“I thought maybe you like a hot biscuit,” she said in her broken English. “Still little while to supper. Maybe you hungry.”
“I’m always hungry for your biscuits,” he said cheerfully.
“You work hard,” she said, after watching him attack the hot biscuits.
“Yeah, and I ain’t gettin’ it done,” he replied. “I need Stump to get back here.”
She started to return to the house when a rider topped the east ridge and rode down toward the gate. They both paused to identify their visitor. After a moment, Jimmy said, “It’s Mr. Blanchard, and from the looks of that horse, he must be in a hurry.” They stood there watching, and when he got to the open gate, Jimmy said, “He ain’t ridin’ his bay. That’s Slider’s horse.” Neither expressed it, but both wondered why the old man was alone, although it would not be the first time he had ridden off with one of the men and returned alone. They waited until he pulled the exhausted horse to a stop before the corral.
“What the hell are you two standin’ out here doin’ nothin’ for?” Blanchard demanded angrily as he came out of the saddle. “Can’t nobody do what I pay ’em for?” Obviously in a panic, he released the horse’s reins and began to shout orders. “To hell with that horse!” he yelled at Jimmy when the boy took the reins and started to lead it toward the barn. “We ain’t got time for that.”
“Don’t you want me to unsaddle him?” Jimmy asked. “He looks pretty much wore out.”
“Leave the damn horse alone,” Blanchard ordered. “Go to the bunkhouse and get your rifle and plenty of cartridges.” He then turned to Rachel and pointed toward the kitchen door. “You go to the house and get my shotgun and all the shells you can carry.”
She did not have to be told. “Grayson,” she said. “He’s coming.”
“Yes, dammit!” Blanchard responded. “He’s comin’ and we’re gonna be ready when he gets here. We’ll have three guns waitin’ for him and that damn young pup of a sheriff they picked for themselves. Now get to the house like I told you!” He gave her a sharp backhand on her behind to emphasize his command.
Jimmy winced when the old man struck her. It was uncalled for, but the long-suffering woman had learned to live with his harsh treatment. Thinking he might be on the receiving end of the same treatment, he dropped the horse’s reins and ran to the bunkhouse to get his rifle. He was confused by Blanchard’s ranting, and not at all certain he was ready to fight Grayson and the new sheriff, whoever that was. At the same time, he was reluctant to question Blanchard’s orders. Jacob, in the meantime, stood there by the corner of the corral looking around, trying to decide where best to set up his defense—the house might be too big to defend with only the three of them, the barn too open. The bunkhouse, he decided. It was a solid structure of logs that would give the best protection. The son of a bitch won’t be expecting us to be holed up there, he thought, and we can catch him by surprise between the bunkhouse and the main house.
In a very few minutes, Rachel came from the house, carrying the shotgun at about the same time Jimmy returned from the bunkhouse. Blanchard told them of his plan. “We’re gonna wait for ’em in the bunkhouse. When they ride up to the house lookin’ for me, we’ll shoot ’em down like sittin’ ducks on a pond. It’ll be three of us against two of them.” He glared at them and gave an emphatic nod of his chin. “They’ll find out who runs my town, by God.”
“Who did you say was the new sheriff?” Jimmy asked.
“That young pup that works for Earl Dickens,” Blanchard snorted. “He’s got a little too big for his britches. The whole damn town has got a hard lesson to learn. Well, they’ll get my message when they see Grayson’s corpse hangin’ at one end of town, and Burt McNally’s hangin’ at the other.”
The more the infuriated man ranted, the more uncertain Jimmy became. He knew Burt McNally. He didn’t want to kill him—or Grayson either. He had stayed on working for Blanchard because he needed the job. He had never wanted to take part in any of Blanchard’s lawless activities, and now he was afraid to say so. Rachel, however, was not.
“I not shoot anybody,” she calmly announced. “I fix food for you. That’s my job. These people are your enemies, not mine.” She paused only a moment when she saw the fury in his face. Knowing the damage was already done, she added, “Jimmy should not shoot, too. He’s no gunman.”
“Why, you sassy-mouth Injun bitch!” Jacob roared, and struck out at her with his pistol, but she ducked away from him in time to avoid taking the blow on her head.
“No more you hit me,” she cried, and started to raise the shotgun she held.
Blanchard grabbed the barrel of the weapon and easily wrenched it from her hands. “No more I hit you, hell,” he mocked. “You was thinkin’ you was gonna shoot me with this shotgun? I’ll beat the livin’ hell outta you.” He threw her on the ground and stood over her, holding the shotgun like a club.
Jimmy was frozen in a paralysis of indecision, a witness to the horrible beating about to be administered to one who was always kind to him. He could no longer think because of the thunderous pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as Blanchard raised the shotgun to strike. He didn’t remember pulling the trigger, and was nearly as startled as Blanchard when the rifle suddenly fired, sending a bullet ripping into the old man’s side. Jacob staggered with the impact, and tried to turn the shotgun on Jimmy, only to be stopped by the solid impact of Jimmy’s next shot in his chest. The shotgun fell from Blanchard’s hands, but he remained on his feet, his body bent forward like a great ape as he stared at Jimmy with unbelieving eyes. Both the young boy and the Creek woman, Rachel, seemed stunned as they watched the old man fearfully. After a long moment, Blanchard sank to his knees, where he remained for several moments more, before finally falling face-first in the dirt.
Barely able to believe she was still alive, Rachel quickly looked to Jimmy. Seeing the stark bewilderment in his eyes, she scrambled to her feet and quickly went to him. “Everything all right,” she gently told him. “You done the right thing. He not hurt nobody no more.” She could see that he was still not sure what he had done, so she told him. “You save my life. I thank you.” She then took his elbow and started him toward the house. “We best sit down now—talk, maybe drink coffee, decide what to do.” She could not help a feeling that she had just been released from a terrible bondage, at the same time wondering what would become of her now that her master was gone. It was far too late to think about possibly returning to her village. There was nothing they could do now but calmly wait for Grayson, so they left Blanchard’s body where it lay, and went into the house.
* * *
It was almost dark when Grayson and Burt crossed the east ridge and rode down into the river valley. They pulled up short of the gate to look things over before riding in, halfway expecting a rifle shot from the house. But there was none. Then Grayson noticed the two people sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch. It was difficult to tell in the half light, but it appeared to be Rachel and the boy—he had forgotten his name. “Over there!” Burt said, calling his attention to what looked to be a body lying near the corral.
“Why don’t you go over and take a look,” Grayson suggested, gesturing toward the body. “Might not be a bad idea to step down and keep your horse between you and the house.” He then followed his own advice and dismounted, pulling his rifle from the saddle sling as he did. There was no sense in taking a chance on Jacob Blanchard hiding behind the two on the porch, with a rifle trained on him. They parted and Grayson walked his horse toward the front porch, taking care to walk even with the gray’s withers, his rifle resting across them.
“Mr. Blanchard’s dead,” Jimmy called out when Grayson was within a few yards of the front steps. “That’s him over yonder by the corral.”
At almost the same time, Burt called out, “It’s Blanchard! He’s dead.”
“Who killed him?” Grayson asked Rachel
.
“I did,” Jimmy immediately volunteered.
“He save my life,” Rachel quickly interjected. “Blanchard was gonna kill me if Jimmy don’t shoot him.”
It was obvious by the woman’s tone that she was afraid Jimmy might be hauled off to jail, so Grayson was quick to assure her that Jimmy had nothing to fear. “I’ll surely accept your word on that,” he told her, “and I don’t reckon Sheriff McNally will see it any differently. He was set for a hangin’ anyway. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t expect he’d come peacefully.” He turned to Jimmy. “So I reckon you just did the sheriff’s job for him.”
Chapter 15
There was a new attitude in the town of Black Horse Creek during the next few days. People seemed confident about the future of their little town in the remote Kansas prairie now that each businessman’s burdensome debt had been canceled by Jimmy Hicks’s rifle. There were meetings going on almost all of the day, because there were many things to discuss and decide upon. The major issue was how to handle the dynasty left by Jacob Blanchard, for there were no heirs to claim ownership of his lands and cattle. Finally an agreement was decided upon for the whole town to own the land, and a charter created to give each one of the original business owners an equal share. A city council was established with Louis Reiner named as mayor. Burt McNally was officially elected as sheriff, with plans to rebuild the jail and sheriff’s office. Shep Barnhill was credited with the idea of establishing Black Horse Creek as a cattle town, since it was not really that far from Dodge City and the railroad, and there was plenty of good grassland for herds being driven up from Texas. As Mayor Reiner said, “The sky’s the limit. We can build our town into one of the busiest towns in the state of Kansas.”
As far as Jacob Blanchard’s ranch was concerned, the city council thought it only fair to cut out five hundred acres and award that, the house, and the outbuildings, to Rachel, with Jimmy and Stump as share owners. Stump was forgiven for having worked for Blanchard, since he had never actually harmed anyone, and he had refused to shoot Burt McNally. There was generally a bright cloud of optimism over the entire town.
* * *
Standing apart from the suddenly busy rebirth of Black Horse Creek, the one man who had more to do with the town’s revolution than any other, Grayson silently witnessed the scurrying about of the town’s leading citizens. From one quickly called meeting to the next, they seemed to be constantly running up and down the street, from the hotel to the saloon, to Reiner’s store in their enthusiastic quest to establish themselves as a community of promise.
Amid all the activity, he was no more than a bystander, no longer the sinister bounty hunter sent to destroy the Blanchard dynasty. No longer a figure of mystery and fear, he was greeted courteously, but he was not one of them. The only person who expressed his appreciation was Burt McNally, and that surprised Grayson, for he never expected appreciation. From the beginning, his sole purpose had been to seek revenge for his attempted murder by Slate and Troy Blanchard. And he didn’t give a damn about the future of Black Horse Creek. Seeing all the joyous activity now, however, he was moved to regret not being a part of it—or at least a part of some positive and useful future. The more he thought about it, the more resigned he became to make something of his life other than a hunter of felons. His thoughts drifted automatically to a handsome widow in Fort Smith, and he decided that he needed to get back to Wanda Meadows’s boardinghouse as quickly as he could. When he had left her, she made him promise to be careful. That wasn’t much, but it might mean that she cared what happened to him. “Worth lookin’ into,” he stated.
“Did you say somethin’?” Burt asked.
“Yeah,” Grayson replied, “I said so long.”
* * *
Please read on for a look at the next exciting historical novel from Charles G. West,
WAY OF THE GUN
Available in March 2013 from Signet.
* * *
Looks like I might have company, young Carson Ryan thought as he watched the two riders approaching the North Platte River. Always one to exercise caution, he remained in the cover of the cottonwoods on the north bank until he could see what they were about. Cow punchers from the look of them, he decided. They had no packhorses that would indicate it was just the two of them on their way somewhere; maybe they were scouts for a wagon train of some kind. As he watched, the two separated to inspect the banks up and down the river, almost as far as Carson’s camp. It was obvious to him then that they were selecting a crossing. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he led his horse over beside a tall cottonwood and pulled off his boots. Then he stood on the buckskin’s back to reach a stout limb. Climbing up in the tree, he looked back to the south, and soon got the answer to his question. A faint cloud of brown dust in the distance announced the approach of a cattle herd. He remained up in the tree until he saw the first steers. With no further concern for caution, he descended the tree to drop down onto the ground. When the two point men rode back to meet the herd, he sat down and pulled his boots back on.
It’s getting a little late in the day to cross the river, he thought. They’ll most likely hold them on the other side tonight and cross them over in the morning. He knew from experience that cows weren’t fond of river crossings. Although only seventeen years of age, he had worked with cattle for most of those years, and he guessed it would always be in his blood. He was hoping to catch on with a herd heading for Montana, where there were already some big outfits grazing their cattle on the vast open bunch grass prairies. He had come up from Texas with a herd of twenty-five hundred head belonging to Mr. Bob Patterson. Starting on the Western Trail at Doan’s Crossing near Vernon, Texas, they went only as far as Ogallala. Mr. Patterson tried to persuade him to return to Texas with him to pick up another herd, but Carson wanted to see Montana. Patterson wished him well, and Carson set out for Fort Laramie, thinking it a possibility to catch a herd stopping there for supplies. It was a long shot, but at seventeen, a boy can wait out the winter and hope for something in the spring.
Carson was thinking now that he must have luck riding with him, because he had decided to make camp earlier than usual—when along came a herd. Maybe they could use another hand. One thing for sure, they weren’t looking to buy any supplies at Fort Laramie, because if they were, they missed the fort by a good forty miles. “We’ll just sit right here and see what kinda outfit they are,” he told the buckskin gelding. On second thought, he decided it would be better to cross over to the south side, since that was more likely to be where the herd would be bedded down for the night. While he waited, he decided he would inspect the river to find the place he would pick to cross a herd.
* * *
“Well, now, who the hell is that?” Duke Slayton asked when he sighted the lone rider waiting by the river.
Johnny Briggs turned in the saddle and looked where Duke pointed. “Damned if I know,” he replied. “He weren’t there when me and Marvin scouted the banks.”
“Well, he’s sure as hell there now,” Duke came back. “You and Marvin go on up ahead and make sure he ain’t got no friends layin’ below that riverbank, waitin’ to pop up, too.”
Johnny wheeled his horse around a couple of times, straining to get a better look at the man before he complied with Duke’s order. He had his suspicions the same as Duke, and he wasn’t anxious to become the sacrificial lamb in the event there might be a welcoming party waiting to gain a herd of cattle. “He don’t look to be much more’n a kid,” he finally decided. “He might just be a stray, lookin’ for a job. And we’re damn sure short of men,” he added.
“Or lookin’ for a meal,” Duke said, although he noticed that the young man was riding a stout-looking buckskin and was leading a packhorse. “You goin’ or not?”
“I’m goin’,” Johnny replied and wheeled his horse once again. “Come on, Marvin.” The two of them were off at a fast lope whil
e Duke turned back to meet Rufus Jones, who was riding forward to meet him.
“I’m thinkin’ ’bout beddin’ ’em down in the mouth of this shallow valley, where they can get to the water, and there’s plenty of good grass,” Rufus called out as he pulled his horse to a stop. “That all right with you?”
“Yeah, hell, I don’t see why not. I ain’t wantin’ to try to push ’em across tonight, and that’s a fact,” Duke replied. They were driving close to two thousand head of cattle, and by the time the boys riding drag caught up, it would most likely be approaching dusk. The herd had been strung out for about two miles since the noontime rest.
Up ahead, Johnny and Marvin slowed their horses to a walk while both men scanned the brush and trees behind the lone stranger, alert to anything that didn’t look right. With nothing to suggest that foul play was afoot, they walked their horses up to the rider awaiting them. Johnny was the first to speak. “Well, young feller, what are you doin’ out here all by your lonesome?”
“I was campin’ down the river a’ways,” Carson replied, “and I saw you ride up. So I thought I’d say howdy—maybe visit awhile if you’re fixin’ to bed that herd down here.”
Johnny studied the young man carefully. He was young, right enough, but he was a husky fellow and fairly tall, judging by the length of his stirrups. He could see no deceit in the deep blue eyes that gazed out at him. “Why, sure,” Johnny responded. “Right, Marvin?” He didn’t wait for Marvin’s answer. “We’re always glad to share our campfire with strangers. Where you headed, anyway?”
“Well, I was thinkin’ about ridin’ up to Fort Laramie and maybe catching on with a herd movin’ on through to Montana Territory.”
“Is that a fact?” Marvin asked. “Maybe you should talk to the boss.” He nodded toward Duke Slayton, who was riding up behind them now. “’Cause that’s where we’re pushin’ this herd—up Montana way.”
Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) Page 24