Feud Along the Dearborn

by Will DuRey

  Ben Hoag inspected the tree under which Walt had fallen. ‘Bring his horse here,’ he ordered Omaha, then told Chet Taylor to throw his rope over a low branch.

  The sight of the noose renewed Walt’s fighting spirit but there was little he could do to prevent being lifted onto the back of his white stallion and the rope fixed around his neck.

  ‘Whatever plans your father had to steal my land end here,’ Ben Hoag told him but, like everything that had happened in the last few minutes, those words had no meaning for Walt.

  A shout went up which brought a pause to the hurried proceedings. ‘It’s Frank,’ Omaha informed the group and activity ceased until Ben’s youngest son joined them.

  The colour drained from Frank’s face when he took in the situation. Not only was Walt Risby under the threat of death, but two of their own men were nursing gunshot wounds. Harvey Jacks was propped against the same tree that was to be Walt Risby’s gallows, and the greyness of his face suggested that his life was not likely to extend much beyond the condemned man’s.

  ‘You mustn’t do this,’ Frank told his father. ‘Take him to Marshal Tasker in Stanton. Let him stand trial.’

  ‘Tasker is in the pay of his father. There would never be a trial.’

  ‘I’m innocent,’ Walt Risby shouted, his voice tremulous, affected by the knowledge that Ben Hoag was convinced of his guilt and had no intention of removing the noose from his neck.

  ‘I’m not certain it was Walt,’ Frank said.

  ‘Don’t shame me,’ said Ben. ‘One rancher in this valley with a weak son is enough.’ He turned his horse, rode alongside the condemned man and without another word, slapped the rump of the white stallion. It sprang forward, hobbled for a step or two then stood still.

  Ben watched Walt Risby’s throes until they ceased then, wordlessly, he led his men away from the hanging tree, leaving the body to sway gently in the breeze and the white stallion to peacefully graze.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Before riding away from the Diamond-H that morning, Silas Tasker promised Ben Hoag that he would question Walt Risby when he returned home, and that his neighbour’s son would be put before a judge if there was any case to answer. But the marshal knew that even if he’d heard the words, they were insufficient to appease Ben Hoag. The boss of the Diamond-H hadn’t budged an inch from his opinion that Walt was responsible for Mary’s death, nor that he deemed it a crime for which the death penalty was the only suitable punishment. Moreover, Ben’s need for revenge had been heightened by the events in Stanton the previous night, making the prospect of a war between the two largest ranches in the territory a matter of immediate concern.

  When he returned to Stanton, Silas’s first stop was at the telegraph office. Although Jethro Humbo was able to assure Silas that there had been no hitch in sending the message to Miles City, there had as yet, been no response from Sheriff Brown. The marshal wasn’t the only person disappointed by an inactive telegraph line; Mort Risby was hanging around town awaiting an answer from his son. The post office clerk confided to the lawman that Mort had been in his office several times that morning, anxious for a reply to the message he had sent. Although Jethro promised both men that he would deliver their messages the moment he received them, their visits to his office persisted throughout the day.

  Silas Tasker had been surprised to find Mort Risby still in town when he returned from the Diamond-H, but the rancher’s presence provided a small crumb of comfort; there would be no furtherance of hostilities between the two factions while Mort was twiddling his thumbs in Stanton. During that day, in fact, Mort was almost as regular a visitor at the marshal’s office as he was at Jethro Humbo’s. The main purpose of his visits was to niggle at Silas for the release of his imprisoned ranch-hands, but the town marshal was adamant that they would remain in his cells until their trial for murder. The rancher’s attempts to obtain the release of Steve Tumbrell and Luke Bywater troubled Silas. The pair had shown an aptitude for violence and gunplay and the lawman wondered if it was those skills that Mort Risby wanted back on his payroll.

  Mort Risby was annoyed by the marshal’s refusal to release his men but he was even more angered by the lawman’s pronouncement that Walt, too, would be arraigned before the judge if he couldn’t prove he was in Miles City when the Diamond-H stable was set alight. Mort accused Silas of siding with the Hoags, insisted that his son was innocent and vowed he would never be charged with the crime.

  In the late afternoon, Silas Tasker stepped outside and cast a look up the street, wondering if there was any value in another trip to the telegraph office, before crossing to the coffee house which was his usual practice at this hour. Further down the street he could see the men from the Triple-R who had loitered on the street with their boss all day. Lloyd Rafton and Davy Walsh were leaning against the wall of the River Bend Saloon while another two, Chuck Grainger and Benny Gates, lounged, almost sleepily, on seats that were set deep in the shadows of its long, sloped roof. Mort alone, seemed alert. He sat with his hands on his knees, displaying a rigidity to his body that epitomised his unyielding character.

  From the opposite direction, the light jingle of harness drew Silas’s attention. A one-horse buggy appeared in the distance and trudged slowly along the rutted main street. Silas watched its approach, gripped by a sense of foreboding. He recognized Abe Brewster’s vehicle and stepped to the edge of the boardwalk to await his arrival.

  The doctor drew his buggy alongside the marshal’s office. His arrival had attracted the attention of other people, and from across the street there were signs of hurried activity. Men came running and troubled voices were raised, their interest awoken by the hobbling white horse that was tied to the back of the doctor’s buggy.

  ‘What’s the trouble, Abe?’ asked Silas Tasker.

  The doctor turned and indicated the covered form in the space behind him. ‘It’s Walt Risby.’

  Silas stepped onto the street and reached inside the buggy to uncover the dead man’s face. ‘Where did you find him?’

  Before Abe Brewster answered, the men from across the street had surrounded the vehicle and Mort Risby, too, gazed on the face of his dead son.

  ‘He was out on the range,’ Abe Brewster announced, ‘five or six miles from the river.’

  ‘Who did it?’ Mort Risby wanted to know, but the glare he threw at Silas Tasker told the lawman that the rancher had already come up with his own answer.

  Murmuring among the crowd increased as the identity of the victim was passed around, but most people remained silent, awaiting the reactions of the marshal and Mort Risby. The subdued atmosphere only lasted until a close bystander looked at the body and immediately understood the cause of the red burn mark around Walt’s neck.

  ‘They hanged him,’ he shouted, ‘the Hoags have hanged Walt Risby.’

  Knowledge of Ben Hoag’s threats was widespread though few had expected him to carry them out. He had a reputation for being morose but not for being violent. Like most people in the area he was regarded as a hardworking family man. But now, voices began to rise against him, reflecting the communal outrage at such an act. Silas yelled for order and when his voice wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the uproar he drew his pistol and fired two shots into the air.

  ‘Abe, I’ll speak to you in my office.’ He spotted the undertaker among the men standing along the boardwalk. ‘Noah,’ he said to him, ‘take the doctor’s buggy down to your workshop. The rest of you go about your business.’ He had to issue that final order a second time before the crowd began to disperse and only then because Noah Pink took hold of the horse’s bridle to lead it down the street with the corpse-carrying buggy in its wake.

  Ashen-faced, Mort Risby sat on a seat beside the marshal’s desk and listened to Abe Brewster’s account of a visit to the Diamond-H which had led to the discovery of his son’s body hanging from a cottonwood tree on the open range.

  ‘Don Glasco came for me a short time after midday,’ the doctor began. �
�Told me there’d been some shooting and I was needed out at the Hoag place. Biff Clayton had a bullet in his shoulder and Harvey Jacks had one in his belly. I was able to patch up Biff but Harvey Jacks was dead before I got there. I thought they’d shot each other but that turned out not to be the case. Your son shot both of them.’

  ‘Says who?’ Mort Risby wanted to know.

  ‘Ben Hoag and his son. Biff Clayton, Pete Simms and others.’

  ‘And you believe them?’

  ‘What I believe doesn’t matter. What I know is that Harvey Jacks is dead, that there was an ugly lump of lead in Biff’s shoulder and everyone I spoke to agreed that Walt fired those slugs with the intention of inflicting damage.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’ Mort wanted to know, his tone reflecting a belief that his son must have been provoked.

  ‘According to Ben, Walt began shooting when they questioned him about the fire. He figured his reaction was an admission of guilt.’

  ‘So, they hanged him.’

  The room remained silent for several moments before Mort spoke again.

  ‘What are you going to do about this, marshal?’

  ‘I’ll talk to Ben Hoag.’

  ‘Talk!’

  ‘You know I have no jurisdiction for anything that happens on the open range, but I don’t intend letting this explode into a range war.’

  Mort Risby snorted with derision, the message clear enough that it was already too late for that. ‘Ben Hoag’s been seeking a fight,’ he said, ‘and now he has one.’

  ‘Hold on there, Mort,’ said Silas Tasker, ‘don’t go bringing your troubles into this town. I’ll have no gunplay in Stanton and I’ll ban you and your men at the first hint of a fight.’

  ‘How do you intend to enforce that, marshal? You haven’t got one deputy to support you.’

  Silas knew that that was true, but he wasn’t prepared to be cowed by the rancher. ‘Go home, Mort. Cool off. Let the law sort out the trouble.’

  They were brave words, but he had failed to prevent Ben Hoag carrying out his threat and he had little reason to believe he would be more successful with Mort Risby. He studied the rancher’s face and could see the same dreadful sense of loss in those dull eyes that he had seen in Ben Hoag’s earlier that day. Any words that might alleviate the oncoming struggle were not within his grasp. Fleeting thoughts that the families were even, that both had suffered loss, that an eye had been paid for with another eye, would never be acknowledged. For each, the death of a child was unjustified and retaliation was not only necessary to salve the pain but also inherent in each man’s character. Mort Risby quit the marshal’s office without another word.

  ‘What’ll you do now, Silas?’ asked Abe Brewster.

  ‘Pray, Abe. Pray that Sheriff Brown’s response doesn’t provide Walt Risby with an alibi for the night of the fire. That might be the only thing that prevents this town going up like a keg of gunpowder.’

  Doctor Brewster went off to collect his rig from Noah Pink, leaving Silas with the observation, ‘Looks like you’ve got trouble and I’m going to be very busy.’

  Silas Tasker hadn’t been the only person to ride away from the Diamond-H that morning with a troubled mind. Shortly after the marshal’s departure, Tom Hoag had quit his home, burdened by his father’s intransigence. He had seen the faces of the men in the yard who had witnessed the angry words thrown across the fence at the lawman and understood their stoic loyalty. They were aware of the circumstances that had given rise to the abrasive behaviour of their boss and understood the consequences that could arise from it. Some of them wouldn’t want to be involved in a feud that would involve gunplay, but none of them would show that. They were paid to defend the Diamond-H, its property, livestock and crew, and no one would show reluctance to earn his money at the first intimation of a fight. Yet more than one pair of eyes had strayed in Tom’s direction as though he had the ability to placate his father and resolve the matter peacefully.

  But Tom had made one unsuccessful attempt that morning to reason with his father and, at that moment, was unable to summon up further arguments that might placate the elder Hoag. Over and over he’d repeated that Frank had not positively identified Walt as the man he’d seen riding away from the ranch, but Ben had responded to that with a dismissive grunt and walked away. Frank’s input to the discussion had been negligible and had given Tom neither support nor encouragement to do combat with their father’s opinion. Tom was frustrated by his brother’s attitude, greater resolve was needed if a clash with the Triple-R was to be avoided, but Frank was like a man swept along in a current that he knew he was too weak to combat.

  So Tom had thrown a saddle on his horse and ridden off to the northern range where he’d sent a fence-mending gang. Physical work, he hoped, would sweat away those mental impediments that were making it difficult to form a strategy. Clear thinking was needed if he was to succeed in dissuading his father from his entrenched attitude. He understood his father’s desire for revenge, he too grieved for his sister, but he didn’t agree that stepping beyond the law was the way to achieve it. The Diamond-H wouldn’t prosper by it, nor would Mary have condoned it. Perhaps convincing his father of the latter was the key to persuading him to abandon his quest for revenge.

  He stayed with the fence gang throughout the afternoon, but the hours of labour failed to shake off those thoughts by which he was plagued. His gloomy mood was transmitted to the hired-hands and they worked in awkward silence until the job was done. Tom parted from them when the wagon was loaded for the return journey to the ranch-house. He’d decided to ride into Stanton and consult Doctor Brewster. He had no reason to suppose the medic could help him, indeed, he was sure that no medicine existed that could be prescribed to cure his father’s condition, but he knew no one else who might have advice to offer.

  Stanton was situated in the higher ground, above the grazing land, where there was water and lumber to satisfy the needs of the townspeople. Tom was following one of the many game trails that abounded among the wooded slopes, routes that were too narrow, steep or hazardous for wagon roads, but which provided a shorter and quicker route for those who were not strangers to the territory. His horse needed no guidance but carefully picked its way around trees and bushes as it continued uphill. They had crossed the road that had been established between Stanton and the river crossing and were still climbing when a movement above caught Tom’s attention. It was a flash of light, the sun reflecting off something metal, polished bright. He stopped and looked uphill.

  Briefly, Tom caught sight of a horseman but the mass of trees between them quickly hid him from view again. He remained still, watching for the rider to re-emerge at some visible point. Tom had no logical explanation for pausing, whoever the rider was, he would not belong to the crew of the Diamond-H. The higher trails wound away to the east, towards the headquarters of the Triple-R. Tom waited. He had no reason to avoid meeting a rider from the other ranch but in the circumstances, didn’t want to risk aggravating an awkward situation. His eyes scanned the higher ground, eager to catch a glimpse of the rider who was heading away from the town which was Tom’s destination. When he was sure their paths would not cross he would proceed.

  When Tom next espied the horseman, he was almost directly above him, and he had company. There were another three men and Tom was able to put a name to two of them. Chuck Grainger was the ranch foreman and Davy Walsh had been on the Triple-R payroll for several years. Tom figured he probably knew the other two riders, but the heavily-wooded hillside was a hindrance to a clear view. Even so, he was aware that the four above had also reined their animals to a halt and had him under observation. He raised a hand, the standard greeting when cowboys met on the open range. Any act of normality, Tom told himself, would surely help to maintain peaceful relations between the two ranches.

  The men of the Triple-R, however, had just left their boss attending to the details of his son’s funeral. He’d ordered them back to the ranch with words that left litt
le doubt in their minds that the Triple-R was at war with the Diamond-H. Despite the words of warning that had been issued by the town marshal, their commander-in-chief was Mort Risby and he demanded revenge for the death of his son. Furthermore, Walt had not only been the boss’ son, he had been their friend, too. Davy Walsh raised his rifle and fired a shot at Tom Hoag. The bullet glanced off a tough spruce and sang its way down the hillside.

  A second bullet zinged past Tom’s head and his yell of startled surprise brought a reaction from his horse. It skipped forward intending to continue along the game trail it had been following, but Tom whipped its head around and urged it downhill with shouts and kicks. Every step provided extra cover as the horse twisted between trees as rapidly as the terrain permitted. More shots sounded from the hillside above, but no slugs found a way through the woods to trouble Tom. Still, the yells of the riders warned him that they were in deadly pursuit.

  Of necessity, each Triple-R rider was picking his own way down the hillside which effectively eliminated the possibility that Tom would be caught in a fusillade; when one man had an uninterrupted view of their fleeing quarry, the multitude of trees made it unlikely that a clear shot was available to another. Shots, however, were fired intermittently but with such haste that they were ineffective. Even so, Tom heard them strike trees, snap twigs and branches and was forced to keep as low as possible in the saddle while he attempted to escape.

  Fighting back was out of the question. As yet, he hadn’t even drawn his gun because he needed to keep his concentration on the route ahead. It was imperative to avoid the obstacles inherent with the trail he was following. He dipped under a low bough, swerved around a flowering chokecherry bush and emerged on the established trail. Deprived of the protection of the trees he had a decision to make. If he remained on the road he could demand a greater pace from his horse and perhaps, before they reached the road, would be able to put enough distance between himself and the Triple-R men that would put an end to their pursuit. He didn’t know the reason for the attack but he was sure they wouldn’t try to continue it in Stanton.