by Will DuRey
Suddenly, the calls of his hunters sounded too close to remain on the open road. He directed his horse among the trees of the slope that led back down to the grassland. That was the swiftest route back to Diamond-H land but there were miles of open terrain to cross before he reached it. His horse had travelled far since leaving the ranch that morning which made him unsure of its stamina if he had to outrun the work horses of the men behind him. He chose to avoid the game trail he’d used on his way up the hillside, hoping it would make his route more difficult to follow. It was still necessary to negotiate the close-growing trees but he tried to maintain a diagonal line of descent which would prolong his time among them. It was a gamble, a hope that he would be able to increase the gap between himself and his pursuers before he reached the grassland. Once there, he would need every advantage he could muster to reach his home without falling into their hands.
Disaster struck long before he reached the bottom of the hillside.
A leaf-covered root foxed the horse and it fell heavily, slithering down the soft slope, leaving Tom some distance behind. It shrieked with fright but although it collided with more than one tree in its path it escaped without any serious injury. When, eventually, it gained its feet, it continued apace downhill without a moment’s thought for its dislodged rider.
Tom wasn’t sure how he’d escaped injury but he’d managed to get his left leg out of the stirrup and across the horse’s back before it became crushed under the animal. He knew the animal’s cry would have pinpointed his location for the Triple-R men and even though they had not yet reached this part of the descent, the sound would spur their determination to capture him. When he saw his horse hurrying downhill without him he made no effort to catch it. Instead, he made use of some high-growing ferns at the base of an elm, lying flat among them, hoping the riders would be too intent upon their pursuit to notice him.
The ruse worked. Tom watched as one by one all four of his hunters passed the place where he lay. When they were out of sight he began the short climb back to the road. He had no alternative but to try to reach Stanton without being overtaken by the men from the Triple-R. He would talk with Silas Tasker; perhaps the marshal would be able to explain the action of Mort Risby’s men.
A gunshot rang out from below and Tom guessed that one of the Triple-R men was shooting at shadows, but it caused him to quicken his pace. Distant voices drifted up to him and he wondered if they’d found the riderless horse. He hurried on and stumbled onto the road just as a two-horse buckboard hove into view. From behind came sounds of the Triple-R men riding back up the hillside. He hurried forward towards the buckboard which was already pulling to a halt. As he closed in on it the only thought in his head was that it might provide sanctuary, but in an instant, it was wiped from his mind. He recognized the driver and involving Clara Buxton in his troubles was the last thing he wanted to do.
‘Who was shooting?’ Clara asked.
Tom threw a glance behind, he knew it wouldn’t be long before the Triple-R men, too, were on the road. ‘They mean to kill me,’ he told her because nothing else was relevant.
‘Who?’ she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Hide,’ she told him.
Tom aimed for the foliage at the other side of the road, but Clara, sitting high on the wagon box, could see the horsemen as they reached the far edge of the lower slope. ‘Quickly,’ she told him.
Bending low, Tom used the horses and wagon to hide him from sight. At the last moment, instead of taking refuge among the surrounding trees and flora, Tom slipped under the wagon. Grabbing the struts that held the axle bar of the rear wheel he hauled himself off the ground and rested his feet on the front axle bar. Silently he hung there, his arms beginning to ache before the horsemen reached the wagon.
It was Clara who spoke first, enquiring again about the shots she’d heard.
He recognized the voice of the second speaker. Chuck Grainger didn’t answer Clara’s question but asked one of his own.
‘Have you seen anybody along the road?’
‘No. There was some movement back there. Higher up the hillside. I think it was just a deer.’
Tom could see the feet of the horses, knew the men had stopped abreast of the wagon.
‘You’d best get home, Miss Buxton,’ another voice advised. ‘Get home and stay there for a few days.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s going to be trouble. Big trouble.’
‘What’s happened, Benny?’
‘Walt Risby’s been killed. The Hoags lynched him.’
CHAPTER NINE
Clara Buxton was motionless as the men rode away in search of their fugitive, resuming their hunt in the false location she’d indicated. Slowly they climbed the slope, wending their way between trees until they were lost from sight. Clara was transfixed by the news imparted by Benny Gates, wondering how the friendliness she was accustomed to could have descended so quickly into turmoil. Two days ago, she’d had a best friend who’d shared her hopes and her pleasures but since Mary’s death nothing had been the same. Misery and trouble had replaced the smiles and happy greetings that had been the normal characteristics of the local people.
It had begun with the hurried, almost indecent funeral that had taken place at the Diamond-H. Ben Hoag’s heartache at the loss of his daughter was understandable, as was his desire to have her buried alongside her mother, but, in Clara’s opinion, Mary had deserved greater respect than to be put in the ground without a gathering of friends to say their last goodbyes. Not even a coffin had been constructed for her, buried in canvas like a pioneer crossing the plains. That might have been acceptable for her mother seven years earlier when there were barely enough properties to call the settlement a town, but now there were civic buildings denoting the progress of the living and a consecrated cemetery for the dead.
Yet despite her overall dissatisfaction with the funeral and the brusque treatment that she and Mrs Brewster had received from Ben Hoag, it was the hostile reception afforded to Mort Risby that remained the most unpleasant memory of that day. Each time she recalled that confrontation she was chilled by its attendant threat of violence. She remembered the glances of murderous anger that had flashed between the two men and the correspondingly uneasy stances that had been adopted by those at their backs. That atmosphere of impending fury had hung around the Hoags’ yard even after the departure of the men from the Triple-R and, she had learned during her recent visit to Stanton, become manifest with the killing of Buck Downs.
The gunfight in the River Bend had been the prime topic of conversation in the general store where Clara had been delivering fruit and eggs. Her family had begun supplying such produce during Gus Hubber’s ownership and had continued to do so with the arrival of the Danvers. Although Clara had not joined Cora Hope’s gossip circle in the front part of the premises, their raised exclamations of outrage still reached her as she stacked the baskets she had brought behind the rear counter. It was Joe Danvers who filled in the details for her as they worked.
She was chilled by the knowledge that the fight had involved men from the Triple-R and Diamond-H ranches but surprised by the reaction of Joe Danvers. If she entertained thoughts that the shooting of Buck Downs was a precursor to more violence, the store-owner seemed inclined to regard the incident as one typical of an isolated range town. Indeed, Clara had the impression that he was enjoying some reflected glory in his own part of the fist fight that had followed the gunplay.
Clara estimated Joe’s age in the late-thirties and had always considered him to be a timid man; polite, helpful, smart in appearance and intelligent, but timid. He was talkative, seemingly interested in the well-being of every customer and their family, a useful talent, Clara supposed, for someone who dealt with the public every day. His wife, four or five years younger, was more reserved. Not unwilling to be sociable but reluctant to listen to or repeat tittle-tattle. Joe was dominant in the store, but Clara suspected that the more thoughtful Beth Danvers was the promi
nent partner in their marriage.
That opinion, however, was dented as the last of the fruit was unloaded from the buckboard and brought indoors. The attention of one of the gossips had been attracted to some event further down the street. People were congregating outside the marshal’s office.
‘It looks like Doctor Brewster’s buggy,’ the woman declared. The prospect of fresh information over which they could gossip was strong enough to lure them from the store and go hurrying down the street.
‘I wonder what’s happened,’ Joe said, rubbing his hands on his apron and making his way towards the door.
‘Don’t go,’ Beth said.
‘I’ll only be a few minutes,’ he told her. ‘It looks like something important.’
‘Please, Joe,’ she implored.
Joe Danvers looked around the store. Apart from Clara, only one other customer remained in the shop. ‘Everyone will want to know what’s happening down the street,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be back before we fill up with customers again.’ Then he was gone, hurrying past the window, eager to know the cause of the growing throng.
Clara had gathered up some empty baskets and taken them out to the wagon for the trip home, but there were purchases to make so she re-entered the store through the alley door she’d been using to unload her goods. In the middle of store, Jack Temple, the barber who had been the remaining customer when Joe Danvers had quit the building, was standing close to Beth, creating a tableau that perturbed Clara. Jack Temple loomed over the storekeeper’s wife, his dark features heavy with menace, his lips stretched in a lupine-like grimace. Beth Danvers, head bowed, seemed to be in the process of drawing away from him but was somehow prevented from doing so.
Abruptly, Clara stopped, taking in the scene before her. Jack Temple raised his eyes so that his gaze met Clara’s over Beth’s shoulder. He muttered something which Clara was unable to hear but which drew the colour from the other young woman’s face, then turned on his heel and left the store.
When Beth turned to face Clara, an unconvincing smile touched her face. She stepped around her to go behind a counter.
‘Beth!’ Clara’s utterance was both an enquiry in connection with the other’s welfare and an opportunity for her to give an explanation for what had taken place. When she didn’t get an immediate answer she asked, ‘Was he threatening you?’
‘What makes you think that?’ Beth Danvers tried to laugh to dissuade Clara from such a line of questioning. ‘Of course not, he was just checking up on stock he’d ordered.’
Clara didn’t believe her and red marks around Beth’s wrists showed that Jack Temple had been gripping them tightly to prevent her from escaping his attentions. She remembered how Beth had tried to prevent her husband leaving and figured it was because she was afraid to be alone with Jack Temple. She wanted to pursue the matter, insist that Beth inform her husband about the barber’s behaviour, but she wasn’t a confidante of the storekeeper’s wife, therefore reluctant to interfere. By the time she’d filled her shopping order, however, she could see movement on the street again. Whatever cause people had had to assemble at the marshal’s office had been resolved and Joe Danvers would soon be returning to the store.
As she drove out of town, Clara hoped that Beth would tell her husband the truth about Jack Temple’s visit, but wasn’t certain that she would. It was another troubling episode, another shadow over Stanton that seemed laden with trouble.
Then had come the gunshots, followed by the words of Benny Gates which echoed and re-echoed in her head. The Hoags have lynched Walt Risby. Two days ago, she would have denied the possibility of that family taking the law into its own hands but now she had to give the matter serious thought. What she knew of the Hoags had been garnered from her friendship with Mary. The warmth that the dead girl had held for her father and brothers had induced her own affection for them, most acutely for Tom in whom she had begun to harbour hopes for a future together. She was attracted to him by the quiet, resolute manner in which he conducted the business of the ranch, seeing in him a man capable of providing a secure and happy life. But how much did she really know about the man who, even now, was hiding under her wagon, a refugee from an atrocious deed, a fugitive condemned to be shot on sight by his neighbours. Wordlessly, she waited, her mind troubled by the possibility that harbouring Tom Hoag was a mistake.
When he emerged, however, it took only the briefest glance at his face for Clara to know that the announcement of Walt Risby’s killing had been no less a surprise to him than it had been to her. For a moment, his eyes were turned towards the hillside, seeking out the Triple-R riders who could still be heard as they continued their hunt for him.
‘I need to find my horse,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll speak to Silas Tasker.’
She remembered the activity outside the marshal’s office that had drawn Joe Danvers away from his store. It seemed probable that that incident was connected to the death of Walt Risby. ‘You can’t go into town,’ she said. ‘I saw Mort Risby there. There might be other Triple-R riders with him.’
‘I’ve got to know the truth,’ Tom told her.
‘Come back to the farm with me,’ she suggested. ‘You can use one of our horses to get back to the Diamond-H.’
Tom refused to be deterred. If something had happened to Walt Risby, he needed to know what evidence existed of his family’s culpability. He thanked Clara for coming to his rescue but insisted upon setting off downhill to find his missing animal.
‘Tom,’ she called, her voice momentarily stopping his descent, ‘be careful.’
Tom acknowledged the words with a curt nod but the dreadful possibility that his father had carried out his threats so occupied his mind that Clara’s words were forgotten as soon as he took another step. Anxious to be re-united with his horse, he slithered through the shale and loose topsoil as he went rapidly down the slope. The sound of Clara’s departing buckboard reached him but the density of the forest soon distorted the direction from which it came. It wasn’t a conscious thought but primeval instinct which reminded him that he needed still to be wary of his pursuers. Currently, they were chasing shadows, but they might resume their search for him in this part of the wood at any moment. All that was required was for someone to put two and two together and arrive at the conclusion that he might have need of his horse. So he moved as quickly as the terrain permitted and listened for the jingle of harness, the scuffing of hoofs on the ground or voices bouncing off trees, the tell-tale signs that his hunters were close behind.
In fact, when he came face-to-face with Benny Gates, it was a completely unexpected encounter for both men. Tom hadn’t given any consideration to the possibility that any of the Triple-R riders could already be lower down the hillside but, because Clara Buxton’s information had not been totally conclusive and he didn’t want Tom Hoag to escape their clutches, Chuck Grainger had ordered Benny to patrol the lower slopes while the rest of the band took to the higher ground.
At first, when Tom stepped around the wide trunk of the pine he thought he’d found his own horse, but he was confused by the fact that someone was astride its back. The animal was standing still but it turned its head to look at Tom when he stepped into view. The blaze on its face revealed the error of his thinking. It took a moment for him to react, to try to dodge back behind the tree out of Benny’s immediate view.
Benny’s attention was fixed on something off to his right and it was only the shuffling of his mount, coupled with Tom’s abrupt dash for cover that altered the focus of his attention.
‘Hey!’ he shouted and at the same moment raised his right arm.
Tom looked over his shoulder and could see a pistol in Benny’s hand. Tom wasn’t a gunfighter but even if he’d been as good as John Wesley Hardin, he doubted his ability to win a duel under the current circumstances. What saved him from death, however, was the fact that Benny Gates wasn’t a killer either. Tom could see the eyes of the other man widen as he considered what was expected of him.
> ‘Hey!’ Benny called again, his voice relaying his reluctance to shoot to kill. Nonetheless, he pulled the trigger, the bullet exploding from the barrel into the sky above.
Tom was running now, putting in use the same tactics he’d used earlier when mounted, dodging between trees and around bushes to prevent Benny Gates from getting a clear shot at him. From behind came the report of another gunshot and again he suspected that it had been fired into the air but he couldn’t be sure that Benny’s mercy would continue. If Benny didn’t shoot Tom he would have to explain his failure to those members of the Triple-R crew who would have less scruples in the matter. Tom figured that the prospect of their scorn was running through Benny’s brain at that moment. The more times Benny pulled the trigger the greater grew the possibility that he’d succumb to their arguments and judge it his duty to put a bullet in Tom. Even if he didn’t, the gunshots must have carried to the other riders who would, by now, be racing back down the hillside to assist in his capture.
For the moment, Tom’s only plan was to evade Benny Gates. Behind him he could hear sounds of pursuit but couldn’t risk looking back because he needed to watch every stride, every footfall, to avoid tripping or colliding with an obstacle that would knock him off his feet. On foot, he had greater manoeuvrability and was able to wend his way among the trees with greater alacrity than the sure-footed cow pony that Benny sat astride, but at the bottom of the wooded slope, when he reached the pasture land, he would be overtaken in moments. Even hopes of finding his own horse offered little comfort, knowing that soon, Benny Gates wouldn’t be the only man behind him carrying a gun.
A bullet ricocheted off a nearby tree, spurring Tom to greater effort. A lump of bark had been torn away at head height; Benny was losing the fight with his conscience, had lowered his aim in order to put an end to the chase. Tom knew that any success on Benny’s part meant his own death. Even a wound would slow him down sufficiently to give the rest of the Triple-R riders time to catch up.
