Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (4 page)

“I swear that sure beats the hell outta salt pork,” Billy exclaimed as he set his plate down on the ground beside him. “I've had a hankerin' for some fresh beef ever since I got up here. I was thinkin' about butcherin' one of them cows, but I'm glad you came along to do it for me. I couldn'ta done it as good as you.”

Dumb enough to believe he was receiving an honest compliment, Stump broke out a wide grin, and turned to show it to Billy. His face froze and he stopped dead still, causing Billy to ask him if he'd seen a ghost. Stump didn't answer, but pointed to the corner of the shack behind Billy with the fork he had been tending the meat with. Still puzzled by Stump's strange behavior, Billy turned to see what Stump was pointing to. His reactions were swift as he rolled immediately away from the shack, but his pistol was too far away, and the grim stranger's reflexes were just as quick as his. Firing and cocking in rapid succession, Grayson sent two shots ripping into the dirt inches before Billy's boots, causing him to jump back to avoid being hit. “The next one's goin' in the side of your head,” he warned, stopping Billy dead in his tracks with only the scowl on his face with which to defend himself. Glancing quickly back at Stump, who had not moved from the paralyzed crouch at his first sight of the somber avenger, Grayson said, “Sit down right there and don't move till I tell you to.” The confused man did as he was told.

Unable to hold his tongue or his temper for very long, Billy snarled in defiance. “Are you Grayson?” he demanded.

“I'm Grayson,” he answered calmly.

“You're makin' one helluva mistake,” Billy blurted, his anger barely under control. “You might as well take that rifle and shoot yourself in the head with it, because you'll never live to collect any reward for takin' me in.”

“I reckon you're the one that made the mistake when you killed that deputy back at Ed Lenta's place on the Canadian,” Grayson said.

“You ain't no lawman,” Billy exclaimed. “You're a damn egg-suckin' bounty hunter. You can't arrest me.”

“As a matter of fact, I can,” Grayson said. “I just happen to have papers that say I can, but it doesn't really make any difference. I'm takin' you back to Fort Smith so you can get a proper hangin', papers or not. The only thing you have to decide is how you're gonna travel—sittin' in the saddle or lying across it—'cause it's all the same to me.”

Desperate now, Billy yelled at Stump. “Help me, Stump! He can't take both of us if we jump on him at the same time.” Stump, his eyes wide with uncertainty, looked back and forth from Billy to the man with the rifle.

“That's bad advice, Stump,” Grayson told him. “He's lookin' to get you shot and hopin' he has enough time to get to his gun while I'm doin' it. You just use your brains and sit right where you are. I didn't come after you. Billy's the one done the killin'. I got no reason to do you any harm unless you force me to.”

“By God, Stump,” Billy threatened, “you'd best remember who you work for. Pa will have your hide if you don't help me. I'm tellin' you, he ain't no lawman.” Totally confused now, Stump was wavering between saving his own neck and acting to help the son of his employer.

The indecision was clearly evident upon the perplexed man's face, so Grayson cautioned him. “You'd be makin' a mistake, Stump.” It was too late; Stump's fear of Jacob Blanchard's wrath was the determining factor. He let out a howl like that of a wolf and charged Grayson. As soon as Stump howled, Billy lunged to his feet and sprinted for his pistol hanging on the door. Already anticipating something of the sort, Grayson deftly sidestepped Stump's clumsy charge and felled him with a sharp blow to his skull with the butt of his rifle. Then without pause, he leveled the rifle again in time to fire a round that struck Billy in the thigh seconds before Billy's outstretched hand could reach the pistol.

Billy screamed out in pain as he spun around and fell to the ground. “You shot me, you son of a bitch!” he wailed as he grabbed his leg.

“That I did,” Grayson replied with no hint of concern. He glanced down at Stump, who showed no signs of getting up. Then he walked over to the door, took the gun and holster, and tossed them over to the other side of the fire. He paused to take a look at Billy, who was writhing in pain, his full attention captured by the necessity of stopping the flow of blood oozing from the bullet hole in his leg. Deciding he was occupied for the moment, Grayson turned his attention back to Stump. Shaking a coil of rope from his shoulder, he laid his rifle down and rolled Stump over on his back. Working quickly before the stunned man had time to think about resisting, he bound his hands and ankles securely. Satisfied that Stump was taken care of for the time being, he moved to incapacitate Billy.

“Whaddaya doin'?” Billy complained when Grayson turned him over roughly and proceeded to tie his hands behind his back. “I'm shot! I need to tend to my wound!”

Grayson finished tying him up before replying, “I'll take care of your wound. Quit your cryin'.” He preferred to have Billy's hands tied behind him while he wrapped a cloth around his leg. “Now sit there while I find somethin' to bind that leg.” He went to the door of the shack and peered inside to see if he could spot anything to use for a bandage. Seeing a couple of shirts hanging on a chair back, he decided one would do the job. So he looked back to make sure his prisoner was sitting where he had left him, then hurried inside to fetch one of the shirts. Even though only seconds, it was time enough for Billy to struggle to his feet and limp over on the other side of the fire where Grayson had thrown his gun and holster. He was sitting on the ground with his back to the pistol, trying to find it with his bound hands, when Grayson walked casually over to kick the weapon away. “You're lucky you couldn't get your hands on that pistol,” the imperturbable man told him. “You'da probably shot yourself.” He then tore Billy's spare shirt into strips and bandaged Billy's thigh.

“I need to see a doctor,” Billy whined. “I'm gonna bleed to death if I don't.”

“I'm fixin' to take you to one,” Grayson replied, “in Fort Smith.”

“Ah, hell no,” Billy protested. “I can't go that far.”

Grayson paused to give his prisoner an inquisitive stare. “Have you got it in your head somehow that you're the one callin' the shots here? That little ol' bullet hole in your leg can wait till we get to Fort Smith. The only decision you've got to make right now is whether you wanna ride all that way in your underwear, or do you want your clothes on?”

“Damn you,” Billy cursed, “let me put my clothes on.”

“All right, but here's the way it's gonna work. We'll play a little game. You like games, don't you, Billy? I heard you were in a card game when you cut Tom Malone down. Well, here's how you play this game. I'll put your clothes in front of you and untie your hands. Then I'll stand there and hold my rifle on you while you pull your clothes on. And every time you make a move that don't look right to me, I put another bullet hole in you—arm, leg, shoulder, I get to pick. So the only way you can win the game is to end up with your clothes on and no more bullet holes in your hide.”

The message was received and understood by the prisoner, so Billy got his clothes on with no problems beyond the discomfort of his wound. Once that was accomplished, Grayson secured his prisoners, one to each corner post of the small porch, while he took time out to enjoy the freshly roasted beef the two had prepared, and washed it down with hot coffee. When that was done, he saddled Billy's horse and Stump's mule, then packed everything useful he found in the cabin on Tom Malone's blue roan. “Well, boys,” he announced when he had finished, “I reckon we'd best get started.” After taking a check to make sure each man's binds were secure, he hurried back up the gully behind the cabin to fetch his horses.

Still dazed by the blow on his head, Stump was left in a state of confusion and uncertainty, wondering what was to become of him. Grayson had told him that he had not come after him, but what now, since he'd made an attempt to help Billy? He was soon to find his answer when Grayson untied Billy's feet and helped him up in the saddle, after which he tied the horse's reins to the porch post and turned his attention to Stump.

He untied the stubby man's feet, but left his hands tied together in front of his body. “I told you before that I had nothin' against you, but I can't let you go runnin' back to Black Horse Creek to tell Jacob Blanchard where his son is, so I'm gonna take a little head start.” He turned to point toward a low line of hills in the distance. “You see those hills yonder? I'm gonna head straight for that notch between the two farthest right.” He pulled Stump's knife from a scabbard on the stocky man's gun belt. “You start walkin' toward that gap in the hills, 'cause I'm gonna leave your mule tied to a tree there. You understand?” Stump nodded, but still looked confused, so Grayson spelled it out for him. “You're gonna be in for a good walk till you get to that tree. Then you just ride on back home. Now do you understand?”

Stump nodded again, this time with the light of understanding in his eyes. “You're wantin' to make sure I can't catch up, right?”

“That's right,” Grayson answered and stepped up in the saddle. “Now hold your hands up here and I'll cut you loose. I wouldn't leave you out here without a weapon, so I'll drop your gun belt on the ground a little piece ahead.” He cut Stump's ropes.

“Much obliged,” the simple man said as Grayson rode away, leading the horses and his mule.

“You tell Pa!” Billy shouted after them. “You tell Pa he's plannin' on takin' me all the way to Fort Smith!” Strictly for Grayson's benefit, he added, “It's a helluva long way from here to Fort Smith. There's plenty of time to catch up with us.”

It's longer than you think,
Grayson thought,
because I'm going to take the long way back
. He fully realized the possibility of pursuit, and deemed it safer to take a not so direct road to Fort Smith. He estimated that it would take almost two weeks to ride to Fort Smith, and he wondered if he could stand Billy Blanchard for that long. It would be so much simpler, and sensible, to take his prisoner to Fort Dodge and hand him over to the military there. From where he now started out, Fort Dodge was no more than a long day's ride. John Council was adamant about delivering Billy to the court in Fort Smith, however, for the specific purpose of making an example for those lawless individuals who were attracted to The Nations. Council knew it was a long way to escort a prisoner, and that was the reason such a high bounty was approved. It was going to be one hell of a ride, but he shrugged it off as just a dirty job, and one with a big payday to justify the trouble.

Chapter 4

When he finally approached the gap in the low hills that he had pointed out to Stump, he realized the walk was going to be longer than he had guessed.
All the better
, he thought to himself as he looked around to determine the best place to leave Stump's mule. A small stream cut through the gap with a scrubby growth of trees scattered along its path. Deciding on one that leaned out over the water, he tied the mule there, with enough slack to nibble the grass and water to drink.
If he follows the line I pointed out to him, he can hardly miss his mule. And if he doesn't take too long to walk it, he'll be back on his way home, providing a stray Indian doesn't come along and beat him to it
. He didn't really think there was much chance of it. So he stepped up in the saddle again and led a sullen Billy, followed by the late deputy's blue roan and his own packhorse, through the gap to the other side. The brief exposure he had had to Stump left him with the impression that he had little to worry about as far as being followed. He figured Stump would wear his mule out in his haste to report Billy's capture to his father. With that thought in mind, he changed his course directly eastward on the far side of the hills. “Where the hell are you goin'?” Billy promptly piped up. “You sure you know which way Fort Smith is?” When Grayson failed to respond, he continued to rail against his treatment. “My leg's gettin' worse. I ain't gonna be able to stay on this horse much longer if we don't stop to let me rest. If you'd untie my hands, I could at least tend to it to stop some of the bleedin'.”

“Damn,” Grayson said, sarcastically, “why didn't I think of that?” He made no move to grant the request, however. They continued on through the unassigned lands of the Cherokee Outlet for the rest of that day. Billy's frustration with the stoic bounty hunter's stony lack of sympathy gave way to constant threats regarding Grayson's fate when Billy's father caught up with them. When this was also ignored by Grayson, Billy eventually gave up and silently endured his capture, counting on the probability that there may be a few opportunities for escape.

Their supper that night was more of the beef that Stump had slaughtered that morning. Afraid the meat might turn, Grayson cooked up all that he had brought with them. It would do for their second night on their journey, but then it would be back to salt pork, which he planned to resupply when they reached a trading post on the Beaver River that he hoped would still be there. He could not be sure. It had been over a year since he had been in this part of the country, but Earl Johnson, the owner, had always gotten along with the Indians in the area, and they often traded at his store.

*   *   *

Grayson was glad to see the log buildings clustered on the bank of the river at the end of a long day's ride along the Beaver River. It was hard to see if the store was open, due to the lack of windows, but there was lamplight in the windows of the house built on to the back of the store where Earl lived with his wife and daughter. There were a couple of horses in the corral next to a small barn. It sure looked like Earl was still in business, so he was no longer concerned about running out of supplies before reaching Fort Smith. Earl's dog announced their arrival as they approached the store and a few minutes later, the door was cracked ajar, just enough for someone to look out. After a few more minutes, the door opened wider and Earl poked his head out, straining to see in the fading light. “Is that you, Grayson?” he asked.

“Yeah, it's me,” Grayson replied. “You open for business? I need some things.”

“Hell, yeah, I'm always open for business.” He propped the shotgun he had been holding against the inside door frame and stepped outside on the porch. “Who's that you got with you?” he asked.

“This here is Mr. Billy Blanchard,” Grayson said, “and I'd like to find him a good secure place for the night, someplace where he won't be disturbed. I'm thinkin' about that smokehouse of yours. Have you got a padlock for that door?”

“If I didn't have, I'da been cleaned outta salt pork a long time ago,” Earl answered. He walked out in the yard to get a better look. “You gone back to bein' a lawman?” he asked when he saw that Billy was sitting in the saddle with his hands tied behind him.

“Nope,” Grayson answered as he stepped down. “I'm just doin' a job for the marshal over in Fort Smith.”

Still peering intensely at a sullen Billy Blanchard, Earl asked, “What did he do?”

Grayson looked back up at Billy when he answered. “Billy's specialty is killin' deputy marshals and bank tellers, although he has a sideline of robbery and stealin' horses. Ain't that right, Billy?” Billy declined to answer.

Earl continued to stare at the prisoner as if studying his face. “Blanchard, did you say?” When Grayson nodded, Earl asked, “One of them Blanchards that run that outfit up on the Cimarron?”

“Yep, he's Jacob Blanchard's son.”

A deep frown appeared upon Earl's face. “I expect old man Blanchard ain't too happy about you havin' his boy, is he?”

Holding his tongue until then, Billy blurted, “That's a fact, mister, and my pa will be comin' after him and every son of a bitch that helps him.”

Grayson could see that the insolent outlaw's threat had a sobering effect upon Earl, so he thought to assure him. “That's another thing Billy specializes in, shooting his mouth off. There ain't much to worry about as far as you're concerned. His gang don't even know which way we went. If they do try to cut us off, I expect they'll figure we headed straight down through The Nations and the unassigned lands, trying to get back as soon as possible. And I figure they're two days behind us at that.”

“I need a doctor,” Billy complained. “I'm bleedin' bad and this son of a bitch don't care if I bleed to death.”

Earl looked at Grayson, questioning, obviously uncomfortable with the situation and already wishing that the ex-lawman had chosen another route to Fort Smith. He had a wife and a thirteen-year-old daughter to be concerned about. Aware of his concern, Grayson sought to ease his mind. “He took one bullet in his leg. It ain't nothin'. I wrapped a bandage around it, and the doctor can take a look at it when I get him back to Fort Smith. I need to buy some supplies from you; then I'll be on my way in the mornin'. You'd be doin' me one helluva favor if you'd let me lock Billy in your smokehouse for the night. I'll lay my blanket right outside the door, and we'll all get a good night's sleep. Whaddaya say?”

“I reckon it'd be all right,” Earl replied with some hesitation. “I just don't wanna get crossways with that Blanchard crowd, you know, with Mae and my daughter to worry about.”

“There won't be anybody to tell 'em I came this way,” Grayson told him. “And we'll be gone in the mornin'.” Earl shrugged, still not comfortable with it. Mae, his wife, was full blood Osage, and one of the reasons he never had much trouble with the Indians, but that wouldn't do him much good if a gang of Blanchard's men came looking for Billy. “I reckon it couldn't hurt nothin',” Earl decided reluctantly, “long as you'll be on your way in the mornin'.”

“I 'preciate it, Earl. You suppose I could buy some supper for me and Billy?” Grayson asked. “You still got that Osage woman doin' the cookin' for you?”

“Yeah,” Earl replied. “That's Mae, my wife.” He felt it important to stress that fact as a precaution, although Grayson had never demonstrated any interest in his wife. Unless the somber bounty hunter had changed since he had last seen him, he would not be thinking about anything beyond the job he had set out to do. “I expect so,” he replied to Grayson's question about supper. “We'd already et when you showed up, but I reckon she can rustle up enough to keep the sides of your belly from rubbin' a blister. Lemme go get the key to the smokehouse, and I'll tell Mae to see what she can scare up.”

“Much obliged,” Grayson said. “Tell her not to go to too much trouble. A biscuit and a cup of coffee would do. Me and Billy ain't particular. Are we Billy?”

“I need some decent food,” Billy complained. “I've lost a lot of blood, and I'm still hurtin' somethin' fierce.”

When Grayson ignored his prisoner's pleas, Earl hesitated before going inside. Looking at Grayson, he asked, “You want me to have Mae look at that boy's wound? She's pretty good at healin'. You know, in case he's really sufferin'.” It had occurred to him that it might go in his favor if Jacob Blanchard found out that he had offered to tend to Billy's wound.

“His leg ain't that bad,” Grayson replied, “not near so bad as he lets on. But what the hell? Maybe it would stop some of his whinin'. If she don't mind, it couldn't hurt to let her make sure it ain't gonna fester.” The thought struck him that if Billy's simple wound did happen to turn bad, it might give him just one more problem to contend with before he made it back to Fort Smith.

“I'll tell Mae,” Earl said. “Bring him on in the store and set him down on that chair by the stove.” He left Grayson to pull Billy off his horse.

Amid curses and complaints, Grayson tied Billy's bound hands to the porch post while he unsaddled the horses and turned them out in the corral with Earl's two. Finding a sack of oats in the barn, he gave a portion to each of the horses—something else to add to his bill. When the horses were taken care of, he returned to the front porch to find Billy straining on the rope holding him against the post. His efforts had been so frantic that the ropes had brought blood to his wrists. When he saw Grayson, he let his body slide down the post until he was sitting on his heels. Grayson paused to look at him a moment before shaking his head patiently. Then without saying a word, he went to his packs, which were still lying on the ground beside the saddles, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he walked over beside Billy and poured a generous amount of the whiskey over Billy's abrasions, causing the startled outlaw to yelp with the sudden pain. “A waste of good whiskey,” Grayson muttered and replaced the cork.

“Gimme a drink of that bottle,” Billy said. “You owe me a drink after haulin' me all day with my hands tied behind me. My shoulders are gonna be so stove up I won't be able to move 'em.”

“Fair enough,” Grayson said. “I figure I owe you one drink after such a long day in the saddle.” He nodded toward Billy's hands. “You just had it, and you ain't gettin' but one, so think about that tomorrow and decide how you want that drink, in your belly, or on your hands.”

“You go to hell,” Billy shot back.

“In time,” Grayson replied. “You just behave yourself while I put the saddles in the barn. Then I'll take you inside to let Earl's woman take a look at that leg.”

*   *   *

“Who'd you say he was?” Mae asked.

“He's Jacob Blanchard's youngest son,” Earl answered, “and Grayson's takin' him all the way back to Fort Smith.”

“What did he do?” Cassie whispered as she peeked through the crack of the door leading to the store.

“Grayson said he shot a deputy marshal,” her father answered.

“He doesn't look much older than me,” Cassie said, still whispering. “Is he hurt bad?”

“I don't think so,” Earl replied. “Your mama's gonna look at him. You stay here in the house.”

“Mama might want me to help her,” Cassie said. The young man didn't look like he was as dangerous as her father and Grayson seemed to think. She had certainly heard of Jacob Blanchard—everyone within three days' ride of Black Horse Creek had. She couldn't help but be curious about the notorious family of men that seemed to own all of the state of Kansas on the other side of the Oklahoma line.

“I don't expect your mama needs any help in seein' to that young hellion's leg,” Earl told her. “You'd best just stay put right here in the house.”

“You go ahead and make up them biscuits,” her mother said. “Since your pa said we'd feed 'em, I reckon we're gonna have to cook something.” When Earl reminded her that Grayson expected to pay for the food, she hesitated. “I reckon we could give 'em something besides coffee and biscuits,” she said, having a change of heart. “Before you start them biscuits, Cassie, go out to the smokehouse and cut off some ham. That oughta do for 'em.”

“Be quick about it, Cassie,” Earl said. “He's wantin' to lock that boy up in the smokehouse.”

Cassie went back to the kitchen to fetch a butcher knife and a pan, then hurried out the back door to the smokehouse where Earl had several salt-cured hams hanging. When she returned, her mother was already cleaning the wound on Billy's leg. Cassie pushed the door ajar, just enough to peek through. “You want me to get the bullet out?” she heard her mother ask.

“If it ain't too much trouble,” Grayson replied. “If you think you can get to it pretty easy, go ahead and dig it outta him. If it's in too deep, just leave it in there. He wouldn't be the first one walkin' around with lead in his leg.”

“I'll get it out,” Mae decided.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Billy said, surprising Grayson with the polite expression of appreciation, one that was certainly not typical of the usual ungrateful ranting of the young outlaw. He didn't have to think about it very long, however, before figuring Billy was just smart enough not to antagonize one who was about to carve into his leg with a knife.

“I'll do my best not to hurt you too much,” Mae replied.

The young girl watching from the other room was struck by the meek attitude shown by the prisoner. With his hands still tied behind his back, he didn't look to be the wanton murderer that Grayson had said. She shifted her gaze to the formidable bounty hunter standing beside the slender young man, his rifle ready to fire at the first hint of trouble. He looked to be twice the size of his prisoner with his broad shoulders and the steely eyes of a predator peering out from under heavy black eyebrows that, along with his dark mustache, made him the image of cruel justice. Looking again at the young man gritting his teeth with the pain of her mother's probing knife, she immediately felt compassion for him. No longer wishing to witness the operation, she closed the door and busied herself preparing the biscuits and ham.
At least I can give him something to eat
, she told herself. She paused to picture him again. He looked hungry, she decided, and wondered if Grayson had given him anything to eat before reaching her father's store.