Will had always been skillful at tracking. Even though his skills were honed by tracking deer and elk and other game, they came in just as handy when called upon to track men on horses. In this case, at least starting out down the mountain, it didn’t require a great deal of tracking ability, for it was difficult to lead eight horses through the thick brush on the mountainside without leaving a broad path.
Because of the steepness of the slope, Will had to remain on foot, leading his horses along a trail that made its way around the mountain until starting down a deep ravine. The ravine led him all the way down to the bottom of the mountain, where he was able to step up in the saddle and ride. The tracks of the horses he followed were the only ones on the valley floor, and so were easily followed. Judging by the pattern of the tracks, he decided that the Tarbows had pushed their horses to lope along the long, narrow valley. Will followed suit, nudging the buckskin gelding with his heels, until reaching the mouth of the valley, where it was crossed by a wide stream. This was the first attempt the outlaws had made to hide their trail, for he found no tracks leaving the stream on the other side. They had taken to the water, but in which direction? He looked upstream and down, and decided to gamble on downstream, because upstream would lead them back up into the mountains.
There was no sign that they had left the water, even after following it for what he estimated to be about a mile, where it emptied into a creek. Before setting out to search both sides of the creek, he decided he might have been wrong, so he turned around and rode back to the point where their trail had gone into the stream. Following the stream with his eyes, he was faced with the mountains again, and questioned the outlaws’ intention to go back there. He rode only a few dozen yards up the stream before stopping to reconsider. If they had it in mind to ride west, deeper into Indian Territory, as he was prone to assume, they would have ridden downstream. He decided to turn around again, but was stopped by something that caught his eye at the edge of the stream—a single hoofprint. One of the packhorses they led must have gotten too close to the bank. They’re heading back up in the mountains, he thought, the opposite of what he would have figured.
Riding back through the foothills, he kept a sharp eye on both sides of the stream until he finally found their tracks where they had left the water. They led to the east, through a series of low mounds, toward the rolling plains beyond, instead of going back into the mountains. It didn’t figure, because on this course, they were heading back toward the more populated part of the Choctaw Nation. He continued on until he crossed a common wagon trail that ran north and south, and he pulled up suddenly when he realized the tracks did not continue on the other side of the road. He dismounted and checked the many tracks in the road to make sure. The fresh ones he found confirmed his findings. They had turned south on the trail, and it struck him then. They were heading back to Texas! That was the last place he figured they would run to. But the more he thought about it, the more sense he saw in it. Their intention was to escape Oklahoma Territory marshals, who were more dangerous to them now than the Texas Rangers. If they slipped back into Texas, they would be out of the Oklahoma marshal’s jurisdiction. And the Rangers would no longer be looking for them in Texas, thinking they were in Indian Territory. It makes sense, he thought, except for one thing. This deputy marshal doesn’t give a shit if they’re over the line or not. He climbed back into the saddle and turned Buster’s head south, following the common trail to Texas.
As the morning worked its way along toward noon, Will saw what looked to be a sizable creek up ahead, judging by the line of trees that snaked across the prairie. The horses were due a little rest, so he decided he would take advantage of the chance to water them. When he got a little closer to the creek, he spotted a rough structure of weathered boards sitting between two large cottonwoods on the creek bank. When he got even closer, he determined that it was a trading post of some kind. But it was not until he stopped at the edge of the water to let his horses drink that he noticed the gray-haired little man standing at the corner of the tiny porch, watching him. He also noticed the double-barrel shotgun leaning conspicuously against the corner post. “Howdy,” Will called out.
“How do?” the little man answered.
He seemed a bit cautious, so much so that Will was prompted to ask, “You open for business?”
“I surely am,” the man answered, still cautious. “What are you needin’?” He peered suspiciously at the two horses with empty saddles and the bundles tied to them with ropes.
Will dismounted. Leaving the horses to drink, he walked across a narrow footbridge and approached the store. “I’m needin’ a few things,” he said. “You ain’t by any chance got a coffeepot for sale, have you?”
That somehow served to break the guarded attitude of the storekeeper, that and the first notice he took of the badge on Will’s shirt. “You a deputy marshal?” he asked.
“I am,” Will answered.
“Well, I reckon you’re in luck, Deputy, ’cause I just happen to have one.” He grinned big then. “My name’s Elbert Gill. This here’s my establishment.”
Will nodded toward the shotgun. “Is business so bad that you need to hold a shotgun on your customers to make ’em buy something?”
“Just about,” Elbert said, laughing. “I would ask you what you’re doin’ down this way, but blamed if I don’t think I know why. You wouldn’t be lookin’ for two sidewinders leadin’ a string of packhorses, would you?”
“Matter of fact, I am,” Will replied. “Did they stop here?”
“Not for long,” Elbert said. “They stopped to water their horses late yesterday evenin’, and they came in my store lookin’ for whiskey. I told ’em I didn’t have no whiskey, told ’em it’s against the law in Injun Territory. They acted like they didn’t believe me, and I was worried there for a minute, I wanna tell you. One of ’em especially, he was a big ol’ feller with a bushy black beard, wore a patch over one eye. They didn’t want nothin’ but whiskey, so they moved on after the horses were watered. They ’peared to be in a hurry, and I was glad of it. I heard one of ’em—little feller, head as bald as a boiled egg—tell the other ’un they could still make a little more time before hard dark.”
“Last night, huh?” Will asked, thinking about the time he would have to make up to catch them. “How far is it from here to the Red River?”
“Twenty miles,” Elbert said.
“Twenty miles,” Will repeated, thinking how far he had pushed the horses already that day, and considering whether or not he should ask for twenty more miles. Max and Billy Tarbow should have already crossed over into Texas, and tracking them might prove to be a little more difficult on the other side of the Red, for he would no longer know where they were heading. “Well,” he decided, thinking he might as well be patient, because it might take some time before he tracked them down. “I reckon I’ll ride on for another five or ten miles, then I’ll be done for the day.”
“What about that coffeepot?” Elbert reminded him.
“Lemme see it,” Will said.
Elbert led him inside the store and hurried to a shelf behind the counter. He pulled a small coffeepot from behind a sack of coffee beans and wiped the dust from it with his shirtsleeve. “It’s a dandy,” he said. “Just has this one dent on the side of it.” He held it up for Will to see. “Won’t hurt the coffee atall. Feller I got it from said it come from the time a Chickasaw woman he was livin’ with bounced it off the side of his head. He said he didn’t blame her a bit. He’d been drinkin’ a little and tried to climb in bed with her sister. ’Cause of that dent, I can let you have it for a dollar.”
“I expect I coulda bought it when it was new for a dollar,” Will said. “But I’ll take it, and maybe that sack of coffee beans it was hidin’ behind.”
“Yes, sir,” Elbert said. “The feller said it made good coffee. You know, you could camp here by the creek tonight, if you want to. My woman will cook up a good supper, wouldn’t cost you but a quarte
r. I bet you ain’t had a good supper in a while.”
“Thanks just the same,” Will said, “but I reckon I’ll ride on a ways before dark. If I get back this way again, maybe I’ll take supper with you then.” He paid Elbert for his coffee and pot, walked the footbridge back across the creek to fetch his horses, and set out again toward Texas.
After a ride of approximately twelve miles, he came to another creek. This one was smaller than the one Elbert Gill’s store was on, but obviously a frequent campsite, for there were several remains of old campfires. He figured he might as well camp there, too. After taking the saddles off his horses, he hobbled them to graze in the short-grass meadow beyond the trees that lined the creek. Before building his own fire, he took a close look at the ashes of the other fires, curious to see if the outlaws he followed might have camped here, as well. As he halfway expected, he found ashes that appeared to be from a more recent fire. He could not be sure, but he figured it a strong possibility that he was camping at the same spot Max and Billy had. It was of little importance other than to suggest that he was locked on to their trail.
As a precaution, before he built a fire, he moved down the creek far enough so that he could not be so easily seen from the road. The simple fare he had prepared the night before seemed to have remained on peaceful terms with his stomach, so he fixed the same supper, thinking that he really had a craving for some fresh game. Eager to try out his new coffeepot, he went to the water’s edge to fill it with water, planning to rinse it out beforehand. When he opened the lid and peered into the pot, there appeared to be some small pieces of dirt in the bottom, so he shook them out on the ground. They looked a little odd, so he picked up one of the particles to take a closer look. It occurred to him then what it was. Mouse shit, he thought, sure of it then. His new pot must have been a home for a mouse at one time. “Huh,” he grunted, and rinsed the coffeepot in the creek a couple of times before filling it with water to make his coffee. That oughta take care of it, he thought, especially when I put it on the fire.
Mice—the house is full of ’em . . . The phrase popped into his head. It had been said by Fletcher Pride the morning after Will had seen Ruth Bennett sneaking out of Pride’s room in the middle of the night. Recalling it brought a moment of sadness when he thought about the late deputy marshal, lusty and seemingly larger than life. It would be his sad duty to tell Ruth that the brawny deputy would not be returning to his room in her house. How deep was her affection for Pride? He hoped that it was no more than a casual arrangement of convenience for two lonely people in need. Thinking of Ruth naturally led him to thoughts of her daughter. “Sophie.” He pronounced her name softly while recalling her radiant face. “There’s some mischief in those eyes,” he said. In a moment, he found himself wondering what it would be like to be married to a girl like Sophie. It wouldn’t be much of a life for her if she married a man in this business, he thought. With no wish to linger there, he turned his mind back to the business of making his coffee. After he ate his simple supper, he went to the meadow to bring his horses back close to his camp, and tied them to a rope stretched between two trees.
* * *
Off to an early start the next morning, he planned to eat his breakfast in Texas while he stopped to rest the horses beside the Red River. Since he had no way of knowing which way the Tarbow brothers intended to go once they reached the border, it was critical that he could follow their tracks. So far, that had been fairly easy, since it appeared they were intent upon heading straight for Texas. So he continued south until he finally struck the Red, the border between Oklahoma Indian Territory and Texas. For him, it was the border between official business and personal business, because he had no authority on the other side. The road led right down to the river and a ferry crossing. On the other side of the river, in Texas, he saw what appeared to be a store beside the landing, and the ferry tied up to the bank. He didn’t see anyone on the Oklahoma side of the river until he rode down to the landing, and then a boy of about twelve or thirteen emerged from a tent on the bank. Smoking a corncob pipe and wearing what looked like an old powder horn on a cord hanging around his neck, the boy walked up to meet Will.
“You fixin’ to swim ’em across, or you lookin’ to ride the ferry?” the boy asked. “It’ll be twenty-five cents for you and your horse, and fifteen cents apiece for them other two horses.”
“I’ll be ridin’ the ferry across,” Will said, and stepped down. He reached in his pocket and pulled out some silver. Then he counted out fifty-five cents into the boy’s outstretched hand. The boy put the money in his pocket, then turned toward the river, put the powder horn to his lips, and blew a loud, screeching signal out across the river. Buster and the two packhorses, startled by the unfamiliar sound, jerked back in reaction until Will calmed them down. “That’s a right shrill horn you got there,” he commented.
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied as he jammed his pipe back in his mouth. “Pa’s gettin’ a little deef, so he’s got where he don’t hear that whistle I used to use, ’specially if it’s windy. He’ll bring the ferry across to get you.”
“Are you and your pa gettin’ much business lately?” Will asked.
“Some,” the boy answered. “Most of it goin’ the other way, from Texas to Oklahoma.”
“You mighta seen two fellers leadin’ some packhorses sometime yesterday,” Will said. “Maybe they took the ferry across.”
“Matter of fact, they did,” the boy said. “It was pretty near the same time of mornin’.” He looked at the badge Will wore and asked, “Are you after them fellers?”
“I would like to catch up with ’em,” Will said. “Do you know which way they headed when they got across?” Thinking it might not be a good idea to be wearing a deputy marshal’s badge in Texas, he took it off then and put it in his saddlebag.
“I knew them two looked like outlaws,” the boy said. “One of ’em didn’t have a hair on his head. I don’t know which way they headed. Pa might, though. What did they do?”
“They did a lot of bad things,” Will said, then quickly changed the subject. “I’d best get my horses down to the landin’. Looks like your pa’s already halfway across.” He took Buster’s reins and led him down closer to the water to watch the boy’s father guide the ferry to the landing. The boy moved in position to catch the rope to secure it when his father threw it.
As the ferry grounded to a halt, the man pulled the tiller up out of the water and went to greet his passenger. “Good day to you, sir. My name’s Bob Tucker. We ’preciate your business. That young feller there is my son, Jack.” He held his hand out to Jack for the money and quickly counted it when the boy gave it to him. “Just bring your horses right on up on the ferry, and I’ll have you across in a jiffy. Lead that buckskin up to the other end—plenty of room—and we’ll get goin’.”
When Will had his horses aboard and settled down, Tucker raised the ramp, picked up a long pole, and proceeded to push the ferry back away from the bank. Once the boat was free, he dropped the tiller in the water again and began working it with the current to steer the ferry to the opposite shore. “Looks like you lost somebody,” Tucker said, eyeing the two empty saddles.
“Nope,” Will replied. “Just got a couple of saddles I’m lookin’ to sell, and this is just a good way to tote ’em. Matter of fact, I’m tryin’ to catch up with a couple of fellers. Your boy, Jack, said they rode the ferry across yesterday, said you could tell me which way they went after they got on the other side.”
“Mister, I can tell you which way they were headed when they left my place,” Tucker said. “They headed west. It ain’t none of my business, but I don’t know why in the world you’d wanna catch up with those two. Runnin’ this ferry, I’ve seen outlaws comin’ and goin’ across this river, and that pair had a look of hellfire about ’em that I usually see headin’ the other way, up to Injun Territory. And the Texas Rangers are usually not far behind ’em.”
“Well, Mr. Tucker, I have to give you cre
dit for havin’ a good eye,” Will said.
“Like I said, it ain’t none of my business, but are you a lawman, or did those two do some harm to your family, or somethin’?”
“I’d have to say both, I reckon,” Will confessed. “Those two killed a man that I had a lot of respect for, and I am a lawman.” He paused before continuing. “At least I was, but I won’t be as soon as I set foot on the other side of this river.”
“Oklahoma, huh?” Tucker asked. “U.S. Deputy Marshal?” Will nodded, so Tucker continued. “Well, mister, you ain’t the first federal marshal to slip over into Texas, chasin’ some lowdown, murderin’ outlaw. About a year ago, I had the pleasure of meetin’ a helluva hard-ridin’ deputy out of Fort Smith. The murderin’ son of a bitch he was after had a Colt .44 in my face, demandin’ the money outta my cash drawer when that deputy walked in. I’ll never forget that big ol’ lawman—Fletcher Pride was his name. You know him?”
“I reckon. At least I did,” Will said softly. “The two men that just passed through here killed him. That’s why I’m chasin’ ’em.”
Tucker was visibly shocked by the news. He didn’t say anything for a few moments before declaring, “I’da shot ’em myself if I’da known that.” He paused again to think about the seemingly indestructible lawman he had admired. Then, eager to help in any way he could to bring Pride’s killers to justice, he said, “I know where they might be headin’. Like I said, they struck out to the west when they left here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t headin’ to Turtle Creek. That’s about twenty miles straight west from here. There’s a Mexican feller has a tradin’ post on Turtle Creek where it empties into the river. At least, he calls it a tradin’ post. A saloon is what it really is, and a hangout for every outlaw in this part of the territory. His name’s Mendoza, and I expect a good portion of the bootleg whiskey that gets up in Indian Territory goes through Mendoza’s place.”
Will Tanner Page 10
