Feud Along the Dearborn Page 3

‘I swear, Mary, that your death will not go unpunished. Walt Risby will pay for this deed even if I have to hang him from a tree myself.’ The tenor of his voice invited neither comment nor contradiction, and the abrupt manner of his departure from the grove emphasised his patriarchal authority.

  Even so, Frank took a hurried step in pursuit, his mouth working to find words of protest, words that would deflect his father from the pursuance of the oath he’d sworn. Tom caught his arm and held on to it when his younger brother tried to shake himself free.

  ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘Let him go. Let him grieve a while, then we’ll go to work on him and persuade him to let the marshal pursue the matter.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was Walt Risby,’ hissed Frank, ‘but he’s got it fixed in his mind that Walt is to blame, and he won’t ever let that go.’

  ‘He’ll see reason,’ insisted Tom.

  Frank disagreed. ‘What makes you think that? He’s convinced that I’m a failure and nothing I do is ever going to change that, so why should Walt expect leniency?’

  ‘Frank!’ Tom wanted to tell his brother that he was mistaken but found himself unable to find the necessary words. He, too, was affected by their sister’s death and confrontations within the family were the last thing he wanted. Frank had finally shaken off the grip on his sleeve and was following his father towards the house.

  Two women stood outside the house, watching the men who were strung out along the route back from the grove. One of the women was Alice Brewster. At her husband’s suggestion, the doctor’s wife had driven out to prepare Mary for burial. She’d brought along Clara Buxton who had been Mary’s closest friend. Ben Hoag’s initial reaction to their arrival had been less than hospitable but the lard needed to be washed from his daughter’s body before it was clothed in her best dress, and women’s hands were needed for such tasks. He relinquished his opposition to their presence at the house but would not permit them to attend the burial process. They were obliged to wait at the house along with the three or four ranch-hands who had gathered in the yard. An awkwardness hung about the men, unsure of what was expected of them. Barring them from the graveside had curtailed a regular display of respect for their boss’s daughter, but it didn’t seem right to conduct the rough-riding, raucous business of pushing beef. So, they’d hung about the yard, hats removed, watching the activity in the distant grove.

  Ben Hoag had almost reached the house when he became aware of the three horsemen coming quickly along the ridge from the north before descending towards the ranch-house. They were yet two hundred yards from his boundary fence when he recognized the leading rider. Immediately, Ben veered towards the gateway, his stride lengthening and quickening, implanting his manner with hostility.

  Mort Risby wasn’t a big man but his width gave him a square appearance when he was in the saddle that was unmistakeable to those who knew him. He was a heavy, bull-like man whose physical prowess was a source of pride. He had always believed himself capable of working longer and harder than any man he’d ever hired, and even in his advancing years, was still regarded as the strongest man in the territory. But he wasn’t a brutal man and now, as he approached the gateway to the Hoag ranch, he tried to hide any expression of anger. The marshal had told him not to come here but he had never been one for avoiding problems head-on. He’d been angered by Ben’s threats against Walt but that had been tempered by the news of Mary Hoag’s death. There had been disputes between the men over the years but in Mort’s opinion, riding over to the Hoag place was the neighbourly thing to do. Mary’s death was a significant loss to the people in this part of Montana. Moreover, it gave Mort the opportunity to put Ben’s mind at rest concerning Walt. That was a misconception he couldn’t allow to develop. He slowed the pace of his mount to a gentle canter before coming to a halt at the closed gate.

  ‘Ben,’ he called, ‘Silas Tasker told me about the fire. It’s a bad business.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ Ben’s voice was heavy with anger.

  ‘Nothing I can say or do that will alter what’s happened, Ben.’

  ‘But your boy can turn himself in to the marshal. Face his punishment like a man.’

  Mort shook his head slowly. ‘Walt didn’t have anything to do with what happened here,’ he said. ‘He’s in Miles City. Went there yesterday.’

  ‘Went there last night after he burned my building and killed my daughter.’

  ‘That’s not true, Ben. You’ve got no reason to make such accusations against my son.’

  ‘He was here, Mort. He was seen and recognized. He killed Mary and I mean to see that he hangs for it.’

  The bitterness, the certainty in Ben Hoag’s denouncement startled Mort Risby. Beside him, Luke Bywater and Steve Tumbrell shifted uneasily in their saddles. Ben Hoag’s accusations couldn’t be easily ignored. They eyed their boss, unsure how he would react.

  ‘Ben,’ Mort said, ‘I’m really sorry about what happened to Mary. I figure I know how much you’re hurting inside. The Lord knows that nobody had a bad word for her or would have wished her to perish in that manner.’

  ‘You don’t know how much I’m hurting, Mort Risby, but you will when they hang your son.’

  Mort’s face blanched. ‘I came here to pay my respects as a good neighbour should, but I refuse to listen to any more of that talk. You’re driving a wedge between us, Ben, that could lead to all kinds of trouble.’

  ‘There’ll be trouble between us until your boy has paid for what he’s done.’ With those words uttered, Ben reached towards a saddle that had been slung over the perimeter fence and pulled a rifle free of its boot. Pointing it threateningly, he added, ‘Now git.’

  Mort pulled on the reins, his horse stepped backwards, away from the gate. ‘I’m going,’ he said, ‘but if you ever pull a gun on me again, you’d better be prepared to use it.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mary Hoag’s death was the talk of Stanton that day, and nowhere was the subject more discussed than in the big trading store which stood apart and dominated the east end of Main Street, much like the newly-built church dominated the west end. The store had been there as long as Stanton had been a town, and had prospered and grown as more and more people settled in the area. Its original owner had quit Montana a year earlier, gone to spend the fortune he’d acquired in San Francisco, Philadelphia, Chicago or New Orleans, depending upon which resident was relaying the information. Gus Hubber had been both cantankerous and querulous, the sort of man who obtained pleasure in causing petty arguments. His replacement, Joe Danvers, was younger, polite and eager to please his customers, but it was Beth Danvers who had the greatest impact on the populace. She, too, was young and had that kind of pleasant disposition that fostered cordiality with almost everyone she met, especially the women, who were eager to glean details of the fashions and lifestyles she brought from the east. Their business flourished and the store, which in Gus Hubber’s days had been the haunt of grumbling, checker-playing, idle men, increasingly became a place where women met to exchange gossip, ideas and information.

  During the morning, as the news of the tragedy spread, the first reactions of the townspeople of Stanton was an outpouring of shock and sympathy. It wasn’t long, however, before those with historical grievances against any member of the Hoag family, threaded trails of comeuppance through the grief. It was the minister’s wife who highlighted the hasty, un-Christian funeral that had been performed. Not only had the body not been laid to rest in the town’s cemetery, she complained, but her husband who had been ordained for such services, had been ignored. It was a grumble that carried no weight with the older residents who understood Ben Hoag’s desire to have his daughter buried alongside her mother, but, influenced by the minister’s wife, others were less charitable. Although they couldn’t attach a specific reason for their suspicion, they were sure that there was something insidious in the rancher’s behaviour.

  It was the minister’s wife’s third visit of the day to the store on
Main Street and on this occasion, there was no pretence that she’d come to buy anything. Cora Hope had seen Alice Brewster return to town in the buggy her husband used for his visits, and had hurried along the street in the hope of learning the latest news from the Hoag ranch. Now, close to the street door, she accosted three townswomen to whom she quietly imparted her sly insinuations of wrongdoing.

  From time-to-time, Beth Danvers raised her head from the account book she was studying, and cast a glance in the direction of the group by the door. She could guess their topic of conversation because few people had spoken of anything other than the death of Mary Hoag all day. Living out of town meant that Mary had been an infrequent customer but, even so, Beth had been shocked by the news of her death. In the course of the day, she’d heard the views of most of the Stanton women. Universally, they held a favourable opinion of Mary, but that didn’t hold for every member of the Hoag family. Many people in town were irked by Ben’s gruff manner, and Tom’s introversion belittled him in the eyes of others. It angered Beth that sympathy for the girl’s dreadful death had become marred by these instances of unrelated umbrage. She was particularly repulsed by the fact that the minister’s wife seemed to be the most vociferous in despoiling the character of the Hoag family, and for no greater reason than that her husband’s office had been slighted. Beth didn’t approve, but she had a store to run and couldn’t banish everyone whose opinion was contrary to her own. If they gossiped in her store then, eventually, they would spend their money here, too. But she still wished that everyone would just mourn Mary’s death and forget about the behaviour of the rest of that family.

  Once again, Beth raised her head, her attention caught this time by a movement in the doorway. The group of women shuffled aside to give the newcomer access to the interior. He was a slim man in a store-bought suit. He wasn’t short, but he had a stoop-shouldered gait that made him appear less tall than his near six-feet. He was bare-headed but that was because he’d simply crossed the street from the shop where he cut hair, shaved faces and heated water for the tin tubs that were occasionally occupied by visiting cowboys. He said good-day to Mrs Hope and her companions then made his way to the counter at the back of the store. He seemed interested in every item of stock on display, his eyes scanning the shelves and table layouts he passed, but nothing interrupted his progress. It never did. He always pretended to be surprised to find Beth at whichever counter she was attending, but he’d known her location from the moment he’d entered the store. Jack Temple made Beth Danvers nervous, especially at times like this when Joe wasn’t around. She knew that men found her attractive and there were others in town who found it difficult to hide their thoughts when their eyes settled on her, but she always sensed something sinister in Jack’s behaviour. Still, he came into the store as a customer, so she smiled when he reached the counter.

  ‘I’m short of smokes,’ he told her. While she was retrieving a pack of his preferred black cigarillos from an under-counter drawer, he spoke again. ‘Can’t get to sleep at night without some tobacco to relax me.’

  Momentarily, Beth paused. The inflection in Jack Temple’s voice hinted that his words hid another meaning, one which carried a threat, which somehow gave him a power over her that he meant to use. When she looked up, however, he’d turned away, his attention fixed on the group of women at the other end of the store.

  ‘They, I presume,’ he said as he picked up his pack of smokes, ‘are discussing the events out at the Hoag place.’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Beth replied. ‘Little else has been spoken of in here today.’

  A sly smile curled the corners of Jack’s mouth. ‘Must have been a terrible shock for Frank Hoag when he returned home.’

  Beth Danvers tried to appear ignorant of Jack Temple’s meaning, but she couldn’t prevent the colour suddenly draining from her face. Jack gently tossed the pack of smokes in his hand before putting them into a side pocket. ‘Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and stand by my window, watching the sleeping town. Interesting things can sometimes be discovered.’ He paused, watched Beth Danvers, waited for her to respond. When she refused to lift her eyes to meet his, he spoke again. ‘I’m sure your husband will be eager to hear all the details regarding the Hoag family when he returns.’

  Now she did look up and every feeling of apprehension that had gripped her was verified by the other’s exultant look.

  ‘When does your husband return?’ he asked.

  ‘Tonight,’ Beth said quietly.

  ‘How unfortunate for me,’ Jack Temple said with a shrug of his shoulders, but Beth knew that that wasn’t the end of the matter. ‘Still,’ he continued, ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to reach some accommodation over the next few days which will keep the details of certain clandestine meetings from your husband’s ears.’

  Beth’s angry glare was met with a smug smile, then Jack Temple quit the store.

  All day, the town had been agog with talk of the tragedy at the Hoag ranch, but it wasn’t until darkness had settled over Stanton that the confrontation between Ben Hoag and Mort Risby became known. Mort was still rankled by the reception he’d received when he rode into town. He was accompanied by Luke Bywater and Steve Tumbrell, but their reason for leaving the ranch that night was for nothing more spectacular than a few beers and a game of poker in the River Bend Saloon. All three hitched their mounts outside the saloon but when the two ranch-hands went inside, their boss walked along the street to the post office where he hoped to find Jethro Humbo still at his desk. He was disappointed, the office was in darkness and the door locked.

  With a curse of frustration, he retraced his steps. Before he reached the rail where he’d hitched his horse, he heard the hoof beats of two others behind him and felt the eyes of their riders on him as they passed by. He glanced towards them, recognized Chet Taylor and another cowboy from the Hoag ranch and watched as they dismounted outside the River Bend Saloon. Both men eased the girth straps on their animals before heading for the batwing doors.

  Chet Taylor touched his hat and muttered, ‘Mr Risby,’ when they met on the boardwalk outside the saloon. It was an acknowledgement of the rancher’s presence that on another occasion he might have deemed unnecessary, but he saw no reason to add to the tension that had been generated earlier in the day. Buck Downs, taking a lead from Chet, touched his hat also before pushing the swing doors aside to gain access to the noisy saloon.

  Mort Risby offered a surly reply, a denigration of Ben Hoag who, he said, could learn a lot about basic politeness from his own work-hands.

  Chet didn’t follow his friend into the saloon. He stopped and faced the owner of the Triple-R ranch. ‘Mr Risby,’ he began, ‘me and Buck have come into town to wash the smoke from our throats, we’re not looking for trouble or argument. It’s been a bad day out at the ranch and I’m real sorry for what’s happened to Mr Hoag and his boys. Perhaps you think he overstepped the mark when you turned up at the ranch earlier, and perhaps he did, but up to now he’s been a good boss and he has my loyalty. So, don’t bad-mouth him again, Mr Risby. I suggest you give him a wide berth until his grieving’s done.’

  Irked to be spoken to in such a manner, Mort Risby prepared to respond to Ben Hoag’s young foreman. Before he could speak, however, a figure pushed away from the wall and emerged from the shadows.

  ‘That sounds like good advice, Mr Risby,’ said Silas Tasker. ‘In fact, it sounds like the same advice I gave you this morning. I told you Ben Hoag wanted only his family at the funeral.’

  ‘I went to pay my respects. We’ve been neighbours for thirty years and I’d known Mary all her life. It was the natural thing to do.’

  Silas Tasker motioned his head, a signal for Chet Taylor to join his friend inside the River Bend Saloon. To Mort Risby he said, ‘Let’s go along to my office and we’ll talk about this. What I just overheard suggests that by interrupting the funeral you made matters worse.’

  ‘The funeral was over before I got there.’


  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘He pulled a gun on me,’ announced Mort. ‘Pulled a gun on me and threatened to hang my son. No matter how deep his grief, it doesn’t give him the right to do those things.’

  Silas agreed but he didn’t want to charge at the problem like a wounded buffalo. He couldn’t help feeling that if Mort Risby had stayed away from Ben Hoag for a couple of days, then Ben Hoag’s grief would have subsided and the whole incident could have been investigated in a calm and orderly manner. Riding out to the Hoag ranch when he wasn’t wanted had only enhanced the involvement of the Risbys in Ben Hoag’s troubled mind.

  ‘What are you doing in town?’ Silas asked.

  ‘Hoped to catch the telegraph office open,’ the rancher replied.

  ‘Wanted to get a message to Walt in Miles City. It’s probably a good idea for him to stay there for a few days. He won’t object.’

  ‘Jethro will send a message early in the morning. Do you mean to stay in town tonight?’

  Before Mort could supply an answer, gunshots cracked loud, bringing an abrupt end to their conversation. Silas Tasker turned and hurried back towards the River Bend Saloon.

  Several customers had been standing at the bar when Chet Taylor and Buck Downs had entered the saloon, but the barman had still slid two glasses of beer to them along the polished counter. Only after both men had drunk deeply did the barman ask for the latest details from the Hoag ranch.

  ‘Nothing to report,’ said Chet. He didn’t want to speculate on the cause of the fire or the identity of anyone responsible for it. ‘Mary’s buried. Let that be an end to it.’

  Neither Chet nor Buck had noticed the two Triple-R riders at a nearby table. They were playing penny poker with Jack Temple and Jethro Humbo. Steve Tumbrell and Luke Bywater exchanged a look of incredulity and it was the former who spoke up.

  ‘Don’t see how that can be the end of it when your boss is threatening to shoot people without any cause.’