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.”

Stover and Iron Foot, still somewhat dumbfounded by the unexpected turn of events, and still wondering how they could be retreating when they outnumbered the victim three to one, wheeled their horses and obediently followed Rampley back into the water. Upon reaching the riverbank, Rampley didn’t stop, turned his horse up the river, and broke into a lope. When out of sight of the island, he reined his horse back to a stop and waited for his partners to pull up beside him.

“Well, that didn’t come off worth a shit, did it?” Stover was the first to comment, after silently following Rampley’s lead. “He sure as hell buffaloed us.”

“You know who that was?” Rampley asked. When Iron Foot and Stover both shook their heads, he told them. “That was Grayson. I saw him once at Fort Smith.”

The man was still a mystery to Iron Foot, but Stover was familiar with the name. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “You sure of that?”

“I saw him at Fort Smith,” Rampley repeated. “It’s him, all right.”

“Well, I’ll be . . .” Stover started again, then paused to think about it. “If he’s as much hell as ever’body says, then I reckon he wasn’t just braggin’ when he said he’d get two of us.”

“I wasn’t gonna give him a chance to show us,” Rampley said.

“Reckon why he didn’t try to arrest us?” Stover wondered.

“Hell, he don’t know what we’ve been up to. Besides, he ain’t a marshal no more,” Rampley answered. “He quit a few years back.”

“He had thick hair.” That was Iron Foot’s first comment on the matter. “Look good on my rifle barrel.”

Stover looked at him and scoffed. “It might be a little bit harder to take that scalp than that scraggly old man’s you’ve been totin’ on your rifle.”

“Maybe,” Iron Foot replied, his thoughts still on the horses he had seen back on the little sand island. “He might be big medicine, but he’s got to sleep sometime. I think maybe I might sneak in his camp tonight and kill him, and take his horses.”

“I don’t know,” Rampley hedged. “I’ve heard talk that some folks think he don’t ever go to sleep.”

“I am Pawnee,” Iron Foot declared grandly. “Nobody can sneak into camp better than Pawnee. He’ll never hear nothin’ till he hears the sound of the wind comin’ out of his windpipe.”

“You ain’t but half Pawnee,” Stover ridiculed. “Maybe you didn’t get the half that sneaks good. You just got the half that talks big.”

“Maybe you and Rampley too scared to steal them horses, but after I kill Mr. Big Medicine Grayson, then I bet you help me steal ’em.”

Stover started to respond with sarcasm again, but Rampley cut him off. “You might have a good idea there, Iron Foot, you havin’ all that Injun blood in you. You think you could sneak into his camp at night and kill him?” Stover was about to scoff at the idea again, but Rampley motioned for him to keep silent. He had been thinking about the opportunity they had just missed—not just the horses, which were reason enough—but he had seen other spoils in addition. There were at least four saddles that he had seen, plus weapons, cartridges, supplies. And Stover could be right: there might be something valuable in the odd-shaped bundle of canvas. It was a lot to pass up. He had nothing to lose if that crazy breed got himself killed, and all that to gain if Iron Foot succeeded in killing Grayson. “Yes, sir,” Rampley said, “there’d be a helluva lot of respect for the man that killed Grayson.” He could tell by the gleam in Iron Foot’s eyes that the half-breed was thinking about it.

“I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch,” Iron Foot announced confidently. “There ain’t no doubt about it.”

“It’s a while yet before dark,” Rampley said. “So we’d best get to a place where we can watch that camp.” He guided his horse off the river trail and headed back toward the hills where they had first discovered Grayson’s camp.

When they returned to the original spot, they dismounted and prepared to wait out the daylight. Stover sat down on a rock next to Rampley while Iron Foot was pulling the saddle off his horse. “What the hell was all that talk about ol’ Iron Foot and all his Pawnee blood? That damn fool’s gonna get himself killed. He couldn’t sneak up on a deaf and dumb rock.”

Rampley smiled. “But what if he does? We stand to gain. Right? And if he don’t, then we ain’t lost a helluva lot, have we?”

“Hell, I reckon not,” Stover replied, matching Rampley’s smile with a wide grin when he saw the reasoning behind Rampley’s actions. “I reckon we got nothin’ to do but set back on this hill and wait till dark, then watch ol’ Iron Foot take to the warpath.”

Rampley got his army telescope out of his saddlebag and laid it on the rock, then made himself comfortable. “I believe we could make us a little fire if we keep it down behind those rocks.” He pointed to a notch at the top of a gully.

“Don’t want no smoke,” Iron Foot said as he walked up to take a position to watch the island.

“Hell, he can’t see smoke from a little fire,” Stover said. He had a hankering for some hot coffee, and it would be a few hours before sunset.

It was going to have to wait, however, for before they could argue the point Rampley exclaimed, “He’s on the move! He’s leavin’!” He came sliding off the rock and ran to grab his saddle. “Saddle up,” he directed.

*   *   *

If his three visitors had been more observant, and noticed something other than what he might have of value, they might have noticed that he had made no efforts to set up camp. He supposed the fire he had built may have caused them to think he was there for the night. He had never intended to stay longer than necessary to give the horses a little rest, for he figured there were at least three more hours before dark. As soon as his guests had left, he started saddling horses, and when Billy was secured back across the saddle on the Appaloosa, he kicked dirt on his fire and climbed aboard his horse. It had not been much of a rest stop for the horses, but he figured it might be best to move on before the three outlaws thought it over and decided to have another try—this time without announcing themselves. It didn’t figure that they would give up that easily, but if he was lucky, they might not see him pull out right away. The horses would have to wait until dark to rest.

Leaving the little island behind, he continued following the river as it made its way toward the southeast. From time to time, he looked back over the way he had come, but he saw no sign of anyone on his trail. Maybe they really had ridden on up the river, deciding it not worth the risk of losing one or more of their number. He could hope that was the case, but he would assume that they were tracking him and be ready, just as a precaution.

As darkness approached, he swung over closer to the river, searching for a suitable place to camp. Although he had seen no sign of anyone on his trail, he was intent upon finding a campsite that afforded him some protection, for he still had a feeling he had not seen the last of the “carpenters.” And with four extra horses to protect, his choices were limited. Finally, when the light of day began to fade, he found what he was looking for, and he guided the gray down into a gully created by a wide creek that flowed into the river. It was wide enough for the horses to stand hobbled for the night with some protection from a five-foot bank. As was usually the case on a long journey, the horses never got enough time to graze. When he had come looking for Billy, he had brought a small supply of grain to make sure his horses were fed. But he didn’t plan on a return trip with extra horses. He knew they needed a long grazing period, but they weren’t going to get it until he reached Fort Smith.

Still acting with caution in mind, he pulled the horseshoe that was Billy’s body off the Appaloosa, and dumped it on the edge of the gully, above the spot where he intended to build his fire. You might as well be useful, he thought. You can act as a redoubt against anybody coming up behind me. The macabre breastworks might have been more useful had he been able to straighten it, but in its U-shaped form, it wouldn’t provide much cover. He grunted in appreciation for his attempt to make a joke.

“I reckon I’d better get somethin’ to eat before it gets any later,” he muttered, with an attack on his camp still in mind. So he settled for some buffalo jerky he had bought at John Polsgrove’s store, and the always necessary coffee. While he waited for the coffee to boil and the jerky to roast, he climbed out of the gully and walked a few yards away into the deepening darkness to listen to the prairie around him. All was quiet, broken only by the howl of a coyote off in the distance. He squatted down on his heels for a few minutes longer, listening. But even the coyote went silent, and the dark prairie became so quiet that he became aware of the sound of the water in the creek. They’ll be coming pretty soon, he thought, almost certain he would have visitors on this night. He rose to his feet and returned to the gully to prepare for the attack.

He decided to move the horses farther up the creek to get them out of the way of any stray bullets. Even though he knew they would not be intentionally targeted, for dead horses would be of no value to the thieves, he deemed it best not to take a chance. After that, he proceeded to gather blankets from all the extra saddles he had acquired, and used them to fashion what he hoped would appear to be sleeping forms lying randomly around the fire. When he was finished, he had four dummy blanket rolls positioned in a circle around the fire, which he hoped would cause confusion for anyone attacking the camp, as well as give him a chance to see their muzzle flashes and locate the shooters. When all was to his satisfaction, he hung a cartridge belt over his shoulder, picked up his rifle, and moved a couple dozen yards away from the fire. Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, he backed into a trench in the side of the gully and waited.

He was almost ready to say his gut feelings had misled him, for he must have waited in his cramped ambush for almost two hours, long enough to become sleepy, because he caught himself nodding several times. Go to sleep and you’ll never wake up, he told himself, but still he fought the desire to close his eyes. In the next instant he was wide awake, alert to the shadow moving up to the edge of the gully close to the canvas-wrapped body.

His confidence high now that he had made his way right up to Grayson’s camp with no sign of alarm, Iron Foot peered over the side of the gully into the sleeping camp. What the hell? he thought when he saw the four sleeping forms like spokes around the dying fire. Where did they come from? He started to back away, reluctant to set off a gun battle when outnumbered four to one, while Stover and Rampley waited a short way back upstream, and in no position to help him. Then it struck him: the “sleeping bodies” were set up to confuse him so he wouldn’t know which one was Grayson. A slow smile spread across his simple face. I ain’t that easy to fool. I’ll just shoot all of them, he thought, but then he remembered how quickly Grayson had assured them that he would get two of them before they got him. That thought made him hesitate again, and he looked hard at the blanket rolls, trying to decide which one had a real man sleeping inside it. In the dim light, he couldn’t tell, so he asked himself which one was closest to the fire, thinking that would be the place he would pick—and Grayson probably would do the same. He aimed his rifle at that one and pulled the trigger. The result was like a lit fuse, for he saw the sudden flash of a muzzle blast at the same time. A fraction of a second later he was slammed in the chest and knocked over on his side.

Moving immediately, lest his muzzle flash had provided a target for the wounded man’s two partners, Grayson scrambled to a new position up closer to the edge of the bank. Much to his surprise, all was silent again except for the horses stirring around behind him, reacting to the two sudden gunshots. He had expected an all-out attack upon his camp, but there was no sign of the other two outlaws. It was enough to cause him to turn quickly and splash through the creek to the other side, thinking that the others must have somehow circled around behind him. He strained to see in the darkness on the south side of the creek, but he could see no sign of anyone. Looking back at the opposite side of the creek, at the position he had just left, he saw no signs of an attack, only the wounded man lying near Billy’s corpse. From all signs, the man had acted alone, so where were the other two?

“You think that fool got him?” Stover wondered aloud. He got to his feet and walked to the top of the mound they had taken refuge behind, peering into the darkness between him and the river.

“I don’t know,” Rampley replied. “I doubt it, else he’d be whoopin’ and hollerin’ and doin’ some kinda crazy war dance.” They had heard two shots. The first was definitely Iron Foot’s Spencer, but the second one was a Winchester. That was not a good sign, especially since there were no shots after that.

“Whaddaya reckon we oughta do?” Stover asked, now that Iron Foot’s boastful plan seemed to have failed. “I knew that damn-fool Injun couldn’t sneak up on nobody.” He stared off into the darkness for a few moments more. “You reckon they shot each other?”

“I don’t know,” Rampley said. “Maybe . . .” His voice trailed off as he considered that possibility. He didn’t think much of the idea of walking up to the creek to see. “I’d feel a little bit better about it if we’d heard Iron Foot’s Spencer last, instead of the other way around.”

“Yeah, me too,” Stover remarked. “I reckon it’da been smarter if we had moved up a little closer. Then maybe we’da seen what happened.”

“That son of a bitch is settin’ up there waitin’ for us to show up,” Rampley said.

“You reckon they shot each other?” Stover repeated the question. “As quiet as it’s got—wouldn’t it be somethin’ if they’re both layin’ up there dead, and we could walk right in without no worry?”

They were both envisioning the amount of plunder in the form of horses and saddles, plus guns and ammunition, that waited to be taken. Unfortunately, there was also the image of the ominous bounty hunter, lying in wait as well. “We could just wait him out till mornin’,” Rampley suggested. “Somethin’s bound to happen by then, one way or the other. And we could see then.” They thought about it for a while longer until a three-quarter moon climbed up over the hills far to the east. “Won’t have to wait much longer before we’ll be able to see a little better.”

This gave Stover something more to think about. “You know, that son of a bitch coulda come outta that creek and he could be sneakin’ around behind us while we’re settin’ here decidin’ what to do.” He glanced around, thinking about how exposed they would be with a moon overhead. He voiced as much to Rampley.

“Well, we need to do somethin’, instead of waitin’ for him to come after us,” Rampley decided. “Looks to me like ol’ Iron Foot’s dead, so we’re either gonna sneak up closer to that creek and see if Grayson’s dead, too, or get on our horses and get the hell outta here.”

There was a short silence, with both men considering their choices. Neither man was enthusiastic about moving on the camp, but the possibility of gaining all the plunder gathered there was too much to abandon. Stover was the one who broke the silence. “It’s still two to one, us against him. I don’t care how big a stud he is, the odds are in our favor. I think we oughta move in a little closer to see what’s goin’ on, and if it turns into a shoot-out, we got him outnumbered. I can’t stand the thought of ridin’ off and leavin’ all them horses and stuff for some Injun to find, and all the time Grayson bein’ dead.”

“That suits me,” Rampley said. “Let’s get goin’.”

Leaving their horses tied to some berry bushes close to the riverbank, they made their way cautiously along the bank until seeing the dark outline of trees that bordered the creek and the gully it formed. It was only a short distance of perhaps forty yards or so to the gully’s edge, but there was very little cover in the open ground between it and the point where they now stood. There they remained, reluctant to cross the open area and chance the possibility that he was watching and waiting for that to happen. After a short while, they realized they were no better off than they had been back on the mound. They had come this far, however, so they were not ready to give up and run. Neither did they want to risk crossing the open ground.

“Why don’t we work on down the river to the mouth of that creek, and come up on him that way?” Rampley suggested. “Chances are pretty good that, if he ain’t dead, he’s probably watching for us to come across that open piece, same as Iron Foot.”

“That might work,” Stover agreed, and they climbed back down the riverbank and started making their way through the thick brush that lined the water. It was not easy in the dark, but by the time they reached the mouth of the creek, the moon had risen high enough to enable them to see to push through the brush more quietly. They then split up, one on each side of the creek, and began their cautious advance toward Grayson’s camp.

They had not gone twenty yards when they first heard Iron Foot’s weak call for help. “Rampley,” the pitiful wail called out. “I’m dyin’. Help me. Stover.” Over and over it went as the dying half-breed moaned, his breaths coming in shorter gasps. It was an unnerving plea, stopping both men in their tracks.

At first, Stover was confused, thinking that Iron Foot was somehow aware that they were working their way up the creek. If Iron Foot knew they were in the creek, then Grayson might, too. But then he reasoned that the half-breed didn’t know where they were. He had probably been babbling out of his head ever since he was shot. Still, Stover was getting a worried feeling about the wisdom of their approach. “Whaddaya think we oughta do?” he whispered across the creek to Rampley.

“Nothin’,” Rampley replied, also in a whisper. “It was his damn-fool idea, so I reckon he oughta knowed he could get shot.” He paused to consider what effect, if any, this development had on their plan to stalk the camp. The thought occurred that maybe Iron Foot had succeeded in killing the ex-lawman. Otherwise, Grayson would most likely have shot Iron Foot again to shut up his moaning. “Come on,” he whispered. “Keep goin’ and we’ll see about helping Iron Foot after we take care of Grayson.”

“You sure we wanna get any closer?” Stover asked, starting to get cold feet. The mournful wailing of their wounded partner served to put a lethal pall over the dark gully.

“Keep goin’,” Rampley replied, feeling more confident now. Moving in a crouch, carefully placing one foot in front of the other so as not to misstep and make a sound, he continued until reaching a slight bend in the gully. He hesitated, for he could now see the embers of the fire a dozen yards up ahead and the pale image of the canvas-wrapped bundle lying on top of the gully just above it. He also saw Iron Foot’s body beside the bundle. He held his rifle ready to fire, but there was no sign of Grayson. Hearing a sound like the splashing of a fish, he looked across the creek for Stover, but Stover was gone. And he realized that the sound he had heard was made by Stover running down the creek. Instantly furious to discover Stover had run out on him, he started to back up when his foot slipped on a sizable rock at the edge of the water. Stumbling awkwardly to keep from falling in the water, he glanced up to see the dark outline of the man he sought to kill standing above him at the rim of the gully. The two rifles fired barely an instant apart, and Rampley staggered backward before falling in the water, while the bullet from his rifle plugged harmlessly into the side of the gully.

Grayson ejected the cartridge and walked along the gully’s edge, watching Rampley’s body bobbing gently in the creek. By all appearances, Rampley was dead. Grayson pumped one more shot into him to make sure. His partner had run when he glanced up and saw Grayson standing, waiting, at the edge of the gully, so he felt pretty sure it was the last he would see of him. Still, it was his careful nature to make sure, so he set out after Stover. It was too dark to pick out tracks, but there was no doubt the two men had come down the river, so he cut directly across to the riverbank, instead of going down to the mouth of the creek and then turning upriver. He had run almost thirty yards along the bank when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves beating a hasty exit on the prairie floor on the other side of a low mound. He was satisfied then that he was finished with the “carpenters” as the sound of the hooves faded away. He turned to walk slowly back to his camp.

It had been a long night and he was tired, so he took only a few moments to look at the body beside Billy. The half-breed had suffered a painful death, and Grayson felt that he had most likely deserved it. But he would have put the man out of his misery if he had been certain his partners were not set up close by to ambush him. He couldn’t help wondering why the breed came in alone, but he didn’t give it more than a moment’s thought. “I reckon the folks in Muskogee will have to find somebody else to build their church for ’em,” he said with a grunt of amusement, as he looked down at the pained expression on Iron Foot’s face. He reached down and picked up the Spencer carbine lying beside the body and checked the action of the lever. He would pack it with all the other weapons he had collected, more weapons than he knew what to do with, he thought. But the weapon seemed to be in good working order, so he pulled out his knife and cut the twine that tied a poorly looking scrap of gray hair to the barrel. He left the half-breed’s body where it was, thinking it could feed the buzzards and coyotes, and probably serve its only useful purpose.

It might have been a wise decision to pack up and move his camp someplace else for the rest of the night, but he felt certain enough that when Stover lit out, he had no plans to come back. So he built the fire up a little and turned in for the night.