“George!”
“Damn it, Harriet! Don’t you ever tell me that ranch is gone. You understand? Don’t say them words again as long as you live!”
“I’m not going to say much more, George. I promise,” Harriet said. “But Dace—”
“There you go again about Dace,” George said.
“Dace is a lawman, George. He could help you—”
“Are you crazy?” George asked. “You was upset because ol’ Harry Arnold was shot, huh? You remember Norb Sullivan? Do you?”
“Sure. He was a cowboy that worked for us once.”
“Well, your precious Dace Halston shot him, Harriet. What do you think o’ that?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He shot him in the back—right before his sister’s eyes!”
“Dace wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Ever’body knows about it, Harriet,” George said, disgusted.
“He’d still give us a hand. I’m sure.”
“Dace is a deputy U.S. marshal,” George said. “And there’s a damn good chance we’ll be facing each other someday. You keep that in mind, Missy, and we’ll see whose side you’re on. Your husband’s or some feller’s that’d like to get into your drawers.”
“George!”
George’s anger swelled up inside of him until he was nearly out of control. “And if Dace Halston ever steps up to me as a lawman I’ll gun him down so Goddamned fast it’ll blow him into the middle o’ the next week!”
“I have to get back to the house,” Harriet said. She turned from him and quickly left the barn. She wanted to get away from this stranger who had once been her husband.
Chapter Eight
Dace Halston wearily looped the reins around the hitching post in front of the marshal’s office of Caldwell, Kansas. He stepped up on the boardwalk, beating at the trail dust in his clothes. He walked up to the open door and stepped inside. Dace found the interior to be typical of a frontier lawman’s headquarters—small, untidy and crude. The usual yellowed wanted posters, collecting cobwebs, were carelessly tacked to a far wall.
A thin, wiry man wearing a star looked at Dace from across his desk. “Yeah?”
Dace flipped open his mackinaw to display his own badge. “Dace Halston, U.S. deputy marshal outta the Oklahoma Territory.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m here on official business. You got a prisoner here name of Earl Tolliver.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Sure.” The man stood up and offered his hand across his desk. “Pete Murray, city marshal.”
“Glad to know you,” Dace said. He pulled the sheaf of warrants from his pocket and shuffled through them. “I got a warrant for Tolliver, but I reckon you got your own charges on him.”
“Sure do,” Marshal Murray said. “But I wouldn’t half mind getting rid of him. There’s lynch fever in this town right now.”
“Bad news for the prisoner,” Dace said.
“Yeah. C’mon, I’ll take you back to him.”
When the two lawmen stepped through the door leading to the lockup, Earl Tolliver came to the bars of the one cell. He moved awkwardly with the wound where the local barber’s bullet had grazed his side. His face was agitated. “What’s going on now?”
“You nervous, Earl?” Dace asked.
Tolliver seemed a little relieved. “Howdy, Dace. It’s been a while since I seen you.”
“Yeah,” Dace said. “But you was with George McClary right recent, wasn’t you? Along with Shorty Eastman, Al Durkins and others, huh?”
Tolliver ignored the remark. “You gotta get me the hell outta here, Dace,” he said. “They’re fixing to lynch me.”
“I cain’t understand that,” Dace said sarcastically. “All you done was shoot a coupla local citizens. Hardly enough to upset anybody a’tall.”
“If that’s a joke, I ain’t laughing.” Tolliver said. “And it wasn’t me that shot them jaspers. It was Shorty Eastman.”
“You lying sonofabitch!” Murray said. “You was seen shooting Charlie Tarper. You blowed him right through the drug store winder.”
“He was fixing to shoot me,” Tolliver said lamely. “It was self-defense.”
“That’ll be hard to prove in a court of law,” Dace said. “Seeing as how you was busy robbing a bank at the time.”
“But it wasn’t done in cold blood like Shorty,” Tolliver insisted.
“Glad to hear about Shorty Eastman though,” Dace said. “Be another charge against him. Who else was with you?”
“You know who was with me,” Tolliver said. “Why pertend like you don’t?”
“I was just hoping to see you being cooperative,” Dace said.
“You get me outta here and I’ll see you get lots o’ information, Dace,” Tolliver said sincerely.
“Well, I do have a warrant for you, Earl. But they got serious charges against you here in Caldwell. I don’t think I can talk the marshal here into turning you over to me.”
“Listen, Dace,” Tolliver said desperately. “You may know who was in on the job, but you don’t know where they are. I can tell you exactly where to find ’em.”
“I’m listening,” Dace said.
“Hell! I ain’t gonna say a Goddamned thing ’til we’re across that Oklahoma line.”
“I’ll talk to the marshal here,” Dace said. “Maybe we can work out some sort o’ deal.”
“I’d make it worth your while, honest, Dace!” Tolliver said hopefully.
“We’ll see,” Dace said. He motioned to Marshal Murray, and they both went back to the office in the other room. Dace’s expression was somber. “Is the lynching situation serious?”
“Sure is,” Murray said. “And there ain’t much I can do about it. All I got is a part-time deputy. Hell, even with your help, I couldn’t stop a mob if they had their heart set on stringing Tolliver up.”
“Are you willing to turn him over to me?”
Murray hesitated. “Yeah. The only problem is it’s gonna make folks around here mad enough to lynch me! But I reckon I can always tell ’em a Federal warrant outweighs local charges—or something.”
“Maybe if I took him outta here about two or three o’clock in the morning, huh? I could have him down in the Guthrie jail by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Let’s just hope the local folks around here don’t get it in their heads to throw a necktie party between now and then,” Murray said. “By the way, want to get a bit of supper? I was about to go down to the cafe when you come in.”
“Sure,” Dace said. “I ain’t had nothing since breakfast on the trail this morning.”
As the two went outside and walked toward the local eatery, Dace carefully sized up the town and its mood.
Things seemed calm and quiet—deathly quiet.
~*~
Harriet McClary shivered as she pulled the heavy flannel robe tighter around her body. She gently pushed open the door of the bedroom where her three children slumbered uneasily as their little bodies fought off the effects of the bad colds that had brought alternating chills and fever to them earlier in the day.
She tiptoed in and gently laid her hand on each brow and was satisfied to note the first hint of perspiration. A sure sign the fever had run its course and was beginning to abate.
Harriet gave a brief prayer of thanks under her breath before quietly leaving the room. She paused in the hall for a moment, then decided to look in on her father. Once a robust, husky farmer who lived a life of hard physical labor, Herb Eldridge had weakened little by little over a five-year period until he had become a much thinner, coughing, irritable image of his former self. Harriet peered through the darkness of his bedroom and could hear the weak hoarseness of his breathing as he slept. Satisfied, she went back down the hall toward her own room when she chanced to glance out the window toward the barn.
Lantern light shone beneath the large doors of the building, and the flickering shadow sh
owed that George McClary was up and moving around. Harriet rushed down the stairs and out the door despite the cold.
“George!” she called as she pushed the doors of the barn open.
“Yeah?” He looked at her, irritated, and continued swinging his saddle up on his horse.
“What are you doing?” Harriet asked.
“Hell, I’m fixing to leave,” he answered pulling on the cinch. “What does it look like?”
“I thought you were going to stay longer,” Harriet said, her voice tinged with disappointment.
“I thought I was too,” George said, “but I’m getting sick and tired o’ this place.”
Harriet suddenly felt a further sinking of her already low spirits. “You mean you’re getting sick and tired of me, don’t you?”
“I sure as hell am!” George said. “You ain’t been in here to give me some loving for the past two nights.”
“George, the kids are sick—”
“Shut up!” He slipped his saddlebags into place and tied them securely with the rawhide thongs attached to the rear jockey of the heavy leather affair.
She didn’t know what to say and stood in awkward silence for several moments. “The kids are getting better.”
“That right?”
“Yes. George?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you given any thought to what I said about us leaving this part of the country?”
“Not for a minute,” he said. “I’m going, Harriet. I don’t know when I’ll see you again.” He walked toward the doors and opened one of them, then went back to his horse.
“Dace could help us, George,” Harriet said with a delicate pleading in her voice.
“That sonofabitch!” George spit as he swung up into the saddle. “Your feelings for him give me just one more reason to shoot him.”
“Oh, George! What’s the matter with you?” she asked as the sobs began. “I never knew you to be like this.”
He rode toward the door and paused, looking back at her. “Maybe I finally realized I’ve always hated Dace Halston. He was always the biggest, the smartest of us both. He bossed things down on that ranch all the time too.”
“He was more experienced, that’s all,” Harriet said.
“I never got to make any o’ the decisions,” George said. “I was always expected to go along with whatever Dace wanted.”
“He would’ve listened if you’d spoken up, George,” Harriet said.
“It’s too late now. Times has changed. When he shows up, you tell him that if he comes looking for me, he’d better be packing iron.”
“George, he’s your best friend!” Harriet cried.
He patted the .45 on his hip. “This is my best friend. And Dace Halston had better never forget it!”
~*~
Dace, tipped back in the chair with his feet on Marshal Murray’s desk, dozed easily. Now and then he would awake and open his eyes to look around the office. Then he would slowly and lethargically slip back into a brief nap only to repeat the procedure.
Murray, playing and cheating at numerous solitaire games, looked across the office at him. The city marshal shook his head in wonder. “How the hell can you sleep like that, Halston? You’re gonna have a sore neck in the morning.”
“Hell, I reckon if I can catch forty winks in the saddle, I sure oughta be able to rest easy in a chair.”
Murray checked his pocket watch. “It’s a little after midnight. What time you wanta take Tolliver outta here?”
“I figger two o’clock oughta be about right.”
“Seems like a good idea,” Murray agreed. He went back to his card playing.
Dace watched the outrageous cheating for several moments. He started to doze off again, but suddenly he sat up, tipping the chair to the floor. “Listen!”
“What?” Murray asked.
“Listen!”
Murray cocked an ear for a few seconds. He shrugged. “I don’t hear nothing.”
Dace nodded. “I don’t either. Not exactly nothing, but something. I cain’t quite make it out.” He listened some more. “There!”
A rustling noise, slight but definitely growing louder, seemed to be approaching. A half minute passed and there was no denying it. “There’s somebody coming,” Murray said.
“A lot of somebodies,” Dace added.
“Oh, damn!” Murray exclaimed. “This is it.”
Dace stood up and reached for his Winchester leaning against the desk. “No doubt about it.”
“Don’t be so quick in grabbing that carbine o’ yours,” Murray said.
“That’s a lynch mob coming,” Dace said angrily.
“Yeah,” Murray agreed. “You ever seen one?”
“I seen a coupla fellers drug from a jail and hung when I was a tad,” Dace said. “I wasn’t very close though.”
“Well, I been right in the middle of ’em, and it ain’t perty,” Murray said. “They’re riled as hell and act like one big wounded bear. You get ’em mad at you and they’re as likely to haul your ass over a limb as the pris’ner’s.”
“We gotta stop ’em!” Dace said.
“We gotta try to stop ’em,” Murray corrected him. “Let’s step outside. Putting off meeting with ’em will only make things worse. You’d better leave the Winchester be.”
Dace reluctantly walked away from his long gun and followed the marshal out to the boardwalk. By the time they stepped from the office door, a small crowd, murmuring angrily with an occasional excited shout, had drawn up. The two lawmen studied the growing number of people with a wary uneasiness.
“Y’all go on home now,” Murray said. “There ain’t no reason for you to be out this time o’ night.”
“Sure there is,” somebody shouted. “And you know what that reason is.”
“The man’s entitled to a fair trial,” Dace said. “If he’s guilty, the law’ll hang him.”
“The law takes too damned long,” another member of the mob argued. “This way we’ll save both time and the taxpayers’ money.”
“Now, boys, why don’t you go on home and think this over,” Murray said with all the diplomacy he could muster. “It’s plain you been drinking, and I’m sure you don’t wanta do something you’ll regret later.”
A burly man stepped up to the marshal. “Make it easy on yourself, Pete. You know this’s been brewing for a coupla days now.”
“You’re breaking the law,” Murray said.
Dace motioned to the man. “I got a Federal warrant for the pris’ner. You’re getting into more trouble than you think.”
The man snarled and spat. “You go to hell! A bunch o’ Goddamned outlaws come into our town and robbed and killed some of our folks! We ain’t playing silly games about this. There ain’t no doubt he’s one of ’em, and there ain’t gonna be none o’ this legal mumbo-jumbo that’ll drag the thing out.”
“Listen, mister!” Dace said angrily.
The sound of several hammers being cocked clicked loudly in the night air.
Dace held his hands out from his sides to show he had no intention of going for his own pistol. “Boys, it takes longer but the law’s way is the right way.”
Rough hands grabbed Dace and pulled him back. “We’ll let you loose directly, Marshal,” a voice behind him said. “But if you get uppity, we’ll do a job on you. Understand?”
Dace grimaced as he watched Murray being disarmed. The local lawman looked over at Dace. “Well, damn it! I sure as hell ain’t gonna die for the likes o’ Tolliver.”
Dace sighed. “I ain’t either.”
“Where’s the keys, Pete?” the ringleader asked. “Might as well tell us, and save getting your office tore up.”
“Middle desk drawer,” Murray said.
Immediately a dozen of the mob surged into the office. Within moments there was the sound of shouting and a scuffle before the group emerged with Earl Tolliver tight in their grasp.
Tolliver glanced over to Dace. “I heard you talking for me. I’
m obliged.”
“Sorry I couldn’t do no better,” Dace said.
“Cain’t be helped,” Tolliver said. “Well—nice knowing you, Dace.” He was calm and under emotional control. “You was a good man to ride for. Too damn bad you turned into a starpacker.”
“So long, Earl,” Dace said.
As the crowd hustled their victim away, Dace could hear Tolliver’s distant voice saying, “I caught one across my side, boys, and it’s hard for me to move. All I ask is that we go slow enough so’s I can stay on my feet. I don’t wanna fall down, boys. Let me keep to my feet.”
Murray shook his head. “He’s one that ain’t gonna go outta this world yelling and hollering.”
“He’s a cowboy,” Dace said. “That kind always knows how to die. No matter whether it’s freezing to death or getting flattened in a stampede. When the time comes they go out proud.”
“Even getting strung up for murder too, huh?” Murray remarked. “I reckon we might as well mosey on after ’em and witness the thing. There’ll have to be a coroner’s report made.”
Dace walked down the street with him to the tall oak chosen for the event. “I presume there won’t be the names o’ any local citizens in that report.”
“Right,” Murray said. “I got to live here, Halston.”
A buckboard had been driven into place, and Tolliver was lifted onto it. Another man hurled a rope across the nearest limb and flung the end of it to waiting hands who tied it securely to the trunk. Then he slipped the noose over the outlaw’s head.
A sudden silence gripped the scene. The procedure took on an eerie appearance in the flickering lights of several lanterns the mob had brought along.
Somebody from the crowd finally piped up. “Any last words?”
“Yeah,” Tolliver said. His voice quaked some, but he did his best to control it. “I done what you’re hanging me for. I’ll own up to that. But I want y’all to know I was once a cowboy and a damn good’un. I never stole nothing before—except I cheated a little at cards now and then. But that was only with strangers, never with a pard. This ain’t a good way to end a life, but if that’s the way it’s gonna be—well, boys, let ’er rip.”
The buckboard was pulled forward, leaving Tolliver dangling at the end of the rope. He twisted, drawing his legs up in agony as he strangled, but after several moments the ex-cowboy straightened out. Then he went into his death throes, shuddering so violently the limb he hung from trembled.
Oklahoma Showdown (An Indian Territory Western Book 1) Page 8
