Feud Along the Dearborn Page 4

  Buck began to turn to answer the Triple-R man, but Chet put a hand on his arm to restrain him. ‘Leave it,’ he said. There was bad blood between Buck and Steve Tumbrell; it had started over a girl and come to a head when Buck caught Steve cheating in a card game. He was merciless in the ensuing fight, leaving Steve incapable of herding cattle for a week afterwards. Now they tended to avoid each other, and Chet and Buck would have gone elsewhere this night if they’d known the Triple-R man was already in the River Bend Saloon.

  ‘Who’d Ben threaten to shoot?’ asked the barman.

  ‘Mr Risby.’ That information was supplied by Luke Bywater. He added, ‘We went across to the funeral to pay our respects, and old man Hoag pulled a rifle on us. Threatened to shoot us.’

  ‘Is that true?’ the barman asked Chet.

  ‘It’s a bad time for the boss,’ Chet said. ‘He’d watched his daughter die. Let it go.’

  ‘Let it go!’ exclaimed Steve Tumbrell. ‘Don’t seem likely that Mr Risby will let it go. Old man Hoag blames Walt for his daughter’s death and intends to have him hanged for it.’ The silence which descended on the room with those words was broken by the barman’s rough tones. ‘Blames Walt! Why?’

  ‘Because he’s crazy.’

  ‘He’s not crazy,’ snapped Buck Downs, ‘there are reasons.’

  ‘What reasons?’ asked Jethro Humbo.

  Again, Chet rested a hand on Buck’s arm, hoping to put an end to the exchange of words.

  ‘What reasons?’ Jethro asked again.

  ‘I reckon the marshal’ll sort it out,’ Chet said. He drained his glass and nudged Buck’s arm for him to do the same. If they intended staying in town, they would do their drinking along the street in the Irishman’s bar.

  Luke Bywater spoke up. ‘I heard Silas Tasker tell Mr Risby that Frank Hoag says he saw Walt hanging around the barn before it went up in flames.’

  ‘Frank Hoag’s a liar,’ Steve Tumbrell shouted. ‘Everyone knows that Walt went off to Miles City yesterday.’

  ‘You watch your mouth, Steve Tumbrell,’ Buck said. ‘You’ve called Mr Hoag crazy and Frank a liar. One more insult against the Hoags and you’d better be prepared to back up your words.’ He eased the revolver in its holster, not only to emphasise the consequences Steve faced if he didn’t desist, but also to ensure that his pistol would come freely away from the leather if that became necessary.

  The people in the saloon began to shift to the edges of the room. All eyes were fixed on the two Hoag riders who were still standing against the bar, and Steve Tumbrell who had kept his place at the card table.

  Chet said, ‘Take it easy, Buck. Drink up and let’s go.’

  Buck said nothing. His eyes were fixed on Steve Tumbrell.

  Luke Bywater knew that his companion had been seeking an opportunity to get even with Buck ever since he’d taken a beating. Now, with his hands hidden below the table, no one saw him remove his pistol from its holster. Nor did they witness the slight nudge he gave his friend.

  The smile that spread across Steve Tumbrell’s face surprised everyone in the room. The history between the two men was well known and the knowledge that Buck was the more capable man in any situation was accepted by all. So, the confidence depicted by the stretching smile was difficult to understand. Steve Tumbrell was relaxed, indeed he seemed eager to face the challenge that had been proposed. He lifted his hands above the level of the table so that they could be clearly seen by Buck and Chet.

  ‘All the Hoags are crazy liars,’ he said.

  Buck’s right hand grasped for the Colt in his holster. Before he could raise it, a gun appeared in the other’s hand and two bullets smashed into his chest. Buck pitched full-length on the floor and was dead before anyone else moved.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chet Taylor stared at the lifeless figure at his feet, stunned by the death of his friend. He raised his head until his eyes met those of Steve Tumbrell. If he’d entertained thoughts of revenge against Buck’s killer, they were instantly abandoned. The gun that fired the lethal shots had been re-cocked and was pointed now at his own chest. Behind it he could see the killer’s cold smile of triumph and a glint in his eyes that hinted that he would not be reluctant to pull the trigger again.

  ‘He called it,’ said Tumbrell, ‘every man here knows that to be true. It was a fair fight but if you see it different then go ahead and make your play.’

  For several tense seconds a silence hung over the room. Those men who had quit their tables or their station along the counter, remained unmoving against the walls, watchful of the major players in the affair. It was the barman who first broke the atmosphere, his voice as harsh on his clients’ ears as a blacksmith’s rasp on horseshoes.

  ‘Enough,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll have no more gunplay in here.’

  His words still hung in the air when the swing doors were swept open and Silas Tasker stepped into the room. Mort Risby was two steps behind. Both men stopped when they saw the body on the floor.

  ‘What happened here?’ Silas asked.

  ‘I guess he wasn’t as quick as he thought, marshal.’

  Steve Tumbrell’s leering reply angered Silas Tasker. ‘Give me that gun,’ he ordered. ‘You’re under arrest until I find out what’s happened here.’

  ‘He threatened me, and I beat him to the draw. Buck was the aggressor. Everyone here will confirm that.’

  A few bystanders nodded their heads or uttered grunts of affirmation, but they didn’t deter Silas from doing his duty. He stepped forward, hand outstretched for the weapon that had slain Buck Downs. ‘Come with me,’ he told Steve Tumbrell, ‘you’re under arrest while I investigate this killing.’

  Tumbrell got to his feet but it was to register protest at the marshal’s decision. He saw no reason to be locked up when he was sure that no man present would contradict his assertion that it had been a fair fight. That contradiction, however, was apparent to the marshal as soon as the killer arose and revealed that his holster still contained a pistol.

  ‘Whose gun is this?’ Silas asked, as he grasped the still-warm barrel of the gun in Tumbrell’s hand.

  No one answered immediately but with his confidence dented by the mistake of not returning the gun to its rightful owner, Steve Tumbrell’s gaze wandered towards his still-seated companion from the Triple-R ranch.

  Silas Tasker addressed the three men who remained sitting around the table. ‘Get up.’ Jack Temple and Jethro Humbo obeyed immediately. Luke Bywater hesitated until the marshal repeated his command and backed up his words with a motion of the gun he now held. Still, Bywater’s reaction was slow, his eyes fixed on the marshal as though he would pounce on him if presented with any opportunity to do so. At first, the murmurs that arose at the sight of his empty holster were low, but they grew and were laden with repugnance when its implication dawned on the men in the room.

  It was Chet Taylor who voiced the accusation at Luke Bywater. ‘You put that gun in his hand. You ambushed Buck.’ Turning his attention to Steve Tumbrell, he added, ‘You deliberately goaded him into reaching for his gun to get revenge for the beating he gave you. You planned it together because, on your own you knew you weren’t capable of beating him.’

  After removing the pistol from Steve Tumbrell’s holster, Silas Tasker ordered the pair down to the jail.

  ‘It was murder,’ Chet declared as the Triple-R riders were herded towards the saloon door.

  Silas told him to wait in the saloon until he returned. ‘I’ll hear your version of events after I’ve locked up these two. Somebody fetch the doctor to certify Buck’s death, then have him moved to the undertaker’s place.’

  Mort Risby wanted to know how long Silas meant to keep his ranch-hands under lock and key. ‘This is a busy period,’ he protested, ‘I can’t manage with two men short.’

  ‘Then hire some more,’ the marshal told him. ‘Seems likely they’ll have to stand before a judge and he ain’t due in town for a week or two. If the charge is murder, I won
’t be letting them out of the cells before their trial.’

  Mort hadn’t expected any other answer, but he still didn’t like it. He voiced his objections to an unrelenting marshal all the way to the jail house. The prisoners were put into separate cells and, when he and Mort Risby left the office, Silas took the unusual step of locking the street door, too.

  As they retraced their steps, both men were aware of the rowdy noises coming from the River Bend. The place was seldom quiet, but the din rarely rose above the drone of men in idle conversation, mixed with the jangling notes of the barroom piano. Stanton no longer had the reputation of a frontier cattle town and incidents of violence and gunplay were rare. It had been almost three years since the last man had been killed on this street. A peaceful town suited Silas but not only as testimony to his own efficiency as a policeman. If Stanton was ever to become as important as Billings or Butte, then it needed to garner the renown of a civilised town in order to attract more settlers and businesses to the area.

  For now, though, the ruckus in the saloon was of secondary importance to the marshal. Four men were carrying Buck Downs’ body on a plank along the street towards Noah Pink’s timber-yard where the coffins were made. Abe Brewster trailed behind. He was jacketless and hatless, indicating the alacrity with which he’d responded to the call for his services, but stopped when he recognized the figures who were heading his way.

  ‘What’s going on around here?’ he asked, the question was almost a grumble and it was clear that he didn’t expect either the marshal or the rancher to provide an answer. ‘Two good people wiped away from the world unnecessarily. In my experience, people die easily enough without the need of help from anyone else.’ He threw a look at Mort Risby that almost held an accusation, but he began walking again without another word.

  ‘You’ll give me a note to certify Buck’s death?’ Silas asked.

  ‘I’ll bring it in the morning,’ Abe threw over his shoulder. Then he stopped and turned to face the others. ‘Two gunshot wounds, either of which would have killed him. Close together, like the shooter had time to take careful aim before pulling the trigger.’

  ‘What are you implying, Doctor?’ asked Mort Risby.

  ‘I’m not implying anything,’ Abe replied. ‘Just telling you what I’ll tell the judge when your men stand trial.’

  ‘My men!’ reiterated Mort Risby pointedly. ‘Steve Tumbrell’s quarrel with Buck Downs was a private matter. It had nothing to do with me or the Triple-R.’

  Silas Tasker was surprised by Abe Brewster’s remark. Inflaming arguments wasn’t the doctor’s normal practice. He gave voice to that opinion.

  ‘It’s not me you need to be talking to,’ Abe told him. ‘A lot of things have been said back there and there’s a swell of feeling against you and yours, Mr Risby.’

  The marshal looked up the street, the noise emanating from the River Bend now a source of concern. He could hear the barman bellowing. Although his actual words didn’t carry to the three men on the street, his meaning was clear. He was attempting to establish some semblance of order within the saloon.

  His anger rising, Mort Risby demanded an explanation from the doctor for his words.

  ‘People are putting two and two together,’ Abe said. ‘There was already sympathy for the Hoags over Mary’s death, and common rumour has your son involved in that.’

  Mort Risby snapped at him. ‘The Triple-R wasn’t involved in the fire that killed Mary Hoag.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but what’s now seen as the cold-blooded killing of Buck Downs by two of your men has got people talking about a feud between your spread and the Diamond-H. Some people think a range war is brewing.’

  At that moment, a yell followed by more loud shouts and the sounds of breaking furniture carried along the street from the direction of the River Bend. The doctor cursed, wondered aloud if he was to get any rest that day, then followed in the wake of Silas Tasker who was already hurrying to investigate the commotion.

  Two townsmen were hurrying outside as the marshal approached the swing doors. Recognizing Silas, one of the men informed him of the identity of the brawlers. ‘It’s Chet Taylor and Jack Temple,’ he said, before hurrying away from the vicinity with his companion.

  Silas peered into the room. Once again, the customers were lining the walls but this time they’d vacated the tables and their places at the counter, not to get out of the line of fire, but to give room to the combatants who were scuffling amidst overturned tables and broken glasses. The barman, who had come from behind the bar with a stout club in his hand, was yelling at them to stop or take the quarrel outside, but his words were having no effect. It was clear that he was willing to crack either or both skulls but because they were rolling and hauling each other around the room, was unable to deliver any kind of telling blow. It was also apparent to Silas that, as expected when he heard the names of those involved, Chet Taylor had the upper hand.

  With both hands, Jack Temple was gripping Chet’s shirt front, keeping close to his opponent so that the ranch-hand’s punches couldn’t be delivered with a full swing of the arm. Previous blows, however, had found their mark. His face was marked, and blood was flowing freely from cuts, both above and below his left eye. He was in pain and breathing raggedly through his mouth and when Chet attempted to twist himself free of his hold, Jack’s draining resistance became apparent to everyone in the room. His knees buckled, and he would have gone to the floor if not for his stubborn hold on his adversary’s shirt.

  Silas drew his pistol and fired two shots into the night sky before stepping into the saloon. The gunfire had an effect on those watching the fight, especially the men nearest the door who stepped aside to make a pathway through to the middle of the room, but it didn’t put an end to the struggle; something more than remote gunshots was needed to distract the combatants from their purpose.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Silas shouted as he grabbed the back of Chet Taylor’s shirt collar and hauled him backwards. Pitting his own strength against the waning energy of the fighters, he pushed his body between them. ‘Enough,’ he yelled again.

  His wasn’t the only voice that could be heard. ‘You’ll pay for this damage,’ the barman shouted. ‘Next time you want to brawl, do it out on the street.’ To emphasise his point, he smacked the cudgel across Chet’s shoulders. The Diamond-H rider staggered forward and collided with Silas Tasker who was trying to lug Jack Temple onto one of the few nearby seats that were still upright.

  ‘Get back behind the counter, Bart,’ the marshal told the barman, ‘and you,’ he said to Chet Taylor, ‘sit down there because if you bump into me again I’ll charge you with assaulting a peace officer.’

  Slowly, the glare of animosity that Chet had fixed on Jack Temple began to subside. It wasn’t that he had lost his bitterness for the barber, but with much of his energy spent and his shoulders sore from the blow from Bart Martin’s baton, he knew he was no match for the marshal.

  ‘Somebody want to tell me what’s going on here?’ asked Silas.

  Chet pointed an accusing finger at Jack Temple. ‘He was part of the plot to kill Buck,’ he said.

  ‘I was not,’ responded the other.

  ‘You were at the table with them. You must have seen Luke Bywater pass his gun to Steve Tumbrell.’

  Wiping away the blood that was running into his left eye, Jack Temple denied that accusation too.

  ‘But you agree with them about Mr Hoag and his family. You think they are liars.’

  ‘Marshal!’ A voice from among the spectators interrupted proceedings. A tall, fair-haired man stepped forward. ‘Perhaps I can explain. I think it was something I said which sparked the fury.’

  ‘Go ahead, Mr Danvers. Say what you’ve got to say.’

  ‘I got here after the shooting. In fact, I came to see what had happened. There was a lot of talking linking the fire out at the Hoag place with the gunfight and the prospect of a feud between the Triple-R and the Diamond-H. An argument started up abou
t the whereabouts of Walt Risby when the fire that killed Mary Hoag was started. Well, I’ve just returned from Miles City, been there on business for a couple of days, and I mentioned that I hadn’t bumped into young Walt while I was there.’

  ‘Miles City is a bigger place than Stanton,’ snapped Mort Risby. ‘Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.’

  Joe Danvers held out his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘I agree, but it seemed to be sufficient proof for some people that your son had been hanging around the Diamond-H last night.’

  The marshal cast a look at Chet Taylor, wondering if he had been the ringleader of such an attitude.

  ‘In fairness,’ Joe Danvers said, reading the marshal’s suspicion, ‘Chet was avoiding involvement in the conversation until Jack sprang to Walt’s defence and said that there was no proof that Frank Hoag was telling the truth.’

  After the events of the past few hours, Silas Tasker could understand why that would anger Chet. The expression of similar sentiments had cost the life of his companion. He would be burning inside for some kind of justice for the slaying of Buck Downs. ‘Chet,’ he said, ‘get back to the ranch. I’ll be there early in the morning to talk to Mr Hoag and get your version of events.’

  Without a word, Chet gathered up his hat which had come adrift during the scuffle, then went outside, climbed into the saddle and leading the bronc that Buck had ridden into town, lit out for the Diamond-H.

  While Abe Brewster attended to the abrasions sustained by Jack Temple during his fight with Chet Taylor, Silas spoke to those customers who had been present when Buck Downs was killed. It soon became clear that no one had seen Luke Bywater pass his gun under the table, but most were agreed that there was no other explanation for Steve Tumbrell’s success. The gun had appeared in his hand before Buck Downs had begun to draw his own revolver. No one could point to anything in his past that marked the Triple-R rider as a quick-draw artist but they all agreed that he had baited Buck Downs with a gloating certainty of success. When Silas Tasker left the River Bend, he knew the charges against Steve Tumbrell and Luke Bywater would be murder.