Black Horse Creek (9781101607466)

by West, Charles G.

  “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.

  Grayson was working on a glass of beer and talking to Roy, the bartender, when the two lawmen walked in. He took a quick glance in their direction before turning his attention back to the glass before him on the bar. Though brief, it was enough to enable him to size up the two. The one leading was a powerfully built man, heavyset through the shoulders while the man following was of a slender frame, lean and wiry. Of the two, Grayson decided that the heavyset one would be the one to deal with first in the event of a confrontation.

  “You won’t be needin’ that in here,” Slate informed him and pointed to the Winchester propped against the bar beside Grayson’s leg.

  Grayson responded with a thin smile as he took note of the badge on each of the men’s vests. “Well, I wasn’t figurin’ on robbin’ the place. Just a habit I reckon I picked up, Sheriff. It ain’t against the law, is it?”

  “It is in this town,” Troy answered, making no attempt to disguise his frank appraisal of the stranger.

  “Feller’s just havin’ a beer,” Roy said. Then, turning to Grayson, he introduced the lawmen. “This is Sheriff Blanchard and Deputy Sheriff Blanchard.”

  The hint of a smile returned to Grayson’s face. There was no need for further speculation on the accuracy of rumors he had heard about Jacob Blanchard’s cattle empire. If he owned the law, he owned the town. “Blanchard,” he said. “Now, why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Never mind that,” Slate replied. “What brings you to Black Horse Creek? You got business here?”

  “I’m just passin’ through on my way to Dodge City,” Grayson answered. “I’d heard about your little town here and thought I’d take a look at it—maybe pick up a few things at the store next door.”

  “You got a name?” Troy asked.

  “Grayson,” was the short reply.

  “Well, Mr. Grayson,” Slate said, “enjoy your visit, but we don’t allow weapons in the saloons in this town. Roy shoulda told you that.” He cast an accusing glance in the bartender’s direction.

  “I think he was just fixin’ to when you fellows walked in,” Grayson said, “but I’ll tak
e it back outside right away. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the law. All right if I finish my beer first—if I promise not to shoot anybody?”

  Slate shot a quick glance at Troy, not sure if he was the victim of sarcasm or not. It was met with a blank expression. “I reckon that’ll be all right. Just remember next time,” he mumbled. There was something ominous in the man’s smile that made Slate uneasy.

  “You fellows have the same last name,” Grayson commented. “Are you cousins, or brothers, or somethin’?”

  “Brothers,” Troy replied.

  “I heard of another Blanchard that owns a big cattle outfit near here. How ’bout him? Is he kin of yours?”

  “Mister, you ask a helluva lot of questions,” Slate replied. “You just finish your beer and be on your way, unless you can tell me you’ve got some business in Black Horse Creek.” He turned to leave. “Come on, Troy, I’m gettin’ about ready for my dinner.”

  “Me, too,” Grayson volunteered. “Where’s a good place to buy a meal in town?”

  The two brothers ignored his question as they walked out the door. Roy, who had said very little during the confrontation, commented to Grayson after they had gone. “They’ll go over to the hotel to eat. That’s the best food in town. If I was you, though, I might think about gettin’ somethin’ to eat somewhere else. I think you rubbed the sheriff and his deputy the wrong way.”

  “I ’preciate the advice,” Grayson said and then drained the last of his beer. “Those two, are they Jacob Blanchard’s sons?”

  “That’s a fact,” Roy replied.

  “He’s got another son, hasn’t he?” Roy didn’t answer. He just shrugged. Grayson continued. “Have you seen him around lately?”

  “Mister,” Roy replied, “the sheriff’s right—you ask a helluva lot of questions.”

  “Just a natural curiosity, I reckon,” Grayson said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Has he been in town in the last week or so?”

  Roy didn’t care for the direction of the stranger’s questions, so he attempted to end the conversation. “I don’t pay no attention to the Blanchards’s comin’s and goin’s,” he declared. “Billy’s been gone for a spell, and I don’t know whether he’s back or not.”

  “Suppose I was of a mind to ride out and visit Jacob Blanchard,” Grayson asked, “how would I find his place?”

  “The minute you ride out of town, you’ll be on his land,” Roy said. “But if you’re talkin’ about ridin’ up to the ranch house, you take the road at the end of the street and follow it up the river till you get to another road that forks off to the north. That’ll take you right up to Mr. Blanchard’s door. It’s about fifteen miles.”

  “Much obliged,” Grayson said and slid his empty beer glass across the counter to Roy. “Now I reckon I’d best get on my way before I get arrested for bringin’ my rifle in here.”

  “Take care of yourself,” Roy advised in farewell. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to offer words of caution. There was something about the stranger that suggested a familiarity with trouble, and Blanchard’s ranch was not a wise place to go looking for it.

  Leaving the saloon, Grayson walked next door to Reiner’s Dry Goods. Before going inside, he glanced back up the street to see both the sheriff and his deputy standing out in front of the office, watching him he presumed. I thought you were going to go to dinner, he said to himself as he reached for the knob and opened the door. There was no one in the store but the proprietor, Louis Reiner, and he stood waiting for Grayson, having watched for him ever since he tied his horse out front. “Afternoon,” Reiner greeted him. “What can I help you with?”

  “Afternoon,” Grayson returned. “I need a couple of things: some bacon, some coffee, some salt, and maybe some sugar.”

  “Yes, sir,” Reiner replied politely, and jumped to accommodate his customer, more so than Grayson would normally have expected.

  “Ain’t many folks in town,” Grayson remarked. “Looks like business is a little slow.”

  Reiner smiled. “You can say that again,” he said. “We’re a little bit off the beaten path. Not many folks pass through Black Horse Creek. Businessmen like me depend pretty much on the folks that live around the town.” He paused as he reached under the counter for a sack. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Blanchard and his crew, we probably wouldn’t make it at all.”

  “Looks to me like there’s a helluva lot of land along the river,” Grayson commented. “I’m surprised there ain’t more folks movin’ in on it.”

  “Mr. Blanchard owns all of it, and he doesn’t let anybody settle on it,” Reiner said, his voice taking on a cautious air, as if afraid someone might overhear. “He says he needs it all for his cattle.”

  Grayson frowned. “He must be plannin’ on one helluva big cattle operation. Ever think about pullin’ up stakes and headin’ for someplace else?”

  Reiner shrugged. “Oh, I’ve thought about it, I reckon, but I’ve got too much invested in my store here, and I couldn’t pay Mr. Blanchard off for what I owe him.”

  Grayson nodded, understanding. It was further evidence of the extent to which Blanchard owned the town. He guessed that the other businesses were in the same fix as Reiner. “Well, I wish I could give you a little more business, but I reckon that’ll do it for now.” He counted out his money and laid it on the counter. “This fellow, Blanchard, he’s got three sons. Ain’t that right?”

  “That’s right,” Reiner replied. “You just met two of ’em in the saloon, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, the sheriff and his deputy, but I didn’t meet the other one. Is he a lawman, too?”

  “Not hardly,” Reiner answered after taking a precautionary look toward the door. “You won’t see Billy around here very much.”

  “Billy,” Grayson repeated. “I ain’t sure, but I think I saw him when I first rode in—kind of a tall, heavyset fellow ridin’ a sorrel horse.”

  “Nah,” Reiner replied. “That wasn’t Billy. I don’t know who that was, coulda been one of Mr. Blanchard’s hands, but Billy doesn’t look anything like that. He doesn’t look like his brothers. I reckon he’s about average height, he’s slim, but I wouldn’t call him skinny—got curly black hair. And he doesn’t ride a sorrel, unless he just traded, which I doubt, ’cause he’s mighty fond of that Appaloosa he usually rides.”

  “Well, I reckon I was mistaken,” Grayson said as he gathered up his purchases. One of the problems he’d had until then was the fact that he hadn’t known how to identify Billy Blanchard. So now, thanks to Louis Reiner’s willingness to chat, he had a general description. Adding that to what he did know before today, that Deputy Tom Malone had ridden a blue roan that may still be in Billy’s possession, he felt he had a lot more to go on. “He most likely ain’t been around here for quite a spell,” Grayson remarked.

  “Oh, he’s been around—next door, anyway,” Reiner started, then abruptly held his tongue when it suddenly occurred to him that he might be telling a stranger too much. It was too late, for he had already told Grayson what he wanted to know.

  “Much obliged,” Grayson said. “I’ll be on my way now.”

  While he packed his supplies on his packhorse, he stole a quick glance back up the street toward the sheriff’s office. Roy must have gotten nervous and gone to report our conversation to the sheriff, he thought, for the bartender was at that moment talking to Slate and Troy Blanchard. They’re either going to come back after me right now, or go tell Daddy there’s a stranger in town asking questions. So he stepped quickly up in the saddle and rode away, preferring the latter.

  Watching him from his Harness Shop across the street, Shep Barnhill put aside a bridle he had been in the process of repairing, and walked over to question Louis Reiner. “Don’t recall seeing that fellow around here before,” he commented to Louis.

  “He said he was just passing t
hrough,” Louis replied, fully aware of the reason for Shep’s curiosity. “He said this is the first time he’s been in Black Horse Creek.”

  “Don’t reckon he said where he came from?” Shep asked.

  “No, he didn’t, but he was asking a lot of questions about the Blanchards.” He knew what Shep was hoping he could tell him, that the stranger had come from the capital in Topeka, but he doubted that to be the case. Shep, like a few of the other men in town belonged to a covert organization of merchants that met occasionally to discuss the possibility of seeking government help to create a town charter and free them from the dictatorial rule of Jacob Blanchard. It had been over two months since they sent Henry Farmer’s son, Bob, to Topeka to inform them of the town’s problems. Bob had not been heard from since. Maybe he had simply given up on his mission to gain audience with the new governor, George T. Anthony, and gone instead to join his father in Arkansas, or maybe Blanchard had somehow gotten wind of the boy’s mission. It had been long enough to get some response from the governor if Bob had, in fact, completed the trip. It looked, however, as if something had happened to prevent it, and Louis was afraid the town was destined to be forever beneath Jacob Blanchard’s iron thumb.

  * * *

  Down at the end of the street, past the blacksmith shop, Grayson came to the wagon road Roy had directed him to. He turned his horse up the road and followed it as it held close to the river. The gelding had already carried him half a day before arriving in Black Horse Creek, so he considered whether to push the horse for another fifteen miles. There was no doubt that the gray was up to it, but he decided it best to rest him. He estimated that he had ridden about three miles before coming to a sharp bend in the river that formed a pocket of trees, several of which hung over the bank. Figuring this gave him as much concealment as could be found on the flat, endless, tallgrass prairie, he guided the gray off the road and into the pocket formed by the river bend. Once his horses were watered and unsaddled, he found himself a place in the trees where he could watch the road. With his back up against a cottonwood trunk, he settled himself to wait while he chewed on a piece of beef jerky.