Will Tanner

by William W. Johnstone

  After stopping in the middle of the day to rest the horses and feed his prisoner, Will pushed on to make camp by a tiny stream about ten miles short of the ravine in the foothills where Charlie Tate had parked the wagon. After he told Tarbow to step down, he led him to a tree and sat him down with his back against the trunk. With a long length of rope he wrapped a couple of turns around his chest, binding him up tight against the tree. He tied the loose ends to a limb about six feet from the ground. With Tarbow unable to move away from the trunk, he could not get up to untie the rope from the tree limb, leaving Will free to take care of the horses and get a fire started to cook something to eat.

  Helpless to do anything but sit quietly and watch the deputy marshal make camp, Tarbow said nothing until Will brought him a metal plate with a generous portion of sowbelly and pan biscuits, and a cup of coffee. “This ain’t much to eat,” Tarbow complained, breaking his long silence.

  “No, it ain’t,” Will agreed. “I ain’t much of a cook, but it’s the same grub I’m eatin’, so it won’t do you much good to bellyache about it.”

  “You need to untie my hands, so I can eat,” Tarbow said.

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong,” Will replied. “You just do it like this.” He slapped his wrists together and reached down as if picking up an imaginary cup with both hands and bringing it up to his mouth. “See, it’s easy. Now go ahead and eat. If my wagon’s still where I left it, and the chains are still in it, you’ll be able to get your hands free some of the time. If the wagon ain’t there, I expect you’ll be ridin’ all the way across Indian Territory with your hands tied.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Tarbow spat. “It’s a damn lucky thing for you that you got a chance to coldcock me when I wasn’t lookin’, or you’d be visitin’ with that other deputy down in hell right now.”

  “We might as well get one thing straight right now,” Will said. “Your life ain’t worth any more to me than the life of that gnat I just smacked, and I’d end it without stoppin’ to think about it. I’m sure those bank tellers you and your gang killed were most likely decent people, and you deserve to hang for that. I frankly don’t give a damn about them, but you murdered two good men that I do care about, and I’m inclined to cut your throat like you did to that feller back at the stable. The only chance you’ve got to live a little bit longer is to behave yourself, ’cause you’d be a helluva lot less trouble to take back layin’ over the saddle.”

  Tarbow realized that the somber deputy meant what he said, and it gave him pause to rethink his situation. He was counting on a careless moment somewhere between here and Fort Smith that would give him an opportunity to overpower his captor. So he was not encouraged by Will’s inclination to end his life immediately. “You talk big,” he blustered, “but you’re bound by law to take me in for trial.”

  Will favored him with a dispassionate frown. “I don’t hold myself bound by much at all,” he said. “I killed your men, and I killed that knobby-headed brother of yours, so anytime you think you’ve got a chance and wanna try me, then, hell, give it a shot.” That ended the discussion for the rest of the evening.

  When it was time to turn in for the night, Tarbow complained again. “I can’t sleep settin’ up against a tree.”

  “You wanna lie down to sleep?” Will asked.

  “Sure, I wanna lay down. I told you I can’t sleep settin’ up.”

  “All right,” Will said. “I’ll let you lie down.” He looked around him to find two trees close enough together for his purposes. Deciding on two willows about twelve feet apart, he took a length of rope and looped it through Tarbow’s wrists again. Then, holding the free ends, he untied the ropes binding him to the tree and directed him toward the willow trees, his Colt .44 in his hand. Tarbow, on his feet and held only by the double length of rope, hesitated, wondering if this was an opportunity to act. Will guessed what was going through the doleful outlaw’s mind. He cocked the hammer back on his Colt and cautioned softly, but deadly, “Remember what I told you before.” Tarbow decided this was not his opportunity.

  Will tied the ends of the rope attached to Tarbow’s hands to one of the willows, then told him to sit down. When Tarbow complied, Will grabbed him by his boots and quickly yanked him to a prone position. “What the hell . . . ?” Tarbow yelped. Before he knew what he had in mind, Will coiled another length of rope round and round his ankles and tied it off. Then he tied the other end to the second willow. When he was finished, Tarbow found himself stretched out between the two trees, flat on the ground, and helplessly restricted. In an effort not to be totally inhumane, Will adjusted his ropes with enough slack for Tarbow to be able to bring his bound hands down to his chest, but not far enough to reach the knot tying his ankles together.

  “That oughta do you just fine,” Will said. Then he took a blanket and draped it over him.

  “What if I gotta take a leak durin’ the night?” Tarbow asked.

  “Then I reckon you’ll just have to hold it till mornin’,” Will said. “If you can’t, I reckon your trousers will dry out tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Will got his prisoner up and let him answer nature’s call while he watched him with his Winchester 73 trained on him. Sore and complaining, Tarbow claimed that he couldn’t breathe through his nose since it was flattened all over his face. Will was not sympathetic, already regretting his decision to take Tarbow back to Fort Smith. He told himself that he had to do it, however, after giving it more thought. He wasn’t sure that Marshal Stone would accept his story about the tragic mission that had accounted for Fletcher Pride’s death, as well as that of Charlie Tate. If nothing else, Max Tarbow was evidence that he had engaged the Tarbow gang. There was the considerable amount of the bank’s money that he was bringing with him, but Tarbow himself was the proof that the gang had been stopped. So he resigned himself to the task. He no longer had Pride as a trainer for his job, but he figured common sense should go a long way toward getting it done. He made a decision that morning that, if he was retained as a deputy marshal after he got back, he was going to do the job his way. And one thing he planned to change—he would work alone. This experience had left him with no desire to have to worry about anyone but himself—no posseman, no cook, and no wagon. Pride had explained the necessity of using a wagon when the assignment was to travel to Fort Sill, Fort Reno, or Anadarko to pick up prisoners. Will could understand that requirement, due to the long distances to transport the prisoners. They would have to be fed and guarded, so it was going to be difficult to refuse the posseman and the cook on those occasions. But for the most part, he preferred to work alone.

  When he got Tarbow in the saddle, he started out to find the ravine again. Since it was only a ride of less than ten miles, he planned to eat breakfast after they got to the wagon. Since they were approaching the ravine from a direction a little more west than the trail on which they had left, it took slightly more time to locate the valley he searched for. Tarbow was much more familiar with the country, so he could have steered him on the proper trail, but he was not of a nature to help his jailer. Even if he had been, Will was not inclined to believe any directions that Tarbow might have offered. He knew he would eventually find it, and he did, when finally he came upon familiar landmarks. “Took you long enough to find this valley,” Tarbow scoffed. “I thought we was gonna starve to death before you found out where the hell we were.” Will didn’t bother to reply; he was just glad to see the wagon still there. He went straight to it to see if the long, heavy chain was still there, as well as the leg irons and shackles. They were, so he was satisfied that his prisoner would make the rest of the journey to Fort Smith a great deal more securely.

  Watching Will as he looked in a tool compartment in the wagon for the keys for the leg irons, Tarbow realized how being in irons was going to reduce his chances of breaking free. “Hey,” he yelled. “You ain’t gonna put them things on me, are you?” Will didn’t bother to answer, so Tarbow yelled again
. “Hey! Ain’t no need for them damn irons. I ain’t gonna try nothin’ funny.”

  Busy picking through the metal box that contained several different-sized keys and locks, Will ignored him until finally finding the combination he searched for. “Quit your bellyachin’,” he said. “You’ll ride a lot more comfortable once you don’t have your hands tied all day.” The long chain was designed to secure as many as ten prisoners, with heavy rings attached every few feet. Will passed Tarbow’s leg iron chain through one of the rings and locked it with a padlock. He locked the end of the heavy chain around the rear axle of the wagon. Satisfied that Tarbow wasn’t going anywhere now without pulling the wagon with him, he untied his hands. “There you go,” he said as he let the chain drop in the wagon bed. “Now, as soon as we have a little breakfast, we’ll get started to Fort Smith.”

  With Tarbow securely chained, Will took care of the horses before he made any motions toward cooking breakfast. Still to be determined was which two horses to hitch up to the wagon. He wondered if the two he had picked up from the late John Carver had been introduced to the traces of a wagon. He decided that he would try them as a team first, so he put Tarbow’s saddle and the packs in the wagon.

  After a breakfast of the same fare they had eaten the night before, Will put Tarbow in the wagon and secured the end of the long chain under the rear, so that it prevented his prisoner from moving about in the wagon and also made it impossible for him to use the free end of the chain as a weapon. With the horses tied on lead ropes behind, Will climbed up in the seat and drove the wagon out of the ravine. It would take at least three days to reach Atoka Station at the wagon’s pace and at least a week from there to Fort Smith, if everything went well. It was not a trip he looked forward to. He was much more comfortable in the saddle.

  * * *

  Lem Stark turned, startled when he heard the creaking of the hinges on his front door, for he had not heard a horse approaching his store. In the dim light of the early evening, the visitor was not recognizable until he stepped out of the shadow into the light provided by the lantern on the counter near the door. Lem recoiled at first, surprised by the unexpected guest. Tall and rangy, dressed all in black, from his flat-crowned hat to his polished leather boots, he wore two Colt .44’s, handles forward. He said not a word as he stood gazing at the old man, but his razor-thin smile under a waxed black mustache conveyed the sinister confidence of a heartless killer.

  Still frozen by the sudden appearance of the phantomlike personification of uncut evil, Lem was speechless for a moment while he recovered from his surprise. “Eli,” he softly murmured, as a prideful smile spread slowly across his face.

  “Pa,” Eli Stark returned. “I heard about Jeb. I came as quick as I could get here. The word I got was that he got shot by a deputy marshal. Was it that son of a bitch Fletcher Pride?”

  “I knew you’d come back soon as you found out,” Lem said. “I’da sent word, but I didn’t have no idea where you was. I don’t know if it was Pride that shot him or not. There was a new deputy with Pride, name of Will Tanner. Coulda been him. The two of ’em came by here lookin’ for Max Tarbow and his gang. Jeb rode up to the Arbuckles to warn Max they was lookin’ for him. It was just plain bad luck that Jeb stayed up there at that cabin by the waterfall. One of my whiskey runners, Sam Deer Killer, brought Jeb’s body back home. He said he musta got there not too long after it all happened—said there musta been a helluva shoot-out up and down that mountain. He found Jeb and some other feller’s body up at the cabin. Down at the foot of the mountain, there was a wagon and more dead men. There was one grave he found, but there was two other bodies. Sam dug up part of that grave, just to see who was in it. There was two bodies buried in it. One of ’em was Fletcher Pride. Sam recognized him for sure. So that’s one mean son of a bitch we don’t have to worry about no more. Sam didn’t know who the other feller was—an older feller, likely the wagon driver—but it must notta been the other deputy ’cause he was a younger feller.”

  Eli paused for a moment to consider what he had just heard. Then he asked, “What about Tarbow? I know that bastard. Did the deputy get him?”

  “Sam couldn’t say,” Lem said. “Maybe he got away, but if he did, that deputy mighta got on his trail. He said there was one of them jail wagons up there. He looked it over, but he didn’t wanna be caught with it, so he let it be, figurin’ the deputy might be comin’ back to get it, if he is still alive. So he decided to put the grave back the way he found it, too.” He shook his head slowly while he pictured that. “I’d like to be there when he came back to get it. I’d damn sure pay him in full for killin’ my son.”

  “That’s what I came home for,” Eli said. “Somebody’s got to pay for killin’ Jeb, and I’m gonna see to it. If that deputy—what did you say his name was?”

  “Will Tanner,” Lem said.

  “Will Tanner,” Eli repeated. “I ain’t gonna forget that name. If he ain’t dead already, he’s gonna be dead pretty damn quick. Nobody kills a Stark and lives to tell about it.”

  “Whaddaya gonna do?” Lem asked.

  “I’m thinkin’ about what Sam told you about that wagon he found up there. I think he’s right—somebody’s most likely gonna come after it. So I figure the best thing for me to do is to get up there to that cabin and find that wagon. Then I’ll just see who comes to get it, and I think I’d best be quick about it.”

  “You’ve got the right idea, son,” Lem said. “But it’s late in the day now, and you just got here. You need you somethin’ to eat, and rest your horse. You might as well stay here tonight and head out in the mornin’. You can be up in the hills below that cabin this time tomorrow. Sam said the wagon was in a ravine near where that stream runs down the mountain. You know I’d go with you, don’t you? But, hell, ain’t no use in me tryin’ to fool nobody. I can’t ride no more.”

  “I know that, Pa,” Eli replied. “Don’t you worry about that none. I’m the one to put that son of a bitch in the grave. You know you can count on me.” In truth, Eli didn’t want to be hampered by the old man. He always hunted alone, and on this hunt, he wanted the full satisfaction of the killing all to himself. His younger brother had almost worshipped him, and he was determined to avenge his killing. That’s what big brothers did.

  “Come on, son, let’s go in the house and I’ll get Minnie to fix you somethin’ to eat,” Lem said.

  Eli grunted indifferently. “Is that skinny squaw still here? I thought she’da run off by now.”

  “By Ned, she tried it once about three months ago,” Lem scoffed. “I caught her two miles up the river, tryin’ to get to Switchback Creek. I cut me a stout limb off a laurel bush and I whupped her till she couldn’t stand up. She ain’t tried to run off no more.” He laughed as he recalled the incident.

  Eli laughed with him. “I swear, you sure got a way with women.” He followed Lem to the kitchen, where Minnie Three Toes was cleaning up the supper dishes. As Lem had, she jumped, startled when she turned to see Eli behind Lem. “Minnie,” Lem said, “Eli’s home and he needs somethin’ to eat.”

  “I fix,” the frightened Chickasaw woman replied at once. She had always had a fear of Lem’s eldest, every bit as much as she had for his father. He held a deep contempt for anyone of Indian birth. There were some biscuits and two slices of ham left over from supper, so Minnie put them on a plate and placed it on the table. She poured the last of the coffee from the supper pot into a cup and set it down beside the plate, then stepped back away from the table.

  “I am kinda hungry,” Eli said. He pulled a biscuit apart and stuck a slice of ham in it, took a big bite, and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “Damn!” he swore, almost choking on it. “Make me some fresh coffee,” he ordered the timid Indian woman. “This stuff tastes like horse liniment. When’d you make it, yesterday?” He looked at Lem then. “I swear, Pa, I think you’re lettin’ this squaw get lazy on you.”

  His son’s vocal abuse and downright disrespect for Minnie only amu
sed Lem, causing him to chuckle in response. Eli’s cruel nature was something that Lem had always taken great pride in. “It ain’t that old,” he said, still chuckling. “Minnie made it fresh this mornin’. Maybe the pot got pushed closer to the fire while she was cookin’.” As a rule, the big gray metal pot was pulled over to the edge of the stove to stay warm after it had boiled. “I poured the last cup outta the pot. I musta set it back down over the belly of the stove. Minnie’ll make you some more.”

  Accustomed to the verbal abuse whenever Eli came home, the Indian woman was already at the pump, rinsing out the coffeepot. Choosing never to speak directly to Lem’s belligerent son if she could avoid it, Minnie asked Lem, “I cook? He want more?”

  Lem turned to Eli. “You gonna want somethin’ else to eat?”

  “Nah,” Eli said. “Couple of ham biscuits and some decent coffee’ll do.”

  When the fresh coffee was ready, Lem and his lone remaining son sat at the table and talked while Minnie cleaned up around them. So as to make sure Eli could identify Will Tanner, Lem tried to describe him as accurately as he could remember. “He’s a good-sized man,” Lem said, trying to recall the clothes Will wore. “Warn’t nothin’ special about him—looked pretty much like any cowhand, I reckon. Rides a buckskin horse. I do recollect that.”

  The next morning, Eli was off to the Arbuckle Mountains soon after sunup. Lem wished him good hunting. “I remember, now that I think about it, that deputy didn’t wear no mustache or beard, and he had kinda sandy-colored hair. It’d make a fine-lookin’ scalp.”