Black Horse Creek (9781101607466)

by West, Charles G.

  Near the end of the day, there was no improvement in Billy’s bouquet. Grayson was sorely tempted to rid himself of the foul-smelling burden, and to hell with the thousand dollars. But he was within five miles of Fort Smith, he had endured for this long, and he couldn’t help feeling resentment over the governor’s insistence that the body be produced. “By God, they think they want this stinkin’ piece of shit. Well, I’ll sure as hell deliver it, and we’ll see what they think then.” With only five miles to go, he would have pushed on into town, but it was too late to catch John Council in his office that night, and he wanted to make sure there would be someone there to receive the trophy. After one final night, worrying about possible shifts in the wind, he loaded his putrid cargo and rode into Fort Smith.

  * * *

  Knowing he would be turning the late Deputy Tom Malone’s horse over to the marshal, he had put Billy’s saddle on Malone’s horse and loaded Billy’s corpse across it. He intended to keep Billy’s Appaloosa, and he figured Billy was in no position to object. Besides, he felt he had earned it. His first stop was at Bob Graham’s stable at the edge of town where he normally kept his horses when in Fort Smith. “Mornin’, Bob,” Grayson said as he rode up.

  “Howdy, Grayson,” Bob returned. “Looks like you’ve been doing some horse trading.”

  “You could say that,” Grayson replied. “I wanna drop off all but mine and the black. I’ll be back in a little bit, soon as I deliver him to the marshal’s office.”

  “All right,” Bob said, his interest now attracted to the blue roan and the bundle lying across the saddle. “I’ll take care of ’em for you.” As he moved to take possession of the horses, he suddenly wrinkled his nose and remarked, “Whatever you got in that bundle is startin’ to spoil.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Grayson replied. “It was rotten from the start.”

  The streets of the town outlaws called Hell on the Border were already busy when Grayson led the deputy’s horse down the center. People walking or riding close to him paid little more than casual curiosity to the canvas bundle lying across the saddle, but parted to form a wide wake as soon as it passed them. He proceeded to the courthouse, which housed the offices of the court and John Council, as well as the jail on the lower floor, and tied the horses out front.

  “What the hell?” Sid Sowers murmured when he spotted Grayson as he descended the porch steps. Sowers was a clerk in Judge Isaac Parker’s court and he was more than familiar with the somber ex-deputy. It was certainly not the first time he had seen Grayson bringing a prisoner in, but they were usually sitting up in the saddle. “Is that a body on that horse?” he asked while still halfway down the steps. When Grayson answered that it was, Sid asked, “What are you gonna do with it? Why don’t you take it to the undertaker?” Then the wind shifted slightly. “Damn! That thing’s ripe.”

  “I didn’t take him to the undertaker’s because John Council told me to bring him here,” Grayson answered. “My instructions were to bring him in, alive if possible, dead if not. And I’d just as soon get him offa my hands.”

  “I can sure see why,” Sid replied. “I’ll fetch John for you.” He turned to go back up the steps, only to meet John Council coming down.

  “I saw you from the window,” John said as he passed Sid on the steps. The look of astonishment on his face was noted by the clerk, and prompted him to follow John down to hear the story. “Grayson,” Council exclaimed. “Is that a body on that horse?”

  “Yes, sir,” Grayson replied. “That’s Billy Blanchard. I brought him in, just like you said, and I’d like to see about gettin’ my money for him.”

  “Jesus!” Council snorted like a dog that had gotten too close to a skunk. “How long has he been dead?” Not waiting for an answer, he charged, “You were told to bring him in alive. You weren’t supposed to shoot him.”

  “I didn’t,” Grayson answered, without emotion as usual, “at least not the shot that killed him. I did put a bullet in his leg, but it was one of Jacob Blanchard’s own men that killed him. So I brought him in, anyway, ’cause that was the deal I struck with you.” He waited for a few moments for Council’s response, but the usually calm U.S. marshal was obviously flabbergasted. In was not the scenario he and the governor had envisioned when they sent the notorious bounty hunter after Billy Blanchard.

  “Damn,” Council swore softly. “We can’t put him on display if his body is deteriorated as bad as he smells through that canvas you’ve got him wrapped in. For Pete’s sake, how long’s he been dead?”

  “Four days or so,” Grayson answered, then paused while Council grimaced. “I woulda preferred that he’d shot him closer to Fort Smith, but he didn’t seem inclined to cooperate.” He waited again while Council stewed over the situation some more. “I haven’t looked inside that canvas since I first wrapped him in it, but I suppose you can still tell that it’s Billy. But like I told you when we made the deal, I brought his guns, and saddle, and horse, if you have to have proof that it’s him.”

  “Oh, hell, Grayson.” He was thinking now what he could tell the governor. “Take him on over to Wainwright’s. I don’t want to open that damn package up here. The whole courthouse will smell to high heaven.”

  “You sure you don’t wanna check to make sure that’s Billy Blanchard in there?”

  Council looked exasperated. “Hell, I take your word for it. Take him to Wainwright’s and tell him to see if he can fix him up somehow.”

  “All right,” Grayson said with a shrug. “I reckon I can do that, but I’d like to collect my money as soon as possible. I had a lot of expenses goin’ all the way to Kansas to get him.”

  “I’ll have to talk to the governor about that,” Council said. “It may take a little time. I don’t keep that kind of money in my office. I guess you’ve got Billy’s horse, haven’t you? You can keep it to make up for some of your expenses.”

  “Much obliged,” Grayson said, having already decided that he would claim the horse, and in the event he was told it belonged to the court, he planned to tell them the horse had been shot. He also did not see fit to volunteer the information concerning the other horses he had acquired along the way back from Kansas. “I hope I don’t have to wait too long for my money,” he reminded Council one more time before taking the body to the undertaker. “I took care of my end of the deal.”

  “I know, I know,” Council replied impatiently. “I’ll see what I can do.” He knew, however, that it was going to be a difficult task to convince the governor to authorize one thousand dollars for a putrefied corpse.

  Grayson delivered Billy’s body to the undertaker, and Wainwright was as equally enthusiastic about receiving it as Council had been. “I don’t know what they expect from me,” he complained. He took a knife and cut a big enough hole in the canvas to give him an idea of the state of the corpse, although he could guess fairly accurately by the foul odor escaping. As he suspected, the body had advanced well into putrefaction, with eyes and tongue bulging, the skin having already gone from green to purple to black. “Why in the world don’t they just let me put him in a box and bury him. I can’t get him looking anywhere close to an open casket, if that’s what they’re thinking.”

  “I don’t know,” Grayson said as he prepared to leave. “That ain’t my department.” He stepped up in the saddle and turned his horses back toward the stable, relieved to be rid of the remains of Billy Blanchard. His thoughts now were of a good hot bath to soak all traces of Billy out of his skin, then to see if his usual room was available at Wanda Meadows’s boardinghouse.

  * * *

  The room that he usually rented whenever he was in Fort Smith was not available. So the large room on the second floor, with the windows that allowed him to look out on Garrison Street, had to be given up for a small room on the first floor near the kitchen. “You’re lucky I’ve got that room in the back, Mr. Grayson,” Wanda Meadows tol
d him. “I’m getting more long-term renters lately, and they’re all wanting the larger rooms on the front. If you had left me a deposit, I could have saved it for you, but I didn’t have any idea when you’d be back. I never do.”

  “It ain’t no problem, ma’am,” Grayson said. “I reckon I’ll do just fine in the other room.” Over the years, he had had a couple of different arrangements with Wanda when it came to his room. When he was enjoying periods of prosperity, he often paid for his room two months in advance. Other times, as in this latest case, he had been hard-pressed to save enough money for cartridges before heading out after Billy Blanchard. He could always ride a little way out of town, make camp by a stream, and roll up in his blankets for the night. He even had a favorite spot to do this, where a stream flowed into the Poteau River. After just getting back from a long trip, and sleeping on the ground every night, however, he had a hankering for a bed with clean sheets, and the opportunity to sit down at Wanda’s table for a good home-cooked meal. Wanda had a reputation as the best cook in Sebastian County, and she was a handsome woman to boot, and a church-going woman. He knew that she was a widow, and he sometimes wondered what was wrong with the bachelors living in Fort Smith. There should be a line of them starting at her front steps.

  His first night back in town went a long way toward making up for the many restless nights spent on the trail from Black Horse Creek, so much so that he might have slept right through breakfast if his room had not been next to the kitchen. Feeling refreshed, he went to the outhouse, then washed up at the well instead of using the dry sink in his room. After a hearty breakfast of fresh eggs and ham, weighed down with a couple of Wanda’s biscuits and honey, he went to the stable to see if Bob Graham was interested in buying some good horses. The two men came to no agreement, but Bob said he’d think about it. Grayson had traded with Bob before, so he knew the stable operator was just playing a bluffing game and they would come to some agreement before it was over. The bargaining for that morning over with, Grayson said, “Well, you know the price I’ve gotta have for ’em, especially that Appaloosa. You can think on it.” Then he left to check with John Council again.

  “I’m sorry, Grayson,” Council told him. “I can’t give you any final word yet. I’m gonna be honest with you, the telegram I got this mornin’ said he wasn’t pleased with the condition of Blanchard’s body. And he let me know that under no circumstances was I to put a rotting, worm-eaten corpse on public display. In my wire to him, I asked him about your money, and he said he was gonna hold off on that until we see if the mortician can fix the body up so it doesn’t look so bad.”

  “Sounds to me like the governor ain’t fixin’ to pay me like he promised,” Grayson said, “unless the undertaker can get Billy where he won’t shock the good people of Fort Smith.” Council didn’t respond, but his expression told Grayson that what he’d said was true. “I thought the idea behind this thing was to give outlaws a picture of how they’re liable to end up if they’re robbin’ and killin’ in this territory.”

  “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.”

&
nbsp; “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.”