by Will DuRey
‘Yes, you and I, but not him.’ He pointed a stubby finger at his youngest son. ‘He was asleep somewhere on the hillside or perhaps watching from a safe distance.’
This accusation riled Frank but not because of its inaccuracy. He hadn’t been asleep or watching the flames leaping into the sky, but the truth wouldn’t elevate him in his father’s esteem. He couldn’t tell him that he’d deserted the herd to spend the dark hours at the home of a woman whose husband was out of town. Ben Hoag would regard both of those actions as a betrayal of the principles he’d sought to instil in his son. If he ever learned the reason for Frank’s absence, he would never forgive him.
‘I saw someone hanging around the herd,’ he said, hoping the lie would deflate his father’s anger.
‘Rustlers?’ asked Tom.
‘That’s what I suspected,’ Frank answered, but thinking fast, added, ‘but I only saw one rider which was why I followed him.’
‘Did you recognize him?’ asked Tom.
Frank shook his head.
‘Did you catch him?’
‘No. He headed south, through the bluffs. I trailed him almost to the Dearborn.’
‘Difficult following a man at night through that territory.’
Frank agreed, but having begun the lie, found himself embellishing it to justify an absence from the ranch sufficient to cover the fire that had destroyed the stables and taken his sister’s life. ‘I lost him a couple of times, but I caught a glimpse of his horse’s white tail which kept me on his trail.’
‘White tail!’ The words were spoken by Ben Hoag. The brothers turned their attention to their father whose face bore a look of savagery.
Instantly, Frank knew that he was no longer the object of his father’s anger, yet he was gripped with the certainty that the lie which had been uttered to avoid trouble had, in fact, intensified the possibility.
‘Only one white horse around here,’ snarled Ben. ‘That colt belonging to Walt Risby,’ he added unnecessarily.
Hurriedly, Frank tried to divert his father’s train of thought. ‘It might not have been a white horse,’ he said. ‘All I saw was its rear, its tail.’
Dismissive of his son’s interruption, Ben Hoag spoke again, expanding on his belief that the night-rider had been Walt Risby. ‘He wasn’t here to rustle our cattle, he came to wreak revenge for being humiliated when we met in Stanton. He put a flame to our stable.’
Brushing aside the initial protestations of his sons, he expounded on the charge with an attack on Walt Risby’s character.
Both Tom and Frank opposed their father’s accusation. ‘I didn’t get close enough to identify the rider,’ said Frank. ‘Besides, he was heading south towards the Dearborn. That’s the wrong direction for either Stanton or his home.’
‘Who else has a grudge against this family?’ demanded Ben. ‘And all the district has been waiting for him to commit a criminal act. He’s been close to it several times.’
Tom interceded, attempting to curb his father’s unjustified allegations. ‘Walt’s a little wild, Pa, but he hasn’t done anything to cause Marshal Tasker to lock him up.’
Doc Brewster had finished tending to Mary’s body. He’d draped it in a blanket and now awaited the assistance of someone in the family to move it onto the bed in her room. At present, however, its silent presence dominated the room and Ben looked down on the horrifically scarred face of the daughter he’d loved. He wasn’t in a mood to be pacified by his eldest son or anyone else. ‘He’s done something now,’ he said. ‘He’s killed your sister and I’ll see him hang for it.’
Dawn’s strengthening light illuminated Stanton’s long Main Street as Doc Brewster reached town. His return had been undertaken at a less perilous pace than that which had taken him out to the Hoag ranch, but even so, his arms ached from the pull on the reins and his eyes were heavy with sleep. When he’d first settled in this part of Montana he’d easily shrugged off the effects of an all-night vigil while attending to the needs of a patient. Then, he’d accepted it as an essential part of his calling; now, as the years advanced, it induced a disconcerting weariness, invoking an acknowledgement that even this man of medicine was mortal and subject to the limitations wrought by a lifetime full of care and concern for those in need of his expertise. Like his old horse, he was keen to reach familiar surroundings. He knew that when she heard him unharnessing Singer in the small stable behind their house, his wife would begin to brew up a fresh pot of coffee to welcome him home. It was her usual practice and, in normal circumstances, one which he welcomed. This morning, however, he knew it would have scant effect in filling the emptiness that had gripped him during the previous hours. Despite the many years he’d spent treating sickness, injuries and fatalities, he was still saddened by Mary Hoag’s dreadful death. He’d watched the pleasant and popular young woman grow from childhood, and knew her undeserving of the torment she’d undoubtedly endured during her final minutes of life. Yet it wasn’t the horrific manner of her death that troubled him most; her father’s words of vengeance had echoed in his mind again and again during the drive back to Stanton. Everyone in the vicinity was aware that Ben Hoag had doted on his daughter, and in Doc Brewster’s opinion it was natural for him to be staggered by her loss, but his grief had affected his reason and with unswerving certitude, had attached the blame for Mary’s death onto Walt Risby. Before he could put his feet up and partake of Alice’s kitchen fare, Abe Brewster felt it his duty to report the matter to the marshal.
At this early hour, Abe wasn’t sure where he would find Silas Tasker. Sometimes the lawman slept in the Stanton Hotel bedroom provided by the town as part of his salary, and some nights he bedded down on one of the bunks in the cells behind his office. He hoped it didn’t become necessary to look further afield because that would involve a visit to Lily Cregar’s place and she objected vocally and often violently to any disruption to the morning peace she enjoyed with her girls after a busy night in the various saloons around town. To the doctor’s surprise, he found the marshal leaning against a post outside his office.
For weeks now, a growing restlessness had dragged the marshal early from his bed. In the first light of day he had taken to surveying the quiet main street, remembering its frontier raucousness when he’d arrived, and pondering his future now that the town was a haven of civilization. Five years earlier he’d been one of the county deputies supporting Sheriff Brown who’d been summoned to quell a possible range war. Accusations of water poisoning, stream diversions, and stock stampedes in order to grab land from his neighbours had been levelled at Mort Risby. When their opposition developed into a series of violent confrontations, the diplomatic Sheriff Brown arrived to investigate and adjudicate. The matter was resolved without arrests or punishments but, at the conclusion of the affair, the people of Stanton were reluctant to see their town totally abandoned by professional lawmen. Silas had accepted the post of town marshal and been the guardian of its laws ever since.
Although his authority didn’t officially spread beyond the town’s limits, his presence in Stanton had a calming effect on the surrounding territory. This was due in no small part to the fact that Stanton’s reputation as a wild and open town was gradually repressed, allowing the more refined pursuits proposed by the town council, to flourish. Silas Tasker’s role in the civic advancement of Stanton was acknowledged.
The town’s advancement, however, was not matched by his own prosperity. He was in his fortieth year and the prospect of achieving anything more than the pittance of a marshal’s salary became more remote every day. Even finding a wife had escaped him, those women who weren’t already married were rarely of a suitable age. There was nothing to keep him in this town. It was time to move on before he lost that urge in life to discover the grass on the far side of the hill.
‘You’re up and about early, Doc,’ he said as the buggy was halted outside his office.
‘Got called out during the night,’ replied the medical man. ‘A fire at the Hoag pl
ace.’
‘Somebody hurt?’
Abe related the details of Mary Hoag’s death to the lawman. It was the marshal’s duty to maintain the official record of such events in the district, but he heard the doctor’s story with grimmer attention than he might have done for a different victim. Silas was almost twice Mary Hoag’s age, but his eyes had long alighted on her with favour. It was his own nomadic history that had prevented him from making any attempt to form a special attachment with Mary. Although he’d lived in Stanton for four years, he wasn’t yet certain that he wouldn’t awaken one morning, saddle-up and leave this town far behind. He hadn’t been in one place so long since enlisting in the army in ’63. It was through a haze of disbelief that he heard Abe Brewster impart his concern about Ben Hoag’s intentions.
‘Young Frank didn’t identify Walt Risby,’ said the doctor, ‘but Ben’s got it fixed in his mind that there isn’t another white-tailed horse around here. It’s fixed in his mind that Walt started the fire as some kind of retribution for their earlier confrontation.’
Silas was ignorant of the event to which Abe Brewster referred and it was necessary for the doctor to elucidate. The marshal found it difficult to believe that Walt Risby would react in such a manner.
‘Walt’s a bit of a wild one but not in a malicious way.’
‘That’s what Tom told his father, but Ben is adamant. He won’t listen to any plea of mitigation. He believes Walt Risby set fire to his property and as a result, his daughter is dead. He wants revenge, Silas, and I think he’d prefer to dish out his own punishment.’
‘Thanks for the warning, Doc. I’ll try to de-fuse the situation. I’ll ride out to the Risby place and give Walt the opportunity to supply an alibi.’
CHAPTER THREE
A crew of four were working cattle on the open range west of Stanton. Two of the cowboys were cutting out steers and hauling them towards a small fire where the others were waiting to hog-tie them then burn the mark of the Triple-R into the hide above their right hind-leg. Sitting a little apart from them, their boss, Mort Risby, watched contentedly, aware that his stock was in capable hands. Using a large, red handkerchief, he wiped the inside of his hat, drying off the moisture that had accumulated during the morning. It was while he was replacing his headgear that he became aware of the approaching rider. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes against the sun’s glare in an effort to identify the newcomer.
Silas Tasker had slowed his horse to walking pace when he came alongside the cattle and was progressing towards Mort Risby as gently as a herder on a stormy night who feared the risk of stampeding the herd. But the animals weren’t the marshal’s concern. He’d already recognized the burly figure of the Triple-R ranch owner but needed to scrutinize the other faces. Failing to find the man he was seeking, he drew to a halt alongside Mort.
Mort Risby greeted him affably. ‘Morning, Silas. Not often we see you outside town limits.’
Silas Tasker removed his hat and wiped his sleeved forearm across his brow. ‘I’m looking for your boy,’ he said. ‘Need to talk with him.’
The rancher appraised the lawman with a steely gaze. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here, to hear Walt’s story.’
‘Concerning what?’
‘Boy’s old enough to talk for himself,’ Silas said. ‘Reckon I’ll keep my questions for him.’
Mort stiffened his spine, raising him an inch or two in the saddle. ‘If you’re fixing to accuse him of something, you’d better tell me about it.’
‘Didn’t say I was. I just want to know if he was hanging around the Hoag place last night.’
‘What reason would he have for doing that?’
‘That’s what I mean to ask.’
‘Well, he wasn’t.’
‘You seem pretty sure about that, Mort.’
‘I am. He’s in Miles City conducting business on my behalf with the Cattlemen’s Association.’
Silas received the news with a great deal of relief. During the ride from town, the suggestion that Walt Risby had deliberately started a fire on Ben Hoag’s property, had tumbled over and over in his mind. Overall, he’d doubted that the young man was responsible; Walt was full of youthful devilment but that fell far short of the callous nature required to put at risk another man’s property and stock. Besides, Ben Hoag wasn’t the first father to put a flea in Walt’s ear about his relationship with their daughters and he’d merely laughed off those incidents without either offending the father or diminishing his attentions to the daughter. Fun filled his life and he spread it around Stanton at every opportunity.
Still, it wasn’t Silas’s personal opinion that had brought him this far from town, he was the marshal and it was his duty to investigate crimes and uphold the law. It was fixed in Ben Hoag’s mind that Walt Risby was guilty of the deed and, according to Doctor Brewster, was seeking revenge for Mary’s death. Silas was prepared to attribute Ben’s rants to grief, but he couldn’t let them develop into action. Presenting the bereaved rancher with evidence of Walt’s innocence would put an end to the threats.
‘When did he go?’ asked Silas.
Unexpectedly, Mort Risby bristled at the question. ‘You doubting my word?’
‘No. I’m asking questions to establish facts. I need information to appease Ben Hoag.’
‘What’s it got to do with Ben? Why should my boy’s whereabouts be of interest to him?’
Silas pushed his hat back and dragged his forearm once more across his brow. The action wasn’t primarily to dry the sweat from his brow, more to give him a moment to think, to decide how much of the situation he should impart to the other man.
‘Speak up,’ Mort insisted. ‘Whatever has happened had nothing to do with Walt. These men,’ he indicated the two at the fire who had been paying interest to the conversation since the marshal’s arrival, ‘will confirm that Walt left the ranch shortly after noon yesterday.’
Silas acknowledged the nods of agreement that Luke Bywater and Chuck Grainger aimed in his direction. ‘A stable caught fire over at the Hoag place last night,’ he said. ‘Young Frank spotted a rider on a white horse close to their ranch.’
‘And you thought it was Walt!’
‘I didn’t say that, but I do need to know where he was when the fire began.’
‘Are you saying it was a deliberate act?’
‘That hasn’t been established.’
‘But that is what Ben thinks.’
‘Seems that him and Walt argued yesterday morning in Stanton.’
It was clear from the stoic expression on Mort’s face that he was unaware of an angry exchange between the two men. He turned his eyes on Luke Bywater.
‘Didn’t amount to anything, Mr Risby. Walt was talking to Mary, teasing her, as he does. Mr Hoag thought he’d overstepped the mark. Warned him to stay away from his daughter in future. Don’t think either Walt or Mary Hoag took it seriously.’
Mort muttered. ‘Girls! They’ll be the death of him.’ More loudly, he addressed his next words at the marshal. ‘He didn’t show any sign of annoyance before leaving for Miles City. I doubt if he gave it a moment of consideration.’
‘I’ll speak to Ben Hoag, tell him that Walt’s out of the area. That should appease him, but it’ll probably be best to tell Walt to keep clear of him for a few days when he returns home.’
‘My boy’ll do or go where he pleases. Ben Hoag has no business accusing him of anything. Walt wouldn’t start a fire on another man’s land and certainly wouldn’t endanger the animals. If he continues spreading those false stories, then you can tell Ben Hoag that I’ll be the one he’ll be having an argument with.’ He paused a moment then spoke again, his anger unhidden. ‘I guess I’ll ride over there now and tell him myself.’
‘No!’ the marshal’s sudden shouted exclamation not only surprised Mort Risby, but caused Luke and Chuck to straighten from their work as though their intervention might be necessary to protect their b
oss. ‘No,’ Silas repeated in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Don’t go over there today. Abe Brewster said they don’t want any visitors today.’
‘The doctor! Was someone hurt fighting the fire?’
Silas nodded. ‘A spark settled on Mary’s clothing. By the time Abe got to the ranch it was too late to help her. They’re burying her next to her mother later today.’
The lines of anger that had begun to deepen on Mort’s face, now fled as first disbelief, then sympathy chased them away. His opinion of Mary Hoag was no different to that of most people around Stanton; he’d always considered her to be one of the most likeable people in the neighbourhood. In contemplative silence, he watched as Silas turned his horse and headed back to town.
Earlier that morning, Buck Downs and Chet Taylor had offered to dig Mary’s grave, but it was a task that the Hoag brothers wouldn’t relinquish. Tom and Frank had dug their first grave seven years earlier, laying their mother to rest in the grove that stood three hundred yards north of the ranch-house. They were adamant that their sister was deserving of equal consideration. Over the years, the land had settled, leaving no tell-tale mound to indicate the exact location of the earlier site but the timber board that bore her name and the extent of her days, still stood firm in the ground thereby providing adequate guidance for their excavation. Mary would lie side-by-side with her mother.
In silence, the three men of the Hoag family carried Mary’s canvas-wrapped body to the grove and put her carefully into the prepared hole, their gentleness reflecting the care and tenderness she’d bestowed on them since the death of her mother. Before they began to shovel the soil back into the grave, Tom and Frank paused in anticipation of some words from their father, but he could recall only a few sentences he’d heard spoken at other burials he’d attended and swiftly motioned for them to complete the job. He spoke when they set aside the shovels, uttering an oath he deemed binding on his sons but which he wanted no one else to hear.
