by Will DuRey
Another shot was fired. Tom weaved away to his left, slithering a little way down the slope, trying desperately to maintain his balance as he avoided a large pine only to stumble into a thick chokecherry bush. He hoped that Benny was armed with only one gun. He hadn’t counted the bullets that had been fired but figured that Benny couldn’t have more than one live shell in his gun. The dual task of keeping an eye on his quarry and keeping his horse on a secure route of pursuit would have deprived him of the opportunity to reload.
Fleetingly, the notion to make a stand passed through Tom’s mind. No blame could be attached if he chose to defend himself, if he sheltered behind the next wide tree and shot Benny Gates. Standing still, his aim would be surer than that of the on-coming horseman. He had never shot a man before, but he’d hit snakes and wolves and Benny was much bigger than those creatures. But even though his own life was under threat, he realized a reluctance to shoot at the Triple-R man.
The decision, however, was taken out of his hands when his foot became entangled in the clinging chokecherry fronds. He went down, sprawling and rolling down the leaf-strewn slope. Tom gave no voice to the pain occasioned to his left shoulder by the awkward landing, and paid little heed to the minor cuts and grazes he received. His immediate concern was the proximity of his hunter, wondering if he was already under his gun and would be despatched without any opportunity to declare himself innocent of Walt Risby’s death; shot down like a rabid dog.
Scrambling to his knees Tom looked around. At first, he couldn’t see Benny Gates but close at hand he could hear movement. It wasn’t the rapid approach of a hunter anxious to be in at the kill. When Tom espied his pursuer, he realized that his tumble had been unobserved. Benny was moving cautiously, scanning the woods, trying to catch sight of his prey in order to continue the hunt. Drifting from further up the hillside came the first sounds of other activity, the rest of the Triple-R riders were drawing closer. Unseen, he watched Benny moving ever nearer and wondered if he would have to shoot him in order to escape. But gunfire was to be avoided. It would pinpoint his location to the riders above. It was at that moment that he realized his hand was resting on a long branch and a plan to utilize it sprang instantly to his mind. Rising carefully to his feet, he positioned himself behind a tree which Benny was due to pass.
The Triple-R man was taken completely by surprise when the thick bough came over his horse’s head and crashed into his chest. With a yell his arms were flung wide and he was knocked to the ground. Winded, he was unable to resist Tom’s continued attack. The pistol was kicked from his hand and a punch delivered to his jaw. Dazed, Benny watched as Tom Hoag picked up the fallen gun, fearing that he was about to be killed with his own weapon. Tom stood over him, anxiously looking uphill where the sounds of approaching riders were becoming louder.
‘I had nothing to do with Walt Risby’s death,’ he said, then threw Benny’s gun away, further down the slope.
Thoughts of finding his own horse had long since been driven from Tom’s mind. Now, he gathered up the reins of Benny’s work pony and climbed into the saddle. He set the animal at a downhill run, anxious to be free of the restrictive woodland. His destination remained the town of Stanton and he figured he could only get there by outrunning the band of men from the Triple-R. Heading for town across the grasslands was a longer route but there were no obstacles along the way to prevent a flat-out run. If he was far enough ahead when he reached the grasslands he was confident that he would not be overtaken during the three-mile run. The only cause for concern was the fact that he was riding another man’s horse. He knew the capabilities of his own animal but was ignorant of the effort that had been asked of the one under him before he’d climbed into the saddle.
He was a furlong across the grassland before he heard the first cries of pursuit. A couple of wasted gunshots sounded in his wake. They were no threat to his life, but they served to concentrate his mind on the ride ahead. A glance over his shoulder revealed only two riders in pursuit. He wondered if the others meant to intercept him by using another route to town. That was a plan he deemed unlikely to succeed and spurred on the horse he was astride.
About a mile from town the horse began to sag. Its stride began to shorten as huge flecks of foam flew off its hide. Behind, the chasing men had halved the gap by which they were separated, and the crack of pistol shots again carried to him. Tom shouted in the horse’s ear and flipped at its flanks with the leather rein. The appearance of the first buildings of Stanton boosted his belief that he would safely reach the town.
A bullet passed close to his head and another look back showed that the Triple-R riders had further reduced the gap; their horses were clearly running stronger than his own. More shots were fired, and he crouched low to provide his pursuers with the smallest possible target. Their efforts to shoot him continued as he rode into Stanton, causing those who were on the street to scuttle to the safety of the buildings.
Only one man remained on the street. He stepped off the boardwalk as Tom hauled his weary pony to a halt outside the marshal’s office. Silas Tasker raised his pistol and fired a shot in the air, a warning to the two men in Tom’s wake that he wouldn’t tolerate any more gunfire on the streets of his town.
Chuck Grainger, his smoking pistol still in his hand, yelled a warning at the marshal. ‘He killed Walt and we mean to see that he pays for it.’
‘You’ll put your gun away and get off the street. If Tom Hoag is guilty of Walt Risby’s death he’ll face a judge like any other criminal.’
Marshal Tasker’s words weren’t enough to appease the angry Triple-R man. His intention to shoot again was clear to all those watching. Tom was only five yards away now, a sitting target for the armed man, but the shot he fired never found its mark. Silas Tasker was the first man to pull the trigger. His bullet struck the ground close to the front hoofs of Chuck Grainger’s mount. The horse reared and as Chuck slid off over its tail he discharged his gun into the air. By the time he’d regained his feet, Silas had hustled Tom into his office and closed the door.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Is it true,’ Tom Hoag asked, facing Silas Tasker across the scarred, old desk at which the marshal conducted business, ‘is Walt Risby dead?’
Silas eyed the rancher’s son, tried to penetrate the younger man’s show of confusion, tried to determine if he was as ignorant of the facts as his words and expression implied. Eventually, he responded with a brief but indisputable nod of assent.
Many questions flicked through Tom’s mind; although it was difficult to pass off Walt’s death and his father’s threats as an unhappy coincidence, he still needed to know the surrounding circumstances that had led to the Triple-R riders adopting a shoot-on-sight philosophy.
It was Silas, however, who framed the first question, wanting an account of Tom’s activities since they’d parted at the Diamond-H earlier that day. He jotted down the names of Casey Brogan and Johnny Wells, the two men that Tom had worked alongside in the north pasture. Then he told Tom what he knew of the events down by the Dearborn, but dwelt on the fact that although the killing of Harvey Jacks and the wounding of Biff Clayton were evidence that Walt Risby had been actively involved in the fight, they didn’t provide irrefutable proof that he had been the instigator of the violence.
‘It’s hard to believe that any man would choose to launch a single-handed attack against seven. If he was guilty of burning down your out-building it seems more likely that he would avoid your father, not get close enough to engage in a pistol fight.’
‘Seven.’ Tom knew that some of their cattle were grazing on the open range towards the river but was at a loss to understand why so many men had been needed to tend to them.
Silas Tasker interrupted his thoughts. ‘I can’t ignore this, Tom. My responsibility is for the maintenance of law in Stanton and I’ll do my best to make sure that any trouble between your family and Mort Risby is kept out of town. But no matter what efforts are made to keep feuds like this out on the ran
ge they eventually lead to more and more acts of violence with armies of gunmen brought in to propound the theory that might is right. When that happens, every citizen suffers. Neither your pa nor Mort Risby will allow me to investigate so I’ll have to get a message to Helena to request aid from State officers.’ He paused a moment to let the implication of his action sink in. To ensure his meaning was clear, he said, ‘If laws have been broken, the guilty will be punished.’
Tom Hoag considered the marshal’s words, analysed them and reached the conclusion that the lawman was as dissatisfied as himself with the explanation of Walt Risby’s death. If, like Harvey Jacks and Biff Clayton, the young man had collected a bullet in a gunfight, the circumstances of his death might have been less suspicious, but to be hanged after the skirmish had a veneer of cold-bloodedness that didn’t sit easy with either of them. Guided by family loyalty, he kept his thoughts to himself but, in any case, any continuation of their conversation was brought to an end by loud pounding on the barred office door.
After Chuck Grainger had been unhorsed, the men of the Triple-R had remained outside the marshal’s office and were soon joined by other townsmen drawn to that end of town by the gunfire that had heralded the arrival of the cowboys. Benny Gates had gone looking for the boss of the Triple-R and found him in Noah Pink’s Funeral Parlour making arrangements with its proprietor for the burial of his son. Now, Mort Risby was thumping on the marshal’s door with his fist and yelling for admittance.
A glance through the small window revealed to Silas that more than a dozen men were assembled outside the office door and though the expressions on the faces of the townsmen showed little more than curiosity, those of the Triple-R riders were etched with determined anger.
‘Come on, Marshal,’ Mort Risby called, ‘open up.’
Silas grabbed a shotgun from a wall-mounted gun rack. ‘Step away from the door,’ he shouted back. ‘I’m not coming out until you’ve moved off the boardwalk onto the street.’
A further glimpse out of the window provided confirmation of what he expected; the townspeople had moved away from the door as ordered but the Triple-R men had merely taken a few steps to the side, remaining on the wooden walkway outside his office. Mort Risby had barely moved before renewing his demand for the door to be opened.
Silas motioned for Tom to open the door but told him to close and re-bar it as soon as he’d stepped outside. Tom obeyed.
With the shotgun grasped at both ends, Silas left his office. As expected, he was immediately confronted by the broad figure of Mort Risby. The marshal thrust his weapon roughly against the rancher’s chest and pushed. The manoeuvre took Mort Risby completely by surprise, no one had manhandled him in such a manner for many years. He was an important man in these parts and such disrespect was totally unexpected. He stumbled, lost his footing at the edge of the planking and sprawled in the dusty street.
‘I told you to step away from the door,’ Silas growled at him, unrepentant for the rancher’s embarrassment.
‘We want that man in there.’ Mort Risby, red-faced with anger, threw out the demand as he was being helped to his feet by two of his workers. ‘He killed my son.’
‘I have no evidence that Tom Hoag has killed anyone, so I suggest you all disperse and go about your business.’
No one moved, but Silas had never believed himself blessed with those oratory skills capable of swaying the opinion of a mob. The gesture he made with the shotgun, however, was more effective. One or two men began to move across the street while others shuffled their feet as though they would soon follow. He held eye contact with Mort Risby, knowing the rancher wouldn’t easily back down, wouldn’t wish to appear impotent in front of his men or the people of Stanton. ‘Go home, Mort,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be gained hanging around here.’
‘It’s Mr Risby to you, Tasker,’ said the rancher, ‘and I’ll decide for myself when the time is right for me to leave town.’
‘Let’s come to an understanding,’ the marshal told him, ‘if anything happens to Tom Hoag, then you are the first man I’ll be looking for.’
‘Are you setting yourself up as his protector, marshal?’
‘No. The law is his protector.’
‘You only represent the law here in town,’ Mort Risby reminded him.
‘I’ll tell you the same thing I told Tom Hoag. This feud has to end and I’m sending for State officers to intervene. So, don’t consider setting an ambush for Tom Hoag when he leaves town because they’ll search out wrongdoers and have the authority to punish them wherever their crimes are committed. Five years ago you got away without punishment when Sheriff Brown was summoned but you won’t be so lucky another time.’
Mort Risby wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to in such a threatening manner and he wasn’t prepared to mildly quit the scene.
‘You’ll have to hope they respond to your telegraph message more quickly than the sheriff in Miles City. If you ever sent one.’
‘I sent one.’
‘Perhaps you’ve held onto the reply.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘To protect your friends, the Hoags. My boy didn’t start that fire and when his innocence is established you’ll be forced to admit that they lynched him without reason. Perhaps you don’t want to face up to the fact, but your friends murdered Walt.’
‘The Hoags are my friends in exactly the same way I’ve always considered you to be. They aren’t getting special treatment.’
‘Prove it. If you haven’t got Tom Hoag locked up then release my men, too.’
‘Luke Bywater and Steve Tumbrell stay where they are until the judge hits town. I hope their crime is a separate issue because if I thought they’d killed Buck Downs at your bidding, you’d be in the vacant cell at the back of my office.’
Silas Tasker hefted his shotgun meaningfully which brought a scowl from Mort Risby before he turned his back on the marshal and crossed the street. Silas knocked on the door and told Tom Hoag it was safe to open up.
The stomach-churning apprehension that gripped Clara Buxton when she heard the renewal of gunfire took her by surprise. The crackles were neither close enough nor loud enough to earn such a reaction. She wasn’t in danger from flying lead but instantly, she pulled the team to a halt, twisted on the seat and looked back along the trail. The place where she’d recently parted from Tom Hoag was no longer in view, obscured now by the wooded slope that the eastern route descended, but she continued to look in that direction as though the thought to return there was sitting firmly in her mind. There could be no doubt that the sounds she had heard had been gunshots and their message was clear enough; the Triple-R riders had found Tom. For several moments she was overwhelmed by a numbing emptiness. All sense of purpose and action deserted her. The sensation that the world she had known no longer existed became even more dizzying and frightening. The thought held her for only a moment, until it was broken by more reports of distant gunfire.
Mentally, she shook herself free of the constraining experience, forced herself to face the grim truth. Tom Hoag was in trouble. It was possible that he had been caught by his enemies, perhaps killed by them, and she felt impelled to act on his behalf. Common sense told her to head for home as quickly as possible. A feud between ranchers wasn’t her concern and it probably only meant trouble for any outsider who interfered, but he was Mary’s brother and for that reason alone he was deserving of her assistance.
Cracking the whip over the heads of the horses she set the team in motion again, slapping the reins and yelling at them until they were soon at full gallop along the trail. As she urged them onwards she confessed to herself that being her dead friend’s brother wasn’t her only reason for trying to help Tom Hoag. She was able to forgive the terse tone of their recent, brief meeting and the abrupt manner of his departure because they had been dictated by circumstances. What she recalled most vividly was the look of trust in his eyes when he’d stumbled onto the road in search of sanctuary from his pur
suers. He had had no doubt at that moment that she would provide it.
She turned off the trail and headed south across the grasslands, racing the horses to their very limit, recklessly bouncing the wagon over ruts and raised clumps as they ate up the miles towards her new destination. Her parents would wonder at the reason for her late return home, but she would explain it all to them when she got there.
Two things surprised Clara when she reached the gate of the Diamond-H ranch-house; it was closed and guarded by two armed men.
‘Tom’s in trouble,’ she told the man she knew only as Omaha when he asked her business. ‘Triple-R men mean to kill him.’
The gate was opened, and she was taken to the house where Ben Hoag listened to her account of his son’s plight.
‘He was hoping to reach Stanton,’ Clara concluded. ‘He wanted to learn about Walt Risby’s death from Marshal Tasker.’
She’d left the ranch after that, Matty Slade telling her to get home quickly because there would be bloodshed in Stanton if anything had happened to Tom.
News of Tom’s misadventure soon spread to the bunkhouse and every available man checked the shells in his pistol and rifle before heading to the corral to select a suitable mount for the ride into town. Six men were saddled up and ready to go when Ben Hoag left the house with his son, Frank, at his heels. Some of the men sensed tension between father and son but that wasn’t unusual. Neither Hoag spoke, not to each other nor to the assembly of cowboys. Ben Hoag acknowledged their presence with a nod of his head then mounted up and led the men away from the ranch. A gap of ten lengths separated that group from Frank.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Trading had ended for the day in the mercantile store. In the lamplight, Joe Danvers was bent over a ledger, assessing his stock levels and calculating his takings. Beth Danvers finished tying the ribbons of her bonnet and picked up the basket that was waiting on the counter. Among the attributes that had cemented Beth’s popularity in Stanton was her willingness to deliver orders to the homes of three infirm citizens. In normal circumstances, delivery boys were used for such errands but, for these three ageing and ailing women, it had become Beth’s habit to provide a personal service. Her visits were a welcome break from their housebound tedium and she listened to their reminiscences as eagerly as they attended to her revelations of the latest local events.