John Castleberry looked around him at the small group of men gathered in the barn. “Who are we missing?” he asked Walt Collins.
“Broadus Wells,” Walt answered. “I reckon he’ll be along. It’s still five minutes before seven.”
“You coulda put on some coffee,” Clerus Taylor said, rubbing his hands together against the chill, early-morning spring air.
“Hell, I didn’t know this was supposed to be a social,” Walt snorted. “Maybe I shoulda baked up some biscuits, too.”
“Maybe,” Clerus shot back. “I notice you’re always ready to drink my coffee when you come in to get a haircut.”
“Hell, at the prices you charge, you oughta throw in a little bacon, too.”
At that moment, Broadus walked in, putting an end to the meaningless banter. “All right,” Castleberry announced, “we’re all here.” His face a mask of cold resolve, he looked around the group, making eye contact with each one. “Let’s go take care of business.” The six members of the city council, rifles or shotguns cradled in their arms, filed silently out of the barn. Sonny Demry, just reporting for work in the stables, stepped back against the side of the building, and stared wide-eyed as the somber posse passed him.
At that time of morning, there were only a few early risers preparing to open their shops. Barney Tatum, a fire already glowing in his forge, stopped to stare at the solemn group that passed his shop, walking down the middle of the street. There was no word exchanged between him and the posse. He laid his tongs and hammer aside and fell in behind them. He had a fair idea where they were going. He was joined by a few other stragglers, one a cowhand from a nearby spread who had slept off a drunk in an alley. “Where’s everybody goin’?” he asked Barney, which caused John Castleberry to turn to look at him.
“This committee is on official business,” Castleberry informed the spectators, “and I’d advise you to stay back out of the way.” The curious having been fairly warned, he paid them no further attention. The posse continued down the middle of the dirt street.
Bypassing the front door of the Lucky Spur, they went directly around to the back, stopping before the door to the small storeroom where Billy Ray slept. With a nod of the head from Walt Collins, the lynching committee readied their weapons. When all appeared to be ready, Walt nodded again to John Castleberry, and the mayor answered with a slight nod. Without further communication, Walt turned and aimed his size twelve boot at the center of the door. It didn’t give on the first try, and Walt had to kick it several more times before the jamb split and the door swung open. As soon as it slammed back against the inside wall, all six weapons were aimed at the open doorway, all six men ready to pull their triggers if necessary. The room was empty.
Crowding one another in an effort to gain entrance to the room, the posse stood dumbfounded in the dark confines of the windowless storeroom. There was no evidence that Billy Ray lived there—no clothes, no personal articles. There was a cot, but the bedroll was gone. There was no saddle or bridle. “The son of a bitch ain’t here,” Wilson Greenwell said, stating the obvious.
“He lit out last night. I heard him leave after midnight.” The group turned as one to see who had made the statement, finding Willett Burns standing in the shattered doorway. “I reckon he didn’t wanna hang around for your party,” Willett said, oblivious of the unintended pun. “You boys made a nice mess of my storeroom. I reckon you’ll pay for fixin’ my door.”
“It was done on official town business,” the mayor replied, “couldn’t be helped.”
“Is that a fact?” Willett responded impatiently. “If you’d tried it, you’da found out that the damn door wasn’t even locked.”
“All right, Willett,” Castleberry replied, his patience growing short as well. “I’ll see that your door gets fixed.” He had more important concerns than Willett’s door at the moment. Billy Ray had slipped away, and he wasn’t sure what, if anything, he could do about it. It was going to be difficult to explain to Rachael Andrews that the man who murdered her husband would in all likelihood go unpunished.
Chapter 2
With nothing but gently rolling prairie between him and Dry Fork, Lon Fortson could see the gathering of people when he was still over half a mile away. Somebody must have passed away while he was gone, he thought, because the only thing south of the schoolhouse was the cemetery. Curious, he prodded his horse to a faster walk, his eyes intent upon the graveyard, one hand on the rope leading his mule.
Close enough now to identify individuals, he guessed that most of the town was there, that is, most of the good folks—the mayor, the town’s businessmen, and of course the preacher. As he watched, the preacher walked over and placed his hand on Ellie Ingram’s shoulder, as if giving her spiritual comfort. Lon’s heart stopped for an instant. Sam! He searched the gathering frantically, scanning from one side to the other. He could not see the sheriff anywhere. Afraid now that what he feared might be true, he gave his horse his heels and galloped the rest of the way.
The townsfolk, gathered there to bid farewell to two of their citizens, turned at the sound of the galloping hoofbeats. While all recognized Lon immediately, no one spoke as he pulled up before them. In his apprehension, he had not given a thought to the possibility that he might be interrupting a solemn ceremony. He was struck with the sudden fear that something had happened to Sam Ingram, the one man who was responsible for giving him the opportunity to earn an honest living.
Ellie Ingram, upon seeing Lon, sobbed uncontrollably, and went to meet him. “He killed him!” she cried out to her husband’s deputy as he hurriedly dismounted. “Shot him down in the street. Sam never had a chance.”
Lon was horrified. Unsure of himself, he didn’t know what to do. “Who?” he gasped. “Who shot him?” He realized then that there were two fresh graves. He looked quickly around the circle of mourners, and his gaze settled upon the schoolmaster’s wife. She was dressed in a black veil and being supported by two of her neighbors as she stared back at him, obviously overcome with grief. “Dear Lord,” Lon muttered, barely able to believe the tragedy. “Will Andrews?” Ellie nodded, unable to speak as she choked back her sobs. “Who did it?” Lon asked again.
“Billy Ray,” John Castleberry volunteered. “We tried to get him, but he lit out.”
Lon was stunned. He knew it was his place to take some form of action, but at the moment, he didn’t know what to do. The service having been effectively ended, the mourners moved aside to let the gravediggers fill in the graves. Several members of the city council gathered around Lon and related the events that had led up to the funeral. Ill-equipped for a catastrophe of this magnitude, Lon listened to the accounting of the posse’s attempt to capture Billy Ray, while inside, he could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. They said Billy Ray had fled. Was he supposed to organize another posse and go after Billy Ray? He wasn’t sure, but he knew without a second thought that he would go, even if no one else volunteered. He owed as much to Sam and Ellie.
“Anybody know which way he lit out?” Lon finally asked. When he was told that Willett Burns said it appeared that Billy Ray had headed due north, Lon called for volunteers. “I reckon we’re gonna need a posse. How many of you can I count on?”
Every man there volunteered. Even Wilson Greenwell, who had favored waiting for the marshal from Cheyenne, stepped forward without hesitation. Gratified with the response to his request, Lon assumed a more authoritative posture. “All right, then, we’ll set out at first light. Every man is responsible to outfit himself with possibles to last at least a week or two.”
Walt Collins was one of the first to volunteer for the posse. Being a practical man, he was merely showing support for the feelings of the two widows. It had been two days since Billy Ray had fled. He couldn’t account for the feelings of the others, but he knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that they would catch Billy Ray.
* * *
The first rays of the morning sun found all eight of the volunteers assem
bled in the street before Walt Collins’s stables. While the others milled about, waiting for the word to mount up, Lon studied the obvious trail left in the dirt behind the Lucky Spur. As Willett had said, it was heading north. Satisfied with his scout, Lon signaled the posse, and they were soon under way, following tracks that led straight out to an oft-used trail that led to Horse Creek. With an air of determination, Lon led the posse north along the beaten wagon track, the Laramie Mountains looming on his left, silent witnesses to a futile mission.
Progress was slow in the beginning as the posse fanned out on either side of the trail, watching for signs that Billy Ray might have left the well-worn wagon track. There were many tracks along the trail, some old, some only a few days old. There was really no way anyone could distinguish Billy Ray’s tracks from those of countless others made before or after him. Still, the posse pressed on, riding with a sense of duty to avenge the victims. By the end of the day, they had advanced no farther than the banks of Horse Creek where they decided to make the first night’s camp.
The next morning, spirits were willing, but already a couple of the men, Clerus Taylor and Wilson Greenwell, began to grumble that the posse might possibly be wasting time. It was a suggestion that Walt Collins knew to be a fact, but he didn’t say anything. He figured they owed it to Ellie and Rachael to make a show of going after Billy Ray. After a quick breakfast of coffee and bacon, they started out again, keeping to the common trail that led to the north.
Near the end of the third day, with no significant signs having been discovered, they reached the south bank of the Platte River. Cyrus Brumby was the first to voice the thought that worried most of the posse. “Fellers, I reckon this is about as far as I go. We ain’t likely to run up on Billy Ray if we was to ride a month, and I’ve got a business to run. So tomorrow morning I’m headin’ back.”
“I guess I’ll be headin’ back with Cyrus,” Wilson Greenwell spoke up. “I’m just as sorry as I can be for Ellie and Rachael, but we’re just wastin’ our time out here. Who the hell knows where that crazy son of a bitch is headin’? He could be thinkin’ about goin’ to Fort Laramie, or maybe he is headed toward Dakota territory, like Lon thinks. But we ain’t picked up no sign that we know for sure was Billy Ray. For all we know, he mighta decided to double back and head south to Denver. I’m goin’ back.”
One by one, the others fell in with Brumby until there was no one left but Lon, Collins and Castleberry. The mayor shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Walt Collins. Walt nodded slowly and said, “They’re right. It might take a year to track that boy down—might as well head on back.”
The mayor took Lon Fortson by the shoulder and said, “You’ve done about as much as the town expects, Lon. We all have to get back to business now.” It was obvious to Castleberry that the young deputy was wrestling with his conscience. After all, Sam Ingram had done a lot for the man. “Sam wouldn’t have expected you to keep on going when we can’t find enough sign to even know if we’re going in the right direction.”
Lon was not comfortable with the decision to quit the chase, even when the others were quick to endorse the mayor’s comments. “I know we ain’t found no real trail to follow, but I just feel like Billy Ray’s headin’ for Dakota territory and the Black Hills. Willett Burns said Billy Ray’s been doin’ a lot of talk about huntin’ for gold up there.”
“The Black Hills is a helluva big piece of territory,” Walt Collins said. “Even if your hunch is right, a man would be hard to find in those mountains.” He glanced around to acknowledge the nods of agreement from the others. “Besides, you’re more’n likely to get your hair lifted by some angry Sioux warrior for messin’ around in their sacred territory.”
With some reluctance, Lon turned his horse around the following morning and joined his neighbors on the road back to Dry Fork. There was an almost light-hearted air about the group of riders as they retraced their trek of the prior three days. The mood didn’t sit well with Lon. He had the feeling that the men had merely completed an obligation, and felt little remorse for allowing Sam Ingram’s murderer to escape. With each mile covered, Lon wrestled with his conscience until he became more and more determined to search for Billy Ray on his own. And by the time they reached Horse Creek, he had definitely made up his mind to turn back again. He was about to inform the mayor of his decision when Walt Collins called out that a rider was approaching from the other side of the creek. All eyes turned to follow the direction Walt indicated. No one could identify the rider for a while, a slight figure that appeared to ride bent slightly forward as if uneasy in the saddle. When the rider was within a hundred yards, they realized it was a woman. She pulled up when she saw them fording the creek, and Lon realized the rider was Rachael Andrews.
John Castleberry was the first to reach her. “Why, Mrs. Andrews, what on earth are you doing out here all by yourself?”
“Did you find him?” she answered with a question of her own, her face grim and determined.
“Why, no, ma’am, we didn’t,” Castleberry replied. “I’m real sorry to have to say it, but there wasn’t any use in proceeding further.”
“You’re giving up already?” She looked from face to face accusingly. “You’re just going to let him get away with killing my husband and Sheriff Ingram?”
Exasperated, the mayor looked around him for support, but no one was anxious to answer the angry young lady. It was up to Castleberry to attempt to appease her. “Now, Rachael,” he said, taking on a fatherly tone, “try to understand. We aren’t quitting without good reason. There ain’t any trail to follow. We’d just be guessing where Billy Ray went, and it’s a mighty big prairie out there. We’d never find him.” He affected a paternal smile. “Some things just can’t be explained. You just have to accept Will’s loss and go on with your life. A young lady your age has plenty of opportunities to marry again and start over brand-new.” It was the wrong thing to say.
Rachael said nothing in response for a full minute as she searched their faces, one by one, looking to see signs of disagreement with the mayor’s words. Only a couple of them returned her gaze, rather than turning away—one, Walt Collins, because he felt no obligation to anybody for any actions he might take, and the other, Lon Fortson, because he felt a responsibility to do more. “Not one of you is willing to look for that murderer?” Her gaze returned to Lon Fortson, since he was the deputy sheriff.
“I’m willin’ to go after Billy Ray,” Lon answered. “I think he’s headed up in the Black Hills somewhere.” He saw the sudden light of hope in Rachael’s eyes and hastened to caution her. “I ain’t sayin’ it’ll be easy, and it might take a long time, but it’s worth a try.”
“I’ll help you find him,” Rachael quickly replied.
Lon misunderstood her intentions. “I’m obliged. I’m gonna need some supplies, ’cause I figure to be gone a long spell. Anything you could chip in would be helpful.”
“I mean I’m going with you,” Rachael said.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Lon replied, taken aback by the suggestion. “You couldn’t hardly go with me. It ain’t no place for a lady like yourself. Dakota territory is rough country.”
Undeterred, Rachael insisted, “Then I’ll go by myself. I’ll not sit around at home with my needlepoint and wait. I want to be there when you catch him. I want to see his face.”
Lon was at a loss for words. He looked at Castleberry for help in explaining why it wasn’t right for her to go with him. Castleberry provided no help. Instead, he encouraged her. “If you really plan to go after Billy Ray, Lon, I think I can speak for the city council in saying we’ll help with your supplies.” He turned again to Rachael. “Lon’s right. It won’t be any place for a lady, but if you’re determined to go, I don’t see how we can stop you.” Glancing at Lon, he said, “If she’s bound to go, she’d be a damn sight safer with you than by herself.”
The mayor found himself more in favor of the plan the more he thought about it. It eliminated some of the guilt he fel
t for not punishing Sam Ingram’s killer. In fact, it would be a great deal easier facing Ellie Ingram if he could tell her he was sending Lon out to find Billy Ray. As far as Dry Fork was concerned, losing Lon Fortson for a time was of little significance. He would appoint Walt Collins as temporary sheriff, and who could say? Walt might be persuaded to take the job permanently. As far as Rachael Andrews was concerned, she could be Lon’s problem. If she wanted to go traipsing off across the prairie with him, that was her decision to make. His mind was already working on other problems. Will Andrews hadn’t even gotten settled in good, and already Dry Fork was without a schoolteacher again. Now where in the world would he find another one? There was one positive result of this tragedy, however Dry Fork was rid of Billy Ray.
* * *
Lon Fortson was not a smart man. But he was smart enough to know he was not a smart man, a quality that had been a saving grace as far as Sam Ingram had been concerned. The sheriff had hired Lon as his deputy against the advice of John Castleberry and some of the other council members. After all, they had counseled, young Lon had little to recommend him for the job.
Raised by his father, who was widowed when Lon was three years old, he had spent his formative years helping his father scratch out a meager living from the hard Wyoming soil. What little money was made from the sale of potatoes and corn, produced on the small patch of ground east of Dry Fork, was almost immediately consumed by his father at one of the three saloons in town. From an early age, Lon was seen around the little settlement on a regular basis, seeking odd jobs, taking handouts when offered. He tried school for a time, but found he had neither the time nor the patience to learn. Barely able to read and write, he quit to concentrate his efforts upon the more important issue of finding something to eat.
Lon’s fortunes took a turn for the better when, at age seventeen, Walt Collins hired him to clean out the stables. It was there that he became known to Sam Ingram. Sam was especially appreciative of the extra care Lon spent on his horse, and he would talk to the humble young man from time to time. Sam saw something of value in the boy’s honesty and dedication to the job, no matter how menial. Three years later, when Sam’s deputy decided to move on to California, Sam offered Lon the job. It was a genuine opportunity for respectability for Lon, and he eagerly accepted.
Bloody Hills Page 3