by Charles Ray
“We’ll do it, then. Thank you, deputy, thank you very much.”
Henry had finished reattaching the newly repaired wheel. He now stood aside and let them have a look at it.
“Like I said, it’ll take you to Fort Sill, but it will need to be replaced before you try to go any further.”
Clara Lane invited them to stay and join them for supper, but Bass informed him that the fugitives he was chasing were getting farther away. He and Henry wished them luck and went back to round up their wagons and crew.
The little boy jumped up and down and pointed as they rode past, and the parents waved, but stared with eyes wide when they saw the prisoners peering at them through the bars of the prisoner wagons.
CHAPTER 8
An hour from where they encountered the Lanes, they arrived at a small settlement of about two hundred people. Bass chuckled at the thought that George Lane was less than a half-day’s walk from help if only he’d had the gumption to explore his surroundings. From the droppings they saw on the trail, they figured also that they were less than a day behind Dawkins and his men.
A crowd milled around on the dirt track that passed through the center of the settlement, and even from a distance of a hundred yards, Bass could see that they were not happy. He held his hand up, stopping the wagons.
“Y’all better wait here whilst I go up and see what’s goin’ on,” he said.
“You want me to go with you?” Henry asked.
Bass thought about it. He could be riding straight into a mob, not a smart thing for a man of color to do, even if he was a deputy U.S. marshal. Henry, on the other hand, was a resident of the territory. His presence might forestall any rash actions.
“Yeah, maybe that ain’t such a bad idea.”
Bass arranged his coat so that his badge was plainly visible, and then riding slightly hunched in the saddle to minimize his otherwise imposing appearance, he and Henry rode toward the crowd.
The hum of conversation stopped as they approached.
A beefy looking young man with a bushy black beard stepped from the crowd.
“Who are you?” Then, he saw Bass’s badge. “Oh, you’re the law. It’s about time you got here.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Bass asked.
“Don’t you know? We sent a man over to Chickasha to report it? Ain’t that why you’re here?”
“I’m here chasin’ after a gang of cattle rustlers that were passing this way, so no, I don’t know what our problem is.”
“We done had a killin’, that’s the problem. Bunch of rowdy cowhands come through. They were drinkin’ and playin’ cards with some of the locals in the saloon, when Ned Shaeffer accused the leader of that bunch of dealin’ from the bottom. Fella just up and shot ‘im in the face. Then, they lit out.”
Bass described Clint Dawkins.
“Yeah,” the man said. “That’s him. That’s the evil-eyed snake that shot Ned. What you gon’ do about it?”
“Well now, when I catches him, and takes him back to Fort Smith, that charge will be added to everything else he’s done, so ‘stead of bein’ sent to the federal pen in Detroit, he’ll likely hang.”
“Hangin’, hell, that sounds too good for that buzzard. He oughta be throwed in a pig pen and let the hogs eat him.”
Bass shuddered at the idea. He’d seen what was left of a body thrown to the hogs, and there wasn’t much to see. The omnivorous pigs had eaten everything but the victim’s skull, and that was only because they’d come upon the scene before they’d cracked it enough to get the pieces in their maws.
“That ain’t a nice thing to think about doin’,” Bass said. “Why don’t we let Judge Parker and the court take care of punishin’ him?”
“That’s if you catch him. You sure you can do that?”
Henry spoke up, “This is Bass Reeves, the most feared deputy marshal in the territory. He always gets his man.”
The man cocked his head to the side. “Well, in that case, good luck to you.”
CHAPTER 9
Bass sent Henry ahead to scout for signs of the gang and resumed his place at the head of his little wagon train. Stern and Steadman had resumed griping about staying in the territory so long, and now some of the prisoners were complaining about being confined to the prisoner wagons like animals for so many days.
“Just hush up, all of you,” Bass said. “We be headin’ home by tomorrow, day after at the latest. I don’t know why you prisoners complain’, though. Once we get to Arkansas, they gon’ lock you in a cell where you won’t be able to see the sun. Least ways, now, you can smell the fresh air and see the sky.”
A couple of the harder prisoners snorted at Bass, but the younger ones, those who had yet to experience their first time behind iron bars, looked apprehensive. Bass felt sorry for them, many of whom had been led into a life of crime by older relatives, or circumstances over which they had no control. But, his sympathy only went so far. After a point, he reckoned, a man has to take personal responsibility for his actions, especially when it’s been pointed out to him—in their cases in the form of wanted posters—that his actions are wrong.
He shook the thought from his mind. Once they were delivered to the federal jailer they were no longer his concern. Besides, by then, he’d be busy out looking for the next bunch.
As was often the case when he was long in the saddle, his mind wandered, flitting about like a butterfly in a field full of spring daisies, lighting on thoughts of Nellie and his kids, then flitting off to dip into thoughts of his own childhood, sent early to work in the fields because he’d been uncommonly big for his age, and then pulled mostly out of the fields because he was big for his age and good with his hands or with guns, and he was a quick learner, always listening and remembering what he heard.
I just wish sometimes, he thought, that I’d got me a little book learning to go along with the other things.
His reverie was interrupted by the sight of a rider coming at them from the west, a rider that long before anyone else would’ve seen enough to recognize, he realized was Henry. His horse was galloping, but he didn’t seem to be in a particular lather.
When Henry reached them, he turned his horse and rode alongside Bass.
“I found ‘em,” he said. “They are camped in a glen about ten miles ahead. Looks like they are settlin’ in for the night.”
“Well now, ain’t that nice and accommodatin’ of ‘em to wait for us to catch up,” Bass said. “Lead us to ‘em.”
“We should get there just at dusk, Bass. You plan on takin’ ‘em today, or doin’ like you did with Greenleaf, and hit ‘em at first light?”
“Don’t get too dark this time of year ‘til seven, so if we get there right at the start of dusk, I reckon we go ahead and round ‘em up tonight. That way, we can start back home first thing in the mornin’.”
Henry dipped his head in acknowledgment. When Bass decided on a plan, that was it. No further conversation was necessary.
“How we gonna guard the prisoners and help you round up them rustlers at the same time?” Stern asked.
“You ain’t. You gon’ hang back and watch these prisoners. Henry and me gon’ go round these folks up.”
“I think it would be easier if there was at least three of us,” Henry said.
“Okay, then,” Bass said. “We stop short of where they camped, and Alan, you watch the prisoners. Jake, you come with me and Henry.”
Steadman grumbled at being left out of the action.
“What you grousin’ about?” Stern said. “You still gon’ git the same pay I git, and you don’ have to git shot at.”
That shut Steadman up fast.
“All right,” Bass said. “Let’s move out.”
After forty minutes, Henry called for a stop.
“I think we should leave the wagons here,” he said.
Here was a broad pasture with sweet green grass, a line of young oak trees lining the side farthest from the road and dotted with pine trees. The on
ly thing it lacked was a stream, but they’d filled their water barrels and had enough for two or three days.
“Okay Alan, keep everybody quiet until we git back,” Bass said. “Jake, git your horse, and come on with me and Henry. We got us a buncha rustlers to catch.”
The three of them then rode forward, with Henry leading the way. At a point where the road made a sharp turn north, Henry raised his hand to stop them, then put a finger to his lips for silence. Not that he needed to, because the wind was blowing from the northwest, and the unmistakable odor of cattle was heavy in the air. In addition, they could hear the lowing of grazing cattle.
“I think we should go on foot from here,” Henry said.
They dismounted, taking their rifles from the saddle scabbards as they dropped to the ground.
“Okay,” Bass said. “Henry, you lead the way.”
Henry took them through a small stand of evergreens, the pine needles muffling any sounds their boots made, until they came to the edge of the trees. They looked out onto a broad expanse of natural pasture, a platter-shaped area that sloped gently upwards on the north. A herd of about forty head of various breeds of cattle grazed contentedly under the watchful eyes of four men on horseback who rode around the periphery, nudging the occasional stray back into the herd.
“Seems to be two missing,” Henry said. “When I found ‘em, there were six.”
“Well, let’s get these four, and we’ll worry ‘bout the other two later,” Bass said.
They stepped out of the grass, rifles aimed in the general direction of the riders.
“Put your hands up, and don’t do nothin’ stupid,” Bass yelled.
CHAPTER 10
The first of the outlaws to see three men walking from the trees with rifles pointed his way, dropped the reins and almost fell off his horse.
Foolishly, instead of reaching for the reins and steadying himself in the saddle, the man went for the sidearm at his waist. Without breaking stride, and shooting from the hip, Bass put a rifle slug through the man’s right shoulder, sending him tumbling over his horse’s rump to land on the ground, luckily on his uninjured left shoulder. He scrambled to his feet, grasping his wounded right shoulder and ran for his horse to escape the milling cows, spooked by the shot.
Seeing what happened to their friend, the other three outlaws raised their hands and waited meekly as Bass, Henry, and Stern approached.
The three were quickly handcuffed. They patched up the wounded man, who gave his name as Jack Tatum, and helped him back into his saddle. Under the watchful eye and menacing rifles of Henry and Stern, the four men looked warily at Bass as he walked around and stood in front of them.
“Where is Clint Dawkins and the other member of your gang?” he asked.
The four outlaws looked back and forth at each other, finally, Tatum spoke up.
“Clint and Billy, they done rode on ahead,” he said. “He said he was goin’ to make contact with the fella what was gonna buy these cows from us.”
Bass looked around. In addition to being a mix of breeds, he noticed several different brands.
“So, you fellas didn’t steal all these animals from one place, I see.”
“We didn’t steal nothin’,” Tatum said. “These steers was bought all legal like.”
“I suppose you have the bills of sale?”
“The wha-, uh, Clint’s got the papers.”
CHAPTER 11
Bass knew a lie when he heard it, and Tatum wasn’t even a particularly good liar, with his blinking and looking away when he spoke.
“Well, they look like stolen cattle to me,” Bass said. “So, we gon’ take you and them back to Fort Smith and let old Judge Parker sort it out. So, your boss went on ahead to Fort Sill, did he? When did he leave?”
“Just ‘bout an hour ‘fore y’all come.”
Bass and Henry shared a look.
“Jake,” Bass said. “You think you can git these four back to the prison wagon by yourself?”
Stern patted his rifle.
“One way or t’other, I can,” he said. “Whether they’s all alive when we git there kinda depends on them.”
The four outlaws all spoke at once, promising they wouldn’t try anything.
“Leave the cattle here for now. Me and Henry will drive ‘em to you when we come back.”
“You goin’ after the Dawkins brothers?”
‘Yeah. Job ain’t done ‘till them two’s in chains and in one of the wagons.”
“Jest two of you ain’t gon’ have much chance agin Clint and Billy,” Tatum said. “Them two is stone killers. Just a day or so ago, Clint shot a man in the face just for callin’ him out for cheatin’ at cards.”
“That charge will be added to cattle rustling,” Bass said. “Although, I reckon it ain’t nice to call a man a cheat.”
“Problem is, Clint was dealin’ from the bottom,” Tatum said. “Bold as brass and wasn’t even tryin’ too hard to hide it.
Henry grunted. “We might not be able to bring these two in alive,” he said.
Bass shrugged. “I’d rather bring ‘em in alive, but if they don’t want to come peaceable like, then we’ll leave ‘em dead. Either way, they rustlin’ and killin’ days is just about over.”
CHAPTER 12
By pushing their horses, Bass and Henry caught up to the Dawkins brothers in just over two hours. It was dark by the time they arrived and the campfire the two men had built beside a broad, but shallow stream was visible from almost a mile away. They stopped their horses.
“It’s gon’ be hard to get up on ‘em without ‘em knowin’ we’s here,” Bass said. “But, I got me an idea that just might work.”
“You plan to sneak up on ‘em on foot?”
Bass shook his head. “Naw, I’m gon’ ride in, but I want you to cut ‘round the other side jest in case they try to make a run for it.”
“Wait. You plan on riding into the camp of two killers all by yourself.”
“Sure ‘nuff. If these boys think like I think they do, they ain’t gon’ see no danger from an old colored cowboy, ‘leastwise, not at first. I’ll try to get the drop on ‘em, and you can come in and back me up.”
Usually, Henry didn’t question Bass’s plans, but he looked at him with a frown on his bronze face.
“I do not think that’s a good idea, my friend. What if they just decide to shoot you, whether they think you are a danger or not?”
“Stop frettin’, Henry. I ain’t been shot yet, have I?”
“There is always the first time.”
“Aw, I think this’ll work. Now, you git. I’ll give you ten minutes ‘fore I move in.”
Still shaking his head, Henry wheeled his horse to the left and started making his way past the camp site.
Bass gave him fifteen minutes just to be on the safe side. Then, he kneed his horse’s shoulders and started forward, making sure to ride ‘small in the saddle’ the way he’d been taught by the elders of the tribe during his time in the territory during the war. Not only did this seem to shrink his six-foot-one frame, making him look shorter and less imposing, but it also made him a more difficult target for an ambusher.
Clint and Billy were sitting around a fire sharing a bottle of whiskey they’d bought in the last settlement just before they had to leave quickly after Clint shot a local gambler for accusing him of cheating. He had been cheating but felt that the man had no right to accuse him in such a loud voice, embarrassing him in front of the whole saloon. The remains of their meal, hardtack and fried pork, was congealing in their tin plates near the fire, and they were deep into the bottle of brown liquor. For that reason, Bass was inside the circle of light from the fire before they heard the clop of his horse’s hooves or saw him.
His reactions slowed by the whiskey, Clint, the older brother and leader of the Dawkins gang, clumsily drew his sidearm, a Colt Peacemaker like the two that Bass had under his jacket. Billy, drunker than his older and bigger brother, simply sat there staring wide-e
yed at the stranger.
Bass raised his hands, palms facing outward in the universal gesture of surrender. “Hold on, mister, I ain’t meanin’ you no harm,” he said. “I’m jest a weary traveler who smelt that there hard tack and pork settin’ on the ground, and I swear I also smelt me some whiskey, less’n I’se mistaken.”
Clint aimed his Colt up at Bass, the barrel wavering.
“I don’ like nobody sneakin’ up on me, boy,” he said. “I done shot men for less’n that.”
Aw, boss, I wasn’t sneakin’, or nothin’ like that. I reckon you musta been takin’ a sip when I rode up. That’s why you didn’t see me.”
“What’s your name, boy? Where you from?”
“My name, boss, is Beauregard Reed, and I come up from Paris, Texas,” Bass said. He often gave a false name, keeping it close to his real name so he wouldn’t forget in the middle of a conversation.
“Where you headed, boy?” Billy Dawkins asked, still sprawled on the ground near the fire.
“Why, I’se on my way up to Fort Sill, young master. I hear they’s hirin’ guides.”
Clint Dawkins laughed. “You, a guide? Who the hell ever heard of a colored guide?”
“Aw, I’se actually a pretty good guide, boss. I rode ‘long side my boss when him and the other ranchers down Paris way went out agin the Comanches a few years back. Learned to track real good doin’ that. I figger I’se a better tracker than any of them boys they got in the army, that’s for sure.”
“Well now, don’t that beat all.”
“I think we oughta jest shoot ‘im, Clint,” the younger brother said. “What iffen he tells folks ‘bout us when he gits to Fort Sill?”
“What’s he gon’ tell ‘em, Billy? That he run into two white men on the road. Hell fire, boy, where’s your brain.”
“I’m jest as smart as you, Clint Dawkins. In fact, I went to school one whole year longer’n you ever did.”
“Ha, that jest means you didn’t drop out ‘till the fourth grade. Ain’t no big deal. Readin’ and writin’ is way overrated anyway. Wouldn’t you agree, boy?”
