DEATH OF A U.S. MARSHAL
Billy continued to hesitate. “Besides, that teller was goin’ for a gun behind the counter. I shot him in self-defense.”
“There weren’t no gun behind that counter,” Malone said. “You just flat-out murdered him.” His hand tightened on the handle of his Colt. “I ain’t gonna tell you again, Billy. Now let me see those hands on the table. We got a long ride back to Fort Smith.”
“All right, Malone, you win. I don’t wanna cause no trouble. You want ’em on the table, here they are.” He brought them out from under the table, but one of them held a Smith & Wesson .44 revolver. The silence that had descended upon the tiny barroom was suddenly shattered by the harsh report of the handgun as Billy fired two shots into Malone’s gut. The surprised deputy staggered backward, grasping for a chair back or table for support while trying to draw his weapon from its holster. Another shot from Billy’s pistol struck him in the chest, and he crumpled to the floor.
BLACK HORSE CREEK
Charles G. West
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, December 2012
Copyright © Charles G. West, 2012
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Ronda
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Special Preview of Way of the Gun
Chapter 1
Billy Blanchard glanced up from his cards when the tall, thin stranger entered the dimly lit saloon. He was dressed in a dark suit, weathered by countless hours in the saddle, his trousers tucked into a pair of knee-high boots. Even had his coat not been pulled open to reveal the badge on his vest, he would be immediately identifiable as a deputy U.S. marshal. With no inclination to panic at the sudden appearance of the lawman, Billy glanced quickly again at the cards he held in his hand, a pair of sevens and a queen high. At least the unexpected arrival of the deputy hadn’t come when he had a winning hand. He placed the cards facedown on the table and announced calmly, “I fold.”
The Choctaw blacksmith seated directly across from him grinned confidently, unaware of the stranger making his way directly toward the table. “Maybe this ain’t your day to play cards,” he chided. When he turned to the player seated to his left to see if he was going to call or fold, he realized that everyone else’s attention was focused on something behind him. Looking back at Billy, he saw the cocky smile spreading across the young man’s face that usually meant trouble for someone, so he quickly turned in his chair to discover the deputy marshal within several steps. He knew it was Billy the lawman was probably looking for, so he didn’t hesitate to push his chair back and get out of the way.
Deputy Marshal Thomas Malone took a cautious look at the three men playing cards with Billy, his hand resting on the handle of the Colt .44 holstered at his side. Abruptly leaving their chairs, the three joined the small crowd of spectators, obviously wanting no part in what was about to happen. Still, Billy sat, smiling, with no apparent sense of alarm. “I’m fixin’ to take you back to Fort Smith, Billy,” Malone said. “That bank teller died, but not before he identified you as the person who shot him. So let me see your hands on the table before you get up, and we’ll make this as easy as we can.”
Billy didn’t respond right away, continuing to sit calmly with his hands in his lap. “Deputy Thomas Malone,” he finally announced grandly. “I was wonderin’ if you’d be the one comin’ after me. That damn-fool bank teller might still be alive if he hadda got down on the floor when I told him to.” His smile broadened when he saw Malone’s look of impatience. “I gotta give you credit, though. You got sand, walkin’ in here to arrest me, ’cause folks around this part of the river ain’t got much use for lawmen.” He continued to hesitate. “Besides, that teller was goin’ for a gun behind the counter. I shot him in self-defense.”
“There weren’t no gun behind that counter,” Malone said. “You just flat-out murdered him.” His hand tightened on the handle of his Colt. “I ain’t gonna tell you again, Billy. Now let me see those hands on the table. We got a long ride back to Fort Smith.”
“All right, Malone, you win. I don’t wanna cause no trouble. You want ’em on the table, here they are.” He brought them out from under the table, but one of them held a Smith & Wesson .44 revolver. The silence that had descended upon the tiny barroom was suddenly shattered by the harsh report of the handgun as Billy fired two shots into Malone’s gut. The surprised deputy staggered backward, grasping for a chair back or table for support while trying to draw his weapon from its holster. Another shot from Billy’s pistol struck him in the chest, and he crumpled to the floor.
His revolver cocked again, Billy scanned the faces of the startled spectators, alert for the possibility that Malone might have brought a posse man along for support. After a moment, when it appeared that the deputy had acted alone, Billy released the hammer, holstered the weapon, and laughed. “Did you see the look on that bastard’s face when he saw my .44 come out from under the table?” Then he cocked an eye toward the Choctaw blacksmith. “I reckon I oughta thank you for givin’ me the jump on that son of a bitch. That gun was in my lap ’cause I was fixin’ to shoot your ass if you drew one
more card off the bottom of the deck.”
Concerned now for his own neck, the Choctaw stammered nervously in defense. “Ah, hell no, Billy. I know better’n to cheat on you. I swear I wasn’t even thinkin’ about bottom dealin’. I just had a little streak of luck, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well that little streak was fixin’ to end,” Billy threatened as he bent over the deputy’s body to relieve it of anything of value. He then straightened up and looked around at the circle of spectators, some of whom were heading for the door, the Choctaw among them. “He took a helluva long ride from Fort Smith just to get shot, didn’t he? Somebody drag his carcass outta here.” He paused when another thought occurred to him. “And don’t nobody get no ideas about the horse he rode in on.”
Ed Lenta, the owner of the little trading post that served as a watering hole for more than a few outlaws hiding out in Indian Territory, stepped forward to grab one of Malone’s ankles. “Gimme a hand, Charley,” he said to the man standing closest to him. Turning to Billy while Charley took hold of Malone’s other ankle, he complained, “Damn, Billy, I wish you’da took care of this before you led ’em to my door. I sure as hell don’t need a bunch of marshals comin’ for a visit.”
“Ah, quit your bellyachin’, Ed,” Billy responded. “I spent a helluva lot of money in this dump you call a saloon.”
It galled Ed to put up with Billy’s obvious lack of concern for his actions. Had it been anyone other than Billy, Ed would most likely have thrown him out the door and warned him never to come back. Snot-nosed kid, Ed thought. Billy wasn’t but eighteen, but he was the youngest son of Jacob Blanchard. And that was the reason everybody tolerated the obnoxious young gunman. His father cast a big shadow, even down here in Indian Territory. In spite of the fact that Billy was spending a lot of the bank’s money in Ed’s place, he had wished he would move on after holing up in his back room for the last three days. Now he was left with a body to hide, hoping no one in Fort Smith knew where the deputy had gone to look for Billy. Thanks to the young hothead, many of Ed’s regular customers would most likely shun his place for a good while, for fear of encountering a marshal’s posse. And Ed would have to hide his stock of illegal whiskey under the floorboards behind his bar in case of a surprise visit. He had been lucky so far because the U.S. marshal service in Fort Smith had not found his tiny trading post on the south bank of the Canadian River, deep in The Nations.
While Ed and Charley dragged the body out the front door, Billy stood casually reloading his pistol. Looking around him again, he demanded, “Where the hell did that damned Injun go?” Motioning toward the table, he told the other two card players, “Let’s get back to the game. I’m too deep in the hole to quit. Maybe with that damn cheatin’ Injun gone, somebody else can win a hand.”
“Not me,” one of the men said. “I don’t need to hang around till the law shows up.” He turned to leave, wasting no time to get out the door in case Billy was still in a killing mood.
“That goes for me, too,” the other poker player said and followed right on his heels. He didn’t know if the Indian had been cheating or not, but Billy might get the same idea about anyone else who had a lucky streak.
“What the hell’s your hurry?” Billy called after them. “Malone was by hisself. And it took him four days to track me to this hole. Ain’t nobody else likely to come nosin’ around here.”
“Maybe so,” one of the departing men muttered almost under his breath, “but he tracked you here. There might be another’n comin’ along behind him.”
“Shit,” Billy exclaimed in disgust. “He’d get the same as ol’ Malone did.” Although boastful in his comments, the possibility of another deputy, and maybe a posse, following him was reason enough to give him second thoughts. No need to take a chance, he decided, so he holstered his pistol and announced, “Looks like everybody’s gone chicken-livered around here. I’m tired of the place, myself.” He walked to the open door and called out to Ed Lenta, who was halfway across the bare yard, dragging the deputy’s corpse. “Ed, send one of your boys to get my horse saddled up. I’m leavin’ this damn flea nest of yours.”
Saddle your damn horse yourself, Ed thought, and he and Charley continued dragging the body toward the edge of the clearing. In answer to Billy’s call, however, he responded over his shoulder, “Sure thing, Billy. I’ll take care of it.” He looked at Charley and shook his head impatiently. “We’ll all hate to see you go,” he muttered sarcastically, only loud enough for Charley to hear.
Back in the store/saloon combination Ed called a trading post, Billy entered the back room he had inhabited for the last few days to collect his saddlebags and the few articles of clothing he had dropped on the floor. He paused to reconsider when he looked at the clock in the corner of the store. It was a good two and a half days’ ride to his father’s ranch on the Cimarron River, and this day was already half gone. Remembering that he had gained a new horse for himself when he shot Tom Malone, he dropped his saddlebags on the cot again. There ain’t no marshal within a hundred miles of here, he told himself. I might as well hang around for another night and start out in the morning. That decided, he went out to the hitching rail to inspect the horse and saddle he had just claimed.
A common characteristic for the average deputy marshal was the fine horse he rode. So Billy expected to find a sturdy mount tied at Ed Lenta’s hitching rail, and he was not disappointed. He made a thorough inspection of the blue roan that Malone had ridden, and grinned his satisfaction. While he looked the horse over, a boy that appeared to be close to his age came from the ring of trees beyond the clearing. When he approached Billy, he said, “Ed said for me to go saddle your horse. Which one is it?”
“Never mind that,” Billy told him. “Just take this one and put him in the corral with the other’n. I’ll take the rifle outta that saddle sling, though.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder, dropped it to waist high, then raised it again, as if sighting in on a target. He repeated this several times; then he inspected the weapon, pleased with the acquisition of the ’seventy-three model Winchester, caliber .44, the same as the Colt handgun he took from the body.
* * *
Jacob Blanchard was a hard man to live with. His late wife would attest to that fact had she been able to. After bearing him three sons and miscarrying another, and years of doing his bidding, which required waiting on him hand and foot, she succumbed to pneumonia and departed this world. Some might say she had no desire to recover from the illness and made no effort to get well, even when her husband ordered her to get up out of her bed to resume her chores. Jacob was long accustomed to being obeyed whenever he gave an order. So when his wife died one frigid winter night, he was furious, seeing it as another act of disobedience on her part. No longer able to punish her in the usual way, since it would give him no satisfaction to whip an unfeeling corpse, he took his revenge in the form of carnal knowledge of the Creek woman he had hired as a cook—while his wife lay on her deathbed in the next room.
He was a big man, bigger than any of his three sons, a fact he blamed on the tiny woman he married. With shoulders that appeared to be two axe handles in width and arms that resembled small tree trunks, Jacob Blanchard was accustomed to forcing his will on most everyone he met. And although his silver-white mane and mustache were evidence of his years, there was no hint of decline in his physical dominance. A hard, unfeeling man, certainly, but he possessed some soft spots in his granitelike drive for power. One such soft spot was his affection for his youngest son. He could not help but admire Billy’s natural penchant for doing what pleased him, and devil take the consequences. The fact that Billy not only had no respect for the law, but flamboyantly displayed it, gave his father genuine amusement. He understood his rambunctious young criminal son’s need to have power over weaker people. As far as Jacob was concerned, it wouldn’t hurt if Billy’s older brothers were more like his youngest. The two older boys were cut fro
m the same cruel stock as their father, but they did not seem to crave the power that had driven him to his present position. For Jacob saw himself as king of the vast cattle empire he had built around the settlement of Black Horse Creek.
He had welcomed settlers to stake out claims along the wide creek that emptied into the Cimarron River, and eventually a town was built, with a general store, two saloons, a blacksmith, stables, and a rooming house, all beholden to the largess of Jacob Blanchard. And most of the citizens of Black Horse Creek gave little thought to the fact that all their businesses and farms were surrounded by thousands of acres of prairie owned by their benefactor. With young families of limited means and prospects beyond finding a few acres to scratch out a living, Jacob’s generous offer to stake out a couple hundred acres of “his” land for a modest yearly payment seemed an ideal solution to their needs. The town itself was built by Blanchard, streets laid out, stores and shops constructed with every merchant leasing their space. It was not long before the merchants and service providers realized that they were little more than bond slaves due to the agreements they had signed.
Jacob had no fondness for the town or the town folk, but it served his purposes in his plans to become the most powerful man in the territory. He was smart enough to know that settlers would continue to come and would eventually cause the government to become involved in staking land lots, territorial districts, and all other curses of civilization. It would inevitably lead to putting a limit on how much land one man could own. In anticipation of that day, Jacob reasoned that it would be more difficult for the government to deal with an entire town, and would most likely leave the business of land lots and claims to the citizens and their elected officials. Since he owned the town and the citizens, he figured it a safe hedge against any interference in his plans for conquest.
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.
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