The Adventures of Bass Reeves Deputy US Marshal

by Charles Ray

  “You just makin’ up stories, Lester. You was probably drunk as a skunk at the time, and ain’t no way you could’ve heard somebody havin’ a private conversation like that.”

  “Wasn’t all that private. This hombre, Dozier, he was talkin’ loud enough to be heard halfway ‘cross the room.”

  One of the other men at the bar, attracted to their conversation, moved closer. “Lester’s right, Deputy. That man was talkin’ loud, like he didn’t give a hoot who heard him.”

  “How do you know that?” the bartender asked in a demanding voice.

  “I know it ‘cause I was settin’ at the same table Lester was. Heard it with my own ears. He said they was gonna hide out in the Cherokee Hills, he did.”

  The bartender was looking apoplectic now, and cringed when Bass turned and scowled down at him.

  “Well, gentlemen, I appreciate your time. I best be on my way.”

  Eyes followed him as he walked in a leisurely place back out to the sidewalk, where Joseph stood nervously near the horses.

  “I was beginning to worry,” Joseph said. “It got awful quiet when you walked into that place.”

  “Yeah, but I got a couple of old men to talk to me.” He explained what he’d been told.

  “So, you think Dozier’s hidin’ out in Cherokee Hills?”

  “Naw, I don’t. Think about it. He sits in a strange place and talks about his plans loud enough for a buncha people to hear, knowin’ that somebody might come along and ask. Naw, I think Mr. Dozier’s tryin’ to misdirect us. I still think he’s headin’ south.”

  Joseph shrugged. “Well, let’s start ridin’ south.”

  Chapter 12.

  It took them a while to find the trail south from the little settlement that didn’t backtrack the route they’d used coming in. It wasn’t a road as such, but clearly a lot of horse and wagon traffic had used it, for ruts had been worn in for so long the earth was packed and bare. Undulating land, covered mostly in pines, with a few hard wood trees interspersed, it was similar to the land in northeast Texas south of the Red River, but mostly uninhabited in this region, but with some Choctaw towns and villages to the east.

  In some places the trail was wide enough for four wagons to move abreast, and in others it narrowed down, with pine trees closing in from both sides, to just enough space for one wagon to squeeze through. In the clearings, they saw signs of old camp fires, rusty tin cans and shards of wood. It dawned upon him as they rode through the clearing that this was probably a smuggler’s trail, used to transport stolen goods either into or out of Indian Territory, only having to worry about possibly stumbling across a Choctaw hunting party, and unless the smugglers were Indian, not having to fear any action from the tribal police.

  “I never run across a trail like this before,” he said.

  “Reckon there are many of them along the border,” Joseph said. “Outlaws, rustled cattle, and stolen goods move through here, mostly heading on north to Kansas. Before the war, runaway slaves used to come this way, too.”

  “Making their way to Canada?”

  “Yeah. Unlike my people, the Choctaw were not big slaveholders. Sometimes, they would let the runaways stay and join the tribe, but never as many stayed as stayed in Cherokee land.”

  “Wonder why that was.”

  “We had many black people who were part of the Cherokee Nation, some as slaves, but many as free because they were married to a Cherokee. Same with the Seminoles. So, I guess they just felt more at ease with their own kind around. Anyway, it is no surprise to me that a man like Dozier would know of these old trails.”

  “Yup, this is just the trail that galoot would take runnin’ back and forth twixt here and Texas,” Bass said. “I got a feelin’ that we ought to keep a sharp lookout. They’s likely to be more outlaws than just him lurkin’ hereabouts.”

  The fact that they had just entered a narrow part of the trail that twisted and turned from one direction to another didn’t increase his comfort. He felt that itchy feeling at the base of his skull he often got when danger was near. This, he thought ruefully, was the perfect place for an ambush. A bushwhacker could be hiding behind any of the bushes that lined the trail, or in the trees that grew in so close he and Joseph and to keep a sharp eye out to keep from being smacked in the face by low-hanging branches. The feeling he had was similar to the feeling he’d had when he brought in the old Indian medicine man. Wanted for murder, the man had eluded capture for months until Bass had cornered him in a line shack not far from Fort Sill, the army post in the central part of what was known as Oklahoma Territory, to distinguish it from the eastern region which had been reserved for the tribes that had been forced out of the eastern part of the country. The old man had put a curse on Bass when he was captured, warning him that he would die before they got back to

  Fort Smith. He’d started feeling weak and dizzy almost right away, like he was coming down with the flu, but when he’d taken the old man’s medicine bag and thrown it in the river, he began to immediately feel better. Without his medicine bag, the old Indian had gone into a funk, begging Bass to help him retrieve it. But, his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Bass was convinced that the bag had been the source of the old man’s power over him, and wasn’t about to let him have it back.

  As he rode, the itch got worse. He slowed his horse, paying close attention to the right and left, and walking the animal carefully around turns in the trail.

  His caution made it possible for him to see the eight riders coming toward them a few seconds before they saw him and Joseph.

  Chapter 13.

  Bob Dozier was not a happy man. He’d taken care of one problem, and another was standing in front of him, a suspicious frown creasing his sun-darkened face.

  “It just don’t make no sense, Boss,” Hank Garner said. “Harley was a top wrangler. I don’t understand how he could get throwed off his horse and break his neck.” He pointed down at the ashen body of his former comrade, stretched out on a blanket on the floor, his head at an unnatural angle.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Dozier said. “But, his horse got spooked by a snake and reared up. I reckon old Harley wasn’t payin’ attention, and he just fell off. Unfortunately, he landed on his head. I was right behind him, and I heard his neck snap. It was as loud as a branch breakin’. Plumb spooked me, and almost caused me to fall off my horse.”

  Garner leaned over the corpse and sniffed. He made a face. “Whew! Long with the shit and piss, he smelled like he took a bath in a tub of whiskey.”

  Dozier stifled a smile. Garner had come closer to the truth than he knew. After he’d knocked the only partially sober Williams out, and then dropped him on his head from the back of his horse, then twisting just to make sure, he’d emptied half a bottle of whiskey over him before draping him back over his horse for the rest of the ride to the cabin. Fortunately, the whiskey had dried, but the smell was still strong.

  “He went and got himself a snoot full while I was doin’ some business. You know how old Harley was when it come to whiskey.”

  “Yeah, I done told him more’n once that whiskey was gonna be the death of him. Looks like it was. So, what we gonna do with him?”

  “He got any kin you know of?”

  “Naw, never heard him speak of kin folk.”

  “Well, I reckon we just have to bury him out back. Maybe under that big sycamore tree. He’d like that.”

  “Guess you’re right, boss. Mebbe you can say a few words over him?”

  “I’d be proud to, Hank, right proud,” Dozier said. “Now, let’s go dig a grave, then we can come back and divide up the loot from that bank. With poor old Harley gone, gonna be a bigger share for both of us.”

  The glint of greed in Garner’s eyes told Dozier that he’d forgotten about any doubts he might have been having about the untimely demise of his comrade. Just as well, too, Dozier thought. I’d hate to have to look for two more guns, donna be hard enough to find one.

  After the burial, at
which Dozier had uttered some nearly unintelligible platitudes, but Garner, who had nearly emptied a bottle of whiskey in honor of his departed friend by that time, didn’t notice, they retired to the cabin, where Dozier opened a new bottle and filled their glasses.

  Raising his glass, Dozier said, “Here’s to old Harley. Lived hard, died young, and left behind neither wife, child, nor regrets.”

  “Yup, here’sh ta Ha’ry,” Garner muttered, sloshing whiskey from his glass as he raised it, and spilling half down the front of his shirt as he tried to drink.

  Dozier looked at him with disdain.

  “Hank, you sober enough to listen to me now?”

  “Yesh, boss.” But his head lolled from side to side.

  “Oh, no matter.” Dozier shook his head in disgust. “I’d have to tell you again anyway, so just sit there and listen.”

  Garner’s head bobbed up and down, loosely, and spit bubbled from between his slack lips.

  “Okay, here’s how it’s gonna be,” Dozier continued. “We’re gonna split the bank money two ways, like I done said, and then we’re goin’ over to Muskogee and find somebody to replace Harley. But, before we do that, we got us some unfinished business with that damn deputy.”

  “Whud debdy?”

  “Aw, just shut up, and listen. That black deputy out of Fort Smith, Bass Reeves. I put out that story about us coming here for two reasons, but, from what I heard when Harley and I went to town, only one worked. I was hopin’ if any Texas Rangers come lookin’, they’d hear that and think I was foolin’ with ‘em, and they’d turn ‘round and be lookin’ for us down near the Red River. I thought this Reeves fella would be smarter, and he’d come lookin’ for us up here, and we could bushwhack him. Instead, I hear he done gone that way lookin’ for us too.”

  “Ain’t thadagud thing, boss?”

  Dozier looked at Garner through narrowed slits. Was he a little less drunk than before? He seemed to have heard and understand everything said. He would have to keep a sharper eye on the man. But, first, he had to get Bass Reeves off his trail.

  “Naw, it ain’t good. I ain’t gonna rest until that man’s dead. Guess I’m gonna have to come up with another plan.”

  Chapter 14.

  The two groups stopped on the trail, facing each other across a space of about ten feet. Bass and Joseph kept their hands loose, not too close to their weapons, but close enough, hopefully, to get to them if need be.

  The eight riders facing them were dressed like ranch hands, but Bass knew better. For one thing, they were too well armed, each with a Colt .45 Peacemaker in a leather-tooled holster on his hip, and a Winchester Model 1866 repeating rifle in a saddle scabbard. They had hard eyes, and rode tall in the saddle, but in a semi-military formation, led obviously by the man who rode in front, a broad-shouldered man with lank brown hair and a droopy mustache. It was he who addressed them.

  “Howdy,” he said. “Where you fellas headed?”

  Not a question one would normally ask of a perfect stranger, Bass thought. But then, he had very little experience with the Texas Rangers—and, he was convinced that the men in front of him were rangers—so he had no basis for comparison. He decided to be as direct.

  “I’m Bass Reeves, Deputy U.S. Marshal out of Fort Smith,” he said, opening his jacket to show his badge. “This here’s my posse man, Joseph Lone Tree. We’re trackin’ an outlaw name of Bob Dozier. He wanted in Arkansas for a whole bunch of crimes.”

  “That so?” the man said. “What makes you think he’s down this way?”

  “Some people in a little settlement just north of here heard him talkin’, and he said he was comin’ this way. Why you so interested? Is it mebbe ‘cause Dozier robbed that bank over to Blossom, and you Texas Rangers want to get the money back, or ‘cause he shot one of your men what crossed the Red River?”

  The man fingered his mustache, looking wide-eyed at Bass. “What makes you think we’re Texas Rangers, Deputy?”

  “Well now, you dressed like reg’lar cowhands, but you got a lot of guns for that kinda work,” Bass said. “And, I ain’t never seen no cowhands that ride in a group like they army like you fellas do.”

  The man smiled. “That’s pretty observant. Look, I know we ain’t got no jurisdiction up here, Deputy, but that Dozier done kilt one of ours, and for that he gotta pay.”

  “He got lots more than that to pay for, and I’m gon’ take him in to the court in Fort Smith and see that he do just that. They’s eight of you, and only two of us, so I can’t rightly make you fellas turn around and go back to Texas, but I’m askin’ you nicely to do just that.”

  “Hey, Wyatt, we ain’t got to listen to this boy,” one of the men said.

  “Hush up, Clint,” the ranger leader said. “The marshal got the law on his side.” To Bass he said, “You think you gonna get this outlaw for sure?”

  “You have not heard of Bass Reeves?” Joseph Lone Tree said. “He always gets his man.”

  “Now that you mention it, I think I have heard tales of this black deputy roamin’ the territory, big buck he his, and is tough as rawhide. Now I look a bit closer, I see you’re pretty big, so I guess you must be him.”

  “I will get Dozier,” Bass said. “And, he will pay for ever thing he ever done wrong.”

  “You know, I believe you just might. Okay, Deputy, me and the boys’ll head on back ‘cross the river. One thing, though. You wastin’ your time lookin’ for him in this direction. I can guarantee you he didn’t come this way.”

  The words hit Bass like a kick to the gut. Of course, he thought, that would be just like Dozier. Tell people he was heading for Cherokee Hills, making them think he might be misdirecting them, and then actually do what he said. He felt like kicking himself. Once again, Dozier had proven himself the master at trickery, and but for the rangers ignoring jurisdiction, would’ve gotten away with it.

  “Then,” he said. “I know right where he be goin’, and I’ll be right on his tail.”

  The ranger leader touched the brim of his hat. “All right, Deputy. We’ll be just t’other side of the river, just in case he slips past you. I promise you, he won’t get past us.”

  “He ain’t gon’ slip past me,” Bass said. “You can bet good money on that.”

  “Good huntin’, then,” the man said, as Bass and Joseph wheeled their horses and kicked them into gallops toward the north.

  Chapter 15.

  It took them nearly three days to reach the fringes of the Cherokee Hills. Along the way, Joseph had queried a few Indians they’d run across, and learned that Dozier had a cabin in the hills, but they weren’t sure just where. Joseph was only vaguely familiar with the area, and Bass even less so.

  On the way, they’d also talked to several people who had caught a glimpse of Dozier and his men along the road, confirming that he had, in fact, headed for the hills.

  Now that they were there, it was just a matter of determining where in the sprawling foothills that stretched from Sallisaw north almost to Kansas, the Arkansas border to the east, and a north-south line from south of Muskogee to Kansas, several hundred square miles of territory, some of it uninhabited. In that maze of valleys, through which flowed the many streams and small rivers, as well as the larger Illinois River, and which was dotted with dozens of lakes, large and small, a man could hide for years, and only the most expert trackers could find his trail. Unfortunately for Dozier, Bass and Joseph were just about the two best trackers west of the Mississippi, and they were determined to find him.

  South of the town of Tahlequah, west of the Illinois River, they saw signs of many cattle and shod horses. There were no large ranches in the area, leading them to conclude the tracks had been made by cattle rustlers, and that it was likely, given his habit of committing a variety of crimes, including rustling, Dozier or some of his gang were responsible for the tracks.

  Their suspicions were increased when the tracks turned off the main trail and entered the narrow mouth of a valley.

 
“I think we done run into a place where rustlers stash the cows they stole ‘fore movin’ ‘em on north,” Bass said.

  Joseph nodded in agreement. “I think you are right. There is no ranch in this area with that many cattle. But, I noticed many shod horses. It might be a bigger gang than the two of us can handle.”

  “We just scout ‘em out, then, and if they’s too many, we go over to Muskogee and organize a posse.”

  They continued to follow the trail, keeping a wary eye on the trail ahead and the slopes to either side to avoid a possible ambush. Bass, being such a tall man, was readily identified even from a distance, when he rode erect. But, when on the trail of fugitives, he rode ‘small in the saddle,’ with his shoulders hunched and his back bent. This way, he was often able to ride right up to a fugitive who tended to ignore him as just a lone black rider until it was too late.

  The two men squatting on a rock just off the trail were seen at the same time they noticed Bass and Joseph, who kept riding and kept their eyes ahead as if they hadn’t seen them. When they came abreast of them, they rose up, their Sharps rifles aimed at their chests.

  “Hold up, strangers,” one said. “Whereat you headed?”

  “We just headin’ up to Honey Creek to do some deer huntin’,” Bass said, pulling his horse to a halt.

  The two men looked at each other, their eyes narrowed.

  “Why you on this side of the river? It’s easier to git to Honey Crick on t’other side,” the man said, regarding them suspiciously.

  As the man talked, Bass and Joseph walked their horses toward them, slowly so as not to spook them, but the second man was more alert than his partner. He pointed his rifle at Bass.

  “You jest hold it right there, boy, you ‘n the Injun both.”

  They halted, about six feet away, their hands resting on their upper thighs.

  “We ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, mister,” Bass said. “Why you pointin’ your guns at us?”