Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (17 page)

“Well, now, that's mighty nice of you, ma'am,” he said, standing there with his hand on the doorknob. She noticed that he had reverted back to calling her “ma'am.” Feeling equally awkward as she, he took the food from her. “This'll go mighty good in the mornin'. I 'preciate it.” When she stood there, he finally asked, “Did you wanna come in?”

“Oh, no,” she quickly replied. “I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat in the morning. Gotta look after my patient, you know.” They both laughed, somewhat ill at ease. Suddenly she frowned. “Joel, please be careful. I know what you are going to do. Just promise me you'll be real careful.” She turned at once and walked back down the hallway toward the parlor, leaving him to make of her visit what he would.

“I promise,” he called after her, not knowing what else he could say.

*   *   *

The sheriff of Black Horse Creek walked into Reiner's Dry Goods late Saturday afternoon to find the proprietor and his wife cleaning the shelves and sweeping the floor, their usual weekly routine. “Can I help you, Sheriff?” Louis Reiner asked, with as much enthusiasm as he could manage. He was accustomed to the sheriff's, as well as his deputy's, visits to his store whenever they needed any merchandise he carried. They ran an account in his store, one that was never paid off, a problem that he was hesitant to complain about. Henry Farmer decided a while back that he was tired of the Blanchards' freeloading practices, and refused to give the sheriff any more hardware on credit. Shortly after, Henry's hardware store caught fire one night and burned to the ground. No one could say for sure how the fire was started, but one couldn't help but wonder at the coincidence. Henry went back to Arkansas, and Louis was visited by the old man, himself, when Blanchard told him he needed to expand his store to handle hardware in addition to his usual merchandise.

“I just stopped by to make sure you knew about the burial service we're holdin' next week for my brother Billy,” Slate said. “The stone oughta be ready by then. We'll hold the service right after church lets out, and Pa figured everybody would wanna come and pay their respects.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, “we heard about it, and of course we plan to attend.” He cast a sideways glance at his wife, who had stopped her dusting to listen.

“Good,” Slate remarked. “I know Pa will be pleased—me and Troy, too.” He turned abruptly and left the store.

“Yeah,” Louis said to his wife, “we'll be there, all right, since we don't want our store burnt down.”

“The nerve of that old man,” Eunice Reiner said. “What are they going to bury—an empty box? Billy's already in the ground. That drummer that came through here last week said that Billy Blanchard was buried in Fort Smith.” She walked to the front window to make sure Slate was gone. “Marjorie Joyner said they've ordered a big ol' tombstone to put in the middle of the graveyard, like a monument to that murdering piece of trash. And now we're supposed to go to church and worship the Lord, then come out and pay tribute to the biggest sinner in the country. I think we oughta just get in our buckboard after church and go right home.”

“Maybe,” Louis said, “but I suspect we'll be there with the other spineless members of this town.” Like a few of the other merchants in Black Horse Creek, he would like to pack up and move on to a legitimate town, but he was afraid to risk retaliation from the Blanchard clan. He thought again of Henry Farmer. He was allowed to leave, but without a penny's worth of all he had built up over the past two years. “Poor ol' Henry,” he commented.

“What?” Eunice asked.

“Oh,” her husband responded, “I was just thinking about Henry Farmer.” That thought summoned another. “You know who I haven't seen in town in quite a while? That pair of scoundrels that work for Blanchard—Yancey Brooks and Lonnie Jenkins. They used to spend half their time next door at the saloon. Roy said they haven't been in for a long time.”

“Blanchard probably sent them somewhere to rustle some more cattle for him,” Eunice replied. She glanced out the window again as if afraid she might be overheard. “I'll be just as happy if we don't ever see the likes of those two again.”

*   *   *

“Did you tell Roy?” Slate asked when Troy came in the office.

“Yeah, I told him. He said he never went to church. I told him I didn't care if he did or not, but he'd damn-sure better show up at the funeral.” Troy was not any more enthusiastic about having a memorial service for his late brother than the citizens of the town were. He had always been envious of Billy's prominent place in his father's heart, and the sooner Billy was forgotten, the better. He was still smarting from the reception he and Slate received from their father when they returned from killing Grayson—a reception he had anticipated to be triumphant. Instead, they were treated as if they were to blame for Billy's death. He remembered the scene vividly.

The old man had seen them ride into the corral and had immediately walked out to meet them. “We got him, Pa!” Troy called out when he saw his father striding out across the yard. “We got Grayson!”

“Filled him so full of lead, it took four men just to pick him up,” Slate said.

“Where's Billy?” Jacob demanded. “Where's my boy? I told you to bring Billy home.”

“Billy's dead, Pa,” Slate told him.

“Dead?” Jacob exploded. “Whaddaya mean, dead? Who killed him?” His craggy face became twisted with his sudden fury, and he glared at his sons as if accusing them. “I told you to bring Billy home,” he repeated. He had always felt that Billy would survive. He could never accept the possibility that Billy would not come out on top. He was the most like him of any of his sons.

“There wasn't nothin' we could do to save him,” Troy said. “He was dead before we got to Fort Smith. Grayson shot him in the back before he even brought him in.”

“But we got Grayson,” Slate quickly interjected. “We left him lyin' in the dust with five bullet holes in him.” He barely got the words out before his father erupted.

Jacob released an angry howl, like that of a wolf, causing Slate and Troy to step back, lest he suddenly strike out at anything in range. They had never seen him that angry before. When he finally seemed to have his fury under control, he lit into them again, repeating his orders to them. “I told you to bring him home. Where's his body? Why didn't you bring his body with you?”

“We didn't think it'd be a good idea,” Slate said. “We saw his body when they was fixin' it up to bury, and it was in bad shape. We decided you shouldn't oughta see Billy lookin' like that.”

“You decided?” The old man exploded again. “You don't decide anythin',” he roared. “I decide.” He calmed down after a few moments, then said, “Leave me alone for a bit. Go take care of your horses.” He turned and started back toward the house, but before going more than a few steps, turned about again. “You sure you killed Grayson?”

“Yes, sir,” Slate replied. “There ain't no doubt about that. He's dead.”

Jacob said not another word, but continued on toward the house. His anger and frustration were about to overcome him and he regretted his decision to send his two sons to Fort Smith. He should have gone himself, for he deeply needed vengeance by his own hand. He had counted upon Billy to help him carve out his dynasty in Black Horse Creek. Billy was vicious enough to handle the job. It was just a matter of waiting for him to sew all the wild oats of his boyhood. Neither Slate nor Troy was qualified to be any more than a gun hand, but Billy had swagger and vision of greater power. Jacob would have gladly given up both of his other sons if he could bring Billy back.

Chapter 12

Although he had pronounced himself physically fit to make the long ride to Black Horse Creek, he was not really sure how well he would hold up under the long days in the saddle. He did know, however, that the only way to find out was to saddle up and start out through Indian Territory. He decided to take the same route back that he had taken with Billy, so he crossed over the river on the ferry and followed the Arkansas north. Before he left, Bob Graham bought Billy's Appaloosa from him, and agreed to board his other horses while he was gone. So he was able to use that money to take care of his needs for a good while and leave the balance of his reward money—close to seven hundred dollars—in his room at Wanda's boardinghouse. He rode his gray gelding and took the sorrel packhorse with supplies to last long enough to get him to John Polsgrove's trading post.

The gray had gotten a bit rank, having not had the burden of a saddle for close to a month, but he soon settled down to his master's familiar weight on his back. The horses were not the only travelers out of shape on this journey, for Grayson found out in a short time that he was not one hundred percent recovered. During the first couple of days, he found himself grunting involuntarily upon encountering rough stretches in the trail. He called it a day sooner than he would ordinarily have, because of the stiffness and soreness he experienced. Consequently, the trip he had calculated to take five and a half days turned out to be a full day longer. By the time he approached the wide U-shaped curve in the river where Polsgrove's trading post stood, he was ready to rest awhile before continuing. He could not help feeling impatient with himself, thinking that he should be much closer to being fit again. Regardless, he planned to push on, even if he wasn't.

It was well past noon when he reached the path that led from the river to John's little group of buildings. It was evident that someone had been at work since he was last here. There were new logs partially completing the front of the store where the fire from the Pawnee raid had done most of its damage. As he turned the gray's head down the path, he saw Robert Walking Stick rounding the corner of the store carrying a load of shingles. When he spotted Grayson, he dropped the shingles and went inside the store. A few seconds later, he reappeared with John's wife, Belle, right behind him. Grayson held up his arm and waved.

“Hey, Grayson,” Belle sang out and returned the rifle she had been holding to her side with the butt resting on the ground. “We heard you were laid up, shot full of holes,” she said when he came close enough to hear her. She continued to visually inspect him while he dismounted stiffly. “You're lookin' a little peaked,” she commented. “Need food—come in, I'll fix you a nice dinner.”

“That sounds mighty appealin' to me,” Grayson told her. “I could sure use some dinner right about now.” He looked beyond her toward the door. “Where's that big grizzly you're married to?”

“Over here behind you,” a booming voice announced as John walked out of the barn, holding a rifle. “How you doin', Grayson?” Polsgrove asked. “Like Belle said, we heard you was shot up pretty bad. Figured it was them two sidewinders that came through here, claimin' they was federal agents. Belle put a bullet in one of 'em.”

“No,” Grayson replied, “it wasn't those two. I reckon Belle did a better job than you knew, 'cause there wasn't but one man that tried to jump me. I figured he'd had a partner, since he had an extra horse with a saddle on it.” He went on to tell them about being ambushed by the two surviving Blanchard brothers.

“Just you goin' after 'em by yourself?” Polsgrove asked. “Looks like the U.S. marshal coulda give you some help.” Grayson responded with nothing more than a shrug, and Polsgrove realized after a moment's thought that Grayson probably wanted to do the job himself. Understanding, he nodded slowly, and offered any help he could give.

“I'm gonna need some supplies,” Grayson told him. “When I left Fort Smith, I figured I'd buy what I need from you.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” Big John said, still studying his friend closely. “I swear, partner, you don't look like you're ready to lock horns with anybody right now. Why don't you stay with us for a day or two and let Belle cook you up some grub to get your strength back. You hit here at a good time. Ol' Robert, there, killed a fat doe yesterday evenin', not more'n forty yards on the other side of that rise.” He pointed toward the bank of the river.

“Yeah,” Belle said, “you stay, I make you strong pretty damn quick.”

It was hard to refuse the offer. He was reluctant to admit it, but in truth, the ride up the river from Fort Smith had taken a toll, and he was beginning to question the wisdom in pressing the issue too soon. A day or two more shouldn't really make much difference in the job he was bound to do, and he surely wanted to be physically able to get it done. “Maybe I'll take you up on that,” he decided. “I guess I'm not in that big a hurry.”

Unlike Wanda Meadows, John and Belle Polsgrove were better able to judge the degree of recovery Grayson had actually accomplished. And between the two of them, they agreed that the notorious bounty hunter was a far cry from his usual powerful self. He looked thin and pale from his healing wounds, much as John had been from his wounds. The couple of days first suggested turned into a week, but the results under Belle's care were evidence enough that she and her husband were right in persuading him to stay with them. Grayson, himself, could not deny the increase in his strength and his overall condition, and he credited them with perhaps preventing him from committing suicide. He could have walked into more than he could have handled, but now he felt more like he was in control of his fortune once again. When he was certain he was fit enough to do the job, he announced that he was leaving the next morning. There was no attempt on the part of John or Belle to delay him further. Belle fixed him a hearty breakfast and John wished him good hunting. He turned the gray's head to the west and bade them farewell, heading for Black Horse Creek.

*   *   *

“Well, there he is,” Louis Reiner said, his voice low to keep from being overheard, even though Jacob Blanchard was at least forty yards away, “standing on the side of the hill like God Almighty.” His wife only nodded in response. The patriarch of the notorious Blanchard clan had struck an almost regal pose in the center of the small cemetery located on the side of a steep hill. The side of the hill had been selected for use as a cemetery due to the severity of the slope, and the opinion that it was useless for anything else. On this day, when storm clouds were building up in the west and threatening to cut short the planned ceremony, the only genuine stone monument to ever be placed in the cemetery was being firmly situated in the ground. The carving of the stone just the way Jacob Blanchard wanted it had delayed the ceremony. With hands on hips, and the constant scowl on his lips, Jacob Blanchard stood glaring at a couple of his hired hands as they hurried to secure the stone before the skies opened up and drenched everyone. He occasionally looked up at the dark clouds above him, as if daring them to disrupt his ceremony honoring his son. Assembled dutifully around him were his family and hired hands.

Louis got down from the buckboard and tied up to a fence post; then he extended his hand to help his wife down. Among the last to arrive, they moved up to the downhill side of a freshly dug grave to stand next to Shep Barnhill and his wife, Cora. The Barnhills turned to exchange quiet greetings with them, and Cora raised an eyebrow and smiled mischievously at Eunice Reiner. “Glad to see you made it to the ceremony,” she whispered to Cora.

“I wouldn't have missed it for the world,” Cora whispered in return. “He was such a saint.”

Eunice snickered, trying to hide it with her hand, but it caught the attention of Slate Blanchard, who was standing solemnly on the upside of the grave, the Mexican woman, Maria Sanchez, standing beside him. He cast a stern frown in Eunice's direction and was about to reprimand her when his father spoke.

“All right, we'd best go ahead and put Billy's casket in the ground. It don't look like that storm is gonna hold off much longer.” He turned to the pastor of the town's one church. “Go ahead, preacher, while the boys are lowerin' the casket.”

It had proven quite difficult for the preacher to create a laudatory message in memory of Billy Blanchard, but he had managed to come up with some general phrases, based in most part on the forgiving nature of God and his Son, Jesus, for all sinners, no matter how great their sins. It was obvious by the rancorous expression on the old man's face that he wasn't pleased with the pastor's message. “Enough about that,” Jacob interrupted. “Say more about Billy, and how he was murdered by that son of a bitch.”

The first rumble of thunder came tripping across the line of hills to the west of them, and the sky darkened. In no time at all it was like night instead of midday, and the rain began to fall. Eunice Reiner commented later that night that it was a direct sign that the Lord didn't want Billy Blanchard. No one moved to get out of the rain, neither the Blanchard clan on one side of the grave, nor the small gathering of the town's merchants and their families on the other. None dared to provoke Jacob Blanchard's wrath.

It was just as the preacher ran out of words to describe the wonderful relationship between a father and son when it happened. The funeral party was suddenly startled by a sudden crash directly overhead and a jagged streak of lightning flashed across the sky. Cora Barnhill let out a shriek when all eyes were drawn by the flash to the top of the hill. There, like a dark angel of death, stood the image of the dreaded bounty hunter, Grayson. It was there for only an instant, for when the next flash of lightning split the dark cloud above the hill the image was gone.

The gathering of wet souls was cast into shocked silence. What had they seen? The image looked so ominous with the jagged bolt of lightning behind it. Was it real, or was it just imagined? But everyone had seen it—everyone but Jacob Blanchard, who was staring down into the grave, and the preacher, whose eyes were closed in prayer. Stunned almost to the point of paralysis, Slate Blanchard felt the shock of the lightning run the length of his spine. “It was him!” he gasped.

“Or his ghost!” Troy responded, for he had seen Grayson die. He looked at his brother for explanation, but there was none in the ashen face that stared back at him. Completely shaken, for now he realized that his brother had seen the same image he had seen, he blurted, “We killed him!” Having no stomach for dealing with the supernatural, he ran for his horse in a panic to leave the graveyard. Convinced that he had seen Grayson's ghost come back to haunt him, he felt he had to get away from Billy's grave and hope that Grayson's spirit was confined to the cemetery.

“Troy!” His father yelled after him. “I ain't said the service is over!” Troy ignored him and kept running, jumped on his horse and galloped off toward town. Jacob stood there perplexed for a moment by his son's failure to obey him. He turned to look at Slate. “What the hell is goin' on?” he demanded. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I ain't never seen one before,” Slate said, “but I'm pretty sure I have now.” Maria Sanchez crossed herself and moved closer to him for protection.

“What the hell are you talkin' about?” Jacob demanded again. “What's got into Troy?” He paused long enough to look at the town folk, none of them moving, all staring openmouthed toward the top of the hill. “The service is over,” he announced roughly, his civility having given way to his impatience. “Get on outta here!” Only then did they move back toward their horses and wagons, drenched to the bone, and wondering if what they had just witnessed was real or imaginary.

“It was him, Pa—Grayson,” Slate said, still shaken, but unlike his brother, he wasn't sure it would do any good to run. “Only it wasn't him—at least I don't see how it coulda been him.”

“Grayson? You ain't makin' a damn bit of sense,” Jacob bellowed. “You tryin' to tell me you saw a ghost? Where?” he demanded.

“Up there,” Slate declared, and pointed, “at the top of the hill.”

Jacob turned at once and looked toward the top of the hill at the empty darkness. In a moment, another flash of lightning lit the sky, revealing nothing but a dead tree that had been struck by lightning years before. “There ain't nothin' up there. You and Troy got spooked by a dead tree,” he railed. Turning to the obviously frightened woman standing pressed against Slate, he demanded, “What about you, girl? Did you see anythin'?” He was growing angrier by the minute, furious that something had spoiled Billy's memorial service, and he couldn't get to the bottom of it. He glowered at Maria, waiting for an answer.

Reluctant to answer, but afraid not to, Maria responded fearfully, “There was a man standing there when the lightning came, and then he was gone.”

“A tree,” Jacob insisted. “You all saw a damn tree.”

“No, señor,” she countered timidly, “someone was standing beside the tree.”

“Hogwash!” he exploded. “Come on,” he ordered Slate. “We'll go up to the top and find him if there's a man up there. A ghost,” he muttered in disgust. “I ain't scared of no damn ghost. If there is a man up there, I'll make a ghost out of him quick enough for spoilin' Billy's service.”

Slate was still reluctant to go, torn between two fears—that of his father, and that of ghosts. He tried to convince himself that what he saw, and everybody else saw, was in fact no more than a man who had for some reason climbed to the top of the hill. In the poor light of the storm, he reasoned, and at that distance, he just looked like Grayson.
That had to be it
, he told himself, and at once felt a little sheepish for his initial reaction. His resolve strengthened, he told Maria, “You go on down to the buggy. I'll be down directly.”