by Will DuRey
It was the gossiping people of Stanton who turned the misfiring escapade into a feat of wilful evil. They, it was, who attached the danger of capture and death at the hands of raiding Arapaho to the discomfort of a long walk home. Both Walt and Jimmy had laughed at that. Perhaps a heifer had been stolen from a remote farm by a hungry warrior, but the possibility of raiding war parties was as likely as driving a wagon over the Bitterroots in winter. These were civilized times; tribal wars were at an end.
Esther Hope had agreed to attend the social with Walt and she was the reason he was hurrying back to the Triple-R. In the wake of the gossip that had branded him with the desertion of his friend, her parents had tried to dissuade her from going through with the undertaking, but she had refused to abandon the plan. It was a source of wonder to Walt that two such sour-faced people as the minister and his wife, could have produced such a pretty and cheerful child and he wondered what God they worshipped who insisted upon the life of permanent misery that seemed to be theirs. To prevent such an existence becoming Esther’s fate, he intended to add to her usual cheerfulness by dancing her off her feet.
On reflection, he decided, the Hopes weren’t the only people in Stanton whom happiness had apparently passed by. People sneered or objected to every little jape whether they were affected by it or not. It seemed that the young were only worthy of consideration if they worked from dawn ’til dusk and were permitted to smile if following an example set by their elders. He’d never wittingly harmed anyone, never intended any offence but there were countless people in Stanton who gave him a wide berth.
The thought occurred to him that most of the people who disliked him were the fathers of the prettiest girls in town. Even Ben Hoag had been riled at the sight of him talking to Mary. He liked Mary Hoag, who seemed to regard his reputation as the Lothario of Stanton with as much humour as he did himself. She seldom attended the town socials, too busy at the Diamond-H, he supposed, but one day, he promised himself, they would dance together.
It was with his mind full of pleasant thoughts about pretty girls that Walt reached the point where the trail crossed the Dearborn. As he cantered down to the river’s edge, he detected an awkwardness in the horse’s gait, so climbed down to inspect the rear leg that seemed to be the cause of the animal’s discomfort. The white stallion swished its tail with impatience while Walt inspected its leg for cuts or abrasions then, finding none, lifted its foot off the ground. A small stone had become lodged between hoof and shoe and it needed only a moment for Walt to hook it clear with the aid of his pocket-knife. The stone had provided a bit of leverage to separate the shoe from the hoof, slackening it slightly so that Walt knew he would have to proceed at a gentler pace in order to protect the animal from further discomfort and injury. He allowed it to stand in the cool water for a few moments in the hope that it would heal any remaining soreness.
Across the river, shielded by tall trees littering the high bank that rose to a plateau of open range-land, Walt Risby’s ministrations to his troubled animal were observed by two pairs of eyes.
‘Should we tell Mr Hoag?’ The speaker was Pete Simms who’d been in the yard earlier that day when the boss had defied the marshal and asserted that Walt Risby was responsible for the death of his daughter and would be made to pay for it. The marshal, however, had been adamant that when evidence was produced to prove the young man’s guilt, he would be arrested but, until then, anyone who took matters into their own hands would, themselves, face the full power of the law. Pete Simms was unsure if his duty was to Ben Hoag or the law.
The doubts in the mind of Pete’s companion were less pronounced. Don Glasco was an older man and had worked at the Diamond-H for several years. Ranch owners were their own law-makers and he had never had cause to doubt Ben Hoag’s past decisions. He was reluctant to start now. Still, Ben’s behaviour that morning had been unusual, as though he had been gripped with so great a need for vengeance that only a range war would assuage his inner clamour.
‘I’ll keep an eye on young Risby,’ he said. ‘You ride back to the ranch. But Pete,’ he said before the other put spur to his horse’s flanks, ‘report to Tom. Let him decide what Mr Hoag should know.’
Pete Simms saw the sense in that course of action and nodded his agreement before speeding off towards the Diamond-H. Half-an-hour later he galloped through the yard-gate and slithered to a halt outside the cookhouse where Matty Slade was rinsing pans under the pump. The cook swatted away the dust stirred up by the animal’s abrupt stop.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘If these pots need rewashing, then you’re doing them. What’s got under your saddle?’
‘I’m looking for Tom. Is he around the yard?’
Matty Slade shook his head. ‘Saw him ride out an hour ago. No doubt he’ll be back when I put some grub on the table.’
Pete looked around as though hoping the cook was mistaken and the boss’s son would come striding across the compound to hear his report. ‘Do you know where he went?’ he asked.
Matty shook his head and turned his attention back to the pots. ‘Went up the trail towards town but I ain’t saying that’s where he’s gone.’
‘And you don’t know when he’ll be back.’
It was difficult to tell if Pete’s words were a question or a statement but in either case, they failed to elicit a response from the cook. Instead, a voice, gruff and trouble-laden, growled behind him.
‘Don’t know when who’s coming back?’ demanded Ben Hoag.
‘I was looking for Tom,’ Pete replied.
‘Why do you want him?’
Pete hesitated a moment. ‘I’ve got a message for him from Don.’
Ben fixed his eyes on the rider, glowering, as though a message for his son this day was a measure of disrespect to him. ‘Spit it out,’ he said. ‘I’m still the boss of this outfit.’
Again, Pete paused, his tongue licking across dry lips as though needing to wet them before being able to continue.
‘Well!’ Ben Hoag voiced a surly impatience. ‘What’s the trouble? Where are you working?’
‘Me and Don were working the south range, Mr Hoag. Rounding up strays on the open land near the river.’
‘OK. So why aren’t you still out there?’
‘Don thought Tom should know what we’d seen,’ he said. His reluctance to reveal the message to anyone but the man he’d been sent to deliver it to was apparent in the slow manner that the words left his mouth. He shuffled in the saddle.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ snapped Ben Hoag, annoyance mixing with impatience in his tone. It caused Matty Slade to cease his work with the pans and flash a look at Pete Simms, a look which advised him against holding out on the boss, urging him to appease Ben Hoag’s growing temper.
‘We saw Walt Risby,’ said Pete. ‘He was at the crossing point on the Dearborn.’
‘Heading which way?’ Ben’s low voice was full of threat.
‘Heading for home, I guess.’
‘Get my horse,’ shouted Ben, ‘and gather the men together. If we hurry, we’ll catch him while he’s still on the open range.’
‘He’s not travelling fast,’ Pete said. ‘I think his horse is lame.’
Ben nodded, a sign of satisfaction that revenge for Mary’s death was close at hand.
Matty Slade, who had been at the Diamond-H longer than any of the other hands, tried to dissuade his employer from his intended action. ‘Leave it to Marshal Tasker, Mr Hoag. He’ll find the evidence to prove young Risby guilty, if he burned down the stable.’
‘If!’ Ben Hoag roared the one word, his face dark with rage. ‘Walt Risby is guilty of killing my daughter. I’ve doled out punishments to those who’ve wronged me in the past. I didn’t need Silas Tasker or any lawman then and I don’t need them now. If you don’t want to ride with me then you stay here and cook up a big pan of stew, but ring that bell now and tell the rest of the men to get armed and mounted because I’m not letting Walt Risby see another sundown.’
Four men rode away from the Diamond-H ranch alongside Ben Hoag and Pete Simms. Any personal belief they might have had with regards to the guilt or innocence of Walt Risby was set aside. Mary Hoag’s father had suffered a loss for which he sought revenge and the thirty dollars a month he paid for pushing cattle also bought their loyalty. They were armed with rifles in saddle-boots in addition to the pistols that were holstered against their thighs. They clattered out of the yard, the horses put to a steady run as they climbed the first of the low mounds that pointed the way to the Dearborn River.
Frank Hoag opened the ranch-house door and watched the group until it disappeared. Hoping to avoid his father, Frank had remained indoors since the departure of Silas Tasker. Sounds of frantic activity in the yard, however, had aroused his interest, had drawn him outside to investigate. He crossed the compound to find out the cause of the matter from the one person who had remained behind.
‘You’ve got to stop your pa, Frank,’ Matty Slade told him after informing him of the news Pete Simms had brought to the ranch. ‘If anything happens to Walt Risby, there’s a danger of this blowing up into a full-scale range war.’
‘Was Tom riding with them?’
‘Nobody knows where your brother is, but you haven’t got time to worry about that. Get saddled up and catch up to them before they find young Risby. You’ve got to persuade your father to leave the matter to Marshal Tasker.’
‘My father doesn’t listen to anything I say except to find fault with it.’
Matty spoke angrily. ‘Quit feeling sorry for yourself. A young man’s life is in danger. Even if he did start the fire I doubt if he meant for your sister to die.’
Frank was more aware than anyone that suspicion of Walt Risby’s involvement had been brought about by his own false testimony and that probably the only way to deflect his father from his purpose was to confess to the fact that he wasn’t anywhere near the ranch when the stable went up in flames. It was a course of action that he anticipated with trepidation. He would be despised by everyone in the territory. His father, he supposed, would disown him but his conscience told him that it wasn’t right to stand by and see a man persecuted for something he hadn’t done. When, once more, Matty Slade urged him to go after the others, he headed for the corral, saddled a mount then galloped away towards the Dearborn crossing.
The damage to the white stallion’s hoof wasn’t critical, it would heal with the application of a salve and a few idle days in the pasture, but once across the river there were still twenty miles to cover to reach the Triple-R ranch. Accordingly, Walt Risby asked no more of the animal than a walking pace and, for long stretches, walked at its head rather than sat astride its back. For the most part, the terrain was suitable walking country. There were occasional low mounds to scale and descend but it was good grass land, unlike the more rugged and rocky country to the west. Still, he would have preferred to ride; there weren’t many cowboys who didn’t like to be in the saddle.
The thought flicked through his mind that it would brighten Jimmy Carson’s day if he happened upon him at this moment. Who would blame his friend if, in such a circumstance, he simply laughed, uttered some comment about marauding Arapaho, then rode away. Of course, he knew that Jimmy wouldn’t do that. They’d ride double into Stanton where Walt could hire a livery horse that would take him home. He smiled, his feet were going to be sore when he stood up with Esther Hope at tomorrow night’s social.
It was at that moment that he realized he was under observation by horsemen in a line along the brow of a nearby mound. Encountering other riders wasn’t to be unexpected. Although Montana was sparsely populated, this was still the main route from the northern territories to the Wyoming border. Also, this was open range land, free grazing for the stock of several of the local ranches.
Walt counted seven riders, too many, he suspected, to be hands from one ranch, especially as he hadn’t seen any sign of a herd since crossing the Dearborn. But one by one, in a line, they descended the rise and headed in his direction. Perhaps, he thought, there was a chance he’d be able to ride double with one of these men back to town. That chance, however, diminished when he recognized the leading rider. Ben Hoag’s face bore an expression no less severe than when he’d last seen it in Stanton two days earlier. He stopped walking as the riders drew near and studied the six dour faces that looked down at him from their saddles. They’d formed an uneven semi-circle, effectively barring him from moving forward. Walt hadn’t expected a friendly greeting from Ben Hoag, but he hadn’t expected his own smile to be met with such a sombre response from the others. He knew all the riders; Pete Simms, Chet Taylor and Biff Clayton weren’t much older than himself while Don Glasco, Harvey Jacks and the man he knew only as Omaha, had been around the territory as long as he could remember. He had chatted, drunk and gambled with them in the Stanton saloons and squatted around campfires or rode alongside them while checking out the brands on open-range strays.
‘Picked up a stone down by the river,’ he explained, rubbing the white stallion’s long face in a friendly fashion. ‘Must have walked four miles already and still got a distance to go.’ When the Diamond-H crew remained silent he spoke again. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a spare mount nearby that I can ride into Stanton.’ Walt smiled again.
There was no trace of humour in Ben Hoag’s reply. ‘That white will get you as far as you’re going.’
Walt twisted an unconvincing smile. He knew there was a hidden meaning in the rancher’s words, but he couldn’t figure out what it could be. He addressed his next remark to Chet Taylor whose extravagant manner of high-stepping girls around a dance-floor was a reflection of the joy afforded by the activity. ‘If I have to walk all the way to Stanton I reckon I’ll be no more capable of dancing at tomorrow’s social than that wooden Indian outside the Danvers’ store.’
‘I reckon you’ll do your next jig just fine,’ Ben Hoag told him. ‘Biff, throw your rope over him.’
‘Hey!’ Walt shouted. ‘What’s going on here? What’s this all about?’ As he spoke he stepped to the other side of his horse, putting it between himself and the owner of the Diamond-H but aware that Biff Clayton, if he unstrung his rope, would be no less capable of flipping it over his head.
‘It’s about the death of my daughter,’ Ben Hoag told him. ‘You’ve got to pay for that.’
‘Mary. Mary’s dead?’
‘She died in agony. Killed by the fire you started.’
‘Fire! I didn’t start any fire.’
‘You were seen, betrayed by your white horse. Fitting that its injury has allowed you to fall into our hands.’
‘You’ve got this wrong, Mr Hoag. I haven’t done anything to cause Mary’s death. I left for Miles City shortly after I spoke to you in Stanton. There are people there who can verify that.’
‘And there are people here who saw you riding away from our ranch towards the Dearborn shortly before the fire was discovered. Biff, what are you waiting for?’
Biff Clayton had his rope uncoiled but had delayed spinning the loop until the talking was done. Walt Risby’s surprise at the news of Mary Hoag’s death had seemed genuine to him, as had his protestation of innocence with regards the fire. But now, hearing the order from his boss and conscious of the fact that the rest of the crew were waiting for him to cast his rope over Walt, he began to swing it.
Walt stepped back, pulled his horse’s head around so that its neck provided a kind of battlement that made it impossible for Biff to get a rope over him. ‘No one’s putting a rope over me,’ he told Ben Hoag. ‘If there was a fire at your ranch, it had nothing to do with me. Nor did the death of your daughter.’
Using his knees, Biff Clayton guided his cow-pony towards the edge of the semi-circle, trying to find a position from which he could get a clear throw with his rope.
‘I’m not going to let you do it, Biff,’ warned Walt. His right hand reached for the butt of his holstered handgun.
‘He’s going for his gun,’ so
meone yelled.
Walt drew and fired, the bullet smacked into Biff Clayton’s right shoulder, twisting him in the saddle and forcing him to drop the spinning rope.
Other riders reached for their guns, but Ben Hoag’s voice barked at them before any shots were fired. ‘Don’t shoot him. That would be too easy for him. I want him to hang, to know some of the suffering he inflicted on my girl.’
In order to shoot Biff Clayton, it had been necessary for Walt to move away from the white stallion and, as a result of the gunshot, that horse had taken a couple of sideways steps that left Walt exposed to his adversaries. Finding cover became his priority. At first, he backed away then, espying a couple of cottonwoods a dozen yards to his left, he made a dash to reach them. The sound of running horses reached him and he threw a look over his shoulder as he ran. Another rider was approaching, the loop of his rope circling above his head. Without pausing, Walt swung his arm back and fired another shot. Harvey Jacks yelled as the bullet tore into his guts. He slumped forward then tipped off the side of his horse to lie writhing in the long grass.
The horse didn’t slacken pace. For a moment, an opportunity seemed to offer itself to Walt. If he could mount the horse, there was the possibility of escape but no sooner had the thought occurred to him than it was dashed by his own negligence. He didn’t see the hump of cottonwood root that had burst through the surface of the ground and he tumbled full length as the horse raced by. Adding to the disaster, his pistol fell from his hand and was lost from sight among the prairie grass.
Instantly, men were upon him, kneeling on his back to put an end to his struggles then tying his hands together to make resistance impossible.