Dig Your Own Grave

by William W. Johnstone

  When close enough to tell, he could see that the rider was an Indian, although he was dressed in white man’s clothes. Will figured he was probably one of the Indians who was trying his hand at farming. He watched Will carefully as the distance between them closed, and when they were within hailing distance, Will called out a greeting. “Afternoon, friend, you talk white man talk?” The man nodded, still regarding Will with caution. Will pulled his vest aside to expose his badge. “I’m U.S. Deputy Marshal Will Tanner,” he said, and as soon as he did, the man was visibly more at ease. “Are you Cheyenne?”

  “Arapaho,” the man answered. “I am John Little Bear.”

  “Have you traveled far on this road, John?” Will asked.

  “Two days,” John answered. “I bought this cow from a man near the Salt Fork of the Red River. I have a paper with his mark on it.”

  Will realized that John Little Bear was concerned that he might think the cow stolen. “Looks like a fine cow,” he said. “Did you meet a white man leading a packhorse, headed the same direction I’m ridin’?”

  “Yes, I met a white man, riding a gray horse and leading a sorrel packhorse,” John replied. “A big man, with a black beard. Is he an outlaw?”

  “Yes, he is,” Will said. “He’s responsible for a lotta people gettin’ killed. Did he say where he was headin’?”

  “No, but he asked me if this road went to Texas. I told him that it did. He asked me how far it was to the Red River. I told him two days, unless he was leading a cow. Then it would be longer.”

  “When was this when you met him?”

  “Yesterday, about this time,” John said. “So you are three days from the Red River from here,” he said, anticipating Will’s next question.

  “’Preciate it, John,” Will said. “Hope your cow gives good milk.”

  “I hope you catch that man. He looked like an evil man,” John said as Will nudged Buster and set out again. With confidence now that the tracks he had been following were, indeed, left by Ansel Beaudry, he pushed Buster into an easy lope, a pace he could maintain for a good distance without tiring.

  A day and a half’s ride brought him to a point where the winding Salt Fork of the Red changed its more easterly direction to turn south in its journey to flow into the Red River. It was at this point that the common road Will had ridden down through Oklahoma Territory now followed the Salt Fork, headed south to Texas. He knew as well that he was no more than a day’s ride from the Red and the Texas border. He also knew that he had been mistaken about Ansel Beaudry. Beaudry was not running aimlessly. He knew where he was going when he fled Grassy Creek. It was Texas for certain, and he picked the quickest trail to get him there. Will racked his brain, trying to recall the name of a man who operated a trading post just over the line in Texas. It was on the Pease River at a spot the Indians called Eagle Springs. The trading post was a favorite place to buy whiskey for those folks living across the Red in Indian Territory. Finally, after a lot of mind searching, it came to him—Cotton was the first name. A minute or two later, the last name surfaced—Poole. The man’s name was Cotton Poole. That recovery also served to cause him to remember Cotton as a crooked man who was not above cheating you any way he could.

  Chapter 13

  It was late in the afternoon when Will reached the Red River at a point where he and the men of the J-Bar-J usually drove their cattle across into Indian Territory. He crossed over to the Texas side before stopping to let his horses drink. While he sat beneath a cottonwood, watching them, he thought to take his deputy’s badge off his shirt and put it in his pocket. Whatever happened on this side of the Red was in no way official business, although he fully intended to try to bring Beaudry back to Fort Smith for trial. This in spite of the fact that it would be tempting to shoot him on sight the same way Beaudry had killed Oscar Moon. The thought of it caused the muscles in his arms to tense up, remembering Elmira’s accounting of the blatant execution of the unsuspecting old cattle thief.

  He figured to let his horses rest for the night when he reached the Pease River, and that was less than ten miles from where he now sat. So he climbed back into the saddle after a short rest and headed for Eagle Springs and Cotton Poole’s trading post.

  It had been quite a while since he had passed this way, moving a herd of cattle with Shorty Watts and the rest of the J-Bar-J crew, but Poole’s store looked the same to him, with the exception of a couple of outbuildings that hadn’t been there before. There were a couple of horses tied at the rail in front of the store. Both were saddled, neither was a gray, but he had not expected to have caught up with Beaudry this soon. He rode up to the rail and stepped down, then as a matter of habit, he took a few moments to glance at the barn and the corral beside it. There was no sign of anyone outside the buildings and only a couple of horses in the corral. As a precaution, he drew his rifle from the saddle sling and stepped up on the low porch.

  He opened the door and stepped inside the dimly lit room. The only light provided was that from a lamp on the counter and a fireplace on the other side of the room where three men sat at a table. One of them was easily recognized as the owner of the store, Cotton Poole. Will could only speculate that at a younger age Cotton must have had white hair, but for now, his head was barren of any trace of a hair and shiny as a polished doorknob. The two men seated at the table with Cotton looked typical of so many drifters Will had seen in saloons everywhere. Talking raucously before, they all stopped to stare at him when he walked inside.

  Cotton got up from the table and came to meet him. “Well, howdy, stranger,” he said. “What can I do for ya? You needin’ somethin’ from the store or lookin’ for a drink of whiskey?” He stared openly at Will, as if trying to recall. He didn’t wait for Will to answer before continuing. “I swear, I’ve seen you before, but I can’t recollect when.”

  “A few years ago, I expect,” Will said. “I stopped in when I was working cattle, but I ain’t been back this way since then.”

  “What outfit was you ridin’ for?” Cotton asked, all the while eyeing the casual way Will carried the Winchester in his hand. When Will answered his question, Cotton looked surprised. “The J-Bar-J?” he echoed. “They came through the first of this summer. Some of the crew was in here, but you wasn’t with ’em. I’da remembered.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Will replied. “I don’t work cattle anymore.”

  “Is that a fact? What’s your line of work now?” Cotton glanced back at the two men at the table, who were still gaping at Will. All three were curious about the dried bloodstains on his left sleeve, but no one asked about it.

  “First one thing and then another,” Will answered. “Right now I thought I could use a drink of whiskey to settle some of the dust in my throat.” He didn’t particularly want a drink, but he thought it might loosen Cotton’s tongue if he bought a drink. He hoped to get some information to let him know for sure that Beaudry had passed this way.

  “Well, I can sure take care of that,” Cotton declared. “Set down at the table with us and I’ll pour you one.” He glanced at the two men at the table again. “You don’t mind, do ya, boys?” They immediately said he was welcome, so Will sat down while Cotton went to the short bar to get another glass. When he returned, he sat down and poured a drink for Will from the half-empty bottle on the table, then refilled the other glasses. “This here’s Jack Dunn and Calvin Wallace,” he said. “It’s easy to tell ’em apart ’cause Calvin’s the one wearin’ the patch over his eye. Feller tried to cut it outta his head in a bar fight.”

  “That’s a fact,” Calvin spoke up then, “but it was the last thing he ever done, and I can see just as good outta one eye as I could with two.”

  Will couldn’t help noticing that Calvin’s single eye was still focusing intensely upon him. He tossed his drink back. “Mighty neighborly of you boys,” he commented as Cotton refilled his glass, causing him to comment further. “I don’t wanna get ahead of you.”

  “Oh, you’ve got a long way
to go to catch up with us,” Jack Dunn said. “Ain’t that right, Cotton? This bottle was full fifteen minutes before you walked in.”

  Will knew for sure that he was sitting in questionable company, well aware he was being sized up by all three of them. “What line of work are you boys in?”

  Calvin smirked. “One thing and then another, just like you said. You ain’t said where you was headed. You headin’ for Injun Territory?” They assumed he was, since they had not seen him ride up, and that was a common destination for outlaws and drifters.

  “Nope,” Will replied. “I just came down from there and I ain’t sure whether I’ll go to Fort Worth or somewhere else, depends on the trail I’m followin’.” When that brought a puzzled look, he continued, “I’m trailin’ a low-down son of a bitch who stole my best horse. He mighta passed through here, ridin’ a gray geldin’ and trailin’ a packhorse, big fellow with a dark black beard. Maybe he stopped here.”

  “I knew there was somethin’ snaky about that feller,” Cotton said. “He stopped here. I sold him a bottle of whiskey.” His comments seemed to be directed toward Jack and Calvin, more so than Will. “Too bad you boys weren’t here, you mighta been interested in makin’ his acquaintance.” He looked quickly back at Will. “If I’d known he stole your horse, maybe I coulda done somethin’, but he didn’t look like the kind you’d wanna mess with.”

  “I don’t reckon he said where he was headed,” Will said.

  “No, he didn’t,” Cotton said, “but he asked me if there was a trail from here to Fort Worth and I told him there was a wagon road headed in that direction about twelve miles south of here.”

  “Well, I reckon I owe you for two drinks,” Will announced, “and it’s time for me to get along.” He got to his feet and put the money on the table.

  “Ain’t no need to run off,” Cotton said. “It’s a little late in the day to start out now, might as well camp here tonight and start out in the mornin’. My woman can fix you some supper, and breakfast, too, if you want it.”

  “Much obliged,” Will said, “but if I stay here much longer, I’m liable to get to drinkin’ too much and I won’t be worth a damn in the mornin’. I’ll find me a good spot up the river a ways and get myself a good night’s sleep.”

  “Sounds like a sensible man,” Cotton said. “Hope you catch up with that thief. Maybe we’ll see you back this way again.” All three got up from the table and walked with him to the door. They followed him out on the porch and stood watching him as he climbed up on Buster.

  “That’s a fine-lookin’ buckskin you’re ridin’ there,” Calvin commented.

  “He’ll do,” Will answered. “He ain’t the horse that gray is, though. Been nice drinkin’ with you boys.” He wheeled Buster away from the rail and started off at an angle that would take him up the river.

  “Yes, sir,” Jack Dunn remarked as Will rode away. “That is a fine-lookin’ buckskin he’s ridin’. The packhorse looks pretty good, too.”

  “It looks like it might be a good night to pay him a neighborly visit,” Calvin said.

  “It might at that,” Jack agreed.

  “Split three ways,” Cotton quickly reminded them.

  “I don’t know about that,” Calvin complained, “unless you’re gonna strap on your gun belt and ride to his camp with us. Me and Jack do all the work and you don’t do nothin’ for your share.”

  “It’s just like our regular deal,” Cotton claimed. “I line ’em up and send for you. That’s my end of the deal. You and Jack handle the rest, just like always.”

  “That may be so,” Calvin said, “but this time you didn’t do anythin’. Me and Jack was settin’ right here when he came in. We didn’t need any word from you.”

  “Don’t make no difference,” Cotton insisted. “You got the job because he came in my store, just like all the other times. Maybe you don’t want me to send for you next time.”

  “Nah, Cotton,” Jack intervened. “Calvin don’t mean nothin’ by it. We’ll keep workin’ like we always have. We’ll handle our end of it and you keep settin’ ’em up.” He was looking at Calvin when he said it. With a slight shifting of his eyes, he directed his partner’s attention toward the counter in the store area where Cotton’s Comanche wife was listening to their discussion. By her right hand, a twelve-gauge shotgun rested on the countertop.

  “Jack’s right,” Calvin said. “I was just japin’ you to get you riled up. I kept winkin’ while I was japin’ you, but I forgot and was winkin’ my left eye. Sometimes I forget that’s the eye with the patch over it.”

  * * *

  Will guided Buster along the banks of the Pease River, looking for a suitable spot to make his camp. “I apologize for what I said back there,” he told the buckskin. “There ain’t no way that gray Beaudry’s ridin’ can stand up to you, but then I reckon you already knew that.” Had he not already ridden his horses hard that day, he would have considered moving on to put more distance between himself and the two he met in the store. It was easy for him to make a quick judgment about the two drifters, and he did not rule out the possibility that he might see them again. For that reason, he was looking for a campsite that would afford him the best chance for keeping his horses. He figured them to be no more than horse thieves who might hope for an opportunity to run his horses off while he slept. Consequently, he needed a spot where he could keep the horses close by him, so he kept riding until he came to a small creek that formed a little cove where it emptied into the river. There was grass around the edges of the cove that would afford the horses good grazing without wandering far.

  Once his horses were taken care of, he collected enough limbs from the oak trees next to the river to build a fire in a shallow gully that was deep enough to partially hide the flames. The sun was just beginning to sink into the distant horizon when his small coffeepot began to bubble in time with the sizzle of the bacon in the frying pan. He was more than ready for coffee and food because his empty stomach was complaining about the two shots of whiskey he had swallowed. When his bacon was done, he pulled the pan off the flame and dropped two pieces of hardtack in the hot grease. When that was done, he emptied the grease and ate the bacon and hardtack out of the pan, forgoing the bother of using a plate.

  The first shot knocked the frying pan out of his hand. The second one snapped harmlessly over the campfire because when it came, he was already gone, rolling over and over until he dropped into the gully. He lay still, listening to the rifle shots spraying sand around his campfire, silently cursing himself for underestimating the evil intent of the two drifters at Cotton Poole’s store. They were not satisfied with stealing his horses, they meant to kill him and take everything he had. At least his reflexes were automatic enough for him to have grabbed his rifle when he rolled away from the fire. And from the pattern of shots that continued to pepper the ground all around his fire, he knew they didn’t know he had rolled as far as he did. He was lying in the gully, so they couldn’t see him, but if they were to circle around to the bank upstream of the position he was in, he’d be a sitting duck. So I’ve got to move out of this gully before they think of that, he told himself. How to do it without being seen was the problem. His gully was so shallow that he was sure to be seen if he raised up even a few inches. To make matters worse, he couldn’t tell where the shooters were, he knew only that they were downstream somewhere. He thought about jumping up suddenly and making a run for the cover of the trees, but when he peeked over the edge of the gully, he realized that it was a sprint of almost ten yards to get to the trees. He had no idea how good his two bushwhackers were, but he knew he wouldn’t have any trouble if he was taking the shot. Not only that, but he would be running straight toward his horses. He felt confident that they didn’t want to hit the horses, since they most likely figured they were the most valuable things he owned. However, he didn’t want to risk a wayward shot hitting one of his horses. You picked a hell of a spot to camp, he scolded himself, hunkered down helpless in this gully. W
e’ll just have to play the hand I dealt myself and trust to luck. Straining to lie as flat as he possibly could, he edged his rifle over the side of the gully. Then with a long, dead root he had landed on when he rolled into the gully, he carefully pushed the rifle as far away from the edge as the root would take it. It was a hell of a long shot, he had to admit, but he figured it was all he had. Nothing to do now but wait and hope.

  * * *

  “Maybe we shoulda worked our way a little closer before we opened up on him, but I thought I had a pretty good shot,” Calvin whispered.

  “Yeah,” Jack scoffed, “you hit him in the fryin’ pan. If either of us hit him, I expect it was my first shot. That’s the one that knocked him on the ground. Maybe you’ve got that patch on the wrong eye.”

  “Hell,” Calvin retorted, “There ain’t no tellin’ who shot him, we threw so many shots around that fire. The main thing is he went down and he ain’t got up, so I’m bettin’ he caught more’n one bullet.”

  “Maybe so,” Jack cautioned, “but I ain’t ready to run down there till I know we got him. You go right ahead if you’re that anxious.”

  “Yeah, you’d like me to stick my neck out, wouldn’t you?” Calvin said. “We can’t even see him from here.”

  “He’s gotta be layin’ in that little gully,” Jack replied, “and he ain’t even fired a shot back at us. He can’t be anywhere else. We’da seen him if he tried to run for it.”

  “I don’t know,” Calvin responded. “He might be playin’ possum, waitin’ for us to walk in and get shot. I say let’s wait him out. Hell, I ain’t in no hurry.”

  “If we wait too long, that coffee’s gonna get cold,” Jack japed, “and I was figurin’ on havin’ myself a cup.” His quip brought a chuckle from both of them, but they settled in to wait. They waited for what seemed like a long time, watching the ground around the campfire carefully, lest their victim suddenly jumped up and made a run for it. The flames of the campfire were flickering low before Jack finally declared, “Hell, he’s dead, or shot so bad he can’t move, I’m goin’ in.”