Chapter 2

“I got word you wanted to talk to me,” the tall, somber man said as he walked into the office of U.S. Marshal John Council.

Council looked up from his desk to greet his visitor. “Grayson,” he said in greeting, and closed the expense ledger he had been making entries in. “I see Rufus found you.”

“I wasn’t hard to find,” Grayson replied. “I’ve been back in Fort Smith for about a week.” He unbuttoned the dark woolen morning coat he wore and let it fall open. “It’s hot as hell in here,” he commented abruptly and cast an eye toward the little iron stove in the corner of the room, the belly of which had acquired a dull rosy glow. “What are you gonna do when winter really gets here?”

“Get a bigger stove,” Council replied in response to Grayson’s thinly veiled sarcasm. He knew it was the humorless man’s way of chiding him for getting off a horse and mounting a desk.

Grayson grunted his version of a laugh. Thinking that was enough small talk between two old acquaintances, he got down to business, as was his custom. “What did you wanna talk to me about?”

“I thought you might be interested in a little hunting expedition,” Council said. “It would damn-well be worth your time.”

“I’m listenin’,” Grayson replied with no real show of interest. Council didn’t expect any. He had known Grayson for more than ten years, and their relationship had always been on a strictly business basis. Council doubted the stoic man had any friends. Not many people could say they really knew Grayson. Council was aware that Grayson had at one time ridden with the Texas Rangers, and for a few years he rode for the U.S. marshal service out of Omaha. Something had happened, Council never learned the details, but whatever it was, it caused Grayson to resign his job as a deputy marshal. Since that time, Grayson had operated more or less as a bounty hunter, seemingly whenever it suited him to do so.

“I lost Tom Malone a couple of weeks ago,” Council said, “my best deputy, a man I can’t afford to lose, shot down in a dingy little trading post on the Canadian River.”

“I heard,” Grayson said. “Tom was a good man.”

“The best,” Council replied, “and I’m sorely gonna miss him, because I don’t have anybody else with his experience.” He paused to cast a wry smile at Grayson. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in going back to work in the service.”

“Reckon not,” Grayson said.

“I didn’t think so, but you might be interested in doing a little job for me. Tom was gunned down while attempting to arrest Billy Blanchard on a murder charge.”

“I heard that, too,” Grayson deadpanned. “He let Billy get the jump on him, was the way I heard it.”

“Well, I guess you could say that,” Council conceded, reluctant to believe that a deputy with Tom Malone’s experience could have been less than careful. “I sent Bob Aaron over there to check it out, but that fellow that owns the trading post where it happened suddenly lost his memory. He said he ain’t even sure it was Billy that fired the shots, that he thought it mighta been a stranger just passing through.”

“Ed Lenta,” Grayson remarked. “I’m not surprised.”

“Yeah, that’s the man,” Council continued. “Anyway, Lenta said he didn’t know which way Billy went when he left his store, and he didn’t notice which direction the stranger was heading, either. Bob looked around the place, but he couldn’t turn up anything to help, so he came on back.”

“Might as well forget about the stranger,” Grayson said. “I doubt he exists. Billy was the one done the killin’.”

“Well, that’s what I figure, too,” Council was quick to say. “But like I said, Bob didn’t have any idea which way he ran.”

It was not difficult to figure out why Council had sent for him, so Grayson got down to business. “Billy’s most likely gone home to his daddy’s place up on the Cimarron, and since that’s over the line in Kansas, you don’t want to send a deputy out of The Nations to look for him.” He paused, but Council said nothing. Grayson continued. “So you want me to go up there and find Billy for you.” He paused again before asking, “How much is it worth?”

“My superiors want justice to be served on this one for sure,” Council emphasized. “You know, yourself, how many deputies have been killed in this territory in the last ten years. My boss wants to set an example with Tom Malone’s death and show these murdering outlaws that they’re not going to get away with killing a U.S. deputy marshal. He wants to have a public hanging with all the newspapers covering it.” He paused to make sure his next statement had the desired effect. “My superiors have authorized me to offer a one-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of Billy Blanchard.” He nodded to confirm it when he saw Grayson’s surprised look. It was a lot of money for a low-life piece of trash like Billy Blanchard, so Council went on to justify the amount. “Like I said, we want Billy brought back alive to stand trial for the murder before we hang him.”

“Things don’t always work out that way,” Grayson said. “You know that.”

“If at all possible, we want him alive to stand up before the judge. But if there’s no way to avoid killing him, I can’t take your word that he’s dead. Judge Parker wants proof in the form of Billy’s body. So if you have to kill him, you’re gonna have to produce his body to collect the reward—his guns, his horse ain’t enough evidence—we’ve got to have the body.” He waited a moment to make sure Grayson understood the terms. “This ain’t going out on a regular wanted poster, because we don’t want some wild, half-drunk cowboy taking a shot at Billy and sending him into hiding. We’re just giving you the opportunity to slip over into Kansas and bring him out before anybody knows about it. I’ve got a paper signed by the governor of Arkansas that authorizes you to act on the state’s behalf as a representative of the U.S. marshal service. So whaddaya say? You want the job?”

“I reckon,” Grayson replied dryly. “It ain’t always easy to bring ’em back settin’ upright in the saddle, though.” He felt he needed to emphasize that fact. “And that’s a helluva long way to escort a prisoner, and that’s providin’ he ain’t run off to Montana or somewhere else.”

“One thousand dollars,” Council said. “That’s the reason the reward is that much.”

“You tellin’ me that if Billy gets his hands on a gun the day before I get him back to Fort Smith, and I have to shoot him to keep him from killin’ me, you ain’t gonna pay me the money?”

“No,” Council replied. “I ain’t saying that. I’m saying do everything you can to bring him back alive, but you’ll get your money dead or alive. But not without Billy’s body. Dammit, we’re going to hang him up for everybody to see what happens to people who shoot deputy marshals.”

“Just wanted to be clear on that,” Grayson said. “I’ll go get him for you.” He got up to leave, but hesitated before the door. “I’m gonna have to buy cartridges and other supplies.”

Council stopped him before he went further. “Damn, Grayson, we don’t ever pay bounty hunters’ expenses. You know that.”

“Just thought I’d ask.” He took hold of the doorknob. Nodding toward the stove in the corner again, he suggested, “Woulda been a good idea to have a coffeepot on that stove if you’re gonna keep a fire goin’ in it.”

*   *   *

There had to be a pretty thick film of dust and dirt on the floor before Ed Lenta could be motivated to sweep. The store having reached that condition several days before, Ed procrastinated no longer, and put his broom to work. A small dirty cloud of dust formed over the back step of the building as Ed swept it through the door. Taking wide sweeps with the broom in an effort to send the dirt as far out in the yard as possible, he suddenly paused when he thought he heard something. Not certain that he had, he turned back toward the front door. “Damn!” he blurted in surprise to find the imposing figure standing between him and the bar, casually holding a rifle in one hand. “Grayson,” he remarked. “You ought not sneak up on a man like that. You coulda gave me a heart attack.” Still holding on to his broom, he walked over behind the bar. He had seen the notorious hunter of men several times before, and it seemed like a person never heard him coming. Even the gray gelding he rode seemed to tiptoe.

“Hello, Ed,” Grayson replied. “You looked awful busy there. I didn’t wanna disturb you.”

Ed knew full well why Grayson was there, but he planned on playing dumb. His livelihood depended almost exclusively upon outlaws that sought refuge in The Nations, and his business would soon dry up if it became known that he had cooperated with the law. Grayson was no longer officially a representative of the law, but he may as well be, for he did their work for them. “What brings you out this way?” he asked.

“I came over from Fort Smith just because I was curious to see if you’ve got your memory back.”

“My memory?” Ed replied, confused. “Whaddaya talkin’ about? If you’re talkin’ about that deputy that got shot a while back, there ain’t nothin’ to remember. Another deputy’s already been here and took care of that.”

Grayson favored the nervous storekeeper with a knowing smile. “Is that a fact? The way I heard it, you told that deputy that you weren’t sure who shot who. To tell you the truth, Ed, you ain’t the smartest fellow in the territory, but you ain’t so dumb that you can’t remember Billy Blanchard shootin’ Tom Malone down right here in your store.” He shook his head impatiently, keeping his intense gaze locked on Ed’s eyes. “Now you oughta know the law ain’t gonna let Billy get away with that. Did you think they’d just say, ‘Too bad. Some stranger musta done it, but he got away’?”

“I never said Billy done it,” Ed quickly reminded him. Seeing the expression of amusement on Grayson’s face, he insisted, “There’s lots of strangers come in my place. I can’t remember all of ’em.”

“I doubt there’s that many,” Grayson said. The smile disappeared from his face and the steely gaze intensified, signaling an end to the meaningless banter. “Billy shot that deputy. You know it, and I know it. You ain’t in any trouble so far. All I want outta you is to make sure I don’t waste any more of my time. I’m thinkin’ Billy more’n likely headed straight back to his daddy’s place up near Black Horse Creek. I’m also thinkin’ he mighta said somethin’ about it before he left, unless he was of a mind to take off for someplace else.” He paused to observe Ed’s reaction to that suggestion. There was none. “Here’s the thing, Ed. It’s gonna rile me somethin’ awful if I ride all the way to Black Horse Creek and find out that Billy didn’t go that way, that he headed in some other direction when he left here. You see where this is leadin’? I’m not a patient man, and I know damn well you know which way he rode outta here.”

Not positive there was a definite threat behind Grayson’s rambling talk, but suspecting there might be, Ed sang out, “Billy didn’t say anythin’ about headin’ anywhere else in The Nations. I can’t say he was headin’ for Kansas, but he didn’t say he was goin’ anywhere else.”

Grayson studied the uncomfortable storekeeper’s face a few moments longer before deciding Billy had gone home, just as he had speculated. It may have been a waste of his time, sparring verbally with Ed Lenta, but he had thought to pick up a clue in case he had been wrong about second guessing Billy. Hell, he thought, it’s on the way to Black Horse Creek, anyway.

Ed walked outside and watched the solemn bounty hunter as he made his way across to the opposite bank of the river, just as he had watched Billy Blanch-ard depart from his store. He told himself that he could be proud of the fact that he had not told Grayson that Billy casually mentioned going home to lay up for a while. Another part of him hoped Grayson would catch up with the insolent young gunman. I sure as hell wouldn’t want that mountain lion after me, he thought.

*   *   *

Two days in the saddle brought him to the point where the Crooked River flowed into the Cimarron. He didn’t know exactly where the territorial line between the Oklahoma Outlet and Kansas was, but he knew he was close to it. He made his camp at the confluence of the two rivers, planning to follow the Cimarron on into Kansas in the morning, and figuring to reach Black Horse Creek sometime in the early afternoon. It had been a while since he had traveled this part of the territory, but from what he had heard, a sizable town had grown up on the river and he was curious to see what kind of folks had settled on the flat, grassy plains. It seemed odd to him that Jacob Blanchard had allowed settlers on the thousands of acres he held reign over. The land seemed most suitable for raising cattle, and if memory served him, the town couldn’t be much more than fifty miles from Dodge City and the railroad. Jacob Blanchard was as cruel an outlaw as had ever strapped on a six-gun, responsible for no telling how many murders and robberies. The trouble was that no one had been able to prove it. He didn’t normally leave witnesses. So why would he permit a town to grow up on land he considered his? Stranger things had happened, Grayson figured.

*   *   *

“Don’t recall seein’ him before,” Troy Blanchard remarked as he stood gazing out the window of the sheriff’s office.

Curious, Sheriff Slate Blanchard got up from his chair and walked over to the window to see for himself. Leading a pack horse, a stranger leisurely rode a gray gelding down the middle of the street. “Me either,” Slate said in response to his brother’s remark. They continued to watch the stranger’s progress down the street until he pulled over to tie up at the rail in front of Louis Reiner’s store, next to the Black Horse Saloon. It was easy to see by his dress that he was not a cowboy, drifting from one job to another. Instead of going into Reiner’s store, the stranger pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard, walked back a dozen yards and entered the saloon. “Why’d he tie up at Reiner’s if he was goin’ to the saloon?” Slate asked. The simple act qualified the stranger as suspicious in Slate’s mind, remembering his father charging him with the responsibility for knowing everybody’s business who entered his town. “I expect we’d better go down to the Black Horse and see who this feller is,” Slate said.

Grayson was working on a glass of beer and talking to Roy, the bartender, when the two lawmen walked in. He took a quick glance in their direction before turning his attention back to the glass before him on the bar. Though brief, it was enough to enable him to size up the two. The one leading was a powerfully built man, heavyset through the shoulders while the man following was of a slender frame, lean and wiry. Of the two, Grayson decided that the heavyset one would be the one to deal with first in the event of a confrontation.

“You won’t be needin’ that in here,” Slate informed him and pointed to the Winchester propped against the bar beside Grayson’s leg.

Grayson responded with a thin smile as he took note of the badge on each of the men’s vests. “Well, I wasn’t figurin’ on robbin’ the place. Just a habit I reckon I picked up, Sheriff. It ain’t against the law, is it?”

“It is in this town,” Troy answered, making no attempt to disguise his frank appraisal of the stranger.

“Feller’s just havin’ a beer,” Roy said. Then, turning to Grayson, he introduced the lawmen. “This is Sheriff Blanchard and Deputy Sheriff Blanchard.”

The hint of a smile returned to Grayson’s face. There was no need for further speculation on the accuracy of rumors he had heard about Jacob Blanchard’s cattle empire. If he owned the law, he owned the town. “Blanchard,” he said. “Now, why does that name sound familiar?”

“Never mind that,” Slate replied. “What brings you to Black Horse Creek? You got business here?”

“I’m just passin’ through on my way to Dodge City,” Grayson answered. “I’d heard about your little town here and thought I’d take a look at it—maybe pick up a few things at the store next door.”

“You got a name?” Troy asked.

“Grayson,” was the short reply.

“Well, Mr. Grayson,” Slate said, “enjoy your visit, but we don’t allow weapons in the saloons in this town. Roy shoulda told you that.” He cast an accusing glance in the bartender’s direction.

“I think he was just fixin’ to when you fellows walked in,” Grayson said, “but I’ll take it back outside right away. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the law. All right if I finish my beer first—if I promise not to shoot anybody?”

Slate shot a quick glance at Troy, not sure if he was the victim of sarcasm or not. It was met with a blank expression. “I reckon that’ll be all right. Just remember next time,” he mumbled. There was something ominous in the man’s smile that made Slate uneasy.

“You fellows have the same last name,” Grayson commented. “Are you cousins, or brothers, or somethin’?”

“Brothers,” Troy replied.

“I heard of another Blanchard that owns a big cattle outfit near here. How ’bout him? Is he kin of yours?”

“Mister, you ask a helluva lot of questions,” Slate replied. “You just finish your beer and be on your way, unless you can tell me you’ve got some business in Black Horse Creek.” He turned to leave. “Come on, Troy, I’m gettin’ about ready for my dinner.”

“Me, too,” Grayson volunteered. “Where’s a good place to buy a meal in town?”

The two brothers ignored his question as they walked out the door. Roy, who had said very little during the confrontation, commented to Grayson after they had gone. “They’ll go over to the hotel to eat. That’s the best food in town. If I was you, though, I might think about gettin’ somethin’ to eat somewhere else. I think you rubbed the sheriff and his deputy the wrong way.”

“I ’preciate the advice,” Grayson said and then drained the last of his beer. “Those two, are they Jacob Blanchard’s sons?”

“That’s a fact,” Roy replied.

“He’s got another son, hasn’t he?” Roy didn’t answer. He just shrugged. Grayson continued. “Have you seen him around lately?”

“Mister,” Roy replied, “the sheriff’s right—you ask a helluva lot of questions.”

“Just a natural curiosity, I reckon,” Grayson said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Has he been in town in the last week or so?”

Roy didn’t care for the direction of the stranger’s questions, so he attempted to end the conversation. “I don’t pay no attention to the Blanchards’s comin’s and goin’s,” he declared. “Billy’s been gone for a spell, and I don’t know whether he’s back or not.”

“Suppose I was of a mind to ride out and visit Jacob Blanchard,” Grayson asked, “how would I find his place?”

“The minute you ride out of town, you’ll be on his land,” Roy said. “But if you’re talkin’ about ridin’ up to the ranch house, you take the road at the end of the street and follow it up the river till you get to another road that forks off to the north. That’ll take you right up to Mr. Blanchard’s door. It’s about fifteen miles.”

“Much obliged,” Grayson said and slid his empty beer glass across the counter to Roy. “Now I reckon I’d best get on my way before I get arrested for bringin’ my rifle in here.”

“Take care of yourself,” Roy advised in farewell. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to offer words of caution. There was something about the stranger that suggested a familiarity with trouble, and Blanchard’s ranch was not a wise place to go looking for it.

Leaving the saloon, Grayson walked next door to Reiner’s Dry Goods. Before going inside, he glanced back up the street to see both the sheriff and his deputy standing out in front of the office, watching him he presumed. I thought you were going to go to dinner, he said to himself as he reached for the knob and opened the door. There was no one in the store but the proprietor, Louis Reiner, and he stood waiting for Grayson, having watched for him ever since he tied his horse out front. “Afternoon,” Reiner greeted him. “What can I help you with?”

“Afternoon,” Grayson returned. “I need a couple of things: some bacon, some coffee, some salt, and maybe some sugar.”

“Yes, sir,” Reiner replied politely, and jumped to accommodate his customer, more so than Grayson would normally have expected.

“Ain’t many folks in town,” Grayson remarked. “Looks like business is a little slow.”

Reiner smiled. “You can say that again,” he said. “We’re a little bit off the beaten path. Not many folks pass through Black Horse Creek. Businessmen like me depend pretty much on the folks that live around the town.” He paused as he reached under the counter for a sack. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Blanchard and his crew, we probably wouldn’t make it at all.”

“Looks to me like there’s a helluva lot of land along the river,” Grayson commented. “I’m surprised there ain’t more folks movin’ in on it.”

“Mr. Blanchard owns all of it, and he doesn’t let anybody settle on it,” Reiner said, his voice taking on a cautious air, as if afraid someone might overhear. “He says he needs it all for his cattle.”

Grayson frowned. “He must be plannin’ on one helluva big cattle operation. Ever think about pullin’ up stakes and headin’ for someplace else?”

Reiner shrugged. “Oh, I’ve thought about it, I reckon, but I’ve got too much invested in my store here, and I couldn’t pay Mr. Blanchard off for what I owe him.”

Grayson nodded, understanding. It was further evidence of the extent to which Blanchard owned the town. He guessed that the other businesses were in the same fix as Reiner. “Well, I wish I could give you a little more business, but I reckon that’ll do it for now.” He counted out his money and laid it on the counter. “This fellow, Blanchard, he’s got three sons. Ain’t that right?”

“That’s right,” Reiner replied. “You just met two of ’em in the saloon, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, the sheriff and his deputy, but I didn’t meet the other one. Is he a lawman, too?”

“Not hardly,” Reiner answered after taking a precautionary look toward the door. “You won’t see Billy around here very much.”

“Billy,” Grayson repeated. “I ain’t sure, but I think I saw him when I first rode in—kind of a tall, heavyset fellow ridin’ a sorrel horse.”

“Nah,” Reiner replied. “That wasn’t Billy. I don’t know who that was, coulda been one of Mr. Blanchard’s hands, but Billy doesn’t look anything like that. He doesn’t look like his brothers. I reckon he’s about average height, he’s slim, but I wouldn’t call him skinny—got curly black hair. And he doesn’t ride a sorrel, unless he just traded, which I doubt, ’cause he’s mighty fond of that Appaloosa he usually rides.”

“Well, I reckon I was mistaken,” Grayson said as he gathered up his purchases. One of the problems he’d had until then was the fact that he hadn’t known how to identify Billy Blanchard. So now, thanks to Louis Reiner’s willingness to chat, he had a general description. Adding that to what he did know before today, that Deputy Tom Malone had ridden a blue roan that may still be in Billy’s possession, he felt he had a lot more to go on. “He most likely ain’t been around here for quite a spell,” Grayson remarked.

“Oh, he’s been around—next door, anyway,” Reiner started, then abruptly held his tongue when it suddenly occurred to him that he might be telling a stranger too much. It was too late, for he had already told Grayson what he wanted to know.

“Much obliged,” Grayson said. “I’ll be on my way now.”

While he packed his supplies on his packhorse, he stole a quick glance back up the street toward the sheriff’s office. Roy must have gotten nervous and gone to report our conversation to the sheriff, he thought, for the bartender was at that moment talking to Slate and Troy Blanchard. They’re either going to come back after me right now, or go tell Daddy there’s a stranger in town asking questions. So he stepped quickly up in the saddle and rode away, preferring the latter.

Watching him from his Harness Shop across the street, Shep Barnhill put aside a bridle he had been in the process of repairing, and walked over to question Louis Reiner. “Don’t recall seeing that fellow around here before,” he commented to Louis.

“He said he was just passing through,” Louis replied, fully aware of the reason for Shep’s curiosity. “He said this is the first time he’s been in Black Horse Creek.”

“Don’t reckon he said where he came from?” Shep asked.

“No, he didn’t, but he was asking a lot of questions about the Blanchards.” He knew what Shep was hoping he could tell him, that the stranger had come from the capital in Topeka, but he doubted that to be the case. Shep, like a few of the other men in town belonged to a covert organization of merchants that met occasionally to discuss the possibility of seeking government help to create a town charter and free them from the dictatorial rule of Jacob Blanchard. It had been over two months since they sent Henry Farmer’s son, Bob, to Topeka to inform them of the town’s problems. Bob had not been heard from since. Maybe he had simply given up on his mission to gain audience with the new governor, George T. Anthony, and gone instead to join his father in Arkansas, or maybe Blanchard had somehow gotten wind of the boy’s mission. It had been long enough to get some response from the governor if Bob had, in fact, completed the trip. It looked, however, as if something had happened to prevent it, and Louis was afraid the town was destined to be forever beneath Jacob Blanchard’s iron thumb.

*   *   *

Down at the end of the street, past the blacksmith shop, Grayson came to the wagon road Roy had directed him to. He turned his horse up the road and followed it as it held close to the river. The gelding had already carried him half a day before arriving in Black Horse Creek, so he considered whether to push the horse for another fifteen miles. There was no doubt that the gray was up to it, but he decided it best to rest him. He estimated that he had ridden about three miles before coming to a sharp bend in the river that formed a pocket of trees, several of which hung over the bank. Figuring this gave him as much concealment as could be found on the flat, endless, tallgrass prairie, he guided the gray off the road and into the pocket formed by the river bend. Once his horses were watered and unsaddled, he found himself a place in the trees where he could watch the road. With his back up against a cottonwood trunk, he settled himself to wait while he chewed on a piece of beef jerky.

After a short while he spotted a rider on the road coming from Black Horse Creek at a lively walk. Well, looks like they ain’t coming after me, he thought. Going to tell Daddy instead. He leaned forward, his eyes focused on an opening in the tree branches that would give him a window for a good look at the rider when he passed. Once the rider was opposite him, he was easily identified as Troy Blanchard. Right on schedule, Grayson thought, and got up to go saddle his horse. It was not yet dark enough to follow Troy too closely, so he was in no hurry. He knew where Troy was heading, anyway. His only purpose in lying in wait for him was to determine if the two Blanchard brothers were coming after him, or sending someone to warn Jacob. Now there were two new possibilities: Billy was holed up at his father’s ranch, or he was hiding out somewhere else. And if the latter was the case, there was a good chance that someone would be sent to warn him. This was the situation Grayson preferred, because he was not too keen on the idea of wading into Blanchard’s stronghold to serve arrest papers on Billy. The odds were against coming out alive. With that in mind, his plan was to find someplace where he could watch the comings and goings at the ranch house, and hope for an opportunity to catch Billy alone.