Bellefront had once been a fort and later a Cherokee mission. Now it was a freight depot on the stage road linking the Katy railroad, in the east, to the Santa Fe, in the central part of the state. Bellefront was the place where rail freight was brought in on heavy Studebaker wagons to be transferred for shipment to other parts of the state not yet serviced by the steel tracks. All the hill people knew where Bellefront was and what it was. Every man raised his hand to Ike's question.
“Well,” Ike continued, “Bellefront's our target. By hittin' that depot we'll be hittin' the Easterners where it hurts, in their profits. This will be the biggest haul we've ever made; there'll be bolt goods and canned goods and farm tools. Whisky and guns and ammunition. All the things you and your families need are there at the depot waitin' for us to haul it off.”
The men grinned slowly, thoughtfully. “But I want to warn you,” Ike said again. “There'll be a fight.” When no one spoke up, Ike turned to his brother. “All right. We might as well get started.”
Ike and Cal Brunner, plus thirty-one followers, rode away from Ulster's Gave shortly before noon. They headed north.
Thirty-three men in all, Ike was thinking. Plenty of manpower for the job ahead. There'd be nothing left but ashes when they got through with that depot. Then Ike turned his thoughts to something else, and for an instant his stonelike face was touched with an expression that few men had ever seen. He was smiling.
He was not thinking of all that freight and material, or the loose money that might be lying about at the depot. He was thinking of the freight-company safe, and of the riches that were there for the taking. He thought of the four sticks of dynamite that he had wrapped separately and carefully in the shock-absorbing bulk of four blankets; the roll now lashed securely behind his saddle. By sunup I'll be a rich man! Ike Brunner thought to himself. Maybe I'll be the richest man in Oklahoma!
The Brunner gang rode most of the night through that wild, heavily wooded hill country, and as the first gray streaks of dawn were appearing in the east Cal rode back from his point position to report to his brother.
“Looks like we're here,” the younger Brunner said, grinning wearily.
“How does it look?” Ike asked.
“Like a graveyard. They'll never know what hit them.”
Ike halted the main body and went forward with Cal and Wes Longstreet to see for himself. Cal was right. The sprawling warehouse, flanked on three sides by loading platforms, showed no signs of life. The freight office, a squat log building, was set apart from the warehouse; Ike noted it briefly and was satisfied. The stables were on the other side of the freight office, and in the faint light Ike could see a few horses and the vague shapes of two old Concords and a mud wagon. Several big Studebakers were lined up beside the main stable, but those were ignored. Not even an eight-team hitch could pull those heavy freighters through that roadless hill country to which they had to return. Most of the horses, Ike noted, were in a pole corral by the wagons.
Ike went back to the main body and called the men around him. “It looks even easier than I figured,” he said confidently. “The guards will be in the warehouse. They may be asleep, but they'll wake up soon enough when they hear us coming. But you've got to forget the warehouse at first and take care of the horses. Dunc,” he said to Dunc Lester, “you take about ten men and get those horses away from the trouble; the rest of us will stand off the warehouse until you're through. It shouldn't take long. But those horses are important; they have to be used as pack animals if we're to haul anything back to the cave. Are you ready?”
Heads nodded silently. Ike and Cal reined about, and this time the gang followed.
The freight-company guards never knew what hit them— not until it was too late. The band of horsemen rode out of the dark hills yelling and hollering like crazy men, firing their rifles and shotguns wildly in the direction of the warehouse. Ike and Cal directed the fire on that big shed while Dunc Lester and his men rounded up the heavy draft horses and herded them out of the way.
“All right!” Ike yelled. “Go to it!”
The guards began giving ground as the gang rushed the warehouse. Cal started to go with them, but his brother grabbed him roughly. “Come with me. We've got some important things to do.”
Quickly he untied the clumsy bundle and took it down from behind his saddle. Cal stood puzzled, oblivious of the rattle of gunfire. “What are you doin', Ike?”
“Stop askin' questions and follow me!”
He knew the men would have their attention focused on that warehouse for several minutes. The sound of shooting was becoming sporadic now; probably the guards had seen that they didn't stand a chance and were making a run for it. At a dead run, Ike headed for the log freight office, his younger brother right behind him. “Ike, where the hell are you goin'?” Ike didn't bother to answer. He reached the front porch of the office and stopped for a moment to get his breath. Very gently he placed the bundle of dynamite beside the door and drew his pistol. Cal reached the porch about three jumps behind his brother.
“Goddamn it, Ike, I don't see—”
“You will! Just stay here at the door and keep me covered. Don't let anybody come near this place. Not even one of the gang: If they do, kill them!”
Cal drew his pistol, ready to shoot the first person to come near the office. Ike's word was law.
Ike had already kicked the office door open and was inside. In the grayish light of dawn he saw that the room was much smaller than he had first guessed, and this puzzled him for a moment. Almost too late he realized that this front part of the cabin was the freight office, and the rear part was the living quarters for the company manager.
Quickly Ike opened a second door and saw that it led into a small parlor. On the far side of the room there was another door, and beneath the door a thin slice of orange lamplight gleamed. Ike Brunner snarled with the sound of an animal and kicked this third door open.
A man in long red underwear was just pulling on his pants when the door burst open. A woman in a white nightgown screamed as the man lunged for his pistol, which was hanging by its cartridge belt on the bedpost. Ike shot him immediately and the man slammed back against the wall. The woman tried to scream again, but she must have glimpsed the deadly thin smile that played along the corners of Ike Brunner's mouth, and no sound escaped her.
Cal Brunner burst excitedly into the small office as the second shot jarred the cabin. “Ike, where are you?”
He saw the open door and rushed in, pistol ready. Then he saw Ike coming out of the other room, and he also saw the white motionless shape of a woman lying on the floor, and the man staring glassily from the corner of the room.
“Ike, my God!”
“Forget it!” his brother said harshly. He ran from the room and out to the porch, Cal right behind him.
“Ike, what have you done?”
Ike gave his brother such a blinding look that Cal cringed back against the wall. “I said forget it. Watch this front door. I'll be through in a minute.”
Unhurriedly Ike unwrapped the dynamite. Cal waited nervously outside as his brother attached the explosives to the hinges of the freight-company safe. They waited outside in a gully while the fuses burned down, and suddenly the windows of the cabin glowed like fire, part of the wall fell in, and the roof lifted crazily.
The shock of the explosion still rang in Cal's ears as Ike hurried back inside the cabin. He thought of that woman lying so still on the floor. That was more than he had bargained for.
Perhaps two minutes passed. Ike came out of the cabin again, this time carrying an opened steel chest. “Look at this, Cal! We're rich!”
Chapter Four
Judge Lochland came on Monday.
Unlike Ben McKeever, Lochland came down to the field where Owen was hoeing corn. Owen looked up in surprise, watching the white-haired, black-clad figure tramping solemnly down the grassy slope toward the creek. The County Judge was an old-timer in a young country; in 1880 he had been an
official in David L. Payne's Boomer organization, advocating settlement of the unassigned lands in the Territory. Later he had supported the statehood lobby in Washington and had helped the Dawes Commission with the Indian land allotments.
Like McKeever, Judge Lochland had a vision, and his faith in the future of Oklahoma was unshakable. But, the judge's vision was not tainted with personal greed. Now, as he approached Owen, Lochland smiled gently, his pale old eyes alive and sparkling.
“That's fine-looking corn,” he said mildly, taking Owen's hand.
“It's fine land,” Owen said. “And the rains were on time. What brings you so far from the courthouse, Judge?”
Lochland's smile widened, but the expression was strangely without humor. “I think you can guess, Owen.”
Toller's eyes narrowed slightly. “The Brunner gang?”
The judge nodded. “But before you say no, will you listen to what I've got to say?”
Owen felt the muscles of his face go taut. As man and judge, Beuford Lochland commanded his admiration. Owen respected the man's fairness and honesty, and he knew that turning the judge down would be difficult. Lochland would not come at him with threats, as McKeever had done. He would come with truth, as straight as a lance and as hard to turn.
But Owen merely nodded pleasantly toward the creek bank. “I guess that will be as good a place as any to talk. Under the trees.”
The two men hunkered down in the new grass beneath the twisted branches of a great live oak. Lochland said, “I hear Ben McKeever came to see you the other day.”
Owen glanced at him, then nodded.
“This is a peculiar situation,” the judge said. “After all these years, Ben and I find ourselves on the same side of the fence. But our reasons are different.”
“And your methods of persuasion.”
Lochland laughed. “Ben has started putting the pressure on you, has he? In some ways our banker is a fool, I'm afraid. Sure, he can make it plenty tough on you if he goes at it hard enough, but he ought to know there are some men who won't buckle under that kind of pressure.”
“What kind of pressure did you have in mind, Judge?”
Lochland did not laugh this time. “You haven't heard about Fort Bellefront, have you? The Brunner gang hit it . night before last, burned it to the ground, got off with a fortune in freight and express goods, not to mention seven thousand dollars from the company safe. Owen, were you acquainted with Frank Ransom, the freight-company manager?”
Frowning, Owen said, “Sure. I used to stop at Belle-front when I was working for the government.”
“And Frank's wife?”
“Edith Ransom? Arch Deland used to claim she was the best flapjack cook in the territory.” He smiled faintly, remembering.
Judge Lochland paused a moment, then looked at Owen. “They're dead,” he said bluntly. “Murdered. The Brunners killed them.”
Owen sat for a moment in stunned silence. Until this moment the Brunners had not seemed quite real to him. In these great square counties, almost as large as states back East, he had imagined himself far removed from that wild hill country and the Brunners. Judge Lochland's coming had changed all that, and it made him angry and uncomfortable, knowing that he could do nothing. He plucked a handful of tender grass and flung it at the wind.
“I'm sorry about Frank and Edith. They were a fine pair.”
“The Ransoms won't be the last,” Lochland said quietly. “The Brunners are getting bolder, Owen. They're getting stronger all the time. They've got an iron-hard grip on the hills, they're poisoning the minds of the ignorant, they're making outlaws and killers out of poor farmers. Brazenly, they laugh at the law. They're making jokes of our puny efforts to stop them.”
Suddenly Owen came to his feet, every muscle tense. “I'veheard all that, Judge. I've seen others like the Brunners and I know what they are. But why do you come to me?”
Lochland squared his shoulders in a hint of a shrug. “For help, Owen.”
“I can't help.” He shook his head angrily. “I told Ben I couldn't, and now I'm telling you. It's not my job; I'm just a farmer, like a hundred other men in this county.”
“I was hoping you'd see it as more than just a job,” Lochland went on in his quiet voice. “I was hoping you'd see it as a duty... an honor.”
“An honor?” Owen turned abruptly. “When I was young, maybe that's what I thought, but now I figure I've done my part, Judge. And you mention duty. I can't see it's my duty to go up in those hills and get my fool head shot off by a bunch of men I've never even seen. I have a wife and two children; my duty is to them, Judge. My duty is to stay right on this farm and look after my family. The people of this county elected Will Cushman to take care of outlaws like the Brunner boys; so Will is the man with the duty.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “I guess that's all there is to say.”
“I could appoint you special deputy, Owen. You wouldn't have to take orders from Cushman.”
Owen smiled, wearily but not angrily. “That isn't it.”
“Yes... I know. And I think I know how you feel about Elizabeth and the children. But what about Frank and Edith Ransom, and the others who are dead or penniless because of the Brunners? Don't you feel anything for them?”
Owen repeated stubbornly, “It's not my job.”
“But you're the only one who can do it, Owen. I know it's a bitter thing. I know it's difficult to understand why you should be asked to risk your life for hundreds of people who are willing to do nothing. But that's the way it's always been. A few men with strength and courage have been willing to step into the breach at the crucial moment, though it was seldom their job. Remember the New England farmers at Lexington and Concord? The gallant Texans at the Alamo? Were those men working at their jobs, Owen, or was it something else... something that only a few of the strong can understand?”
“I'm sorry, Judge, but you're wasting your time.”
Judge Lochland sighed, then smiled with surprising gentleness. “Well, you can't blame a man for trying.” He pushed himself to his feet and took Owen's hand again. “Please give my regards to Elizabeth and the children.”
“I will, Judge. And watch yourself on the grade back to Reunion; it gets pretty steep.”
Owen watched the erect, white-haired figure stride proudly across the field toward his buggy. He could not be angry with a man like that.
Still, an anger was in him as he plodded back to the field and took up his hoe again. He slashed recklessly at the tough young weeds, striking the reddish earth with the sharp blade as though it were his enemy. Farmers at Lexington and Concord! Texans at the Alamo! The Judge must be slipping off the track in his old age. What did Owen Toller have to do with Texans, or the American Revolution?
But the judge's words kept coming back to him. “A few men with strength and courage... willing to step into the breach.” There was grim poetry in the thought, a kind of terrible truth in the meaning.
But Owen Toller had no wish to make history. He was no longer young, and the thought of death held a terror more real than it once had done. He was happy on the farm with Elizabeth and the children; Reunion would have to look elsewhere for their man with strength and courage.
When Owen came in that night, Elizabeth asked, “Didn't I see a buggy down by the cornfield this afternoon?”
Owen smiled, splashing water at the kitchen washstand. “You don't miss much, do you?” He dried his face, took his wife in his arms, and kissed her gently. “It was Judge Lochland. We were just talking.”
Elizabeth's eyes widened, pleased that a man of Judge Lochland's stature should come all the way to Lazy Creek to talk to her husband. “Why, Owen, I didn't know that you and the judge...” And then the look of pleasure vanished. “Owen, what did he want?”
“We just talked, that's all.”
“About the Brunners?”
He had never been able to fool her, and he knew that it was useless to try. “You can read me like one of those books you used to te
ach from.” He managed a laugh, but the sound was forced. “All right,” he said soberly, “we did talk about the Brunners. The gang raided Fort Bellefront and killed the freight manager and his wife. They were friends of mine.”
“Oh.” It was a small sound. “I'm sorry, Owen.”
He shrugged, but the gesture did not erase the grim lines around his mouth. “It's one of the risks of trying to do business in those hills. I used to tell them they'd better move that depot to a settlement.”
He made a stout effort to be casual, but Elizabeth could see that his mind could not dismiss the thought so easily. He turned abruptly, almost in anger, and went into the parlor. “Where's Lonnie?” he called after a moment.
“In the yard. I'll call him in a minute.” Elizabeth came into the small, crowded room and stood beside her husband. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.
The Law of the Trigger Page 4
