Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (3 page)

Grayson was working on a glass of beer and talking to Roy, the bartender, when the two lawmen walked in. He took a quick glance in their direction before turning his attention back to the glass before him on the bar. Though brief, it was enough to enable him to size up the two. The one leading was a powerfully built man, heavyset through the shoulders while the man following was of a slender frame, lean and wiry. Of the two, Grayson decided that the heavyset one would be the one to deal with first in the event of a confrontation.

“You won't be needin' that in here,” Slate informed him and pointed to the Winchester propped against the bar beside Grayson's leg.

Grayson responded with a thin smile as he took note of the badge on each of the men's vests. “Well, I wasn't figurin' on robbin' the place. Just a habit I reckon I picked up, Sheriff. It ain't against the law, is it?”

“It is in this town,” Troy answered, making no attempt to disguise his frank appraisal of the stranger.

“Feller's just havin' a beer,” Roy said. Then, turning to Grayson, he introduced the lawmen. “This is Sheriff Blanchard and Deputy Sheriff Blanchard.”

The hint of a smile returned to Grayson's face. There was no need for further speculation on the accuracy of rumors he had heard about Jacob Blanchard's cattle empire. If he owned the law, he owned the town. “Blanchard,” he said. “Now, why does that name sound familiar?”

“Never mind that,” Slate replied. “What brings you to Black Horse Creek? You got business here?”

“I'm just passin' through on my way to Dodge City,” Grayson answered. “I'd heard about your little town here and thought I'd take a look at it—maybe pick up a few things at the store next door.”

“You got a name?” Troy asked.

“Grayson,” was the short reply.

“Well, Mr. Grayson,” Slate said, “enjoy your visit, but we don't allow weapons in the saloons in this town. Roy shoulda told you that.” He cast an accusing glance in the bartender's direction.

“I think he was just fixin' to when you fellows walked in,” Grayson said, “but I'll take it back outside right away. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of the law. All right if I finish my beer first—if I promise not to shoot anybody?”

Slate shot a quick glance at Troy, not sure if he was the victim of sarcasm or not. It was met with a blank expression. “I reckon that'll be all right. Just remember next time,” he mumbled. There was something ominous in the man's smile that made Slate uneasy.

“You fellows have the same last name,” Grayson commented. “Are you cousins, or brothers, or somethin'?”

“Brothers,” Troy replied.

“I heard of another Blanchard that owns a big cattle outfit near here. How 'bout him? Is he kin of yours?”

“Mister, you ask a helluva lot of questions,” Slate replied. “You just finish your beer and be on your way, unless you can tell me you've got some business in Black Horse Creek.” He turned to leave. “Come on, Troy, I'm gettin' about ready for my dinner.”

“Me, too,” Grayson volunteered. “Where's a good place to buy a meal in town?”

The two brothers ignored his question as they walked out the door. Roy, who had said very little during the confrontation, commented to Grayson after they had gone. “They'll go over to the hotel to eat. That's the best food in town. If I was you, though, I might think about gettin' somethin' to eat somewhere else. I think you rubbed the sheriff and his deputy the wrong way.”

“I 'preciate the advice,” Grayson said and then drained the last of his beer. “Those two, are they Jacob Blanchard's sons?”

“That's a fact,” Roy replied.

“He's got another son, hasn't he?” Roy didn't answer. He just shrugged. Grayson continued. “Have you seen him around lately?”

“Mister,” Roy replied, “the sheriff's right—you ask a helluva lot of questions.”

“Just a natural curiosity, I reckon,” Grayson said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Has he been in town in the last week or so?”

Roy didn't care for the direction of the stranger's questions, so he attempted to end the conversation. “I don't pay no attention to the Blanchards's comin's and goin's,” he declared. “Billy's been gone for a spell, and I don't know whether he's back or not.”

“Suppose I was of a mind to ride out and visit Jacob Blanchard,” Grayson asked, “how would I find his place?”

“The minute you ride out of town, you'll be on his land,” Roy said. “But if you're talkin' about ridin' up to the ranch house, you take the road at the end of the street and follow it up the river till you get to another road that forks off to the north. That'll take you right up to Mr. Blanchard's door. It's about fifteen miles.”

“Much obliged,” Grayson said and slid his empty beer glass across the counter to Roy. “Now I reckon I'd best get on my way before I get arrested for bringin' my rifle in here.”

“Take care of yourself,” Roy advised in farewell. He wasn't sure what prompted him to offer words of caution. There was something about the stranger that suggested a familiarity with trouble, and Blanchard's ranch was not a wise place to go looking for it.

Leaving the saloon, Grayson walked next door to Reiner's Dry Goods. Before going inside, he glanced back up the street to see both the sheriff and his deputy standing out in front of the office, watching him he presumed.
I thought you were going to go to dinner
, he said to himself as he reached for the knob and opened the door. There was no one in the store but the proprietor, Louis Reiner, and he stood waiting for Grayson, having watched for him ever since he tied his horse out front. “Afternoon,” Reiner greeted him. “What can I help you with?”

“Afternoon,” Grayson returned. “I need a couple of things: some bacon, some coffee, some salt, and maybe some sugar.”

“Yes, sir,” Reiner replied politely, and jumped to accommodate his customer, more so than Grayson would normally have expected.

“Ain't many folks in town,” Grayson remarked. “Looks like business is a little slow.”

Reiner smiled. “You can say that again,” he said. “We're a little bit off the beaten path. Not many folks pass through Black Horse Creek. Businessmen like me depend pretty much on the folks that live around the town.” He paused as he reached under the counter for a sack. “If it wasn't for Mr. Blanchard and his crew, we probably wouldn't make it at all.”

“Looks to me like there's a helluva lot of land along the river,” Grayson commented. “I'm surprised there ain't more folks movin' in on it.”

“Mr. Blanchard owns all of it, and he doesn't let anybody settle on it,” Reiner said, his voice taking on a cautious air, as if afraid someone might overhear. “He says he needs it all for his cattle.”

Grayson frowned. “He must be plannin' on one helluva big cattle operation. Ever think about pullin' up stakes and headin' for someplace else?”

Reiner shrugged. “Oh, I've thought about it, I reckon, but I've got too much invested in my store here, and I couldn't pay Mr. Blanchard off for what I owe him.”

Grayson nodded, understanding. It was further evidence of the extent to which Blanchard owned the town. He guessed that the other businesses were in the same fix as Reiner. “Well, I wish I could give you a little more business, but I reckon that'll do it for now.” He counted out his money and laid it on the counter. “This fellow, Blanchard, he's got three sons. Ain't that right?”

“That's right,” Reiner replied. “You just met two of 'em in the saloon, didn't you?”

“Yeah, the sheriff and his deputy, but I didn't meet the other one. Is he a lawman, too?”

“Not hardly,” Reiner answered after taking a precautionary look toward the door. “You won't see Billy around here very much.”

“Billy,” Grayson repeated. “I ain't sure, but I think I saw him when I first rode in—kind of a tall, heavyset fellow ridin' a sorrel horse.”

“Nah,” Reiner replied. “That wasn't Billy. I don't know who that was, coulda been one of Mr. Blanchard's hands, but Billy doesn't look anything like that. He doesn't look like his brothers. I reckon he's about average height, he's slim, but I wouldn't call him skinny—got curly black hair. And he doesn't ride a sorrel, unless he just traded, which I doubt, 'cause he's mighty fond of that Appaloosa he usually rides.”

“Well, I reckon I was mistaken,” Grayson said as he gathered up his purchases. One of the problems he'd had until then was the fact that he hadn't known how to identify Billy Blanchard. So now, thanks to Louis Reiner's willingness to chat, he had a general description. Adding that to what he
did
know before today, that Deputy Tom Malone had ridden a blue roan that may still be in Billy's possession, he felt he had a lot more to go on. “He most likely ain't been around here for quite a spell,” Grayson remarked.

“Oh, he's been around—next door, anyway,” Reiner started, then abruptly held his tongue when it suddenly occurred to him that he might be telling a stranger too much. It was too late, for he had already told Grayson what he wanted to know.

“Much obliged,” Grayson said. “I'll be on my way now.”

While he packed his supplies on his packhorse, he stole a quick glance back up the street toward the sheriff's office.
Roy must have gotten nervous and gone to report our conversation to the sheriff,
he thought, for the bartender was at that moment talking to Slate and Troy Blanchard.
They're either going to come back after me right now, or go tell Daddy there's a stranger in town asking questions
. So he stepped quickly up in the saddle and rode away, preferring the latter.

Watching him from his Harness Shop across the street, Shep Barnhill put aside a bridle he had been in the process of repairing, and walked over to question Louis Reiner. “Don't recall seeing that fellow around here before,” he commented to Louis.

“He said he was just passing through,” Louis replied, fully aware of the reason for Shep's curiosity. “He said this is the first time he's been in Black Horse Creek.”

“Don't reckon he said where he came from?” Shep asked.

“No, he didn't, but he was asking a lot of questions about the Blanchards.” He knew what Shep was hoping he could tell him, that the stranger had come from the capital in Topeka, but he doubted that to be the case. Shep, like a few of the other men in town belonged to a covert organization of merchants that met occasionally to discuss the possibility of seeking government help to create a town charter and free them from the dictatorial rule of Jacob Blanchard. It had been over two months since they sent Henry Farmer's son, Bob, to Topeka to inform them of the town's problems. Bob had not been heard from since. Maybe he had simply given up on his mission to gain audience with the new governor, George T. Anthony, and gone instead to join his father in Arkansas, or maybe Blanchard had somehow gotten wind of the boy's mission. It had been long enough to get some response from the governor if Bob had, in fact, completed the trip. It looked, however, as if something had happened to prevent it, and Louis was afraid the town was destined to be forever beneath Jacob Blanchard's iron thumb.

*   *   *

Down at the end of the street, past the blacksmith shop, Grayson came to the wagon road Roy had directed him to. He turned his horse up the road and followed it as it held close to the river. The gelding had already carried him half a day before arriving in Black Horse Creek, so he considered whether to push the horse for another fifteen miles. There was no doubt that the gray was up to it, but he decided it best to rest him. He estimated that he had ridden about three miles before coming to a sharp bend in the river that formed a pocket of trees, several of which hung over the bank. Figuring this gave him as much concealment as could be found on the flat, endless, tallgrass prairie, he guided the gray off the road and into the pocket formed by the river bend. Once his horses were watered and unsaddled, he found himself a place in the trees where he could watch the road. With his back up against a cottonwood trunk, he settled himself to wait while he chewed on a piece of beef jerky.

After a short while he spotted a rider on the road coming from Black Horse Creek at a lively walk.
Well, looks like they ain't coming after me
, he thought.
Going to tell Daddy instead
. He leaned forward, his eyes focused on an opening in the tree branches that would give him a window for a good look at the rider when he passed. Once the rider was opposite him, he was easily identified as Troy Blanchard.
Right on schedule
, Grayson thought, and got up to go saddle his horse. It was not yet dark enough to follow Troy too closely, so he was in no hurry. He knew where Troy was heading, anyway. His only purpose in lying in wait for him was to determine if the two Blanchard brothers were coming after him, or sending someone to warn Jacob. Now there were two new possibilities: Billy was holed up at his father's ranch, or he was hiding out somewhere else. And if the latter was the case, there was a good chance that someone would be sent to warn him. This was the situation Grayson preferred, because he was not too keen on the idea of wading into Blanchard's stronghold to serve arrest papers on Billy. The odds were against coming out alive. With that in mind, his plan was to find someplace where he could watch the comings and goings at the ranch house, and hope for an opportunity to catch Billy alone.

Chapter 3

The heavy gray brows that lay like small storm clouds over Jacob Blanchard's deep-set eyes arched in an angry frown as he listened to Troy's report. “Did this nosy stranger have a name?” the old man asked.

“I think he said it was Grayson,” Troy answered.

“Grayson!” Jacob responded heatedly, for he was familiar with the name. “He's a damn bounty hunter, and a dangerous one. He's come lookin' for Billy. There ain't no doubt about it. Where is he now? Still in town?”

“I don't know for sure,” Troy replied. “Roy Brown said he was askin' how to get out here to the house, but I didn't pass him on the way out from town. So maybe he just rode on to Dodge City like he told me and Slate.”

“Not likely,” Jacob fumed. “He came to Black Horse Creek for a reason, and that reason is Billy.” He paused for a moment, thinking about what Troy had just said. “I wish to hell he
would
come out here. I'd be glad to talk to him, and he wouldn't be botherin' nobody else after that.”

“Whaddaya reckon we oughta do, Pa?” Troy asked.

Still fuming over the situation, one that he felt should not have gotten this far, he said, “You shoulda never let that bastard get outta your sight, and he shoulda had an accident on his way out here to my house. Damn bounty hunter. He used to be a deputy marshal, but he ain't no more, so nobody would miss him, and they sure as hell wouldn't care what happened to him. But that can't be helped now, dammit. First thing is to ride up to the line camp and tell Billy to stay put and keep his eyes open. And tell him not to get any ideas about riding into town to raise hell. He's been up at that line camp long enough to get rutty and itchin' to go stir up some trouble. It don't take but a few days for Billy.”

“That's the truth,” Troy said. “You want me to ride up there in the mornin'?”

“I want you to ride up there tonight before he decides he's gotta go let off some steam somewhere,” his father told him.

“Damn, Pa,” Troy complained. “That shack's a good eight miles. That'll take me half the night, and I told Slate I'd sleep in the jail tonight so he could take a night off.”

“What's he need a night off for?” Jacob wanted to know.

“So he can go see that little Mexican gal that works in the hotel,” Troy answered with a grin.

“Hellfire,” Jacob responded in disgust, then had a change of heart. “All right, I'll send Stump up there to tell Billy. Go on down to the bunkhouse and get him.”

The stubby little man they called Stump made no complaint when Troy told him he was going to ride up to the northern boundary of Blanchard's ranch that night. It was all the same to him, spend the night in the bunkhouse, or spend it on a mule, as long as he was able to fill his belly with a good meal—and he had already done that. Stump was not very bright. Some claimed he was kicked in the head by a horse when he was a boy, and that accounted for his preference for mules over horses. Others had it that he had been very ill with a high fever when still a baby, and it cooked half of his brain. Of the two explanations, the latter was probably closer to the truth. He was a cousin of Yancey Brooks, Jacob's foreman, so that was the main reason he was on the payroll. He was not much of a cowhand, but he shone in doing odd chores around the ranch and the house, like the job he was given this night. Jacob knew he could be depended upon.

Jacob stood beside Stump's stirrup while he gave him instructions. “You remember what you gotta tell Billy, now, don'tcha?” Stump repeated Jacob's message, word for word. “All right,” Jacob said, “you'd best get started.” Stump started to turn his mule toward the gate, but Jacob stopped him for one last reminder. “And, Stump, you make sure you tell Billy that I said he don't wanna mess with this damn Grayson. It's best to stay holed up in that cabin.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Blanchard,” Stump replied and started for the gate.

“He'll take all night to get up there on that damn slow-walkin' mule,” Troy commented as he prepared to step up in the saddle. “I'd best get on back to town. Slate's probably already gettin' itchy.”

“You keep your eyes open,” his father reminded him. “That damn Grayson might still be hangin' around town.” He grabbed Troy's elbow to make sure his son understood his instructions. “And, Troy, if he does show his face in my town again, I want him to have an accident. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

*   *   *

Grayson got to his feet when he saw two riders leaving the ranch house at almost the same time. Standing close beside a tree trunk in the faint evening light, he could see clearly enough to recognize the figure of Troy Blanchard as he turned his horse back toward town. That was enough for Grayson to turn his attention to the other rider, mounted on a mule, and heading in the opposite direction. Knowing this was the man most likely to lead him to Billy, he watched for only a few moments more before walking back to his horse and climbing in the saddle. “Let's go, boy, we gotta go to work.”

As he expected, the pace was leisurely and he let Stump get out about a quarter of a mile ahead of him in the fading light. As darkness came on, Grayson closed up the gap between them to keep the mule and rider in sight. They continued on until a half-moon climbed up from the horizon behind Grayson's right shoulder, causing him to rein his horse back again in case Stump decided to watch the trail behind him. On they rode through the night until the moon had traveled across the sky to a position above a line of hills to the west. Weary from spending so many hours in the saddle since the day before, Grayson began to wonder if the stubby man on the mule was going to stop before they rode all the way to Canada. Suddenly, he had to rein his horse back hard when he realized that the mule had stopped before crossing what appeared to be a creek.

Stump let the mule drink; then, instead of crossing over, he turned the mule to follow the creek back to the west. Grayson nudged the gray to tighten the gap between him and the mule, and when he reached the creek, he was able to see a rough shack by the edge of the water, about fifty yards from where he now sat his horse. He dismounted at once, for fear of casting an obvious image in the pre-dawn light. Reprimanding himself for almost riding right up Stump's back, he looked hurriedly around for a place to hide his horses and himself before it got any lighter. The best he could find were some scraggly trees along the banks of the creek with patches of berry bushes in between, but it appeared to be sufficient—as long as no one in the shack was concentrating on it. By the time he had his horses safely hidden, he could hear the mule rider hailing the cabin.

“Hey-oh, Billy!” Stump called several times. “Billy, it's me, Stump,” he called again. “You in there? You awake?”

“Well, I am now, you damn fool.” A shadow separated from the back corner of the rough cabin and walked to meet the man still aboard the mule. There was not enough light to determine the man's features, and he had nothing on but his long johns. He was wary, as evidenced by the fact that he had gone out the back window of the shack when called out, his pistol in his hand. Grayson moved along the bank of the creek, getting closer to the cabin, close enough to better hear the conversation between the two men.

“Stump,” Billy blurted, “what in the hell are you doin' up here?”

“Mr. Blanchard sent me to warn you. There's a bounty hunter in town lookin' for you, and your daddy said to tell you not to leave this camp,” Stump reported dutifully. “He said this feller's as dangerous as a rattlesnake, and you'd best stay hid till he's gone somewhere else.”

Billy released the hammer on his .44 Smith & Wesson revolver and put it back in the holster on the belt he was carrying in his hand. “Is that a fact?” he asked, while thinking that his father had been right about sending him up to the line camp. It irritated him sometimes that his father was always right. “You know what I do with rattlesnakes, Stump? I skin 'em and eat 'em—the same as I do with deputy marshals.”

Stump was immediately concerned, afraid he had not delivered Jacob Blanchard's message as instructed to do. “Your daddy don't want you to tangle with this feller. He told me to tell you that.”

“All right, you told me, but I'll do what I damn-well please, and it riles me to have a stinkin' bounty hunter think he can come after me.”

“Ah, Billy,” Stump moaned, “don't go doin' nothin' your daddy don't want you to.”

Knowing the main thing that was worrying the simpleminded cousin of his father's foreman was the fear that he had failed to deliver the message as instructed, Billy changed the subject. “You might as well get down off that mule and we'll see 'bout some breakfast. You bring any grub with you?”

Stump slid off his mule. “No, they didn't tell me to.”

“They didn't, huh,” Billy replied sarcastically. “If they didn't tell you to take a shit, I reckon you'd just hold it till you blew up.” Stump, obviously confused by the comment, did not reply. “Well, get some of that wood on the pile yonder and build up that fire.” He pointed toward the ashes of a fire beside the shack where most of the cooking was done. When the weather dictated it, the little stove inside was used to do the job. “I've still got plenty of bacon and coffee. We'll have us a little breakfast.” He started to go inside the cabin, but paused when an idea struck him. “I'm gettin' damn sick and tired of bacon and beans. Tell you what, before you start back to the house, you can help me do a little butcherin'. Pa told me to round up strays up here. Well, I rounded a few of 'em up before I said to hell with it. We'll cut out a nice young calf and eat some beef for a change.” Stump didn't have to say anything. Billy knew what the simple man was thinking. “Don't worry about it, Stump. I'm the one callin' the shots. Pa don't ever have to know about it.”

“If you say so, Billy.” The idea of some fresh roasted beef appealed to him.

For the man hiding in the clump of berry bushes, Billy's decision was good news, because it meant the young outlaw did not plan to go anywhere that day. Having had no sleep during the night just passing, Grayson saw an opportunity to catch some while Billy and Stump were slaughtering one of Jacob Blanchard's cattle. His horses could use the rest as well. He would wait to make his move on Billy later in the day after he and Stump had filled their bellies. The task at hand now was to find a place to hide, for with the rapidly approaching morning light, it would soon be fairly easy to spot a man trying to hide in a bunch of serviceberry bushes. So as quietly as he could manage, he backed slowly away.

He led his horses back for about fifty yards before stepping up in the saddle and continuing for another quarter of a mile when he felt it safe to leave the cover of the creek. The vantage point he sought was the hill behind the shack, which would give him the best view of the cabin as well as the small corral on one side. Because of the open prairie, it would be necessary to make a wide circle to come up from behind the ridge. He decided to rest his horses and himself right where he was, by the creek, where the horses could drink and graze. There was plenty of time, for he was confident that Billy wasn't going anywhere, at least until after the butchering and the feast. He was not sure what complications Stump might cause, so he preferred to deal with Billy alone. By waiting to arrest Billy, he hoped that Stump would be on his way back home, none the wiser, and no one would know that Billy had been captured before he was halfway across The Nations.

*   *   *

It was past noon when he awoke, at once concerned that he had slept longer than he had planned. He hurriedly climbed the bank of the creek to look back toward the line shack, and was relieved to see a thin brown string of smoke wafting up in that direction. Admonishing himself for his carelessness, he saddled the gray, loaded his packhorse, and started out on a wide circle to eventually come up behind the low ridge backing the shack. Within half an hour, he was in a position above the rough building, his horses tied in the brush below him.
Damn
, he thought, for the first thing he noticed were the two horses and one mule in the tiny corral, which meant that Stump was still there. At least Billy's Appaloosa, and the blue roan that had belonged to Tom Malone, were there. That was the main thing that concerned him, since he had allowed himself to oversleep.

Moving along the ridge, he made his way to a point where he could see the fire and the two men. Some several dozen yards below him, Billy sat eating a chunk of roasted beef while Stump was tending a haunch on a spit that he had fashioned from a green willow limb. Grayson could smell the aroma of the roasting beef as it drifted up from below. It reminded him that he had had nothing but cold jerky. Sitting in the coals on one side of the fire was a coffeepot, which added to his envy and made him resolve to share in the feast. It didn't appear that Stump was going to depart anytime soon. Grayson decided he might as well make his move and deal with the two of them, still with no idea if Stump was going to fight or run.

Looking about him, he decided his best approach to the party was by way of a shallow gully that ran down the ridge to a point behind the cabin. He estimated it to be no more than a dozen yards behind the man lolling with his back up against the shack, eating his fill of fresh meat. Grayson carefully looked the situation over. Billy was still wearing nothing but his long underwear; his gun belt was hanging on the corner of the open cabin door, perhaps ten or twelve feet from him. Shifting his gaze back to Stump, he was satisfied to see that the simple man tending the meat was also without a sidearm. His pistol and belt were lying on his saddle, which had been dropped beside the corral. With his rifle in hand, and a couple of coils of rope on his shoulder, Grayson crawled over into the gully and started working his way slowly down it, taking care not to disturb the loose rocks along the sides.