on into Kansas in the morning, and figuring to reach Black Horse Creek sometime in the early afternoon. It had been a while since he had traveled this part of the territory, but from what he had heard, a sizable town had grown up on the river and he was curious to see what kind of folks had settled on the flat, grassy plains. It seemed odd to him that Jacob Blanchard had allowed settlers on the thousands of acres he held reign over. The land seemed most suitable for raising cattle, and if memory served him, the town couldn't be much more than fifty miles from Dodge City and the railroad. Jacob Blanchard was as cruel an outlaw as had ever strapped on a six-gun, responsible for no telling how many murders and robberies. The trouble was that no one had been able to prove it. He didn't normally leave witnesses. So why would he permit a town to grow up on land he considered his? Stranger things had happened, Grayson figured.

*   *   *

“Don't recall seein' him before,” Troy Blanchard remarked as he stood gazing out the window of the sheriff's office.

Curious, Sheriff Slate Blanchard got up from his chair and walked over to the window to see for himself. Leading a pack horse, a stranger leisurely rode a gray gelding down the middle of the street. “Me either,” Slate said in response to his brother's remark. They continued to watch the stranger's progress down the street until he pulled over to tie up at the rail in front of Louis Reiner's store, next to the Black Horse Saloon. It was easy to see by his dress that he was not a cowboy, drifting from one job to another. Instead of going into Reiner's store, the stranger pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard, walked back a dozen yards and entered the saloon. “Why'd he tie up at Reiner's if he was goin' to the saloon?” Slate asked. The simple act qualified the stranger as suspicious in Slate's mind, remembering his father charging him with the responsibility for knowing everybody's business who entered his town. “I expect we'd better go down to the Black Horse and see who this feller is,” Slate said.