by Will DuRey
The sheriff spoke again. ‘People around town are jumpy at present. There’s talk of fresh hostilities. They remember the raids that took place in the past. Some of them lost kinsfolk so they don’t have much sympathy with the plight of the Indians nor take kindly to people who do.’
‘Nothing for folks to be concerned about. The Sioux have moved on to reservation land. What more can they do?’
‘A more important question is will they stay there? There are rumours that the braves are discontent with their treatment, that the supplies that are being allotted to them are substandard and insufficient for their needs. They are threatening to break out of the reservation to hunt for what they want. If it’s true then it’s only right to assume they’ll steal livestock from the surrounding farms which will lead to fighting and killing.’
Wes finished buckling the belt before speaking. ‘Do you place much trust in these rumours, Sheriff?’
‘Well, they aren’t being denied by the people who deal with the Indians.’
‘Like who, for instance?’
‘John Lord. His men drive the cattle that arrive at the Spearpoint railhead up to the Agency buildings on the reservation. It’s prime stock they get. I’ve been at Spearpoint when the trucks have been unloaded. But the Indians complain. It’s as if they’re looking for an excuse to go raiding again.’
Wes Gray put a different interpretation on the rumour. In his opinion it was more likely that vicious white men were conjuring up an excuse to attack the near-defenceless Indians on their reservation. For the moment he could only hope that they were both wrong and that the rumours would peter out without resulting in bloodshed. ‘I came to town to meet a friend,’ he told the sheriff. ‘Goes by the name Crackaway. Have you seen him?’
The lawman rubbed at his jaw. ‘I’ve seen him. Been hanging around town for a few days. Drunk most of the time or sleeping it off in his room at Mrs Trantor’s place. Don’t know how she’s put up with him.’
Wes Gray had known Crackaway for many years. They’d trapped together in the Powder River country before the War between the States, had spent two winters in a cabin in the Rockies and had bumped into each other in unlikely settlements across the west. Wes had come to Palmersville in response to a message that Crackaway had sent. There were no details, but Crackaway wouldn’t have sent for him if it hadn’t been important. ‘Where is Mrs Trantor’s place?’
‘Among the buildings behind the bank. Her house has a swing on the porch. But you won’t find Crackaway there today. He’s up at the cemetery. We buried him yesterday.’
A deep furrowed scowl settled on Wes Gray’s face. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know for sure. Got into an argument with the horses at the livery stable. They were probably offended by the reek of whiskey.’ The sheriff paused, remembered he was talking to a friend of the dead man and continued with more compassion. ‘He was found by the stableman one morning. He’d been trampled to death.’
‘What was he doing in the stable?’
‘Nobody knows. Probably stumbled in there to sleep off the whiskey.’
Wes tried to worm more details out of the sheriff but without success. According to the lawman, no one knew where the old man had come from, nor his purpose for being in Palmersville. He had no friends, no special acquaintance so the reason for the summons was in danger of being an unsolved mystery.
‘I suppose you’ll be riding on now,’ said the sheriff.
‘Not tonight.’ Wes rubbed his head to show he was still carrying the after-effects of the blow he’d received. ‘Where will I get a bed?’
‘If you’re not squeamish, don’t mind sleeping in a dead man’s bed, I reckon Mrs Trantor has a vacancy.’
CHAPTER TWO
The three horsemen had ridden past the sheriff’s office half a minute earlier and therefore didn’t see Wes Gray when he stepped outside. At walking pace, they proceeded along the main street, looking neither right nor left but exuding a certain amount of arrogance which seemed to carry with it an unspoken threat. One man, astride a high black, was three-quarters of a length ahead of the other two, his back straight like an army general riding through conquered enemy territory. Few townspeople looked in his direction. No one hailed him with a greeting. When they reached the last buildings, they pricked their horses into a canter and left the town behind.
Wes Gray had watched them until they were out of sight. The two men who had been riding like guardsmen to their commander were the two with whom he’d fought in the saloon. Their absence from town, if it overlapped his departure in the morning, satisfied him. He’d be happy to quit Palmersville without arousing any more trouble. As he walked down the street, however, the sheriff’s assessment of the mood of the townspeople was instantly apparent to him. Openly, they watched him with a mixture of mistrust and contempt, attributable, he could only suppose, to the manner of his appearance. In themselves, buckskin clothes were not extraordinary in this territory, but his distinctive Indian stone necklace and the long eagle feather in his hat were unquestionably responsible for the angry glares he was attracting. He was a stranger to the town, unknown to the residents, and in such a small settlement word of his spirited defence of the Indian peoples would have spread rapidly.
Three things prevented him from climbing on to the back of the pinto that remained hitched to the rail outside the saloon. First, he’d anticipated a night in a soft bed and now, following the blow on the head from the sheriff’s gun butt, it was an even more pleasant prospect. His discomfort wouldn’t be eased sitting astride his beast.
The second consideration that prevented him leaving town was stubbornness. He wasn’t prepared to be forced out by the animosity of the townspeople. He had done nothing wrong. His interpretation of the situation might vary from theirs but it was no less valid. He had no plan to confront anyone with his views but he wouldn’t shirk from stating them if it became necessary. The transition from nomadic hunter to settled farmer would not be easy for the tribespeople. Understanding and tolerance would be required if the government’s reservation policy was to succeed, but he was aware that the mental scars of the pioneer families were as deep as any inflicted by axe-blade, arrow or scalping knife.
The last reason for not riding clear of Palmersville was a deep-seated need to know Crackaway’s reason for bringing him here. His curiosity was piqued by the description of a whiskey-guzzling sot as supplied by both the sheriff and Carter with whom he’d fought. Crackaway had been fond of the jug, a fact that Wes couldn’t deny, but the old man had a head as hard as iron and could hold his liquor as well as any man he’d ever known. People change, but only something drastic could have transposed Crackaway into a town drunk. But he hadn’t been too drunk to forget Wes’s springtime route to Council Bluffs and leave a message for him twenty miles north, where the White River converged with the Missouri.
As he hefted his long rifle into the crook of his left arm his first thought was to find a bed for the night. Saloons usually weren’t fussy about the people who occupied their upstairs rooms and were usually cheaper than those establishments which carried the title hotel, but Palmersville had only one saloon and he’d already made himself known there and caused damage. If Carter or his friend came looking for revenge it was the first place they’d seek him out. He wasn’t afraid to face them, just wary of becoming embroiled in a feud that might delay his journey to Council Bluffs and his rendezvous there with Caleb Dodge and the westbound wagons. The sheriff’s suggestion appealed, but there were drawbacks to using a boarding house. Usually they weren’t interested in taking a lodger for only one night and they were more particular who they let across their threshold. If his reputation had reached the ears of Mrs Trantor she might have a prejudice against people who consorted with Indians.
He paused by the bank, a low, uninspiring building of thin timbers that looked to be the least secure building in the small town. Casting a look down the lane that ran away from the main street, Wes could see th
e collection of buildings among which would be Mrs Trantor’s boarding house. He had been in few frontier towns that didn’t draw heavy-drinking, argumentative gambling men to their main streets after dark and although small, he had no hesitation in supposing that Palmersville was no different. Whether the neighbourhood was predominantly populated by cattle drovers or miners, the magnets of liquor, cards and women never failed to work. The more peaceful environs away from the main street and saloon would, Wes thought, be more conducive to a good night’s sleep. He resolved to seek a bed at Mrs Trantor’s house; she could do no worse than refuse. Still, he didn’t immediately turn off the main thoroughfare. He had another visit to make first. His only reason for being in Palmersville was to meet up with his old companion, Crackaway. It behoved him therefore to walk up to the cemetery to see where he was he lying.
The cemetery was located about a quarter-mile beyond the livery stable and blacksmith’s shop which were the last buildings on the town’s western extremity. Wes Gray had passed it on his arrival. Beyond, tall poles that marked the entrance of the white-railed graveyard could be clearly seen. Wes headed for them with a long, easy stride.
His approach was noted by the smith, who was smiting with his hammer just inside the timber-frame building that was his forge. Beneath his leather apron he was bare-chested, his skin gleamed with sweat and was smudged with smoke. He paused in his work as though hopeful that the buckskin-clad figure was bringing business his way but when it became apparent that the town’s newcomer was not stopping he stepped outside and cast a look in the direction of his destination. He could see the three horsemen who had ridden past only moments earlier. They were at a standstill, gathered near the cemetery gates, waiting for something or someone.
‘Mister,’ he called to Wes Gray, ‘got a minute?’
‘What’s on your mind?’
The smith inclined his head towards the distant horsemen. ‘If you’re heading up to the cemetery you might want to let Lord and his men finish their business first. They’ll be riding on in a minute or two. Nothing to gain by further antagonism.’
The smith’s words now identified for Wes the third member of the trio, John Lord, a name he’d already heard. The far man, dressed in a black wool coat, black hat and sitting motionless astride a fine black horse reminded Wes Gray of sculptures he’d seen in the east, erected to the memory of war-time heroes. Positioned as he was outside the gates of Palmersville cemetery, John Lord, it seemed, was a monument to death.
The smith spoke again. ‘Heard you got the best of Carter and Oates in the saloon. Perhaps you weren’t lucky. Perhaps you’d whip them again in a fair fight, but they are mean men, they won’t care what tricks they use to get their revenge.’
‘Obliged for the warning,’ Wes told him, ‘but I’m not looking for trouble and there’s no reason to suppose they’re waiting up there for me. I didn’t know I was heading this way myself until my feet brought me here. No need for their business to interfere with mine.’
‘No need,’ the smith agreed, ‘but doesn’t mean they won’t go out of their way to make sure it does.’
‘I’ll deal with that if it becomes necessary,’ Wes told him, and moved away to continue his walk up to the cemetery. He stopped then turned back to speak to the smith again. ‘My horse is down the street. Can I stable him here for the night?’
The blacksmith pointed to the words painted over the high doors. ‘Ask anyone hereabouts,’ he told Wes, ‘they’ll tell you this is the best livery stable in town.’ He grinned. It was probably a line he shot to every newcomer. Not only was it the only livery stable in town but the yellow-painted name read R. Best, Blacksmith. ‘Fifty cents to leave him overnight, another fifty to comb and feed him.’
Wes told the man he would pay his dollar later, when he brought the pinto for stabling. Then he headed up the small incline to the graveyard, sure in the knowledge that the trio’s reason for pausing there had no connection with him. When he was a hundred yards short of the gateway, three heads turned to watch his approach.
Carter manoeuvred his mount so that he was closer to John Lord, and although their verbal exchange was too quiet for Wes to hear, he reckoned he grasped the purport of their conversation. Carter was informing the other that Wes was the man he’d fought in the saloon and Lord, reaching across to rest his hand on Carter’s gun hand, was insisting upon restraint. The haughtiness that Wes had detected earlier while watching Lord’s progress along the main street was now more pronounced in the manner he sat with one arm cocked against his hip. His chin jutted under stern lips as though pointing at Wes like a hunting dog anxious to prove its superiority over its prey. There was an attempt to convey a placatory message when he spoke, but his gruff voice couldn’t disguise an element of animosity.
‘You’re a friend to the red man, I understand,’ he began.
‘I know some,’ answered Wes.
‘Time to let the battles of the past slip into history. Bury the war-axe so to speak.’
‘Do those men work for you?’ Wes moved his head to indicate Carter and Oates.
‘They do.’
‘Then your observations would be better directed at them.’
‘I heard that the three of you had had a disagreement but you see, Mister. . . ?’
‘Gray. Wes Gray.’
‘Wes Gray! Well that’s a name most people in this territory have heard.’ He turned his head so that he could see the faces of his confederates.
It was clear that they, too, were aware of the reputation of the man they were confronting: Carter’s face had lost a little of its colour, recalling how he’d been pinned to the table with a hunting knife at his throat. In the intervening time he’d made some brash remarks about the injuries he would have inflicted on the stranger if the sheriff hadn’t interrupted the fight, and now the expression on Lord’s face seemed to be egging him on to prove the worth of those comments.
‘You’ve got to understand, Mr Gray,’ said John Lord, ‘the Indian wars have caused much suffering to the people around here.’
‘I understand that, just as I understand the great suffering caused to the Indians. And I agree that there should be no more fighting, but that will only be achieved when the treaty agreements are upheld.’
‘Well I don’t know of any attempt to deprive the Indians of their due rations,’ Lord said.
‘Yeah,’ chimed in Carter, feeling secure in the fact that they outnumbered Wes three-to-one, ‘they’re getting what they deserve.’
‘I expect that one day you’ll get what you deserve.’ The icy-coldness both in Wes Gray’s voice and his grey-eyed stare unsettled Carter once more. The words were more than a threat; they were a promise, the fulfilment of which would not inconvenience the frontiersman.
‘You wouldn’t be so brave if you didn’t have your rifle in your hands,’ muttered Carter as a patina of sweat showed on his brow.
Wes regarded the still covered long-gun that was cradled in his arms. ‘You think I’d be prepared to shoot through the scabbard? It wouldn’t be worth damaging it to kill you. But,’ with a deft movement he twisted the rifle so that he was holding it at arm’s length, its butt on the ground, ‘if this makes things more even for you then make your move.’
Wes’s right hand, free now of its hold on the long-gun, hovered close to the butt of the Colt that was holstered on his right thigh. His eyes were centred on Carter but the distance that separated him from the mounted trio was such that he was also able to watch for any aggressive movement from the other two. For a moment, two, all was still. Carter’s eyes widened then narrowed as the prospect of gunplay edged towards inevitability. He wasn’t a stranger to the practise, he had killed men face-to-face in the past, but they hadn’t been men with such a reputation as that enjoyed by Wes Gray. He licked his lips and wondered if John Lord would intervene, would find an excuse that would defuse the situation. On reflection, he knew he had little expectation of intervention from that quarter. He recalled the look that h
is employer had thrown at him only moments earlier. It had been a mixture of humorous surprise that he’d escaped with his life and reckless encouragement to prove his vaunted ability with a handgun. No doubt he also wanted to see how fast Wes Gray could draw, whether the stories that were told about him were true. No, there would be no reprieve; he had to go for his gun.
The rattle of wood on wood as the cemetery gate was closed behind the three horsemen distracted everyone. Immediately, John Lord rode his horse between Carter and Wes Gray to put an end to the threatened shoot-out. From behind the horses, a girl, a young woman, came into Wes Gray’s view. She was tallish, with light brown hair piled on top of her head from which stray wisps teased around her ears and eyes. She brushed them aside as she walked. Mid-stride she paused, sensing that her arrival had impacted on an awkward situation. She wore a long grey skirt and matching small jacket over a white blouse. She looked at the horsemen and it seemed to Wes that her face registered anger when she recognized John Lord.
What began as a glance at Wes lingered long enough to give herself time to absorb the manner of his attire. Their eyes met for a brief moment; the woman’s were as green as spring buffalo grass, made more spectacular by the sun-toned smooth skin in which they were set.
‘Jenny,’ John Lord said, ‘I was waiting to speak to you.’
‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’ The girl began to walk towards the buildings of Palmersville.
‘It’s important, Jenny. We have things to talk about.’
‘No. We don’t.’
John Lord turned and spoke to his men. ‘Ride on,’ he told them, ‘I’ll catch up shortly.’
The tension that had been created by the prospect of violence disappeared as Carter and Oates pulled at the reins of their horses to turn them on to the trail west. But Carter threw a look at Wes Gray that suggested that on another day there would be a letting of the bad blood that existed between them. Their enmity had arisen in an instant but would last until death. Wes re-cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm and set his sights on the gateway into the graveyard.
