Charles West - Day of the Wolf

Concerned now for his own neck, the Choctaw stammered nervously in defense. “Ah, hell no, Billy. I know better’n to cheat on you. I swear I wasn’t even thinkin’ about bottom dealin’. I just had a little streak of luck, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, that little streak was fixin’ to end,” Billy threatened as he bent over the deputy’s body to relieve it of anything of value. He straightened up then and looked around at the circle of spectators, some of whom were heading for the door, the Choctaw among them. “He took a helluva long ride from Fort Smith just to get shot, didn’t he? Somebody drag his carcass outta here.” He paused when another thought occurred to him. “And don’t nobody get no ideas about the horse he rode in on.”

Ed Lenta, the owner of the little trading post that served as a watering hole for more than a few outlaws hiding out in Indian Territory, stepped forward to grab one of Malone’s ankles. “Gimme a hand, Charlie,” he said to the man standing closest to him. Turning to Billy while Charlie took hold of Malone’s other ankle, he complained. “Damn, Billy, I wish you’da took care of this before you led ’em to my door. I sure as hell don’t need a bunch of marshals comin’ for a visit.”

“Ah, quit your bellyachin’, Ed,” Billy responded. “I spent a helluva lot of money in this dump you call a saloon.”

It galled Ed to put up with Billy’s obvious lack of concern for his actions. Had it been anyone other than Billy, Ed would most likely have thrown him out the door and warned him never to come back. Snot-nosed kid, Ed thought. Billy wasn’t even eighteen, but he was the youngest son of Jacob Blanchard. And that was the reason everybody tolerated the obnoxious young gunman. His father cast a big shadow, even down here in Indian Territory. In spite of the fact that Billy was spending a lot of the bank’s money in the saloon, Ed had been wishing he would move on after holing up in his back room for the last three days. Now he was left with a body to hide, hoping no one in Fort Smith knew where the deputy had gone to look for Billy. Thanks to the young hothead, many of Ed’s regular customers would most likely shun his place for a good while, for fear of encountering a marshal’s posse. And Ed would have to hide his stock of illegal whiskey under the floorboards behind his bar in case of a surprise visit. He had been lucky so far because the U.S. Marshals Service in Fort Smith had not found his tiny trading post on the south bank of the Canadian River, deep in the Nations.

While Ed and Charlie dragged the body out the front door, Billy stood casually reloading his pistol. Looking around him again, he demanded, “Where the hell did that damned Injun go?” Motioning toward the table, he told the other two card players, “Let’s get back to the game. I’m too deep in the hole to quit. Maybe with that damn cheatin’ Injun gone, somebody else can win a hand.”

“Not me,” one of the men said. “I don’t need to hang around till the law shows up.” He turned to leave, wasting no time to get out the door in case Billy was still in a killing mood.

“That goes for me, too,” the other poker player said, and followed right on his heels. He didn’t know if the Indian had been cheating or not, but Billy might get the same idea about anyone else who had a lucky streak.

“What the hell’s your hurry?” Billy called after them. “Malone was by hisself. And it took him four days to track me to this hole. Ain’t nobody else likely to come nosin’ around here.”

“Maybe so,” one of the departing men muttered, “but he tracked you here. There might be another’n comin’ along behind him.”

“Shit,” Billy exclaimed in disgust. “He’d get the same as ol’ Malone did.” Although boastful in his comments, the possibility of another deputy, and maybe a posse following him, was reason enough to give him second thoughts. No need to take a chance, he decided, so he holstered his pistol and announced, “Looks like everybody’s gone chicken-livered around here. I’m tired of the place, myself.” He walked to the open door and called out to Ed Lenta, who was halfway across the bare yard, dragging the deputy’s corpse. “Ed, send one of your boys to get my horse saddled up. I’m leavin’ this damn flea nest of yours.”

Saddle your damn horse yourself, Ed thought, and he and Charlie continued dragging the body toward the edge of the clearing. In answer to Billy’s call, however, he responded over his shoulder, “Sure thing, Billy, I’ll take care of it.” He looked at Charlie and shook his head impatiently. “We’ll all hate to see you go,” he muttered sarcastically, only loud enough for Charlie to hear.

Back in the store/saloon combination Ed called a trading post, Billy entered the back room he had inhabited for the last few days to collect his saddlebags and the few articles of clothing he had dropped on the floor. He paused to reconsider when he looked at the clock in the corner of the store. It was a good two and a half days’ ride to his father’s ranch on the Cimarron River, and this day was already half gone. Remembering then that he had gained a new horse for himself when he shot Tom Malone, he dropped his saddlebags on the cot again. There ain’t no marshal within a hundred miles of here, he told himself. I might as well hang around for another night and start out in the morning. That decided, he went out to the hitching rail to inspect the horse and saddle he had just claimed.

A common characteristic of the average deputy marshal was the fine horse he rode. So Billy expected to find a sturdy mount tied at Ed Lenta’s hitching rail, and he was not disappointed. He made a thorough inspection of the blue roan that Malone had ridden, and grinned his satisfaction. While he looked the horse over, a boy that appeared to be close to his age came from the ring of trees beyond the clearing. When he approached Billy, he said, “Ed said for me to go saddle your horse. Which one is it?”

“Never mind that,” Billy told him. “Just take this one and put him in the corral with the other’n. I’ll take the rifle outta that saddle sling, though.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder, dropped it to waist-high, then raised it again as if sighting in on a target. He repeated this several times; then he inspected the weapon, pleased with the acquisition of the ’73 model Winchester .44 caliber, the same as the Colt handgun he had taken from the body.

SIGNET

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