Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (12 page)

Chapter 8

“What the hell has he got leanin' up agin that tree?” Stover asked. He crawled up closer to Rampley, who was lying on his belly, peering through an old army telescope at the camp on the willow island. “Lemme take a look.”

“Just hold your horses,” Rampley said. “I ain't got a good look yet.” After a minute more, he commented, “Damned if I know what that thing is, but he's sure as hell got it all tied up like it's somethin' he don't want nothin' to get to.”

“I don't give a damn what it is,” Iron Foot snarled impatiently. “What do them damn horses look like? They any good?” Being a half-breed Pawnee, he was naturally more interested in the horses the man had hobbled. To his naked eye, they looked like they might bring a lot of money in Muskogee, especially the Appaloosa. “Let's go down there and get them horses.”

“Just keep your shirt on, you crazy Injun,” Rampley said. “That feller's got a Winchester rifle settin' close by him, and I ain't in no big hurry to find out if he knows how to use it.” He could see the rifle through the branches, although it was more difficult to see the man.

“You talk like a woman,” Iron Foot spat. “Ain't but one man down there. I'll go down there and kill him, and you two stay up here and peek through your damn long-see'um.”

“What's your hurry, Iron Foot?” Stover asked. “You afraid they'll run outta whiskey at Tarver's before you can get some more money?” He was answered with a sneer from Iron Foot. “Ol' Bob Tarver ends up with every penny you come by. That watered-down rotgut he sells you ain't fit for nobody but a damn half-breed.”

“Maybe one of these days I'll take my knife and open a new airhole in your throat, Stover. Maybe I'll take your scalp, too, and tie it on my rifle barrel.”

“It'd look a helluva sight better'n that stringy old gray thing you've got on it now. That thing looks like it came offa muskrat,” Stover replied and winked at Rampley. It wasn't the first time he had been threatened by the shiftless half-breed, so he wasn't really worried that Iron Foot might one day follow up on one of his threats. Without him and Rampley to tell him what to do, Iron Foot would probably starve to death. The scalp tied to Iron Foot's rifle barrel was not a trophy from a life or death combat with a fierce enemy. Actually Rampley was the one who killed the original owner, a gray-haired old trapper whose misfortune it had been to share his camp with the three cutthroats. Iron Foot was the only one who wanted to take the scalp, and he made such a mess of it that Stover teased him for displaying the ragged piece of hair on his rifle.

Iron Foot fixed a doleful stare upon Stover as he drew his long skinning knife from his belt and made a show of testing the keenness of the blade with his thumb. Then he favored him with a wicked smile as he fondled the weapon playfully. “I bet your skin would split just like a fat pig,” he taunted.

“Why don't you two shut up? You're makin' me tired,” Rampley said. “We need to decide how we're gonna go after that son of a bitch down there on the river. He's gonna be hard to sneak up on, settin' on that island like he is.” While the bantering was going on between his two partners, Rampley had been considering the best way to jump the rider without one or more of them getting picked off with his rifle. As always, his first consideration was whether or not it would be possible to shoot him at long range, but due to the willow thicket, it might be difficult to get a clear shot. He extended the telescope again to its full thirty-inch length and took another look at the man tending his fire. Because of the willow branches, he could see only parts of him whenever he moved.
If I was a hundred yards closer, I might could see enough of him to get a kill shot in,
he thought.
But if I missed, then he'd dig in and we'd play hell trying to root him out
. His thoughts were interrupted by Stover asking again to use the glass.

“Hell,” Stover exclaimed, while trying to locate the target through the glass. “Where'd he go? Oh, there he is,” he said when the breeze ruffled the limbs, giving him a glimpse of the man kneeling by the fire. After a few moments, he suggested, “Why don't we just shoot that thicket to pieces? He's bound to catch a slug if we throw enough at him.”

“I'll tell you what,” Rampley retorted. “Why don't you do that? Me and the chief will set back here and see how you do. Right, Iron Foot?” His proposal was met by two blank stares, so he went on to point out the problems with that approach. “We could waste a whole lot of ammunition tryin' to smoke him out. And the first shot fired is liable to send him to diggin' a hole in the sand where we couldn't hit him. He could set there a helluva long time while we shot up all our cartridges. I expect he'd be hopin' we'd try to rush him, knowin' we'd have to come across that wide open stretch of sand. I expect he'd enjoy it.”

“Talk like women,” Iron Foot muttered under his breath. “I go root him outta there by myself.” His partners ignored him, accustomed to his boastful claims.

“So what are we gonna do?” Stover asked Rampley, who usually had the final say on most decisions involving their unlawful activities.

“I reckon we'll go in peaceful-like,” Rampley said, “just stoppin' to pass the time of day, and maybe share some coffee if he's got any. Then first time he turns his back, shoot him. That's a helluva lot better'n startin' a shootin' war that's liable to get one of us killed.”

“Well, let's get goin', then,” Stover said. “I wanna see what that thing is leanin' agin the tree. We mighta hit us a big payday.”

“Take that damn thing offa your rifle,” he told Iron Foot. “We don't want him to think we've got a wild Injun with us.”

“I am an Injun,” Iron Foot replied, insulted. “Pawnee, and proud of it.” Nevertheless, he removed the scalp, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket.

*   *   *

Grayson paused to listen when he heard a couple of his horses whinny, which usually told him someone or something was coming. As a precaution, he walked over to the oak tree, and with a little effort, climbed up on a lower limb. From this perch, he could look through the willow branches and see a couple of hundred yards in any direction. His first concern was his back trail, in case someone else had managed to catch up with him, but he could see no one traveling the river trail. Turning to search in the opposite direction, he found the same, no one in sight. Then he saw them, three riders coming from a line of hills west of the river, and apparently headed straight toward him. He remained on his perch for a while longer, trying to get as good a look at the riders as possible, hoping they would turn to follow the trail when they reached it. It was hard to tell much at that extended distance, but he assumed they were outlaws as a matter of precaution. So he dropped back down to the ground and prepared to meet them. Maybe they knew he was there, maybe they didn't. But they sure seemed to be heading directly toward his island, and if that was the case, they should arrive within fifteen minutes.

As a matter of habit, he had scouted his temporary camp when first arriving, a practice he had found necessary over the years, so he picked up his rifle and a cartridge belt and positioned himself between the fire and the oak tree where he could see them if they proceeded to ford the narrow channel. His horses were behind him near the back edge of the island and the wider, deeper channel—not impossible to reach from the other side of the river, but much more difficult. There was nothing to do now but wait and see if he was going to be lucky and they would pass on by without knowing he was there. In a few minutes' time, he got his answer.

“Hello the camp!” Rampley called out as the three of them pulled up before the tracks leading into the water. “Mind if we come across?”

“What's your business?” Grayson called back.

“We're just passin' through,” Rampley replied. “On our way to Muskogee to build a new church. We've camped here before. Didn't know you was here. We're needin' to rest our horses for a spell.” When there was no response, he continued. “We wouldn't wanna crowd you. We'll ride on if you'd ruther, but if you've got a fire goin', it'd be mighty neighborly of you to share a cup or two of coffee—and we'll supply the coffee beans.”

They were common road agents, Grayson was sure of it. The horses were most likely the main reason for their interest. He had dealt with many of their type over the years when serving as a deputy marshal. The claim that they were on their way to build a church was a nice touch, he thought, one he hadn't heard before. He figured that he was going to have to deal with them, either now, or later, after darkness. Since it appeared he was to have the choice, he decided he preferred to handle the situation now when he could see them plainly. “Well, if you've got peaceful intentions,” he called out, “come on across.”

Rampley looked at Stover and grinned. Then he called out again, “We're peaceful enough, and we thank you kindly. We're comin' across.” He reached down and made sure his rifle was riding easy in its scabbard, then did the same with the .44 handgun on his belt. “Let's go, boys,” he said softly and started across. Stover and Iron Foot fell in behind him and they entered the water in single file.

They could not clearly see the man kneeling on one knee beside the oak, a Winchester '73 resting across his thigh, until they pushed through the outer branches of the willows. At first sight, Rampley almost jerked his horse to a stop.
Grayson!
He recognized the ex-lawman immediately from the time the deputy had brought Fletcher Tyler in to hang at Fort Smith. Rampley had been in the crowd at the gallows. His initial reaction now was to run, but it was too late to turn around. He told himself to be calm. There was no reason to believe that Grayson knew him—Stover or Iron Foot either.
Just remain cool
, he told himself,
and maybe we'll get out of this without setting off the chain lightning he's supposed to be
. He glanced over at Stover, to see if he had discovered the same thing, without knowing if he had ever seen the notorious lawman before. If Stover recognized Grayson, he gave no sign of it, still wearing the same smug grin he had left the river trail with. Rampley could see that his simpleminded partner's concentration was on the odd horseshoe-shaped bundle leaning against the oak tree, opposite Grayson. Though odd in shape, he could guess what might be wrapped in the laced-up canvas, once he knew the identity of the man they had encountered. It was about the right size.

“How do?” Grayson offered without emotion while watching his visitors closely. Of the three, only the one in the lead seemed intent upon focusing on him. The other white man was more curious about Billy's body, it appeared, while the third—an Indian, or breed, Grayson knew he was one or the other—was more interested in the horses. One thing he was certain of, not one of the three was a carpenter. He was already certain that he had sized up the three accurately, but he played along for a few minutes longer. “So you're goin' to Muskogee to build a church, are you?”

“Uh, th-that's right,” Rampley stammered, wishing now he hadn't said it.

“Yes, sir, that's a fact,” Stover volunteered cheerfully, having failed to be aware of Rampley's sudden caution. “Gonna build a big ol' church, so all the sinners can be saved.”

Grayson nodded thoughtfully. “That's right interestin'. What denomination?”

His question left Stover unable to answer, since he didn't know the meaning of the word. “What, what?” he finally responded.

“We're just gonna build it,” Rampley came to his rescue. “We ain't got nothin' to do with who goes to it.” He wished again that he had come up with a different story. He was afraid there were going to be more questions asked that neither he nor Stover could answer.

“Let me save us all some time,” Grayson said. “I'd be willin' to bet ain't one of the three of you ever seen the inside of a church. Now you wanted to come in here to look me over and see what I might have of value. Well, you've seen it, so I expect you'd best turn those horses around and look for someone else to take advantage of. Because I warn you, you're gonna pay a price for my horses, and the price might be higher than you wanna pay. The way I see it, we got us a standoff. Now, I'm gonna guarantee you, I'm gonna get two of you, 'cause when the shootin' starts, I've already got my rifle cocked and ready to fire, so I'm gonna get one of you before any of you can draw your weapons. And by the time you do, I will have cocked my rifle again and got another one of you. So it all boils down to which one of you is left standin' when it comes to who wins, me or him. I feel pretty good about my odds.”

His discourse resulted in a pregnant silence, leaving all three outlaws stunned by his accurate appraisal of the situation. Both Stover and Iron Foot looked to Rampley to respond. What the man said made good sense unfortunately, and the scene he described was not in the style in which they usually operated. Back shooting was more to their way of operating, and certainly more to their liking. The silence extended as Rampley tried to decide the best way to retreat without one or more of them taking a shot in the back, for he could not be sure Grayson would actually permit them to withdraw peacefully. But to make a play for their weapons would ensure casualties among him and his partners, and that was a certainty. It was not worth the gamble. Then he reminded himself that Grayson had no reason to arrest them. They hadn't committed any crime as far as he knew, so finally he answered. “I think there's been a little misunderstandin' here, and it don't sound like you're lookin' for company, so we'll just move on up the river to rest our horses. We'll just say good day to ya since you don't appear to want no company.” He wheeled his horse. “Come on, boys. We'll leave this man alone.”