Pray for Death

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “That’s a fact,” Will prodded. “It would definitely be in the railroad’s best interest.” He paused, watching Sam’s wrinkled brow as he wrestled with it. “But you’re the one who makes the decision,” Will continued. “And if you say you don’t want . . .” That was as far as he got before Sam stopped him.

  “Hellfire,” he blurted. “You can use it. Let me get my keys and I’ll open it for you.” He reached over his desk and got a ring of keys, then Will waited while he closed the ticket window and came out the office door. Locking that door, he said, “Follow me.”

  The storerooms were a good thirty yards from Sam’s office. Upon closer inspection, Will found it to be even more solid than Stanley had described. And as Stanley had said, there were two rooms, connected by a sturdy door. The front room was smaller, which, in Will’s mind, made it just right for an office and living area. There was even a small stove in that room and it looked to still be brand-new, having never been used before. Both the outside door and the door between the two rooms had large padlocks. Sam unlocked them both, then removed the keys from his ring and gave them to Will. He stood back while Will gave the two rooms a thorough going-over. Looking at the small windows, each one fitted with iron bars, Will was moved to say, “Hell, Sam, this is a jail.”

  His statement brought a smile and a look of pride to Sam’s face. “They built this place near the end of the Civil War after the Union army struck the munitions depot in McAlester. This place was built to store weapons and ammunition, but they never got to put the first gun in here.”

  “I’ll take good care of it,” Will promised. “I’ll transfer my prisoner over here today and move all my gear into the front room. Then I’ll sleep here tonight, so you’ll know I’ve got my eye on things.” He extended his hand. “Sam, the Marshals Service appreciates your help on this. And I know you were a little uneasy about it, so I guarantee you I won’t say anything to anybody about a train robber in here.”

  “Right,” Sam said. “It’s best to keep it quiet, even from my bosses.”

  * * *

  “All right, Harley, pick up your blanket and anything else you’ve got layin’ around, it’s time to move you outta here.”

  Harley immediately looked alarmed. “Move me outta here? You just put me in this stinkin’ smokehouse. Where am I goin’?”

  “You’re goin’ to a better place,” Will answered.

  “You’ll be better off than you are here.”

  Jumping whole hog to the wrong conclusion, Harley backed away from the door. “Hold on, now,” he pleaded. “You can’t just hang a man without givin’ him a trial. I ain’t had no trial! You’re supposed to be an officer of the law, it’s your job to see I get to Fort Smith all right.” When Will said nothing right away, instead staring at him in disbelief, Harley wailed. “Me and Tom Freeman never had no grudge against you. It was only for the money, two hundred dollars to shoot you and the other deputy.” Then realizing that was a foolish thing to admit to, he tried to soften it with a lie. “Me and Tom had us an agreement. Neither one of us was gonna shoot to kill. We was just gonna wound you and see if Tiny would pay us for that.”

  Will continued to say nothing, content to let the frightened man rattle on. He was amazed to hear this outright confession that named McGee as the instigator of the attempted dry-gulch. It confirmed what Will thought he had heard when he walked in on them that morning at Mama’s Kitchen. When Harley finally ended his plea and stood against the back wall of the small room, his chin on his chest, resolved that this was his immediate end, Will spoke. “Whatever gave you the idea I was fixin’ to hang you? I never said anything about hangin’ you. I’m just movin’ you to a bigger place where I think you’ll be a little more comfortable.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now, pick up your blanket and that straw tick,” Will ordered, and pointed to one of the two pallets that served for beds. Harley was quick to obey his commands, even showing a spark of enthusiasm for the job now that he realized he wasn’t on his way to a rope over a limb. Will marched him over to the new jail and locked him inside the back room. “I’ll get you a bucket of water and an empty bucket from the other place. Then I’ll see about gettin’ you set up with Lottie Mabry to furnish your meals while you’re in here.”

  “’Bout time for one now, ain’t it?” Harley asked as Will was leaving.

  His question created a problem Will hadn’t thought about till then. The new jail was working out nicely but for one thing. He would have to be there to unlock the door every time Harley had to be fed. “It’ll be a while yet,” he answered. “You’ll get two meals a day, breakfast and supper, and it ain’t quite time for supper.” He didn’t wait to hear Harley’s complaints about that.

  CHAPTER 6

  By the time he got to Lottie’s dining room, Will realized that Harley had not been far off when he said it was time to eat. So after he made arrangements with Lottie to feed his prisoner, he waited there while Harley’s supper was prepared. While he waited, he sat down and drank a cup of coffee Lou-Bell brought him. By the time the food was ready, he had already decided he would wait until the next day to pay Tiny McGee a visit, and finish moving into his new quarters tonight. It was a happy turn of events for Harley, and Will was surprised to find a stack of wood and kindling outside the door when he returned with the food. He could crank up the little stove and make his and Harley’s coffee.

  * * *

  While Will was spending the evening making his prisoner comfortable, two riders arrived at Mama’s Kitchen, down in Boggy Town. When they walked into the saloon, they paused just inside the front door to look the room over—not so much in caution— more like admiration. “Howdy, Ward,” Bud Tilton sang out, then yelled, “Tiny, come up front!”

  “Bud,” Ward Hawkins acknowledged, then turned toward the kitchen door to await Tiny’s appearance. It was no more than a few seconds before Tiny came in, responding to the urgency in Bud’s voice. “Howdy, partner,” he said to Tiny. “The place looks pretty good, considerin’ how quick it went up. You remember Bill Todd—rode with us in Kansas.”

  “I sure do. It’s been a while since then,” Tiny said, offering his hand. He remembered Bill Todd from their cattle rustling days as a man quick to draw his weapon with little provocation. Todd shook his hand but said nothing.

  “Bill’s come back to ride with us and he came along on this trip to take care of me,” Hawkins joked. “We sold that big herd of cattle in Houston two weeks ago, so you’ll have a wagon up here any day now with a good supply of whiskey. Luke Cobb and the rest of the boys oughta show up here in a few days. They moved another small herd of cows over to Houston, then they’ll be along. They didn’t need me and Bill to help ’em, so we came ahead. I wanted to be here when that shipment of whiskey got here.” He paused to ask, “How’s business?” He looked at the empty saloon and commented, “I hope this ain’t one of your busy days.”

  “Don’t go by this,” Tiny quickly reassured him. “We’re doin’ all right, considerin’ we ain’t been open no longer’n we have. It’s just like we figured, there’s enough white men in the territory now, and when a man likes a drink of likker, he’ll find a way to get it. And right now, Boggy Town is the place to get it. We just need to get the word out.” He let Hawkins grin over that for a minute before giving him the bad news. “A little problem’s come up in the last couple of days, though.” He went on to tell him about the recent visit by the two deputies from the marshals’ office in Fort Smith.

  “Damn,” Hawkins swore. One of the main reasons they had built this place was because the Texas Rangers were beginning to close in on them in Texas. “Marshals, that is sorry news. How’d they get onto you?”

  “There’s one of them Choctaw policemen that lives a couple of miles on the other side of Atoka. He called a pair of deputies in here because some of the Injuns we were sellin’ whiskey to have been givin’ him problems. I told him we don’t sell whiskey to Injuns, but he called the deputies in.”
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br />   “Maybe them deputies need a little bit of money to look the other way,” Todd suggested.

  “Done tried that,” Tiny replied. “There ain’t nothin’ worse than an honest lawman, and I had two of ’em in here. They ain’t been in town but two days and they’ve already killed two of my customers and hauled three more off to jail.” He let Hawkins and Todd digest that, then continued. “And that ain’t all. He knows we’re sellin’ whiskey and he’s ordered me to shut this place down. I tried to tell him this ain’t nothin’ but an eatin’ place—ain’t no saloon—but he knows damn well what I’m sellin’.”

  Hawkins shook his head, clearly irritated. This was not what he had ridden up from Texas to hear. “Damn it all,” he swore. His business partnership with Tiny McGee was important to Hawkins, but Tiny was not a partner in everything Hawkins was involved in. This place on Muddy Boggy Creek was planned to be his safe refuge from the Texas Rangers, while providing him with income at the same time. He considered himself a businessman, although it was a business outside of the law. He and Bill Todd had visited a new bank opening up in Sherman, Texas, on their way up to Atoka. He made it a point to meet the president of the bank, and in conversation with him, learned that there were also plans in the not-too-distant future to build a sister bank in Gainesville. He had planned to make sure Boggy Town was operating smoothly before hitting the Sherman bank, it being a short ride from the Oklahoma border. Then when the Gainesville bank was established, he would strike it, with an even shorter ride of only eight miles to the border. He shook his head and asked, “You say there was two of ’em?”

  “There was the first time they came in here,” Tiny said. “But this mornin’, the one that came here and killed Tom Freeman, then arrested Dave Harley, was by himself. They told me there was a big posse of deputies and a company of Texas Rangers already on their way to make sure I was closed up. But I saw right through that, and it looks like I was right, because they woulda been here by now. I’m thinkin’ the marshals are spread so thin, they can’t cover all they’re supposed to. Hell, this one’s partner has already gone from here. This hotshot deputy that was here this mornin’ is all by his lonesome.”

  “Then it looks like to me we can take care of this problem with no trouble a-tall,” Hawkins decided, and looked at Todd, who nodded in agreement. “All we got to do is wait for his next visit.”

  “While we’re waitin’,” Tiny said, “you and Bill can move your possibles in one of the rooms in the bunkhouse on the back of the buildin’. I’ll call Teddy up from the barn to take care of your horses.”

  Tiny expected another visit from the deputy marshal that night, so he told Teddy to be alert in case the lawman showed up. Overhearing him, Hawkins told him there was no need to worry about getting ready to receive this one lone lawman. “We’ll set right here in the saloon and drink a little whiskey, maybe play some cards. When he comes ridin’ in here, we’ll just shoot him, and Teddy, there, can dig a hole back of the barn. That’ll take care of our problem with your deputy marshal.” So, after supper, that’s what they did, but it turned out to be a peaceful night, with no visit from the law. Hawkins found it to be downright disappointing, but no more so than Bill Todd did. They played cards until late that night with no business for the saloon other than two cowhands from a ranch down on Clear Boggy Creek. They didn’t stay long, since they had a long ride back. And the main purpose of their visit was to spend some time with Baby. Ida tried to persuade them to buy more whiskey, but their funds were meager at best and soon ran out. It was not the kind of evening Tiny would have liked to have for Ward Hawkins’s first trip to the saloon since it was finished. “No need to worry,” Hawkins said. “The word will get around pretty fast and then we’ll see some business.” He didn’t have to tell Tiny that the problem with the deputy marshal had to be resolved first.

  * * *

  Unaware of the reception committee hopefully awaiting him in Boggy Town, Will spent the first night in his new jail. There were improvements that would have made it a little easier to work with, like a pass-through window in the door to Harley’s cell room. But it definitely beat Jim Little Eagle’s tiny jail. He went to Lottie’s for breakfast the next morning and returned with breakfast for Harley, who seemed to be none the worse after his first night in his new lodgings. With his jailer duties done for the morning, he could now get back to the business of enforcing the law. He was down at the stable when Jim Little Eagle found him.

  “How you like your new jailhouse?” Jim asked as Will threw his saddle on Buster. Will gave him a positive report on the railroad storeroom and suggested that it might be a good idea to approach the railroad for permanent use of the building. “What you gonna do about that Boggy Town business?” Jim asked.

  “Well, I gave McGee a warnin’, and I reckon if I don’t see any sign that he’s packin’ up to close down, then I’ll arrest him and take him to Fort Smith for trial.”

  “What about the other people who work for him?” Jim wondered. “He’s got two men working there and two women, too.”

  “It’s a problem, all right,” Will answered, not certain, himself, how effective he could be in shutting the place down. Jim was asking the same questions that he had been turning over in his mind. “I thought about just runnin’ ’em outta town, burn the damn place down if I have to. It depends on whether or not they put up any resistance when I go to arrest McGee. If they do, I expect I’ll have to arrest all of ’em.”

  Jim heard him out, but when Will finished, Jim had to say, “I don’t think that’s a good plan. You gonna get yourself killed.”

  “You might be right,” Will responded, “but I can’t just let ’em go on sellin’ whiskey until Dan Stone can muster a posse to come down here and close him up.”

  “I think I go with you,” Jim said. “You gonna need another man.”

  “Well, I can sure use your help, if you’re sure you wanna do it. You might be takin’ a chance on makin’ Mary a widow,” Will said. “That McGee fellow’s got a wide streak of mean in him.”

  “You and me together,” Jim said, “we catch ’em.”

  Will had to smile. “Right, we catch ’em.” He had worked with Jim Little Eagle more than any of the other Indian policemen in the Nations, and he appreciated his volunteering his services. “All right, let’s take a little ride down Boggy Creek and see what’s goin’ on at Mama’s Kitchen.”

  After checking his weapons to make sure they were loaded and his cartridge belt was fully loaded as well, Will climbed aboard Buster, and he and Jim crossed over the railroad tracks and started down the trail beside Muddy Boggy Creek. When they reached the grove of trees where Will had stopped to look the place over on his first visit to Mama’s Kitchen, he pulled up again to see if anything was going on. There were no horses at the hitching rail, but Jim pointed out some extra horses in the corral. “They not here last time I was,” he said. “I think maybe McGee’s got some customers in the bunkhouse.”

  “I think you’re right,” Will said. He hadn’t checked the horses in the corral the last time he was there, but he didn’t question Jim’s opinion. “I’d like to ride in kinda quiet-like, so they don’t get up a reception for me. You wanna come in from the back?”

  “That’s as good as any plan,” Jim answered. “Maybe I see who’s using those rooms in back.” He pulled his horse back. “Give me a little while to get around behind.” He wheeled the paint gelding and rode back along the creek for a little way. Will sat there on Buster, watching him until he saw him cut back down to the creek bank to come up through the trees behind the saloon. Then, instead of riding down to the path that led to the front door, Will guided Buster through the trees and laurel bushes to come up from the side of the front porch. He figured it would be unlikely that anyone around the barn or corral could see him on that side of the saloon.

  Hearing no shouts of warning as he approached, he rode up to the porch. He pulled his rifle from the saddle sling and dismounted, dropping Buster’s rei
ns to the ground. Thinking Jim should have had enough time to get to the back of the building, he cranked a cartridge into the chamber and stepped up on the porch. When he opened the door, he let it swing wide, so he could see the whole room. But he was careful to stand to the side of the opening just in case he was greeted with a barrage of bullets. When he wasn’t, he stepped inside, his rifle held ready to fire, to confront four startled men seated around one of the tables. From the dishes on the table, it was obvious that they had just finished breakfast, even though the hour was late for that meal. It was also plain to see they were now enjoying a cigar with an after-breakfast drink from the whiskey bottle in the center of the table. Upon sighting Will, the two men facing him immediately jerked to attention. One of them, a face Will had not seen before, started to reach for his weapon, causing Will to warn him. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

  Already confused by Bud Tilton and Bill Todd’s sudden reaction, Tiny and Ward Hawkins looked behind them to see what had caused it. Startled at first sight of the deputy, Tiny hesitated a few moments to calm himself before speaking. “Well, well, look what just blew in the door. Gentlemen, this here is an official U.S. Deputy Marshal, come to call on us this mornin’.”

  “That looks like a whiskey bottle in the middle of the table,” Will said.

  “That’s what it is, all right,” Tiny answered without hesitation. “We was just havin’ a little drink after breakfast. It’s the best thing to settle greasy bacon in your belly. It’s an old family remedy. These two boys are cousins of mine. They brought the whiskey with ’em, ’cause they knew I couldn’t sell ’em any.”

  McGee was having himself too good a time with his sarcasm to suit Will. So, he said, “That bottle looks just like the bottles you sell whiskey in. I reckon maybe you didn’t think I was serious when I said you have to shut this place down.” Tiny and Ward both turned their chairs around to face him. Will pointed his rifle at Hawkins. “What’s your name? How long do you plan to stay here?”