Crackaway's Quest Page 4

  ‘No, no,’ Bob Best replied, ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything of that sort, but you stood up to John Lord. He is as much in awe of your reputation as any other man in this town. You’ve neutralized his power and if that continues the tradespeople and the citizens have more hope of thriving.’ He looked to his companion for assistance. ‘This is Hal Adamson. He runs the mercantile store. Tell him, Hal. Tell him that the town will go under if we don’t rid ourselves of the shackles that Lord has put on us.’

  In appearance, Hal Adamson was the polar opposite of the blacksmith. He was a short man with a grocer’s paunch, had thin, flattened black hair and a large moustache. He wore a wool jacket, below which a watch chain stretched across his body in a double swag from one waistcoat pocket to another. ‘We do need help,’ he said.

  Wes shook his head. ‘I’ll be leaving soon. I came here to meet my friend, Crackaway. He’s dead and I have no other reason to stay. But I did want to ask you,’ he turned his attention back to Bob Best, ‘about his death.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you.’

  ‘I’m told his body was discovered in the livery stable. Did you find him?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know what he was doing there. General opinion is that he was sleeping off another heavy session. He certainly liked liquor. Whenever I came in here he was slumped across a table with a bottle in his hand.’

  ‘Had he slept in your stable at any other time?’

  ‘No. Not to my knowledge. Came along to check on his horse a couple of times and pay for his feed.’

  ‘Was he sober then?’

  ‘Sober enough.’

  ‘What kind of animal is the horse that stamped on him?’

  ‘Placid most of the time. The old man must have done something drastic to startle her like that.’

  ‘You’re sure it was the horse that killed him?’

  ‘Yes. She was still skittish when I got into her stall and there were blood spatters on her fetlocks and chest.’

  There was nothing in the blacksmith’s story that differed from what the sheriff had told him, nothing that hinted at anything other than the accident that people seemed to think were the just desserts of a town drunk. But Wes knew that Crackaway had been playing a role; he wasn’t a drunk and he had no need to find a bed in a stable. So what had led him to his brutal death? Perhaps he wouldn’t find the answer in Palmersville. There was only one other person who might be able to help but to find him meant retracing his steps for twenty miles. ‘I’ll need my horse at first light,’ he told Bob Best then finished his drink and returned to Jenny Trantor’s boarding house.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When he’d woken that morning at the foot of the high, tree-lined ridge on the west bank of the Missouri, Wes Gray had lit a small fire to make coffee. The chill from the winter snow which still clung to the northern high ground had carried down the valley with determination and it was clear that the new day’s sun would need to gather a lot more strength before it could begin to warm the ground. This camp site, secluded behind a spit of land that jutted into the great river, was one of Wes’s regular haunts. He’d pulled his canoe ashore at this point every year as he made his annual springtime journey east from the village of his Arapaho wife’s tribe on the Snake River. For ten years he had rendezvoused at Council Bluffs with his old friend Caleb Dodge and together they had led settlers halfway across the continent to the territories along the Pacific coast. That morning, as he watched the growing orange glow of morning light and listened to the sounds of the awakening day, he had wondered how many more such journeys there would be. The day of the covered wagon was almost over. Railways were able to carry people west in a fraction of the time and with the minimum of discomfort. In addition, on his last visit to California, he’d read a newspaper article which trumpeted the determination of some French engineers to construct a canal in Panama which would make sea travel a viable route from the east coast to western seaports.

  As he chewed pemmican and warmed his hands on his coffee-filled tin mug, these thoughts passed through his mind but they didn’t prevent him hearing the rustle caused by movement among the trees behind him. He didn’t move. He was on a stretch of the river that marked the boundary of the territory that was designated as the Great Sioux Reservation by the Laramie Treaty in 1868 and, although the government had recently reneged on that agreement to give the gold hunters that vital strip in the Black Hills, this area was still out of bounds to most Americans. But Wes Gray was not most Americans. He was Wiyaka Wakan, Medicine Feather, brother of the Arapaho and friend of the Sioux on whose behalf he had spoken at councils and treaty meetings with the Americans. In addition to his Arapaho wife in the western lands, he also had a Sioux wife, Apo Hopa, who lived on their farm on a ‘V’ of land where the Mildwater Creek met the South Platte River.

  Wes knew that whoever had him under observation wanted him to know they were close, that they were approaching his camp with friendly intentions. He continued chewing the pemmican until he was sure his visitor had broken away from the cover of the trees then turned his head to look over his shoulder.

  There was only one man, not a young warrior nor yet an ancient, too old to fight in battle. He was Ogallalah Sioux, a brave far from his traditional territory. He wore leggings and a cotton shirt and his hair was braided in two plaits that reached to his chest each side of his neck. Two eagle feathers were attached to the back of his head by an ornament of buffalo bone. Only a blanket of dried grass separated him from the horse he sat astride. It was black, it’s colour fading to dapple on its hindquarters. The ropes from which the bridle and reins had been created were also made from plaited grasses. Feathers were tied to the ropes and also into the horse’s mane. In his left hand the man held on to a leather strap that was attached to a second horse, a long-backed pinto which was harnessed with an American bridle and saddle.

  Wes stretched out the hand that held the tin cup, an invitation for the Indian to step down and join him at the small fire.

  When he’d drunk some of the hot liquid, the Ogallalah told Wes that his name was Wapaha Sapa, Black Lance. Wes wondered what had brought Black Lance so far east but such were the times that the aftermath of the Black Hills War had forced many of those Ogallalah, Hunkpapa and Minneconjou who had battled the Bluecoats at the Rosebud, Little Bighorn and Slim Buttes to find shelter among their less war-like Santee and Blackfoot cousins. It was often difficult to penetrate the stoic expression on a Sioux brave’s face and that of Black Lance was no different, but although he held his head high he could not hide from Wes the dull-eyed gaze of a hunted man.

  Crackaway had chosen Black Lance as his message carrier because he had learned that he was the uncle of Apo Hopa, Wes’s Sioux wife. Along with the call for help, the Ogallalah had brought a good pony to carry Medicine Feather to the town which was many miles from the river. In addition, he promised to protect Wes’s possessions until he returned. Although eager to reach Council Bluffs, Wes was aware that Caleb Dodge wouldn’t yet be ready to order the wagons west. Plenty of time remained for him to complete his journey. Besides, a message from Crackaway was, in itself, an intimation of importance and urgency, so Wes lost no time in finding a suitable place to cross the river and make tracks south-easterly to Palmersville.

  The discussion with Bob Best hadn’t added anything to Wes’s knowledge of his old friend’s demise. There were no known witnesses to his death and, with the exception of his daughter, no one in Palmersville was interested enough to investigate Crackaway’s presence in the stable. His portrayal of a town drunk had been good enough to convince everyone. The assumption that he’d stumbled into the stable to sleep off a gut full of whiskey had been accepted without question, except by Wes. Whatever his friend had been up to he had been anxious not to have his daughter involved. For her safety he had even refused to acknowledge her, and had sent for Wes to take her to Council Bluffs. The implication was that Crackaway knew that the consequences he faced if his activ
ities were discovered would be drastic. If they had cost Crackaway his life then Wes wanted to know the reason why. He had no more clues to follow in town but perhaps Black Lance could supply some answers.

  When they’d met on the banks of the Missouri, the Ogallalah Sioux had spoken little, informing Wes only that he had been watching for him for many days. He had told Wes where to find Crackaway but not why he needed to see him. Perhaps Black Lance didn’t know anything, had been nothing more than a messenger, but Wes knew no one else who might be a source of information.

  Jenny Trantor was alone when he returned to his lodging. The announcement that he was leaving Palmersville early next morning took her by surprise.

  ‘I can’t leave tomorrow,’ she told him, ‘that’s too soon. There are arrangements to make for this house and furniture. I need a few days. Besides,’ she added, her tone laced with disappointment, ‘I hoped you would investigate my father’s death, try to find out what he was hoping to uncover.’

  ‘I am trying,’ Wes told her, ‘but I’m not sure that anyone in this town can help me. I’m going in search of the man who passed on your father’s message. Perhaps he can help me.’ For a moment he studied Jenny Trantor. Eventually he asked if she was sure she had told him everything she knew.

  ‘There was one thing,’ she told him and asked him to wait while she went to one of the upstairs rooms. ‘He came in with this one night,’ she declared and handed over an empty sack that had been used for vegetables or grain. ‘He seemed to attach some importance to it, kept looking at the marking on the bottom.’

  Wes Gray had already seen the US Government brand in an unusual red design.

  ‘Why would Dad be interested in an old sack?’ Jenny asked.

  Wes Gray didn’t have an answer for her but he asked if he could keep it. He would take it with him when he rode out in the morning.

  Bob Best parted company with Hal Adamson at the saloon doors. Bob went left, up the street to the stable and a final check on the stock before heading for his bed in the adjoining house. There was seldom any urgency for an early start to the day but Wes Gray had ordered his pinto fed and ready for travel at first light. Although, in the main, the frontiersman’s manner had been quiet and inoffensive, his reputation was that of a man it was best not to rile; if he wanted his horse at first light then Bob would have it saddled and ready when he got to the door.

  Hal Adamson had a shorter walk home. His emporium was one block down from the saloon at the other side of the street. It wasn’t until he’d put his key in the lock that he realized that someone was standing in the darkest corner of his covered boardwalk. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked.

  The figure pushed himself away from the wall and took three or four paces forward. Even before he was close enough to be recognizable in the dim light, the store-owner had identified Clem Oates by his ungainly shuffle. Despite the night-time chill, Clem Oates wore no coat and his sleeves were rolled up high on his thick arms. His thumbs were hooked into the front of his gunbelt in menacing fashion.

  Hal Adamson took a step back, a gesture which expressed his reluctance to open up his premises in the presence of Clem Oates more eloquently than words could have done. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, but before he’d completed the short question hands gripped his shoulders from behind and dragged him off the boardwalk into the side alley.

  ‘You’re keeping bad company, storekeeper,’ Tad Carter hissed at him as he thrust him against the wall.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hal Adamson couldn’t keep the nervousness out of his voice.

  ‘I mean the Injun lover. You and him were talking like old pals.’

  Hal Adamson shook his head in denial. ‘It was Bob Best he wanted to speak to.’

  ‘What about?’

  Hal Adamson was a founder member of the town committee with good intentions for the betterment of the community but his physical bravery rarely matched up to his civic ambitions. Even though he believed in law and order and wanted to oppose the tyranny of people like John Lord and the violence of men like Carter and Oates, he was afraid of them. For a moment he paused before answering, a mental struggle prohibiting him from amassing the necessary words.

  Clem Oates prompted the storekeeper by driving a large fist into his midriff. Hal Adamson gasped, his knees buckled but he was prevented from falling by the rough grip that Tad Carter had on his coat. He was hauled upright and thrust against the wall. Oates and Carter cast glances towards the main street to make sure that they weren’t being observed.

  Carter repeated his question. ‘What were you talking about?’

  ‘He was asking questions about the old man that was killed.’ Hal wanted to double over, relieve the pain in his stomach, but Carter held on to him, forced his shoulders against the wall and stared menacingly into his eyes.

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘Questions about how he’d died. Seems he came to Palmersville to meet him. They were friends.’

  Angrily, Oates shifted the grip he had on Hal Adamson so that he held him by the lapels of his jacket and could more easily shake his victim and bounce his head off the wall behind. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing. Bob Best did the talking. He found the body and it was his horse that killed the old man. He told Wes Gray it had been an accident.’

  ‘And he believed him?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he? That’s what everyone else believes.’

  Clem Oates released his hold on the storekeeper and allowed him to straighten his clothing. Tad Carter pushed himself between, demanding to know what else Hal Adamson had learned about the frontiersman’s visit.

  ‘Only that it’s over. He’s quitting town early in the morning. He told Bob Best to have his horse ready at first light.’

  That was a snippet that Carter felt sure would be of interest to John Lord. He signalled with his head for Clem to get their horses while he gave a last bit of advice to Hal Adamson.

  ‘Remember, Mr Lord doesn’t like his people to shoot off their mouth to strangers. We’ll be watching you, storekeeper, so don’t step out of line.’

  ‘I’m not one of Mr Lord’s people,’ Hal insisted, trying desperately to infuse this show of resistance with determination.

  Without hesitation, Tad Carter sank his fist with tremendous force into Hal’s stomach and with the air driven from his body the storekeeper sank to his knees. His assailant leant forward and hissed words over his head that shackled him as surely as chains in a prison cell. ‘Yes, you are and don’t ever forget it.’

  John Lord had spent the evening poring over his stock books, ledgers and correspondence, calculating current assets and future profits. When he’d finished with them he poured a good measure of whiskey into a tumbler as a suitable token of his growing wealth. He swallowed a mouthful. It was good but failed to relax the stern expression that had been on his face all night. His growing wealth was a source of satisfaction but he’d had plans to make this night significant for other reasons.

  He’d wanted Jenny Trantor from the first moment he’d seen her. Without exception she was the most eligible woman in the territory to be his permanent companion. He’d even been prepared to offer her marriage and a home built and furnished to her own style. Her refusal to accept his overtures had, at first, amused him as some feminine game to tantalize him while secretly intending to accept when she’d toyed with him long enough. After all, as he repeated to himself on frequent occasions, who else in this barely civilized country could offer her an existence with even half the luxury that he was able to provide? No, eventually she would succumb. But it had been almost a year since she had first refused his advances and recently her resistance had become more determined and marked with annoyance. Consequently, his addresses to her had been laced with more aggression. No matter what her reasons were, he was not to be rejected. He had decided that he was going to possess her and he never failed to get what he wanted.

  If her lodger, Crackaway, had not interfered a few nights earli
er then he would have succeeded, but that old man couldn’t get between them again. His anger rose when he remembered how she’d openly spurned him earlier that day, had embarrassed him in front of his hired hands. It was an insult she would have to pay for. She had refused him for the last time.

  First though he had to wait for Wes Gray to leave town. The man that some folk called Medicine Feather had declared himself her protector and if the rumours about him were to be believed he was not a man to oppose. Tad Carter had made that discovery before the frontiersman had been in town an hour. John Lord decided it was necessary to wait a while longer but as soon as Wes Gray quit town Jenny Trantor would be his. Those thoughts filled his head when he heard the horses gallop into the compound.

  In the main, the news brought by Carter and Oates lifted John Lord’s spirits. Wes Gray’s departure from Palmersville was, at that moment, his fondest desire. The information that the frontiersman was Crackaway’s friend was less palatable.

  ‘You’re sure he doesn’t suspect anything.’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything,’ Carter replied. ‘I’m just repeating what Hal Adamson told us.’

  ‘Well let’s not take any chances,’ John Lord announced after a moment’s thought. ‘If he’s leaving town tomorrow let’s make sure he never comes back.’

  Tad Carter grinned. ‘That’s what I was hoping you’d say, boss. I’ll tail him out of town and leave him somewhere along the trail. Wherever he’s going he won’t get there.’

  ‘That’s the right idea,’ said Lord, ‘but it’s a job for Oates.’ He turned to the other man and told him to pick a couple of hands to ride with him. ‘Gray will be a lot more trouble than that old man if he ever finds out what we’re doing, so make sure he doesn’t survive.’

  Tad Carter wasn’t pleased. He was the one who had been pinned down by Wes Gray, the one humiliated by having the point of the frontiersman’s knife prick his throat, so the task of putting a bullet in his head should be his honour. John Lord, however, had other duties for the surly cowboy.