Oklahoma Showdown (An Indian Territory Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “My God!” he moaned loudly. “I thought you said you was my woman.”

  “I am, darling,” Lilly said in a softer voice. “That’s why I’m willing to do it for you.”

  “If you’re my woman, how can you stand to have another man between your legs pawing and slobbering over you, huh?” he demanded.

  “It don’t mean nothing, honey,” she said. “I just close my eyes and pertend it’s you. That’s what I done in Ingraham before I quit Maude.”

  George’s eyes were blazing. “You’re Goddamned disgusting. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Lilly’s mouth set in anger. “Maybe I ain’t no nice girl, George. I ain’t had a elegant life like—like your wife. Nobody married me and give me a home. I lived in a grubby ol’ cabin with my ma. About half the damn men that come visiting her, chased me as much as they did her. I figgered it was better to move away and sell it, than have one o’ her drunk boyfriends always throwing me down and taking it.”

  “I took you outta that life,” George said. “I thought you was the type to never go back to it.”

  “It ain’t like you think,” Lilly said. “I told you before, George, it don’t mean nothing!”

  “It means plenty to me!” George yelled. He grabbed his saddle and blanket, and strode over to his horse, throwing them over the animal’s back.

  “What’re you doing, George?” she asked in an uncertain voice.

  “Going back to my woman,” he answered.

  “You better not, George McClary!”

  “I don’t know why I left her for you in the first place,” George said. “I was the onliest man who ever bedded her. She’d never think o’ hopping under the sheets with nobody but me.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Lilly taunted him. “What about that Dace Halston, huh? You said he was sweet on her, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe so, but she wouldn’t let him jump on her, I can tell you that,” George said. “You sure as hell would—or any other bastard who had a dollar.”

  “He’d have to pay for it!” Lilly shrieked. “I’ll bet Dace wouldn’t with your wife!”

  George attached his saddlebags, then leaped astride his horse. “Go to Tulsa and sell yourself, you cheap Goddamned whore!”

  As he rode away, Lilly screamed at him in rage, “You’ll be sorry for this George McClary, you’ll be sorry as hell!”

  ~*~

  Glowing embers from the campfire shot upward as Maude Pierson stirred the ashes. A tall figure suddenly appeared out of the night and stepped into the flickering light. Maude, startled, gasped before she noticed who it was. Then she smiled sarcastically. “Another starpacker, huh? Seems to have been a parade o’ you fellers through here lately.”

  Ward Stormwell noted the beaten girl Wanda seated by the madam, but he made no mention of her condition. “I take it, from your remarks, that Marshal Dace Halston has been through here.”

  “He has,” Maude said. “What’s the matter? He owe you some money or something?”

  “Nope,” Stormwell said. “He’s a good pal of mine. I’m just anxious to see him.”

  Maude laughed mirthlessly. “Then you’ll have to head over to Tulsa. That’s where he’s bound looking for the no good sonofabitch George McClary.”

  “Thanks,” Stormwell said. He turned to go.

  “Hey, you ain’t riding after him in the dark, are you?” Maude inquired incredulously.

  “I certainly am.”

  “Goddamn! You must be anxious to see him.”

  Stormwell nodded in agreement. “You’ll never know how much.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tulsa’s business district, while not overly crowded, sported a good number of visitors as Dace Halston rode warily down the street. His eyes continually scanned both sides of the dirt thoroughfare as he let his horse amble slowly along. Finally he pulled on the reins, and the animal obediently turned and came to a halt before a hitching post. After another careful look, Dace swung his leg over the saddle and stepped down to the ground. He eased himself up on the boardwalk at the same moment Leon Spalding walked through the swinging doors of a saloon directly in front of him.

  Both men, astounded and alarmed, stood looking at each other for an instant before either moved.

  Dace’s pistol cleared leather, but he hesitated to shoot because of the chance of hitting someone inside the bar. Spalding didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself, and he showed no reluctance to back down under Dace’s Colt.

  He fired a shot that whipped through Dace’s collar. The outlaw backed rapidly away taking aim again.

  Dace then fired and missed Spalding, but a man standing in shocked surprise and curiosity just behind the fugitive went down howling with a bullet in his thigh.

  Spalding knew by then that Dace was angry enough not to care where he shot. The outlaw skipped back and turned to flee between two buildings. Dace chased after him and hesitated before he leaped into the space. He cut loose with two quick shots.

  Spalding was nowhere in sight.

  Dace ran down the length of the structures and hesitated as he reached the alley in the rear. Spalding could have gone to either side. A small, poorly constructed storage shed stood just ahead of him. The marshal charged across the open space and crashed through the door.

  Shots from the left gave away Spalding’s position.

  Dace stuck the Colt out the door and fired again twice before he leaped into the alleyway. He saw Spalding’s figure heading back toward the street. Clumsily replacing the spent cartridges as he ran, the marshal went around to the front also.

  Spalding hit the boardwalk on the other side of the street and rushed through the doors of a dry goods store. Dace, pausing long enough to drag his Winchester carbine free of its boot on the saddle as he rushed past his horse, continued after his quarry.

  Spalding leaped from the store and fired several more shots that flew around Dace’s head, slamming into the building behind him.

  By this time the street was deserted except for the man Dace had hit. The unintended victim, moaning loudly, rolled around holding onto his injured leg.

  Dace dove behind a water trough and lay there panting hard from his efforts.

  “Hey, Dace! You come to play checkers?” Spalding shouted.

  Dace ignored the humor. “Give it up, Leon!”

  “Not me!” Spalding yelled back. The outlaw fired again. It was obvious he had either reloaded or was packing extra pistols. “I don’t like the idea o’ hanging!”

  “You’d rather get shot?” Dace asked. He leaped up and cut loose once with the carbine. As he ducked back down he could hear glass crashing to the street.

  Spalding cackled nervously, then hollered, “You’re gonna owe this man for a new window!” The bandit fired again. This time the bullets came closer as two spouts of water leaped from the trough. “You got good cover, but you cain’t do much from there, Dace!”

  Dace again exposed himself to view as he fired with his carbine. He quickly cocked it without ducking back. Spalding, thinking that Dace had hidden himself behind the trough once again, leaned out and began firing rapidly as Dace took careful aim. Dace’s hat spun crazily off his head and splinters from the trough flew up into his face with sprays of water.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Spalding’s knees buckled under the impact of the .44 slug that slammed into his midsection. He went down, but managed to pull himself up and take wavering aim with his pistol. He fired, but the bullet hit the street some ten yards in front of him.

  The next carbine round punched through Spalding’s forehead and took out the back of his skull.

  The wanted man slumped into an undignified position. He rolled off the boardwalk into the dirt and twitched for a few moments before a final shudder left him still.

  Dace gingerly approached the fallen man, but as he drew closer it was apparent there would be no more fight from Leon Spalding.

  “Just a minute there!”

  Dace turned to see
a short, thin man, sporting an enormous star on his chest, approaching in angry strides.

  “What’s happened here?”

  Dace felt angry. “I just shot this sonofabitch,” he said to the local sheriff. Then he displayed his own badge pinned to his vest. “Dace Halston, U.S. deputy marshal.”

  “Oh?” The sheriff gave the marshal’s insignia a quick scrutiny, then turned his attention to the dead man. “Leon Spalding, huh? He’s wanted all right.”

  “Did you know he was wanted?”

  “Sure,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly. “I get reward and wanted notices in the mail all the time.”

  “Then why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “Marshal,” the sheriff said. “There’s lot o’ folks here in Tulsa that’s upright citizens. But they got pasts they’d rather forget. As their sheriff, the onliest things I’m interested in is seeing that the peace is kept. If I start prying into people’s lives and holding things against ’em they didn’t do in Tulsa, I’d be out of a job mighty quick.”

  “Yeah,” Dace acknowledged in understanding.

  “Spalding robbed trains, banks, and he murdered too. But he didn’t pull them jobs here,” the sheriff said to emphasize his point.

  Dace knew that the lawman probably saw wanted posters on himself now and then as well. It would accomplish nothing to pick an argument with him. He shrugged off the situation and pointed across the street. “There’s a man I accidentally shot over there. Maybe we oughta see how he’s doing.”

  “Sure,” the sheriff said.

  They walked across the street where the man, now being helped to his feet, grimaced in pain. The wounded individual looked accusingly at Dace. “You—you—you shot me!”

  Dace looked at him without much emotion. “The next time you see a coupla fellers about to settle differ’nces with guns, I’d advise you to take cover and enjoy the spectacle from a safer place.”

  The man glared, then glanced at the sheriff. “Aren’t you going to arrest him?”

  “He’s a United States officer shooting in the line o’ duty,” the sheriff said. “And if you say anything else about it, I’m gonna charge you with loitering, vagrancy and interfering with a lawman.”

  The man glared at the sheriff. “This place is completely uncivilized. I’m going back to Vermont.” Then he hobbled down the street toward the doctor’s office.

  “Be sure and say ‘howdy’ to ever’body back there for us,” the sheriff said. He turned to Dace. “Why don’t you go on over to my office? There’s some hot coffee that you’re welcome to. I’ll take care o’ Spalding here and join you directly.”

  “Obliged,” Dace said. He settled the carbine on his shoulder and went across the street where a weather-beaten sign identified one of the buildings as the local sheriff’s office and jail.

  A pot of coffee simmered over the live coals in a wood burning stove. Dace poured himself a cupful, then settled down in a chair to wait for the sheriff to join him.

  A half hour—and three cups later—the local peace officer walked through the door and hung his hat on the rack before settling down behind his desk. “Ol’ Spalding was part o’ the McClary Gang, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Dace answered.

  “Would you be inter’sted in the whereabouts of another o’ them owlhoots?” the sheriff asked. “I’d like to get him outta here before real trouble starts. I don’t want one o’ the local banks hit.”

  “Who’re you talking about?” Dace inquired.

  “Shorty Eastman,” the sheriff said.

  “Where do I find him?”

  “There’s a farm some ten miles outside town,” the sheriff said. Then he added. “Hell of a note, ain’t it? Oklahoma has got to the point that former cowboys is hiring out as farmhands.”

  “That’s what makes ’em so mean,” Dace said. “Now how about giving me the exact location o’ this here place where I can find Shorty.”

  ~*~

  Crickets merrily chirped their night songs as Dace Halston slowly and carefully crawled through the deep grass toward the bunkhouse. He knew Shorty Eastman well, and this knowledge included the diminutive outlaw’s dislike for sleeping indoors. Even during howling prairie blizzards, Shorty would bundle up in blankets and find cover on the leeward side of a large tree or other natural shelter rather than seek the safety and comfort of a building.

  Dace stopped in his progress to listen for the telltale signs of a sleeping man. But no snoring or restless rustling of blankets could be heard in the quiet spring night.

  A dog suddenly barked by the farmhouse fifty yards away just as the clouds drifted away from the moon. Dace decided to chance standing up for a quick look around. He stood in the dewy grass and looked across the stand of stubby bushes he had crawled into.

  Shorty Eastman lay in his blankets—his pistol aimed dead on him. “I been waiting for you to come close enough, Dace.”

  Dace reached for his pistol as Shorty’s belched flame, giving the scene a brief second of light. The marshal could see the outlaw’s distorted face during that instant.

  Dace, with his Colt free of its holster, quickly fired twice.

  Shorty, at the same time, got off two shots of his own as he leaped, snarling, to his feet.

  Dace dropped behind the bushes, rolled to his left once, then back toward his right four quick times before coming up firing again, and instantly going to the ground once more.

  “Oh!” Shorty exclaimed.

  Silence.

  Dace leaped up and fired out a fusillade of his remaining three rounds before dragging his standby Remington .44 from the second holster he had put on for the occasion.

  “Goddamn it, Dace! You hit me enough!” Shorty said painfully. “You don’t have to keep a-shootin’ like that.”

  Dace chanced a look and could clearly see the bandit squatting in an awkward position. Both his hands were empty. Wary of a trick, Dace eased though the bushes and joined the other. “Where you hit?”

  “Shit! I don’t know where,” Shorty said. “All I know is that you drilled me good.”

  Lights appeared in both the bunkhouse and farmhouse. Within moments, a number of people approached bearing lanterns. Dace quickly pulled his badge from his vest and showed it plainly. “I’m a U.S. marshal,” he said.

  “He’s right,” Shorty said weakly. “Hell, I know him. Used to ride for him on his ranch.”

  “Well, howdy, Dace!” one of the newcomers exclaimed.

  Dace recognized the man as an acquaintance in the cattle business. “How you doing, Jay? This here your farm?”

  “Nope,” Jay answered. “I’m working here.” He set the lantern down and examined Shorty. He shook his head. “You got a gutshot and one in the chest,” he said artlessly. “I’d say you was in bad shape, Shorty.”

  “Yeah,” Shorty agreed. He looked at Dace. “If it had to be a starpacker that got me, I’m glad it was you.”

  “Sorry just the same,” Dace said. “Where’s George?”

  “I don’t know—oh! Jesus Christ! Just a—minute—lemme get—my breath—uh—” Shorty fell back, his face looking up toward the night sky. “—I left—George—he went on—maybe—somewheres—”

  “Yeah?” Dace asked. “Where’d he go, Shorty?”

  Shorty did not respond.

  Jay, along with another of the farmhands, bent down and examined Shorty. The ex-rancher looked up, “He’s dead, Dace.”

  “I’ll see the local sheriff,” Dace said. “He’ll have him picked up and get me a death certificate to take back to Guthrie.”

  “Sure,” Jay said. “He made his move, but he wasn’t quick enough. Could’ve been you lying there, Dace.”

  “Could’ve been,” Dace said, “but it wasn’t.” He reholstered his pistol. “I’ll move on then. See you sometime, Jay.”

  “Sure thing, Dace,” Jay said. “Say hello to George when you see him next.”

  Dace glanced back with a wry smile. He turned to walk toward a stand of cott
onwoods where he had tied his horse.

  ~*~

  The aroma of hot coffee and food overcame even the barn smells as Harriet set the tray down on the barrel.

  George McClary, dirty and disheveled, stepped from the darkness of a nearby stall and began eagerly eating the meal without comment.

  Finally, when the last of the pork gravy was lapped up with the cornbread, and poked into his mouth, George relaxed a little and slumped down to the dirt floor.

  “Damnation! I was near starved to death.” He had shown up several hours earlier riding a stolen mule. His clothes were bedraggled and torn from travel through the roughest parts of the country where concealment was more available. His boots, with both soles flapping, were worn out to near uselessness by a terribly long walk necessitated by the unexpected demise of his horse.

  Harriet, impatient and irritable, spoke sharply. “Have you thought of what I told you?”

  George belched. “Sure.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m gonna think on it some more,” he said in a superior tone.

  “We don’t have that much time, George,” Harriet said. “Dace said that things were closing in and getting worse. If we’re going to get out of this part of the country, we have to do it quick—and his way.”

  George knew that his former ranching partner was right. Even Bill Doolin, the premier outlaw of Oklahoma, was having his problems as civilization grew and expanded, making it tougher to find places to hide out and evade capture. “You mean that straight-laced, never-break-a-rule Dace Halston is willing to forget law and order long enough for us to get outta here and hightail it to Californy or Oregon?”

  “Yes,” Harriet answered.

  There was something in her eyes that disturbed him. A determined set that he had never noted in her before. “I reckon I ain’t got much choice,” George said. “’Specially if I got sure-fire help from a damn lawman.”

  Harriet sighed in relief. “Now all we must do is wait for him to show up or send us word.”

  George, feeling much better with a full belly, got to his feet and roughly grabbed her around the waist, pulling her to him. “In the meantime—”