Oklahoma Showdown (An Indian Territory Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Yeah. You come to get me outta this here hellhole?”

  “That’s right,” Dace answered. “I got a warrant for your arrest. I’m taking you to Guthrie.”

  The prisoner got to his feet. “Well, prepare yourself for an argument, Marshal. There’s three bounty hunters and a Pinkerton man here that wants me too.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Dace asked the sergeant.

  “Well,” O’Flynn began, “two bounty hunters showed up here with Blevins. One o’ their horses had thrown a shoe, and they needed it fixed. Naturally they wanted to have a few drinks and relax so they asked if they could lodge their pris’ner fer the night.”

  “Some lodgings!” Blevins said.

  “Shaddup!” O’Flynn said with a glare. Then he turned back to Dace. “But the next day a Pinkerton detective by the name o’ Stormwell showed up and claimed the bounty hunters had stole this useless bastard from him. A big argument developed about rewards, jurisdiction, finders-keepers and all that malarkey. The provost marshal got downright disgusted, and when he found there was Federal papers out fer this wastrel, he decided to keep him in custody. He wired Guthrie, and here you are. That Pinkerton man raised some hell about it. He din’t like losin’ the reward money one bit.”

  “I reckon I can see his point,” Dace said.

  “Them bounty hunters tried to start a donnybrook over it, so we throwed them off the post,” the sergeant said. “The Pinkerton man kept his temper under control, so he’s still hangin’ about here. But he’ll prob’ly try to take this bucko off yer hands afore ye git him back to the proper authorities in Guthrie.”

  Blevins stepped from the cell and held out his hands for the cuffs. “It’ll be good to git to a real jail, believe me,” he said.

  “Put your hands behind you,” Dace instructed him.

  “Behind me? That’s mighty uncomfortable, Marshal,” Blevins said. Then he shrugged. “What the hell. At least I’m leaving this place.”

  “Ye ain’t out that door yet,” the sergeant snarled. “Would ye be wantin’ yer face slammed into the bars again afore ye parts comp’ny wit’ the U.S. cavalry?”

  Blevins glared at the NCO but said nothing.

  The trio walked from the guardhouse to post headquarters where Dace signed for the prisoner, relieving the army of any future responsibility.

  The provost marshal gratefully took the papers and stuck them in his desk. He looked up at Dace. “Has Sergeant O’Flynn informed you of the circumstances involved in this man being placed in our custody?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dace answered. “It seems that between them bounty hunters and the Pinkerton man, ol’ Blevins here is mighty popular.”

  “Entirely too popular, if you ask me,” the army officer said. “Unfortunately, I feel the Pinkerton detective or the bounty hunters may not be above trying to regain custody of Mr. Blevins. They might even employ treachery.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Dace said.

  “I only wish I could provide an escort of troops to accompany you back to Guthrie, Marshal,” the captain said. “I’m afraid the best I can do is have you guarded up to the post limits.”

  “That’ll be fine, thanks,” Dace said.

  “I mentioned the problem in the wire and suggested they send more men in case of trouble.”

  “I’m afraid we ain’t got the hands to spare,” Dace said. “There’s a hunnerd and fifty or so of us and I swear we’re all coming and going like coyotes at an unguarded sheep pen.”

  “I can certainly sympathize with you, Marshal. We in the army are also undermanned and overworked,” the captain said. “At any rate, Sergeant O’Flynn has arranged for a detail to ride with you at least until you’ve left the military reservation.”

  “No, thanks,” Dace said. “If them fellers is gonna jump me, they’ll wait anyways.”

  Blevins, the prisoner, showed a great deal of agitation. “Are you loco, Marshal? Them bounty hunters is gonna shoot us both!”

  “Why the hell would they do that?” Dace asked.

  “Because in order to get their hands on me, they’ll have to shoot you,” Blevins nervously explained. “Then to keep me from testifying to your murder, they’ll plug me next. And that goes for that Goddamned Pinkerton detective Stormwell, too.”

  Dace shrugged. “Well, there ain’t no sense in having the soldiers help us, Blevins. Them bounty hunters ain’t gonna do nothing ’til we’re out on the prairie anyhow.”

  “Then send for some more help from Guthrie!” Blevins pleaded.

  “I said there ain’t none to be had,” Dace said.

  “Hell!” Blevins exploded. “I ain’t supposed to be taken in to get kilt, Goddamn it! I’ll get the penitentiary for train robbing—not a noose!”

  A slim, tall man wearing dark clothes appeared at the doorway of the office. He sported a crooked grin under his long narrow nose. The stranger nodded, then spoke in a deep, baritone voice. “Howdy, gents.”

  The provost marshal did nothing to disguise his disgust. “What can we do for you, Mr. Stormwell?”

  “Just wanted to see for myself if Blevins was turned over to the proper authorities,” he said. “Looks like that’s been done, so I’ll report to my superiors and inform them the case on Blevins is closed.”

  The captain looked at Dace. “That’s the Pinkerton detective I mentioned to you. His name is Ward Stormwell.”

  Dace took a long, hard look at the newcomer. He definitely did not like what he saw. The man seemed too smooth and oily for Dace’s taste—about as trustworthy as a rabid coyote—and the crooked smile he displayed did little to dispel the ominous aura about him.

  Dace spoke in his low, cool voice. “Everything’s nice and legal now.”

  “Then I’m satisfied,” Stormwell said, still smiling.

  “Don’t you believe him!” Blevins hissed. “He’s gonna be out there to dry-gulch us. Wait and see.”

  “Nonsense,” Stormwell said. “I’m employed by the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I’m certainly no coldblooded murderer after reward money like those bounty hunters.” He touched his hat and once again displayed his unusual smile. “Good day, gents.” Then he abruptly turned from the door and left.

  Blevins whirled and faced Dace, his expression distorted with fear. “If we ride outta here, it’s the same as a death sentence—for both of us!”

  “Then we’d best be damned good and careful, Blevins,” Dace said. He grabbed his prisoner’s arm and propelled him toward the door. As he did so, he turned and nodded to the captain and sergeant. “I want to thank y’all for the offer o’ help anyhow.”

  “You’re entirely welcome, Marshal Halston,” the captain said. “I wish you’d take advantage of even the limited aid I have available for you.”

  “No, thanks,” Dace said.

  “Let’s wait a while then,” Blevins suggested. “Hell, I’d rather stay in that guardhouse than get back shot.”

  “Ye ain’t goin’ back in there,” the sergeant said. “The army ain’t authorized no more rations fer ye as it is.”

  “No sense in talking about it,” Dace said, pushing Blevins the rest of the way out the door.

  The sergeant turned to the provost marshal, shaking his head. “They’ll never make it back to Guthrie, son. Sure an’ them bounty hunters’ll waylay ’em somewhere between here and there. If not them, then the Pinkerton man.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Sergeant,” the captain agreed. “It’s a shame the taming of this great wilderness will end up claiming the lives of so many gallant men like Marshal Halston.”

  ~*~

  Lilly Waring lay with her head nestled on George McClary’s shoulder. She noted a change in his breathing and raised her head to look at his face. “You awake, George?”

  George opened his eyes and glanced out the window at the bright sunshine. Then he abruptly sat up, spilling the girl back into the sheets on the bed. A sudden surge of headache filled his head for a few uncomfortable moments before settling down
to a dull throb. “Damn!”

  Lilly pulled the blanket up over her exposed breasts as she assumed a kneeling position beside him. “You was real drunk last night, George.”

  “So what?” he said sarcastically. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “It’s before noon anyhow.”

  “I got to get up,” George said as he struggled off the bed and stood swaying with one hand on the bedpost. “Lord, I’d like to get my hands on that little dawg.”

  “What little dawg?” Lilly asked.

  “The one that shit in my mouth last night,” George said with a wry grin as he walked across the room toward the corner where he had flung his clothes.

  “Don’t blame a little dawg on something that cheap whiskey did to you,” Lilly said with a laugh. “You want some breakfast?”

  “Naw. I’ll get another snort or two over to the Thompson,” he said struggling into his clothes. “That’ll set my head right, I reckon.”

  “Well, you go ahead,” Lilly said. “I’m gonna stay in bed.”

  George snorted. “Working, huh?” He sat down on the bed to put on his boots.

  Lilly pouted. “That ain’t nice, George. You knowed what I was when you chose me to be your gal.”

  George stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. He began withdrawing wads of bills, and dropped them on the bed beside her. “You’re retired as of now. We got enough money that you don’t have to bed no more o’ them sonofabitches.”

  “George!” she cried with delight as she scooped up the money. “How come you didn’t tell me about this last night?”

  “Too busy celebrating,” he said as he picked up his hat from the bed stand. “And I’m gonna work out getting a hell of a lot more o’ them Yankee greenbacks.”

  “I’ll have to move outta here,” Lilly said. “Maude won’t let me stay if I ain’t working for her.”

  “Then move, Goddamn it!”

  “Where to?” Lilly asked. “The nicest place would be one o’ the back rooms here in the hotel.”

  “That’s fine,” George said, buckling on his gun-belt.

  “Cost some,” Lilly said with an uncertain ring in her voice.

  George pointed to the dollars scattered around the bed. “Is that enough to keep us going for a while?”

  “Sure, George.”

  “Then get a nice back room,” he said. Then, without waiting for a reply, he plopped his Montana peak on his head and walked out the door.

  The town of Ingraham stood nearly empty in the weak sunshine of early spring. A cowboy, evidently having his horse reshod, stood idly waiting in front of the blacksmith’s shop while another man rode slowly up the street heading for the open prairie. There were customers inside the Thompson Saloon—a half dozen or so, if the horses hitched up outside were any indication—and George McClary went directly inside the frame building.

  Three of George’s men, Leon Spalding, Shorty Eastman, and Earl Tolliver, stood at the bar drinking with a fourth man. George recognized the visitor when he turned to look at him. “Al Durkins,” George said. “What the hell are you doing around here?”

  “Keeping low, George,” Durkins answered. He offered his hand. “How’re you doing?”

  “Mighty fine,” George said. “Hell, I ain’t seen you since you rode for Oscar Halsell on the HX spread.”

  “Yeah, well, I reckon I done like a lot o’ the fellers,” Durkins said. “Got good’n mad at them settlers and the yahoos who follered them in putting up stores and stuff. So I stuck my ol’ .45 in a coupla faces and rode away with some cash.”

  “Got anything in particular that you plan to do?” George asked. He waved to the barkeep for a glass. He poured himself a stiff drink from Leon Spalding’s bottle.

  “I’m at loose ends,” Durkin answered.

  “We been perty busy,” George said.

  “So I heard.”

  “I could use you if you’ve a mind to join a crowd,” George offered.

  “I’m obliged, George,” Durkins said gratefully, “I ain’t been doing too good on my own.”

  Shorty Eastman nudged George. “Ol’ Durkins got some news that oughta be real interesting to you.”

  “Yeah? What is it?” George asked.

  “You remember Norb Sullivan?” Shorty asked.

  “Why, sure! He used to work for me an’ Dace Halston on our place,” George answered. “What about him?”

  “He went out on the owlhoot trail too,” Durkins said. “An’ the law caught up with him over to his sister’s near Orlando. He was gunned down and killed.”

  “Damn! That’s a shame,” George said.

  “You know who done it?” Shorty chimed in,.

  “Hell, no!” George exclaimed. “If I didn’t know he was dead in the first place, how’d I know who done it?”

  “Tell him who done it,” Leon Spalding said.

  Durkins nodded. “Your ol’ pard Dace Halston killed him, George. The way I heard it, Dace shot Norb right in front of his sister.”

  “He musta throwed down on Dace,” George said.

  “I heard he shot him in the back with that woman and all her kids watching,” Durkins said.

  “Hell!” George scoffed. “Dace ain’t no back-shooter. And I know for a fact that Norb’s sister didn’t have but one young’un. Them stories get outta hand with each telling.”

  “It’s a fact that Dace killed him,” Durkins insisted. “He’s a U.S. deputy marshal and a mighty tough one.”

  “That I believe,” George said.

  “You and Dace is bound to meet head-on someday, George,” Shorty Eastman said.

  “So?”

  “Well—”

  “Listen, Goddamn it!” George said angrily. “I don’t give a damn what starpacker gets in my way—Dace Halston or Heck Thomas or anybody—I’ll greet ’em the same. A bullet from this here equalizer of mine. I know that and Dace knows it too.”

  “It ain’t particular strange when two fellers who’re good friends end up on differ’nt sides o’ the law,” Leon Spalding said, “but the two having a showdown is something else altogether.”

  “Y’all through talking about me and Dace?” George asked.

  “Hell, George. We—”

  “You want to palaver about something?” George asked. “Let’s turn to getting some money into this here organization.”

  “Sure, George,” Leon Spalding said.

  “Some conversation about the Stock Exchange Bank in Caldwell, Kansas might be in order,” George said. “An’ the visit we’re gonna pay to it.”

  ~*~

  Dace reined up as he heard both Blevins’ curse and the sound of the man hitting the ground. Dace shook his head in disgust. “That’s the third time you’ve slipped from the saddle.”

  “Well, Goddamn it! How’s about cuffing my hands in front instead of in back?” Blevins blurted as he struggled to his feet.

  “That ain’t got nothing to do with you falling off your horse,” Dace said as he pulled his own mount around in a slow circle. He ambled to where his prisoner had rolled down a small draw. “You keep dozing off.”

  “I’m tard,” Blevins said. “That damn army sergeant didn’t give me much of a chance to get any shut-eye.” He watched as the marshal retrieved his horse and led it back to him. “Now, c’mon, Marshal. Put my mitts in front, all right?”

  “Nope,” Dace said as he swung from the saddle and motioned his prisoner over to him. “I’m a natur’ly lazy person and I believe in doing things the easy way. I don’t have to watch you near so close if I know you cain’t suddenly gallop away on me.”

  Blevins looked around. “What’re you gonna do if them bounty hunters show up?”

  “I don’t know,” Dace said as he helped the handcuffed man up into his own saddle.

  “You ain’t gonna let ’em shoot me down like a dawg, are you?”

  “I’ll do my best to see that they don’t,” Dace replied. He returned to his horse.

 
“You’ll throw me a gun, won’t you?” Blevins implored. “I got a right to defend myself.”

  “I’ll think on it,” Dace promised. “Now let’s get going.”

  “It’d be as bad as getting hung,” Blevins said. “Just sitting here in the saddle with my hands handcuffed behind me while some damn jasper shoots me like a dawg.”

  “I’ll take care o’ the situation proper.”

  “I don’t wanna die like a damn dawg,” Blevins insisted.

  “You won’t,” Dace said.

  “It’d be like I was a old, no good dawg that somebody just decided to up and shoot,” Blevins said carrying on the subject.

  “You mention dying like a dawg once more, and that’s exactly what’s gonna happen to you,” Dace said. “Now shut up and stay awake. I don’t want you to fall outta that saddle again.”

  “I’m tard, I tole you,” Blevins said.

  “I cain’t see how a man can doze off in weather as cold as this,” Dace said shaking his head. “I don’t care what they did to you in that army lockup.”

  The two rode for another hour without speaking. A brisk breeze from the northwest made the late afternoon nippy while they continued their slow trek toward Guthrie and whatever brand of justice awaiting Emmet Blevins.

  The slug slammed into Blevins’s horse at precisely the same instant the sound of the shot reached their ears.

  The animal staggered under the impact as blood and saliva gushed from its mouth in a thick mixture. Blevins was thrown clear when his mount suddenly sank into the yellow prairie grass, breathing heavily in agonized confusion as it died.

  At the same time Dace had quickly dismounted, dragging his Winchester .44 carbine from the boot on his saddle. “There’s a cottonwood grove off a ways,” he said to Blevins. “We’re gonna head for it.”

  “Take off these Goddamn cuffs!” Blevins begged as he scrambled and rolled awkwardly toward the lawman. “I tole you those sonofabitches was gonna get us.”

  “They ain’t got us yet,” Dace said fishing for the key in his vest. He quickly freed Blevins’ hands. “You follow me.”

  “Gimme a gun!” Blevins said.

  “I said follow me, Goddamn it!” Dace said. He suddenly stood up and began racing toward the cover of the trees. The sounds of more shots quickly followed, and several bullets whistled through the air around their heads. Since the grass wasn’t high enough to conceal them, Dace had no choice but to run in a zigzag pattern to avoid setting themselves up as handy targets during the rush for the trees.