Will Tanner

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s right,” Jeb said, “another deputy named Will Tanner and a feller drivin’ a wagon.”

  “What about me?” Blanton moaned. “I need some help.”

  “You ain’t hurt bad,” Max said. “Just a little ol’ bullet in your shoulder, but you better get up from there before you get shot again. Go on in the cabin and take care of it yourself. We ain’t got time to fool with you now. I wanna know if that other son of a bitch is sneakin’ around here somewhere.”

  While Blanton withdrew to the cabin to try to tend his wound, the other five scouted the ridges on both sides of the pond. After a thorough search, there was no sign of another deputy. Billy Tarbow, leading Pride’s horse, came up from below the pond. “I found him tied up behind them firs on the trail up to here,” he announced. “Warn’t no sign of another horse, just this ’un.”

  Max paused to consider the situation. If there was another deputy, where was he? Maybe he was here, but hightailed it when Whip got the jump on Pride. Most likely he had sense enough to know he was bound to get the same as Pride, so he turned tail and ran. He’d be a fool not to, seeing as how he was one against six men. Well, one against five and a half, he thought. Still bad odds. Thinking that a likely possibility, he acted quickly to retaliate for the attempted arrest. “Saddle up!” he ordered. “They musta set that wagon up somewhere below here for their camp. And if they followed us from Tishomingo, then it’s most likely somewhere along the valley trail leadin’ between this mountain and the one next to it. The jasper drivin’ that wagon ain’t nothin’ but a cook, and as soon as he finds out ol’ Pride is dead, he’s gonna hightail it, too.” He paused for a moment, but his anger was growing by the second, fueled by the thought of what might have been if Whip hadn’t gone up in the bushes to take a crap. “By God, they come up here in Injun Territory, lookin’ for us,” he bellowed. “We need to teach ’em a lesson they ain’t likely to forget.” He started to run for his saddle, then another thought struck him. “And a couple of you throw that big son of a bitch across his saddle. We’re takin’ him with us.” Caught up in his enthusiasm, they all ran to saddle up. Like Tarbow, they were eager to strike a blow against the U.S. Marshals Service for invading what they considered their territory.

  * * *

  Having followed the stream all the way up near the top of the mountain to its source, where it seeped up through fractures in the limestone bedrock, Will had been left staring at the spring it created. His notion that Jeb could have ridden up the stream had been a poor one. There was no outlaw camp on that side of the mountain. Rather than turn around and ride back the way he had come, he climbed all the way to the top to look around for other likely sites. From there, he had a view of several deep gulches, but one looked ideal to defend if there was a camp at the end of it. He decided to ride over to the neighboring mountain to satisfy his curiosity.

  When he got to the entrance to the gulch, he knew at once there was no camp there because he could find no tracks indicating anyone had ridden in or out. It would make a good one, he thought. It just ain’t the one I’m looking for. It was then that he heard the two shots fired, one from a pistol, another from a rifle, from the sound of it. Though clearly gunshots, they were muffled because of the distance, for it seemed they had come from the far side of the mountain next to the one he had just left. Pride found them, he thought at once, but he was puzzled because there were only those two shots. It was hard to speculate what had taken place. Maybe neither of the shots came from Pride. They had agreed to take no action on their own, but to return to the wagon to decide their plan of attack. Whatever, he knew one thing for sure—he had to find out where the shots came from, so he wasted no time heading in that direction.

  Crossing two mountains over, he came upon a strong stream and decided to follow it down the mountain. He had not ridden far when he found himself at the edge of a cliff where the stream formed a waterfall that cascaded over to fall some seventy feet to a pond in a canyon below. When he dismounted and walked to the very edge, he saw a log cabin below, tucked back in against the face of the cliff. It had to be the hideout they searched for. He remained there for a short time, watching for any sign of activity around the cabin. He saw no horses nearby, causing him to wonder if the cabin was occupied. There was no question but that he had to make sure. The problem facing him, however, was the difficulty in reaching it from where he now stood. To reach the cabin, it would be necessary to backtrack a couple hundred feet to a ravine that looked like it might lead down the backside of a ridge that formed one side of the canyon. It would take time, but there appeared to be no quicker way to reach the canyon floor.

  He had guessed right on the ravine. It led down to the base of the mountain, with a high ridge between him and the waterfall. On foot now, he led Buster up through the trees to the top of the ridge. As he had figured, the cabin was now below him. He dropped down on one knee to study the camp. There was still no sign of anyone about, but there was a small corral with four horses inside on the other side of the cabin. He had not seen that from the top of the falls. Then he noticed the ashes of a fire in the small yard in front of the cabin. They were still smoking. The fact that he had heard gunshots remained to cause him concern, so he decided he had to determine if there was anyone inside the cabin before he did anything else.

  With Buster tied to the branch of a tree, he made his way cautiously down through the firs, watching the door of the cabin constantly, in case someone suddenly appeared. There was only one door and two small windows, one in front and one in back. His plan was to make his way to the back window, hopefully to get a look inside. It was possible to use the trees as cover until reaching a point about fifty feet from the cabin where there was an open space with nothing but stumps. Evidently they had provided the logs from which the cabin had been built. He crouched at the edge of the trees and listened for a few minutes before making a quick dash through the patch of stumps to the back of the cabin. Edging up to the side of the window, he cautiously eased an eye over far enough to peek inside. When there was no immediate response from inside, he took a longer look into the dark interior. With light only from the open door and the two small windows, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Then he saw the man lying on a pallet next to the side wall.

  At first he thought the man was asleep, but then the man groaned when he turned onto his side, and Will could see that he was favoring a wound in his shoulder. That explains one of the gunshots, Will thought. His concern now was the result of the other one. He already assumed that this was no doubt the hideout he and Pride were looking for, and the wounded man was one of the Tarbow gang. Right away, his mind was filled with possible explanations for what he had discovered. None of them seemed favorable to him. The most likely he came up with told him that Pride had shot the man he was now looking at, and the second shot must have either wounded Pride or driven him off. Either way, it didn’t look good for Pride, because it was his guess that the rest of the gang were not here because they were after him. They’ll be heading for the wagon, he thought, and Pride and Charlie are gonna need my help. He took another look at the wounded man and decided, To hell with him. I’ve got to get going.

  Without even considering the possibility that the man lying inside the cabin might get up and take a shot at him, Will ran across the clearing in front of the cabin. As he passed the dying remains of a large campfire, he suddenly spotted something on the ground that caused him to stop short. He took a closer look at what appeared to have been bloody spray, now dried, and what appeared to be pieces of bone and maybe brain matter—he wasn’t sure. It served to make him even more apprehensive, and he set out running again, only to stop abruptly. Gunshots! Far off in the distance, there was a series of a dozen or more, and then there was nothing. They came from the direction of the ravine where they had left the wagon. Up through the trees on the ridge, he raced to his horse.

  Buster’s hooves thundered over the worn surface of the game trail leading out of the cany
on as Will called for everything the big buckskin had to give. He was afraid that the picture he had in his mind, as to what had happened back at that cabin, might be the true story. He hoped he was wrong. It seemed that it was taking forever to cover the ground back to their base camp, but he was soon going to have to rein the buckskin back, or he was going to finish him. On foot now, he let Buster blow, as he walked him down the floor of the canyon, ever cautious, lest he suddenly confront Max Tarbow’s murderous band returning to the cabin. His caution paid off, for he heard the sound of men and horses as he approached a sharp turn in the canyon trail. With no time to spare, he ran toward a thicket of young pines off to his left and led Buster into the middle of them. He dropped to one knee and drew his rifle up to his shoulder and waited. He saw them then: five riders, a heavyset man with an eye patch, leading them. It had to be Max Tarbow, based on the description they had been given. Will laid the front sight of the Winchester on the big man’s back as they rode by, unaware of the rifleman in the pine thicket. About to pull the trigger, he hesitated when he saw the big dun gelding and the empty saddle. Goat! he thought, Pride’s horse! He wasn’t sure he could believe they had killed Pride. It was something he could not think possible. The big deputy was invincible and would always come out on top in any fight with an outlaw. He brought his mind back to the gang of murderers passing before him. Taking aim again, he was confident that he could get Tarbow, and maybe one other before they scattered, but he wanted to get them all. He pulled the rifle down, deciding he’d best find out if they had attacked the wagon, and if Pride was all right. If he took the shot, all hell would likely break loose, and it might be some time before he could get back to Pride and Charlie. They had a better chance of capturing at least some of the gang if the two of them were working together. Besides, he told himself, I know where I can find Tarbow and his men. He led his horse back out to the trail and continued to lead him back toward the wagon.

  * * *

  He saw him from a hundred yards away, near the mouth of the little ravine that Charlie had backed the wagon into. From a lower limb of a big oak tree, they had hung his body so that it could be easily seen by anyone happening to ride that trail. He was stunned by the sight of the big deputy marshal, a rope knotted around his neck, his huge body hanging awkwardly in death. His shirt had been stripped away to reveal the underwear he wore year round. As Will walked closer, he understood why. It was so the message printed across his chest could be more easily read. LAWMEN TAKE WARNING, it said, and it had obviously been written with blood. He looked toward the wagon where Charlie Tate’s body lay facedown in the dirt, then shifted his eyes to the grassy meadow on the other side of the stream, where two dark humps told him of the horses’ fate. He returned his gaze to concentrate on the body hanging in such brazen contempt for the law, the once broad, jovial face shattered by the impact of a .44 slug. He could feel the fury building up inside him when he realized that they had killed Pride back at the cabin, from behind, by the look of the broken face. And then they brought him back here to blatantly display their evil work.

  He forced himself to relax when he realized that he had been clinching his fists so tightly that his fingernails had drawn blood from his palms. The time he had ridden with Fletcher Pride was brief, yet he felt that he had known the man for so much longer. And the picture of him hanging there would burn an image in his memory that would never be dulled. What he could not know was how it would change him from this day forward, as he sought justice for Fletcher Pride, and vengeance from men like Max Tarbow. Tarbow would pay for this murderous act. There were no thoughts of capture and returning the prisoners to Fort Smith for trial. Will had already given them their trial, and their penalty was death.

  It sickened him to see Pride hanging there, so he started to cut him down to bury him and Charlie. To reach the rope, he would have to get up on his horse, and he was in the process of doing that when he hesitated and thought about how he would take his vengeance against Pride’s killers. Evidently, Pride had tried to arrest all of them at one time, and there was a good possibility that he might suffer the same fate. So instead of cutting Pride down, he decided it improved his odds if he left him to hang, thinking it better to let them suspect that he had taken flight. Most likely, some of the gang would pass by the ravine in the next few days. It was best that they see the bodies undisturbed. He apologized to Pride for not cutting him down right away, but felt that Pride would understand. “When I’m done,” he said to him, “I’ll give you a proper burial.”

  He went to see what was left of the contents of the wagon, pausing to take a look at the corpse that was once Charlie Tate. Poor Charlie was shot full of holes. It’s a damn dirty shame, Will thought. He wasn’t even a lawman. Will felt great sympathy for the simple cook, but not the passion for revenge he felt for Pride. Aware of the possibility that his retaliation against the outlaws might last for days, he searched the wagon. As he expected, any supplies that were easily carried on horseback were taken. Extra ammunition and firearms were also gone. Luckily, he had taken an extra cartridge belt with him when he rode up the stream to look for the hideout. The only food left in the wagon was a sack of beef jerky. Evidently, the outlaws’ sense of taste was too refined to consider the jerky, he thought. He took that and an ax that Charlie had strapped to the side of his wagon, the outlaws apparently having overlooked it.

  Promising once again to come back to bury them, he rode away from the cruel scene. His first objective in the war he had declared on Max Tarbow was to establish a base from which he could work, one that would ensure the safety of his horse, for he was already of the opinion that much of his combat would be on foot. The canyon he had searched two mountains to the north came to mind at once. He remembered thinking that it would be a good place for a hideout, so he decided to make that his base while he attempted to work away at reducing his enemy’s advantage in numbers. He had no plans to take prisoners. Justice would be served, and the world a better place, if the murderous scum that rode with Max Tarbow were removed from it.

  Leaving the ravine behind, he rode up the same creek he had followed that morning when he and Pride had decided to split up to search. I wish to hell I had never suggested that Jeb might have ridden up this damn creek, he thought. Things might have turned out differently. As much as he tried to tell himself that things just turn out the way they’re supposed to, he couldn’t put it out of his mind that he had not been there to back Pride up. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, and the result would have been both of them dead. I swear they won’t go unpunished, he silently promised the big lawman.

  This time, when he followed the stream up the mountain, he knew that Tarbow’s camp was on the far side. His intention was to return to the top of the waterfall where he could once again look down on the outlaw camp, and he could not afford to waste time in reaching it. The day was already wearing thin. Soon it would be sundown, and he didn’t like the idea of riding Buster over unfamiliar mountain terrain in the dark. He nudged him gently and the big buckskin, rested now, sprang to obey.

  * * *

  When he reached the top of the mountain, he tied Buster close by the stream, then he proceeded down the stream to the edge of the cliff and the top of the waterfall. This was the same spot from which he had watched the cabin before. They were all there. He counted six, so Jeb Stark was with them. The fire outside was burning brightly, and a couple of the men looked to be cooking something in a pot over the fire. He was too far away to see their faces clearly, but he studied their bodies in an attempt to memorize the way the different men moved, the husky ones, the slim ones. From the sound of their voices, they seemed to be in a celebratory mood. He could not understand the words, but it was obviously boastful, punctuated by occasional outbursts of individual crowing. The scene served to stir his anger to the point where it was difficult to control his urge to take up his rifle and start shooting as rapidly as he could. But he knew he would probably hit no more than one or two before they were able to
scramble for cover. And then he would have alerted them to be cautious. For him to be able to clean out the entire rat nest, it was important that they think he had fled, until he was ready for them to find out they were wrong.

  He was counting heavily on the assumption that they would stay put for a while. It stood to reason that this cabin was their destination when they fled from Texas, so it was also reasonable to assume they planned to stay awhile. By his count earlier, there were three extra horses in the corral, which meant they had arrived with three packhorses carrying supplies. Now they also had what supplies they had taken from the wagon. He was counting on them to settle in for a long stay, at least long enough for him to do what he planned to do.

  As darkness settled in over the canyon, he decided it safe to move in closer to the circle of men sitting around the campfire. So he led Buster down the backside of the ridge as he had the first time he paid the cabin a visit. This time it was a good deal slower descent because of the darkness. When he reached the spot where he had left the horse before, he tied the buckskin to a tree limb and climbed up over the ridge to work his way in closer. When he got to a large tree, about forty yards from the fire, he decided it best not to risk trying to go farther. Using the tree for cover, he dropped to one knee and listened, undecided what he was going to do. Ajar of whiskey was making numerous rounds around the circle by the fire, and the men seemed in high spirits, recounting the assassination of Fletcher Pride. They were still six hardened gunmen against his lone rifle, and if he simply started shooting, he could not guarantee how many of them he might get before their numbers forced him to retreat. I need to reduce their six-to-one odds if I can, he thought. Without them knowing about it would be even better. That seemed impossible at the moment, but as he listened to them talking, he decided to stay where he was and see if an opportunity presented itself. The odds were against it, but he figured that there was always a possibility when men like these were celebrating with a generous amount of whiskey. And it appeared they had plenty of it with them. Maybe, he thought, I’ll wait them out, and hope some of them drink themselves into a stupor. That might give him enough time to knock off most of them before they could respond. At the moment, it seemed the best plan.