Feud Along the Dearborn by Will DuRey

Author:Will DuRey [DuRey, Will]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The damage to the white stallion’s hoof wasn’t critical, it would heal with the application of a salve and a few idle days in the pasture, but once across the river there were still twenty miles to cover to reach the Triple-R ranch. Accordingly, Walt Risby asked no more of the animal than a walking pace and, for long stretches, walked at its head rather than sat astride its back. For the most part, the terrain was suitable walking country. There were occasional low mounds to scale and descend but it was good grass land, unlike the more rugged and rocky country to the west. Still, he would have preferred to ride; there weren’t many cowboys who didn’t like to be in the saddle.

The thought flicked through his mind that it would brighten Jimmy Carson’s day if he happened upon him at this moment. Who would blame his friend if, in such a circumstance, he simply laughed, uttered some comment about marauding Arapaho, then rode away. Of course, he knew that Jimmy wouldn’t do that. They’d ride double into Stanton where Walt could hire a livery horse that would take him home. He smiled, his feet were going to be sore when he stood up with Esther Hope at tomorrow night’s social.

It was at that moment that he realized he was under observation by horsemen in a line along the brow of a nearby mound. Encountering other riders wasn’t to be unexpected. Although Montana was sparsely populated, this was still the main route from the northern territories to the Wyoming border. Also, this was open range land, free grazing for the stock of several of the local ranches.

Walt counted seven riders, too many, he suspected, to be hands from one ranch, especially as he hadn’t seen any sign of a herd since crossing the Dearborn. But one by one, in a line, they descended the rise and headed in his direction. Perhaps, he thought, there was a chance he’d be able to ride double with one of these men back to town. That chance, however, diminished when he recognized the leading rider. Ben Hoag’s face bore an expression no less severe than when he’d last seen it in Stanton two days earlier. He stopped walking as the riders drew near and studied the six dour faces that looked down at him from their saddles. They’d formed an uneven semi-circle, effectively barring him from moving forward. Walt hadn’t expected a friendly greeting from Ben Hoag, but he hadn’t expected his own smile to be met with such a sombre response from the others. He knew all the riders; Pete Simms, Chet Taylor and Biff Clayton weren’t much older than himself while Don Glasco, Harvey Jacks and the man he knew only as Omaha, had been around the territory as long as he could remember. He had chatted, drunk and gambled with them in the Stanton saloons and squatted around campfires or rode alongside them while checking out the brands on open-range strays.

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