by Charles Ray
Bass stiffened. He never talked to anyone about it, but he strongly believed in the power of dreams, and he knew, deep down in his soul, that magic was real.
“What was it? What kind of trouble?”
“That’s the part what got me worried. I don’t know. In my dream, there was darkness, and pain, and blood, lots of blood, and you was there.”
“D-did I get kilt in your dream?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I just knowed you was in trouble, real bad trouble, and then I woke up. Oh, Bass, please don’t go.”
Now, Nellie, the marshal done already ask me to go, and, I give him my word. You know I can’t be goin’ back on my word.”
She stamped her foot on the wood floor, the hard bottom of her shoes making a loud clacking sound.
“I don’t care nuthin’ ‘bout you givin’ him your word. I just want you to be safe.”
“You might not care ‘bout me keepin’ my word, but I do. ‘Sides, it’s my job to enforce the law.”
She stamped again, causing him to flinch. “Why you have to worry ‘bout enforcin’ the law, it’s a law for white folk; ain’t got nothin’ to do with us.”
Shaking his head, Bass stood. He moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, kneading gently. “Aw, Nellie, I know the law ain’t perfect, but it’s the only law we got, and without it, we ain’t got nuthin’.”
She leaned back, and looked up at him. He gazed down at her tear-streaked face.
“I’m gon’ be fine, Nellie,” he said. “Don’t you go frettin.’”
“Okay, if you say you gon’ be fine, I don’t have no choice but to accept your word. But, you better be takin’ care of yourself, and come back to me in one piece, you hear?”
“I promise.” He raised his right hand. “I swear, I’ll be as careful as if I was totin’ pockets full of eggs. I don’t know why you be so worried. I been doin’ this job for three years now, and ‘cept for gettin’ a hole shot in my hat, and one time gettin’ my gun belt shot off, I ain’t hardly ever even been shot at, and I still ain’t got no bullet holes in my body.”
She reached up and clasped his hands, actually, clasped his fingers, as his hands were far too big for her to do more than lay her smaller hands upon. “You best be keepin’ that promise, Bass Reeve. You go get yourself hurt or kilt, and I’m gon’ be all-fired put out at you.”
He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I wouldn’t dare break a promise to you. I go up against ten outlaws ‘fore I do that.”
Chapter 3 .
Just north of the little town of Blossom, Texas, three men rode bent over their horses’ necks, and whipping them into a lather. Their goal was to make the ford of the Red River, three miles more riding to the north, before the posse that was about two miles behind them caught up with them. They knew that failing that surely meant the noose, for they’d just robbed the Cattleman’s Bank in Blossom, relieving its safe of the payroll for several surrounding farms, and, unfortunately, shooting the head teller to death in the process. The town’s sheriff, alerted by the sound of the gunshot responsible for the poor bank fellow’s demise, came running, and had been conked over the head with the front end of a Colt .45 Peacemaker for his trouble. This had bought them a few extra minutes, during which they’d made for their horses, each lugging a canvas sack stuffed with money, somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars, give or take, in each bag, and high-tailed it out of town, heading north.
A posse had been assembled and given chase, but time had been lost due to the sheriff being unconscious for several minutes, giving them that two-mile head start, one the leader of the gang was sure they could maintain until they made it across the river and into Indian Territory. While the posse, if it caught them south of the river, might not even bother taking them back to Blossom, opting for a little necktie party at the first handy stand of trees instead, he was pretty darn sure not even these angry, hard-bitten East Texans would dare to venture into Indian Territory, where the Indians weren’t all that friendly to white men from Texas, the runaway ex-slaves sneered at them, and half the white men were outlaws who’d just as soon skin a posse alive as look at them.
“You think we gonna make it, Bob?” the man to the right, a scrawny yahoo from New Orleans, named Harley Williams, who’d been riding with him for nigh on to a year, asked.
Bob Dozier, formerly a prosperous farmer and landowner, now one of the most feared brigands in Indian Territory, glared at the man.
“Shut your trap, Harley, and keep ridin’. ‘Course we gonna make it, if you keep wits and do more ridin’ and less talkin.’ The river’s just a ways up ahead, and once we cross it, then we can talk. Until then, shut up.” He whipped his horse harder, and concentrated on the trail in front of him.
Williams, aware of his boss’s quicker temper, and even quicker gun, snapped his mouth shut, and turned his eyes to the front as well. The other rider, Hank Garner, had been riding with Dozier a few months longer than Williams, and knew better than to try and talk to him at such times. He remained bent low over his horse’s neck, with his attention focused on the oak, hickory, and pine trees that seemed to flash by to either side, and on the trail ahead, looking for the shift to slightly greener vegetation and the downward slope that would tell them they were at the Red River and safety. The only thing he had on his mind, other than getting away from the posse chasing them was getting himself a bottle of whatever whiskey they kept behind the bar of the first saloon they came to and drinking himself into oblivion.
A good solid horse can gallop flat out 20 to 25 miles per hour, and can hold that pace for up to two miles before tuckering out. Bob Dozier prided himself on having the best horse flesh, and insisting that anyone who rode with him do the same, and keep them healthy. Upon their hasty departure from Blossom, he and his men and run their horses flat out for the first mile, settled into a nice steady canter of about 12 miles per hour for an hour, and then run some more for another ten miles. He knew the posse chasing them would be made up of some pretty sorry nags, and would slap flanks trying to catch up, causing the worse horses in the bunch to burn out in the first mile, and force the whole bunch to slow down, or risk catching up with him and his men with diminished numbers. That would be a fatal mistake, because, if a smaller group came into view behind them, he’d just bushwhack them, something he was quite adept at. By maintaining his horse at a quick canter interspersed with a few minutes of flat out running, he could keep up a steady distance ahead of the posse, making the river, some fifty miles away, in around four to five hours, and reach it still a good three or four miles ahead of their pursuers.
His reckoning hadn’t been too far off, either. They’d robbed the bank, killed the teller, and lit out of town just before noon. At a quarter past five, the shimmering surface of the Red River, its sluggish surface a kind of dusty brown from the red clay it washed along, was no more than a hundred yards off, and a quick glance back showed no signs of a dust cloud, meaning the posse was probably ten to fourteen miles behind them.
He smiled a wolfish smile of triumph and plunged his horse into the waters, normally tepid, but now a bit cool as the evening temperatures dropped. At this point in the river’s course, there were only a few places where the depth was such that the water reached his knees, so the horses, though winded, made quick work of the crossing. Once on the north bank, Dozier allowed men and horses five minutes to catch their breaths, and then pulled the reins and turned his mount northeast, heading for the Cherokee Hills, the forest-covered range of foothills of the Ozark Mountains.
“Whyn’t we stop back there and rest a bit longer,” Williams said in a whining voice that was beginning to grate on Dozier’s ears. “Since that posse dasn’t cross the river after us, ‘pears to me we could’ve rested some more.”
Dozier growled silently, and made a mental note to get rid of the man soon. He was, Dozier thought, becoming a liability, and his mouth never stopped yamme
ring like a chicken in a hen yard.
“They don’t dare come too far into Injun Territory,” he said. “But, that don’t mean they won’t cross and come in a ways if the men they’s chasin’ are damn fool enough to sit there where they can see ‘em. Hell, they could cross, snatch ‘em up, and be gone back to Texas ‘fore anybody even know’d they was there. Now, I’m gonna tell you one last time, shut your mouth. We’ll be gettin’ to the settlement of Beaverton in ‘bout an hour. It’s far ‘nuff away from the river, and they ain’t likely to come that far. We hole up there for the night ‘n get some rest, and let the horses get rested and fed, and then tomorrow, we take us a leisurely ride to the Cherokee Hills.”
Williams looked like he wanted to say something else, but Dozier’s right hand rested on the handle of the Colt Peacemaker at his waist, so the man clamped his lips shut. Which, Dozier thought, was just as well, because if he’d kept talking, he’d planned to drop him right there on the trail, take the money bag he carried, and leave his bodies for the buzzards and other scavengers.
Darkness had settled upon the land by the time they reached Beaverton, a haphazard collection of wood frame shacks, log cabins, tents, and two or three solid stone houses that sat astride an east-west trail that ran from the Arkansas border to the territory’s interior. Once away from the river a mile or so, Dozier had run a zig zag course, following stage coach trails and other well-traveled routes, mixing their tracks in with hundreds of other hoof marks and wagon wheel ruts, just on the off chance that the angry Texans following them were crazy enough to venture far into the territory, but they’d seen no sign of pursuit, and he was feeling easier when they rode into the outskirts of Beaverton.
The town wasn’t much, but it had a rooming house, which was one of the stone houses, four saloons, and a livery stable, enough for a weary traveler after a hard day in the saddle, and he reckoned there wasn’t a man who’d had a harder day’s ride than he and his two men had just finished.
While he didn’t have much in the way of sympathy for his fellow humans, like most on the frontier, he had a healthy respect for his horse, without which, he knew he’d be buzzard food, so the first stop was the livery stable. The owner slept in a little shack on the property, and didn’t mind being roused in the dark to house new customers. The little towns in the territory, home to so many men who operated in the dark, were accustomed to strangers arriving at all hours, and as long as their money was good, and Dozier paid with gold coins, never asked any questions.
Once the horses were settled, they went to the hotel, The Willow Tree, and paid for two rooms for the night. Williams and Garner would share one, while Dozier, the boss, would have his privacy. After stowing their gear, and sliding the bags of money under the beds just in case the bent old woman who’d been identified as the chambermaid got nosey, which, considering their rough looks and flinty eyes was unlikely, they went in search of food and drink.
They found both in the same place, and not far from the hotel. The Cattleman’s Club was a wood frame structure that leaned precariously to one side, and Dozier was pretty sure would look like a rickety barn in daylight, was brightly lit with lanterns hung from nails high on the walls, and vibrated from the sound of an out-of-tune piano played by a wall-eyed black man, and the din of dozens of drunken conversations from tables crowding the front part, and the packed crowd of black, white, and even a few who looked either Indian or Hispanic around the bar. The bartender, a rotund man with a shock of unruly brown hair that hung over his ears, a dingy white shirt rolled up his thick forearms, and a dirty apron of indeterminate color straining his large belly, moved with amazing dexterity and speed from one end of the bar to the other, serving drinks to those standing there, and filling glasses and mugs carried by the two buxom blonde doxies who served drinks and food to those at the tables, crammed so close together, there was more than one near fist fight when someone’s elbow jammed his neighbor. The place smelled of tobacco smoke, stale liquor, piss, and grease, a combination of odors that would have brought up the stomach contents of a normal person, and made Dozier wrinkle his nose in disgust. His riding companions, though, their eyes flitting back and forth between the exposed cleavage of the youngest-looking serving girl and the stack of steaks on the plate she carried, seemed completely unaffected. The doxy gave them a wink as she passed, which Dozier ignored, but he could feel the vibrations coming off his companions. Their heads would be sore, and their pockets would be light come morning, he thought, and likely they’d both have a case of the pox, provided some drunken cowboy didn’t jam a blade in their gut over one of the girls, but it was of no consequence to him, it just meant more of a cut of the money they’d liberated from the bank.
“They’s a empty table yonder in the corner,” the young waitress said. “Y’all look hungry. Whyn’t you set yourselves there, and I’ll take your order directly.”
Dozier gave her a nod and half smile, and led his confederates to the indicated table. He took the seat against the wall, giving him a clear view of the rest of the establishment. Williams and Garner sat across from him, craning their necks to gawk at the two women.
A few minutes later, the woman came to the table. She moved so she stood near Dozier, her hip cocked in his direction, and smiled down at him.
“Whatcha got in the kitchen that’s good, honey?” he asked.
“Just ‘bout everything’s good, mister, but we got a fresh shipment of beef this mornin’, so the steak’s is special good tonight. We also got us some blackeye peas, and Moses, the cook, done cooked up a mess of sweet cornbread.”
Dozier’s stomach growled, and he laughed. “Well, I reckon that’s done it, darlin,” he said. “Whyn’t you have that cook of yours burn three steaks and bring ‘em with a side of peas and cornbread.”
“Okay, mister. Whatcha want to drink?”
“Whiskey, a bottle of your best, and three glasses.” He slapped two gold pieces on the table.
The woman’s eyes lit up at the sight of the coins. She licked her lips, and her smile down at Dozier widened. “Sure nuff, mister,” she said. “Anything else you be wantin’, and I do mean anything, you just let me know. My name’s Carla.”
She turned and walked away, exaggerating the sway of her narrow hips. Dozier found himself thinking that he might just have a little dessert to compliment his steak and whiskey.
The woman, Carla, was back shortly with a bottle of amber liquor and three glasses. She put the whiskey and a glass in front of Dozier and placed the other two glasses in the center of the table, leaning over as she did so, giving Dozier a close up look down the front of the blouse she wore. He noted with interest that the curves of her breasts were dusted with tiny brown freckles, and became certain that he would not be alone in his room that night, nor would he be doing much sleeping.
When she left, Dozier poured a generous amount of whiskey into his glass and shoved the bottle across the table. He took a long drink, and felt the fiery heat of the liquor in the back of his mouth and down his throat. As he was putting his glass down, a shadow fell across the table. He looked up to see a wizened man, with lank white hair draping the sides of his head and over his forehead, reaching bushy white eyebrows over rheumy blue eyes. The nose, red-veined and bulbous at the tip, hung over a scraggly mustache and dry, cracked lips. He wore the tattered, wrinkled garb common to many of the dirt farmers in the area, and held a battered brown hat protectively over his crotch. Dozier saw naked fear in the old man’s eyes.
“What you want, old timer?” he asked.
“Uh, ‘scuse me, mister,” the man said in a cracked voice. “But, any chance you be Mr. Bob Dozier?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Henry Conrad, Mr. Dozier. Uh, you don’t know me, but a feller name of Dave Barton done ask me to pass a message ‘long to you.”
Dozier’s brows went up at the sound of the name; a roughneck he’d ridden with early in his criminal career who had recently struck out on his own, specializi
ng in robbing stage coaches.
“Dave Barton, that wall-eyed galoot. He still in town?”
“Naw, Mr. Dozier. He’s here two, three days, set hisself right where you settin’ now, he did. Said he knowed you’d be comin’ through here and he had a important message for you. But, he lit out yestiddy; said he had business out west, over to Fort Sill, he said, and he ask me to give you the message.”
Spittle dribbled out of the sides of the old man’s mouth as he talked.
“Well, what’d he have to say?”
“He said to tell you that he was over to Keota ‘bout a week ago, mebbe less, and he done heard that a deputy marshal come from Fort Smith, and he’s a’lookin’ special for you.”
“A deputy marshal, huh?” Dozier cocked his head at the old man. This wasn’t hardly special news. The marshals had been after him since the first bank robbery, or maybe, he thought, it was the stagecoach. He could no longer remember, but he did know that the marshal’s office in Fort Smith had a wanted poster with his name and picture on it. It didn’t matter, though. He never stayed in one place long, and he had a network of people in the territory, people like Dave Barton, a fellow outlaw, and people like the old codger standing trembling before him, to keep him informed when a lawman was getting close. But, his curiosity was aroused. Never before had anyone gone to the trouble to send him a message telling him what he already knew, that the marshals wanted him. Only once had a deputy gotten close, and that one was now on the wrong side of the grass. “What’s so special about that, that he’d want to make sure I got the message?”
“I don’t rightly know,” the old man said. “I’se just tellin’ you what he done told me. Oh, he said this deputy’s different from the others. For one thing, he’s a colored man, a big buck, Mr. Barton said, and he got a reputation in Injun Territory of allus gettin’ the people he go after.”
