Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (21 page)

“I wonder if I oughta go over to Percy's to check on him?” Burt questioned. “I guess I'm the actin' sheriff with Slate dead, and Troy gone.”

“That's up to you,” Earl Dickens said, “but damned if I'd go near his place right now.”

As fearful as most of them were, Shep couldn't resist making a joke. “I reckon ol' Blanchard is plannin' to have another funeral—this one for good ol' Slate. I hope it's as big a circus as the one for that empty box we all prayed over.”

“I think it would be a good idea for you to get back down to the stable,” Earl Dickens told Burt. “He's gonna want to put his horses up if he's planning on staying in town.”

“Right,” Burt replied. “You'll be at the house?”

“Yes, Mary Agnes is ailing lately, and I think it best if I stay close by her,” Earl said.

Burt was not surprised. His boss was never anxious to be around his stables whenever Jacob Blanchard was in town. And Mary Agnes seemed to time her ailing spells pretty much on Blanchard's schedule. “I'll take care of things,” Burt assured him. He started to head out the door, but stopped to make one additional comment. “What we need is that feller, Grayson, to pay the town another visit. Damned if he don't match Blanchard for meanness.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Louis Reiner said. “That man might burn the whole town down. We'd best wait until we see what Blanchard is gonna do before we have another meeting. Maybe he'll bury Slate, then head out to look for Grayson.” He stood at the door until all members of the secret citizens council had filed out the door; then he turned his
CLOSED
sign outward, locked up for the night, and hurried across the alley to his house on the one side street in town. Maybe things would look a little more peaceful in the morning, and if he was lucky, he wouldn't have any contact with Blanchard at all.

Chapter 14

Louis Reiner's hopes to avoid contact with Jacob Blanchard were not to be realized, for he was in the middle of eating his supper when they heard the knock on his front door. “Reiner!” It was the unmistakable roar of the old man. Eunice Reiner dropped her fork on her plate and looked fearfully at her husband, afraid to speak.

“It's all right,” Louis said softly. “There's no reason for him to give us any trouble.” He got up to answer the door. The knocking increased in force and insistence until he slid the bolt and opened the door to find Blanchard standing there with Stump and Slider seated on their mounts in the front yard. “Why, evening, Mr. Blanchard,” Louis effected as cordially as he could manage. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I need somebody to help move my boy back to the hotel where I had him took before, and it 'pears to me that the whole damn town is suddenly deserted. Yours is the closest house to my saloon, so I reckon you can help that Mexican woman get Slate ready for his funeral.”

Astonished by the request, Louis could not respond at first. He looked at the fearsome man, whose huge body seemed to hover over his front door, then took a couple of frightened glances back at his wife, who was now standing in the front hall, their two young children peering around her skirt. “I'm sorry, Mr. Blanchard, but I don't really know anything about that sort of thing. Percy Edwards usually takes care of that.” His response obviously did not please the angry man.

“Percy Edwards ain't with us no more,” Blanchard stated, his tone deadly calm. “He passed away unexpectedly.” He waited for the impact to set in with Reiner. “So now, I'm askin' you to do me the favor of takin' care of my boy. Are you gonna help me?”

The question was easily interpreted by Reiner to mean,
Or do you want the same as Percy?
“Wh-why of course I'm willing to try to lend a hand if I can,” he stammered. He glanced again at Eunice, then back at Blanchard. “We were just in the middle of our supper . . .” Louis started, but was not allowed to finish.

“Right now, Reiner,” Blanchard ordered. “I've got a lot of things to do, and my boy's waitin' in that damn toolshed Edwards called a funeral home.”

“Of c-course,” Louis stammered again. “I'll get my coat.” He started to turn away, but collided with Eunice, who had hurried to bring his coat. “You and the kids finish your supper. I'll be back as soon as I can,” he told her. Out the door then, he stood on the porch for a moment, not sure if he was to lead or follow.

Blanchard climbed in the saddle and said, “Climb up behind Stump. I ain't got time to wait for you to walk over there.”

Stump edged his mule up to the porch to make it easier for Louis to get on. “Evenin', Mr. Reiner,” the simpleminded ranch hand offered cheerfully. “Too bad we had to interrupt your supper.”

Reiner didn't answer as he scrambled up behind Stump. Feeling completely helpless and out of place, he looked back to give his wife a forlorn glance as he bounced along on the back of the mule. He was ashamed of the fact that he didn't have the starch to tell Blanchard that he was not a servant to be ordered around, and that he was not a mortician at any rate. He could not see that he had any other choice, however, for it appeared that Blanchard's true colors were coming to the surface. He had been uncompromising in the past, but now he was practicing his cruel and crude solutions in the open, punishing any who opposed his rule. How Reiner and his fellow citizens were going to overcome this tyrant's rule seemed an impossibility to him at this moment. But it was plain enough that it was past time when they must unite to move against Blanchard. It was difficult to think of revolution while bouncing up and down on the hind quarters of a mule, however.

When they pulled up before Percy Edwards's shop, Louis slid off the mule and went inside while the others were still dismounting. Going through the door, he stopped to drag Percy's body aside when he found it lying directly in front of him. “Leave him be,” Blanchard instructed. “He ain't goin' nowhere.” He pointed toward the door leading from the barbershop to the rooms behind. “Slate's in there.”

Reiner opened the door to find Maria Sanchez bending over the badly burned body of the late Slate Blanchard. She visibly cringed when she looked around to find Jacob back again. “I've fix Slate up good as I can,” she pleaded as if expecting to be told it was not good enough. Louis noticed a fresh bruise on one side of her face, a souvenir no doubt from a discussion with Jacob Blanchard. “All his clothes got burnt up,” she explained when she saw Reiner's quizzical expression upon seeing the calico shirt she had dressed him in.

“It don't make no difference now,” Blanchard said. “We'll find him a proper coat over at the hotel.” He turned to scowl at Maria. “Did you get him all sewed up in the back?”

“Si, señor. I made one shirt out of two. I sewed the pants together in the leg.”

“All right, then,” Blanchard directed, “you two get him by the shoulders, and you, girl, help Reiner take his feet—and we'll carry him over to the hotel.” He stood back to oversee the operation. “Easy now, goin' through the door.”

So the four of them carried Slate's body across the street to the hotel, where Morgan Bowers had a room waiting. Reiner was perturbed to have been recruited for the purpose of carrying one of Slate's feet when Blanchard could have done it himself. When they took Slate into the hotel room, however, he learned the real reason the old man had picked him to help. He mumbled something about hurrying along home now that Slate was settled in an appropriate place to await his funeral, but Jacob detained him a bit further. “Let's you and me go into the parlor and talk a little,” he said. “Dan, you and Stump wait for me out on the porch where you can keep an eye on the street.” He motioned Reiner toward the hotel parlor.

When Reiner walked in the room he found Morgan Bowers standing there by the fireplace, looking extremely uncomfortable. When Reiner met his gaze, Bowers looked quickly away and started for the door. But Blanchard stopped him before he reached it. “Why don't you stick around, Bowers,” he said. Bowers returned to his place by the fire, but for only a moment before Blanchard spoke again. “Have a seat over there on that settee,” he told him, then motioned for Reiner to sit down beside him. The old man was well aware of his intimidating presence, and he knew how to use it. The two nervous proprietors sat side by side on the sofa like two mischievous schoolboys called to the headmaster's office, while the fierce old man hovered over them like a dark thundercloud.

“I think it's time we had a little talk,” Blanchard began. “Things ain't goin' so good around here of late. I'm a grievin' man—all my sons killed within the last couple of months—two of 'em in the last couple of days.” The comment did not slip by Reiner unnoticed, and he then realized that Troy had been killed also. “That ain't your fault,” Blanchard went on. “I know that ain't none of your doin'. An outsider—a damn back-shootin' murderer—came in our town to kill my boys.” His voice reflected a hint of anger then, but he quickly reverted back to the calm tone he was attempting to maintain. “Now, you two fellers are the first two I set up in business here, so that's why I'm talkin' to you, instead of any of the others. I think most of the others kinda look at you men to run the town, especially you, Reiner. Sometimes they might even have meetin's at your store to talk over problems and such.”

Reiner blanched white at the remark. He risked a quick accusing glance in Bowers's direction, but Bowers refused to meet it. It was confirmation enough for Reiner to suspect that Bowers had sold them out. Turning back to Blanchard, he replied weakly, “I wouldn't say we have formal meetings in my store—just sometimes several of the others might stop by to talk about the town and business in general—just visiting.”

“Yeah, that's what I figured,” Blanchard said. There was a smile on his lips, but a dark frown knotted his heavy gray eyebrows as he gazed steadily at Reiner. “I might like to be there for one of your little get-togethers, myself. You know, I've put up a helluva lot of money to keep you boys in business, so I figure I oughta be in on anythin' that's happenin' in our town. We're kinda like a family. Don't you think, Bowers?” He shot Bowers a quick glance and Morgan nodded his head vigorously. Turning back to Reiner, Blanchard continued. “Even in a family, if one of the members of the family is doin' wrong, and makin' it hard on the rest, you have to punish him—sometimes just a little—sometimes if it's a big thing he's done wrong, then you have to come down hard on him. Ain't that right, Reiner?”

“Well, I suppose so,” Reiner stammered, “but I don't know . . .”

Blanchard cut him off. “Now, you take Henry Farmer. He didn't wanna play by the rules—didn't wanna keep the bargain we agreed on when I set him up in business. He didn't get but a little bit of punishment, and it wasn't by me. He was just unlucky when his place caught fire and burnt up everythin' he owned. Lady Luck seems to take care of things like that, and keeps the scales in balance. Same thing happened with Percy Edwards. He didn't do right by my boy Slate, and he started foolin' around with a .44 handgun, just like the one I carry, and the damn thing accidentally went off and killed him.” He let that sink in for a few moments before continuing. “So I guess what I'm sayin' to you two upstandin' citizens of our town is Black Horse Creek don't need no mayor and no city council. If you have any problems, you come to me and I'll take care of 'em. And I'll take care of hirin' a new sheriff—save you the trouble of tryin' to elect one. Now, are there any problems we need to talk about tonight?”

“Why, no,” Reiner answered. “I don't think so.” He couldn't help worrying about what else Bowers had told him.
Surely
, he prayed,
not the fact that Bob Farmer had gone to Topeka to talk to the governor
.

“All right, then, I reckon you're anxious to get back to finish your supper, but there's just one more thing we need to talk about. The murderin' son of a bitch that killed my boy might still be slinkin' around here. I'll hunt him down, and I'll kill him like the dog he is, but my advice to you and everybody else in town is, if he shows up before I catch him, kill him. My five hundred dollar reward still stands for any man who kills him.” He paused to make sure they understood. “That's a helluva lot of money, but he can cause this town one helluva lot of trouble.” He stepped back, symbolically releasing them from the sofa. As both men headed for the door without delay, Blanchard remarked to Bowers. “Send somebody over to the barbershop to dig a hole and bury that son of a bitch before he starts stinkin'.”

“Right,” Bowers answered. When they left the parlor, he followed Reiner out the front door of the hotel. “Where the hell am I gonna find somebody to dig a grave this time of night?”

Reiner didn't bother to answer his question. He had several of his own. “What the hell did you tell Blanchard? How much did you tell him? And why? Dammit, man, you might have put all our necks in a noose.”

“No, no, Louis.” Bowers was quick to object. “I swear, I didn't tell him much of anything. He just put two and two together—most of it guesses. I think maybe Roy told him we were in your store today. When he hit me with it, I might have admitted that we were there. I mean, if Roy already told him, then there wasn't much sense in lying. I told him it was just a few of us town folk visiting.”

Reiner shook his head slowly, wondering how much Bowers had really confessed to Blanchard, and wondering also if he needed to be on the alert for any accidental fires at his home or store.
What's done is done
, he thought. There was nothing he could do about it now. “I'm going home,” he said abruptly and left Bowers standing there trying to figure out how he was going to get a grave dug.

*   *   *

Much to Bowers's relief, he was spared the physical labor of digging Percy Edwards's final resting place. With the sheriff's office no more than a pile of burnt timbers now, Blanchard decided he needed to establish a new center of operations from which to control the town. The now empty barbershop was the logical choice, so he told Stump to find a shovel and plant Percy behind the building. Bowers was quick to reassure him that he would stay close to the hotel to make sure Slate's body was not disturbed. Of course, a new grave would be necessary in the cemetery, so he volunteered to send someone to get the two young farm boys who had served that purpose for Billy.

“We'll hold the service for Slate tomorrow,” Blanchard told him. “You spread the word around town to everybody. We'll see how many folks show up to pay their respects. I need to know the ones who don't.”

When Bowers finally had the opportunity to remove himself from the presence of the vengeful tyrant, it was already in the wee hours of the night. Although the hour was late, he found his wife waiting up for him back at the hotel. Relieved to see him come plodding into their first floor living accommodations, she could not think of sleep until he had told her everything that had happened. “I was afraid that insane man might decide to shoot you like he shot poor Percy,” she fretted.

“I'm wondering if that might have been easier on me in the long run.” He sighed as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes.

“Don't say such a thing,” she scolded. “It's bad enough that old demon took our best room and turned it into a funeral parlor—with that poor excuse for a human being, Slate Blanchard, lying on our clean sheets like the king of Kansas.”

Bowers shook his head slowly as he thought about all that had happened that day. “I just don't understand how I got to be his servant,” he complained. “Everything he thinks of, he looks at me to get it done, and I just want to be finished with the man.” He paused a moment while he continued to think about it, still holding one shoe in his hand.