by Charles Ray
The first indication that something was wrong was when he felt a sharp jab in his chest, high on the right side, followed almost immediately by the crack of a rifle shot. He felt a hot ache spreading from his chest into his right arm. It took a precious second for his brain to register what had happened. I’ve been shot. He tried reaching for his revolver, but his right arm wouldn’t obey. He could feel the hot blood soaking the right front of his shirt, and the bounce as his horse continued walking forward. Then, the second painful, hot stab, this time to the center of his chest, was accompanied immediately with the distinct crack of a rifle. He leaned backwards away from the searing, burning pain in his chest, trying to stop his horse with his left hand which was now only limply hanging onto the reins. The pain, radiating outward from the center of his chest, seemed to reach the outermost extremities of his body. He opened his mouth to yell, but could only make a bubbling sound as blood gushed up through his throat from his punctured lungs.
He leaned forward, feeling his body floating to the right. His last thought was, dang, I’m not gettin’ that promotion,’ and then everything went black.
***
As the ranger’s lifeless body pitched to the right and landed beside the horse, to lie still, face up in the dirt, Bob Dozier stood, still holding the Winchester .44-40 repeating rifle, smoke drifting lazily from its barrel. He turned to the two men who stood behind him.
“Guess it’ll be a spell ‘fore the damn Texas Rangers decide to invade Injun Territory again,” he said.
“That was good shootin’, boss,” Garner said.
“Like shootin’ fish in a barrel.” Dozier frowned. “It’s too bad, though.”
“What’s too bad, boss?” Williams asked.
“Too bad that wasn’t that colored deputy. Now, that’d be one fish I’d plumb love to shoot.”
Chapter 7.
After ten days of tracking, Bass had captured all six of the wanted men for whom he had warrants. The last one had been found hiding in a line shack just south of Guthrie, and when Bass walked up to the door and called out to him, he’d meekly walked out with his hands up. The six fugitives were chained together, sitting meekly in the guard wagon with their heads hung low. Five of them knew that they were looking at long stretches of time in the federal penitentiary in Detroit, Michigan, and one, Caleb Hunt, was looking at a pretty certain date with the hangman.
Bass should have been happy. The combined rewards for the six came to nearly three thousand dollars, and having been out only ten days, with a four or five-day ride to Fort Smith ahead of him, his expenses would be minimum. But, he wasn’t happy, not happy at all. Three times during the ten days, he’d gotten word that Bob Dozier was in the vicinity, and he and Joseph had left the prisoners in the care of the guard and the cook and chased off after him, each time arriving a day, and in one case, five hours, too late. Dozier was like a butterfly, flitting from place to place with no apparent destination in mind, totally unpredictable. Catching him, for Bass, was getting more and more like trying to catch smoke in your hands; he kept slipping through Bass’s fingers.
With his warrants executed, the trip back was quiet, and with the loaded wagons, he set a leisurely pace. Joseph, the guard, and the cook didn’t complain. They were being paid a daily wage, so, every day on the trail meant more money in their pockets. Actually, it meant more for Bass as well, since he was paid a daily fee, plus mileage, but for him, the reward money was where he made the most, so he wasn’t a stickler about staying out a month at a time like most of the deputies did. He did, now and then, but tried to minimize those times so he’d have more time with Nellie and the children.
He was looking at a month of farm work after this trip, a chance to catch up with the repairs he needed to do before the cold weather set in in earnest. And, he was pretty sure, Nellie would insist he stay that, or at least three weeks, because of the short stay before the current trip. He was unhappy that he’d missed Dozier by such a narrow margin so many times, but the outlaw would be there the next time he came through.
On the second day of the estimated four-day ride, they entered the humble settlement of Burnside. It was, like many of the non-Indian settlements in Indian Territory, rudimentary, a study in dusty brown and dusty green, with a healthy amount of gray thrown in for good measure. But, he noticed, as they entered the town, the mood was more somber than usual, in fact, it was downright funereal.
They stopped at the livery stable. The stable owner, the same man who had shod Bob Dozier’s accomplice’s horse, was working on a leather harness. He stopped when they rode up and looked up at them, a furtive look in his eyes. When he saw Bass, he did a double take, and for a brief moment, his eyes lit up, but then, he just as quickly looked back down at the leather.
Bass felt uneasy. “How do,” he said. “Mind if we stop for a spell and rest our horses while we get some grub?”
“Ain’t no problem, Deputy,” the man said without looking up. “Jest leave ‘em here, and I’ll look after ‘em for you.”
“How much?
“Huh?”
“How much we owe you for the service?” Bass asked.
“For you, Deputy, ain’t no charge.”
“Well, thank you kindly.” Bass turned to the cook and guard. “Johnson, you take first watch, and then after Graves eats, he kin spell you and you can eat.”
The burly guard nodded. “You want me to leave the prisoners in the wagon?”
“Naw,” Bass said. “Take ‘em down and chain ‘em to the livery station fence. Jest make sure to give ‘em some water.”
Bass watched as Johnson prodded the prisoners out of the wagon with his shotgun, and, after allowing each man to get a drink from the water trough by dipping his head in like an animal, made them sit down against the livery station fence where he chained them. On the trail, he would chain them to the axle of the prisoner wagon, but the sturdy fence seemed an even better solution, that and the muscular livery man working nearby.
“I help keep an eye on your prisoners, too,” the man said.
“Well now, I surely must pay you for that service,” Bass said. “Would a dollar be okay?”
The man’s eyes went side. “A whole dollar? Just for doin’ nothin’ but watchin?”
“The pay is three dollars a day for my posse men,” Bass said.
“Well, I swear. I never had no idea bein’ a lawman paid so well.” As Bass turned to walk away, the man cleared his throat. “Of course, it kin be a mite dangerous, too. Jest ask that there Texas lawman what come up here lookin’ for that there outlaw, Bob Dozier.”
Bass stopped and turned slowly. “Did you say, Bob Dozier?”
“Yes sir, deputy. Bob Dozier, he done rode through here two, three day ago, him and two other white men. They hear they’s a lawman from down Texas come ridin’ after ‘em, so they rode out and bushwhacked him. Killed him plumb dead, they did.”
“Where did this happen, and when?” Bass felt his pulse quicken.
The man pointed south. “On that there road, ‘bout five, six mile south of here. Happen some time this mornin’, ‘ccordin’ to what I heared.”
Bass turned and pointed at the guard. “Johnson, you and Graves keep an eye on our prisoners. Me ‘n Joseph gon’ go check this out.”
Before the guard could respond, and without waiting for Joseph, Bass sprinted over and leapt on his horse. He leaned over and snatched the rein from the fence rail and wheeled the animal toward the road, kicking it into a gallop.
“Wait for me,” Joseph yelled, running for his own horse.
The liveryman, guard, and cook stood, eyes wide in confusion as the two men disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
“What was that all about?” the liveryman asked.
“Deputy Reeves got a bee in his bonnet when it come to this outlaw, Bob Dozier,” Johnson said. “He been after him for nigh on two years now.”
The liveryman rubbed a hand across his bald scalp.
“From what I heared
, he better hope he don’t run ‘cross him. That Bob Dozier is a stone cold killer.”
Johnson smiled and shook his head. “You got it the other way ‘round, friend. Dozier better hope Bass Reeves don’t catch up to him. When he sets his sights on an outlaw, one of two things happen; that outlaw ends up in jail, or he ends up on the wrong side of the grass.”
Chapter 8.
Bass returned to Fort Smith in a foul mood. He and Joseph had arrived at the site of the Texas Ranger’s killing before locals had moved the man’s body, but, according to two farmers who had accepted the unpleasant task of putting the body in a wagon and returning it to the nearest town across the Red River, about three hours after Dozier and his comrades had left the area. They couldn’t tell Bass where Dozier was headed except to say that he rode off to the northwest. As much as Bass wanted to go chasing after him, he realized that his first duty was to get the prisoners transported to Arkansas, so he and Joseph returned to Burnside and resumed their journey.
When they were south of Joseph’s place, Bass paid him his daily wage and told him to keep himself ready to go after Dozier in a few days when he returned. Joseph looked skeptical, but nodded his agreement.
A day outside Fort Smith, he stopped and dictated his report of the mission to Johnson who wrote it out in a crabbed hand on a sheet of paper Bass took from his saddle bag. He then put his ‘X’ at the bottom of the sheet, folded it neatly and tucked it into his jacket pocket along with the crumpled Dozier wanted poster. One, the report, would be turned in to Marshal Fagan, but the other would remain in that pocket until Dozier was no longer roaming free.
The next day, he turned his prisoners over to the jailer, got a receipt for them, said his goodbyes to Johnson and Graves, both of whom went off to collect their payments.
Fagan was seated behind his desk, which was still piled high with papers, when Bass entered.
“That was a quick trip, Bass, and you got every man on your list,” he said, still reading the paper he held open before him.
“No, sir,” Bass replied. “I got all but one.”
Fagan stopped reading and looked up at him, frowning. “What the blazes are you talking about, Bass. I gave you six warrants, and you brought six fugitives in. I know you can’t read, but you can count, and six warrants plus six fugitives is equal to everyone.”
“But, I didn’t get Bob Dozier.”
“He wasn’t on your list.”
“He was in the area. Near a little place called Burnside. Kilt a Texas Ranger not far from town, but I missed him by a couple hours.”
Fagan’s brows rose and his frown deepened. “Killed a Texas Ranger? What the hell was a Texas Ranger doin’ in Indian Territory? They got no jurisdiction there.”
“I ain’t sure, Marshal, but I think it was ‘cause Dozier and his gang robbed a bank in Texas, just south of the Red River, and kilt the teller. The posse chased him as far as the river, but they turned back. I reckon this ranger fella was mad enough to try and run him down.”
“Mad ain’t the word. That fool was plumb crazy. A white man, most especially a Texas Ranger, is signin’ his own death warrant to go chasin’ an outlaw into the territory.” He toyed with the papers on his desk. “I reckon I’d best send a telegram to the marshal in Paris and inform him. Did you get the ranger’s name?”
“No, he was dead when I got there. A couple of farmers were loading his body in a wagon to take it to Texas.”
“Then, they already know by now. Guess I’ll just tell the marshal to give the rangers my condolences, and remind ‘em they ain’t got no business crossin’ the Red River. Lord, I hope that bunch of wild men don’t do somethin’ stupid.”
“Bunch of Texans runnin’ ‘round the territory won’t go over well with the tribes.” Bass shook his head.
“I best tell Judge Parker,” Fagan said. “He can ask the federal judge over in Fort Worth to have a ‘come to Jesus’ meetin’ with the rangers.” He blew a loud gust of air through his nose. “As if we don’t have enough trouble over there, without them stirrin’ things up more.”
“If we could bring Dozier in, mebbe they wouldn’t feel the need to cross the border.”
Fagan looked at Bass, an expression of disbelief contorting his face. “We’d have to get him quick, and it’d take a pretty big posse to do it. The man’s as slippery as a snake. Besides, all the deputies are tied up right now, so we’re just out of luck.”
Bass cleared his throat. “I ain’t so sure a big posse is the way to get Dozier, Marshal. One or two men, good trackers, might have a better chance.”
“Yeah, but who—whoa, you’re not talkin’ about goin’ right back out, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Damn man, that wife of yours would skin both of us alive if I sent you back into Injun Territory right after you just got back.”
“She don’t have to know.”
“And, just how the hell you gonna keep her from knowin’? It’s too late in the day to head for the territory now.” Fagan regarded Bass from beneath furrowed brows. “You don’t dare go home, and if you get a room at the hotel or stay with one of your friends, she’s gonna know you were here before the dust from your horse’s hooves dies down.”
“Uh, I reckon you got a point ‘bout that.” Bass closed his eyes in concentration. “I reckon I’ll just sleep in one of the empty cells over to the jail, and light out at sunrise.”
Fagan’s eyes widened in shock. “In one of the cells? What the hell will the prisoners think of a deputy marshal is sleepin’ in one of the cells next to theirs?”
“Well, since my cell door gon’ be open, and I can come and go as I please, I reckon they might think on the evil of their ways.”
Fagan grunted and shook his head. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can talk you out of this, is there?”
“I got to do it, marshal. Dozier done kilt a lawman. It don’t matter that that Texas Ranger weren’t ‘sposed to be there in the first place. We can’t let him get away with what he did. He got to be stopped.”
“Okay.” Fagan shook his head again. “You tell the jailer I said it’s okay for you to bunk in the cells tonight. And, Bass . . . be careful. Keep a sharp lookout. I wouldn’t want that bastard to bushwhack you.”
Bass didn’t respond. There was nothing to say to that. He was always careful. It was Bob Dozier who’d better be looking over his shoulder, he thought.
Chapter 9.
His mind in turmoil, Bass had been unable to sleep on the thin cotton mattress in the six-by-nine cell, even if the prisoners caged in the other cells hadn’t snored like rutting boars. He’d gone to the jail after eating a light supper at a café he’d never frequented before, in the hope that neither the owner nor the waitress would know Nellie and gossip to her about his presence. After assuring the astonished jailer that Marshal Fagan had approved him sleeping in the jail because he had to get an early start the next day, he picked a cell in the back, as far away from the other prisoners as possible, thrown his gear in the corner, slipped off his gun belt, boots, and coat, and lay atop the mattress. He tossed and turned, and while he thought he might have drifted off to a brief sleep a time or two, it didn’t feel like it. Through the tiny, barred window, he could see that the sky was still inky-black, but the position of the moon and stars told him that it was just an hour or two until dawn, so he shrugged, got dressed, grabbed his gear and headed for the stable.
Half an hour later, having fed his horse, and nibbled at a piece of dried bread and tough meat he’d saved from his supper, he was mounted and heading west. The area around the courthouse at Fort Smith, at that hour of the morning—night—was as quiet as a graveyard, surrounding buildings, some with muted orange light visible behind curtains, rose up around him like hulking monsters, or giant grave stones. He didn’t much like towns because they were too crowded, but liked them even less at night when they were quiet, looming, and menacing.
The sky was just beginning to lighten wh
en he left the built-up area and entered the relatively flat countryside that lay between Fort Smith and the border between Arkansas and the Indian Territory. Even though the trees stood like dark sentinels against the medium-gray sky, they soothed rather than intimidated him.
He kept his horse at a steady walk, swaying from side to side in rhythm with the animal’s gait, yawning now and then from the lack of sleep. It was a two-day ride to Joseph Lone Tree’s farm at the pace he was setting, which meant he’d get at least one good night’s sleep under the stars.
And, that night, after a day of reeling in the saddle, almost falling off a couple of times, he had a light supper of beans and coffee and rolled up in his blanket against the cold night air, and slept well.
Day two was much better than day one. After a good night’s sleep and more beans and coffee for breakfast, he didn’t sway in the saddle, appreciated the bright blue sky and chilly winter air, the rippling of his horse’s shoulder muscles, and the sound of birds swooping around in the sky. Knowing that Joseph would prepare a sumptuous supper for his arrival, he skipped the midday meal, and the time saved put him at Joseph’s place just before sundown—just in time for supper.
Chapter 10.
Just as he’d suspected, Joseph had prepared a large supper for Bass’s arrival. The smell of the food hit nostrils as soon as he stepped up onto Joseph’s front porch, and made his mouth water. The sight as he entered Joseph’s front room, brought tears to his eyes.
The long wooden table in the center of Joseph’s dining room was covered with food, enough to feed ten men in fact. It looked to Bass as if the man had been cooking all day.
There were steaks, which had been dipped in flour batter and fried until they were a darker brown than Bass, a bowl of okra and corn—the okra had been boiled until it was tender and slimy, the way Bass liked it, much to the chagrin of Nellie, who preferred her okra fried—fried sourdough bread, collard greens, and a bowl of what Joseph called Texas butter, brown gravy made with flour, salt, pepper, water, and the grease from the fried steak, nice and thick, albeit a bit lumpy.
