“Can I buy some with beads on them?”
He frowned at her. “Why?”
“They cost more, but they are pretty.”
He was so amused by her, his laughter made his side hurt. He eased off the stump to his feet, then went over and handed her another twenty. “Beads, whatever. Oh, yes, get a big tarp if he has one we can use for a fly.”
“You mean like to make a tent?”
“Yes.” It wouldn’t hurt to have it along.
In a few hours, Mary returned with a woman beside her on the buggy seat. He got up to greet her, and nodded to the Indian woman she called Birdwoman.
“She makes pretty dresses,” Mary explained, bounding out of the buggy and then shaking a thin wheel to show him. “It is a good buggy. I bought it and the harness for nine dollars. So I had money for the dress, moccasins, and for her to help me make it this afternoon.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. Rest. You will get very tired going to Fort Smith.” She left him, busy unbuttoning her dress and talking in guttural Cherokee to Birdwoman.
They had to be discussing how to make the dress, Thurman figured. He and Blacky better entertain themselves for a few hours outside. A gray fox squirrel in the hickory tree chattered at the dog. When the tree climber hit the ground, Blacky gave pursuit, but he was no match for the speedy squirrel.
Herschel took off the folded canvas cover, and opened the two wooden crates of food in the back of the rig. Plenty of canned peaches and tomatoes. Coffee, flour, sugar, baking powder, raisins, dried apples, bacon, lard—they’d eat well anyway on the way up there. He went around back and settled in a hammock. In a few minutes, he was asleep in the shade.
It was Ira’s braying that woke Thurman with a start. Blacky joined in, barking. When Thurman sat up, his side caught and he rolled off the hammock onto his knees. The pain took his breath away, but he held the .44 in his fist. On his feet at last, he came around the corner and saw the two lawmen riding up the lane, Youree on the wagon, Morris on horseback.
Holstering the handgun, he leaned his good shoulder on the corner of the cabin to see what they wanted. The sharpness began to ease in his side.
“We ain’t found your horse yet,” Morris said. “But we’re still looking.”
Thurman nodded. “I reckon I’ll never see him again.”
“Man. We sure hated not finding him. You healing?” Youree asked, climbing down from the wagon heavily and pulling his pants out of his crotch.
“Slow. Sore as hell.”
“I bet,” Youree said. “But you’re lucky. Not many have lived through a shoot-out with ’em. But they can’t avoid the law forever.”
“I bet Baker’s been in worse scrapes than that,” Morris said. “We need a drink of water.”
“Them women are making a dress inside. The path to the spring is right up there.”
“Yeah, we’ve used it before. See you got a buggy.” Morris clapped a hand on a narrow iron-rimmed wheel and tested it.
“Yes, we’re going to Fort Smith and collect that reward.”
“I better warn you. They won’t pay that in cash. They’ll give you a warrant and you’ll have to either keep it till the court gets money, which could be six months, or discount it to a merchant.”
“You mean the federal government has no money?”
Youree shook his head. “They owe both of us money and expenses for the last two months.”
“Good to know. How bad do they discount ’em?”
“Oh, fifteen bucks on a fifty-dollar reward like the one you’ve got coming,” Morris said, and dismounted and started on the path through the post oaks.
“Thanks, that’s good to know.”
“I wish you’d shot all of them,” Youree said, and then he followed Morris up the trail. “But they can’t avoid us forever.”
Holding a dress in front of her at the door and half hidden behind the wall, Mary asked in a low voice, “What do they want?”
He winked at her. “A drink of your springwater.”
She nodded and disappeared again.
When the two lawmen returned, Morris took off his hat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “Getting hot. Well, we’ve got a wagonload of prisoners rounded up. So we’re going back, too.”
“What did they do?”
“You name it,” Morris said. “We serve warrants issued by a federal grand jury. They range from pig stealing to murder and rape. Lots of whiskey makers.” He shrugged. “But I’ve got to get my prisoners there alive for me to collect three dollars. Get a dollar a day to feed them and ten cents a mile for our own horses and wagon. Youree gets a dollar a day as my posse man, and I collect the fees for the arrests.”
“Sounds like work.”
“Yeah, and it ain’t easy. We both had a fight on our hands night before last with this guy’s wife and mother-in-law when we tried to arrest him for failure to appear on a warrant. Crazy damn squaws anyway.”
Thurman nodded. “You looking some more for Chickenhead?”
“Can’t. We’ve got fourteen prisoners and need to take them in.”
“Reckon Chickenhead knows that?”
“What the hell do you mean by that, Reb?”
“I mean if someone doesn’t stay after him, he can go on robbing, raping, and stealing what he wants.”
“Listen, I risk my damn life about every day for three lousy dollars an arrest. If I get shot up, they won’t pay my doctor bills either. Chickenhead’ll be here when I get back. I’ll get him.”
“How many will he rob and rape in that time?”
“You shot one of his gang. Why don’t you go find him?”
“I have things to do. Besides, it ain’t my job.”
“We’ll get him.” Morris mounted and nodded at Youree, who took his seat in the wagon, and they left.
Mary came out wearing her wash-worn dress to sit on the ground by him. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. I really don’t think he wants to mess with Chickenhead.”
She hugged her knees while seated on the grass and nodded. “If he ever shoots a marshal or robs a train, Parker will send the tough ones down here.”
“That gets results?”
“Oh, yes. I hope you will like my new dress.”
“I will. Why worry?”
“I want you to be proud of me. Should I take down my braids for Fort Smith?”
He rubbed his palms on his pants and laughed. “Why?”
“They will call you a squaw man. I could wear a bonnet?”
“You know any of those folks that will talk about us?” He chuckled at her concern.
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about what they say. I sure won’t.”
She jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. “I won’t. Oh, that food and the tarp cost seven dollars . . .”
“We’ll need it.”
She nodded, but still looked uncertain. “What will they think of me in Montana?”
“That you are a nice-looking young lady and they’ll be jealous that you are with me.”
“Can I ask you one more thing?”
“What is that?”
“Do you really want me to go with you and meet your son?”
“Yes, Mary, I do. I am old enough to be your father. You’re a pretty young woman. I’ll be proud to have you with me.”
“Good. Birdwoman and her family are going to live here until I ever come back.”
“Sounds fine. You may grow tired of me.”
She smiled and shook her head. Then she pushed off and rose to her feet. In front of him, she bent over and looked him in the eye. “I am excited about tomorrow and the next days.”
“You ever been to Fort Smith?”
“Yes, but I was a blanket-ass Indian’s wife then, with a baby, and people sneered at us.”
“Hell, we’re only going in there with a buggy and a mule this time.”
“And you. I have your suit coat fixed and most of the bloodstains
out of the shirt. If you will wear the coat, they won’t see them.”
“I’ll be proud.” He leaned over and looked at the house. “Is Birdwoman staying here all night?”
“No,” Mary said, looking embarrassed. “I know you want to leave at sunrise. Right?”
“Let’s do that.” He felt anxious to get on the road again.
The next morning, with their bedding, his saddle, and some cookware tied down on top of the supplies, they left in the first light. She saved her new blue dress to wear until they got close to Fort Smith.
Ira acted spunky and a little spooked by the buggy chasing him. With Mary on the reins, he left the yard high-headed and struck the creek road in a jog trot. Blacky joined them, and went through the woods chasing cotton-tails, then showed up later with blood on his chin—breakfast. Then he fell in for a while beside a wheel, tongue lolling out, and tracked the buggy.
She rigged the scabbard so Thurman’s Winchester was hung on the dashboard. With him on the left and her on the right, they took the bumps on the horsehair-padded bench seat, but she did a good job of guiding Ira around the worst bumps. The narrow iron rims were churning up dust as they moved along.
He smelled wood smoke, and they soon drove past a clearing in the forest. Several haggard men stood in chains forming a line getting breakfast. Thurman looked them over. They were Morris’s prisoners. He waved at Youree, who was standing guard over them with a shotgun. Then they were gone and the hardwoods closed in on the narrow road.
Next, it opened to clearings and fields of new corn—small green shoots. Other fields, he decided, were planted in cotton. It was too small to tell. He closed his eyes. He hated farming. His life began on a dirt farm in Alabama and like Mary, when he went to town on Saturday, the boys that lived there called him names as though he was trash.
But he showed them. With his work-calloused hands as fists, he gave them black eyes, bloody noses, and sent them home crying. When he was married, he took his wife and went to Texas. Settled west of San Antonio and went to trading horses, mules, oxen, and cattle. He soon made enough money to buy a suit and looked respectable. After that, he never wore overalls again. He hired others, and let the boys do the chores and break the horses he brought in. But they never had any dealings with cotton, hoeing or picking it. Those boys were cowboys from the start. Knights on horseback, he always called them.
Mary elbowed him to awareness, and pointed ahead as she reined up Ira. “Do you see those men in the road up there?”
“Yes. Who are they?”
“Road agents. They are wearing masks.”
He considered them. Four men with flour sacks over their faces sat their horses less than a quarter mile ahead of the wagon. Split-rail fences crowded both sides of the dirt ruts so the road agents could force the wagon to halt.
Bending forward with some pain, Thurman jerked the rifle out and told her to stay on the seat and hold the reins tight. He stepped off the buggy, chambering in a cartridge—not listening to her telling him to be careful. If they wanted to rob him, let them come get him.
“Make Blacky stay here and hold on to Ira when I shoot,” he told her.
“Clear the road,” he shouted, and the men laughed like they were amused. They sounded pretty drunk—damn them anyway.
He knelt on his right knee and used his left one for his elbow. With the .44/40 rifle steadied, he aimed through the buckthorn sights for the tallest black hat. When he shot, one of their high-crown hats went flying off. A horse exploded. He came bucking hard out of the group and quickly piled his rider off. The man’s three partners whirled around and left on their own mounts in a cloud of dust.
“Bring the mule and rig,” he said, and ran up to where the man bucked off lay on the ground groaning. The outlaw hugged his right leg as if it was broken.
Filled with fury, Thurman jerked off his mask. “Who in the hell are you?”
Before the moaning young Indian could answer him, Mary slid Ira to a stop beside Thurman, telling him, “He’s Harvey Needles, one of Chickenhead’s men.”
Thurman heard the throaty sound, and whirled around in time to see the stiff-legged Blacky advancing wolflike on the boy. His lips curled back and growling, he was ready for the attack. Needles threw up his hands in wide-eyed fear.
“Here! Here, Blacky,” Thurman said to the dog. “Get back there. He ain’t worth chewing on. Now you go on.”
He stamped his boot on the ground for effect and pointed with the rifle to where he wanted the dog.
Blacky finally obeyed him, but did not act pleased to be called off. He finally went to the rig and sat down. Satisfied that was over, Thurman looked all around at the emerald green mountains.
The good red horse hadn’t been among the ones the outlaws had ridden. Had Red already been sold?
Where in the hell did Charlie Chickenhead go?
SEVEN
WHO are those men you brought in to jail last night?” Marsha asked, busy fixing Herschel’s breakfast. The oldest girl, Kate, the twelve-year-old, was at the barn milking the cow. The other two Marsha had let sleep in, so she and Herschel would have some privacy to talk. It was long past midnight the night before when he had arrived home.
“I suspect they’re horse thieves,” he answered. “I’m checking them out. But in the cabin we also found a slicker that belonged to the dead man with two bullet holes in the back and dried blood on it, plus, I suspect, his hat. There was a letter in the slicker pocket that was addressed to a Wallace Hamby.”
She refilled his cup with flavorful hot coffee. “What did it say?”
He fished it out of his shirt pocket, and read it aloud.
“Dear Wallace, I am sorry to tell you because I know you do not know this, but your mother died last fall and so I have sold the farm, and I will wire your share of the money to whatever bank you tell me. Please write or wire me what bank and what town it is in so I can do that and close this matter. Sincerely yours, Titus Hamby.”
“Oh,” she said, standing straight-backed, holding the enameled coffeepot. “Maybe then this Wally was robbed, too?”
“That’s what Art and I decided riding in last night. I left word for Phil to check today with all the banks and see if they paid this Wally a sum of money. Also the telegraph office.”
“So what do you have to do today? Is all this going to cancel our going up to Soda Springs for the dance?”
“No, no, but there’s been word of a shooting over at Gayline’s Store yesterday. I’m riding over and checking on it. But if you will start out for the Soda Springs schoolhouse in the buckboard this morning, I promise I’ll be up there for supper with you tonight.”
She shook her head in dismay. “They’re working you to death, Herschel. Can’t your deputies do some of this?”
“They’ve got all they can do. I promise—”
She set the pot on the table and squeezed his head to her breasts. “I know you like this job, but you need more help.”
“There are no funds for more deputies. Maybe when the taxes come in, I can hire a few. Right now, it’s pretty well up to me. Marsha, you know I took this job because the last man wasn’t doing anything.”
She stood back and straightened her apron. “Herschel Baker, you better not stand me up at that dance.”
He half ducked and grinned. “I won’t, Marsha, I promise.”
On the back porch, he hugged his oldest stepdaughter, Kate, who was coming in with the pail of milk. The aroma of the hot milk and cow clung to her as she smiled at him. “Are you two going to the dance?”
He looked at the back door and nodded, releasing her. “Your mother is meeting me up there.”
Kate shook her head with a mischievous look. “I bet she’s real happy about that.”
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Just things I’ve got to do today.”
“Next time we all want to go to the dance,” she said after him.
He stopped again, turned, and pointed his finger at her. “You have
a deal.”
“I won’t forget—remember, you promised me.”
At mid-morning, Herschel arrived at Gayline’s crossroads store. It being Saturday, there was an assortment of parked rigs there and several hipshot horses. Women in bonnets were going in and out the front door on the high porch. Some horse-swapping was going on. Boys were playing mumblety-peg with knives.
Tanner Rademaker was shoeing a team of light horses. He had his forge going and a son working the bellows. He was a big burly-shouldered man who did blacksmithing and farmed, and he looked up holding a hoof in his leather apron-covered lap when Herschel dismounted.
“Howdy, Sheriff. What’s new?”
“I heard there was shooting up here yesterday.” Herschel looked around. He knew his presence had people talking behind their hands.
“I heard the same thing,” Rademaker said, busy measuring a shoe on a trimmed hoof. He dropped it and straightened. “You up here checking on it?”
“What did you hear?” Herschel walked over with him to his iron basin, which held the glowing coals and emitted a bitter-smelling smoke.
Using tongs, Rademaker shoved the shoe in the red-hot coals and pulled off his thick leather gloves. “That’s enough air, Carl,” he said to his son on the accordion pump.
“Well, Herschel, I heard it was over a pig. Another man said—” He turned to his son of twelve. “Carl, go play awhile.”
The boy took his leave with a pleased grin and a nod for Herschel.
Rademaker waited until the boy was beyond hearing. “He didn’t need to hear this. But I think it was more about Tompkins’ wife than a pig.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know if you know it, but Tompkins’ wife, Etta, does not have the shiniest reputation anyway. Been several maverick newborn calves taken over there by ranch hands. So the word was out to them that an orphan doggie . . . well, you know what I mean.”
“I think I am following you. How did the pig figure in?”
“Tompkins come home and found Earl Howard in his house. You know Earl?”
Herschel shook his head. “But go ahead.”
The Sundown Chaser Page 7
