Black Horse Creek (9781101607466) (22 page)

Watching him intently, his wife asked, “What are we going to do, Morgan?”

“I don't know,” he replied truthfully. The two of them had had many discussions during the past year as to whether or not they should just abandon the hotel and pull out in the middle of the night without telling anyone where they were going. The thing that had prevented them from doing so was the fact that they would be sacrificing everything they had managed to accumulate since they sank all their resources into the operation of the hotel. Blanchard would never allow them to escape the town with a couple of wagons of furniture, leaving the hotel empty of furnishings. Bowers looked up to see his wife waiting for an answer, one she knew he didn't have. “I don't know,” he said again. “I guess the only thing we can do is to hope the town can somehow band together and drive Blanchard out.” He looked at her helplessly, knowing the chances of that happening were practically nil. “We'll have to see what everybody else has to say about it whenever Blanchard leaves us to go hunting for that man, Grayson.” He shook his head in disgust and added, “Of course, we'll have to have a memorial service for that piece of cow dung in the front bedroom first.”

*   *   *

The morning broke cool and cloudy with just a hint that rain might not be far off. Jacob Blanchard stepped out on the small stoop of the barbershop and looked up and down the street. A farm wagon on its way to Reiner's store was the only sign of life in the small town. The smell of burnt timbers from the ruins of the sheriff's office was still on the morning breeze, and Blanchard wrinkled his nose in disgust as he sniffed it, for it prompted him to think about the circumstances that caused the fire. Snorting angrily in an attempt to expel the taunting reminder from his nostrils, he stepped onto the street and headed for the hotel dining room to eat breakfast, followed a few minutes later by Stump and Slider.

He had a lot on his mind—a lot of decisions to make. For he felt he was losing control over the lives of the citizens of Black Horse Creek. It was definitely a warning sign when the people were having secret meetings. He was convinced that the key to reclaiming complete control was the elimination of Grayson. He was responsible for the deaths of two of his three sons, but more than this, he showed the people of the town that someone could come in and kill the sheriff. It was imperative that he was made to pay the price and his body must be displayed like Billy's body in Fort Smith. It was the first time he had been so short of men working for him, and that would have to be corrected as soon as possible. But first, Grayson must be hunted down and killed. The more thought he had given the notorious ex-lawman, the more he was convinced that Grayson was not on the run after killing Slate, for if he had come to kill Slate, then he had come to kill Troy, too.
If he doesn't know Troy's dead
, he thought,
then he'll be slipping around waiting for a chance to get a shot at him
. He didn't see any way that Grayson could know about Troy's death, so he felt certain he was still lurking around the outskirts of town, watching—maybe watching him right now as he entered the side door of the hotel. He couldn't help but pause and look around behind him, as if feeling the bounty hunter's eyes on him. All he saw was the thin grim face of Dan Slider and the eager glow of anticipation for the breakfast about to be consumed on Stump's whiskered face. The sight further disgusted him. It reminded him of his present vulnerability without a sizable gang to enforce his bidding.

*   *   *

At the far end of the street, a lone rider slow-walked his horses into the back door of Earl Dickens's stable. Young Burt McNally was busy forking hay over the stalls near the front of the building and failed to notice until he turned and found Grayson standing a dozen feet behind him. Startled, Burt could not react at once, not knowing if he was in danger or not. Undecided if he should reach for his pistol or not, he remained frozen for a long moment before deciding it would be a useless attempt to beat the rifle casually held by the somber Grayson. When his mind began to function normally again, he remembered that his gun belt was hanging on a nail in the tack room, which explained why there was no sign of urgency in the stoic face watching him. “I need to leave my horses here for a little while,” Grayson said. “They need some grain. They ain't had none in a spell.”

“Damn, you scared the hell outta me,” Burt finally confessed. “I thought my time was up.”

Genuinely surprised by the statement, Grayson asked, “Why would you think that?”

“'Cause of what happened to the sheriff,” Burt answered. “Jacob Blanchard put a five hundred dollar price on your head—to anybody that shoots you.”

“Is that a fact?” Grayson replied calmly. “You thinkin' about collectin' it?”

“Hell no,” Burt was quick to assure him, as he filled a bucket with oats for Grayson's horses, “and nobody else is, either, except maybe Dan Slider and Stump. If you're lookin' for Troy, he took off. He ain't here in town.”

“Troy's dead,” Grayson said.

“You got Troy?” Burt blurted.

“I didn't. His father did—shot him and another fellow that worked for him.”

“His father?” Burt exclaimed “Why? Because of you?” Aware then that he still held the pitchfork, he threw it aside in case Grayson might think he had ideas about using it. “Damn,” he swore, amazed. “The old man shot his own son?”

Grayson nodded. “So now, I reckon that leaves the job of sheriff up to you. I think you told me you had the job when both of the Blanchard boys were gone.”

“Well, yeah, I—I reckon,” Burt stammered, not sure he wanted it. He wasn't sure he could believe Grayson. It seemed more likely that Grayson had killed Troy, if Troy really was dead. “What are you fixin' to do?” he asked anxiously, afraid the menacing assassin might have plans to destroy the entire town.

“I've been thinkin' about that,” Grayson replied. “I came after Slate and Troy because they ambushed me in Fort Smith, rode off and left me for dead. They're both dead now, so I reckon that settles my debt. Looks to me like you and the other folks in this town have to decide what you're gonna do about the old man. I just have an idea about how he's been runnin' the town, but I know for a fact that he killed his son and one other man.”

“That ain't all,” Burt declared. “He killed Percy Edwards yesterday, shot him down because he took Slate's body back to his shop to get it ready to bury.”

“Sounds like the folks in this town are ready for a hangin'. Maybe it's about time you thought about some honest-to-God law and order in your town. So I reckon the first thing you've gotta decide is if you're man enough to take on the job of sheriff.” He paused to watch Burt's reaction. It was obvious that the young man was busy turning it over in his mind. After another moment, Grayson said, “I'll help you arrest Jacob Blanchard. You might need a hand, since he's got two men with him.”

Grayson's offer was enough to help Burt make up his mind. “I'll do it. I'm man enough to take on the job.” Grayson nodded his approval. “I need to tell a couple of the others what I'm fixin' to do,” Burt went on. “Louis Reiner and Morgan Bowers oughta be told what's gonna happen—and my boss, Earl Dickens, I reckon.”

“Let's get started, then,” Grayson said. “Do you know where Blanchard is now?”

“Him and those two hired guns of his spent the night in Percy's place last night. He ain't plannin' on leavin' town anytime soon, 'cause his horse is in the corral. Anyway, I know he's gonna hang around till he buries Slate. And I talked to Reiner this mornin'. He said Blanchard told him he was gonna stay in town to have a talk with all of us about the things he ain't happy with in town. So he's either at the barbershop or the hotel, maybe the saloon.” He paused a moment to recall. “Stump and Slider came and got their horses early this mornin', but they're still in town.”

“Let's get to it, Sheriff,” Grayson said.

*   *   *

Louis Reiner had much the same reaction as Burt when he turned to see who had just walked into his store and discovered the solid form standing behind Burt McNally. He was so startled that he dropped the broom he had been sweeping with. Embarrassed by his nervous fumbling, he quickly picked up the broom and stood there speechless, waiting for Burt to speak.

“It's time we took some action to free our town from Jacob Blanchard,” Burt announced in a newfound voice of authority. “I'm fixin' to arrest him for the murders of Percy Edwards and Troy Blanchard.” He paused to remember. “And one other feller that worked for him.”

Reiner was not certain he could trust his own ears. Burt sure spoke with confidence, but Reiner could not take his eyes off the menacing figure behind him. Grayson saw the uncertainty in the storekeeper's gaze, so he offered a suggestion. “I reckon what the sheriff is tellin' you is that you're gonna want to appoint a judge and jury, so you can give Blanchard a fair trial before you hang him.”

It was still not enough to shake Reiner from the paralysis caused by Burt's call to action. For more than a year the small group of concerned citizens had talked about rescuing their town, but he had wondered if it would ever amount to anything more than talk. “You're going now to arrest Jacob Blanchard?” he asked, not sure he had heard correctly.

“That's a fact,” Burt replied confidently.

“That might not be so easy, Burt,” Reiner cautioned. “The old man's got two of his gun hands with him. Maybe we oughta think about this before you go getting yourself killed.”

“We've done enough talkin',” Burt returned. “It's time to do somethin'. Grayson, here, said he'd back me up.”

Suddenly, Reiner felt a surge of excitement race through his veins when he realized that it was no longer just talk. It was real. This day in late summer would be remembered as the day the citizens of Black Horse Creek rose up and took possession of their town. “All right!” he exclaimed. “It's time! I'll run over and tell Shep. We'll use Percy's shop for a jail.” He paused when he thought about it, then grinned and said, “Blanchard said he was making that the jail. He can be the first customer.”

Grayson could understand their excitement, but he felt he needed to remind them of the danger involved in arresting Jacob Blanchard. “You'd best let the sheriff and me make the arrest before you round up your jury. There's liable to be some shootin', and we don't want any bystanders gettin' shot.”

“Right!” Reiner quickly agreed. “We'll stay back out of the way, but we'll round up as many as we can find for when you have him arrested.”

“You know where he is right now?” Grayson asked.

“The hotel,” Reiner blurted. “Morgan Bowers was in here a little while ago, and said Blanchard was in the hotel, in to visit Slate.”

Grayson looked at Burt and nodded. “Right,” the new sheriff said. “Let's go!”

*   *   *

Stump Haskell took his feet off the porch railing and let the front legs of his chair drop back to the floor. “Damn! Look comin' yonder.”

Dan Slider opened his eyes, annoyed by Stump's intrusion on his short nap in the warm afternoon sunshine of the hotel porch. “Who the hell's that?” He recognized Burt McNally, who worked in the stable, but he had never seen the big fellow walking with him.

“Grayson,” Stump answered. “That's Grayson with him. I'd best go tell Mr. Blanchard.” He got up at once and went inside the hotel.

“Yeah, you do that,” Slider called after him. “I'll take care of Mr. Grayson.” He looked forward to the confrontation. He'd heard about Grayson until he was sick of it. Knowing that the man who took Grayson down would gain a hell of a reputation for himself, he didn't intend to miss his opportunity. He was confident in his knowledge that he was faster with a gun than any man he had ever met, and that included Yancey Brooks. Blanchard had often voiced regret that Yancey and Lonnie Jenkins had never returned from their attempt to track Grayson down. He would find out today that he had sent the wrong man to do the job. He got up from his chair, reached down to make sure his .44 was riding easy in its holster. Then he walked over to stand squarely at the top of the porch steps to wait for Burt and Grayson.

“Where you headed, Burt?” Slider asked, his tone one of obvious contempt.

“This is sheriff's business, Slider,” Burt answered. “I'm lookin' for Blanchard, and it ain't no concern of yours.”

Slider dropped his hand to rest on the handle of his pistol. “Anythin' that's got to do with Mr. Blanchard is my business. I'm the one who says whether you can bother him or not, so you'd best tell me what you're about.”

Burt hesitated a few moments, so Grayson spoke for him. “You're talkin' to the new sheriff, so you'd be wise to step aside and let him get on with his business.”

“The new sheriff?” Slider scoffed. “That's a sure-nuff joke if I ever heard one. Mr. Blanchard will be the one decidin' who's sheriff.” He then turned his full attention to Grayson. “I reckon you'd be the big stud hoss name of Grayson. Well, you're lookin' at the big stud hoss of this town, so you can just turn your sorry ass around before I give you a bellyful of lead.” Slider felt certain that if he was anything like his reputation, Grayson would find it hard to back down from his challenge. He stood poised, his hand still resting on the handle of the Colt, the smile spread across his thin features signaling the pleasure he anticipated.

“You sayin' you intend to stand in the way of the law?” Grayson asked calmly.

“That's right, stud,” Slider replied.

“All right, then,” Grayson said, and calmly pulled up the rifle he had been holding casually before him. Before the startled man could react, he pumped a .44 slug into his gut. As Slider doubled over in pain, still trying to draw his weapon, Grayson ejected the spent cartridge and finished him off with a second shot. He cocked the Winchester again and looked at Burt, who was as stunned as Slider had been. “Let's go. We're wastin' time.”