The Adventures of Bass Reeves Deputy US Marshal

by Charles Ray

  She didn’t look happy but could see that his mind was set. She also knew that he was right. Bennie was as headstrong as Bass, but he would never just run off and get married while his father was away, because Bass charged him with taking care of the family in his absence, and he took his responsibilities seriously.

  “Okay,” she said. “But, I’m gon’ hold you to that. First thing you do when you gits back is you talk to him. You promise?”

  Bass raised his right hand. “I swear ‘fore God. I’ll do that ‘fore I even wash the trail dust off. Now, I’d best be gettin’ a move on. Don’ want to keep Marshal Fagan waitin’”

  He stood and pulled her against him, engulfing her small frame in his massive arms, and kissed the top of her head.

  “You be careful out there, Bass,” she murmured against his chest.

  “Ain’t I always?”

  When he’d saddled his big white stallion and settled his gray Stetson on his head, he tugged at the ends of his mustache and smiled at her.

  “See you in ‘bout a month, Nellie,” he said, touching a finger to the brim of his hat. “You take care while I’m gone.”

  It was a ritual they performed each time he left for the territory. She nodded her head and smiled at him, and even after ten children, when she smiled he felt his heart leap in his chest. One more salute, and he swung his long leg over the back of his horse, gentle pulled on the reins and turned the massive beast south toward Fort Smith.

  Nellie stood on the porch of their eight-room farm house, a structure that Bass had built with his own hands after coming back from Indian Territory in 1863 and watched him ride away until the tall figure on the white horse was just a hazy figure in the distance.

  Bass never looked back once.

  CHAPTER 3

  After so many years, Bass hardly paid any attention to his surroundings as he rode from Van Buren to Fort Smith. Unlike Indian Territory, especially once he rode across the north-south railroad about eighty miles west of Fort Smith, the infamous ‘deadline’ that outlaws in the territory had set as the line beyond which a lawman’s life was forfeit, the area between his home and the court and jail in Fort Smith was safe territory, a place where he didn’t have to be eternally vigilant, worrying about a bullet being fired from ambush.

  He nodded or doffed his hat absent-mindedly to those who greeted his passage, his mind on the coming journey, wondering what sort of fugitive he would be sent in pursuit of this time. He hoped it would be more interesting than his last trip, when he’d been sent to arrest a land swindler, a man who had beaten his wife nearly to death, two small-time cattle thieves, and a man who’d tried to rob a bank but been forced to flee when the bank manager pulled a shotgun from beneath his desk. Bad people, sure, Bass thought, but, except for the man who’d beaten his wife, not exactly exciting.

  His horse needed no guidance, having trotted this path so often, and almost before he knew it, the big white stallion was standing in front of the hitching rail at the back entrance to the big white stone courthouse waiting for Bass to dismount.

  After securing the animal, Bass went directly to Marshal Fagan’s office. He found his boss sitting behind his big wooden desk, which was, as usual, piled high with papers, warrants and wanted posters mostly. As Bass entered, Fagan looked up and smiled. He tugged at the ends of his mustache.

  “Mornin’, Bass,” he said. “You’re a bit early. I wasn’t expectin’ you until after lunch.”

  Bass draped his tall body over the chair at the side of the desk, crossed his legs and placed his hat on his knees.

  “Thought it’d be a good idea to git an early start,” he said. “How many warrants you got for me?”

  Fagan shifted the papers on the desk, extracting five of them which he spread out before him.

  “Only five this time, because one of these is likely to take most of your trip to serve.”

  Bass looked down at the papers, waiting for Fagan to read them so he could memorize them.

  “Which one is that?” he asked.

  Fagan jabbed a finger at the document on his right.

  “This one here’s the Barker brothers. A couple of stupid ne’er-do-wells from over near Anadarko. Seems they’ve decided to go on a crime spree over that way. They haven’t killed anyone yet, but word is they’re so inept it’s just a matter of time.”

  Bass gazed at the paper, a wanted poster, memorizing the symbols he recognized, but especially the faces of the two men at the top.

  “What can you tell me about ‘em?”

  Fagan put a finger under one of the pictures.

  “This one here’s Chet Barker, he’s the oldest and kind of the leader. The other one’s his younger brother, Clint. They’re both in their thirties and look enough alike to be twins, even though they’re separated by two years.”

  Looking closely at the pictures, Bass could see the resemblance, but he noticed that the younger one’s eyes were closer set and the older one had a bump in his nose indicating it had probably been broken some time in the past. After a few seconds of looking, he felt sure he would recognize them when he saw them and would know which one was Chet and which was Clint. Even though he couldn’t read or write, he knew numbers, and his eyes widened a bit when he saw the reward; $5,000.

  “That’s a lot of money for two outlaws that ain’t killed nobody,” he said.

  “They’re a big nuisance to commerce over that way. The business community got together and posted the reward. They want these two put away before they kill someone.”

  “If they ain’t kilt nobody, why you think they gon’ be a problem to bring in?”

  “They’ve been branching out and committing crimes pretty far from Anadarko. There’s no telling where they are right now. It might take you some time to track them down.”

  Bass shrugged his massive shoulders. “Okay, what else you got there?”

  The remaining four documents were warrants. A bank robber, a man who’d killed another in a knife fight after a card game, a petty thief seen crawling through the back window of the general store with the goods in his arms, and a man who had set fire to his neighbor’s barn in retaliation for the neighbor’s cows damaging a section of his fence.

  Bass figured he’d take care of the four warrants first, a job that would take about a week to ten days, giving him the remainder of the month to find and arrest the Barkers.

  After Fagan had read each warrant and Bass had committed their contents to memory, he folded them neatly and put them in his coat pocket.

  He then went in search of his posse man, Jack West and the cook available, William Leach, and they set out, their first step being the farm of his friend and most frequent companion on his trips, Henry Lone Tree.

  Bass and Henry had been friends since 1860 when Bass fled his abusive master in Texas to the Indian Territory. Henry had noticed a gang of slave catchers tracking Bass and had helped him escape their clutches. The two had served together in one of the pro-Union regiments formed in the territory during the war and after Bass became a deputy marshal, Henry had been his main posse man and companion for most of his forays into the territory in search of wanted men.

  The journey from Fort Smith to Henry’s farm in the Cherokee Nation, about thirty miles west of the infamous deadline, took the better part of the day, and the sun was low in the west when Bass, accompanied by a single prisoner wagon driven by West, and Leach’s cook wagon, pulled to a halt at the end of the dirt track leading up from the main road to Henry’s front door.

  Bass wasn’t surprised to see his friend sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, a pipe in his hand, looking placidly down the track. Henry, Bass knew, seemed to sense when he was coming.

  He stopped at the foot of the steps.

  “Evenin’, Henry,” he said.

  “Evening, Bass,” Henry responded. “Come on up and set a spell.”

  Bass looked up at the sky which was turning purple signaling that night wasn’t far off.

  “Re
ckon I could do that. Mind if my men camp out in your front yard?”

  Henry waved the pipe, sending a plume of acrid smoke in Bass’s direction.

  “Not a’tall. They know where they can set up.”

  They did. They went through this ritual each time they came to Henry’s place and had actually already started setting up camp. A casual observer would’ve thought the two men had just met for the first time, but this was just the way they were with each other.

  Bass nodded and sat in the empty chair to Henry’s left. Between them was a battered tin coffee pot and two equally battered tin cups.

  “That fresh-brewed coffee?” Bass asked.

  “Just come off the stove ‘bout half an hour ago.”

  “Mind if I pour myself a cup?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Bass filled the two cups, pushing one to Henry’s side of the table. Henry lifted the cup, blew on it twice and took a swallow. Bass copied him.

  “Good coffee,” Bass said.

  “Hmph,” Henry replied.

  “We leave first thing in the mornin’.”

  “How many?”

  “Total of seven, but only six warrants. Two of ‘em on one; the Barker brothers. Ever hear of ‘em?”

  “Two dumb white men from over Anadarko way?”

  “Yeah, that’s them.”

  “Heard a few stories. They never come this far east yet. They kill somebody?”

  “Not yet. Marshal Fagan wants ‘em in jail ‘fore they do.”

  “We going for them first?”

  “Naw, thought I’d save them for last.”

  “Sounds good. I cooked up a mess of venison this mornin’ and got some fresh collard greens. You and your men want to join me for supper?”

  “Sounds good.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Chet and Clint Barker sat astride their horses, a couple of roans that were the only horses they’d ever bought legally, on a winding dirt road about thirty miles east of Anadarko, doing what they did when they weren’t engaged at another bumbling attempt at crime, or hiding in the barn to get away from their domineering mother—arguing.

  “I think we oughta go over toward Muskogee ‘n rob that there train what runs down to Texas,” Clint said. “It’s allus got bags of money fer them cattle ranchers.”

  Chet shook his head in disgust, causing flakes of dandruff to dust his forehead. “Ain’t no way jest the two of us kin rob no train, you ninny. Mebbe we could hit the bank in Muskogee. I bet it’s got gold in the vaults.”

  “Naw, that ain’t so. Not much over to Muskogee way but some Injuns and a few poor redneck farmers what farm Injun land on shares. Them crackers lucky they got a pot to piss in.”

  “How you know that? We ain’t never been over there.”

  “Same way you know we can’t rob no train. I jest thought it is how. How you know the bank got money?”

  “Banks allus got money.”

  “You said gold.”

  “Well, gold, too. Heck, gold’s better ‘n money anyways.”

  “How we gon’ carry gold? That’d be awful heavy.”

  “You think bank notes ain’t heavy. If they’s too much, why we jest steal a couple of mules to carry it.”

  Clint screwed his eyes shut, looking like a cowpoke who ate too many pieces of hardtack without water to wash them down, and was now having trouble passing them through. Thinking hurt his head, and it showed.

  “We gon’ steal the mules first?”

  “Naw, you dumb ass. We only steal mules iffen we need ‘em.”

  “I don’t know, Chet. That all sounds too complicated. Robbery shouldn’t ought to be so complicated.”

  “I ain’t never said it was gon’ be easy, Clint. Hell, if you want life simple, you can jest go back to walkin’ followin’ the hind end of a mule while you plow a field and break your back tryin’ to bring in enough of a crop to feed yourself over the winter.”

  Clint shook his head, his eyes wide. “Naw, I don’ wanna do that. I ain’t no dirt farmer, and I damn sure don’ wanna be no sharecroppin’ dirt farmer.”

  “Okay, then. We gon’ have to find us somethin’ to rob.”

  “And, it has to be somethin’ worth somethin’, but that we can tote around easy.”

  Chet smiled. “You know, little brother, sometimes, you say the smart thing. That’s a good idea.”

  Clint looked surprised.

  “I know I’m smart. Uh, what’d I say?”

  “It’s gotta be something we can carry easy. Now, what do you know that’s prob’ly got money in it, and it gits carried ‘round easy?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. What?”

  “A mail bag, fool. Lots of folk send money and stuff through the mail, and that there mail man jest throws the bag over the rump of his horse, or in the back of his mail wagon.”

  Clint scratched his head. “Oh, yeah. I know that. So?”

  “So, fool, we robs the mail wagon. Hell, all we gotta do is boot the driver off, and take the wagon with the mail in it. And, you know what’s extra good ‘bout that?”

  “We don’ have to carry the loot?”

  “Well, yeah, that too, but the real extra good thing, is we git a couple of good horses to boot.”

  “Dang, Chet,” Clint said. “That sounds like a right fine idea.” Then, he blinked. “But, where we gon’ find the mail man?”

  With an exasperated groan, Chet wheeled his horse and pointed its head east. “Over to Muskogee way. We jest got to lay low near the post office, and when the mail wagon takes off, we follow it, and when he’s out of town we rob him. It’ll be easy as shootin’ fish in a barrel.”

  Clint smiled, but looked confused.

  “Who in blazes would wanta shoot fish in a barrel?”

  By then, though, his older brother was several feet away, kicking his horse into a canter.

  Like most of their plans, this one didn’t work out the way they originally planned it. The first town they came to was a middling sized settlement, Alban, about halfway between Anadarko and Muskogee and about thirty miles north of the Texas border.

  As luck would have it, a mail wagon, one of those enclosed box-like conveyances pulled by a team of two horses, was just leaving town heading west. The lone driver had a shotgun in the boot next to his left leg. The brothers smiled.“Now, that’s what I think ma calls fate, or somethin’,” Chet said. “We don’t have to ride all the way to Muskogee.”

  So, they promptly rode off to the side of the road and let the wagon pass them, even doffing their hats to the driver, who gave them a friendly ‘howdy’ as he drove past. When he was about a hundred yards away, they turned and followed him.

  Except for them and the wagon ahead in a cloud of red dust the road was empty, and they continued to smile, blessing the good luck that had befallen them.

  All they could think about was all the money and valuables they would loot from the crates and mail bags they saw piled high in the wagon as it passed. They were so single-minded, it never occurred to them to wonder why, if the wagon was indeed loaded down with valuables, there was no guard.

  As they closed in behind the wagon, Chet turned to his brother. “Put your bandana over your face. Don’t want the driver recognizin’ us.”

  They placed the bandanas they wore around their necks over the lower half of their faces and kicked their horses forward, flanking the surprised driver who suddenly found himself staring down the barrels of two .45 caliber revolvers to either side held by men with red kerchiefs over their face.

  The driver pulled the team to a halt, dropped the reins and raised his hands.

  “I ain’t got nothin’ worth stealin’, fellas,” he said. “Jest some mail and a few boxes of clothes the folks in town is sendin’ to the Injun church over to Bisbee.”

  Chet waved his revolver. “I don’ wanna hear none of yer blatherin’, old man. You jest haul yer carcass down from that box, ‘n don’ even be thinkin’ ‘bout reachin’ fer that shotgun by yer leg, or I’ll fil
l you fulla lead.”

  “Ain’t no call for threatenin’, young fella,” the driver said as he stood and levered himself to the ground. “I ain’t ‘bout to risk my neck for what’s in this wagon. You gonna steal it, you go right on ahead.”

  “Now, that there’s a smart thing to do. Cli-, er, partner, keep your piece on him while I tie him up.” Chet holstered his sidearm and dismounted. “Now, gramps, turn yourself around and put them hands behind your back.”

  The driver complied, and smartly Chet had him trussed up like a Christmas goose. He pushed the old man to the side of the road and had him sit down.

  “Now,” he said. “You jest set yourself there real quiet like until somebody comes along to untie you.” He took his horse’s rein and handed them to his brother. “You lead the horses, ‘n I’ll drive the wagon.”

  He shook the reins and the two horses, quiet through the drama, lunged forward, heading west.

  When they were just hazy shapes in the dust kicked up by the wagon, the ole man wiggled himself out of the ropes, stood, and dusted himself off.

  “Them stupid galoots are gonna be real disappointed,” he muttered. “When they git in that wagon and find out I done told the truth. Ever thing in it ain’t worth fifty dollars.”

  He shook his head and started walking toward Alban, smiling. He had himself one interesting story to tell.

  CHAPTER 5

  The old man, Harvey Wilson, had been back in Alban for two days, and had told his story to everyone who would listen by the time Bass and his crew, with four prisoners chained in the prison wagon, arrived.

  It didn’t take long for Bass to hear about what had happened, and as soon as he did he sought the man out.

  He found Wilson sitting in the North Star saloon, his gnarled hands cupped around a glass half full of an amber liquor, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow, and bloodshot eyes testifying that it had been him who brought the bottle to that level.