Leaving the little island behind, he continued following the river as it made its way toward the southeast. From time to time, he looked back over the way he had come, but he saw no sign of anyone on his trail. Maybe they really had ridden on up the river, deciding it not worth the risk of losing one or more of their number. He could hope that was the case, but he would assume that they were tracking him and be ready, just as a precaution.
As darkness approached, he swung over closer to the river, searching for a suitable place to camp. Although he had seen no sign of anyone on his trail, he was intent upon finding a campsite that afforded him some protection, for he still had a feeling he had not seen the last of the “carpenters.” And with four extra horses to protect, his choices were limited. Finally, when the light of day began to fade, he found what he was looking for, and he guided the gray down into a gully created by a wide creek that flowed into the river. It was wide enough for the horses to stand hobbled for the night with some protection from a five-foot bank. As was usually the case on a long journey, the horses never got enough time to graze. When he had come looking for Billy, he had brought a small supply of grain to make sure his horses were fed. But he didn’t plan on a return trip with extra horses. He knew they needed a long grazing period, but they weren’t going to get it until he reached Fort Smith.
Still acting with caution in mind, he pulled the horseshoe that was Billy’s body off the Appaloosa, and dumped it on the edge of the gully, above the spot where he intended to build his fire. You might as well be useful, he thought. You can act as a redoubt against anybody coming up behind me. The macabre breastworks might have been more useful had he been able to straighten it, but in its U-shaped form, it wouldn’t provide much cover. He grunted in appreciation for his attempt to make a joke.
“I reckon I’d better get somethin’ to eat before it gets any later,” he muttered, with an attack on his camp still in mind. So he settled for some buffalo jerky he had bought at John Polsgrove’s store, and the always necessary coffee. While he waited for the coffee to boil and the jerky to roast, he climbed out of the gully and walked a few yards away into the deepening darkness to listen to the prairie around him. All was quiet, broken only by the howl of a coyote off in the distance. He squatted down on his heels for a few minutes longer, listening. But even the coyote went silent, and the dark prairie became so quiet that he became aware of the sound of the water in the creek. They’ll be coming pretty soon, he thought, almost certain he would have visitors on this night. He rose to his feet and returned to the gully to prepare for the attack.
He decided to move the horses farther up the creek to get them out of the way of any stray bullets. Even though he knew they would not be intentionally targeted, for dead horses would be of no value to the thieves, he deemed it best not to take a chance. After that, he proceeded to gather blankets from all the extra saddles he had acquired, and used them to fashion what he hoped would appear to be sleeping forms lying randomly around the fire. When he was finished, he had four dummy blanket rolls positioned in a circle around the fire, which he hoped would cause confusion for anyone attacking the camp, as well as give him a chance to see their muzzle flashes and locate the shooters. When all was to his satisfaction, he hung a cartridge belt over his shoulder, picked up his rifle, and moved a couple dozen yards away from the fire. Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, he backed into a trench in the side of the gully and waited.
He was almost ready to say his gut feelings had misled him, for he must have waited in his cramped ambush for almost two hours, long enough to become sleepy, because he caught himself nodding several times. Go to sleep and you’ll never wake up, he told himself, but still he fought the desire to close his eyes. In the next instant he was wide awake, alert to the shadow moving up to the edge of the gully close to the canvas-wrapped body.
His confidence high now that he had made his way right up to Grayson’s camp with no sign of alarm, Iron Foot peered over the side of the gully into the sleeping camp. What the hell? he thought when he saw the four sleeping forms like spokes around the dying fire. Where did they come from? He started to back away, reluctant to set off a gun battle when outnumbered four to one, while Stover and Rampley waited a short way back upstream, and in no position to help him. Then it struck him: the “sleeping bodies” were set up to confuse him so he wouldn’t know which one was Grayson. A slow smile spread across his simple face. I ain’t that easy to fool. I’ll just shoot all of them, he thought, but then he remembered how quickly Grayson had assured them that he would get two of them before they got him. That thought made him hesitate again, and he looked hard at the blanket rolls, trying to decide which one had a real man sleeping inside it. In the dim light, he couldn’t tell, so he asked himself which one was closest to the fire, thinking that would be the place he would pick—and Grayson probably would do the same. He aimed his rifle at that one and pulled the trigger. The result was like a lit fuse, for he saw the sudden flash of a muzzle blast at the same time. A fraction of a second later he was slammed in the chest and knocked over on his side.
Moving immediately, lest his muzzle flash had provided a target for the wounded man’s two partners, Grayson scrambled to a new position up closer to the edge of the bank. Much to his surprise, all was silent again except for the horses stirring around behind him, reacting to the two sudden gunshots. He had expected an all-out attack upon his camp, but there was no sign of the other two outlaws. It was enough to cause him to turn quickly and splash through the creek to the other side, thinking that the others must have somehow circled around behind him. He strained to see in the darkness on the south side of the creek, but he could see no sign of anyone. Looking back at the opposite side of the creek, at the position he had just left, he saw no signs of an attack, only the wounded man lying near Billy’s corpse. From all signs, the man had acted alone, so where were the other two?
“You think that fool got him?” Stover wondered aloud. He got to his feet and walked to the top of the mound they had taken refuge behind, peering into the darkness between him and the river.
“I don’t know,” Rampley replied. “I doubt it, else he’d be whoopin’ and hollerin’ and doin’ some kinda crazy war dance.” They had heard two shots. The first was definitely Iron Foot’s Spencer, but the second one was a Winchester. That was not a good sign, especially since there were no shots after that.
“Whaddaya reckon we oughta do?” Stover asked, now that Iron Foot’s boastful plan seemed to have failed. “I knew that damn-fool Injun couldn’t sneak up on nobody.” He stared off into the darkness for a few moments more. “You reckon they shot each other?”
“I don’t know,” Rampley said. “Maybe . . .” His voice trailed off as he considered that possibility. He didn’t think much of the idea of walking up to the creek to see. “I’d feel a little bit better about it if we’d heard Iron Foot’s Spencer last, instead of the other way around.”
“Yeah, me too,” Stover remarked. “I reckon it’da been smarter if we had moved up a little closer. Then maybe we’da seen what happened.”
“That son of a bitch is settin’ up there waitin’ for us to show up,” Rampley said.
“You reckon they shot each other?” Stover repeated the question. “As quiet as it’s got—wouldn’t it be somethin’ if they’re both layin’ up there dead, and we could walk right in without no worry?”
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.”
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nbsp; 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 gr
ay. 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.
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