Black Horse Creek (9781101607466)

by West, Charles G.

  He had a lot on his mind—a lot of decisions to make. For he felt he was losing control over the lives of the citizens of Black Horse Creek. It was definitely a warning sign when the people were having secret meetings. He was convinced that the key to reclaiming complete control was the elimination of Grayson. He was responsible for the deaths of two of his three sons, but more than this, he showed the people of the town that someone could come in and kill the sheriff. It was imperative that he was made to pay the price and his body must be displayed like Billy’s body in Fort Smith. It was the first time he had been so short of men working for him, and that would have to be corrected as soon as possible. But first, Grayson must be hunted down and killed. The more thought he had given the notorious ex-lawman, the more he was convinced that Grayson was not on the run after killing Slate, for if he had come to kill Slate, then he had come to kill Troy, too. If he doesn’t know Troy’s dead, he thought, then he’ll be slipping around waiting for a chance to get a shot at him. He didn’t see any way that Grayson could know about Troy’s death, so he felt certain he was still lurking around the outskirts of town, watching—maybe watching him right now as he entered the side door of the hotel. He couldn’t help but pause and look around behind him, as if feeling the bounty hunter’s eyes on him. All he saw was the thin grim face of Dan Slider and the eager glow of anticipation for the breakfast about to be consumed on Stump’s whiskered face. The sight further disgusted him. It reminded him of his present vulnerability without a sizable gang to enforce his bidding.

  * * *

  At the far end of the street, a lone rider slow-walked his horses into the back door of Earl Dickens’s stable. Young Burt McNally was busy forking hay over the stalls near the front of the building and failed to notice until he turned and found Grayson standing a dozen feet behind him. Startled, Burt could not react at once, not knowing if he was in danger or not. Undecided if he should reach for his pistol or not, he remained frozen for a long moment before deciding it would be a useless attempt to beat the rifle casually held by the somber Grayson. When his mind began to function normally again, he remembered that his gun belt was hanging on a nail in the tack room, which explained why there was no sign of urgency in the stoic face watching him. “I need to leave my horses here for a little while,” Grayson said. “They need some grain. They ain’t had none in a spell.”

  “Damn, you scared the hell outta me,” Burt finally confessed. “I thought my time was up.”

  Genuinely surprised by the statement, Grayson asked, “Why would you think that?”

  “’Cause of what happened to the sheriff,” Burt answered. “Jacob Blanchard put a five hundred dollar price on your head—to anybody that shoots you.”

  “Is that a fact?” Grayson replied calmly. “You thinkin’ about collectin’ it?”

  “Hell no,” Burt was quick to assure him, as he filled a bucket with oats for Grayson’s horses, “and nobody else is, either, except maybe Dan Slider and Stump. If you’re lookin’ for Troy, he took off. He ain’t here in town.”

  “Troy’s dead,” Grayson said.

  “You got Troy?” Burt blurted.

  “I didn’t. His father did—shot him and another fellow that worked for him.”

  “His father?” Burt exclaimed “Why? Because of you?” Aware then that he still held the pitchfork, he threw it aside in case Grayson might think he had ideas about using it. “Damn,” he swore, amazed. “The old man shot his own son?”

  Grayson nodded. “So now, I reckon that leaves the job of sheriff up to you. I think you told me you had the job when both of the Blanchard boys were gone.”

  “Well, yeah, I—I reckon,” Burt stammered, not sure he wanted it. He wasn’t sure he could believe Grayson. It seemed more likely that Grayson had killed Troy, if Troy really was dead. “What are you fixin’ to do?” he asked anxiously, afraid the menacing assassin might have plans to destroy the entire town.

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about that,” Grayson replied. “I came after Slate and Troy because they ambushed me in Fort Smith, rode off and left me for dead. They’re both dead now, so I reckon that settles my debt. Looks to me like you and the other folks in this town have to decide what you’re gonna do about the old man. I just have an idea about how he’s been runnin’ the town, but I know for a fact that he killed his son and one other man.”

  “That ain’t all,” Burt declared. “He killed Percy Edwards yesterday, shot him down because he took Slate’s body back to his shop to get it ready to bury.”

  “Sounds like the folks in this town are ready for a hangin’. Maybe it’s about time you thought about some honest-to-God law and order in your town. So I reckon the first thing you’ve gotta decide is if you’re man enough to take on the job of sheriff.” He paused to watch Burt’s reaction. It was obvious that the young man was busy turning it over in his mind. After another moment, Grayson said, “I’ll help you arrest Jacob Blanchard. You might need a hand, since he’s got two men with him.”

  Grayson’s offer was enough to help Burt make up his mind. “I’ll do it. I’m man enough to take on the job.” Grayson nodded his approval. “I need to tell a couple of the others what I’m fixin’ to do,” Burt went on. “Louis Reiner and Morgan Bowers oughta be told what’s gonna happen—and my boss, Earl Dickens, I reckon.”

  “Let’s get started, then,” Grayson said. “Do you know where Blanchard is now?”

  “Him and those two hired guns of his spent the night in Percy’s place last night. He ain’t plannin’ on leavin’ town anytime soon, ’cause his horse is in the corral. Anyway, I know he’s gonna hang around till he buries Slate. And I talked to Reiner this mornin’. He said Blanchard told him he was gonna stay in town to have a talk with all of us about the things he ain’t happy with in town. So he’s either at the barbershop or the hotel, maybe the saloon.” He paused a moment to recall. “Stump and Slider came and got their horses early this mornin’, but they’re still in town.”

  “Let’s get to it, Sheriff,” Grayson said.

  * * *

  Louis Reiner had much the same reaction as Burt when he turned to see who had just walked into his store and discovered the solid form standing behind Burt McNally. He was so startled that he dropped the broom he had been sweeping with. Embarrassed by his nervous fumbling, he quickly picked up the broom and stood there speechless, waiting for Burt to speak.

  “It’s time we took some action to free our town from Jacob Blanchard,” Burt announced in a newfound voice of authority. “I’m fixin’ to arrest him for the murders of Percy Edwards and Troy Blanchard.” He paused to remember. “And one other feller that worked for him.”

  Reiner was not certain he could trust his own ears. Burt sure spoke with confidence, but Reiner could not take his eyes off the menacing figure behind him. Grayson saw the uncertainty in the storekeeper’s gaze, so he offered a suggestion. “I reckon what the sheriff is tellin’ you is that you’re gonna want to appoint a judge and jury, so you can give Blanchard a fair trial before you hang him.”

  It was still not enough to shake Reiner from the paralysis caused by Burt’s call to action. For more than a year the small group of concerned citizens had talked about rescuing their town, but he had wondered if it would ever amount to anything more than talk. “You’re going now to arrest Jacob Blanchard?” he asked, not sure he had heard correctly.

  “That’s a fact,” Burt replied confidently.

  “That might not be so easy, Burt,” Reiner cautioned. “The old man’s got two of his gun hands with him. Maybe we oughta think about this before you go getting yourself killed.”

  “We’ve done enough talkin’,” Burt returned. “It’s time to do somethin’. Grayson, here, said he’d back me up.”

  Suddenly, Reiner felt a surge of excitement race through his veins when he realized that it was no longer just talk. It was real. This day in late summer woul
d be remembered as the day the citizens of Black Horse Creek rose up and took possession of their town. “All right!” he exclaimed. “It’s time! I’ll run over and tell Shep. We’ll use Percy’s shop for a jail.” He paused when he thought about it, then grinned and said, “Blanchard said he was making that the jail. He can be the first customer.”

  Grayson could understand their excitement, but he felt he needed to remind them of the danger involved in arresting Jacob Blanchard. “You’d best let the sheriff and me make the arrest before you round up your jury. There’s liable to be some shootin’, and we don’t want any bystanders gettin’ shot.”

  “Right!” Reiner quickly agreed. “We’ll stay back out of the way, but we’ll round up as many as we can find for when you have him arrested.”

  “You know where he is right now?” Grayson asked.

  “The hotel,” Reiner blurted. “Morgan Bowers was in here a little while ago, and said Blanchard was in the hotel, in to visit Slate.”

  Grayson looked at Burt and nodded. “Right,” the new sheriff said. “Let’s go!”

  * * *

  Stump Haskell took his feet off the porch railing and let the front legs of his chair drop back to the floor. “Damn! Look comin’ yonder.”

  Dan Slider opened his eyes, annoyed by Stump’s intrusion on his short nap in the warm afternoon sunshine of the hotel porch. “Who the hell’s that?” He recognized Burt McNally, who worked in the stable, but he had never seen the big fellow walking with him.

  “Grayson,” Stump answered. “That’s Grayson with him. I’d best go tell Mr. Blanchard.” He got up at once and went inside the hotel.

  “Yeah, you do that,” Slider called after him. “I’ll take care of Mr. Grayson.” He looked forward to the confrontation. He’d heard about Grayson until he was sick of it. Knowing that the man who took Grayson down would gain a hell of a reputation for himself, he didn’t intend to miss his opportunity. He was confident in his knowledge that he was faster with a gun than any man he had ever met, and that included Yancey Brooks. Blanchard had often voiced regret that Yancey and Lonnie Jenkins had never returned from their attempt to track Grayson down. He would find out today that he had sent the wrong man to do the job. He got up from his chair, reached down to make sure his .44 was riding easy in its holster. Then he walked over to stand squarely at the top of the porch steps to wait for Burt and Grayson.

  “Where you headed, Burt?” Slider asked, his tone one of obvious contempt.

  “This is sheriff’s business, Slider,” Burt answered. “I’m lookin’ for Blanchard, and it ain’t no concern of yours.”

  Slider dropped his hand to rest on the handle of his pistol. “Anythin’ that’s got to do with Mr. Blanchard is my business. I’m the one who says whether you can bother him or not, so you’d best tell me what you’re about.”

  Burt hesitated a few moments, so Grayson spoke for him. “You’re talkin’ to the new sheriff, so you’d be wise to step aside and let him get on with his business.”

  “The new sheriff?” Slider scoffed. “That’s a sure-nuff joke if I ever heard one. Mr. Blanchard will be the one decidin’ who’s sheriff.” He then turned his full attention to Grayson. “I reckon you’d be the big stud hoss name of Grayson. Well, you’re lookin’ at the big stud hoss of this town, so you can just turn your sorry ass around before I give you a bellyful of lead.” Slider felt certain that if he was anything like his reputation, Grayson would find it hard to back down from his challenge. He stood poised, his hand still resting on the handle of the Colt, the smile spread across his thin features signaling the pleasure he anticipated.

  “You sayin’ you intend to stand in the way of the law?” Grayson asked calmly.

  “That’s right, stud,” Slider replied.

  “All right, then,” Grayson said, and calmly pulled up the rifle he had been holding casually before him. Before the startled man could react, he pumped a .44 slug into his gut. As Slider doubled over in pain, still trying to draw his weapon, Grayson ejected the spent cartridge and finished him off with a second shot. He cocked the Winchester again and looked at Burt, who was as stunned as Slider had been. “Let’s go. We’re wastin’ time.”

  Upstairs, watching from the front bedroom window, Jacob Blanchard was a witness to the elimination of another of his men at the hands of the relentless stalker. Thinking Slider would stop the ex-lawman, he cursed himself for not taking the shot from the window when he had the chance. Now it was too late, for Grayson was under the cover of the porch roof. Suddenly his anger turned to a feeling of sheer panic when he realized that Grayson was actually coming for him. He was no longer the hunter, he was the prey. It was a feeling he had never dealt with, because he had never before felt fear of any man. At that moment, he decided he was trapped there in the hotel room, and his only thoughts turned to those of escape.

  He moved away from the window to confront a confused disciple in the person of Stump Haskell, waiting to be told what he should do. “Get to the stairs and stop them from coming up here!” Blanchard commanded. The dutiful Stump jumped to obey. Blanchard followed him out into the hall and directed him to a position at the top of the steps. Then he ran down to the end of the hall to the back stairs. Almost stumbling due to his haste, he nevertheless made it to the bottom of the stairs, and out the back door, to where Stump and Slider had tied their mounts. Pushing Stump’s mule aside, he climbed up on Slider’s horse, and flailed the sorrel mercilessly in his panic to escape. Down across the creek, he galloped behind the buildings, his one thought to make it to his ranch where he could hole up in his house.

  Unaware their intended target was away and galloping toward home, Grayson and Burt walked through the hotel parlor to the foot of the front stairs, only to find themselves facing Stump looking down at them. The simple man was obviously befuddled by the situation he found himself in. “I—I don’t think Mr. Blanchard wants you up here,” he stammered, unaware, as they were, that his boss had fled. “He don’t want nobody botherin’ Slate’s body,” he offered, unable to think of something better to tell them.

  “Stump,” Burt said as calmly as he could manage, “you need to step aside and let us pass.” He placed a foot on the bottom step. Stump dropped his hand to hover over his revolver, trying to decide whether to pull it or not. “We’re on official business, Stump. Mr. Blanchard’s wanted for murder, and we need to arrest him. So you don’t want to get in the way of that.”

  Stump’s brain was whirling out of control as he stared glassy-eyed at the ominous form of Grayson. He had never been forced to face a showdown like this one before. He knew Blanchard expected him to stop them, but Burt McNally had never done him any harm. In fact, Burt had always treated him kindly. But Mr. Blanchard would be extremely angry if he didn’t follow his orders. In the final moments, Stump couldn’t shoot Burt. He shook his head sorrowfully as if he had failed in his duty, and stepped aside.

  “Good man, Stump,” Burt said. “You did the right thing.” He hurried up the stairs then with Grayson close behind him.

  “Careful,” Grayson warned, while keeping a cautious eye on Stump in case he had a change of heart. “Don’t walk into an ambush. I wanna see you as sheriff for longer than half a day.” Nearing the front of the hall, they could see the bedroom door standing wide open and the body of Slate Blanchard on the bed. Grayson moved ahead and slid up beside the door where he could take a quick look through the crack behind the door. “He ain’t in there,” he announced, and they both turned right away to make sure he wasn’t behind them. There was no one there but a bewildered Stump Haskell.

  A careful search of the other rooms on the floor came up empty before they went down the back stairs and discovered Stump’s mule standing alone. Fresh tracks told an obvious story. “He’s hightailin’ it for home,” Stump announced. At that point, Morgan Bowers and Maria Sanchez joined them, finally emerging from the refuge they had take
n in the kitchen.

  “Are you willin’ to finish this thing?” Grayson asked Burt.

  “I reckon,” Burt replied.

  * * *

  The Creek woman went to the kitchen door and looked out across the yard toward the barn where Jimmy was busy replacing a couple of poles in the corral. He was working as hard as a man could, but the place was much more than one man could manage. Jacob was going to have to hire a crew to maintain the ranch, and he was going to have to do it soon, she thought. The crew of gunmen he had hired before were not inclined to work hard on the mundane chores of a ranch. They were more suited to murder and rustling, but they had been of some help when it came time for the fall roundup and branding. But now they were all gone, killed or run off, except for Stump and Dan Slider. She had to believe that it was a case of good riddance. Summer was nearing an end. Soon it would be time for roundup, and Jimmy said that Jacob’s cattle were scattered all over the prairie. He needed help, but she told herself that it was Jacob’s problem, not hers or Jimmy’s.

  She watched the young boy for a moment more before returning to her oven to check on her biscuits. Finding them ready to take out, she took her dish towel and pulled the pan from the oven. Thinking again of Jimmy, she placed a couple of the hot biscuits on the towel and used it to carry them out to the hardworking young man. He grinned when he saw her coming, having also spotted the dish towel in her hand. He had a special place in his heart for Rachel. She was the closest thing to a mother he could claim, his real mother having died giving birth to him. He only wished she had a better lot in life than being the slave to Jacob Blanchard.