Chapter 10

“Well, I can certainly use the money,” Wanda Meadows commented when Grayson handed her a six-month rent payment in advance. The money was to reserve his usual room upstairs when the present renter left. “You must have won big at the poker table or robbed a bank,” she joked.

“I got paid for the last job I did for the marshal’s office,” Grayson said. “Figured it’d be a good idea to make sure I had the room I wanted, while I had some money in my pocket.”

“I expect the least I could do is offer you a cup of coffee and a slice of that pie I made for supper,” she offered, “. . . anybody that pays that much in advance.” She had just finished baking two large apple pies to serve with supper that night, and she was sure there would be a serving for everyone, with a little left over. She had only three boarders in addition to Grayson at present, anyway. “Whaddaya say, Grayson,” she asked with a warm smile, “can I interest you in a piece of apple pie not an hour out of the oven?”

He smiled in return. “I reckon it’d be impolite to say no.” It wasn’t often he had the opportunity to enjoy fresh baked pie, and he couldn’t recall if she had ever offered him anything between regular meals. “I swear, though, Mrs. Meadows, I’m already gettin’ so fat from eatin’ your cookin’ for the last few days that I might need to buy some new britches.”

“You could use a little fattening,” she said with a laugh. It was not the first time she had entertained thoughts along those lines. “Sit down at the table and I’ll get you some coffee. I might join you in a piece of that pie. I’m kinda interested in seeing how that crust turned out. When I rolled it out, I tried not to work it too much. The last one I made, I think I overdid it a bit and it made the crust a little tough. Or maybe it was that lard I was using. Anyway, I want to see how it turned out.”

He smiled again. “I’ll bet you ain’t ever made a pie that wasn’t good in your life.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you had tasted a piece of the first one I made after I got married,” she replied. “And my poor husband, bless his heart, sat there and ate every bite of it.” She had to laugh at the memory. There was a time when memories of her late husband would bring moments of melancholy, but enough years had passed to heal the pain of losing him so young in her life.

She cut two slices from one of the pies, placed them on the table, and poured two cups of coffee. Seating herself across from him, she smiled as she watched him staring at his pie for a moment before looking up to meet her eyes. His gaze was questioning and she was confused by it until he spoke. “I know there’s some talk about what an uncivilized man I am, but I do know how to use a fork.”

“Oh,” she burst into laughter again, “I’m sorry. I guess we could use some forks.” She jumped up and got a couple from the drawer. They said nothing for a few moments while they sampled the pie, but her thoughts were concentrated on the usually somber man sitting at her kitchen table. He had rented a room in her home, off and on, for quite a few years, and this was the first time she had had a conversation with him that consisted of more than a half a dozen words. His reputation was one of a cold, emotionless hunter of men, some said a cruel administrator of justice. For evidence of this, she could easily consider the wanted outlaw he had just brought in, dead from gunshot wounds. But he had never shown anything but polite respect for her and her boarders. Which was the real man she wondered? In fact, who was Grayson? No one really knew much about him, except that he had once been a deputy marshal. Where had he come from? She wondered if maybe she might be better off not knowing. Still, she could not deny a certain fascination for the man. She almost surprised herself when she suddenly asked, “Grayson, have you got a first name?”

He looked up, astonished. “Joel,” he answered, surprised that she didn’t know.

“Joel,” she echoed. “Why, that’s a nice name. I shall call you that from now on. Grayson sounds so stern.” She looked up to see him pausing to gape at her, a large bite of apple pie in his mouth waiting to be masticated. She couldn’t help but laugh at him. “You don’t spend much time in the company of women, do you, Joel?”

“Reckon not,” he said, then resumed his chewing.

“Well, we’ve known each other too long for you to keep calling me Mrs. Meadows. You must call me Wanda. All right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

“Not ma’am, either,” she corrected. “Wanda.”

He grinned. “All right, Wanda.” He pushed his empty plate aside and reached for his coffee cup again. “You make mighty good pie, Wanda.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied sweetly, and refilled his cup.

He was confused. It was almost as though the lady was flirting with him, but surely not, he thought. No woman ever had before, and he found himself wondering how old she was. What the hell do I care? he asked himself. She was a fine-looking woman, though. Odd he had never noticed before, but he had just never paid attention, his mind having always been focused on things of a more grim nature. He might have been astonished had he known that the lady was wondering about many of the same things he was.

She had never really given any man the slightest encouragement since her husband had almost chopped his foot off when a large tree he was cutting down bucked on the stump as it started to fall. It resulted in knocking him down and pinning his leg under the tree when it fell in the wrong direction. There was no one around to help him, and the only thing he could think to try was to attempt to chop the trunk in two and free his crushed leg. Able to reach his axe, he did the best he could to swing it from the awkward position on his back. But he soon found out how ineffective his attempts were. In frustration, he swung the axe as hard as he could muster. The axe glanced off the tree trunk and sank deep into his ankle, all the way to the bone. When her father-in-law found him, he had bled so much he was almost unconscious. The doctor told them that the leg might have been saved had not an infection set in. The infection spread so rapidly that his leg had to be amputated above the knee. He never really learned to use crutches, because less than a month after the surgery, he pressed his revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger, leaving a young wife widowed at the age of eighteen.

If I was interested in another man, she thought, it surely wouldn’t be someone who lived by the gun, even if it was on the side of law and order. It was difficult not to compare the two—they were so different. She was certain that she would never love another man like she loved her late husband, even though she found a certain fascination for the somber man at her kitchen table—now that she had discovered there was a living soul inside the emotionless body. “Well, I’ve not got time to sit here and visit,” she suddenly announced. “I’ve got to get supper started, or you all will be complaining and wanting your money back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied at once. “I’m sorry I’ve took up so much of your time.” He got up to leave. “I thank you very much for the coffee and pie. It was the best apple pie I’ve ever had.”

She smiled. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it, but I’ve had better.”

“You’re sellin’ yourself short,” he said and started out the door where he paused, looked back at her, and added, “Wanda.”

She gave him another smile and thought to herself, I don’t know, Wanda, girl. You might be thinking about taming a leopard.

*   *   *

By coincidence, the two brothers rode up before the gallows just as Otis Wainwright and his assistant were in the process of removing the casket from the platform where it had been on display. “Hold on, there,” Slate called out as he dismounted.

“If you’re thinking about taking a look at the body, you’re a little too late,” Wainwright said. “We’ve already put the lid back on.” In fact, there were only a couple of nails tacked in to hold the cover in place until they carried it down the steps where it would be easier to finish nailing it shut. “Let’s take it down, Johnny,” he told his assistant, and picked up one end of the coffin. Johnny hefted the other end and they started down the steps with their awkward burden.

Slate motioned for Troy to remain calm when his brother started to react to the undertaker’s refusal to let them see the body. “Let ’em tote it down,” he said quietly. They watched silently while their brother’s coffin was carefully carried down the steps of the gallows. It was not an easy task for two men, especially since neither was of a particularly brawny build. When they reached the ground without dropping the wooden box, and started toward their wagon to load it, Slate stepped in front of them. “Set it down right there,” he said, “and take the lid off.”

Wainwright hesitated for a moment while he and Johnny stood holding the coffin. “I’m sorry, mister, but the viewing period is over. If you wanted to see the body, you should have come before this. It’s been on display for almost a week, and we have to get it in the ground right away.”

Slate’s heavy brows narrowed in an angry frown as he looked Wainwright straight in the eye. “Put the damn thing down and take the lid off,” he commanded, “before I rip it off, myself.” Troy stepped up beside him, his hand resting on the handle of the .44 in his holster.

“Whoa!” Wainwright exclaimed. “Hold on there, mister!” He turned at once to his assistant on the other end of the coffin. “Set it down, Johnny.” When it was down, he stepped away from it as if it might explode, while he unconsciously looked around to see if anyone was witness to the confrontation and might come to his aid. “There’s no need to get upset here. If you want to see the body that bad, we’ll open it up for you.” He had not paid that much attention to the two men when they first rode up. He decided now that it was best to do what they wanted, and without delay. “Johnny, hand me that hammer.”

He backed the few nails out of the top and he and Johnny lifted it off. Then they both stepped back while the two strangers moved up to take a close look. The reaction shown in each man’s face told him that they were not pleased with what they saw. “Damn,” Troy muttered, drawing the word out in disbelief. “What the hell did you do to him?” Although the repair job Wainwright had performed on the deceased had suffered serious deterioration, he could still recognize the face as Billy’s.

“You ought not’a had him stood up here that long,” Slate said, giving Wainwright an accusing glance. “It’s Billy all right, but his body don’t look right. It don’t look like Billy.”

“It looks bigger’n Billy,” Troy said.

At once distressed, Wainwright was quick to offer an explanation. “After this amount of time, there’s usually a certain amount of swelling in the body. Sometimes—as in this case—it can change the look of the body, so that it’s difficult to recognize it.” Slate and Troy exchanged uncertain glances. “You gentlemen understand that I have no connection with the law, I hope,” Wainwright added. “I’m just the undertaker.”

“Put the lid back on,” Slate ordered, and there was no hesitation on the part of the undertaker to comply. “Grayson brought him in, already dead, right?” Wainwright said that was correct. “The bullet holes was in his back is what I heard.”

“Well, he was killed by gunshots,” Wainwright admitted, “but I have no way of knowing the circumstances of the shooting.” He was reluctant to speculate on how Billy was killed, for he truly did not believe that Grayson murdered the outlaw, especially since his reward was originally based upon a living prisoner.

“He was shot in the back, though. Right?” Troy demanded.

“Well, yes, he was,” Wainwright replied, afraid the menacing man might take the lid off to see for himself and discover no wounds in the back.

“That spells murder to me,” Slate said. “That low-down son of a bitch murdered him.” He grabbed Wainwright’s shirt and pulled him up to him, face-to-face. “Is Grayson still in town? Where does he stay?”

“I don’t know,” a severely frightened Wainwright blurted. “I don’t have any idea, I swear.”

“How ’bout you, Johnny?” Troy asked sarcastically. “Do you know where Grayson is?”

“N-no, sir, I don’t have any idea,” Johnny stuttered, shaken from a near-paralysis of fear.

“All right,” Slate said upon deciding they would get no further information from the two frightened undertakers. “Give him a decent burial and do it quick.”

“Yeah,” Troy added, “you might be gettin’ some more business soon.”

Wainwright and Johnny busied themselves loading Billy’s remains on the back of the wagon until the two strangers had ridden off toward Garrison Street. They paused to watch them until they rode out of sight. “Right in the middle of town!” Wainwright exclaimed, astonished, unable to believe what had just transpired. “I thought this was a civilized town.”

“They must have thought they were still in Indian Territory,” Johnny said. “I expect we’d better alert the sheriff about those two, and tell him to warn Grayson if he’s still in town.”

*   *   *

Grayson was still in town, and planned to be for some time yet, for there was nothing on his mind that needed tending to anywhere else. During the past couple of days, he had given a great deal of thought toward the rest of his life and what he might make of it. He really didn’t know much about making a living beyond chasing after outlaws. There were very few pay days like the one-thousand-dollar reward he had just cashed in on. He thought of the extra horses he had acquired when he went after Billy Blanchard. Maybe he could take what he had left of the reward after the payoff to Wainwright and use it to set himself up to raise horses. At least that would be something he had an interest in, unlike farming. He supposed he could possibly go back to work in the U.S. marshal service as long as it was not in the Omaha office where his employment was ended over an incident with another deputy.

He hadn’t thought about that in a long time—the events that caused him to leave the marshal service—for he felt no guilt or regret for doing what he did. It was the only time he had worked with a partner, and he was just unlucky enough to have drawn the wrong one. Now he recalled the attempt to capture Ned Dawson, vague images that flashed across his mind like sparks from a fire, bits and pieces—his partner, Red Sawyer, kicking a door open to find Ned’s wife and two small children hovering frightened in a corner—the woman slumping against her children when Red’s bullet hit her in the chest—Red’s gun turned on the children—Red collapsing in the doorway, shot in the head. He had warned Red, yelled for him to stop. He remembered doing that, but Red had just laughed and turned his pistol on the smaller of the two children, a girl. I had no choice, Grayson thought. If I had it to do over, I would do the same. An ugly trial had followed, but the jury could not convict him, primarily because he had saved the lives of the two children. But it wouldn’t do to retain a deputy in the service who had shot a fellow deputy. They graciously permitted him to resign. He was bitter at the time, but looked upon it now as the hand he had been dealt in a game that has no winners.

He was still young enough to start out on a new trail—one outside the violent world he had known in his earlier years. It was ironic that the town of Black Horse Creek came to mind when he thought about the opportunities for settlements in the territories beyond The Nations. Black Horse Creek had the potential to become a growing center for farming as well as cattle. But it was doomed for ultimate failure as long as an outlaw like Jacob Blanchard owned it. Maybe things didn’t have to be that way. Maybe if the folks who had invested their future in the town got together to set their own controls, they might successfully go up against Blanchard. Just your mind wandering off on a useless ramble, he told himself. Now it’s time for supper.

He pulled the gray up in front of the stable door and dismounted. Bob Graham walked out to meet him, and stood talking to him while he pulled the saddle off. “You come down on the price you’re askin’ for them horses?” Bob asked.

“Hell, no,” Grayson replied, “thinkin’ about goin’ up on it. I might decide to keep all of ’em, myself, anyway—might get into the business of raisin’ horses.”

“You?” Bob asked. “That’ll be the day.”

“You never can tell,” Grayson said as he turned the gray out in the corral. “Make sure he gets a ration of oats—my other horses, too.” He spent a few more minutes passing the time of day with Bob before pulling his rifle from his saddle sling and leaving to take the short walk to Wanda’s boardinghouse. He didn’t notice the two men sitting on their horses in the shadow of the dry goods store. It was a peaceful evening. He felt a sense of contentment. He had a little bit of money on hand, and the satisfaction of having completed a difficult job. It crossed his mind, but he wouldn’t permit the prospect of a friendship with Wanda Meadows to have anything to do with his peaceful walk. There was nothing to alert him that it might become a walk into eternity.

*   *   *

“That’s him, all right,” Troy Blanchard decided. “That’s Grayson. Look at him, strollin’ down the street like he was on his way to church.”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Slate agreed. There was no doubt the man they now saw walking away from the stables was the same stranger who had come through Black Horse Creek.

“Well, what are we waitin’ for?” Troy demanded.

“Just hold it a minute,” Slate said. “We’re gonna get the son of a bitch, but we’ve got to make sure we get the hell out of this town and across the river to Injun country before the law gets after us.”

“Hell,” Troy persisted, “he’s on foot and has no place to hide if we hit him before he gets to them other stores up there. Now’s the time to get him while there ain’t many people on the street. Pa will shoot both of us if we don’t get the bastard.”

“We’re gonna get him,” Slate said. “But we’re gonna ride straight outta here before they can even think about a posse.” He paused to look around for the best escape routes. “The river’s yonder way,” he said, and pointed to the west. “So we’d best head right between the blacksmith and the stable as soon as the job’s done. All right?” Troy nodded impatiently. Slate went on. “I want him to see who’s killin’ him, so he’ll damn-sure know why he’s gettin’ shot.” Troy grinned to show his agreement. “Here’s what we’ll do,” Slate said. “You take off around the back of this store and get up ahead of him. Then you cut back to meet him. I’ll get in behind him and walk real slow to give you time. That way, we’ll have him between us. He won’t have no place to run.” Troy nodded thoughtfully. He liked the idea of letting Grayson know who shot him.

*   *   *

Grayson was aware of someone riding a horse at full gallop up the alley behind the dry goods store, but he had no reason to believe it was of any concern to him until the rider appeared from between two of the buildings ahead and turned back toward him. It didn’t appear that the rider was going to give him any space on the street, for he walked his horse in the middle of the street, and gave no sign of yielding. Maybe he can’t see me, Grayson thought, and prepared to step up on the boardwalk to let him pass. Suddenly it struck him that the rider was intentionally steering toward him and was now drawing a rifle from the saddle scabbard. In that instant, he recognized the smirking face of one of the Blanchard brothers. He pulled his rifle from his shoulder, where he had propped it, and quickly cocked it just as he felt the bullet slam into his back. The force of it caused him to stagger and try to keep from falling, only to be hit in the chest by the bullet from the rider in front of him. Down he dropped to his knees, firing one wild shot before a second bullet in the back knocked him face forward on the ground. Caught between a deadly crossfire, he was helpless to defend himself as another shot found his shoulder.

Alerted by the shots, people began to appear in the windows and doors of the shops along the street, and shouts to call the sheriff rang out. “Let’s get outta here!” Slate shouted as he and Troy rode a circle around the body lying in a pool of blood in the middle of the dusty street. “He’s dead! We got him!” Slate exclaimed as he fought to control his excited horse while trying to see if there was any sign of life in the motionless body. “Let’s ride!” he shouted to Troy, and galloped toward the blacksmith shop. Troy threw one last shot into Grayson’s back before chasing after his brother.

The two assassins did not spare their horses as they cut through the narrow alley between the blacksmith’s forge and the stable, out onto the street behind that led to the ferry slips by the river. Down the hard-packed road they galloped, their horses’ hooves thundering on the dusty surface, across the rail yards to the banks of the river, where they followed the river north. “We’re gonna have to swim ’em across!” Slate yelled to his brother. “Maybe there’s a better place up ahead.” Indian Territory was on the other side of the river, so that was their first objective. Once they were in The Nations there would be a sense of safety even though they would still have to avoid the tribal police. There was considerable concern about the possibility of pursuit by a U.S. deputy marshal, but they figured to be long gone before that could be initiated.

After riding a quarter of a mile along the bank, Slate reined his horse to a stop and waited for Troy to pull up beside him. “We might as well put ’em in the water. One place don’t look any better’n another, and if we keep goin’, they’re gonna be too wore out to swim against the current.” They paused to listen for a few minutes, satisfied that there were no sounds of pursuit. “There ain’t been no time for anybody to come after us,” Slate said.

“Somebody woulda had to seen us get away,” Troy said. “We don’t have to kill these damn horses; ain’t nobody comin’ after us.”

Slate agreed with his brother’s thinking, so instead of committing their horses to the river at that point, they continued on along the bank, letting the horses walk. After a couple of miles, they came to a section of the river where a sandbar extended out, almost to the main channel, reducing the distance the horses would have to swim. This is where they crossed. Once on the other side, they stayed close to the river as they continued north, looking for a place to camp, build a fire, and dry out. It was fully dark by the time they found the spot they were looking for.

With the horses taken care of and a blazing fire to warm them, it was time to have some bacon and coffee, and enjoy the success of their mission. They shared in the satisfaction of carrying out the family’s demand for vengeance, and to make it even more satisfying, the only person who could have pointed them out as the killers was dead. “Let ’em send out the marshals,” Slate gloated. “They ain’t got no idea who they’re lookin’ for.”

“You think there’s any chance he ain’t dead?” Troy wondered aloud.

“Shit no,” Slate replied immediately. “I think that first shot in his back most likely killed him. And after we pumped him so full of holes, he was dead all right.” He paused, thinking back. “How many did we put in him?” They both paused to recall and came up with a total of five shots. “If that didn’t kill him, he ain’t human,” Slate said. “He had so much lead in him he’d be too heavy to pick up.”

Troy laughed. “I expect so. I ain’t seen nobody that looked any deader’n him. He wasn’t wrigglin’ a finger.”

“He didn’t look so damn tough to me with his face in the dirt,” Slate crowed. He was thinking that their successful revenge would go a long way in easing their father’s pain over losing his youngest son. “I wish Pa coulda seen it,” he said.

Troy nodded. “We’ll get started early in the mornin’ and get on back to Kansas,” he said and poured himself another cup of coffee. “I wish we’da brought somethin’ stronger than coffee to celebrate with.”

“We’ll save that till we celebrate with Pa,” Slate said. They slept that night satisfied with themselves, Troy more so than Slate, for now he was Jacob Blanchard’s youngest son, and perhaps his father would dote on him as he had with Billy.