Feud Along the Dearborn

by Will DuRey

  The three men in the room moved rapidly; Silas Tasker had a town to defend, Tom Hoag had family and workers to consider and Doc Brewster was aware that his skills might be in high demand before this day was ended.

  Once again, Silas reached for a shotgun as he passed the gun rack that was affixed to the wall near the door. He broke it, checked that it was loaded then snapped it closed again. Before he got outside, however, he was stopped by the arrival of another man at his door.

  ‘This just came through,’ Jethro Humbo said, thrusting a short telegraph message into the marshal’s hand.

  Silas took it but with his mind fully engaged by the possibility of gunplay on his town’s main street, he made to push the paper into his shirt pocket while he dealt with the more pressing problem.

  ‘Better read it, Silas,’ the man from the post office told him. ‘It’s the reply you’ve been waiting for from Sheriff Brown in Miles City.’

  Silas took a moment to read the message before pushing it unceremoniously into a pocket. He stepped onto the boardwalk and began following Jethro Humbo who was half-a-dozen steps ahead, hurrying back to his place of business. The drumming sound that reached the marshal’s ears announced the arrival of the Diamond-H riders at the edge of town. He quickened his pace, eager to get to the centre of the action before bullets were fired. He spotted Mort Risby’s men at various points along the street, some crouching in doorways, others lurking at the corner of buildings. All had their weapons pointed in the direction of the incoming riders.

  A shot rang out, the tell-tale flash showing Silas the doorway where the shooter crouched.

  He yelled, ‘Hold your fire,’ but the words were lost in the activity at the far end of the street where horses were objecting to the abrupt halt demanded by their riders and, amid shouts of ‘Ambush’ and ‘Take cover’, those same men were scrambling out of their saddles in order to become smaller targets.

  Another shot was fired. Surprisingly, this one was much closer to Silas, coming from across the street. The marshal heard a grunt and saw Tom Hoag slump back against the office wall. Instantly, Silas grasped the situation, realized that a Triple-R man had remained in the darkness of the opposite veranda in anticipation of a clear shot at Tom. Mort Risby had calculated that the arrival of Ben Hoag would draw them from the office and had posted a sharpshooter to exact full revenge for the death of his son.

  The unmistakeable click of a gun being cocked reached him. The gunman was lining up another shot at his target to be certain that his victim was dead. Without hesitation, Silas twisted his body so that his shotgun pointed into the opposite shadows. There was no time to raise it to his shoulder, he pulled the trigger while it was still waist-high. The kick was powerful, the roar loud and the scattering of its load deadly. The gunman was flung back, his broken and lifeless body scattering those seats and tables that had recently been used by the riders of the Triple-R. Then there was silence.

  Silas was unable to resist an urge to look back towards his office. Abe Brewster was bent over Tom Hoag but the marshal didn’t know if the young cattleman was alive or dead. His duty, however, was to protect the town; it was imperative that he put a stop to the impending battle and was forced to leave the treatment of Tom Hoag in the doctor’s hands.

  As was common, the shotgun report had a calming effect on those men who could expect little personal gain from the struggle at hand. Many of those who had been in offensive positions were now watching the approaching marshal, their guns held with less enthusiasm than they had been moments earlier. To maintain their attention and to ensure that Ben Hoag and his men were aware of his arrival at the scene, he discharged the other barrel in the air, allowing its sound to dominate the street.

  ‘I want every man to put his gun down,’ he shouted, occupying the centre of the street at a point somewhere between the two forces. Onlookers thought their marshal had lost his senses. He presented an open target to both sets of fighters. Silas, however, figured he was in danger of being shot only by the two protagonists. Only Ben Hoag and Mort Risby had enough reason to continue this fight. Subduing them would put an end to the whole business, but subduing them wasn’t his aim. He had reason to arrest both men, which was his intention.

  Silas first spoke to the people from the Triple-R. ‘Put your guns away,’ he told them. ‘There’ll be no more gunplay in this town. I’ll arrest any man who doesn’t immediately re-holster his six-shooter or put down his long gun.’

  Mort Risby strutted forward, pistol in hand. ‘This is none of your business, Tasker,’ he said. ‘Ben Hoag killed my son and he has to pay for that.’

  ‘It’s Marshal Tasker to you, Mr Risby,’ Silas told him, evoking the rancher’s earlier haughtiness, ‘and anything that happens in this town is my business. So, unless you want me to crack your head open with this shotgun, I suggest you put your pistol away.’

  Mort Risby stared at Silas Tasker. It was the second time in a few hours that he’d spoken to him like a rowdy child in front of his men. For a long moment he stood toe to toe with the lawman, knowing those that rode for him would be swayed by what he did next. He knew the shotgun was an empty threat, both shells had been fired, but, if he shot the marshal, he would be open to a volley from the Diamond-H force. Ben Hoag would be able to justify killing him as the slayer of the town’s peace-keeper. He slipped his gun into its holster.

  ‘What about those men?’ he asked, pointing to where Ben Hoag and his crew had taken refuge. ‘They are armed, too.’

  ‘Mr Hoag,’ Silas called, ‘tell your men to put away their guns then come here.’

  Townspeople, amazed by the bravery or foolhardiness of their marshal, began to leave their places of refuge. They watched from the sidewalks as Ben approached with Frank a couple of steps behind.

  ‘Where’s my son?’ asked Ben.

  ‘He’s back there.’ Silas indicated his distant office with his head. ‘Doc Brewster is with him.’

  The last words startled Ben Hoag. ‘Is my boy hurt?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Ben Hoag glared at Mort Risby. ‘You’ll pay if anything’s happened to my boy,’ he declared.

  ‘He’ll answer to the law,’ Silas told him. ‘If Tom’s dead,’ he said to Mort Risby, ‘you’ll be charged with murder.’

  Mort Risby tilted his head higher, as though dismissing the threat as a charge that would never be pursued. ‘And what about my boy?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to charge Ben Hoag with his murder?’

  ‘He killed my daughter,’ Ben snapped back before Silas could respond. ‘He deserved to die.’

  ‘No, he didn’t, Mr Hoag,’ Silas told him, ‘and although I haven’t the authority to charge you with a crime that took place outside the town limits, I will be advising the state authorities of the lynching of Walt Risby. You will be charged with murder.’

  ‘He killed my daughter,’ insisted Ben Hoag.

  ‘Walt Risby had nothing to do with the blaze that destroyed your barn.’ Silas withdrew from his pocket the telegraph message that Jethro Humbo had delivered. ‘This is irrefutable proof that Walt Risby was in Miles City that night.’

  If Silas expected Ben Hoag to accept Sheriff Brown’s information without argument, he was mistaken.

  ‘Went to Miles City but didn’t stay there. My boy here saw him and followed him all the way to the Dearborn.’

  A figure staggered forward, his face battered and bloody, his clothes dishevelled, torn and stained from a bruising struggle.

  ‘Frank Hoag didn’t follow anyone to the Dearborn that night,’ Jack Temple said. When he had everyone’s attention, he imparted the information that was his revenge for the beating he’d taken. ‘He was here, in Stanton. Keeping company with that man’s wife while he was out of town.’ His outstretched arm pointed at Joe Danvers who had left his account books to witness the end of the confrontation outside his store.

  There was a moment of silence before Ben turned to his youngest son from whom he expected to hear a vehemen
t denial. No such words were issued and all those who were now looking at Frank, knew that they never would be. Even in the dim evening light Frank Hoag’s pallor was obvious to all. His eyes had widened, his stare conveying his nervousness and shame.

  The next few seconds were a blur of action. Simultaneously, each of the major participants understood the significance of the new information. Mort Risby’s belief in his son’s innocence was vindicated but that only heightened the injustice of Walt’s cruel death. The fury that had been building within him since his boy’s body had been brought to Stanton, was ready to erupt.

  For the first time since Mary’s death, the thoughts in Ben Hoag’s head were clear and he knew himself guilty of hanging an innocent man. He’d allowed false information to stoke the fire of bitter loss into hatred. He’d been deceived by his own son. Darkening features told their own tale. He could not let his son’s transgression go unpunished.

  Silas Tasker witnessed the transformation in each man. So intense were the emotions wrought by the shift in their understanding that they couldn’t keep their need for vengeance from their face. For a moment, he’d thought he’d had control of the situation, that there would be no more violence this night. He had been so close to sending the opposing forces back to their respective ranches without further shooting. In the cold light of the following day, when he was more certain of Tom Hoag’s condition, he would have ridden out to the Triple-R to arrest Mort Risby, but in a moment that all became an impossibility.

  A tic in Mort Risby’s left eye and a twist of Ben Hoag’s lip sent the message that this night would not end without more bloodshed. It was clear that whatever grievances had been harboured and allowed to fester over the years would be forever resolved for these two men here on this dirty street.

  ‘I’ll shoot the first man who touches his gun,’ Silas shouted, a vain attempt to defuse the situation. He dropped the shotgun and reached for the Colt at his side.

  It was doubtful if either rancher heard him because their hands were already filled with iron. Guns roared, not only those of the three men in the middle of the street but one or two riders from both ranches fired shots across the street. Whose bullet killed which man was unclear but three men lay dead in the street, Ben and Frank Hoag and Mort Risby. A fourth man, Jack Temple, had a nick in his arm which added greatly to the amount of blood he lost that day.

  It was Abe Brewster, discharging both barrels of a shotgun he’d borrowed from the marshal’s office, who brought about the ceasefire. Silas Tasker, unsure how he’d escaped any injury, ordered the cowboys back to their respective ranches. He’d scrutinised every face, would name them all in the report he would prepare for the town register and would call them all for trial if criminal proceedings became necessary. He thought it unlikely. There didn’t seem to be anything to gain when the heads of both outfits were dead.

  Despite the banishment of the cowboys, the drinking palaces were busy that night, the townsmen chewing over every detail of the day’s events. It was a profitable night for Noah Pink, too, but he didn’t gloat, his face maintained the glum expression that was well-known in Stanton. He had five bodies to attend to in his parlour; two father and son combinations were a unique occurrence. The fifth man was Chuck Grainger who had been struck in the chest by the blast from Silas Tasker’s shotgun.

  Jack Temple had been patched up and dismissed with a scowl of disapproval by Abe Brewster. Perhaps the barber wasn’t altogether to blame for the gunfight that had occurred in the little town, but he’d blackened a woman’s name in a most public manner and that didn’t sit easy with the medic. Silas Tasker didn’t ask Jack Temple to expound on his accusation that Frank had been with Beth Danvers when he was supposed to be chasing a fire-raiser south to the river, but the woman herself arrived at the marshal’s office to give him the details.

  Abe Brewster was there when Beth arrived; he’d arranged to take Tom Hoag back to the Diamond-H in his buggy. Chuck Grainger’s bullet had smashed into the young rancher’s left shoulder. He was in pain, but Abe prophesised a full recovery. Beth Danvers had no objection to Abe and Tom remaining while she told her story.

  ‘The first thing you should know,’ she began, ‘is that Joe isn’t my husband. He’s my brother. For some reason Gus Hubber told everyone we were husband and wife, before we arrived to replace him. I don’t know what his purpose was but I’ve since heard him referred to as cantankerous so presumably he was hoping to cause some mild mischief. Nonetheless, Joe and I should have corrected the mistake but I must confess we were amused by the conversation of several of the customers who believed we were married. It was wrong of us,’ she said, ‘and from tomorrow we’ll repair the misconception.’

  When Silas muttered, ‘I won’t be pressing criminal charges,’ it surprised Abe Brewster, not because he’d expected the lawman to throw the young woman in one of his cells but because he seldom showed a humorous side to his character. The medic attributed it to the aftermath of the violence that Silas had survived.

  Beth Danvers responded with a wry smile and seemed a bit more relaxed when she continued her story. ‘The other thing you should know,’ she looked directly at Tom Hoag, ‘is that your brother was very unhappy. We’d talked a couple of times and he’d confided that he’d spent enough time working cattle. It seems wrong to criticise your father tonight, but Frank believed he was considered worthless. He came that night to say goodbye. He’d had another argument with your father and had decided to leave the ranch. He’d heard tales about San Francisco and that was his destination.’

  Tom Hoag was unable to refute the woman’s words.

  ‘Where does Jack Temple come into this?’ Silas wanted to know.

  ‘It was wrong of me, I suppose, to invite Frank in for coffee when Joe was away,’ Beth said, ‘especially late at night, but he needed to share his secret. I couldn’t turn him away. Jack Temple must have seen him arrive and made an assumption that there was something more involved than chatter. He’s been trying to pressure me into an association with him ever since. Tonight, he tried to force himself on me, but Jimmy Carson prevented it. I guess his outburst was meant to paint me as a scarlet woman and have me driven out of town.’

  ‘No need for that to happen,’ said Silas, ‘no need at all.’

  Three days later, Silas left his office to lean against a veranda post. He’d begun to get into the habit of doing that at this early hour. In a while, he would cross the street and enjoy breakfast at Minnie’s Eatery then take a tray back to feed his prisoners. It was going to be a warm day. He looked down the street, one or two men were making an early start, heading out of town to work at the timber-yard or one of the small farms. The saddle-maker was opening his door and Bart Martin, the River Bend barman, was swilling a bucket of dirty water onto the street after washing the dust from the barroom floor. Normality was returning to Stanton.

  Cora Hope was making her way down from the church, head up, eyes searching for a neighbour, any neighbour upon whom she could impose her unholy views. Silas figured she’d have plenty of words to spread this day because yesterday had been a busy one for her husband: he’d spoken over the graves of three men.

  He hadn’t buried the Hoags, of course. Tom had had his father and brother buried next to his mother and sister. He hadn’t been able to dig their graves himself, but he’d stood while his men bent their backs. Ben and Frank were still in Noah Pink’s boxes when they were put in the ground. Silas hadn’t gone out to the ranch, he wasn’t sure he would have been welcome, but Abe and Alice Brewster had attended.

  Silas could see Abe Brewster’s buggy coming into town past the church. He waited until the doctor drew alongside the veranda and halted.

  ‘Where have you been so early in the morning?’

  ‘The Richardson’s farm. Delivered Martha of a girl. Both well.’

  Silas nodded. It seemed like a good start to the day.

  ‘People come and people go,’ Abe said. ‘Which reminds me, I saw Jack Temple leave town
yesterday. Do we need a new barber?’

  ‘Reckon so. The judge will be in town next week to try Luke Bywater and Steve Tumbrell. I told Jack Temple I would put him up before the judge for assaulting Beth Danvers if he didn’t get out of town.’ Silas was pleased that Jack Temple had chosen to leave. He was sure that Cora Hope’s subsequent gossip would have twisted every detail that was revealed in court to demean Beth. ‘How is Tom Hoag managing with his arm in a sling?’ he asked as the doctor prepared to drive on.

  ‘Fine, just fine. I reckon I won’t need to visit him more than once a week now.’

  ‘The wound must be healing fast.’

  ‘No faster than any other, but he’s got a nurse to keep an eye on it.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Clara Buxton. My Alice reckons there’ll be wedding bells soon. Nice girl, Clara.’

  At that moment, Silas’s attention strayed from Abe Brewster. He looked down the street and raised his hat slightly in salute. Beth Danvers was sweeping the entrance porch of the general store. She paused, smiled then returned to the chore.

  ‘Another nice girl,’ said Abe Brewster who had witnessed the brief exchange. ‘A good woman. Yessir, a good woman.’