Black Horse Creek (9781101607466)

by West, Charles G.

  * * *

  “That’s him, all right,” Troy Blanchard decided. “That’s Grayson. Look at him, strollin’ down the street like he was on his way to church.”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Slate agreed. There was no doubt the man they now saw walking away from the stables was the same stranger who had come through Black Horse Creek.

  “Well, what are we waitin’ for?” Troy demanded.

  “Just hold it a minute,” Slate said. “We’re gonna get the son of a bitch, but we’ve got to make sure we get the hell out of this town and across the river to Injun country before the law gets after us.”

  “Hell,” Troy persisted, “he’s on foot and has no place to hide if we hit him before he gets to them other stores up there. Now’s the time to get him while there ain’t many people on the street. Pa will shoot both of us if we don’t get the bastard.”

  “We’re gonna get him,” Slate said. “But we’re gonna ride straight outta here before they can even think about a posse.” He paused to look around for the best escape routes. “The river’s yonder way,” he said, and pointed to the west. “So we’d best head right between the blacksmith and the stable as soon as the job’s done. All right?” Troy nodded impatiently. Slate went on. “I want him to see who’s killin’ him, so he’ll damn-sure know why he’s gettin’ shot.” Troy grinned to show his agreement. “Here’s what we’ll do,” Slate said. “You take off around the back of this store and get up ahead of him. Then you cut back to meet him. I’ll get in behind him and walk real slow to give you time. That way, we’ll have him between us. He won’t have no place to run.” Troy nodded thoughtfully. He liked the idea of letting Grayson know who shot him.

  * * *

  Grayson was aware of someone riding a horse at full gallop up the alley behind the dry goods store, but he had no reason to believe it was of any concern to him until the rider appeared from between two of the buildings ahead and turned back toward him. It didn’t appear that the rider was going to give him any space on the street, for he walked his horse in the middle of the street, and gave no sign of yielding. Maybe he can’t see me, Grayson thought, and prepared to step up on the boardwalk to let him pass. Suddenly it struck him that the rider was intentionally steering toward him and was now drawing a rifle from the saddle scabbard. In that instant, he recognized the smirking face of one of the Blanchard brothers. He pulled his rifle from his shoulder, where he had propped it, and quickly cocked it just as he felt the bullet slam into his back. The force of it caused him to stagger and try to keep from falling, only to be hit in the chest by the bullet from the rider in front of him. Down he dropped to his knees, firing one wild shot before a second bullet in the back knocked him face forward on the ground. Caught between a deadly crossfire, he was helpless to defend himself as another shot found his shoulder.

  Alerted by the shots, people began to appear in the windows and doors of the shops along the street, and shouts to call the sheriff rang out. “Let’s get outta here!” Slate shouted as he and Troy rode a circle around the body lying in a pool of blood in the middle of the dusty street. “He’s dead! We got him!” Slate exclaimed as he fought to control his excited horse while trying to see if there was any sign of life in the motionless body. “Let’s ride!” he shouted to Troy, and galloped toward the blacksmith shop. Troy threw one last shot into Grayson’s back before chasing after his brother.

  The two assassins did not spare their horses as they cut through the narrow alley between the blacksmith’s forge and the stable, out onto the street behind that led to the ferry slips by the river. Down the hard-packed road they galloped, their horses’ hooves thundering on the dusty surface, across the rail yards to the banks of the river, where they followed the river north. “We’re gonna have to swim ’em across!” Slate yelled to his brother. “Maybe there’s a better place up ahead.” Indian Territory was on the other side of the river, so that was their first objective. Once they were in The Nations there would be a sense of safety even though they would still have to avoid the tribal police. There was considerable concern about the possibility of pursuit by a U.S. deputy marshal, but they figured to be long gone before that could be initiated.

  After riding a quarter of a mile along the bank, Slate reined his horse to a stop and waited for Troy to pull up beside him. “We might as well put ’em in the water. One place don’t look any better’n another, and if we keep goin’, they’re gonna be too wore out to swim against the current.” They paused to listen for a few minutes, satisfied that there were no sounds of pursuit. “There ain’t been no time for anybody to come after us,” Slate said.

  “Somebody woulda had to seen us get away,” Troy said. “We don’t have to kill these damn horses; ain’t nobody comin’ after us.”

  Slate agreed with his brother’s thinking, so instead of committing their horses to the river at that point, they continued on along the bank, letting the horses walk. After a couple of miles, they came to a section of the river where a sandbar extended out, almost to the main channel, reducing the distance the horses would have to swim. This is where they crossed. Once on the other side, they stayed close to the river as they continued north, looking for a place to camp, build a fire, and dry out. It was fully dark by the time they found the spot they were looking for.

  With the horses taken care of and a blazing fire to warm them, it was time to have some bacon and coffee, and enjoy the success of their mission. They shared in the satisfaction of carrying out the family’s demand for vengeance, and to make it even more satisfying, the only person who could have pointed them out as the killers was dead. “Let ’em send out the marshals,” Slate gloated. “They ain’t got no idea who they’re lookin’ for.”

  “You think there’s any chance he ain’t dead?” Troy wondered aloud.

  “Shit no,” Slate replied immediately. “I think that first shot in his back most likely killed him. And after we pumped him so full of holes, he was dead all right.” He paused, thinking back. “How many did we put in him?” They both paused to recall and came up with a total of five shots. “If that didn’t kill him, he ain’t human,” Slate said. “He had so much lead in him he’d be too heavy to pick up.”

  Troy laughed. “I expect so. I ain’t seen nobody that looked any deader’n him. He wasn’t wrigglin’ a finger.”

  “He didn’t look so damn tough to me with his face in the dirt,” Slate crowed. He was thinking that their successful revenge would go a long way in easing their father’s pain over losing his youngest son. “I wish Pa coulda seen it,” he said.

  Troy nodded. “We’ll get started early in the mornin’ and get on back to Kansas,” he said and poured himself another cup of coffee. “I wish we’da brought somethin’ stronger than coffee to celebrate with.”

  “We’ll save that till we celebrate with Pa,” Slate said. They slept that night satisfied with themselves, Troy more so than Slate, for now he was Jacob Blanchard’s youngest son, and perhaps his father would dote on him as he had with Billy.

  Chapter 11

  How long he had lain in the middle of the street, he could not say for certain, for he remembered nothing after cocking his rifle and firing. He had floated somewhere on a plane between consciousness and deep sleep ever since. But now he became aware of his existence. He was—but in what state of life or death he could not determine, for he felt helpless to move his hands or feet. Gradually he became aware of someone else bending over him from time to time, staring into his eyes, which were barely open enough to permit light to enter. He might have attempted to speak, to ask where he was, for he knew he was no longer lying in the street, but he didn’t care enough to try. And then a day came when he seemed to float gently back, and his eyes suddenly opened to see the ceiling above him. There were people in the room. He heard them talking. He tried to figure out where he was, and who were the people talking.

  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up, Wan
da,” he heard a male voice say. “I don’t give him much chance of making it. I’ve done about as much for him as I can do. I was able to take out three of the bullets, but he’s lost so much blood I don’t think he can pull through it. It’s mighty charitable of you to take care of him.”

  “He’s paid for the room six months in advance,” Wanda said. That may have been true, but it was not the sole reason she had accepted the responsibility of caring for him until he died. She felt that she had gotten to know the man who was Grayson in only the last week or so. He deserved to die in peaceful surroundings with someone to take care of him, and not in the hospital where no one cared. “Besides, he’s really not that much to look after.” She was about to say more, but she was suddenly distracted when she glanced down to see Grayson’s eyes wide open. “Look!”

  Dr. Shaw looked down at the patient, and studied the pale face and open eyes. He was about to explain to Wanda that it was not unusual for a patient’s muscles to suddenly tense and eyelids to open wide moments before they slid under the veil of death, when Grayson spoke. “Where am I?” he forced between dry, crusty lips. The words were so weak they were barely audible.

  Wanda was quick to respond to his call. She hurried to his side and placed her hand on his forehead. “You’re here in your room,” she told him, “and you’re safe.” Looking up at Dr. Shaw she said, “His fever’s down. He’s not burning up anymore.” Standing at the head of the bed where Grayson could not see him, Dr. Shaw acknowledged her hopeful comment with a doleful shake of his head. He had seen too many patients appear to rally just before death, and there was no reason he could find to expect different in this case. Disappointed by the doctor’s discouraging signals, Wanda turned her attention back to the wounded man. “Can you drink some water?” she asked. When he whispered yes, she looked up at the doctor again, a question in her eyes.

  He understood her concern. “It’s all right to give him some water, if he can drink it. Not too much, though. You’ll find out straight away if he can drink it or not. Use that cloth there, you don’t wanna choke him.”

  She soaked the cloth in the pitcher of water on the table and held it over his lips, squeezing gently until a steady flow of drops fell on his lips and in his mouth. He drank it eagerly, never stopping until she had repeated the process three times.

  “Dr. Shaw says you’ve lost too much blood, and you need to build it back up. Can you eat something?” Her question went unanswered, for he had closed his eyes and drifted away again. At once alarmed, she looked to the doctor for an answer. He nodded solemnly and checked the patient for a pulse, but was once again surprised when he found a weak heartbeat.

  “He’s still with us,” Dr. Shaw said, and again advised Wanda not to get her hopes up. “He’s one stubborn son of a gun—I’ll give him that—but he’s fighting an uphill battle. The wounds are just too severe for any man to overcome.” He closed his instrument case and prepared to leave. “Not much I can do for him that I haven’t already done,” he said. “You sure you don’t want me to send Otis Wainwright to pick him up?”

  “No,” Wanda stated emphatically. “If this is going to be his last night on earth, I don’t want him to spend it by himself in Otis Wainwright’s back room. I’ll send someone to fetch Otis in the morning—if it’s his time.” She looked back at the sleeping man, so vulnerable now, with all the traces of his usual rock-hard persona gone.

  “Suit yourself,” Dr. Shaw replied. “You’re a kindhearted woman, Wanda. A man like Grayson is destined to die alone in a back alley or a lonely prairie, and a violent death at that.” It had been two days since Grayson was carried to Wanda Meadows’s house—at the lady’s insistence—and he should have been dead when they first reached him in the middle of the street. There was no medical reason for him to still be alive. The man simply refused to go when his number was called. “Well, good night, then,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”

  “Thank you for your help, Dr. Shaw,” Wanda replied. “I’ll send word tomorrow.” She remained by the bedside for a few minutes longer before leaving to clean up her kitchen. The dirty dishes were still on the table from supper.

  * * *

  She had not intended to fall asleep in the chair, so she was startled when she awoke to find the first rays of morning light filtering through the curtains on the lone window in the little room next to the kitchen. “Damn!” she muttered and jumped to her feet. Looking at the still figure lying in the bed, she was sure that he was dead. To be certain, she pulled his arm from under the blanket and felt his wrist for a heartbeat. Much to her surprise, she found one. Good for you, she thought. I knew you wouldn’t give up. Now I’ve got to go help Violet fix breakfast before I lose all my boarders.

  Breakfast over, she left Violet to clean up, and went to check on her patient. There were a few unpleasant chores that came with taking care of a bedridden man, and this was where Violet drew the line. Wanda wasn’t thrilled to do it, herself, but she saw no way around it, and told herself that it was just like taking care of an oversized baby.

  When she walked into his room, she was shocked to find Grayson struggling in an attempt to get out of bed, aware, obviously, that he had soiled it as well as himself. “Grayson!” she gasped. “What are you trying to do, kill yourself?” She hurried to the bed, grasped his shoulders and pressed him back down. He didn’t possess the strength to resist.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “In your room. Now lay back and let me take care of you,” she commanded, still astonished by the transformation from imminent death to a violent defiant struggle for life. He had no choice but to comply with her wishes, however.

  “You have to leave me alone,” he pleaded weakly. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand,” she replied. “You’ve soiled your bedclothes again and you’re ashamed for me to know it.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, again,” she replied patiently. “And I cleaned you up every time.”

  Stunned, he asked, “How long have I been in this bed?”

  “This will be the third day,” she said. “And I expect you should be about to starve to death. Do you want something to eat?”

  “I don’t feel like eatin’,” he said, “but I’d surely appreciate a cup of coffee.”

  “All right. First I’ll clean you up and then I’ll get you some coffee.” We’ll see what Dr. Shaw has to say about you coming back from the dead, she thought. She had to admit that she hadn’t doubted the doctor’s prognosis.

  * * *

  Dr. Shaw was as astounded to find his patient alive as Wanda had expected him to be. He called it a miracle. “He must have the constitution of a grizzly bear,” he told her after he had examined Grayson the next day. “And you say he finally started to eat something?” She said that he did. “Well, keep him at it. He needs to build his blood back up.” He took another look back through the doorway of the tiny room off the kitchen and shook his head in amazement. “That’s the closest to death of anyone I’ve ever treated—to come back like that.” He looked at Wanda and said, “There’s no need to let him drink up all the coffee, though. His physician could use a cup of it, too.”

  Wanda smiled. “Well, you just come on in the kitchen and set yourself down at the table. Maybe I still have a piece of cake to go with it.”

  * * *

  Over the next week, the doctor had occasion to enjoy more of Wanda Meadows’s coffee and sometimes a slice of cake or pie. He found the patient’s will to survive and his determination to regain his strength truly astonishing. “Mister,” he told Grayson, “you’re a mighty lucky man. You were as close to dead as I’ve ever seen.”

  “If I was lucky,” Grayson countered, “I wouldn’t have got shot.”

  Wanda jokingly attributed Grayson’s remarkable recovery to his embarrassment over having to be cleaned up by her. If truth be told, it was an imp
ortant contributing factor to his rapid improvement. And after a few days of Wanda’s cooking and care, he insisted that he was able to use the chamber pot she left in the room for him, although it was extremely painful to get in and out of the bed without help. Then it was only a matter of a couple days more before he was able to walk on unsteady legs outside to the outhouse. The real driving force behind his determination to recover, however, was the fiery hot hunger for revenge that burned deep inside him and would not be denied. Nothing else seemed to matter, and his biggest concern was his impatience to regain his strength and agility. He never spoke of this to Wanda, but she knew it was eating away at him until one day she broached the subject.

  “You’re doing a marvelous job of getting your health back,” she said. “Dr. Shaw never seems to get over it, and you’re so lucky to have survived such a terrible assault. I think you might do even better if you would forget about going after the men who attacked you. You might not be so lucky next time.” When he responded with nothing but an emotionless gaze, she continued. “You don’t know who they were, or where to find them, according to what you told the sheriff. So why not let the bitterness go, and put your whole mind on getting well?”

  “I know who they were,” he replied quietly.

  “But you told Sheriff Thompson—” she started, but paused when it struck her. He told the sheriff he didn’t know who shot him, because he had to have the satisfaction of vengeance for himself. Disappointed, she sat back in her chair to give him a look of disapproval. “So you’re building your strength back up so you can go out looking for those murderers and kill them?”