Chapter 13

He returned to the same ravine that led up to a small ridge from which he had watched Jacob Blanchard’s ranch house before. It was here that he had watched Stump ride out on a mule on his way to warn Billy. The recent rain had caused a little runoff that enlarged a tiny trickle that ran down the ravine to the creek. His horses were tied right at the point where it emptied into the creek. Using a pair of field glasses, he watched everyone working around the ranch, taking care to count the number of men and their whereabouts as they moved about between the barn and the corral. There were four hired hands that he could account for, but there was no sign of Troy Blanchard. If he had returned home when he fled the graveyard, he would have to be holed up inside the house. Grayson feared he would never get the open shot he had hoped for.

A woman came out of the house occasionally and went to the pump for water—too young to be Troy’s mother, he thought, perhaps a cook or housekeeper. Since he had no way to know how many hired hands Blanchard still employed at the ranch, he decided he was going to have to wait until dark to try to find out if Troy was there. For now, there was nothing to do but wait and watch, so he counseled himself to be patient.

At dusk a rider came in, and Grayson pulled the field glasses up to get a closer look. It turned out to be Jacob Blanchard. Maybe now, he thought, for if he had judged the patriarch of the Blanchard clan accurately, there would be some fireworks going off over Troy’s hasty departure from the cemetery. Jacob pulled his weary horse up sharply before the front steps of the house and handed the reins to Stump, who had run out to meet him. Even in this dim light, looking through the field glasses Grayson could see the old man’s face drawn in anger. He did not have to hear the conversation to know that Jacob was demanding to know where Troy was. Grayson waited, his rifle ready, expecting Troy to come out of the house. He had decided to take the shot as soon as Troy appeared, then take his chances on being able to escape. But Troy never showed up. Judging by Jacob’s obvious gestures, Grayson suspected that Troy was not there, a fact that evidently displeased his father, and left Grayson with no idea where to look for him. The line shack? he wondered. For that was where Billy had gone to hide out.

Grayson knew where the line shack was, but what if Troy had gone somewhere else to hide? He was undecided whether or not to head for Rabbit Creek right away, or to wait where he was and watch the house, figuring that Troy would eventually show up. Either way, time was a big factor, for if he made the wrong decision it could mean that Troy might be increasing his odds of escape. In the next few seconds, Jacob Blanchard made the decision for him. He yelled something out to Stump, who had almost reached the barn with Jacob’s horse. Stump stopped, said something in reply, then continued on into the barn. A short time later, Stump reappeared from the barn again with a fresh, saddled horse and led it to the front steps, where he handed the reins to Jacob. Right behind Stump, another of Jacob’s hired hands rode out from the barn to join them at the front steps, where the old man was still obviously giving orders. Then Jacob climbed on the fresh horse and he and the hired hand rode out toward the east.

Grayson froze, for they were coming directly toward him where he was watching from the low ridge. His first thought was that they had somehow spotted him, and he hustled to prepare for the confrontation to come. With barely fifty yards remaining, however, they turned and rode in a more northerly direction, passing the mouth of the ravine where he had tied his horses. Had either of the riders turned to look in that direction, they might surely have seen the gray and the sorrel. Grayson slid back away from the brow of the ridge and waited for the two riders to pass in front of him, all the while thinking that his horses already needed a rest. And now he was going to be forced to press them for additional miles, trailing a couple of fresh horses. He could see little choice but to follow as long as he could. He hurried back down the ravine to his horses, but instead of climbing into the saddle, he started walking, while leading the gray.

Walking as fast as he could, he felt hard-pressed to keep the two riders in sight, a task made even more difficult by the fading daylight. To make matters even harder, Jacob and his man increased their gait to an easy lope, making it harder for Grayson to keep them in sight on the horizon. When it got to the point where he lost sight of them completely, he stepped up into the saddle and pushed the gray into a lope. As soon as he caught sight of them on the horizon again, he immediately dismounted, conserving every bit of the gray’s energy that he could. This routine was repeated for almost three hours before Grayson was forced to rest his horses or chance ending up on foot for good. Walking once more, he led the two horses in the darkness toward a long line of trees that he hoped indicated water, not realizing that he had caught up with Blanchard and his hired gun until he heard the shot.

*   *   *

“Troy!” Jacob yelled. “Dammit, it’s me and Slim! Put the damn rifle down. We’re comin’ in.” Already angry, he was now almost out of control when Troy’s bullet had snapped the air between their two horses. Forced to dismount and take cover behind the horses, lest he be killed by his son, Jacob waited for a response. There was none, only quiet, but at least there was not a second shot. “Troy!” he yelled again. “Do you hear me? Answer me, boy!” Again there was quiet.

Finally, Troy called back, “I hear you, Pa. Come on in.”

Jacob and Slim climbed on their horses and guided them down past a line of cottonwoods to a dilapidated board shack on the bank of a narrow creek. Troy’s horse was hobbled nearby and there was a small fire glowing in front of the shack, but there was no sign of his son. The two riders pulled up before the door of the shack and Jacob called out again, “Troy! You in there?”

“I’m here, Pa.” The voice came from the back corner of the shack as Troy stepped cautiously out from behind the wooden structure, his rifle still in a ready-to-fire position before him.

Astonished by his son’s actions, Jacob demanded, “What in the hell’s wrong with you? You damn-near shot one of us. I’m of a mind to break that damn rifle over your back.”

“I’m sorry, Pa,” Troy replied, “but how was I to know that was you, come creepin’ up on me like that. How’d I know who you were?”

“You coulda found out before you took a shot at us,” Slim commented, none too happy to have come so close to catching a bullet.

“Shut up, Slim,” Jacob snapped, then directed his words to Troy again. “I had a feelin’ you’d be up at this old shack. You’ve got a helluva lot of explainin’ to do, boy. While you were hightailin’ it up here to hide, your brother’s been murdered. He mighta had a chance if you had been with him like you shoulda been.”

The news of Slate’s death only served to convince Troy that he had done the right thing when he fled. He knew what he had seen, despite anything anyone else said to convince him otherwise. Grayson was not the first dead man he had ever seen, so he was certain that they had killed him. He was also positive that it was Grayson he had seen standing on the top of the hill during the thunderstorm. That graveyard was the logical place for a ghost to appear, and there was no doubt in his mind that it had come for him and Slate. So now Slate was dead. He was not surprised. Slate should have run when he did. His mind was spinning in his head, trying to think of a safe place to hide when he realized his father was pressing him for an answer. “What?” Troy responded.

“I said your brother’s dead,” Jacob repeated, exasperated by Troy’s reaction. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry, Pa.”

“Now we gotta take care of that damn bounty hunter you and Slate said you killed,” Jacob fumed. “Thanks to you and Slate’s carelessness, he’s killed another one of my sons.” He scowled when Troy failed to respond with some show of fire or indignation. “And right now I ain’t seein’ the sand in you that your brothers had.”

“I swear, Pa,” Troy pleaded, “the man was dead when we left him in the middle of the street. It don’t make no sense to go after a ghost. He’s already dead. You can’t kill him again.”

“Horseshit!” Jacob exclaimed in disgust for his son’s cowardly display in front of one of his hired hands. He saw it as a shameful affront to him personally to think he, Jacob Blanchard, could have fathered such a son. “He ain’t no more ghost than that damn horse I rode in on, and by God, I’ll stand up to him anytime, anywhere,” he swore. “Now get on that horse. We’re goin’ ghost huntin’, and you’re gonna kill him—avenge your brothers—and this time I’ll be there to make damn-sure he’s dead.” He stood there glowering for a few moments, smoldering in his rage. When Troy did not move, seemingly anchored to the ground before him, Jacob told Slim to remove the hobbles from Troy’s horse and saddle it. Slim replied that the horse still had the saddle on it, which further riled Jacob. “Well, bring it up here with ours. We’re gettin’ ready to ride.”

Still Troy did not move. “I’m sorry about Slate,” he finally muttered. “None of this woulda happened if it wasn’t for Billy shootin’ that lawman over at Ed Lenta’s place. Me and Slate was unlucky when we killed Grayson, and now he’s come back from hell to get us.”

Burning with anger and shame, Jacob suddenly lashed out at his son, backhanding him with one powerful blow that staggered Troy. “Quit that damn snivelin’,” he roared. “You’re makin’ me sick. Now get on that damn horse.”

“I ain’t goin’, Pa,” Troy whimpered, one hand holding the side of his face where he had been struck. “I can’t.”

Seething now with disgust, Jacob got suddenly quiet while he continued to stare at his son. “Why, you ain’t worth the powder it’d take to blow you to hell,” he said. Then he deliberately pulled his pistol from his holster, aimed it at Troy’s head, and pulled the trigger.

Slim, standing beside him, holding the horse’s reins, jumped at the sudden discharge of Jacob’s pistol. Startled, “Damn!” was all he could say as he watched Troy slump to the ground. He looked quickly at the old man, thinking he must have gone crazy.

“Tie a lead rope on to my saddle,” Jacob ordered, with no more expression on his face than if he had just put down a crippled horse.

“Yes, sir,” Slim responded. “You want me to load Troy’s body over the saddle?”

“No. I ain’t gonna disgrace my other boys by buryin’ a coward next to their graves.”

“Yes, sir,” Slim responded again and jumped to do his boss’s bidding.

Jacob stood over his son’s body for a while before reaching down and unbuckling his gun belt. When Slim finished attaching a lead line on Troy’s horse, he started to step up in the saddle, unaware that Jacob had walked up behind him. He had one foot in the stirrup when the old man held his pistol up behind his head and pulled the trigger. The shot caused Slim’s horse to bolt sideways, dragging Slim’s body a few feet along with it. “There’s been enough shame come to my house without lettin’ you shoot your mouth off about Troy,” he said. “I ain’t got no quarrel with you, but you mighta talked about what you saw here some night when you was too likkered up to hold your tongue.”

He caught Slim’s horse and freed his boot from the stirrup, then tied the horse on to the lead rope with Troy’s. Stepping up in the saddle, he led the horses out across the stream, heading back to Black Horse Creek. He had a burying to attend to, after which he planned to track down the demon, Grayson, who had destroyed his family.

*   *   *

Grayson could barely believe the executions he had just witnessed. Having worked his way close enough along the creek bank to understand enough of the conversation to realize what was going on, he had been waiting for a clear shot at Troy. Before that could happen, however, the old man did the job for him. How a man—any man—could kill his own son, even if he was a coward, Grayson could not understand. The second execution was even more difficult to understand. He was beginning to get more insight concerning the patriarch of the Blanchard family. It could be summed up in one word—insane.

The incident that just occurred left him with uncertainty. Both Slate and Troy were dead. That was what he had come to do. What to do now left him puzzled—maybe nothing, since his mission was completed—but something should be done about the murdering old man. The best thing would probably be to put him down like the mad dog he appeared to be. Grayson wasn’t sure that was his responsibility. Maybe he should have taken the shot as the old man was riding across the creek. If he was still wearing a badge, he would certainly have arrested him at the least. Someone should do something about him, he told himself, and he was the only witness to the crime. “I reckon it’s up to me,” he said. There was little he could do about it now, as the image of the old man faded into the darkness, because Grayson’s horses were spent and in need of rest, about twelve hours’ worth. He had no choice but to wait out the night and start out fresh the next day.

Before resigning himself to making his camp, he walked over to the shack to view the carnage Jacob Blanchard had left behind. Troy was wearing the shocked look of disbelief he had when his father shot him face on. The hired hand had mercifully been shot in the back of his head with nothing to warn him. Both bodies were left just as they had fallen with nothing but their weapons removed. He looked around and decided he might as well make his camp right there. Troy had started a small fire, so Grayson threw some more wood on it, then dragged the two bodies out into the brush before going to retrieve his horses. There was a lot to think about, some big decisions to make, and he hoped to have it all worked out by morning.

*   *   *

The solemn Creek woman prepared Jacob’s breakfast, although she was not sure he would be up at the usual time. She heard him when he came in the night before, and the hour was late. She had heard him talking to his hired hands before he rode off last night, so she knew that he was going to fetch Troy. But she was sure the old man was alone when he returned. He had called young Jimmy Hicks from the bunkhouse to take care of the horses. At breakfast earlier, Jimmy told her that neither Troy nor Slim came home with Blanchard, leaving her to speculate on the reason. Knowing the old man as well as she did, it was easy to guess that something unpleasant had happened to the two missing men. With them gone, that left Jacob with only Stump and Dan Slider to run the place—plus Jimmy. Stump was not right in the head, but he could work the ranch with Jimmy’s help. Both the man and the boy would give more than a full day’s work every day. Slider, on the other hand, was no more than a hired gun, like Slim and Yancey and Lonnie. So the brunt of the work would fall upon Stump and Jimmy.

Her thoughts settled on the boy, and she wondered how long it would be before Jacob corrupted him to become just another horse thief and murderer like the rest of his men. She had often wondered if she should talk to Jimmy, and try to persuade him to leave Black Horse Creek before Jacob decided he was old enough to participate in the lawless activities with the crew. Jimmy was a decent boy. How long would he remain so with Jacob Blanchard’s evil influence? Further thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Jacob Blanchard’s footstep in the hallway. She dropped her dish towel at once and hurried to the stove to fill his cup with coffee.

“Hurry up my breakfast,” he ordered. “I’m leavin’ for town right away.”

“Yes, sir,” she responded in her broken English. “Your breakfast ready. I keep it warm in the oven.” She eyed him carefully to determine his mood. Always dour, it was especially urgent this morning, so she assumed that things had not gone well the night before. She would be careful to stay out of his way, grateful that he would soon be gone.

“Holler out the door for Stump,” he told her. She set his plate down on the table before him, then immediately went to the kitchen door and called out for the simple little man. Accustomed to being summoned in this fashion, Stump was on his way to the house in a matter of minutes. When Stump arrived at the kitchen door, Rachel handed him a cup of coffee, knowing that he was always grateful to get one. “We ain’t got time for you to drink coffee,” Jacob said, causing Stump to gulp the hot liquid as fast as he could. “You and Dan get saddled up. As soon as I’ve finished my breakfast, we’re goin’ to town. We’ve got some business to take care of.” He studied Stump’s simple features for a moment, having second thoughts about taking him with him. Stump didn’t have a mean bone in his body, and that was the reason Jacob wasn’t sure he could count on him when the shooting started. At least he’ll make the odds three to one, he decided, and he was better at tracking than Dan. “Jimmy can take care of things around here till we get back,” Jacob said.

“Yes, sir,” Stump said, and finished his coffee in several huge gulps, causing Rachel to wonder how the man kept from scalding his throat. She was glad Jacob was not taking Jimmy with him. The evil man had stolen her life. She decided to try to influence Jimmy to leave this place while he was still young enough to make a life for himself somewhere else—somewhere with no Jacob Blanchard. She often wished that she had run away from the brutal old man. But she had waited too late. When she was younger, he treated her much better, especially when she began to become a young woman. As the years and the hard work began to take a toll on her body, he started to look upon her as property, like his horse, or one of his cattle. There had never been any gentleness in the man his entire life, and as he aged, he became even more brutal toward her, deriving his greatest pleasure from abuse.

*   *   *

In spite of his feelings of responsibility the night before—to bring Jacob Blanchard to justice—he began to question himself again on this clear, sunny morning. There was a strong urge to ride straight to Fort Smith, bypass Black Horse Creek, and leave the chaos that was now settled upon the town to the citizens. He was sure there was no one to challenge Jacob Blanchard’s authority, so consequently, life in the little community would continue on as it had—with Blanchard ruling supreme. A firm believer in “an eye for an eye” justice, he knew in his heart that Blanchard should be stopped. It just wasn’t his responsibility. The people of Black Horse Creek would have to capture their town if they thought it worth salvaging. It was much easier not to get involved. Besides, he admitted to having a hankering to return to his room in Wanda Meadows’s boardinghouse. Curiosity got the best of him, however, and he decided to swing by Jacob’s ranch, just for the sake of looking it over. He had little doubt that Blanchard would be looking for him to avenge his son, so he decided it might be in his best interest to see what his adversary was up to.

Returning to the same ridge from which he had scouted the Blanchard house on two previous occasions, he left his horses in the ravine while he climbed to the top of the ridge with his field glasses. It was close to noon when he arrived and all was quiet around the house and barn. There appeared to be no one working near the corral or the smokehouse. If Blanchard was there, he was inside. While he lay there watching, the woman came out the back door and banged on an iron triangle with a piece of iron rod hanging there. Dinner time, Grayson thought and watched to see how many answered the call. He looked toward the bunkhouse, expecting to see someone turn out. No one did. One hand came out of the barn, a boy, and hurried up to the house where the woman exchanged a few words with him before they both went inside the kitchen. There’s nobody here! The thought occurred to him. He’s left no one here but the woman and a young boy while he’s taken the rest of his men and probably gone looking for me. He started to head for town, himself, then decided it would be his best opportunity to know for sure exactly how many guns he was likely to face if he went after Blanchard.

*   *   *

Rachel paused, the coffeepot in her hand, having just refilled Jimmy Hicks’s cup. “Somebody’s coming,” she said. Jimmy, seated at the table, paused also, but only for a moment when Rachel put the coffeepot back on the stove and went to the door to see who it was. “Stranger,” she announced. “I never see him before.”

Curious, Jimmy got up from the table and joined her by the door. “Me neither,” he said. Assuming it was someone who had come to see Blanchard, he stepped outside to greet their visitor. “Howdy,” he greeted the rider. “If you’re lookin’ for Mr. Blanchard, he ain’t here right now.”

“Is that so?” Grayson returned. “Well, I’m sorry I missed him.” He stepped down, and seeing Rachel standing in the door, nodded. “Ma’am.” She made no response. Grayson continued. “Yep, I’m sorry he ain’t here. I heard he might be lookin’ for some extra hands, so I thought I’d come talk to him about a job.”

“You ain’t from around here,” Jimmy stated.

“That’s a fact,” Grayson said. “I just rode up from Texas.” He looked toward the barn and the bunkhouse, then asked, “Is there anybody else around I could talk to? A foreman or somebody?”

“No, sir,” Jimmy replied. “There ain’t nobody here right now but me and Rachel. But I reckon you heard right, Mr. Blanchard will most likely be lookin’ for some more men.”

“You expect Mr. Blanchard back anytime soon?”

“Not likely,” Jimmy answered, “maybe later tonight. He rode into town.”

“Much obliged,” Grayson said. He had the confirmation he had sought. Blanchard’s crew was reduced to himself and possibly some other men who may be with him, plus this young boy. And Jimmy didn’t impress him as a real gun hand, although he didn’t discount the possibility altogether. After all, Billy Blanchard wasn’t much older than this boy when he established himself as a hardened killer. He turned and prepared to step up in the saddle.

Rachel had remained in the doorway, silently listening to the conversation between Jimmy and the stranger. Studying the man intently as he questioned Jimmy, she now spoke. “We’re eating dinner. We have plenty of food if you’re hungry.”

Surprised, for he hadn’t even thought of that possibility, Grayson hesitated a moment to think the invitation over. It didn’t seem like the right thing to do since he had come with the intent of possibly shooting her boss. Why not? he thought. No sense in letting good food go to waste—might be a good cook. It also occurred to him that if she wasn’t, it might be one of the reasons the Blanchard clan was so damn mean. “Why, that’s mighty nice of you, ma’am. I guess I could take dinner with you. It’s been a while since I’ve sat down to a lady’s cookin’.”

“Want me to pull the saddle off your horse?” Jimmy asked.

“No, thanks just the same,” Grayson replied. “I won’t be here that long. Soon as I eat, I reckon I’ll be on my way—see if I can catch up with Mr. Blanchard in town.”

It seemed more than a little strange, sitting down to a meal, just the three of them in the middle of a huge working ranch. It was a lot of responsibility to leave on the shoulders of the young boy. As far as the quality of Rachel’s cooking was concerned, he had to admit that it was some of the best he’d had, even compared to Wanda Meadows’s. It was a cordial dinner with Grayson able to fabricate enough stories to answer Jimmy’s many questions about raising cattle in Texas. By the time the meal was finished, he had come to the opinion that the woman and the boy were involved only in working the ranch and had nothing to do with Blanchard’s darker business. With sincere thanks to the Creek woman for her hospitality, he bade them farewell, and stepped up on the gray gelding.

“Maybe we’ll see you again, soon,” Jimmy called out after him.

“Maybe so,” Grayson replied.

Rachel had said very little during the entire meal, as was her custom, but she listened carefully to all that was said. Most of it was idle conversation about the weather, the season, and trail drives up from Texas. She was an intelligent woman and able to think for herself. She watched the stranger ride off toward the gate by the path and thought to herself, Grayson. She decided it best not to share the thought with Jimmy.

*   *   *

A meeting had been called of the small group of citizens who were secretly seeking to free the merchants from the costly yoke of Jacob Blanchard. The recent killings and the burning of the town’s jail had been signal enough that their little town was on the verge of destroying itself. There was still no word from Henry Farmer’s son, Bob, and no contact from anyone in Governor Anthony’s office. “I’m bettin’ that boy’s dead—lyin’ in some gully between here and Topeka,” Shep Barnhill said. “Jacob Blanchard wasn’t about to let somebody go up there and tell those people what’s goin’ on in Black Horse Creek.” His comment triggered a wave of grumbled responses.

“If that’s so,” Earl Dickens asked, “who told him Bob was on his way to see the governor?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was most likely Roy Brown,” Shep commented. The bartender next door at the saloon was an easy suspect since he worked directly for Jacob Blanchard, who owned the Black Horse Saloon. Looking around the room at those gathered, it was difficult to believe any of the others would have told Blanchard.

“Well, then,” Dickens countered, “who told Roy?”

“I doubt anybody did,” Louis Reiner said. “There ain’t any use to jump to hasty conclusions. We don’t know for sure that Bob Farmer didn’t get to Topeka. Maybe he got to see the governor and maybe not. We haven’t heard from him one way or the other—and that’s all we really know for sure. So we might as well decide what we’re gonna do without government help. There ain’t gonna be a better time for us to take over this town than right now,” he suggested. “Slate Blanchard’s dead and Troy hasn’t been seen since the funeral. We don’t have a sheriff or deputy. We don’t have a mayor or city council. We’re just a bunch of dumb merchants who got hoodwinked into paying Jacob Blanchard taxes for trying to run a business on land that doesn’t really belong to him.”

“Hold on!” Morgan Bowers called out from his position by the window. “Quiet down! Here comes Burt McNally. He looks like he’s coming here.”

“It’s all right,” Reiner said. “He is coming here. Burt’s in this with us. I’ll vouch for him.”

“Are you sure he ain’t comin’ here just to take names?” Shep asked. “Every time Slate and Troy ain’t around, Burt’s the actin’ sheriff.” He looked around him, looking for support for his suspicions. “There’s liable to be hell to pay if ol’ Blanchard finds out what we’ve been talkin’ about. He ain’t in too good a mood as it is, ever since Slate got killed.”

“I’m sure he’s all right,” Reiner insisted. “He doesn’t like Blanchard any better than the rest of us. He and I have had several talks about what we could do to run our own town.”

“You coulda fooled me,” Bowers said. “I was working right beside him when we were trying to put out the fire in the sheriff’s office. He never said a word about it, even when Blanchard made him jump in that burning building to drag Slate out.”

“I expect he wasn’t sure he could trust you,” Reiner replied.

Further discussion on the matter was halted when Burt stepped up on the walk and opened the door. He paused momentarily to look around at his neighbors, nodding to each in turn. “I think you might wanna know that Mr. Blanchard just rode into town. Stump Haskell and Dan Slider are with him, but not Troy. They’re over at the barbershop talkin’ to Percy about Slate’s body, I reckon.”

“Well, I guess that’s the reason Percy didn’t show up,” Reiner said. “He said he was going to be here.”

“Oh, hell,” Morgan Bowers swore. “I hope Percy ain’t in any trouble. Blanchard told him to take Slate’s body to my hotel and lay him out in one of my best rooms. Percy told me he couldn’t work on Slate there, so he moved him to his place. Blanchard might not like that.”

“Maybe he’ll understand that Percy’s got all his tools and stuff back of the barbershop,” Reiner said.

“Huh!” Shep blurted. “When have you ever seen Blanchard understandin’ anything that’s against his orders?” The question was barely out of his mouth when it was punctuated by the sound of a gunshot in the direction of the barbershop. The room was immediately immersed in silence as everyone froze in place for a long moment, listening.

“That don’t sound good,” Earl Dickens blurted.

“We mighta just lost us a barber,” Shep said.

“Maybe it’d be a good idea if we broke this meeting up,” Louis Reiner suggested. “It wouldn’t be too good if Blanchard came down here and found all of us together—might make him suspicious.” Everyone agreed. “Best get back to your establishments,” Reiner went on. “File outta here one or two at a time. Some of you can slip out the back. Now is not a good time to get him to thinking we’re up to something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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