Dig Your Own Grave

by William W. Johnstone

  “Everybody’s friendly to strangers here,” she felt compelled to say. “You won’t need that rifle. You can leave it here by the door if you want to.”

  He looked at the rifle as if just then remembering it. “I declare, I forgot I was carryin’ it. I reckon I’m so used to carryin’ it, I walk off balance when I ain’t got it.” He gave her another smile, then continued walking toward the saloon section of the store.

  With his eye on the table, he took the one step up to the saloon floor. Tom Daly was seated with his back to him, and while Bo Hagen glanced at him, he showed no interest. He was more interested in visiting with Gracie Johnson at the moment. Tyler Brinker, leaning on the front side of the short bar, noticed him and spoke. “Howdy, mister, whaddle it be?”

  Will didn’t answer. Instead, he walked toward the table, his rifle now in both hands and leveled at the table. Myrtle Mayfield was the first of the four seated around the table to see the rifle aimed at them. She was suddenly struck dumb, her eyes seeming to bulge, her mouth open to scream, but no sound came out. Confused, Tom Daly turned his head to see what had caused her to freeze. His reaction upon seeing the relentless lawman was decidedly more violent than Myrtle’s. “Will Tanner!” he exclaimed, and went over backward in his chair when he tried to push it back while reaching for his pistol, crashing to the floor in the process.

  Gracie screamed and Bo made a move for his .44, but stopped when Will brought his rifle to bear on him. “It would be a mistake,” Will calmly warned him. His tone convinced Hagen, so he immediately lifted his hands up over the table. “Miss”—Will nodded toward Myrtle—“with your left hand, draw that pistol out of his holster and throw it over here on the floor.” She nodded nervously and reached for his pistol. “With your left hand,” Will repeated sternly when she naturally started to reach for the weapon with her right. She obeyed, using only her thumb and forefinger to withdraw the pistol. “You stay right where you are,” Will warned Brinker when he started to slide toward the end of the bar, “and you won’t get hurt. I’m arresting these men for bank robbery and murder.” It was enough to convince Brinker to do as instructed. He was further convinced when Tom Daly, still on his back, straddling the seat of his chair, made the mistake of thinking Will was distracted by all that was happening at the same time. He reached again to pull his pistol, but succeeded only in getting it halfway out of the holster before the bullet from Will’s rifle ripped into the floor beside him, barely grazing his wrist. Daly screamed in pain, echoed by screams from both women at the table as well as one from Effie Brinker when she heard the shot. Will quickly cranked another cartridge in the chamber and told Brinker to tell his wife that everything was all right, they wouldn’t be hurt as long as they didn’t interfere with the arrest. Brinker did so and told her to stay in the store.

  Shifting back to Bo Hagen again, he ordered, “Get on your feet.” Hagen pushed his chair back and slowly rose to his feet. “You stay right where you are!” Will warned Tom when he started to get up from the floor.

  “Who the hell are you?” Hagen demanded, even though Tom had blurted out his name. He could not believe the deputy had found them again.

  “I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal,” Will answered. “Turn around.” When he did, Will quickly laid his rifle on the table and grabbed Hagen’s wrists. He clamped one set of hand irons around them and ordered, “Get on your knees.” When Hagen was on his knees, his hands behind his back, Will turned again to Tom Daly. “All right, Daly, it’s your turn now. Get up from there.”

  Seeing as how he had little choice, and having experienced an arrest by Will before, he struggled to free himself from the overturned chair and submitted himself to the procedure of handcuffing. It was only after Will clamped the hand irons closed that it occurred to him. “Hey, you can’t do this. We’re in Texas!” He looked frantically at Bo Hagen. “He’s a deputy marshal in Oklahoma! He ain’t got no authority in Texas!”

  A ray of hope flashed in Bo Hagen’s eyes. “He’s right, we’re in Texas now, there ain’t nothin’ you can do with us. You ain’t got no authority here. Tell him, Brinker,” he yelled at him.

  With no idea what he should do, Brinker could only respond, “He’s right, Deputy, this is Texas.”

  “Not today, it ain’t,” Will replied. “These two men, and three of their partners, are wanted in Missouri, Kansas, and Oklahoma for robbin’ banks and murderin’ five men that I know of, so I have the authority to arrest them anywhere I find ’em.” It was not true, but he thought it might give Brinker something to think about if he was considering coming to their aid. “Now, tell your wife to come in here.” When Brinker looked apprehensive, Will said, “No harm’s gonna come to her if she doesn’t interfere with my arrest.” Still reluctant to call to her to join them, he hesitated before calling for her. She came almost immediately, having been peeking at the activity in the saloon ever since hearing the shot. When Will had them all gathered in the saloon, he told them what they were to do. “We’re all gonna go out on the porch. I ain’t got any argument with any of you but these two outlaws, but I wanna know where everybody is till we ride outta here. When we get on the porch, I want you to call your son to bring all the horses,” he said to Effie. “Can you do that?”

  “I reckon I can,” she replied after getting a nod from her husband, and when they were all gathered on the porch, she called to Thomas and told him to bring the horses.

  In the few minutes they waited for Thomas to gather the five horses, Bo Hagen attempted to bluff his way out of his predicament. “Tanner, damned if you ain’t a regular bloodhound. I’ll give you that.” Will made no response, but Bo went on, “You’re makin’ a terrible mistake, but you can get out of it, if you’re smart enough. It’s a helluva long way from here to Fort Smith. Ain’t that where you ride out of?” Again, Will did not respond. “Ansel and the rest of the boys will be coming after us, doggin’ you all the way across Oklahoma. You ain’t gonna be able to close your eyes the whole time, and sooner or later you’re gonna make a mistake, and it’s gonna cost you your life. You think about that.” He paused to let his words sink in. “But if you let us go and ride on outta here, we won’t hold no hard feelin’s against you—let you go without nobody comin’ after you. Whaddaya say, Tanner?”

  “I say, the horses are here, time to get in the saddle.” Will went down the steps to meet Thomas, who was wondering why everybody was waiting for him and who fired the shot he had heard.

  Hagen recognized Whip Dawson’s horse, and as soon as Will stepped off the porch, Hagen whispered to Brinker, “Send your boy back to Grassy Creek to tell Ansel what happened.” Brinker nodded vigorously in response.

  “Much obliged,” Will said to the astonished young boy and took the reins from him. Then he proceeded to secure a lead line to trail the outlaws’ horses behind his horses. As a precaution, he took another coil of rope and fashioned a loop on the end. He hung the rope on Buster’s saddle horn and motioned to Tom Daly. “Step up in the saddle.” When Tom replied that he couldn’t do it with his hands behind his back, Will said, “Yes, you can. I’ll boost you up.” Having ridden as a captive of Will’s, Daly knew there was no use in balking, so he went dutifully to stand beside his horse and waited for Will to give him a boost. While he was in the process, Hagen saw it as an opportunity to make a run for it, in spite of any odds for escape. Daly was already high enough in the air to throw his leg over, so Will gave him one final shove as Hagen stepped off the porch and started to run. Will grabbed the rope from his saddle horn, shook out the loop, and roped Hagen before he had gotten more than thirty feet away. With his hands anchored behind his back, Bo could not fight the rope when Will drew the loop tight and reeled him in. The silent crew of spectators watched in astonishment.

  “I coulda told you there ain’t no use to run,” Tom said. “He worked cattle for a livin’ before he was a lawman.”

  “Is that so?” Hagen spat, angry enough to defy the seemingly unperturbable lawman. He was encouraged to
balk when Will ordered him to step up on his horse, since the deputy had not simply shot him down when he had tried to run. That told him that Will was intent upon taking his prisoners in alive, and he told himself that he’d be damned if he was going to go willingly. “Well, I reckon I ain’t gonna get on that damn horse,” he informed Will. “Whaddaya gonna do, shoot me?”

  “Get on your horse,” Will ordered.

  “Nope,” Hagen replied, more confident than ever that Will would not shoot him.

  Will shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and tightened the loop even more, then wrapped the rope around Hagen’s body half a dozen times before tying a knot. He reeled out the rest of the rope and tied it to his saddle horn. Ready to ride, he climbed aboard Buster. This was not the first time he’d had a prisoner who refused to go, so it didn’t surprise him when Bo sat down in defiance. Will gave Buster a firm nudge and the buckskin responded, spinning Hagen around to land on his back, tumbling and bouncing as he was dragged over the rough ground toward the trail along the bluff. It didn’t take long before Bo was yelling for Will to stop. Will gave him a little more of the treatment, then stopped and asked him if he was ready to ride.

  Still defiant, although bruised somewhat in body and mind, he did not want to submit to the lawman’s orders. “Let me get on my feet, you son of a bitch, and I’ll walk to Fort Smith.”

  “Fine by me,” Will replied, and waited for Hagen to struggle to his feet. Then he started out again at a pace that would not push Hagen too much. He figured it not a bad idea to tire Hagen out, so he planned to walk him awhile at a casual walk for the horses, a pace that would require Hagen to walk fairly briskly. After a few miles, he would increase the pace to a gentle lope that would require the walking man to trot to keep up. He was hoping that if he tired him out, he might be less inclined to protest his every order. To his credit, Bo Hagen held up pretty well in his protest. He was still on his feet when they reached the trail that branched off toward the east, which Thomas had told him was five miles from the trading post. They had gone only a couple hundred yards on that trail when Hagen stumbled and fell. When he made no effort to get on his feet again, Will stopped the horses, dismounted, and helped Hagen up on his horse.

  When they were under way again, Tom Daly looked over at Hagen and said, “I’m still tryin’ to figure out what the hell you were tryin’ to prove.”

  “You go to hell,” Hagen grunted. At this point, he had no patience for Tom, for it was Tom who had led them to Grassy Creek, a hideout that was supposedly unknown to lawmen, and very few outlaws. Yet, here was a U.S. Deputy Marshal waiting for them, no more than a half-day’s ride from Grassy Creek. He was worn out, but still determined not to return to prison. It was a long way from where they now were to Fort Smith, Arkansas, and he was convinced that the deputy would slip up somewhere along the trail. They might not get far at all before Ansel and the others would be riding after them. Then he would personally deal with this smart-ass deputy.

  Will kept them in the saddle for a distance he figured to be about twenty miles past the fork that led toward Camp Supply when he came to a creek. Since it was the first sign of water they had seen in that time, he decided to make his camp there. The horses were ready for a rest and he was ready for some coffee and something to eat, since a piece of smoked venison was the only breakfast he’d had that morning. He had enough food to feed his prisoners and himself, with still some extra smoked deer meat he had gotten from Oscar Moon, and he could restock his supplies at Camp Supply. After a quick glance upstream and down, he decided to cross over and ride upstream toward a group of cottonwood trees. Grass was no problem, for there was plenty all along the creek, and the cottonwoods offered cover and firewood, as well as other requirements, which Tom was familiar with. “Reckon it’s time for some tree huggin’,” he commented to Hagen when Will reined Buster to a stop.

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Hagen barked. It was the first words he had spoken since he had ended his walking protest.

  “You’ll see,” Tom answered.

  “Since you know what to do, I’ll get you settled first,” Will said. He waited then, his rifle in hand, and watched while Tom threw one leg over and slid from the saddle. When he hit the ground, Will pointed to a young cottonwood and said, “That one.” Tom walked over to the tree and stood beside it, waiting for Will to unlock his handcuffs. When one hand was free, he dutifully put his arms around the tree trunk and stood patiently waiting while Will locked the cuffs together again. Will walked back to the horses and motioned with his .44 for Hagen to dismount. When he did, Will pointed to a tree about five yards from the one Tom was chained to. “That one looks like it’s about the right size.”

  When both prisoners were occupied with getting acquainted with their trees, Will unloaded the horses and turned them loose to drink and graze. As a precaution, he hobbled all of them except Buster, then he built a fire and filled his coffeepot with the cool creek water. When he had fried up a supper of bacon and hardtack, he released one prisoner at a time to eat, while he watched them with his rifle ready to fire if necessary. He fed Tom first, and when he had finished, Will locked his hands around the tree again before unlocking a scowling, complaining Bo Hagen. “Why can’t you let both of us eat at the same time?” Bo griped. “Hell, you got your rifle on us. There ain’t much we can do without gettin’ shot.”

  “I’ll let you go first in the mornin’,” Will said. “I ain’t got but one extra plate and cup, anyway, so you’ll have to eat one at a time.”

  “How come we’re followin’ this trail?” Tom decided to ask. He knew the territory as well as anybody, and he was beginning to wonder about Will’s familiarity with it. “We keep goin’ this way, we’ll end up in Kansas somewhere. Fort Smith’s far enough already without addin’ extra miles. I’m thinkin’ you might be lost.”

  “The longer, the better,” Bo growled. “We’ll get to spend more time gettin’ to know Deputy Tanner.” Although sarcastic, his remark was sincere in that he figured the longer the journey took, the more time Ansel, Cecil, and Luther had to overtake them. And the more nights Tanner tried to sleep with one eye open, the more likely a chance to jump him would occur.

  Will didn’t bother to respond to either of the grumbling prisoners, which prompted Tom to complain further. “I hope to hell you’ve got more grub in those packs than bacon and hardtack. We’ll be starved to death by the time we get to Fort Smith—won’t be nothin’ left of us to hang.” He paused to think again about the direction they had held to ever since leaving Brinker’s, and it suddenly occurred to him. “Unless . . .” he started, then sure of it, he declared, “You’re goin’ to Camp Supply! You ain’t goin’ to Fort Smith a-tall.”

  Again, Will didn’t bother to respond. He was not surprised that Tom figured it out. He was surprised, however, that it had taken him this long. Still, he had hoped his destination would not be discovered until well along the way the next day. It would have been better if they thought they had more time for him to become careless. Hit hardest by Tom’s sudden declaration, Bo Hagen strained at the shackles trapping him against the tree. “Where’s Camp Supply?” he demanded.

  “About a day’s ride from where we are right now,” Tom said, unable to keep from grinning at the sight of fury in Hagen’s eyes. He knew his partner would risk everything in an attempt to attack the deputy and he hoped he might slip away in the process. What he hoped for was that Tanner would make a mistake between now and tomorrow this time, because once they were locked inside that stockade at Camp Supply, they were lost.

  * * *

  Will was in the process of rinsing his coffeepot in the creek when he heard Hagen call out, “Hey, Tanner, I need to go to the bushes. My bowels are crampin’ up. That slop you gave us for supper ain’t settin’ too good in my gut.”

  Here it is, Will thought. He didn’t wait long to make his first try. “All right,” he answered him. “Soon as I pick up these plates.” He never denied a prisoner’s r
ight to answer a call from nature, even though he was highly suspicious of Hagen’s urgency.

  He could feel Hagen’s eyes on him while he put the plates and the coffeepot back in one of the packs. When he approached the tree where Hagen was shackled, he was further alerted by the seemingly cooperative tone of his voice. “I ’preciate it,” Hagen said respectfully. “I reckon it hit me kinda sudden-like.”

  Will decided he might as well play along, since Hagen was set on making a break for it, and they might as well get it over with. He sensed the tension in Hagen’s forearms as he unlocked the cuff on his left wrist. When it was unlocked, he stepped quickly back a couple of steps to await his move. Not surprising, there was none. Hagen let his arm drop by his side, the chain and open cuff dangling almost to his knee. His first intention, to brain Will with the open cuff, had been anticipated and rendered impossible when Will stepped out of range, with his Colt .44 aimed squarely at him. “Step lively, Hagen,” Will ordered. “You can do your business right up there by that big elm tree.”

  Hagen was struggling to hold his temper after missing his first plan of attack, but he was not ready to give up. “I need to go to them berry bushes down by the creek,” he complained. “I can’t do no business settin’ up there with you two lookin’ at me.”

  Pretending to have empathy for his predicament, Will said, “Probably something you got used to in prison. I mean, with all those private toilets they have in there.” He shrugged. “But I reckon if that’s the only way you can go, you can go do it in the bushes, and there won’t be anybody watchin’ you but me and this .44.”

  “To hell with it,” Hagen snapped. “Might as well be out in the open, if you go in the bushes to watch me. We done talked about it too much, I ain’t gotta go no more.”

  “Let’s get your hands back around your tree,” Will said. “Maybe it’ll let loose while you’re sleepin’. You got any clean britches in your saddlebags?”