by Will DuRey
‘Not like your landlady,’ the blacksmith added.
‘Jenny?’
‘Yeah. She had a run-in with John Lord along the street. She slapped his face and he slapped hers.’
‘He hit Jenny!’
‘Twice. He threatened you, too. Said that if you ever came back you wouldn’t leave Palmersville alive.’
Wes ignored that, the only thought in his head was that John Lord had hit Crackaway’s daughter. ‘Find a shady place for the pinto,’ he told Bob, ‘I’m going to see Jenny.’
Both sides of her face were still red and a purple smudge was beginning to show along the high bone line of her right cheek. When Wes’s gaze settled on it she reached up and touched it gingerly with her fingertips. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘I hit him first. He’d made me so angry. But it won’t happen again,’ she told Wes, ‘John Lord is leaving town. Going east.’
Satisfied that her injuries were slight and that there wouldn’t be any lasting damage, Wes told her what he’d discovered. ‘Your father was killed because he’d uncovered a swindle. John Lord is stealing from the Indians and shipping whiskey, which they know will be stopped if their complaints are investigated. I imagine he’s also the source of the rumours that threaten war so that no one will listen to their complaints with sympathy.’
‘Did John Lord kill my father?’ Jenny asked.
‘He was certainly responsible for it if he didn’t do it himself. But he won’t get away with it. The cattle he was hoping to steal will, by now, be heading to the Cheyenne River Agency and I’ve come back to find other evidence that will lead to his arrest.’
‘He threatened to kill you,’ Jenny warned.
‘Other people have threatened to do that and failed,’ he told her, ‘but I’ll be careful.’
On his return to the main street, Wes found Sheriff Johnson with a shoulder against the same support he’d been using earlier. ‘Whiskey is being shipped to the reservation Indians in the wagons that left here two days ago. I expect you’ll find more of it in John Lord’s warehouse. Proof enough for you to arrest him and hold him until federal authorities arrive with more serious charges.’
Sheriff Johnson rubbed his jaw. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said, ‘but I don’t have any cause to raid his warehouse. It’s only your word against his.’
‘You don’t have to raid it. They’ve been shifting stock all afternoon and there are wagons there at the moment. Just watch them.’ Wes described the kegs he’d seen on the supply wagon. ‘I’m going to Hal Adamson’s store to check out the goods he’s taken possession of today.’
From his office window, John Lord watched the discussion between the sheriff and Wes Gray. At his side, Tad Carter drew his gun and lined up a shot at the frontiersman.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Lord told him. ‘Do you propose to shoot the sheriff, too? It would be obvious where the shots had come from. Besides, there’s no guarantee you would hit anyone at this distance. You need to get closer and pick a spot that provides you with a means of escape.’
They waited for a few more minutes and watched as the duo parted company, the sheriff heading for the far end of the street while the scout walked away along the boardwalk.
‘Where do you think he’s going?’ Tad asked.
‘One way to find out,’ John Lord told him and with a jerk of his head ordered the other one to follow and kill.
In normal circumstances, the empty street and lack of customers would have been a cause for grumbling, but this day Hal Adamson had other things on his mind. A home needed to be found for the unexpected supplies. His shelves were full and his back room was overloaded with boxes, barrels and bundles. Although he seemed incapable of resolving his storage difficulty he was well aware that the complexity was magnified because his mind was in as great a state of turmoil as his premises. He was ashamed and angry with himself for not responding to John Lord’s aggression. He hated the fact that he wasn’t a stronger character.
The opening of the shop door and the big shadow that was cast across the floor startled him. Nervously, he looked up and almost croaked a cry of relief when he recognized the buckskin-clad figure who trod softly into his store. ‘You’re back,’ he said.
Wes didn’t speak. Instead he wandered around, checking the items on display. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find or prove by inspecting the goods in Hal Adamson’s store – he had no inventory to check against, no description of clothing, ironmongery or house-ware that had been despatched from Cincinnati for the Cheyenne River Agency to identify specific items. There was no reason to suppose that anything he saw in the store hadn’t been brought in legitimately. There were wool shirts that weren’t dissimilar to those he’d seen worn by the Sioux, and denim overalls with bibs that looked familiar but they wouldn’t have been out of place in any community. The same could be said of the bowls and drinking vessels he looked at and the kettles and cooking pots, too. None were marked with government stamps or identifiers capable of denoting them as part of a specific consignment.
‘Did John Lord supply these?’ Wes asked as he examined some thick, grey blankets.
The storekeeper poured out his explanation, relieved to tell someone of his foolishness in borrowing money from the rancher and how he was trapped in an agreement to buy stock only from him. That stock included dry goods but he insisted that the sacks that contained grain, flour and sugar didn’t have any marking such as Wes described.
For Wes, if there were answers to be found in Palmersville, they were probably in the warehouse. That, he suspected, was the place where the sacks had been interfered with and where discarded government packaging and labels were most likely to be found. He took his leave of the storekeeper, stepped outside and set course for the warehouse where Sheriff Johnson had gone to watch over the loading of the wagons.
Tad Carter had walked slowly along the main street, looking in the windows of the barber’s, the saddle-maker’s, the gunsmith’s and even the milliner’s premises in his search for Wes Gray. Finding him in conversation with Hal Adamson suited his plan. The big store building took up a full block of the street. A tight alleyway separated it from the buildings that housed the barber and the doctor’s surgery. An offshoot from the alleyway gave access to the back of those premises and continuing farther along its length, access could also be gained to the rear of John Lord’s office. One shot, Tad reasoned, could put an end to the menace of Wes Gray and an instant later he could be reporting the success to his boss without anyone having grounds to suspect him guilty of the deed. When he observed the frontiersman on the verge of quitting the store he slipped into the alley, drew his gun and waited.
It took a few seconds for Tad to realize that Wes Gray’s next destination was taking him to the top end of town, that he wouldn’t pass the alleyway in which he was waiting. He edged himself to the corner of the building and peered around the bend. He could see the broad, buckskin-covered back, striding away from him, Gray’s long legs taking him rapidly to the extremes of Tad’s pistol’s accuracy. To get a clearer shot, Tad took a step away from the corner, stretched out his arm and fired.
Hal Adamson’s delayed reaction to Wes Gray’s enquiry into government markings was probably due to his current chaotic state of mind. Usually, he was mentally alert and quick to make associations, but at present it seemed to take an age for his brain to process information. But no sooner had Wes opened the door to leave than Hal recalled the inventory list he’d found inside a bundle of shirts he’d received from the warehouse some days earlier. There had been something strange about it, something that had hinted that the goods were government issue. He retrieved it from the cash drawer where he’d placed it and followed the frontiersman out of the building. He had raised his arm and was midway through calling Wes Gray’s name when the bullet from Tad Carter’s gun struck him in the back. With a yell, he fell to the ground.
Cursing because his first shot had failed to take care of Wes Gray, Tad Carter fired again. It w
as a more hurried effort and consequently less accurate on the shooter’s part, but it also missed its target because Wes Gray had reacted with customary alacrity. At the sound of the gunshot he threw himself to his left, rolled on the ground and drew his gun. He could see the wounded storekeeper, half lying on the boardwalk, the top half of his body twisted at an awkward angle in an effort to relieve the pain. Beyond Hal, Wes caught a glimpse of a man disappearing into the gap between the buildings.
In an instant, Wes was on his feet, darting forward in crouched pursuit of his assailant. As he passed Hal he could see that the wound was high on his shoulder, hopefully not lethal. He didn’t stop; he ran into the alleyway. Although the man had reached a turning that took him behind the main street buildings, he was instantly recognizable to Wes. Tad Carter. He fired a shot which gouged a great splinter from the corner building, but Tad had already made the turning and was out of sight. Wes wasted no time in continuing the chase.
If Tad’s ambush had been successful then his plan to reach the rear entry of John Lord’s office would have been a good one. In moments he would have reached that haven unobserved and his alibi would have been sound. But failure at the first hurdle had an adverse effect on his escape plan. Once he’d entered the alleyway there was nowhere to hide. Wes Gray was hot on his heels and would catch him or kill him before he was able to reach the sanctuary of the office. He turned to cast a look behind. Wes Gray was in sight and even though Tad fired another shot at him, he continued the pursuit.
The gap between them was closing. Wes would have been justified in shooting Tad in the back – that would have been his own fate if the ambush had succeeded – but he didn’t. He called Tad’s name and the other stopped and slowly turned. For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes then Tad made his move. His arm jerked at the elbow, bringing his hand into a firing position. He was too slow. Wes fired once, the bullet punching into Tad’s heart and he dropped to the ground dead.
Not knowing that his enemy had died outside John Lord’s office, Wes retraced his steps. On hearing the gunshots, Sheriff Johnson had come running from his position outside the warehouse and was bent over Hal Adamson. The doctor, too, whose office was close at hand was inspecting and tending the wound, telling the storekeeper that the bullet had struck his shoulder blade. ‘It’ll be painful, Hal, but you’ll pull through all right.’
Hearing those words, Wes continued on his way towards the warehouse. He passed Bob Best who was hurrying up the street to acquaint himself with the seriousness of his friend’s wound.
Throughout the afternoon, Lame Dog, the Santee Agency guard, had maintained a secret patrol, roving from one end of town to the other, keeping particular watch on the sheriff’s office, the saloon and the livery stable at the end of town. Those were the places he expected his enemy, Wiyaka Wakan, to attend if he returned to Palmersville. He was determined to kill the white scout and gain glory and reward for the deed. The first gunshot reached his ears only moments after he’d spotted the pinto with feathers tied in its mane at the rear of the blacksmith’s shop. The horse, he knew, belonged to his enemy; it was too much of a coincidence to doubt that the shots had some connection with him too.
Using the fence surrounding the corral in which he’d found the pinto, he climbed on to the roof of the forge then, from there, on to the higher roof of the stable. His perch gave him a view along the main street. His eyes soon fixed on a wounded man lying on the boardwalk. One or two people were hurrying to his aid. Wiyaka Wakan was not among them. The sheriff, gun in hand, emerged from the side street below and hurried to join the growing throng. Another gunshot sounded but it came from behind the buildings on the main street and barely caused a ripple of interest to those treating the wounded man.
Beneath him, Lame Dog saw the blacksmith hurry along the street, as curious as the other citizens to learn the reason for the shooting. He was halfway to where the injured man lay when Wes Gray suddenly appeared. Lame Dog saw the cursory manner in which the scout regarded the wounded man then his brief exchange with the blacksmith before continuing with determined stride in his direction. It crossed Lame Dog’s mind that Wiyaka Wakan was coming for his horse.
As he lay on the roof and watched his unwary prey approach, it was clear to Lame Dog that he could kill him with a single rifle shot then disappear before anyone could apprehend him. But he hadn’t brought his long gun. He’d anticipated that the killing would be done at close quarters, silently, probably with his knife. He had a pistol strapped to his thigh but he couldn’t rely on its accuracy and when he shot Wiyaka Wakan he didn’t want him to get up again.
Lame Dog began to shuffle towards the back of the roof where he could overlook the pinto and from where he could launch his attack. A leap from the lower forge roof would have the unsuspecting American at his mercy. There would be none. One powerful strike with his sharp-edged knife would be sufficient to achieve success. Suddenly, he stopped. The scout was not heading for the corral behind the stable; he had turned into the side street from which the sheriff had emerged earlier. Lame Dog looked to his right at the neighbouring flat roofs of the buildings that formed that side street. He judged it prudent to remain hidden until he discovered Wiyaka Wakan’s destination, and watching from above might provide an advantage. There were gaps between the buildings but he was confident that he could jump them without betraying his presence. He looked over the edge but his quarry wasn’t in view, having moved too close to the building on which Lame Dog stood. A partial shadow, however, was cast which provided the Santee with evidence of the scout’s progress.
Lame Dog set off in pursuit, keeping low to avoid being seen by anyone on the main street who looked in his direction. The first gap required a big leap and he was forced to swing his arms high to gain the necessary propulsion. He landed softly, certain that he wouldn’t have been heard by his quarry below.
He was right, Wes Gray hadn’t heard anything, but the flap of an inexplicable shadow had caught his eye. A bird, either perching on the roof-line or flying overhead was its logical cause, but when he looked up the sky was clear. He looked back, noted the gap between the buildings and wondered for a moment if the shadow had been caused by something moving from one building to the other. He walked on, curious, wary, on guard. When he reached the next gap he crossed quickly but stopped abruptly and looked back into the space between the buildings. He was in time to catch a glimpse of a dark shape before it disappeared over the edge of the building and on to the roof. Intrigued, and suspicious that Tad Carter wasn’t the only gunman who’d been sent to kill him, he decided to become the hunter not the hunted.
In the alley between the buildings an outside staircase led to an upper door. Wes looked up and swiftly calculated that by standing on the top handrail he would be able to reach up to the roof. Cat-like, he hurried up the steps but never took his eyes from the roof edge in case his stalker became inquisitive when he didn’t appear at the next gap between the buildings. He climbed on to the handrail, gripped the roof edge and hauled himself up so that his eyes were level with the roof. The first thing he noticed about the man was the red bandana fluttering about the bicep of his left arm. The blue calico shirt and the moccasins on his feet confirmed that he was one of the Santee guards from the Cheyenne River Agency.
Wes’s feet found the rail again, giving him a moment to relax his arms then adjust his grip on the roof timbers. Then, with a swift, powerful heave, he pulled himself waist high to the roof then rolled on to its tar-paper covered surface. At that moment he knew that he was seen he was an easy target, and he needed to gain his feet before the man turned around. He failed.
Although he’d followed the ways of the white people all his adult life, the hereditary instincts of a Sioux hunter had not deserted Lame Dog. He turned, startled to see the buckskin figure rolling on to the roof, unsure how his planned ambush had been intercepted but instantly aware of the need to attack if he hoped to achieve a quick kill. He rose, uncaring now if anyone saw him fro
m below, and raced forward.
Wes’s worst fears weren’t realized. He’d anticipated that the Indian was waiting to shoot him but, as the Santee Sioux came forward he could see that it was a knife gripped in his hand, not a revolver. Wes was on his knees when Lame Dog leapt at him. He grabbed the other’s wrist and was able to force aside the plunging blow that was aimed at his heart. Grappling for supremacy, they rolled on the roof. Lame Dog had the initial advantage, the weight of his attack pushing Wes on to his back from which position the scout had to twist and turn to avoid the Indian’s onslaught while holding tightly to his wrist to keep the knife point away from his body.
Lame Dog uttered many threats as they struggled and when he worked himself into a position astride Wes’s chest it seemed that he would make good his words. But he’d failed to pin down the American’s arms and when Wes swung his right arm, his fist connected with the side of Lame Dog’s head. As the Indian slumped from the blow, Wes heaved with the lower part of his body throwing the Santee aside. Scrambling to his feet, Wes drew his own knife and both men faced each other in a crouching style, prepared to fight to the death for they both knew that one of them must die.
The commotion on the roof now had the attention of the people below and they watched the bitter struggle that was being enacted. At one moment the combatants were locked together, each holding the other’s knife arm then, breaking free, first one would attempt a slash or stab then the other.
The end was not long delayed. Lame Dog, relying on his strength because he was a big man, hoped to take Wes by surprise by launching himself forward and swinging the knife in a vicious arc meant to slice open his enemy’s belly. Wes reacted quickly, rocked backwards to avoid his opponent’s attack then stepped forward with a thrust that went under Lame Dog’s arm and into his heart. The Santee guard staggered against Wes, his head bouncing against the American’s chest as his knees buckled, his knife fell from his hand and his body slumped on to the roof.
