Black Horse Creek (9781101607466)

by West, Charles G.

  He shrugged, then said, “That’s about the size of it.”

  “But why not let the law help?” she asked, losing her patience. “Why risk your life again? It’s their job to do, not yours. You’re not a deputy anymore. You could do something else with your life.”

  He was not inclined to discuss his reasons for doing anything, but he figured he owed her an explanation after all she had done for him. “It’s what I do, Wanda,” he told her. “If the law wanted these two men, they’da probably come to somebody like me to go after ’em. The only difference is I’m the one who wants ’em, and I’ll have to go clear over to Kansas to find ’em. The marshal don’t wanna send anybody that far out of his jurisdiction, and the sheriff ain’t concerned with ’em as long as they got outta town. That kinda leaves nobody but me to see that they didn’t get away with shootin’ me full of holes.”

  His calm demeanor told her that to argue with him was useless, so she decided not to pursue it. “All right, then,” she surrendered with a long sigh. “I guess you’ll do what you have to do. I certainly have no right to say, one way or the other.” She gave him a patient smile and confessed, “I was getting kind of used to having you around. I’d hate to see something happen to you after we patched up all the holes in you.”

  “I ’preciate everythin’ you did for me,” he said. “I’m thinkin’ I might be outta your hair in a few more days.”

  “You paid for it,” she told him.

  “I think I got a lot more than I paid for, and I ain’t likely to forget it.”

  * * *

  Another week passed with Grayson getting stronger each day. Feeling close to ready now, he remained patient, content not to rush it lest he find himself not fully fit when it might count. He spent his days doing some carpentry work for Wanda, visiting Bob Graham at the stable, exercising his horses, and during the latter days, taking some target practice in the woods beside the Poteau River. The day finally came when he gave Wanda the news.

  “I reckon I’ll be headin’ outta town for a spell tomorrow mornin’,” he told her one night after supper.

  Had he been looking directly into her face, he might have noticed the slight flinching of her eyes. Several of her other guests were still lingering over supper, so she made an effort to remain casual when she responded. “A spell? How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

  “I don’t know for sure. As long as it takes to get the job done,” he replied.

  “I just wondered, because Mr. Bishop is leaving to return to Little Rock, so I can have your old room upstairs ready when you get back. I’m assuming you’re planning to come back. You’re certainly paid up for several months ahead.”

  “I’m aimin’ to come back, all right,” he said, and got up to leave the table.

  “Well, I hope you have a safe trip, and I’ll have your room ready when you return.” She wanted to say more, but she didn’t feel comfortable talking in front of her other guests. So she smiled cheerfully and asked, “Will you be leaving before breakfast?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I expect to get an early start.”

  Later that night there was a tap on his door, and he opened it to find Wanda standing there with several cold biscuits and some ham wrapped in a cloth. “I thought you might want a little something to take with you, since you’re going to miss breakfast,” she said. She could not help but feel that their relationship had changed dramatically in the last few days. For the best part of a month, she had come in and out of his room, oftentimes without knocking, to tend to his wounds and check on his progress. She had seen every part of the man as he worked to regain his health. But now, she felt awkward to be tapping at his door.

  “Well, now, that’s mighty nice of you, ma’am,” he said, standing there with his hand on the doorknob. She noticed that he had reverted back to calling her “ma’am.” Feeling equally awkward as she, he took the food from her. “This’ll go mighty good in the mornin’. I ’preciate it.” When she stood there, he finally asked, “Did you wanna come in?”

  “Oh, no,” she quickly replied. “I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat in the morning. Gotta look after my patient, you know.” They both laughed, somewhat ill at ease. Suddenly she frowned. “Joel, please be careful. I know what you are going to do. Just promise me you’ll be real careful.” She turned at once and walked back down the hallway toward the parlor, leaving him to make of her visit what he would.

  “I promise,” he called after her, not knowing what else he could say.

  * * *

  The sheriff of Black Horse Creek walked into Reiner’s Dry Goods late Saturday afternoon to find the proprietor and his wife cleaning the shelves and sweeping the floor, their usual weekly routine. “Can I help you, Sheriff?” Louis Reiner asked, with as much enthusiasm as he could manage. He was accustomed to the sheriff’s, as well as his deputy’s, visits to his store whenever they needed any merchandise he carried. They ran an account in his store, one that was never paid off, a problem that he was hesitant to complain about. Henry Farmer decided a while back that he was tired of the Blanchards’ freeloading practices, and refused to give the sheriff any more hardware on credit. Shortly after, Henry’s hardware store caught fire one night and burned to the ground. No one could say for sure how the fire was started, but one couldn’t help but wonder at the coincidence. Henry went back to Arkansas, and Louis was visited by the old man, himself, when Blanchard told him he needed to expand his store to handle hardware in addition to his usual merchandise.

  “I just stopped by to make sure you knew about the burial service we’re holdin’ next week for my brother Billy,” Slate said. “The stone oughta be ready by then. We’ll hold the service right after church lets out, and Pa figured everybody would wanna come and pay their respects.”

  “Yeah,” Louis said, “we heard about it, and of course we plan to attend.” He cast a sideways glance at his wife, who had stopped her dusting to listen.

  “Good,” Slate remarked. “I know Pa will be pleased—me and Troy, too.” He turned abruptly and left the store.

  “Yeah,” Louis said to his wife, “we’ll be there, all right, since we don’t want our store burnt down.”

  “The nerve of that old man,” Eunice Reiner said. “What are they going to bury—an empty box? Billy’s already in the ground. That drummer that came through here last week said that Billy Blanchard was buried in Fort Smith.” She walked to the front window to make sure Slate was gone. “Marjorie Joyner said they’ve ordered a big ol’ tombstone to put in the middle of the graveyard, like a monument to that murdering piece of trash. And now we’re supposed to go to church and worship the Lord, then come out and pay tribute to the biggest sinner in the country. I think we oughta just get in our buckboard after church and go right home.”

  “Maybe,” Louis said, “but I suspect we’ll be there with the other spineless members of this town.” Like a few of the other merchants in Black Horse Creek, he would like to pack up and move on to a legitimate town, but he was afraid to risk retaliation from the Blanchard clan. He thought again of Henry Farmer. He was allowed to leave, but without a penny’s worth of all he had built up over the past two years. “Poor ol’ Henry,” he commented.

  “What?” Eunice asked.

  “Oh,” her husband responded, “I was just thinking about Henry Farmer.” That thought summoned another. “You know who I haven’t seen in town in quite a while? That pair of scoundrels that work for Blanchard—Yancey Brooks and Lonnie Jenkins. They used to spend half their time next door at the saloon. Roy said they haven’t been in for a long time.”

  “Blanchard probably sent them somewhere to rustle some more cattle for him,” Eunice replied. She glanced out the window again as if afraid she might be overheard. “I’ll be just as happy if we don’t ever see the likes of those two again.”

  * * *

  “Did you tell Ro
y?” Slate asked when Troy came in the office.

  “Yeah, I told him. He said he never went to church. I told him I didn’t care if he did or not, but he’d damn-sure better show up at the funeral.” Troy was not any more enthusiastic about having a memorial service for his late brother than the citizens of the town were. He had always been envious of Billy’s prominent place in his father’s heart, and the sooner Billy was forgotten, the better. He was still smarting from the reception he and Slate received from their father when they returned from killing Grayson—a reception he had anticipated to be triumphant. Instead, they were treated as if they were to blame for Billy’s death. He remembered the scene vividly.

  The old man had seen them ride into the corral and had immediately walked out to meet them. “We got him, Pa!” Troy called out when he saw his father striding out across the yard. “We got Grayson!”

  “Filled him so full of lead, it took four men just to pick him up,” Slate said.

  “Where’s Billy?” Jacob demanded. “Where’s my boy? I told you to bring Billy home.”

  “Billy’s dead, Pa,” Slate told him.

  “Dead?” Jacob exploded. “Whaddaya mean, dead? Who killed him?” His craggy face became twisted with his sudden fury, and he glared at his sons as if accusing them. “I told you to bring Billy home,” he repeated. He had always felt that Billy would survive. He could never accept the possibility that Billy would not come out on top. He was the most like him of any of his sons.

  “There wasn’t nothin’ we could do to save him,” Troy said. “He was dead before we got to Fort Smith. Grayson shot him in the back before he even brought him in.”

  “But we got Grayson,” Slate quickly interjected. “We left him lyin’ in the dust with five bullet holes in him.” He barely got the words out before his father erupted.

  Jacob released an angry howl, like that of a wolf, causing Slate and Troy to step back, lest he suddenly strike out at anything in range. They had never seen him that angry before. When he finally seemed to have his fury under control, he lit into them again, repeating his orders to them. “I told you to bring him home. Where’s his body? Why didn’t you bring his body with you?”

  “We didn’t think it’d be a good idea,” Slate said. “We saw his body when they was fixin’ it up to bury, and it was in bad shape. We decided you shouldn’t oughta see Billy lookin’ like that.”

  “You decided?” The old man exploded again. “You don’t decide anythin’,” he roared. “I decide.” He calmed down after a few moments, then said, “Leave me alone for a bit. Go take care of your horses.” He turned and started back toward the house, but before going more than a few steps, turned about again. “You sure you killed Grayson?”

  “Yes, sir,” Slate replied. “There ain’t no doubt about that. He’s dead.”

  Jacob said not another word, but continued on toward the house. His anger and frustration were about to overcome him and he regretted his decision to send his two sons to Fort Smith. He should have gone himself, for he deeply needed vengeance by his own hand. He had counted upon Billy to help him carve out his dynasty in Black Horse Creek. Billy was vicious enough to handle the job. It was just a matter of waiting for him to sew all the wild oats of his boyhood. Neither Slate nor Troy was qualified to be any more than a gun hand, but Billy had swagger and vision of greater power. Jacob would have gladly given up both of his other sons if he could bring Billy back.

  Chapter 12

  Although he had pronounced himself physically fit to make the long ride to Black Horse Creek, he was not really sure how well he would hold up under the long days in the saddle. He did know, however, that the only way to find out was to saddle up and start out through Indian Territory. He decided to take the same route back that he had taken with Billy, so he crossed over the river on the ferry and followed the Arkansas north. Before he left, Bob Graham bought Billy’s Appaloosa from him, and agreed to board his other horses while he was gone. So he was able to use that money to take care of his needs for a good while and leave the balance of his reward money—close to seven hundred dollars—in his room at Wanda’s boardinghouse. He rode his gray gelding and took the sorrel packhorse with supplies to last long enough to get him to John Polsgrove’s trading post.

  The gray had gotten a bit rank, having not had the burden of a saddle for close to a month, but he soon settled down to his master’s familiar weight on his back. The horses were not the only travelers out of shape on this journey, for Grayson found out in a short time that he was not one hundred percent recovered. During the first couple of days, he found himself grunting involuntarily upon encountering rough stretches in the trail. He called it a day sooner than he would ordinarily have, because of the stiffness and soreness he experienced. Consequently, the trip he had calculated to take five and a half days turned out to be a full day longer. By the time he approached the wide U-shaped curve in the river where Polsgrove’s trading post stood, he was ready to rest awhile before continuing. He could not help feeling impatient with himself, thinking that he should be much closer to being fit again. Regardless, he planned to push on, even if he wasn’t.

  It was well past noon when he reached the path that led from the river to John’s little group of buildings. It was evident that someone had been at work since he was last here. There were new logs partially completing the front of the store where the fire from the Pawnee raid had done most of its damage. As he turned the gray’s head down the path, he saw Robert Walking Stick rounding the corner of the store carrying a load of shingles. When he spotted Grayson, he dropped the shingles and went inside the store. A few seconds later, he reappeared with John’s wife, Belle, right behind him. Grayson held up his arm and waved.

  “Hey, Grayson,” Belle sang out and returned the rifle she had been holding to her side with the butt resting on the ground. “We heard you were laid up, shot full of holes,” she said when he came close enough to hear her. She continued to visually inspect him while he dismounted stiffly. “You’re lookin’ a little peaked,” she commented. “Need food—come in, I’ll fix you a nice dinner.”

  “That sounds mighty appealin’ to me,” Grayson told her. “I could sure use some dinner right about now.” He looked beyond her toward the door. “Where’s that big grizzly you’re married to?”

  “Over here behind you,” a booming voice announced as John walked out of the barn, holding a rifle. “How you doin’, Grayson?” Polsgrove asked. “Like Belle said, we heard you was shot up pretty bad. Figured it was them two sidewinders that came through here, claimin’ they was federal agents. Belle put a bullet in one of ’em.”

  “No,” Grayson replied, “it wasn’t those two. I reckon Belle did a better job than you knew, ’cause there wasn’t but one man that tried to jump me. I figured he’d had a partner, since he had an extra horse with a saddle on it.” He went on to tell them about being ambushed by the two surviving Blanchard brothers.

  “Just you goin’ after ’em by yourself?” Polsgrove asked. “Looks like the U.S. marshal coulda give you some help.” Grayson responded with nothing more than a shrug, and Polsgrove realized after a moment’s thought that Grayson probably wanted to do the job himself. Understanding, he nodded slowly, and offered any help he could give.

  “I’m gonna need some supplies,” Grayson told him. “When I left Fort Smith, I figured I’d buy what I need from you.”

  “Well, I appreciate that,” Big John said, still studying his friend closely. “I swear, partner, you don’t look like you’re ready to lock horns with anybody right now. Why don’t you stay with us for a day or two and let Belle cook you up some grub to get your strength back. You hit here at a good time. Ol’ Robert, there, killed a fat doe yesterday evenin’, not more’n forty yards on the other side of that rise.” He pointed toward the bank of the river.

  “Yeah,” Belle said, “you stay, I make you strong pretty damn quick.”
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  It was hard to refuse the offer. He was reluctant to admit it, but in truth, the ride up the river from Fort Smith had taken a toll, and he was beginning to question the wisdom in pressing the issue too soon. A day or two more shouldn’t really make much difference in the job he was bound to do, and he surely wanted to be physically able to get it done. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” he decided. “I guess I’m not in that big a hurry.”

  Unlike Wanda Meadows, John and Belle Polsgrove were better able to judge the degree of recovery Grayson had actually accomplished. And between the two of them, they agreed that the notorious bounty hunter was a far cry from his usual powerful self. He looked thin and pale from his healing wounds, much as John had been from his wounds. The couple of days first suggested turned into a week, but the results under Belle’s care were evidence enough that she and her husband were right in persuading him to stay with them. Grayson, himself, could not deny the increase in his strength and his overall condition, and he credited them with perhaps preventing him from committing suicide. He could have walked into more than he could have handled, but now he felt more like he was in control of his fortune once again. When he was certain he was fit enough to do the job, he announced that he was leaving the next morning. There was no attempt on the part of John or Belle to delay him further. Belle fixed him a hearty breakfast and John wished him good hunting. He turned the gray’s head to the west and bade them farewell, heading for Black Horse Creek.

  * * *

  “Well, there he is,” Louis Reiner said, his voice low to keep from being overheard, even though Jacob Blanchard was at least forty yards away, “standing on the side of the hill like God Almighty.” His wife only nodded in response. The patriarch of the notorious Blanchard clan had struck an almost regal pose in the center of the small cemetery located on the side of a steep hill. The side of the hill had been selected for use as a cemetery due to the severity of the slope, and the opinion that it was useless for anything else. On this day, when storm clouds were building up in the west and threatening to cut short the planned ceremony, the only genuine stone monument to ever be placed in the cemetery was being firmly situated in the ground. The carving of the stone just the way Jacob Blanchard wanted it had delayed the ceremony. With hands on hips, and the constant scowl on his lips, Jacob Blanchard stood glaring at a couple of his hired hands as they hurried to secure the stone before the skies opened up and drenched everyone. He occasionally looked up at the dark clouds above him, as if daring them to disrupt his ceremony honoring his son. Assembled dutifully around him were his family and hired hands.