The Adventures of Bass Reeves Deputy US Marshal

by Charles Ray

  In effect, Bass had said, ‘Looks like a house on fire up ahead, maybe we should go help,’ and Henry had agreed.

  Bass turned and looked at West on the prison wagon, who had also seen the smoke, and although he hadn’t been part of the conversation had come to pretty much the same conclusion. Out here, so far from town, folks helped out when there was trouble.

  “Looks like somebody’s house’s burnin’,” he said.

  “Sure does,” West said. “We gonna go help put it out?”

  Bass nodded, turned and urged his horse into a gallop. He didn’t have to look back to know the prison wagon and the cook wagon were also picking up speed, because he could hear the prisoners yelping as it bounced on the rough road. He smiled. If they thought the ride was bad, they were really going to like what happened when they reached their destination.

  It took twenty minutes for the wagons to reach the fire, about five minutes behind Bass and Henry, who had already dismounted and were helping a young man who looked to be in his late twenties throw water on what turned out not to be a house fire, but something almost as bad, a barn fire. The man’s wife, a young, very pregnant woman who looked barely out of her teens, who held the hand of a child barely old enough to walk, stood on the porch of their crudely built cabin, looking on with an expression of anguish on her sun-tanned face.

  When the wagons came to a stop in clouds of dust, Bass ran over and yelled up at West, “Get them prisoners out and unshackled, and put ‘em to work. The fire ain’t spread too far, and with every hand workin’ we can git it out ‘fore it does too much more damage.”

  When the grumbling prisoners were standing in a row beside the wagon, Bass, with his hands on the butts of his Peacemakers stood in front of them.

  “We gon’ leave your chains off ‘till this fire’s out,” he said. “Don’ none of you git to thinkin’ ‘bout tryin’ to run off. I’ll be keepin’ one eye on the fire and one on you. Any man tries to make a run for it, I’ll stop fightin’ the fire long enough to put a slug in him. Do I make myself clear?”

  Heads bobbed up and down. Outlaws they were, but each of them grew up in the countryside, where neighbors helped neighbors. It was bred into them. In addition, those who knew of Bass’s reputation, had informed the others in quiet tones during their long ride, and each of them knew that when he said he’d shoot them if they tried running away, that’s exactly what he meant.

  Once freed of their chains, they lined up and began a bucket line from the well, at the side of the little house, to the burning barn.

  West and Leach joined them, and within a few minutes the fire was noticeably weaker, and by the end of thirty minutes, there were only a few smoldering spots left, which they attacked individually with buckets of water and shovels.

  One wall of the barn had been burned pretty bad and would have to be replaced, but the contents had been spared for the most part, except for one wheel barrow that had been near the burning wall. It was a total loss. But the plows and other farm tools were saved, as were the two milk cows, the two horses, and the plow mule, which was the reason the fire had spread as much as it did. The young farmer, Caleb Wilson, had lost time while he moved the animals to safety. He looked contrite when he explained that to Bass.

  “No call you feelin’ bad,” Bass said. “You can fix your barn when you got time, but you can’t git a crop in without a mule to pull your plow, and you need them cows for that young’un of yours, ‘n soon gon’ need it for the one on the way. You did the right thing savin’ them animals and your other equipment.”

  “It would’ve been a total loss if y’all hadn’t come along when you did,” he said, wiping his face, which only served to spread the soot more.

  “We’s glad to help. Sorry we can’t stay and help you fix your barn, but we got to get over to Anadarko, ‘n after that we got to go back to Fort Smith.”

  “You done helped more ‘n I got a right to ask.” The man extended his hand. “Thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It was nightfall when they arrived in Anadarko. The first thing Bass did was arrange to put the horses and prisoners up in the livery stable, shackling the prisoners to the walls of the stables, much to the shock and amusement of the owner, who charged him five cents less for each man as he did for a horse since he didn’t have to provide food for them.

  Bass assigned West first guard over the prisoners, Henry would take over at 10:00, and he’d take the graveyard shift starting at 2:00 until sunrise. William Leach offered to stand a shift, so Bass asked him to assist West, because he wanted him fresh for the trail. He had no desire to eat food prepared by a cook who hadn’t had a good night’s sleep.

  Then, he and Henry went in search of supper and information.

  The town had the usual number of saloons, a general store, a small bank and post office, a sheriff’s office and jail, and a two-story hotel that advertised ‘The Best Food in Town!” on a crudely-lettered sign affixed to one of the gallery posts flanking the entry doors. Not wishing to deal with the noise and odor of crowded saloons, they decided to try the hotel.

  The hotel’s dining room as to the right of the entrance, facing the reception desk, and had only a few diners, one of whom, Bass could see from the dented tin star he wore on his vest, was the town sheriff.

  They walked to the table where the man, a bit along in years from the shaggy gray hair on his head, ate alone. Bass showed his deputy marshal’s badge and introduced himself and Henry.

  “Well, pull up chairs and join me,” the sheriff said, sticking out his hand to shake. “I’m Jacob Wheeler, town sheriff. What brings you to Anadarko, deputy?”

  After they were seated, Bass told the sheriff about his warrant for the Barkers. Before Wheeler could respond, a pudgy waiter, wearing a food-stained white apron came to the table to take their food orders. Wheeler suggested the steak, corn bread and baked potatoes, and they agreed.

  “So,” Wheeler said after the waiter had gone. “You come after them Barker boys, eh? Figgered it was jest a matter of time ‘fore they run afoul of the law. Been nothin’ but trouble makers since their pa died.”

  “They ever break the law here?” Bass asked.

  Wheeler shook his head. “Naw, that pa of theirs at least taught ‘em not to foul their own nests ‘fore he died. Can’t say much ‘bout the way their ma raises ‘em, though.”

  Bass looked at him inquisitively.

  “What I mean is,” he said. “Is that Mabel Barker ain’t exactly what you’d call a good Christian woman. She was a hell raiser ‘fore she married Clive, that was the boys’ pa, but he kept a tight rein on her ‘n the boys till the consumption took ‘im. I reckon since he died she’s jest been lookin’ the other way when they git up to trouble.”

  “Can you tell us how to get to their house?”

  “I can do you better ‘n that. I can draw you a map. You got somethin’ I can write on?”

  Bass removed the wanted poster from his jacket and put it upside down on the table next to the sheriff’s almost empty plate. The man shoved the plate aside, took a nub of a pencil from the pocket of his vest and began drawing. When he finished, he slid it across the table to Bass.

  “Looks easy enough to follow,” Bass said. “How far away is it?”

  “About thirty miles as the crow flies. It’s tucked away up in the hills in a little valley. Clive Barker liked his privacy.”

  Bass thanked the man and put the map in his pocket. The waiter brought their dinner and all conversation ceased as they tucked into the food.

  After the sheriff had finished his supper and an additional cup of coffee, he wished them luck and left.

  When their meals were finished, Bass pushed back from the table.

  “I was thinkin’ of mebbe gittin’ a room here at the hotel so we could take turns sleepin’ in a bed,” he said. “But, now, I’m thinkin’ it might be better to jest sleep in the livery stable so we can git an early start in the mornin’.�
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  CHAPTER 14

  Bass took the last guard shift so that he would be the one waking up the prisoners at the first sign of dawn, just when the eastern sky turns light gray. As he’d anticipated, they grumbled at being penned up back in the prison wagon, but his threat to preach to them about the sinfulness of their lives, along with a promise that they’d eat a hot breakfast before heading out, quieted them down.

  By the time the first sliver of the sun’s orb broke the horizon, they were on the road heading north, following the map Bass had been given.

  The map wasn’t very accurate, but the sheriff had drawn in key landmarks with enough detail that Bass could follow it, and, there being only one road heading in the direction they wanted, he didn’t think they’d get lost.

  He was focused on a large rock formation that the sheriff had drawn in loving detail. It looked like a bull with his head lowered for a charge, and the sheriff had said it was in a flat area with a clear stream and a good stand of oak trees. The perfect spot to set up camp and put the plan he’d come up with as he sat with his back against the stable wall in the wee hours of the night listening to everyone else snore while he kept an eye on the prisoners just in case one of them woke up in the middle of the night and tried to get out of his chains and flee.

  No one tried to escape, leaving him a lot of idle time to think. When he spotted the big rock about fifty yards ahead, he halted his horse and turned to face West on the prison wagon.

  “We gon’ stop here and make camp,” he said.

  “I thought you said we was gonna pick up them Barkers today,” West said.

  “I am if they home, but I’m gon’ go alone.”

  “Why would you want to that, Bass?” Henry asked.

  “Sheriff said they house’s in a little valley at the end of the road. Ain’t no way to come up on it without bein’ seen, ‘n if they see all of us, and that there prison wagon, they’s likely to scamper into the bush, and we’d never catch ‘em. If I go in alone, they might not suspect nothin’.”

  “Ain’t that takin a big chance?” West looked puzzled.

  “Not if they don’ know I’se the law.”

  West still looked puzzled, but Henry, more accustomed to Bass’s unconventional ways, smiled.

  “What will you be this time?” he asked.

  “I’se thinkin’ mebbe a desperado on the run. They got a strange code out here in the territory, these outlaws do. They might rob ordinary folk, but they look out for each other.”

  West shook his head. “You don’t look like no outlaw to me.”

  “Jest you wait,” Bass said as he swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.

  The first thing he did was take a ratty looking old gray coat from his saddle bag. He then took of the coat he was wearing, folded it neatly and put it in the bag, after taking off his badge. The badge he attached to the underside of the gray coat’s lapel. He hitched his .45’s up high on his waist and put the coat on, pulling it closed around his body.

  “Yep, that hides your weapons,” Henry said.

  Then, Bass took off his hat and put it on the ground at his feet. Drawing the left revolver with his right hand, he fired three quick shots, putting three holes through the crown. He put the weapon back, leaned over, and upended the hat and drug it back and forth across the dirt until it no longer looked like the hat he’d been wearing since they left Fort Smith. He put the hat on, pulling it so that it covered his brow. He knelt and began picking up clods of dirt and rubbing them over the coat, his boots, trousers and face.

  Then, he stood’ not tall and square shouldered like he usually did, but slightly hunched so that he looked about three inches shorter.

  “Well, I’ll be double-damned,” West said. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d walk right by you on the street and never know you wasn’t jest some down ‘n out trail bum.”

  “He knows how to ride small in the saddle, too,” Henry said. “So, when people see him coming they do not know it is the tall Bass Reeves.”

  “Only I ain’t gon’ be ridin’ this time.”

  “You gonna walk? How far is it from here?” West looked wide-eyed at Bass.

  “The sheriff said it was about thirty miles from town, and that rock’s about two-three miles, so I ‘spect I gotta walk about 26 to 28 miles.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that’s one heck of a long way.”

  “Oh, I walk pretty fast with these long legs of mine. Reckon I’ll get there ‘fore nightfall. ‘Course, I won’t be back ‘fore tomorrow, ‘cause I don’t cotton to walkin’ a road like this in the dark. Y’all jest wait here ‘till I get back.”

  He turned his face north and began walking, long strides taking him away from them at a rapid pace.

  West sat on the wagon looking at the figure receding into the distance.

  “That there’s jest about the strangest deputy I done ever been a posse man for,” he said.

  Henry chuckled.

  “That is not the strangest thing he has ever done, trust me.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The sun was still a long way from setting when the cabin the sheriff described came into view. It sat well back in a grove of trees with a good view of the road, and a thick stand of trees behind it into which anyone fleeing the house could easily get lost.

  He paused to take in the scene and check his disguise. He’d kicked up so much dust he could’ve skipped smearing dust. He was covered head to foot in a brown powder, looking just like what was about to pretend to be.

  As he approached the front of the cabin, a heavyset woman wearing a red and white gingham dress with a white apron strapped around her generous midsection, opened the door. She held a shotgun across her large breasts and stared at him with icy blue eyes. This, Bass thought, had to be Mabel Barker.

  When he was about ten feet away, she swung the shotgun around until the two barrels were staring him in the eye.

  “Hold it right there, stranger,” she said in a voice as heavy as a man’s. “You trespassin’ on private propity. ‘Fore I put a load of buckshot in your hide, whyn’t you tell me what you doin’ here.”

  Bass held his hands up.

  “Please, don’t shoot me, missus. I ain’t gon’ do you no harm.”

  “What you doin’ here, boy?”

  “I’se runnin’, ma’am, runnin’ for my life, I is.” He swept his hat off and stood, holding it in front, his head down, not making eye contact.

  “Who, you runnin’ from?”

  “A lynch mob, ma’am”

  “You mean a posse, right?”

  He ran his hand through his wiry hair.

  “It ‘mounts to the same thing in my case. They done already tried to kill me.” He held up his with the three fresh bullet holes, and Mabel Barker looked at it through squinty eyes and nodded. “Put these here three holes in my hat, ‘n shot my horse right out from under me.”

  “Dang, boy, what’d you do to make people so all fired mad at you?”

  “Well, missus, it was like this,” he said. “I’se playin’ cards with this fella, ‘n I saw he wuz dealin’ from the bottom, so I called him on it. He done pulled out this sidearm, but ‘fore he could shoot me, I took it from ‘im and whupped ‘im up side the head. I reckon I musta hit him too hard, though, cuz he done up and died. Them town folk was plumb fired up ‘bout that and was gon’ take me out ‘n string me up, so I jest made a run fer it.”

  She had a worried expression on her face.

  “You didn’t lead ‘em up here, did you?”

  “Oh, no missus. I wuz headin’ mostly east ‘till they shot my horse from under me. Then, I took off through the woods and turned north, figgerin’ they’d keep headin’ east lookin’ for me.”

  She laughed, a high=pitched cackling sound. “Dang if you ain’t the smart one. They ain’t likely to come lookin’ for you up this way. You look plumb tuckered.”

  “Oh, missus, I is, I surely is. I been walkin’ what feels like days without no
water or food. My stomach is tryin’ to get out and eat my belt buckle.”

  She relaxed her grip on the shotgun and her usually harsh expression softened.

  “Why land sake, where are my manners. You come on in here and set yourself. I’ll git you some water ‘n some vittles.” She stepped aside and nodded for him to enter.

  He shook as much of the dust off his clothing as possible and stepped inside the cabin. The room was large, serving as both a sitting room, judging by the large, ratty-looking sofa and lopsided wooden table in the center, and a bedroom, based on the two iron-frame beds off to the left. To the right, through a doorway without a door, he could see a black iron pot-belly stove and the corner of a wooden table. Straight to his front was a closed door, which he assumed to be the woman’s bedroom, the only room in the structure with any privacy.

  Unsure where she wanted him to sit, he moved to the sofa.

  “It okay iffen I set here?” he asked.

  “Yeah, set yourself there ‘till I git the vittles warmed. You want a cup of coffee? I just brewed a pot.”

  “Yessum, a cup of coffee would sure ‘nuff hit the spot right now. I’m plumb parched after all that walkin’.”

  She left him and went into the kitchen. He caught glimpses of her walking back and forth, and then she came back with a tin cup in her hand.

  “I ain’t got no sugar. My boys, Chet ‘n Clint, they ain’t been ‘round for a few weeks, ‘n I wasn’t up to goin’ all the way down to town to buy any.”

  “That don’t matter, missus. I takes my coffee black anyway.”

  She handed him the cup of steaming brown liquid and went back to the kitchen.

  He blew on it and took a sip, and almost gagged. It was worse than the worst cup of trail coffee he’d ever tasted. Gingerly, he put the cup on the table and sat back to wait for her to bring the food, fearing that it would be as bad as the coffee.

  To his surprise, it wasn’t half bad. The biscuits were a little hard, and the strips of beef were tough, though well cooked, but the beans, which had been dumped in the pot from a can and heated, tasted okay. He was so hungry from his long, dusty walk, though, the hard biscuits—softened by sopping them in the grease from the beef—and the tough beef went down his gullet as fast as the beans.