by Will DuRey
Opening the street door, Beth walked out into the closing greyness of the day. If the pair exchanged words it was done with the minimum of fuss; Beth appeared to be totally involved in arranging the heavy basket on her arm in order to twist the door fastener and Joe raised neither hand nor head in farewell, so engrossed was he in the figures on the page he was studying.
Outside, lamps burned at several points along Stanton’s main street. Unusually, men loitered within those areas of yellowish glow, their presence on the street adding to the air of terrible expectancy that had swelled throughout the day, relegating earlier events to mere tasters of what was to come. Beth gripped her cloak as though warding off chill air, but the night was balmy, and her protective action was psychologically inspired rather than a measure to combat any physical discomfort. She had become enmeshed in a situation for which her only guilt was sympathy but if there was any truth in the rumours she’d overheard, it was possible that her silence had contributed to the dreadful lynching of Walt Risby.
She couldn’t recall the circumstances that had first caused Frank Hoag to reveal his dissatisfaction with ranch life or his father’s disinterest in his abilities, but she’d listened to him that day and on other occasions when he’d visited the general store. Of course, she knew she shouldn’t have invited him into her home when Joe was in Miles City, even if it was only to share a cup of coffee, but he’d wanted her to know that he’d decided to quit the Diamond-H and planned to light out for California the next day.
Understandably, the death of his sister had put an end to that scheme, but the subsequent rumour linking Walt Risby to the fire at the Diamond-H had surprised her. After leaving her, there had only been sufficient time for Frank to get back to the ranch. He couldn’t have followed anyone to the Dearborn and back. Perhaps he’d told that story to protect her reputation, but it would have been better that she suffered the scorn of Mrs Hope and her friends than that Walt Risby should be falsely tarred with the crime of murder. Now, Walt was dead, and in retaliation, an attempt had been made on the life of Tom Hoag. The whole town seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation of the next act, braced for an eruption of violence. The thought flashed through Beth’s mind that perhaps a confession could prevent more bloodshed, that she should tell the truth to Marshal Tasker.
Unwillingly, Beth glanced at the barber shop across the street. It was in darkness, Jack Temple, too, had finished business for the day. She wondered if he was one of the figures she could see further down the street, exchanging thoughts and opinions with townsmen curious as to what the next outrage would be and where and when it would occur. A more troublesome possibility speared its way through her musing; perhaps he was standing in the dark depths of his barber shop, watching her even now as she paused on the sidewalk boards above the dry, hard-packed street.
A sudden movement to her right drew a gasp from her. A shape, a man pushed away from the wall against which he’d been leaning. He stepped forward, almost lurched and for a dreadful moment Beth believed it was Jack Temple. She took a pace backwards as though preparing to return to the security of the store.
‘Didn’t mean to startle you, Mrs Danvers.’
Beth didn’t recognize the voice but noted a slight slur, suggesting it belonged to a man who had had more than his share of whiskey this day.
‘Who is it?’ she asked.
‘Jimmy Carson, Mrs Danvers.’
‘What are you doing here, Jimmy?’ Beth didn’t really care, she was just relieved that it wasn’t Jack Temple waiting in the shadows for her.
‘Don’t rightly know,’ the young timber-worker admitted. ‘Guess I’m trying to hide.’
‘Are you in trouble, Jimmy? Is someone chasing you?’
There was a self-deprecating lilt to the brief chuckle that preceded Jimmy Carson’s words. ‘Reckon I’m trying to hide from myself,’ he said. ‘It’s not easy to do.’
‘I don’t suppose it is,’ she replied, thinking it was a trick she, too, would like to perfect.
‘Some people are saying that Walt deserved to hang because he left me to walk home. Talking like I should be pleased he’s dead. That was no reason for Walt to die. He wasn’t bad. He was my friend. I just don’t understand it, Mrs Danvers.’
‘I’m sorry, Jimmy.’ Beth knew her words were little comfort to the young man but there was little else she could say.
‘People in the River Bend are talking about nothing else but Walt’s lynching,’ Jimmy told her. ‘I don’t want to listen.’ He shook his head as though trying to loosen from his brain words and ideas that had no reason to be there. ‘Just because I was left to walk home doesn’t mean that Walt would set fire to Ben Hoag’s barn. How can he think that? Why didn’t he ask my opinion? I would have told him the truth.’
‘Of course you would, Jimmy.’ Jimmy’s implied counsel that all harm would be avoided by telling the truth chimed with Beth’s own recent opinion. It was too late to help Walt Risby but it might prevent further violence. Frank Hoag had already decided to leave the territory and although he would now be banished with a blackened character, it was, in Beth’s opinion, better than being the cause of further bloodshed. ‘Joe is working on his books,’ she said, indicating the interior of the store. ‘Go in. You can hide there with a cup of coffee until you’re ready to return to the River Bend.’
He grinned. ‘I don’t think I’ll be going back there tonight. I’ll just stay quiet out here for a while before I collect my horse and return home.’
‘Goodnight then,’ she said and stepped down on to the street.
‘Mrs Danvers,’ he called, he was looking down the street at the several points where men had gathered, ‘be careful. There’s trouble brewing down the street.’
‘Thank you, Jimmy, but I’m not going that way. I’m taking these groceries to Mrs Winterwhite.’
Beth crossed the street then cut down the first narrow alley which was the route to Mrs Winterwhite’s small, isolated house on the rising ground that overlooked the livery stable and its corrals. Emerging from the alley, Beth was heading for the high timber structure that was Marley’s stable when she heard the scuff of a hurried footfall behind her. For a moment, she assumed that the person trying to catch up was Jimmy Carson coming for the horse he’d presumably left in one of the corrals behind the stable. But she was wrong. Another three steps and she felt a hand grasp the upper part of her arm that carried the basket. She tried to shrug it off, but Jack Temple was not prepared to release her.
From the window of his unlit shop he’d watched as she’d left the general store and paused in conversation with Jimmy Carson. When she’d crossed the street he’d guessed her destination and slipped out the rear of his own premises to intercept her.
‘Mrs Winterwhite can do without her provisions for a while longer,’ he said. ‘You’re not putting me off any longer. No one will see us.’ He tried to drag her back to the rear entrance of the barber shop and his upstairs living quarters.
‘No,’ she protested. ‘I won’t.’
‘You know the alternative,’ he hissed. ‘Think about the effect it will have on your husband and your reputation in this community. You’ll be ruined when I tell people what you’ve been up to.’
Again, Beth shook her head and tried to pull away, but Jack Temple tightened his grip until he was hurting her.
‘Not just what you’ve been doing but who you’ve been doing it with and when,’ he said. ‘What do you think Marshal Tasker will do when he knows the truth? You’ll probably wind up in the State prison.’
‘Let go of me,’ she said. She tried to push him away, needed to drop the basket because the pain in her arm was now intense.
Jack Temple yanked her in the direction he wanted her to go, seemed prepared to pull her all the way back to his shop, mouthing threats and insults as he did so. Incensed by her struggles he turned and raised his arm in readiness to deliver an open-handed slap to her face, but it was a blow that was never delivered. His wrist was caug
ht by another’s hand and he was pulled away from his victim.
With both hands and with greater strength than Jack Temple anticipated, Jimmy Carson pushed against the barber’s chest. Caught by surprise, he stumbled as he was propelled backwards. Jimmy’s words, an angry demand, barely registered with Jack Temple as he crashed against the thick corral rails.
‘What are you doing to Mrs Danvers?’
‘Keep out of it,’ replied Jack Temple. ‘This is between me and her.’
Beth had moved away to stand against the back wall of one of the main street properties. The look he threw at her seemed to bear the expectation of corroboration.
When none came, young Jimmy Carson stepped between them, confronting Jack Temple and defending Beth Danvers. His hands curled into fists, stressing the point that Jack Temple faced a fight if he didn’t immediately quit the scene.
Jack was more heavily built than Jimmy, looked capable of dishing out a beating to the younger man and with a powerful swing of his right arm, attempted to prove it.
Jimmy swayed away from it and launched himself forward, grappling with the other man, smothering the movement of his arms then once again thrusting him backwards to keep him off-balance. This day, Jack Temple’s superior body weight was overpowered by the aggression that had been intensifying within Jimmy Carson since he’d heard of the death of his friend.
With a thud, Jack Temple’s back crashed against the solid timbers again and he sank to his knees as the wind was driven out of him. On the ground he found a large rock, picked it up and came again at Jimmy. If the blow he threw with his rock-filled right hand had connected, it would have broken the younger man’s jaw, but Jimmy was able to evade the other man’s clumsiness and stepped inside the swinging arm. Although the punch missed his head, he felt the weight of the blow on his back. Still, it didn’t prevent him from sinking his own fist into the pit of his opponent’s stomach.
Jack Temple grunted and would have fallen to the ground, but Jimmy Carson held him upright, able to smash a blow into his face. It ripped a long slash into the soft skin below Jack’s left eye and sent a slick of blood arcing high into the air.
Another grunt escaped from Jack Temple’s mouth, but Jimmy Carson was mistaken if he thought the head punch had put an end to the fight. Jack had held on to the rock and as he slumped against the timbers of the corral he amassed all his strength and swung it at the younger man’s body. The blow landed just below the heart. Jimmy was momentarily crippled, not only by the intense pain but also by the expulsion of breath from his body. He toppled forward onto the other’s shoulders and they both sprawled on the ground.
Their joint suffering presented a brief respite in the fight. Jack Temple was first to recognize the opportunity to finish off his opponent. He shrugged his shoulders and worked his way out from underneath. Gaining his feet, he aimed a kick towards the same spot below the heart where the rock had done its damage. Using his left arm, Jimmy blocked the other’s attack then launched his own by grabbing and twisting Jack Temple’s foot. As he fell, Jack’s head struck one of the cross-timbers, gashing his brow, creating a flow of blood above his eye that mingled with that from the wound below.
Jimmy knelt astride the other’s chest. Gripping the front of Jack’s grimy shirt, he used it to haul his head off the ground. ‘Stay away from Mrs Danvers,’ he shouted, emphasising his warning with another blow to the jaw.
Beth Danvers rested a restraining hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘It’s over,’ she told him. ‘I don’t think he has any fight left in him.’
It was true. Jack Temple was stretched out on the ground, unconscious. Jimmy stood and looked at Beth Danvers. It occurred to him that he had no idea what had caused the bruising fight but there was no opportunity for enlightenment. From the direction of the main street a voice arose. Clarion clear, the shout was both a warning and a call to arms.
‘They’re coming.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Benny Gates was not acting as a lookout when he leant against the tree at the edge of town. He’d merely paused there to smoke a hand-rolled cigarette, hoping that the lonely walk and rough tobacco would amend his mood. Such was the atmosphere in the middle of town, such the threat of violence and reckoning hanging over the place, that even the noise from the drinking places seemed unnaturally muted. Throughout Stanton, citizens had forsaken their normal routines and restless men were seeking quiet places to await the eruption of the looming event in whatever form it took. No one, however, not even Mort Risby and his crew, anticipated that it would involve a force from the Diamond-H descending upon the town. There was no reason to suppose that news of Tom Hoag’s current predicament had reached his father. Yet, when Benny’s attention was caught by the rising dust that showed across the low grasslands south of town, he had no hesitation in identifying its source. Distance and the oncoming night meant that the riders were nothing more than black silhouettes, menacing shadows, but apart from the Triple-R, only the Diamond-H had the ability to amass so large a crew. Instantly, that weight of unknown expectancy was shed from his shoulders. They were coming, riding fast and with purpose; they were coming for a fight.
Benny Gates ran down the street towards the marshal’s office, shouting out the news that a bunch of riders was approaching the town. Those citizens who heard Benny’s words as a warning, began to clear the street, taking refuge in the River Bend or another drinking venue along the street. Glasses were filled, lamps were dimmed, and men and women jostled for positions that offered the best views of the street. Anxious though they were to avoid flying lead, they were yet curious enough to hang around to witness the anticipated bloody battle.
Of course, it wasn’t Benny’s main intention to act as a herald for the residents of Stanton nor to carry the news to Silas Tasker. Primarily, he was yelling a war cry, a call to arms for his boss and the other Triple-R riders. He had left them at the far end of the street, gathered on the boardwalk opposite the marshal’s office where Tom Hoag remained. Their nerves, stretched by the chase that had brought them back to town, had been tightened by the hours of inactivity forced on them by the protection Marshal Tasker was currently providing for their quarry. Extra men had been brought in from the ranch and an expectation had grown within the group that when darkness fell, Mort Risby would order the storming of the law office. Tom Hoag would suffer the same fate as that which had befallen young Walt. Now, however, the sight of Benny Gates running down the street, spurred the belief that a different fight was closer at hand. They surrounded their comrade as he spilled his news to their boss. Instantly, everyone checked their arms and began to make their way towards the other end of the street, seeking places that offered cover for the coming confrontation.
But Mort Risby ordered one man to remain in the shadows opposite the marshal’s office. Chuck Grainger was the chosen man because he was proclaimed the best shot in the outfit.
‘Silas Tasker will come running when the shooting begins,’ Mort told his top hand. ‘Perhaps Tom Hoag, too. If you get a clear shot at him, shoot to kill.’
Inside the marshal’s office, Abe Brewster had joined Tom Hoag and Silas Tasker. Tom’s reason for riding to Stanton after working with the fence crew had been to consult the doctor about his father’s rancorous behaviour.
‘He’s always held Mort Risby responsible for the flare-up that brought you to town,’ Tom told Silas. ‘He agreed to a ceasefire for the sake of the community, but he never forgot that he lost stock and very nearly lost that stretch of land at Musselshell Valley. He’d mention it from time to time, but it hasn’t been an issue since the Triple-R began using a different route. Their cattle are never herded in that direction, but I guess the roots of his mistrust and dislike of the Risbys are deeper than I knew. No doubt Ma and then Mary were responsible for keeping his rancour in check, but Mary’s death seems to have knocked all reason out of him. He just won’t listen to anyone.’
‘He listened to your brother. Frank’s identification of Walt
Risby kicked off this whole business.’
Tom shook his head. ‘He didn’t listen to Frank, he latched on to something my brother said, then built it into something he wanted to believe. All Frank said was that he’d followed a horse with a white tail and ever since he’s been trying to persuade Pa that it wasn’t Walt.’
Tom looked at Abe Brewster, asked the question that had been burning in his brain all day. ‘Has Pa gone crazy? He’s like a dog that’s been lying in the midday sun. Just wants to snarl and bite at anyone who comes near.’
‘Grief, Tom,’ the medic replied. ‘There’s no guarantee what effect it will have on anyone because no one knows what thoughts lurk in another man’s head. Your pa spurned help when he was younger, making him a loner and he became more reclusive when your ma died. I don’t know any treatment for what ails him.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Perhaps it is a form of insanity, perhaps only temporary, but I can’t cure it.’
‘Insanity or not,’ Silas Tasker announced, ‘I reckon he’ll have to stand trial for the hanging of Walt Risby. He’s thrown this town into uproar and he’s got to answer for it.’
At that moment, the attention of the men in the room was gripped by the sound of raised voices penetrating from beyond the office walls. The street door opened and a townsman peered inside.
‘Better come, marshal. Ben Hoag’s coming to town with a small army and the Triple-R boys are heading down the street to confront them. There’s going to be bloodshed.’
