Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (6 page)

“First, I want that son of a bitchin' bounty hunter to bring that rifle over here and prop it against the wall, then step back, or I swear I'll kill her. Then I want you to untie my horse and drop his reins, and you and that Injun you're married to can see how you like it in the smokehouse till me and the little missy, here, are out of sight.”

Terrified to near paralysis, Cassie began to cry and begged Billy to let her go. “I tried to help you,” she pleaded. “Why are you doing this?”

“'Cause I ain't ready to hang, you dumb little bitch. Now shut up and don't cause me no trouble.” For emphasis, he pressed a little harder with the knife blade, causing Earl to cry out again.

“You ain't said what you're fixin' to do with me after I prop my rifle against the smokehouse,” Grayson said, his voice calm and emotionless. It was the first thing he had said during the frantic moments since Billy had grabbed Cassie. As casual as if passing the time of day with a neighbor, he gazed at Billy, the rifle still in one hand by his side. “You also ain't asked me what I want.” He paused while his gaze remained locked on to Billy's eyes. “So I'll tell you.” He pulled the Winchester up against his shoulder and aimed it at Billy's head. “Cassie,” he went on, still deadly calm, “I want you to hold just as still as you can. At this close range, there's no way I'm liable to miss, so you hold real still. The noise will be a little sudden. Don't let that bother you, but I have to apologize for the blood. When the bullet hits Billy's head, there's liable to be a little splatter, and I hope it won't mess up your dress too bad. It'll be over before you know it.”

Stunned momentarily when things didn't go as he had anticipated, Billy clutched Cassie even tighter, trying to shield himself as much as possible with the girl's body. When Grayson calmly stepped to one side to keep a clear target line to Billy's head, Billy tried again to threaten. “Drop that rifle, or I'll slit her throat!”

“You really think you can push that knife through her throat before I can squeeze the trigger?” Grayson asked. “I'm already thinkin' how much easier it will be to tote your carcass back to Fort Smith instead of puttin' up with your mouth all the way.” He sighed patiently. “But I promised John Council I'd give you the choice, so I'll give you one more chance before I put a hole in your head where a brain was supposed to go.” He steadied himself for the shot. “Hold still, Cassie, we're about done here.”

“All right! All right!” Billy screamed and pulled the knife away from Cassie's throat. “You win, dammit!” He released the girl and dropped the knife on the ground at his feet, then obediently turned to face the smokehouse door with his hands behind him, waiting to be tied. Cassie ran to her mother's arms, sobbing as she sought her protection, shamed by her naïve willingness to believe the smooth-talking young outlaw.

Grayson glanced at Earl, whose face had drained of color and looked as if he was about to faint. “Why don't you take your women in the house, Earl? I'm finished up here, so we'll be on our way. Tell your missus I'm sorry about this little show Billy put on, and don't be too hard on the girl.” He didn't say it, but he had a feeling he knew how Billy got his hands on the knife. Earl nodded and turned to join his family while Grayson tied Billy's wrists.

“Well, you've had yourself a nice little show this mornin',” he told him as he tightened up on the knot. “I reckon I can't really blame you for tryin'. I s'pose I would if I was in your shoes. But I reckon I'd best make sure you understand a little rule I've got. I don't see no sense in givin' a prisoner more'n two chances to do like I tell him to. When you took your first chance, I put a bullet hole in your leg.” He took him by the arm, turned him around, and led him toward the horses, talking as he did. “Now this thing this mornin', well, that was your second chance, and I'd ordinarily put a hole in the other leg for that. But you already had the ladies upset, what with you stickin' a knife to that young girl's throat, so I didn't wanna give 'em anything else to upset 'em.” He paused to steady Billy while he got him up in the saddle before continuing. “So now you're lookin' at your third chance, and like I said, I don't normally give a fellow but two. The third time usually gets a bullet hole between the eyes. I wanna be sure you understand that, 'cause to tell you the truth, I was kinda hopin' you'd go ahead and start to cut that girl, so I coulda blowed you to hell and made my job a helluva lot easier.”

There was not much that Billy could say in defiance, but he was still obstinate enough to try. “They're payin' you to take me back alive. They ain't gonna give you nothin' if you kill me.”

“That's where you're wrong, Billy. You're just as good to me dead as you are alive. All they want is your worthless body.”

“You ain't got me all the way to Fort Smith yet. If you don't let me go, my pa and my brothers will hunt you down like the lowdown dog you are. Don't matter if I hang or not; you'll be just as dead as I am. I guarantee it.”

“I reckon we'll just have to wait and see about that,” Grayson said. “Every man will die when his time comes—and not a minute before.” He nudged the gray with his heels and pointed the horses east, leaving the Beaver River. As best he could recall, he should strike the Cimarron before nightfall, and make camp there. He estimated it to be a distance of about forty miles, give or take a few miles, and should be no trouble to reach, even with the late start.

Chapter 5

Jacob Blanchard was furious. When Stump returned to report Billy's capture by the bounty hunter, Jacob went into a rage like none his crew had ever seen before. He cursed Stump soundly for letting Grayson ride away with Billy in tow. Cowering in the storm of Jacob's wrath, his foreman, Yancey Brooks, and Yancey's right-hand man, Lonnie Jenkins slumped like scolded dogs before their master as he fumed. Jacob could interpret Stump's flight from the line camp only as pure cowardice, thinking he should have fought to protect his son. Unable to understand why they could be held responsible, Yancey and Lonnie nonetheless hung their heads and accepted the blame.

“Yancey!” Jacob roared, “send somebody to town and tell Slate and Troy I want them out here right now. Then you and Lonnie get saddled up, ready to ride. I want that son of a bitch that took my boy! I want you to take two extra horses, so you can swap off when they get tired.” It added to his ire that time would be wasted going back to the line camp on Rabbit Creek to pick up Grayson's trail. The bounty hunter already had a couple of days' head start, but there was little chance of cutting him off in the vast prairie land when there was no way of knowing the route he might take. The general picture only increased Jacob's frustration and fanned the fire of his rage.

“And Yancey,” he charged, “I want you in the saddle night and day. I don't care if you kill a couple of horses—catch up with that bastard before he gets to Fort Smith.”

Yancey looked at Lonnie and nodded solemnly. Looking up at Jacob again, he said, “We'll do our best, Mr. Blanchard.”

This was not enough for Jacob. He wasn't convinced that his foreman grasped the full responsibility he was charged with. “I want better than your best, dammit. I want Grayson stopped, no matter what you have to do to stop him. You bring my boy back, and Grayson's scalp, and I'll pay you three hundred dollars apiece.” He was satisfied to see a look of deepened interest in the eyes of both men at the prospect of obtaining a sizable reward. Both men had killed for Blanchard before, nesters or sheepherders, but always for wages. It was just part of the job as they saw it, for they had been hired primarily for their guns.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Blanchard,” Yancey responded. “We'll get him. We'll take Stump with us to make sure we start out on the right trail.”

“Leave Stump here,” Blanchard ordered. “He'll just slow you down, him and that damn mule he rides. Somebody needs to stay here and help Jimmy do the chores, anyway. Now, get movin'. Don't waste no more time.”

“Yes, sir, you're right.” He turned to Jenkins. “Come on, Lonnie, let's get ready to ride. Jimmy can go get Slate and Troy.”

*   *   *

It was after midnight by the time Jimmy Hicks slid off his weary horse and stepped up on the stoop to knock on the door of the sheriff's office. Only after a continuous rapping on the door did he see a light appear in the window. Moments later, he heard the bolt drawn back and the door opened just enough for the barrel of a pistol to appear. In another moment, however, the door was opened wide to reveal Slate Blanchard standing in his long johns, holding a lamp.

“Jimmy, what the hell are you doin' here?”

“Your pa sent me to fetch you and your brother,” Jimmy replied. “He said to tell you to come right now.”

“Why? What's wrong?” Slate responded. “Is Pa all right?”

“Yes, sir, he's all right. It's Billy. That Grayson feller that came through here caught Billy up at the line camp, and he's haulin' him back to Fort Smith.”

“Damn,” Slate swore. “I knew we shoulda took care of that bastard as soon as he rode into town—shoulda known he was after Billy.” He turned to yell over his shoulder. “Troy! Wake up!” He turned back to Jimmy again. “Come on inside.” When there was no response from the cell room behind the office, he called Troy again, this time receiving a groggy grunt and a request to keep his shirt on. Slate continued his questioning of Jimmy. “Did Pa tell you anythin' else? What does he want us to do?” He understood the importance of immediate response, but he didn't know in what direction.

“He just told me to fetch you right now,” Jimmy replied.

“For what,” Troy said as he stumbled into the room, still half asleep. Slate repeated the little bit of information Jimmy had given him. Troy thought it over for a moment, and like his brother, wasn't quite sure what to do about it. “What good is it gonna do us to ride fifteen miles back to the house, if we gotta try to catch up with the son of a bitch goin' the other way?” He looked at Slate for an answer, but received none. “How the hell do we know where to even start lookin' for him?”

“Mr. Blanchard sent Yancey and Lonnie up to Rabbit Creek to try to pick up his trail,” Jimmy said. “They took off with extra horses. Mr. Blanchard told 'em to ride 'em into the ground if they have to.”

Fully awake now, Troy couldn't help but comment. “Yeah, we need to rescue Pa's favorite son every time he gets his ass in trouble.” Being the middle son, Troy had always felt he never got a fair share of his father's affection. He knew Slate didn't share his jealousy, but figured it was because Slate was the eldest and felt no competition for his status in the family. Billy, however, was the pet and could do no wrong in his father's eyes.

Fully aware of Troy's envy of his brother's place in his father's heart, Slate felt it necessary to remind him. “Billy's our brother, and nobody gets to harm any one of us without payin' for it. Now we need to get out to the ranch and find out what Pa wants us to do.”

“What about sheriffin'?” Troy asked. “Are we just gonna close the sheriff's office and ride outta town?”

Slate shrugged and paused to think about the uselessness of his position in the town his father had created. There had been no one arrested in almost a year, primarily because of the shadow cast over the town by Jacob Blanchard and his hired guns, more so than the sheriff and his deputy. Everyone in town knew the Blanchard brothers were the law in name only and served mainly to harass drunks. “I reckon the town can do without us for a few days. We'll see what Pa wants us to do. Then maybe one of us can come back to keep an eye on things here in town.”

*   *   *

While Slate and his brother rode back to their father's ranch, the object of their search was sleeping in a camp beside the Cimarron River. His prisoner, bound hand and foot, was trying to sleep as best he could, forced to abide an uncomfortable position on his side. From time to time, the constant singing of the frogs in the nearby river was accompanied by a gentle tinkle of bells whenever Billy tried to move in his limited state of freedom. The tiny bells, which Grayson attached to the rope that bound Billy's wrists, were meant to alert him of any excessive movement on the prisoner's part during the night.

Grayson was satisfied with the time they had made since leaving Rabbit Creek, and was confident that he could maintain the lead he had on anyone trying to follow. Blanchard's boys would have no choice other than riding to Rabbit Creek to pick up his trail.

*   *   *

Upon leaving the Cimarron the next morning, he continued almost due east across Indian Territory, planning to maintain that course until reaching the Arkansas before following that river all the way into Fort Smith. By the time he reached the Arkansas River, he figured he might need some additional supplies, primarily coffee and bacon, so he planned to strike the river at a point where it took a double loop, forming a wide U. There was a trading post situated at the bottom of the U, run by John Polsgrove, a giant bear of a man, and a friend of Grayson's, which made him unique, because Grayson didn't have many friends. Polsgrove was well known in the Cherokee Nation and appreciated by the Indians because of his sense of fairness in trading and his general pleasant nature. His easy-going manner seemed in sharp contrast to his physical features, which more nearly resembled those of a polar bear. Grayson almost smiled when thinking about his friend. It would be good to see him again, and possibly enjoy some of his wife Belle's fried corn cakes.
That might even help Billy's disposition
, he thought with an amused grunt. After a week of constant riding, his prisoner had descended into a dismal silence, his string of threats and profanity apparently exhausted. Grayson figured the monotonous, sleep-deprived journey might make Billy look forward to a hanging, if only for the variation.

*   *   *

He saw the smoke long before he was in sight of the log buildings that sat close beside the river. A long thin column that etched an almost invisible brown ribbon against the clouds hanging low over the river drifted straight up until it was snatched and scattered by the wind. Immediately alert, Grayson guided his horses farther north, thinking it best to come in above the trading post, instead of riding straight in. The fire could mean anything, good or bad, but it always paid to be careful, so he continued on the altered course until striking the river about what he estimated to be two hundred yards north of Polsgrove's Store. A thick belt of oak trees hovered close to the river at this point, and when he entered their cover, he pointed the gray gelding down river, picking his way carefully through the trees and underbrush.

“Hey, what's goin' on?” Billy blurted, aware of Grayson's sudden caution. Oblivious of the altered course up to that point, he now realized that his captor was taking precautions not to be seen by someone. Thinking that whatever it was might pose some danger to him, he came out of the monotony of the rocking motion of the saddle to become fully awake. “What's goin' on,” he repeated. “Injuns?” The possibility of a renegade gang of Indians struck his mind. “Don't leave me back here with my hands tied and no gun!” When Grayson ignored his questions, he demanded, “Untie my hands, dammit!”

“Shut the hell up,” Grayson finally responded. It was plain to him that he wasn't going to be able to keep Billy quiet. It posed a problem for him, for he sensed something wrong at John Polsgrove's store, and he wanted to get close enough to see for himself. It could be nothing, he told himself. Maybe the knowledge that Jacob Blanchard would go to any extreme to rescue his son influenced his extra caution. Then he told himself that it would be almost impossible for Blanchard to overtake him this soon. Still, he wanted to take a look at John's store before riding in with his prisoner. The problem, then, was what to do with Billy. He decided he would risk leaving him with the horses while he worked his way closer along the riverbank to a point where he could get a good look at the compound John had built by the water. “Come on, Billy,” he said, pulling him from his horse. “I reckon you're tired of sittin' in the saddle all day, so I'll let you stand up for a while.”

He took an extra coil of rope from his packhorse and tied Billy securely to a sizable cottonwood tree, standing with his back to the trunk. For good measure, he wound the extra rope around him enough times to almost make him look like a mummy. Totally alarmed, Billy complained, “What if somethin' happens to you, and you don't come back?”

“If that happens,” Grayson told him, “just untie yourself and we'll call it even.”

“You son of a bitch!” Billy cursed him.

“I won't be long,” Grayson said, ignoring the outburst. “I just can't take a chance on puttin' you in any danger,” he added sarcastically.

“Yeah, and you can go to hell,” Billy fumed, “leavin' me here like this.”

Satisfied that his prisoner was unlikely to escape, Grayson left him and disappeared into the trees along the river. He had not gone far when he began to smell the smoke he had been seeing for the last couple of miles. Working his way even closer along the bank, he reached a point where he had a clear view of the compound, so he paused there to see if anything looked amiss. Nothing did at first glance, but upon longer observation, several things caught his eye. The smoke that had prompted his caution was not coming from the yard as he had first thought. Instead, it came from the front part of John's store, and although merely smoldering now, it had burned out a large portion of the front wall. He shifted his gaze to the smokehouse and the barn, then back to the corral when it occurred to him that there were no horses there—and there should have been at least a half dozen. It was obvious that John had been hit by raiders. Without conscious thought, Grayson cocked his rifle. Whoever had caused the damage was gone now, for there was no sign of any other horses. Anxious to find out what had happened, he rose to his feet and hurried along the bank toward the house. Just as he emerged from the trees, a woman appeared in the burnt-out door frame, pointing a rifle in his direction.

“Belle!” Grayson called out. “It's me, Grayson!”

Still holding the rifle on him, she hesitated. “Grayson?” she finally responded. “Is that you?”

“It's me,” he replied. She let the rifle fall to her side and walked out the door to meet him. “What happened? Where's John?”

“I was afraid it was them coming back again,” Belle replied, her voice hoarse and weary. “John's hurt bad. They shot him in the back.”

“Who shot him?” Grayson responded.

“They was Pawnee,” Belle answered, “wild young men. They run off with the horses and tried to burn the house down.”

She looked to be about to fall exhausted, but she turned to lead him back inside the burnt-out doorway to the house where he found the big man lying on the bed where she had been trying to administer to his wounds. “Damn, John,” Grayson exclaimed softly when he saw his friend's face covered with fresh blood. He was unaccustomed to seeing the huge man in such a vulnerable state.

“Grayson?” Polsgrove replied with considerable effort.

“Yeah,” Grayson answered. “What happened?”

From the wounded man and his wife, Grayson was able to piece together the details of the raid on the trading post. He was not totally surprised to hear them. From as early as 1873, the federal government had been moving the Pawnee from Nebraska to reservations there in the Cherokee Nation. There had been very little trouble between the tribes as a result of this, but there had been occasional incidents of friction. According to Belle, a group of five men, all young, rode into the compound purportedly to trade some hides. They said they wanted tobacco, but when John turned to fetch it, one of them shot him in the back. He did not go down, but turned instead to charge them, and was shot in the face by another member of the party. While he lay helpless on the floor, they stormed over the counter to help themselves to anything they fancied, including a shotgun and two pistols that were under the counter. “When I hear the guns,” Belle said, “I run to bedroom to get the rifle. They try to get me, but they run when I start shooting. When I try to help John, they run off with the horses.”