by Will DuRey
CHAPTER SIX
Working long hours and battling weariness while planning the next day’s chores was commonplace for Tom Hoag. Although Ben Hoag was still the boss of the outfit, he’d been eased aside by his eldest son when it came to the day-to-day running of the ranch. Tom’s instinct for the cattle business had developed into natural leadership and it was from him that the men received their orders each morning and to whom they reported at the end of shift. It wasn’t unusual for him to be in the yard after dark, issuing instructions to the riders for the following day or checking the animals in the corrals and stables. This night, however, he was in the yard alone, arms resting on the top rail of the boundary fence while he gazed at the dark mounds of rising land which led off to the Dearborn and beyond.
He’d spoken with the men in the bunkhouse earlier, had tried to maintain a semblance of normality to the allotment of tasks and duties, but it hadn’t been easy. Even the toughest of the hired men were affected by Mary’s death and orders had been accepted without any of the grumbles or boisterous jocularity that habitually marked occasions when men of ilk gathered together. Those who had been given night-duties had gathered their equipment as though eager to get away from the ranch. In contrast, Chet and Buck who had expressed a need for a glass of beer in Stanton, had shown a strange reluctance to saddle-up and leave the ranch behind. No one else had plans to leave the bunkhouse that night.
Tom couldn’t rightly explain his own feelings as he smoked a quirly in the cooling darkness. Anger predominated. It hung like an extra layer over the heavy cloak of sadness that smothered him. It disrupted his ability to think clearly and wouldn’t allow him to rest his mind with sleep. The source of his anger was his own family. Frank had barely spoken two words since the last shovelful of soil had been thrown over their sister, but their father had relentlessly spilt words of vengeance for the death of his favourite child. At first, Tom had attempted to appease his father, to reason with him that there was no proof that Walt Risby was guilty of starting the fire, but he soon relinquished the attempt. His words were harshly brushed aside by his father, and appealing for Frank’s support was worthless. The pre-existing squabbles between that son and his father had been further aggravated by his absence from the ranch at the time of the fire so his meanly-stated assertions that he couldn’t positively identify Walt Risby were without conviction. Tom thought his brother was more afraid of increasing his father’s wrath against him than telling the truth. Ben seemed more inclined to believe that his youngest son’s uncertainty was another pointer to the weakness of his character, that he lacked the courage to provide the evidence that would hang Walt Risby. Frank had gone to his room to hide from his father while his father had gone to his office to feed his curses and threats with liquor from a whiskey bottle.
It meant that the task of running the ranch had fallen squarely on Tom’s shoulders. Perhaps, in the morning, his father would resume his role as head of the family, but for now, responsibility for the ranch was all Tom’s and he couldn’t decide if that added to his anger or kept it in check. He’d spoken calmly to the ranch-hands, hoping to eliminate any influence transmitted by his father’s wild accusations; he neither wanted to lose men who, wary of a coming range war, might ride away, nor did he wish to arouse a militant spirit in others and risk the animosity of the Stanton townspeople. As it was, if his father’s words and behaviour were spread abroad, there would be little goodwill extended to the Hoag family. Any sympathy the populace had for the loss of Mary would soon disappear if lead began flying and men were killed and injured.
It was as he stood with his back resolutely turned to the charred timbers of the barn, as though looking upon them would be an affront to the memory of his sister, that he picked up the figure of the horseman approaching from the direction of Stanton. He was slow to recognize Chet Taylor because his baffled mind was trying to make sense of an earlier incident that had been sparked by his father’s ill-mannered demeanour. Pleasantries had never come easily to Ben Hoag’s lips but as he seldom mixed in town society, his ill-grace was noted but rarely gave offence. Around the ranch, the men accepted his surliness because pushing cows was a tough business, and he paid their wages, but that afternoon, his behaviour had been inexcusable despite the extenuating circumstances of his daughter’s death. The confrontation with Mort Risby had been deplorable, but that had been a clash between two bullish men who had locked horns in the past and for whom disputes were the spices that seasoned the meal of life. Mrs Brewster and Clara Buxton, however, had turned up at the ranch to help the family in its time of need and had not deserved the rough words and brusque manners with which they were greeted and eventually dismissed from the Diamond-H.
As he’d helped the women into the doctor’s buggy, Tom had spoken words of apology. It had been difficult for Mrs Brewster to hide her annoyance. She had taken up the reins with the clear intention of leaving the Diamond-H as swiftly as possible. Clara Buxton, however, had dawdled a moment while she adjusted her bonnet before climbing up beside her companion. As she raised her head, she also reached out and rested a hand on Tom’s arm. Her brown eyes looked into his own and held his attention before she spoke.
‘You’re always welcome at the farm, Tom,’ she told him. ‘Come by any time.’
The invitation had surprised Tom. Other than a greeting when they encountered each other in Stanton, he had rarely spoken to Clara. The demands of running a ranch sent him hither and thither across the range land so that he had seldom been around the ranch-house when his sister’s friend had come to visit, and only once had he been to Clem Buxton’s farm. He hadn’t set eyes on Clara that day, had stopped only long enough for Mary to clamber down from the wagon before slapping the reins and urging the team on to Stanton. But none of that meant that he was unaware of Clara Buxton. He could understand how she and his sister had become close friends, because they seemed to share a similar attitude to life. Mary had been able to find pleasure in every situation and a smile was never far from her lips. Likewise, a smile always lit up Clara’s face when he encountered her in Stanton. There had been occasions when she’d seemed prepared to engage him in conversation, but he’d always evaded those moments. He told himself he had neither the aptitude nor the leisure for idle chit-chat. Whatever errand had brought him to town needed to be completed as swiftly as possible so that he could return to the jobs that required his attention at the Diamond-H.
Tom had never managed to adopt that easy manner around women, that came so easily to men like Walt Risby. Even his younger brother, Frank, was ever eager to ride into Stanton to attend the regular Saturday night dance at the Meeting Room and, indeed, to be high stepping with Lily Cregar’s girls at the cruder assemblies in the River Bend. It wasn’t Tom’s way. The prosperity of the ranch was always uppermost in his mind and he shunned anything that might interfere with that goal. Still, as he leant against the yard rails, the picture in his mind was that of Clara Buxton’s face, a memory of her turning to look at him as Mrs Brewster drove the buggy through the gate and up the small rise that led onto the trail to Stanton. Her large, dark eyes were fixed on his, and despite the solemnity of the occasion, he thought a smile was trying to stretch her lips. Tom was still considering its meaning when his recollection of the departing buggy was interrupted by the new arrival. It took a moment to assemble the knowledge that there were two horses but only one rider.
‘Where’s Buck?’ he called as Chet rode into the yard. ‘What’s happened?’
Chet waited until he was inside the ranch-house to relate the full story. Tom Hoag listened with growing incredulity. The dispute between Buck and Steve Tumbrell was common knowledge, but he hadn’t expected it to end in such a violent manner. There had been disputes, arguments and fights among the cowboys in the past and some had stretched into long-running hostilities, but it was a long time since such a flare-up in Stanton had led to a killing.
‘And Marshal Tasker has both Tumbrell and Bywater in jail,’ said Tom, his w
ords seeking to confirm what Chet had said.
‘That’s right. He told Mr Risby that if they faced a charge of murder, they would be there until the judge arrived for their trial.’
‘Mort Risby! He was there?’ The angry words came from Ben Hoag whom Tom had summoned to listen to Chet’s report.
‘Sure was, Mr Hoag. Rode into town with his men.’
Ben Hoag cursed. ‘Then he’s behind the plot,’ he added.
‘Pa!’ Tom interrupted his father, didn’t want him to say anything in front of Chet that might incite the ranch-hands.
Chet Taylor, however, was already shaking his head to deny Ben Hoag’s accusation. ‘Mr Risby wasn’t in the River Bend when the shooting began,’ he said. ‘Reckon he was with the marshal, leastways, they arrived together.’
Ben Hoag swept an arm across his body as though pushing away his worker’s words. ‘Setting up an alibi,’ he stated. ‘Making sure that he didn’t get jailed with the men he’d paid to do the killing.’
‘Pa!’ Tom butted in again, ‘what reason could Mr Risby have for killing Buck?’
‘You heard Chet,’ growled his father, ‘he’s setting the town against this family.’
Tom wanted to argue but Chet was first to speak. This time his words were delivered slowly, with deliberation, as though his opinion was changing in favour of the elder Hoag. ‘Sure were some unkind things said against you, Mr Hoag, and some of them said after Tumbrell and Bywater were locked in the calaboose.’ He fingered the soft, discoloured mark below his right eye. ‘Didn’t expect the barber to pick a side.’
‘What’s he got against this family?’ asked Tom.
‘Young Frank was his target,’ Chet answered.
‘He was probably just saying what he’d been paid to say,’ Ben growled, ‘but it shows how determined Mort Risby is to turn the town against us.’
Chet remembered he had a message to deliver. ‘Marshal Tasker’s coming out here tomorrow.’
‘Then he’ll get the same reception I gave Mort Risby,’ said Ben Hoag. ‘He has no authority out here. This is my land, and nobody is taking it without a fight.’
If Tom adjudged his father’s comment as unjustified, he chose not to argue against it for the moment. Words that were the product of whiskey-soaked grief might not be repeated in the light of a new day. In the morning he would try to reason with him and help to put an end to the growing tension before the marshal arrived.
Tom’s hope that sleep would have a pacifying effect on his father’s temperament gained no encouragement when he tried to discuss the previous day’s events next morning and was completely shattered the moment Silas Tasker hove into view on the western ridge. Ben Hoag, rifle in hand, strode across the yard and closed the yard-gate to emphasise the point that the lawman was not welcome at the ranch. While he waited for the marshal to reach the gate, he was joined by his sons, both of whom were anxious to overhear the up-coming conversation.
Silas reined in his mount and greeted the rancher as though undeterred by the barrier and armed reception. ‘Ben,’ he said by way of a greeting, ‘reckon I speak for most people in Stanton when I say that Mary will be a sore miss in our lives.’
‘Yeah! And what are you doing to catch her killer?’
Silas eased himself in the saddle, rested his hands on the pommel-horn and leant forward. ‘That’s why I’m here, Ben. To investigate what happened. Hear your complaint and have a look around the ruins.’
‘You’ve got no authority out here,’ Ben told him.
‘You’re right, Ben, but what happened in the River Bend last night is my concern and people in town seem to be linking Buck Downs’ death with the burning of your barn. I don’t want the matter escalating out of control with riders of rival ranches exchanging gunfire in town. We need to get this situation sorted out. I’m here to talk.’
He motioned his head towards the gate, expected it would be opened for him as it always had been on previous visits. The Hoags had never lacked common-place courtesy. Water for his horse and place in the shade for himself had always been his reward following a dusty ride from town; Mary had always brought coffee and biscuits and a welcoming smile while he discussed with her father the business that had brought him to the ranch. But this morning the gate remained closed.
‘You can talk from there,’ Ben told him.
The rancher’s obstinate attitude made Silas uneasy, but he tried not to let it show. Losing his own temper wouldn’t help anyone. ‘Mort Risby tells me his son was in Miles City at the time of the fire and I’ve sent a telegraph message to Sheriff Brown asking him to confirm that the lad was there two nights ago. Until I get that reply, I don’t want to hear any more accusations or threats against him.’
‘Of course, you don’t. I’ve heard that Mort Risby was your constant companion last night. No doubt you’ve already dropped the charges against those men who murdered Buck Downs. He’s always been jealous of my rich grazing-land and now he’s got you in his pocket to help him grab it.’
Silas Tasker bristled at the accusation. ‘I’m not in anyone’s pocket, Ben, and for your information, Steve Tumbrell and Luke Bywater are still in my cells and they’ll remain there until they go on trial to face a charge of murder.’ He paused a moment, hoping to detect something in the rancher’s stance that would indicate an abatement of his aggressive attitude. When nothing showed, he focussed on Ben’s accusation that Mort Risby was trying to steal the Diamond-H’s grazing-land. ‘What makes you think Mort Risby is trying to encroach on your land?’ he asked.
‘Because he wants a quicker route to the corrals at the Billings railhead and I won’t let him drive his beeves through the Musselshell Valley.’
Silas knew that the route to Billings had previously been a bone of contention between the two ranchers but had thought it an argument long ago resolved. When he saw the look that the brothers exchanged behind their father’s back, it seemed clear that they, too, were surprised that such a topic had been revived. Still, they didn’t contradict him, so it was left to Silas to give voice to the fact that he hadn’t heard anyone, including Mort Risby, mention that such a dispute still existed.
‘That’s why he wanted Walt to marry my Mary,’ Ben Hoag insisted. ‘I expect he thought the marriage would allow him access to the valley.’
Again, the brothers seemed uneasy with their father’s comments, as though his normal, reasoned behaviour had been derailed by the horrific event that had culminated in their sister’s death.
‘When I made it clear that my daughter would never be allowed to marry that hellion, they took their revenge by trying to destroy my livestock, but killed my daughter instead.’
Silas said, ‘There is no evidence to indicate that Walt had any involvement in starting the blaze that burned down your property. If any is found, then he too will be arrested and put on trial.’
‘Of course, there is evidence,’ stormed Ben Hoag. ‘My boy here,’ he indicated Frank who was two steps behind his left shoulder, ‘saw him riding away and chased him to the Dearborn.’
‘Is that true, Frank?’ asked the marshal. ‘Can you positively identify Walt Risby?’
Frank shuffled. ‘It was dark. I saw the white tail of a horse.’
‘Hardly sufficient evidence on which to accuse Walt of any involvement in the crime,’ responded the marshal.
‘He followed him all the way to the Dearborn,’ snarled Ben Hoag, ‘all the way to the road that leads to Miles City. You might get an answer to your message that tells you that Walt Risby is currently in Miles City, but he wasn’t there when the fire was started. He was here. He killed my daughter and he’ll pay for it.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Silas Tasker’s request for information from Sheriff Brown concerning the location of Walt Risby wasn’t the only telegraphic message that had passed between Stanton and Miles City that morning; Mort Risby had sent one to his son advising him to stay away from home until he was contacted again. That message, however, was never
delivered; Walt had already left his hotel with the expectation of reaching the Triple-R long before nightfall.
He was in a buoyant mood as he made the journey home; not only had the business he’d been sent to conduct at the Cattlemen’s Bank been trouble-free, but for two nights he’d enjoyed all the pleasures available in a larger settlement and had had his appetite whetted for travel beyond the boundaries of Montana. He wanted to discover if the tales he’d heard about the boisterous towns such as Cheyenne and Abilene were true or if the carnal pleasures available in the great cities, Chicago, St. Louis and Santa Fe, matched his expectations. Jimmy Carson could be persuaded to travel with him; Jimmy had no especial desire to spend the remainder of his days working in the lumber-yard on the edge of town and was as keen on finding fun and adventure as Walt himself.
Thinking of Jimmy jogged the memory of their recent escapade and caused him to chuckle as he rode towards home. They’d gone up into the high ground to swim in a pool they knew that was permanently refreshed with cool water off the hillside. When they got around to talking about the approaching town social, it transpired that they each had the same partner in mind; Esther Hope, the minister’s daughter. The result was a race back to town to be the first to pay their addresses to the girl. Walt had pushed Jimmy in the pool, which gave him the edge on reaching the horses first then, in high spirits, he’d chased away Jimmy’s mount to ensure the advantage and be first back to town.
Yipping away the horse wasn’t anything Jimmy wouldn’t have done to him if the roles had been reversed. Playing tricks on each other had become common-place in their friendship without arousing anger or resentment in either. On this occasion, however, accidently, the inconvenience caused to Jimmy Carson had been greater than intended. If the chestnut gelding had been Jimmy’s own horse it wouldn’t have run more than a quarter of a mile before pausing to crop grass and await its rider, but Jimmy had hired a livery horse that day and it hadn’t stopped running until it got back to the stable in Stanton. Jimmy cursed his friend all the way home, but any rancour he harboured against Walt had disappeared the next day.