Incident at Elk Horn, page 1
Incident at Elk Horn
When bounty hunter Gustavus Greeley rides into Elk Horn, he learns that Marshal Detmeyer has failed to return from investigating a shooting at the nearby Baker farm. Going out to the farm, Greeley finds Mr and Mrs Baker and their son dead, Detmeyer badly wounded, and their two daughters missing. Arrows have been used, making it look like an Indian attack, and the girls are presumed to have been taken captive by Apaches. But are the Apaches really responsible? Or are brothers David and Will Preston, newcomers to Elk Horn looking for land to take up ranching, somehow involved?
Incident at Elk Horn
Steven Gray
ROBERT HALE
© Steven Gray 2016
First published in Great Britain 2016
ISBN 978-0-7198-2168-4
The Crowood Press
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.crowood.com
Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press
The right of Steven Gray to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
CHAPTER ONE
Gustavus Greeley rode into Elk Horn in bad need of a bath, a haircut and shave, and a woman. In that order. It was a long time since he’d been without all four.
Once he’d collected the reward for bringing in Matty Scales he’d not only have enough money to pay Madame Josephine for the first three but, after he was clean, he could enjoy the bed and charms of Melissa Fyfield. She was the best girl at Josephine’s brothel, and one with whom Greeley was sort of in love.
Elk Horn was an ever-growing town. It existed to serve the ranchers and farmers who made a living in the plains to the south and the valleys and hills to the north. There was even talk of the railroad putting in a spur line. Greeley rode in from the south, as Scales had tried to escape to Mexico, and had nearly made it, too. First came the small business area, then, passing the turning to the red-light district, he reached the heart of the town.
It was nearing that time of day when the stores closed for business, and Main Street was quiet. A few people were still about but most had already headed home for dinner.
The marshal’s office, as well as a new courthouse, was situated at the far end of the street. Greeley always reckoned that it would make better sense if they’d been built near the red-light district because it was there most of the trouble occurred. But as he wasn’t on the town council no one had asked his advice.
He pulled the two horses to a halt, dismounted and stretched, easing the kinks out of his back. He tied the reins to the hitching rail and stepped up on to the sidewalk.
The deputy marshal, Eddie Smith, looked up expectantly at his entrance.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. He sounded disappointed and despondent.
Greeley took off his Stetson, banging it hard against his knee.
‘Who were you expecting?’
‘Marshal Detmeyer.’
Making himself at home, Greeley poured coffee out for them both and sat down in Detmeyer’s chair, leaning back and eyeing Eddie. He was a tall and gangly youth, with spots, and hadn’t been a deputy for long. His eagerness almost made up for his inexperience, but not always; right now he looked very worried.
‘What’s wrong?’
Something was for sure.
Also it concerned Marshal Detmeyer.
Marshal Detmeyer didn’t approve of bounty hunters, whom he accused of only being interested in the reward money. He’d always adhered to and abided by the law and he liked outlaws to stand trial and be sentenced by the judge to be hanged after the jury found them guilty. He most certainly didn’t approve of Greeley, who more often than not brought in those he went after dead rather than alive.
The marshal wouldn’t like the fact that Matty Scales was dead, his body slung over the back of Greeley’s horse.
But hell! What choice did Greeley have when the likes of Scales drew down on him but to shoot back? It wasn’t his fault that he was fast on the draw and accurate in his shot.
Anyway, Scales had killed two innocent bystanders during a bank robbery and that was too close to home for Greeley to feel any sympathy towards him.
His being willing to shoot outlaws wasn’t the only reason Detmeyer disapproved of Greeley. Gus was twenty-seven, six feet tall and lean-bodied. With his black curly hair, black moustache and blue eyes, he was attractive to women. That included Detmeyer’s daughter Ann, who, now she was sixteen and verging on womanhood, was smitten. The fact that Greeley had never encouraged her and never would made no difference. As far as the marshal was concerned, Greeley was at fault and a danger to the girl’s virtue.
But Detmeyer was a good man and Greeley was as worried as Eddie. Eddie gulped down some coffee.
‘Earlier this afternoon, a farmer called here to say that on his way into town he was passing near to the Baker place when he heard the sound of shooting and smelt smoke.’
‘Didn’t he stop to find out what was going on?’
‘No. He had his wife and two baby sons with him and he was afraid of them getting hurt. Besides I don’t think his wife would’ve let him stop. Instead he drove the buckboard into town as fast as he could to tell us. The marshal immediately rode out to the Baker farm.’ Eddie cast a nervous glance at the clock on the wall. ‘That was over three hours ago. He should be back by now.’
‘How far is it to the farm? Where do they live?’
‘In Five-Mile Valley.’
Greeley nodded. He knew where that was.
‘It’s less than an hour’s ride and the marshal would probably have done it even quicker because he was anxious over what the shooting meant.’
Under two hours to get there and back, that left more than an hour to discover the reason for the shootings. Too long? Maybe.
‘Perhaps the reason for the gunfire was serious enough to make him stop at the farm to sort it out,’ Greeley suggested.
‘Could be,’ Eddie agreed doubtfully.
The marshal was a conscientious man. Knowing that his deputy would be worried about him, he wouldn’t delay there any longer than he had to.
‘Why didn’t you go with him? Or ride out after him to find out if he was all right?’
‘Because, Mr Greeley, you might not realize it, having been gone for a while, but it’s Saturday. Cowboys and farmhands have been drifting in all day and even though it’s still early I’ve already had to break up one fight at The Antlers.’
Hell! That was another reason for Detmeyer to get back as soon as he could. He wouldn’t want to leave Eddie by himself to handle rowdy and drunken cowboys on a Saturday night.
‘I don’t think I know the Bakers,’ Greeley said.
‘No, I don’t either, not really. They only get into Elk Horn now and then.’
Greeley nodded again. As farmers, working hard and long hours, day in and day out, all year round, they would only come to town to sell produce and buy those essentials they couldn’t grow or rear. Maybe to attend a social dance or a church picnic.
That could, and should, have been his life too.
‘I . . . . er . . . well, I suppose, Mr Greeley,’ Eddie began nervously, ‘you wouldn’t ride out there and see what’s happened, would you?’
Hell! Riding out to investigate a shooting was the last thing Greeley wanted right now.
Not only did he want a rest, he was hungry. He’d existed on crackers and jerky and warm water for too long and he wanted a decent meal: beef-stew and potatoes followed by apple pie – washed down by a couple of beers. He could go to the café for the former and The Antlers saloon for the latter because, say what you liked about Jack Phillips, he served a good, ice-cold beer. Eddie must have sensed his reluctance.
‘I can’t very well leave here and, well . . . er . . . you might be right about the marshal sorting things out, but equally he could be hurt. Do you think he is? I don’t like to think that but I’m afraid he is. Supposing he is – hurt, that is – and he’s alone and waiting for help to arrive and—’
‘All right!’ Greeley interrupted the deputy’s gabbling. He stood up to pour himself some more coffee.
Hell! But Eddie’s fear was understandable. Shots had been fired earlier, something had been on fire. Both of which could mean only one thing: trouble! Detmeyer had ridden out alone. He could have ridden right into the middle of that trouble, and found it too much to handle by himself.
Greeley might be tired and dirty, he might be hungry and longing for the comfortable arms of a woman but, hell, what choice did he have? He’d never forgive himself if, by doing nothing, Detmeyer’s situation became worse. Anyway he wouldn’t be able to enjoy anything, not even Melissa’s bed, all the while he didn’t know if the marshal was all right or not. He sighed, thinking about another long ride ahead of him.
‘OK, yeah, I’ll go.’
‘Thank you, Mr Greeley.’ Eddie’s face lit up with a relieved smile.
‘In the meantime, Eddie, I’ve got a dead outlaw outside. See he gets to the undertaker for me, and take the two horses to the livery.’
Greeley’s horse was as weary as he was; he would have to hire a fresh animal.
‘Sure thing.’ Unlike his boss, Eddie had no trouble with dead outlaws.
‘And have my reward money waiting for me for when I get back!’
CHAPTER TWO
On an eager-to-be-ridden mare Greeley m
As he rode along he wondered what his life would have been like as a farmer. It was something he seldom allowed himself to think about because it brought back memories of everything he’d lost.
He was thirteen when his father decided to uproot his family – wife, three sons and two daughters – from their farm in Ohio and move West. That was in 1866, shortly after the end of the War Between the States, in which his father had fought for the North. His father said there were lots of opportunities in the new lands being opened up to settlers, more money to be made, good pastures for the taking.
It hadn’t quite turned out as easy as that. Arizona proved to be a raw and dangerous place with little in the way of civilization. The work needed to clear the land, build a home and keep it all was tough and relentless. Lonely too. His younger brother had left home as soon as he could and had never been back, and one of his sisters was now a schoolteacher in Flagstaff, having been unable to cope with the solitude.
Yet somehow they had prospered. More people moved into the area. With his eldest brother due to inherit the farm, Gus had started to think of buying some land for himself. Near the family farm but far enough away for him to remain independent. Find a girl to marry and have a family of his own. It was what he wanted.
Then, when he was twenty, everything changed.
One morning his father rode to a local trader’s store to buy chewing tobacco. It was something he’d often done before. That day he was in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. He’d walked through the door while the store was being held up. He’d been shot dead, left to lie in his own blood on the earthen floor.
The outlaw escaped with two dollars and some loose change in his pocket. He’d never been caught.
Overnight Greeley quit the farm to chase after the man who’d widowed his mother. At the same time he decided to become a bounty hunter. He wasn’t exactly sure why he did, nor why that and not a lawman, except that suddenly, desperately, he needed to be free, without having to obey other people’s rules, to do whatever it took to make those who broke the law pay; with their lives if necessary.
With practice he quickly became a good enough shot – and ruthless enough too – to make a decent living at what he did. His one regret was that he hadn’t caught the bastard who’d taken his father’s life. But he would never, ever give up looking for him. One day he would find him and then, by God, he’d kill him.
It was dusk, shadows lengthening all around, when he came to the track that led to the Bakers’ farm. As he got closer he realized it was ominously quiet, while a slight smell of smoke remained lingering on the air.
He’d seen no sign of the marshal or his horse on the ride and he’d followed the quickest way to the farm. He couldn’t think of any reason why Detmeyer wouldn’t have done the same.
It didn’t bode well and he approached the place cautiously.
The farm was quite substantial with a large one-storey wooden cabin off to one side. It had several windows and a porch in front. Logs were stacked against one wall. Beyond the yard out front were several work buildings and what had once been a barn but was now a still-smouldering ruin. The yard itself had been churned up by the hoofprints of several horses.
No one was about.
No, this didn’t look good at all.
Greeley dismounted beside what remained of the barn. He stood still for a moment or two, taking in the scene. From a shed he heard the lowing of a cow. That was all.
‘Hallo,’ he called.
No reply. He stepped out into the open.
‘Hallo, the house. Anyone there?’
Nothing.
‘I’m coming in. I’m no threat to you.’
With hands held away from his sides so no one would think he was going for his gun, he started to walk very slowly towards the house.
He reached the porch without being challenged and stepped up on to it. From somewhere close by something banged. Heart skipping a beat, he swung towards the noise, hand going to his gun. It was just a loose shutter on the nearest window.
Now, not knowing what he would find inside and fearing the worst, he drew his gun and cocked the trigger, wanting to be ready.
With his other hand he pushed at the door. It opened readily.
‘Hallo,’ he called again before going inside.
Straight away he knew what was wrong. The buzzing of flies was loud and persistent and he wrinkled his nose against the metallic smell of blood.
The place was in a mess. All the chairs were knocked over. The table was on its side, one leg broken. Plates were smashed on the floor. Rag rugs lay higgledy-piggledy where they’d been thrown.
And – oh God – there were the bodies of the Baker family.
Mr Baker lay by the window whose shutter was broken loose. His wife was over by the inner door as if she’d been trying to escape. She was on her side. Near to her was a boy of about seventeen. He must be their son. He lay on his stomach, arms flung out towards his mother, either in an effort to protect her or maybe in a plea for her help.
That they were dead was obvious. It was equally obvious what had killed them. Not bullets but arrows! They were shot through with arrows. Three in Baker’s chest. Two in Mrs Baker’s back. Two in the boy – one in his leg, the other in his side.
Arrows!
Indians! Apaches!
These days not much scared Greeley. But now all at once his mouth turned dry and his heart started hammering with fear. In the not too distant past this area had been home to several tribes of Apaches who’d raided and killed and tortured until finally being defeated and placed on Reservations. Now they had gone on the rampage again.
Were the Indians still around? How many of them had there been? Would they attack him too?
He gave himself a little shake. Of course they weren’t still here. Indians attacked and rode away. They would be long gone.
Not that he knew a great deal about Indians.
Growing up on the family farm in the north of the territory, the only time he’d seen Indians up close was when two Navajos called at the house to beg for food. They were old, dejected and dirty. They certainly hadn’t posed a threat. Except . . . well . . . what they’d really been after was whiskey but Gus’s father wasn’t about to let them have that, not wanting to take a risk however harmless they looked. Instead he’d given them food and water and sent them on their way. They hadn’t come round again.
Quickly he went through the other rooms in the house. There was a lot more damage but thankfully no more bodies.
And still no sign of Marshal Detmeyer.
Greeley went back outside, gulping in some fresh air. Had the marshal arrived when the raid was taking place? Or had he taken off after the murderers, hoping to capture them and bring them to justice? It was doubtful he would do that, not when he was alone. Detmeyer was a good lawman. He would want those who had done this caught. But he wasn’t stupid or foolhardy.
As he stood there wondering what to do next a buzzard flew by overhead and circled round. It was quickly joined by another.
Hell!
They could smell blood and decay.
With a hollow feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, Greeley jumped off the porch and crossed the yard to the work buildings at the back of the house.
He came to a halt.
There, lying face down on the dusty ground, an arrow sticking out of his back, was Marshal Detmeyer.
He lay unmoving.
‘Sam!’
CHAPTER THREE
‘It ain’t fair,’ Pete moaned. He stared moodily into the embers of the small campfire and drank the last of the coffee, throwing the dregs on to the ground. ‘We should be in Elk Horn right now, not out here nurse-maiding a bunch of cows.’
His friend, Mike, nodded glum agreement.
Elk Horn on a Saturday night meant getting drunk, on either beer or whiskey depending on their mood and how much money they had in their pockets, and maybe a game of cards. Preferably a dance or two with a girl in one of the saloons and, if they were real lucky and still had enough money left after all that, the chance to enjoy the favours of a prostitute. Not that that happened very often, although they liked to boast that it did.
