The train robbery had alerted not only the marshals in Arkansas and Missouri, but also the Indian officials inside the Territory. It was obvious that the robbers had escaped deep into the Nations, and Dawkins had said, “Best we go down and see what Johnny Bear Claw knows about this here matter. He knows every frog that hops inside his territory.”
Dawkins’ statement had precipitated a hard ride, and by the time they arrived in the Indian settlement, Lanie and Wesley were pretty well reduced to clinging to the saddle horn.
The settlement had less than a dozen buildings, the principal one being the store of Johnny Bear Claw, a Cree who operated a general merchandising business. As they dismounted their horses, Dawkins explained to Lanie, “Johnny Bear Claw is pretty much the buffer between the federal marshals and the Indian government. He used to be an officer himself, but he decided clerkin’ would be easier, so he set up in this store. C’mon in. I’m sure we’d all welcome something good to eat.”
Lanie nodded and followed the marshal, her knees weak after the long ride. She was glad to see a table.
“Sit down there, Missie,” Dawkins said. We’ll see what we can get from this jaybird in the way of groceries.” He turned to a tall thin Indian who had stepped from behind the counter and came toward them.
“Hello, Marshal Dawkins,” he said. “Do you all want something to eat?”
“Yeah, whatever you got, Johnny. I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“All right. Take a few minutes, though.”
As they waited for the food, Lanie looked around the store curiously. It was a long building, with what seemed to be living quarters at one end; the rest was taken over by a long counter with a coffee grinder and a hand-crank cash register perched on top. There were shelves and boxes and barrels, all in a clutter, scattered liberally about; a coal potbellied stove; leather and metal gear suspended from pegs all along each wall; and two tables with chairs and benches for those who wanted to eat. Along the rear wall were two large windows. A number of Indian men were standing in a cluster talking in their native tongue. They reminded Lanie of a tintype picture she had seen one time, a picture of Indians solemnly gathered, wearing white men’s clothes, and looking dolefully at the viewer.
Soon Woman Killer and Lobo Smith came in and sat down. “You talked to Johnny Bear Claw yet, Lorenzo?” Lobo asked.
“Not yet.” The marshal glanced over at the men lining the wall and said, “We’ll get him alone after we eat.”
After a short wait a young Indian woman brought the food in, which consisted of chili, crackers, and tin cups full of apple cider. “Not much grub,” Johnny Bear Claw said apologetically. “If you want to wait longer, I’ll cook you up some steaks and potatoes.”
“This’ll do fine,” Dawkins said. He nodded toward a chair and when Johnny Bear Claw sat down Dawkins went on almost in a whisper, “We’re looking for Vic Perrago.”
The Indian listened, unmoving. He showed no sign of understanding or recognition, giving Lanie the sinking feeling that he knew nothing about Perrago’s whereabouts that would help them.
Then, almost without moving his lips, the tall Indian said, “Be careful, Marshal.” He glanced meaningfully at the men around the wall and spoke almost inaudibly, “He did the train, though.”
“That the true goods?” Dawkins demanded. “How do you know?”
“One of the witnesses saw Perrago, or someone who could have passed for his twin brother.”
“Judge Parker will never get to hang him with that kind of identification,” Lobo murmured. He was spooning chili fast, shoveling it down hungrily. He took a deep draft of the apple cider and added, “Vic’s too smart to get caught like that. But I don’t have any doubt he did the train.”
The talk ran around the table for a while. The Indians sat at the other table and were soon playing cards, the sound of their voices growing louder; they ignored Johnny Bear Claw and his visitors. Lanie listened as Dawkins and Bear Claw did most of the talking. She was not surprised that Lobo said little. After he finished eating, he shoved back in the chair, leaned against the wall, and pulled his hat down over his face.
He could at least pretend to be interested, Lanie thought angrily. You’d think this was none of his concern at all! I never saw a man so irresponsible!
After a while Lobo pushed his hat back and rose to his feet. He had an animal-like grace about him, lazy and slow-moving at times, but always with a hint of the energy that lay beneath the surface and could explode at any moment. “Guess I’ll take a little stroll,” he said idly, and walked out the door without looking back.
Lanie glanced at Wesley, who shrugged and said, “It doesn’t look like we’re going to get anywhere here, does it?” He was worn thin with fatigue. City life had not prepared him for the long hours in the saddle, the poor food, and the primitive sleeping conditions. His craggy face had sharper lines than usual, and his eyes seemed to have sunk farther back in his head. He was discouraged and despondent, though he said nothing. Lanie could see the weariness that weighed him down and understood, for she too was trembling with fatigue.
Twenty minutes later Lobo stepped back inside, and Lanie noticed immediately that something had lit up his single indigo eye. It seemed to sparkle as he walked over to the group to stand beside Lorenzo. “Old friend of ours here, Lorenzo,” he said in a low voice.
Dawkins looked up with surprise. “Old friend? Who’s that?”
“Tyrone Biggs.”
The name meant something to Marshal Dawkins, who leaned back in his chair and began to groom his mustache, his eyes beginning to glow a little. “He been around here long, Bear Claw?”
“Coupla days,” the Indian shrugged. “He’s become a peddler. Got a wagon full of junk and he goes around trying to get rid of it. At least, that’s his story.”
Both Dawkins and Lobo grinned, a glint of humor in their eyes. “A little something under that pile of junk?” Lobo asked.
Johnny Bear Claw’s chiseled face changed for the first time; a faint glimmer of humor hovered in the hawk-like eyes. “Never caught him at it. But the word’s out that if you find Biggs alone, he’d sell you a bottle of whiskey.”
“Why, that’s against the law!” Dawkins said with indignation, the grin widening on his face. “I’d best have a talk with our old friend!” He turned to Lanie and said cautiously, “Now, Missie, this may be a wild goose chase. This here Tyrone Biggs, he’s been just about everything up to and includin’ an informer for most of Parker’s marshals. Bank robber, too. More important than that, he did a spell in Perrago’s gang, and I’m guessin’ if anybody knows what Vic’s up to, it’d be Tyrone Biggs. Why don’t you sit here and rest up while Marshal Lobo Smith and me go invite him to share all his information with us?”
“All right, Marshal,” Lanie agreed wearily.
The two men walked out, Dawkins’ boots clonking loudly on the wooden floor, Lobo’s moccasins sounding not a whisper. As soon as they were on the street Lobo said, “Tyrone’s not going to be glad to see you, Marshal. Fact is, he wasn’t all that glad to see me.”
Dawkins bristled, “I don’t give a dead rat what that ol’ bandit’s glad about! I’ll have it out of him where Perrago is, or I’ll throw his rear in Parker’s jail!”
Lobo led the way to a cantina, where they found Biggs inside sitting at a table talking to the proprietor. Biggs was a sharp- featured man of forty. He had bright brown eyes, a long, pointed nose, and was bald except for a fringe around the crown of his head. As soon as Biggs saw the two men, he grew alarmed but covered it quickly with a hearty greeting. “Well, hello, Marshal Dawkins! Lobo didn’t tell me you was here! I was kinda surprised to see that star pinned on Lobo’s chest.”
Dawkins walked over to the table and said to the proprietor, “Go wait at the bar, Willie.” The stubby Indian rose at once and without a word went to the other end of the room and began busily polishing glasses. Dawkins’ eyes narrowed and he said, “I ain’t wasting no tim
e on you, Tyrone.” Lorenzo Dawkins had been dealing with outlaws for many years now and had learned that gentleness played little part in negotiating with them. He leaned over the small round table, his face close to Biggs’ and went on in a low, serious voice, “We want to know where Vic Perrago is.”
Biggs shrugged and held his hands up. “I don’t know, Marshal,” he said earnestly. “I ain’t seen Perrago now, in, oh, must be nigh on a year, I guess. Lobo knows all of Vic’s hideouts as well as I do—”
“Shut up!” Dawkins snapped. “We didn’t come here to listen to that fodder! What we did come here for is to find out where Perrago is now. You know he has a dozen hideouts in the Territory. We just need to know where he’s headed so we don’t end up on a wild goose chase—Lobo can take us. We just need the inside information from you. Now, are you gonna cooperate with two federal marshals, or would you rather see the inside of Parker’s jail for the load of goods in your wagon?”
Biggs’ mouth opened and shut like a beached fish. “Now wait a minute, Marshal! You can’t do this to a man! I don’t—”
“I told you to shut your mouth,” Dawkins said. “If I wasn’t such a gentle cuss, I wouldn’t even be givin’ you a chance like this. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You help us find Perrago, and I’ll see that you don’t go to Judge Parker’s jail. At least, not for a while.”
The conversation was short and sweet. In less than three minutes, Biggs, who knew all about the conditions in the basement of Judge Isaac Parker’s jail, told them that he knew Perrago and his gang were at one of two hideouts near the Boston Mountains, and that they had been seen at different times roaming the hills with a woman.
The three men left the cantina, and Dawkins walked back to Johnny Bear Claw’s store, while Lobo walked with Biggs, still discussing what Vic might be up to.
Dawkins thanked Bear Claw and led Stone and Lanie outside. “All right, Biggs told us where Perrago probably is. Lobo’s gonna take us there. He don’t know ’zactly where he’s at, but he knows all his hideouts. So we’re gonna load up with supplies and take off soon as we can.” He turned to Lanie and said sternly, “Now, Missie, lemme tell you one more time. I think it’d be better if you stayed here. It’s awful rough out there.”
Lanie smiled and put her hand on the marshal’s arm. “That’s sweet of you, Marshal,” she said. She was taller than he, and looked down into his eyes. “I realize that’s good advice, but it’s proud I am.” She laughed slightly and said, “My father always said I had a little bit of Old Scratch in me. A temper and stubborn as the devil himself. But they have my sister, you see,” she went on grimly, “and I’ll have them for it, or know the reason why.”
Admiration beamed in the old man’s eye, and he smiled beneath his bushy mustache. “There is somethin’ about you, Missie,” he said, shaking his head, “danged if there ain’t!” He glanced at Wesley Stone. “Well, hope you enjoyed your meal. Last one you’ll have sittin’ down at a table for a while.”
Thirty minutes later, the party left with heavily laden pack animals, ready for the long hunt.
****
Whether or not Lobo decided to stop because he could see that Lanie and Stone were exhausted, or whether it was just a whim, Lanie was never able to figure out. Whatever the reason, he led them through a draw to a creek that murmured sibilantly as it wound its way among the rocks. There were a few trees there, which provided some shade. Lanie practically fell off her horse, heartily grateful for the halt.
Woman Killer staked the horses out while Lobo made a fire. Soon they were sitting around the small, comforting blaze, eating peaches and nibbling chunks of tender beef that they had bought from Bear Claw’s store. “I like my grub, surely do,” Dawkins said, loquacious and ready to talk. “I shoulda been a chef in some fancy restaurant. I coulda handled that, always was a good cook.”
It was still daylight. Lobo stood up and brushed himself off, his indigo eye on Lanie. “Been meaning to give you a little training. You and Mr. Stone,” he said in his soft voice. “Come with me.”
“What for?” Stone asked.
“Going to teach you how to shoot those guns you’ve been carrying,” Lobo answered blandly.
Wesley shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t want any shooting lessons. All I wear this thing for is self-defense.”
The eyebrow above the patch went up sarcastically. “Interesting theory, Mr. Stone. Don’t think it’s going to work too well out here in the Nations, though. What about you, Miss Winslow?”
Lanie got to her feet and said defiantly, “All right. Where do we go?”
“Over by that big rock is good enough.” He picked up the empty peach cans, and Lanie and Lobo walked toward the rock.
When they got about a hundred yards away from the camp, Lobo said quietly, “Right here, Miss Winslow.” He put three cans on top of a large rock and moved back about thirty feet. Nodding at them, he told Lanie, “See what you can do.”
Lanie pulled out the .38 that Lobo had gotten for her, held it in both hands, shut her eyes, and pulled the trigger. The gun went off, making a loud explosion in the wilderness. She opened her eyes and saw that the three cans were still in place.
“Go on,” he said.
She shut her eyes and pulled the trigger twice more, and opening them, found the three cans still mocking her.
“Look,” he said gently, “you’re not going to be in a gun fight, I don’t think. Someone might come for you, though—you never know in this country. You shouldn’t have to shoot anyone far away; in fact, the best thing would be if you can shove that gun in someone’s stomach and pull the trigger. That’d stop ’em.”
Lanie winced and said doubtfully, “I don’t think I could do that.”
He eyed her curiously. “Not even if it was to either fire the rifle or become a Kiowa squaw?” He came over and stood behind her and said firmly, “Now, look, let me help you.” He checked the load in the gun. “You’ve got three more shots. It’s all right to use both hands, Miss Winslow, but don’t shut your eyes. Here.” He put his hand on her wrist and pulled her arm out to its full length, then took her other hand, cupping it on the other side of the firearm, and said, “Now use your other hand to steady your stance. Good. Hold steady, take a deep breath, and don’t shut your eyes. Now, pull the trigger.”
She did as he directed and was surprised to see one of the cans disappear. It wasn’t the one she had aimed at, but she didn’t mention that to Lobo. “How was that?” she asked triumphantly.
“Not bad,” he encouraged her. “Now try another one.”
She had gained confidence and fired the other two bullets quickly. Neither of them hit the can, but one of them left a long scar on the rock. “Woulda been a dead man if it had been a man,” Lobo told her. He loaded her gun several times, and Lanie fired determinedly at the cans. He would go get them when she hit one, which wasn’t often, and reset them for her.
After several rounds she asked, “Isn’t that enough?”
He nodded and said carefully, “Always keep your gun loaded. And don’t pull it unless you mean to use it, Miss Winslow.”
They had walked back perhaps another thirty feet when she stopped and looked back at the cans. “Can you hit those cans from here?”
She hadn’t even finished the sentence when suddenly Lobo’s gun was blazing in his hand. The shots were so close together it sounded like one continuous roar. Lanie’s eyes batted as the cans almost simultaneously went flying into space. When she turned back to him, his gun was back in the holster and he was standing, smiling at her, a smirk in his eye. “I never saw anyone that could do that,” she said with undisguised admiration.
“Well, like I always say, Miss Winslow, cans don’t shoot back,” Lobo shrugged, then glanced at her. “You know, I’ve wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask me something? What?” Lanie thought he meant to ask her something about her family, or about life in Chicago.
“Are you Stone’s woman?” The question came w
ith unusual abruptness from Lobo’s lips.
Lanie’s eyes narrowed, flashing abruptly with temper. “I’m not anybody’s woman.” She bit the words off. Her cheeks grew red and her back stiffened. “And I resent your asking that.”
“You do?” Lobo seemed genuinely surprised. He kicked the shells out of his revolver, pulled three shells out of his shirt pocket, and deftly reloaded the empty chambers. Replacing the gun securely in his holster, he looked back up at her, obviously puzzled. “I don’t understand that.”
“You don’t understand why a woman doesn’t want to be classified as somebody’s woman?”
“No.” He was searching her face, evidently very sincere. “If someone came up to me and asked, ‘Are you Lanie Winslow’s man?’ why, I’d just say yes—If I was, that is.”
The artlessness of his reply irritated Lanie even more and she retorted, “Well, you are not ‘my man,’ and I don’t want to have a man, anyway! Any more than I want a man to have me!” Her heated replies seemed to be all out of proportion to his calm inquiries. She took a deep breath and tried again. “When you say, ‘Am I Stone’s woman?’ you’re asking, ‘Do I belong to him?’ I don’t think people should belong to—people,” she finished, frustrated.
“You don’t?” There was a genuine look of interest on Lobo’s face. “Well, I always thought that was the way it was.”
“The way what was?” Lanie asked in spite of herself.
“The way love was,” he answered. There was a dryness in his tone, and the quickly setting sun carved the hollows in his cheeks. The single eye was steadily fixed on her. “ ’Course, I don’t know much about love.”
Lanie could not understand what he was talking about. “You think people ought to belong to each other? Why, that’s slavery!”
“No, not the way I look at it.” He seemed to be searching for words, speaking slowly and carefully. “I’ve known cases where the man and the woman somehow seemed to belong to each other. Wasn’t slavery to them.”
“I don’t think you’re qualified to talk about love,” Lanie said impatiently. “Have you ever been married?”
The Gallant Outlaw Page 11
