Oklahoma Showdown (An Indian Territory Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “You should have listened to Dace,” Harriet said getting up to get more coffee. “I don’t know what he’s doing, but at least he isn’t skulking around in the middle of the night.”

  “Listen to Dace, huh?” George’s face reddened with anger. “Well, let me tell you something, missy. You’ll be singing another song when we’re back in the ranching business down in Oklahoma.”

  “Dace says there’s no chance of that at all,” Harriet said.

  “He don’t know ever’thing,” George murmured angrily.

  “Dace says—”

  “Dace says! Dace says!” he exclaimed. “I don’t give a damn what Dace says! Maybe you shoulda married him instead o’ me. He’s always been sweet on you anyhow.”

  “He has not,” Harriet retorted. “All he ever done was offer to be friends.”

  George slammed the cup down so hard on the table it broke. “You must be blind, Harriet.”

  Harriet was shocked. “Dace Halston is one of the kindest, sweetest friends I’ve ever had.”

  “Maybe he’s too good of a friend to you,” George said, his eyes narrowed in anger.

  “George!”

  “I’m leaving now, and I won’t be back for a spell. You can count on that.” He jumped up from the chair and stormed out of the door with his wife following.

  “George! Please, George, I didn’t mean anything,” she begged. Harriet watched as he swung up into the saddle and turned the sorrel south.

  She stood silently alone for a while after the hoof-beats had faded away. Harriet felt terribly sad. “He didn’t even ask about the kids,” she said in a soft whisper.

  Chapter Three

  If United States Marshal Evett Dumas Nix expected the work for his men to be difficult, all-consuming, and dangerous, he was right. From his office in Guthrie, the town chosen as the capital of Oklahoma Territory, he dispatched his one hundred and fifty field deputies in innumerable forays against the bands of outlaws and other lawbreakers who continued to operate freely through the territory.

  Dace Halston was granted his share of the work as well. After spending two weeks riding the wilds to track down a peddler of illegal whiskey in the Creek Nation, he had returned to Guthrie, exhausted and famished, leading the handcuffed lawbreaker. The new deputy marshal turned in his prisoner and filled out the necessary paperwork with J. K. McGoodwin, the office’s assistant chief clerk, looking on to see that it was done properly and legally.

  After grabbing a quick sandwich and beer at the Reeves Brothers’ Saloon, Dace made it to his hotel room in time for a half-hour nap before a loud rapping at the door woke him up.

  “Yeah?” he mumbled in angry sleepiness.

  “Need you at the office, Dace,” Bill Tilghman’s voice said through the flimsy portal. “Something’s come up.”

  Dace yawned and swung his weary legs over the side of the bed. “I’m on my way, Bill.”

  “Got your feet on the floor?” came the suspicious question.

  “I reckon I do,” Dace said sighing. He reached for his pants. Within two minutes he walked back out the door he had come through less than an hour previously.

  When Dace arrived at the marshal’s office, he found Tilghman and an unknown lawman waiting for him. Tilghman wasted no time. “Dace, this is Deputy Sheriff Leroy Martinson from Ford County, Kansas. He’s asked our help in arresting a feller over near Orlando.”

  “He stole some horses and killed a wrangler up in my area,” Martinson said. “I trailed him to his sister’s place down here, but I ain’t got jurisdiction to take him into custody. So I come over here for help from you fellers.”

  Dace nodded his understanding. He appreciated the officer’s devotion to duty. After chasing the man all the way down from Kansas, Martinson had located him and then ridden thirty-five miles in to Guthrie in order to make arrangements for a legal arrest. Dace suddenly felt ashamed at his anger from being aroused from sleep. “I’d be mighty pleased to lend a hand.”

  “Obliged,” Martinson said. “Shall we get to moving?

  “Let’s go,” Dace said. He picked up his Winchester carbine out of the rack and grabbed a box of ammunition from a desk drawer. “We’ll be back day after tomorrow, prob’ly.”

  “Okay. Good luck to you,” Tilghman said. From the way he was stuffing things into his saddlebags, it was obvious he had a job of his own to do.

  “Who’re we after anyhow?” Dace asked as he and Martinson left the office.

  “Norb Sullivan,” Martinson answered.

  “Tall, rangy feller?”

  “Yep. Long ol’ crookedy nose,” Martinson added. “Looks like it’s been busted two or three times. Know him?”

  “Yeah,” Dace answered. “I had a little spread a while back. He worked a round-up for me and my partner George McClary.”

  “I reckon he’s one o’ them cowboys who just cain’t put up with the way things is going,” Martinson said as they approached the livery barn where the government horses were stabled. “There’s a lot o’ fellers like that.”

  “Yeah,” Dace said thinking of George. They entered the barn. “Gimme a government horse,” he said to the liveryman.

  “Me, too,” Martinson said. “Bill Tilghman said they’d loan me one since mine is tuckered and wet.”

  The liveryman shook his head in dismay. “Damn! Don’t you starpackers ever rest? Got y’all coming and going in and outta here so it’s like a Kansas City hotel lobby.”

  “We’re having so much fun we just cain’t stop,” Dace said.

  “Well, I shouldn’t complain. The business is good for me,” the liveryman said walking away to fetch their mounts.

  Dace turned his attention back to Martinson. “Ol’ Sullivan was a mean one when he’d been drinking,” he recalled.

  “Well, he’s that way sober now,” Martinson said. “I arrested him a coupla times for disturbing the peace, though attempted murder would’ve been a better charge.”

  “Good worker, though,” Dace conceded. “He always started early in the morning and never let up ’til the chuck wagon bell rung.”

  Martinson nodded. “Yeah. That’s the way most of them fellers are. They’ll put in a day’s work and then some, but they just cain’t find a niche for themselves no more. The sight of a damn fence is enough to send ’em into fits.”

  “When I was town marshal we had us a cowboy that shot up a brand new plate glass window just because the store owner had put barbed wire on display in it,” Dace said as the liveryman led their horses to them.

  “I’ll saddle ’em both for two bits,” the man offered.

  “Hell!” Martinson took the reins and led his mount where his saddle sat in a nearby stall.

  “Just trying to make a living,” the liveryman said with a shrug.

  “Me, too,” Dace said. “But I wouldn’t have much left over if I shelled out two bits ever’ time I wanted a saddle throwed over my horse.”

  “Hell!” the liveryman snorted. “Y’all got government jobs, ain’t you?”

  “I work for a county, mister,” Martinson said.

  Dace chuckled. “I may be on a Federal payroll, but it’s a stingy one, believe me.”

  The liveryman, obviously disappointed in their lack of generosity, gave them a disapproving look. “Still oughta show some consideration for taxpayers.” Then he went back to his work.

  Within twenty minutes both lawmen were mounted and heading out the city limits, heading due north for the small town of Orlando.

  “Speaking of Sullivan,” Martinson said as they began their trek across the prairie. “I think we oughta just sort o’ haul off and shoot at him first just to get his attention.”

  “We might hit him,” Dace said.

  “I was worried about that. But not since I got a deputy U.S. marshal riding with me,” Martinson said. “If I’d dry-gulched Sullivan, it could’ve been a murder charge agin me.”

  “You’re right,” Dace agreed. “But I’d like to call to him. Since I know him, anyh
ow.”

  “Suit yourself,” Martinson said. “But he’s the kind that’ll sure as hell throw lead your way.”

  “Still like to talk with him,” Dace insisted.

  “He’s one mean sonofabitch.”

  “I know,” Dace said.

  Martinson sighed. “Well—I just hope I don’t have to bring both you fellers back draped over your horses.”

  ~*~

  The town of Ingraham had but one function: serve as a hiding place and recreation center for men on the run from the law. Isolated in its location at the edge of the Creek Nation, far away from normal commerce and railroads, both residents and visitors felt safe from the prying inroads of law and order.

  Although, there were numerous businesses, the two most prominent were the Thompson Saloon and a two-story whorehouse-hotel combination run by a female entrepreneur by the name of Maude Pierson. She catered to her clientele with as much lavish attention as possible in a primitive setting.

  George McClary, still angry after his short visit with Harriet, stood at the bar in the Thompson and sipped cheap whiskey by himself. It also didn’t help his mood to know that his girl friend, Lilly Waring, was over at the Pierson Hotel servicing the crowd of Texans who had wandered in earlier in the day.

  “George!”

  George turned, irritated, to note a dust-covered man standing ten feet away from him at the bar. The greeter, his saddlebags across his shoulder, moved down, bringing a bottle with him. “I thought that was you. Couldn’t quite make you out ’til my eyes got used to the dark.”

  “Howdy, Leon,” George said to Leon Spalding. “How’s things going?”

  “I’m at loose ends right now,” Spalding said. “How’s things with you?”

  “Not bad,” George answered.

  Spalding generously poured some of his bottle into the other’s glass. “I run into a pal o’ yours over to Guthrie some time back.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “Dace Halston,” Spalding answered. “He was the town marshal. Matter o’ fact, he throwed me in the calaboose for raising hell in a whorehouse.”

  George shook his head. “Ol’ Dace is a lawman?”

  “Yep. And looked like he was gonna be a U.S. marshal ’bout the time I left Guthrie,” Spalding said. “I wasn’t wise that you and him knowed each other ’til I run into Shorty Eastman a coupla days back.”

  “Yeah. Me an’ Dace had a little place before they opened up the Territory,” George said. “How’s he doing? Looking good?”

  Spalding laughed. “He beat the hell outta me.”

  “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of,” George said. “Dace has stomped a lot of ass in his day, believe me.”

  “Oh, I believe you all right,” Spalding said. He refreshed George’s drink. “Say now, ol’ Shorty says you got room for another gun. That right?”

  “I sure do,” George said.

  “Well, George, like I said—I’m at loose ends—” Spalding let his voice trail off.

  “I can use you if you want to join up,” George said. “I got a coupla things in the works. But I want some fellers who will stick around.”

  “Oh, I’ll do that, George,” Spalding said.

  “You didn’t after that job at Hennessey,” George reminded him.

  “Damn, George, I had other plans,” Spalding protested. “And no promises was made by you or me, if I recollect right.”

  “I understand, Leon,” George said. “But what I got in mind is gonna take a bunch o’ fellers who’ll stick together for a good long time. I gotta make sure o’ that. I cain’t be riding with a dozen fellers one day and suddenly find myself with two or three the next.”

  “Sounds like you got big things in mind, George,” Spalding said, impressed.

  “I do,” George said.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d count me in,” Spalding said.

  “You’re a good man with a gun,” George conceded. “And I can use you. Stick around with me here at Ingraham. There’s some more of the boys on their way.”

  “Anybody I know?” Spalding asked.

  “You know ’em all,” George said. He finished his drink. “I gotta go, Leon. I’ll see you later.”

  “Sure enough, George,” Spalding said. “And don’t worry. You can depend on me.”

  George only nodded in acknowledgment of the promise as he walked out of the Thompson and stood in the street directly outside the door. His original plan was to go out to where the rest of his men were camped. But as he stood there staring at Maude Pierson’s hotel, he suddenly changed his mind.

  George walked directly over to the place and entered the frame-and-plank structure. The owner, a somber-faced, square-jawed woman, looked at him with some anger. “I tole you fellers who’s got girl friends workin’ here not to disturb ’em when they’re with customers.”

  “What makes you think I’m gonna disturb her?”

  “Why shouldn’t I think that?” Maude countered. “There ain’t nothing worse than a man when he gets it into his head to get jealous. Even if his gal friend is a whore. That’s something I can’t figger out.”

  “I ain’t jealous, and I ain’t gonna make no bother,” George said in a surly tone. “I just want to find out if Lilly’s finished yet.”

  “I reckon she’s with the last one now,” Maude Pierson said. “Shouldn’t be long.”

  George scowled. He didn’t like the idea of his girl bedding every jasper who came down the pike with eight bits in his trousers. If he managed to pull off the jobs he had planned, there should be plenty of money—enough to set Lilly up in a nice house somewhere and take care of Harriet and the kids as well. He suddenly heard Lilly’s voice, and looked out the front of the building to see her saying goodbye to her final client. Then she ambled into the small lobby. “You finished?” he asked.

  “I reckon,” Lilly answered.

  She was not too pretty, but she was eighteen and seemingly untouched by the harsh frontier. Despite her youth and the freckles that danced across her nose, the girlish countenance faded when she smiled her hard whore’s smile—cold and calculating—but her eyes softened when she gazed at her lover George McClary. She turned to her employer. “Any more o’ them fellers around?”

  “They’ve skedaddled over to the Thompson,” Maude Pierson answered.

  “Let’s get on up to your room,” George said.

  “Goddamn, George! I’m tired!” Lilly complained. “They was five of ’em in the past hour.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” George said grabbing her arm. “Haul your ass up there. You’re flopping on your back one more time today.”

  ~*~

  Dace sniffed and rubbed his sleeve across his dripping nose. It was cold and damp in the early morning as he and Sheriff Leroy Martinson stared down at the cabin from their respective ambush positions. Dace looked over at his partner and waved. Martinson returned the gesture to indicate he was ready. Then Dace took a deep breath and hollered, “Sullivan! Norb Sullivan! I want to talk to you!” A few minutes of silence went by before Dace once again shouted. “Norb Sullivan, c’mon out! I want to talk with you!”

  A burlap curtain over a window moved slightly and a gruff voice responded. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Dace Halston, Norb. You know me!”

  “Sure! What do you want to talk about, Dace?”

  “I’m a U.S. deputy marshal now, Norb, and I got a warrant for your arrest!”

  “The hell you say!” Sullivan yelled. “What’s the charges?”

  “Murder and horse stealing!”

  “That’s a damn lie, Dace! I didn’t do nothin’!”

  “Then you ain’t got a thing to worry about, do you! A fair trial oughta clear things up!” Dace suggested.

  “I ain’t inter’sted!”

  “You got no choice! You know that!”

  “You alone, Dace?” Sullivan yelled.

  “No! We got the place surrounded, Norb! C’mon out with your hands up!”

  �
�And get shot? No, thanks!”

  “Ain’t nobody gonna shoot you!” Dace shouted. “Just walk on out the door!”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “We’ll blow the place apart!” Dace answered.

  “My sister and nephew is in here with me,” Sullivan said.

  Suddenly a feminine voice screamed, “Leave him alone! He didn’t do nothing!”

  “Send the woman and boy out!” Dace hollered. “We don’t want to hurt ’em none!”

  “Wait a minute, Dace!” Sullivan shouted back. The sound of loud talking and bickering broke out in the cabin, then gradually died away until there was silence. Sullivan yelled out once more. “They’re coming out, Dace! Hold your fire!”

  Within moments, a woman and a small boy emerged slowly through the door and walked uncertainly across the farmyard. Then Norb Sullivan leaped out behind them and fired off three quick shots from his Henry .44 carbine before making a dash for the woods behind the cabin.

  Dirt plowed up around the fugitive’s feet as both Dace and Martinson cut loose on him. “Goddamn it!” the sheriff swore. “We’re gonna have to dig him outta them trees.”

  “Don’t shoot him!” the woman cried. “He never done nothing to y’all!”

  Both lawmen ignored her as they rushed for the cover of the cabin. Each went around to an opposite side and waited for a few minutes. Then Martinson blasted into the trees with his Winchester and rushed for the clump of bushes at the end of the grove. “Ain’t no way he can escape!” the sheriff yelled to Dace. “I got a clear view of the other side o’ the—”

  The fugitive’s carbine barked again and Martinson staggered back with a slug in his chest. He tried to raise his own weapon before he fell face-first to the dirt.

  The sudden sound of hooves showed that the wanted man had hidden a horse, saddled and ready, in the trees for just such a situation as he now faced. Dace charged into the vegetation in time to see Sullivan ride out the other side. “Hold it, Norb!” he yelled. “You’re dead in my sights.”

  “Go to hell!” came the derisive answer as the man spurred his horse.

  Dace took deliberate aim and pulled the trigger just once.

  That was all he needed.