Desperado Run (An Indian Territory Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Ben Cullen is on the run. It isn’t the first time he’s led the law on a wild and violent chase, but this time might be the last. He’s one of the surviving old guard of outlaws forced onto the Indian Territory by the growing forces of law and order in the newly settled West. With the civilized world closing in, Ben Cullen has to sharpen his wits and survival instincts and hone his skill with Mister Colt’s .45 caliber creation if he wants to avoid the consequences of a violent past.

  The lawmen on his dusty back trail don’t harbor any affection for Ben, but they respect him as a man and admire his courage and tenacity. He’d tried to do what society considered right, but circumstances and bad luck put him on the Owlhoot Trail and he’s been riding it hard ever since. He’s an American of his time who played the cards that were dealt him and rarely, if ever, bluffed out a hand—Hell, he never had to!

  INDIAN TERRITORY 2: DESPERADO RUN

  By Patrick E. Andrews

  First published by Zebra Books in 1987

  Copyright © 2016 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

  First Smashwords Edition: August 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges * Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather

  JAMES EDGAR TERRAL

  Born January 25, 1888 Dixie, Indian Territory

  One of the town founders of Hobart, Oklahoma

  This story begins on a ranch in the Texas Panhandle during a dark, moonless August night of the year 1901 …

  Prologue

  Through naked instinct Ben Cullen’s eyes opened wide even before his brain could comprehend the reason for the action. It was a reflex of perceived danger that had never let him down in the thirty-six years of his life.

  In a matter of seconds, his senses were a hundred percent alerted, and he glanced around the dark bunkhouse. At first all he could hear was the heavy breathing and snoring of the other ranch hands who slept in the crude beds located alongside the walls. But within moments Ben could sense movement—not inside but outside the rustic structure used to house the work crew.

  He slipped quietly out of his bunk and eased himself to a spot beside the window. Taking care not to reveal himself, he looked out into the dark night. At first his eyes could only discern the regular features of the landscape in the deep shadows. The windmill down by the corral barely showed against the inky sky, but as his eyes grew used to the moonless scene before him, Ben caught a flicker of movement in the somber environment.

  Then another—and another.

  There was no doubt a sizable group of men were in the immediate area, and they were closing in on the bunkhouse. Ben, always ready and packed, moved back to his bunk and quickly but quietly dressed. After buckling on his pistol belt and grabbing his Winchester carbine and saddlebags, he went back to the window for several more moments of observation.

  The subtle activity in the darkness had not only increased, but this time it was decidedly closer.

  Ben eased the swinging window open and slipped through it, stepping silently to the ground. He quickly squatted in the dark shadows, becoming as motionless as a puma ready to pounce. Short and bandy-legged, his small stature came in handy during times like this when concealment made all the difference between freedom and a sheriff’s cell.

  After several long moments of listening, he felt confident he had spotted all the men moving in. He chose another spot and moved silently to it once again to sit and wait. By keeping his head close to the ground and peering upward he could spot even the barely visible silhouettes of the posse against the dark sky.

  After a few short moments, Ben was fully aware of the two yokels nearby who thought they were well concealed.

  “When we moving in?” a coarse whisper asked a nearby companion.

  “Pretty quick I reckon,” the other answered.

  “I hear that Cullen’s a mean little bastard.”

  “Yeah. Ever see him?”

  “Nope. Can’t say that I have.”

  “I did in New Mexico once,” the lawman remarked. “Got a big ol’ scar on his cheek. A Mezkin did it to him. They say Cullen took an ax to him for it.”

  “Oh, yeah! I heard about that.”

  Ben, listening to the low-toned exchange, shook his head in wonder at the crazy story. He quickly turned his mind back to his present predicament. There was only one logical place the manhunters could leave their horses without approaching close enough for the animals to give them away. That would be at a stand of cottonwoods that rose from the bare prairie some two hundred yards away.

  Ben chose that as his destination.

  Barely breathing, he glided without a sound across the ranch yard, under the fence, and out into open country. It only took him ten minutes to reach the place.

  A gawky youngster, clumsily hanging onto a shotgun, had been posted as guard at the impromptu horse picket. The kid stared off into the darkness obviously anticipating the fireworks expected to break within a quarter of an hour as his fellow outlaw chasers positioned themselves.

  Ben, barely breathing, snuck up behind the young sentry with his Winchester ready.

  The barrel crashed into the kid’s head. Ben quickly grabbed his victim to gently lower him to the ground in order to avoid the sound of a falling body. The youngster’s head lolled loosely on his shoulders, but Ben didn’t have time to put him into a comfortable position. He wasn’t able to leisurely pick a good mount either. He could only hope he got a good one, full of spit and grit.

  The hunted man untied one of the horses and walked it away toward the west. When he was certain he was out of earshot, he swung up into the saddle and kicked the horse’s flanks.

  The run had begun.

  Chapter One

  The horse whinnied impatiently and stomped a hoof despite Ben’s gentle stroking of its muzzle. The two stood in an arroyo that marked the location of some long-ago creek that had once flowed down into the valley that stretched out below them.

  Ben knew the posse tailed him by approximately a half hour, but he wasn’t positive of their location or direction of travel. He decided it best to find a place of concealment until another day went by or the pursuers showed themselves, giving him a clear look at their intentions and directions.

  He had just finished brushing away tracks and piling vegetation up in the arroyo’s entrance to break up its distinct outline from view when he spotted the lawmen riding over the horizon at a steady pace.

  From the way they were stretched out in a wide-gapped line, he knew they either hadn’t actually picked up his trail or had lost it momentarily and were searching for signs indicating his direction of travel.

  Ben’s plan of escape was supposed to take him eventually into the Kiowa country of Oklahoma Territory. He had run guns and liquor in there before—particularly the latter since the turn of the century—and knew he could find some shelter among Indian friends at best, or a lonely hideout in the wild country at worst. The fact that the posse had begun veering south, showing that they thought he must be heading that way,
confused him. If he were chasing a man in that part of the country, Ben would naturally assume the quarry would seek the wild sanctuary of the Indian Territory.

  Another thing had bothered him for some time as well. He couldn’t identify the source of the sense of uneasiness that made him irritable and jumpy, but something was definitely wrong.

  These gut feelings had dominated his decisions for the past twenty years. At age thirty-six, he had spent only ten years of his adult life as a relatively free man, but he credited those ten to instincts not only for survival but also for freedom. Those same mysterious sensibilities had awakened him the previous night as the posse closed in on him; now they were giving him further warning, but he couldn’t discern the danger no matter how hard he tried.

  Ben attempted to ease his nervousness a bit by checking out the saddlebags of the horse he had stolen. The leather containers revealed a couple of cans of beans, beef jerky, a tin box of crackers, and miscellaneous condiments. A full canteen of water was draped over the saddle horn. For a light-eating, skinny man like Ben Cullen, even that scant fare would last him quite a while.

  As Ben leisurely checked out the change of clothing stuffed into the other side of the bags, the reason for his uneasiness leaped into his consciousness.

  When he’d snuck up on the kid and stolen the horse, he had noted there were twelve animals tied up there. But when the posse rode by on the valley floor he had counted but nine. True, he had stolen one of the dozen, leaving eleven; the injured guard’s absence would cut the number to ten. That meant one of the manhunters was not accounted for.

  Ben thought for several long moments, then relaxed as he figured that the missing horseman had probably been tasked with taking the hurt man back to the home folks. Ben grinned at his nervousness.

  “Hold it, Ben! Don’t you move a muscle!”

  Ben, recognizing the voice, froze in mid-motion. “How are you doing, Jack?” he asked.

  “Never mind, you scrawny little bastard,” the other man said. “Now turn around real slow, hear?”

  Ben complied and found himself facing an old adversary. U.S. Deputy Marshal Jack Macon, sweat streaking out of his battered Stetson, held the Winchester steady on Ben’s middle.

  “You sonofabitch! You’re gonna hang now,” Macon said.

  “It’s nice to see you again too, Jack,” Ben said calmly. “And I ain’t done no hanging offense.”

  “That boy you hit last night died.”

  Ben swallowed hard, but kept his expression calm. “Hell, he wasn’t dead when I left him.”

  “That don’t mean nothing,” Macon said. He quickly added with a snarl, “Anyhow, maybe I oughta drill you and save the taxpayers the cost of some rope.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill that kid,” said Ben.

  “Well, asshole, what you meant and what you did was two different things.” Macon grinned at Ben’s discomfiture. “You’re pekid, Ben. All the years is finally catching up to you.”

  “You don’t look so good yourself, Jack,” Ben said.

  The lawman fished in his belt as he kept his eyes and weapon trained on Ben. After a few seconds he produced a set of handcuffs and tossed them over. “Snap ’em on,” Macon said. “You know the routine by now. I’ll push ’em tight.”

  “Front or back?” Ben asked in a calm voice.

  “Front.”

  Ben moved back and deliberately stepped on a large rock protruding from the ground. He staggered to one side and sat down. “Shit! I twisted my ankle, Jack.”

  “Git up!”

  “I can’t, Jack. I hurt myself,” Ben insisted.

  “Get up, you sonofabitch, or I’m gonna shoot you right now!”

  Ben quickly scrambled to his feet. “Don’t shoot me, you hear, Jack? There ain’t no reason to shoot me.”

  Macon moved closer. “On second thought, clap them cuffs behind you. And lemme tell you now, I ain’t putting up with none o’ your tricks. Put the cuff on your right wrist first, then put both hands behind. You’ll ride that way all the way into Amarillo.”

  “Sure, Jack,” Ben said. “Now there ain’t no reason to shoot me, is there? I told you I didn’t mean to kill him anyhow.”

  “You shouldn’t have hit him so hard,” Macon said.

  “Looky here, Jack. I’m doing it like you say,” Ben said. He locked the cuff over his right wrist and moved both hands behind him.

  “Stand steady, you little—Oh, Jesus Christ!” Macon staggered back with the knife stuck deep in his upper abdomen.

  Ben charged forward and swarmed over the larger man, forcing him to the ground. He wrenched the carbine free from the other’s grasp and stood over the heavily bleeding marshal. “I always keep a knife back there,” Ben said. “I thought you remembered that—and the fact I can sink it into anything within fifteen feet at the flick of an eye.”

  Macon groaned and rolled over. Ben knelt down beside him. “This is it, Jack. There ain’t no way in hell you’re getting outta this. You know that, huh?”

  “Damn! You little turd! You cut me deep,” Macon said.

  Ben pulled the knife free and held the bloody blade up. “I done time and I won’t do no more,” he said. “And I sure ain’t gonna take a hanging either.”

  Macon groaned. “Aw, shit, Ben! The kid ain’t dead. I was just—” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Shit! It’s burning in my gut.”

  Ben was angry. “What the hell you talking about, Jack? You stupid bastard. You told me I killed him!”

  “I wanted to put a worry in you,” Macon said. He gestured toward his horse. “I got bandages in my saddlebags.”

  Ben fetched the medical supplies and returned to the injured man. “It’s your fault, you sonofabitch.” He knelt down beside Macon and gave the wound a close inspection. “Jesus! You’re really bleeding, Jack.”

  “Sweet Lord, Ben,” Macon gasped. “I ain’t gonna make it.”

  Ben agreed with him. “No, you ain’t. You’re leaking like a busted dam.”

  Macon’s eyes opened wider in pain, but quickly glassed over as his life’s blood drained away to flow over the rocks as water had once done in that ancient creek bed.

  “Wanted to put a worry in me, did you? Well, that worry got you killed, so it’s all your fault,” Ben said again. He hated Jack Macon, but he respected the lawman nevertheless. Ben figured he at least owed him a final gesture of honor, so he stood up and removed his hat. After a few moments he replaced it, then turned and hurried to his horse.

  ~*~

  Although Ben Cullen’s destination was the Indian Territory, he planned a stop at a special spot along the way. This was a permanent camp in a desolate area on the eastern side of the Texas panhandle.

  The place was well known among outlawry simply as Paco’s. It was a trading post of the most primitive sort. Nobody actually owned or ran the place, but a Mexican by the name of Paco Chavez was the focal point of attention there.

  This criminal entrepreneur’s specialty was stolen livestock. Whether it be a single animal or whole herds, Paco could find a buyer or a method of disposal—for a fee—and make the business of cattle or horse thieving profitable, safer, and easier. He lived under austere circumstances in a shack with his wife Florita, who was the offspring of a captive white girl and a Comanche warrior.

  But rumor and small talk among the outlaws had it that Paco was actually the scion of a wealthy Mexican family and, during his absence from the camp, lived in regal splendor on a hacienda just across the Rio Grande in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. Supposedly he had another wife—the daughter of a wealthy Mexican politician—and children in this alter life. Paco’s obvious refinement and education seemed to back up the assumption, but he would neither confirm nor deny it and tended to treat even the most casual of inquiries into his background as serious breaches of etiquette.

  The place wasn’t too crowded as Ben rode in on a warm evening. A few campfires being used by the usual groups of casual visitors cast thin, drifting clouds of smoke throug
h the redbuds and willows along the creek that snaked its way through the sprawled, unorganized campground. Ben nodded to a few people he recognized, but saw no one he could call an old friend. Finally he stopped in front of Paco’s cabin. Florita, who preferred to do her cooking outside, stirred at a pot of venison stew as Ben dismounted.

  “Howdy, Florita,” Ben said. “Is Paco to home?”

  The woman pointed at the shack and continued her task. Ben never could see what the Mexican saw in the half-breed woman. She was surly, barely spoke, and was showing a growing tendency to plumpness although he had to admit her high Indian cheekbones combined with pale hazel eyes did give her a sort of sensuousness.

  “Hey, Paco,” Ben called and banged on the shack’s door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Ben Cullen.”

  “Flacito!” Paco called using the Spanish nickname he had for Ben. It meant “skinny” and fit Ben well. The Mexican invited him inside with a shouted, “Entra, amigo!”

  Ben went into the shack and found his old friend seated at a rickety table with a bottle of tequila and a tin cup in front of him. It had been almost three years since he had seen the Mexican, and it was apparent that the progression toward obesity wasn’t confined to the wife alone in that family. Paco’s face had lost its hard sharpness and was round and pudgy, but his enormous black moustache still turned magnificently upward in proud curls.

  Ben offered his hand. “How are you, amigo?”

  “Muy bien,” Paco answered. “You want some tequila?”

  “Sure,” Ben answered.

  “Then get a cup off the shelf there, eh?” Paco said. “You want to get drunk?”

  “I reckon,” Ben answered with a grin. “I ain’t been able to lately.”

  “Que pasa, you been broke?”

  “Nope,” Ben answered, pouring himself a half cup of the fiery liquor. “I been laying low like. Had a job on a ranch a ways west o’ here fer a few months, but somebody musta blowed the whistle on me. So I’m on the run again.”