The rain began to taper off as he walked around behind the jail where his horses were tied. Stepping up in the saddle, he rode out from behind the buildings toward the lower end of town and the road to Blanchard’s ranch. As he rode past the stable, he nodded in acknowledgement of Burt McNally’s wave. The young man had come out of the tack room when he thought he heard gunshots a few minutes earlier.
* * *
Billy’s death had hit Jacob Blanchard hard. He had love for his other two sons, but Billy had been the one most like him. He had the fire and the “don’t give a damn” that Jacob admired—and a proper streak of meanness that ensured against anybody running over him. And now Billy was gone. Slate and Troy killed the man who took Billy’s life, but there was still no feeling of vengeance satisfied. It wouldn’t bring Billy back.
He stayed beside the grave for a long time after everyone else had left, reluctant to leave it, seeming to forget that it was an empty grave. Then he thought of Troy thinking he had seen a ghost and running like a frightened deer, and the image disgusted him. It prompted him to end his mourning, get on his horse, and start for town with the intention of talking to Slate. He wanted to know who the stranger was who was seen looking down upon Billy’s funeral. His concern was that his sons had not been as careful as they had claimed, and the man on the hill might in fact be a U.S. marshal. It would also be a good time to talk to Slate about taking a bigger role in controlling the town. His eldest son had been too content with being the sheriff and wasting his time with that Mexican woman. It was time he stepped up to help his father build the empire he envisioned. He was going to have to take the role Jacob had planned for Billy.
* * *
It was only a half a mile to town from the cemetery, so Jacob noticed the smoke almost as soon as he turned his horse toward town. Just a thin brown wisp at first, it began to take on more body as he neared the settlement and the rain began to let up. He could not tell what the source might be until he rode onto the end of the deserted main street and realized it was the sheriff’s office. He kicked his horse hard and galloped the rest of the way to find Burt McNally, Roy Brown, the bartender, and Morgan Bowers, who managed the hotel, working feverishly to throw water on the blazing building. He could see that their efforts were useless. All they had to fight the fire with were buckets, and they had to run almost fifty yards to the horse trough at the stable to fill them. There was no one else to help. Those three businesses were the only ones open on a Sunday afternoon: the saloon, the hotel, and the stable.
“Where’s Slate?” Jacob shouted as he rode up and pulled his horse to a skidding stop.
“Don’t know, Mr. Blanchard,” Burt answered. “I ain’t seen him since he brought the buggy back to the stable.”
He started to run to fill his empty bucket, but Jacob grabbed him by the elbow, almost pulling him to the ground. “Did you look inside?” Jacob demanded.
“No, sir,” Burt replied. “It was gettin’ too hot to go in there, but I figured Sheriff Blanchard woulda come outta there when it caught on fire. He might be visitin’ Maria Sanchez down at the hotel.” He looked a little sheepish when he said it, thinking that he might be telling something on Slate that Slate didn’t care to have known.
Jacob shot a sharp glance at Morgan Bowers, but Morgan shook his head. “I didn’t see him at the hotel,” he said.
“You damn fool,” Jacob cursed Burt. “Slate might still be in there. Get your ass in there and make sure my son ain’t in there sick, or asleep, or somethin’.” He turned to Morgan and Roy and said, “You might as well quit runnin’ up and down the street like a couple of idiots. That fire’s too far along to put out with those buckets.” He spun around to give Burt a kick in the seat of his pants. “Get in there and make sure Slate’s gone.”
“Yes, sir,” Burt dutifully replied, although he didn’t like the prospects of setting himself on fire. He walked cautiously back and forth, looking for a possible hole into the burning structure.
When Burt had hesitated past Jacob’s patience, the angry old man drew his .44 revolver and threatened him. “If you don’t get in there right now, I’m gonna shoot you right here in the street.”
With no choice, the reluctant hero dived headfirst through a small hole in the front wall. Unable to see more than a foot or two before him, he began to immediately choke on the heavy smoke. He would not have seen Slate had he not stumbled over his body. As soon as he realized what he had tripped on, he yelled out, “I found him!” and he started dragging the body back the way he had come. Slate was a sizable man, and his corpse was a heavy burden, but Burt had incentive enough to drag him out of the fiery trap, knowing he had only moments left, himself.
As soon as Burt emerged from the smoky jail, the others hurried to help. “Slate!” Jacob cried out in anguish. “Slate, boy, answer me!” He shucked off his coat and tried to smother the flames burning his son’s clothes. Of no concern to Jacob, Morgan and Roy were frantically rolling Burt in the muddy street to extinguish the flames eating his clothes. Suddenly Jacob roared out in frustrated anger, and they turned to see him holding Slate’s head up off the ground. There was a dark, round hole in the center of his forehead. Not knowing what to do, they froze when Jacob threw his head back and howled out his pain. It lasted for what seemed a long time before the old man finally laid Slate’s head back on the ground. He turned to stare at them, not really seeing them, and he growled, “Grayson.” He knew in his heart that it could be no other.
He then seemed to become calm, enough so that the other three men gathered around him to see if they could help in any way.
“Looks like he was gut shot, too,” Burt said, pointing to the bloody shirt. He immediately regretted pointing it out when Jacob turned to fix him with eyes that seemed to accuse.
“Grayson,” Jacob repeated. “I want him. I’ll pay the man who brings him to me five hundred dollars, but I want him alive. He’s gonna take a long time to die.” He then spoke directly to Morgan. “I’ve got to go find Troy. That damn bounty hunter is bound to be lookin’ for him now. You and Burt take Slate to the hotel and put him in a room. Then you go get the barber and tell him to get down there and fix Slate’s body for buryin’. You tell him if he doesn’t get down there right away, he’s gonna need a coffin for himself.” There was no discussion on the matter; all three of the men knew the consequences for not following Jacob Blanchard’s orders. Burt ran to the stable to get a buckboard to carry Slate’s body to the hotel. “Take care of my boy,” Jacob ordered as he stepped up in the saddle. “I’ll be back as soon as I find Troy.” He wheeled his horse and reminded them, “Five hundred dollars for Grayson alive!” Then he was off, thundering down the muddy street, leaving the three frightened men to do his bidding.
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 pa
tient.
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.
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