A wonder they hadn’t been shot in the back. Had anyone been inside that raw board house, they’d made a perfect target. The front door either stood open or was gone. It may never have existed. On close examination, he saw no hinge marks. Cautiously, he put his boot on the front stoop.
Ben whined, then stuck his head inside past the casing. The bulldog tested the air, then satisfied, went ahead of him. Without any interest, he crossed the large open room and Luther watched him go into the lean-to on the side. A few housekeeping items, plus some bed ticking and old blankets were all he could see. Newspaper wallpaper and tattered calendars covered the walls.
Sneezing, Ben soon returned, and Luther nodded to him.
“Good boy. They ain’t here.” Relieved, he started for the front door opening.
Coming across the yard, Choc marched a rather fat squaw by the arm ahead of him. He stopped in the bare dirt space and let go of her arm. His release drew a nasty look from the woman and some guttural words under her breath.
“What’s your name?” Luther asked, looking around for any other signs of their men.
“Josie.”
“Well, Josie, where are the White Crow brothers?”
She folded her arms over her amble bustline and with her dark eyes dared them to make her talk.
“Maybe a noose around her neck would help her remember?” Choc asked.
Warily, she cut her cold gaze around at the posse man and mumbled, “Gone.”
“Gone where?” Luther asked her.
“To sell whiskey.”
“Where do they sell whiskey?”
“How should I know!”
Luther wanted to laugh. Obviously the brothers did not take her on such sales trips. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat out of the band with his kerchief. They had to be somewhere in the area.
“Josie, when will they be back?” he asked, looking at her and spinning the hat on his hand.
“When they sell all the whiskey.”
“Yes, I understand. You do know making whiskey in the Nation is against the laws of the government?”
She shrugged, as if that made no difference to her. Those were white man laws. She was Indian. This was the same way most of the native people in the Nation felt.
“You know I need to find the brothers?”
A slow nod was all she allowed herself.
Luther decided his line of questions with her was going nowhere. They best bust up the liquor making operation, destroy their supplies, and move on.
“Josie, you call those other women back here. If you three help us break up the still and barrels, I won’t arrest you or them.” All he needed was three fat women to take back to Fort Smith. Besides, there would be children somewhere to be concerned about. No, his amnesty offer would be the best way out of this situation. Then they could get on with finding the White Crow brothers. The sooner the better.
“You heard him,” Choc said, giving her a not-too-gentle shove. “Go get them and don’t be long.”
“Maybe they are gone?” Her brown eyes flew open in disbelief he would demand such a thing.
“Too hot. They won’t run far,” Choc said, and pointed in the direction they left. “Hurry or you can sit in jail.”
She gathered her long dress and headed toward the southeast. The once-upon-a-time cornfield was infested with a profusion of waist-high green weeds. Her route looked direct, and Luther felt certain the others were hiding in the woods on the far side. Choc was right. The first ones he saw were like her, too fat to run very far in the heat.
Would she really find the others, come back, and help them? He looked at Choc and they both nodded. Better get to work. No telling about their help. At least they wouldn’t have to take back any women prisoners, especially fat ones to load and unload out of the wagon.
Choc found an ax and used it on the stinking barrels full of souring mash. Like chopping open a ripe melon. A few whacks, the staves split and the strong-smelling contents flew out on the dirt.
“Some hogs may get drunk tonight,” Choc said with a horse laugh. Then he reared back and bust open another. The heavy intoxicating odor of soured grain soon filled the air.
Busy emptying two bottles at a time, hearing Ben’s throaty growl, Luther looked up to see the threesome of women coming back through the weeds.
“No, Ben. They won’t hurt us,” he assured the growling dog. “Hey, Choc, we’re going to have company.” His partner nodded and the dog dropped his head back on the old rag rug he was bellied down on.
When the women arrived, Luther told them to dump all the mixed bottles of white lightning. They looked around suspiciously at the two of them, and stepped wide of the growling dog to obey his orders.
“Cut this coil up?” Choc asked, meaning the coiled tubing, which was how the product was distilled.
“In little pieces,” Luther said, taking a small half pint to save for evidence. He stowed it in his saddlebags.
“Now break all the bottles,” Choc ordered the women. That way they would have to go collect more “new” bottles to start up their operation again. It might slow them down from setting up very fast, but he doubted it. There were more stills in the Nation than mushrooms in the springtime, and they had a fair share of the fungus each year.
Midway on their return ride to Moss’s, Choc thought of a place the Crow brothers might be selling whiskey.
“There’s a big church meeting this week on the grounds over on Dead Fish Creek. They maybe over there selling whiskey,” he said at his own discovery.
“A church meeting?” Luther gave him a frown. You didn’t sell the stuff at a revival. Sounded like a poor marketplace for whiskey to him.
“Oh, yeah,” Choc said with a chuckle. “Lots of people go there for an excuse to meet other people. Some go for religion, some to visit, and always some attend to get drunk.”
“How far away?”
“Maybe ten miles.”
“We better go check it out.” Luther knew the detour would make them late getting back to their own camp, but they had wasted the entire day so far without results. He didn’t consider the destruction of the Crows’ still such a great feat. He couldn’t count the time he’d lost from enforcing the law and serving warrants in the territory in their destruction.
At the next crossroad, Choc motioned to ride west. When they topped the rise above Dead Fish Creek in late afternoon, heat waves rose off the dry, powder road from ruts previously cut by many hooves and iron rims. Spread under the cottonwoods and ghostly white sycamores up and down the valley were hundreds of wagons, picketed horses, mules, and makeshift tents. Camp fire smoke swirled about.
Children rushed around in play, their shrill voices cutting the air.
“Big revival,” Luther said, impressed. “Ben! Get over here.”
The dog had already begun scratching the ground like an angry bull anticipating all the dogs for him to whip in this place. His stub of a tail pointed straight up; no doubt he was ready for war.
“Damn it, Ben McCollough, we don’t need any dogfights here.” Luther searched for him under his dun. Locating the bulldog, he gave him a large scowl of disapproval, which Ben ignored; Luther sat back up in the saddle.
The camp’s yellow and black mongrels began a chorus of barking at the discovery of strangers, especially ones with a new dog. Choc took the lead on his roan and headed up the lane through the middle of the camps. Many dark eyes looked up from their cooking to stare at them.
Ahead, Luther could make out the wilted leaves of the branches that formed the roofs of the shades set up for the revival. Obviously the people were on a break, for no shouting or hallelujahs came from the brush arbors. Twisting around in the saddle, he looked over the individuals while a woman bent over a cooking fire stared at him. A band of small children wide-eyed with suspicion followed them.
“Hello, my brothers,” he said with a dignified manner about him. His dark beard and full mustache were laced with gray; his eyes, black as coal, gli
nted as he looked them over.
“Good day,” Luther said, checking around and resetting his dun to make him stand still. “My name is Luther Haskell. I hate to bother you, but we represent the federal court in Fort Smith and we’re looking for some men.”
“Name’s Windgate. I am the spiritual leader of this camp. Who do you seek?”
“Josh and Tag White Crow.”
The preacher shook his head, as if their names were unknown to him. “There’re many people here for this gathering, but those two are not familiar to me. You sure they are amongst us here?”
“They sell whiskey,” Choc said, and booted his roan closer to the man. He wasn’t missing a face in the crowd that had gathered to see about this intrusion.
“I don’t allow—”
“Preacher Windgate, they won’t ask you for permission to sell it.”
The man agreed with a solemn nod, then held his arms up to gain the crowd’s attention. “These men seek whiskey peddlers. They are here on business and want no trouble with God’s children. If any of you know of two men by the name of White Crow, tell these men where they are.” Pained-looking, Windgate searched their faces as he waited for someone to give them a word. The row of head shakes told Luther enough. Not a soul would come forward.
“Sorry,” Windgate said. “No one here knows of them. But you may light and be blessed by our togetherness with the Lord on this hallowed ground.”
“Thanks, Preacher,” Luther said, and nodded to Choc. “But we must ride on.”
Then one of the bolder camp dogs could no longer resist challenging the invasion of the spotted devil under Luther’s horse and made his move. Dodging around from behind two squaws’ skirts, he bolted into Ben with the roar and fury of a panther.
Spooked by the charge under him, Luther’s horse threatened to buck him off. Fighting the dun, the pony shied sideways and bumped and spilled into several startled people close by. The war was on, with Luther so occupied with controlling his upset horse, he couldn’t even shout to stop it. Both dogs reared up on their hind feet, snapping and snarling for a hold on the other. Then Ben clamped on the other dog’s leg. The cur settled for Ben’s short ear, but the tremendous pressure of Ben’s iron jaws upon on his foreleg caused him to quickly release it and begin to wail in pain.
“Ben! Ben! Let go!” Luther shouted from the midst of the crowd, his horse at last behaving. People crowded in to better see the fight and pushed the dun around to escape being stepped on.
“General Ben McCollough!” The full force of his voice directed at the persistent bulldog who still had not released the screaming mongrel’s leg from his jaws. Filled with rage, Luther bailed off his horse and handed the reins to a full-faced woman. He waded into the open space and kicked his hardheaded dog swiftly in the rump.
At that point, Ben released his grip and the three-legged mongrel raced for safety. Through the laughing crowd he went helter-skelter, running into people, and after one collision, falling down on his butt. Quickly looking back with disbelief written on his face over his misfortune, he left the vicinity in even greater haste.
Head down and wincing in dread, Ben finally looked up at his master. Luther turned on his heel and went back for his horse. He’d had enough nonsense for one day. He mounted the dun, swung his leg over, and yelled at Ben.
“Get over here!” he ordered, then nodded to Choc that he was ready to leave. “Sorry about the fight,” he said to the preacher.
“Why, Marshal, your fine bulldog did not start it. Is that his name, McCollough?” Windgate asked.
“Yeah, that was my father’s commander.”
“Good man, sir. Ride with the Lord, my friends. Sorry that we’re unable to help you.”
Choc was chuckling to himself when they topped the hill and looked back. The sun was red and fiery orange on the range to the west. Smoke cloaked the valley in a fog. Luther twisted in the saddle to shake his head at the amused breed, who was hardly able to hold it in.
“What’s so dang funny?”
“Bet that damn worthless cur don’t jump another bulldog.”
“Bet he don’t see another,” Luther said, still edgy about the dog fight. “Ain’t that many of them around.”
“That’s true. You got anything to eat in your saddlebags?”
“Some crackers, dry cheese. Why?” Luther asked, considering their contents. Sure not much, and not very fresh.
“I figure them White Crows are around here somewhere. If Windgate knew they were here selling whiskey, he’d bring fire and brimstone down on them. But he don’t know everything that happens in the vicinity of his camp meeting.”
“You want to stay here a while longer and look around for them?”
Choc bobbed his head until the eagle feather twisted on his hatband. “I’ll bet them White Crows ain’t missing such a good place to sell their whiskey.”
Luther stepped down on the ground and unbuttoned his shirt in search of the creature crawling over his skin. He plucked a large red Lone Star tick from his chest and crushed it with his fingernails.
“Even the Christians have ticks in their valley,” he said, buttoning his shirt. Then he swung back into the saddle. “Fine, let’s circle around and look for them.”
Choc wanted to wait until the camp meeting started back in full swing. Then with all the true believers involved in services, they could easily scout around for the spirit peddlers. Made sense to Luther as he considered the gathering darkness and the day’s oppressive heat. A good breeze to stir the stillness would certainly help, but none appeared forthcoming.
Eating dry crackers and drier cheese with tepid canteen water to wash them down, Luther turned an ear to the voices singing hymns that carried on the hot night air. Seated on the ground with his legs crossed, he wondered how long he’d be out in the Nation chasing fugitives this time, before he could return to Fort Smith.
In the last of the twilight with Tillie on his mind, he thought about her smooth perfumed skin, and their physical relationship. That new outfit she wore made him chuckle. Why, she’d just as well be nude. Her hardheadedness niggled at him the most. She wouldn’t leave that two-story house, not even for a preacher’s words. He had offered her his hand in marriage. She’d refused him, saying she could never be a wife. He found no way to change her firm decision, so he looked forward to seeing her when he could and knew she’d never be his alone.
“You ready? We better go on foot.” Choc stood up and stretched.
“Coming,” Luther said, considering his next move before he rose. “I’ll tie up Ben.”
“Yeah, he might cause us some trouble with them camp dogs.”
“Ben, come here,” he said, and barely snatched him by the scruff of the neck. At last with Ben secured on a rope leash and with finger-shaking orders for him to stay there, Luther started after Choc.
They kept to the woods, skirting to the south of the camp. Making his way after the posse man and stumbling on an occasional unseen object, Luther felt certain Choc could see as good in the night as in daylight. Twice in the darkness he found himself trapped in a dense briar patch by his own doing, and had to backtrack to catch up. As the breathless night wore on his nerves, sounds of the enthusiastic evangelists carried across the valley.
“Ho! Ho!”
Luther caught up with Choc at the edge of a clearing. “That ain’t no revival sound,” he whispered.
Choc nodded. Camp firelight illuminated several men shuffling around. Obviously they were drinking spirits and enjoying themselves.
“See anyone we need?” Luther asked, relying on his man’s recognition of the brothers and others.
“Too dark, but they’re probably there.”
“You got your shotgun ready?”
“Yes.”
“Go in from the right, I’ll come in from the left. We get in place, you fire a round in the air and that’ll get their attention.”
Choc agreed and slipped off to the right side. Luther drew his Colt and went t
he other way. He hoped the ones he looked for were in this group. The commerce of spirits in the Nation was prohibited, and part of his job was to enforce that law.
“Hands up!” he shouted at the men dancing around the fire. Choc’s shotgun shattered the night, and the drunkest man in camp awoke with a loud, “Huh!”
“You’re under arrest!” Luther said with a show of his pistol.
He estimated the number of men in camp at eight or nine. But his hold on them for the moment was tenuous. Only the fear of being shot by either lawman held the drunks in place, but how many could they shoot?
The only light was the fire’s glare, which cast large shadows beyond their raised arms. Luther recognized the older of the White Crow brothers, Josh, who looked wild-eyed and about to flee. If he broke away, so might the others. Luther leaped to the man and stuck the gun into Josh’s cheek with his other arm gripping the Indian’s shoulder.
“Tell them that if they run away, you die!” To enforce his point, he shoved the Colt harder into the man’s face until the muzzle was jammed against the Crow’s teeth.
“Wait! Wait!” Josh shouted to the others, and the fight went out of them.
Choc disarmed them, tossing knives and firearms aside, shoving them into a covey against the wagon in the firelight. Luther swung his man around to be certain that no one came out of the dark and snuck up on them.
“You not take me!” someone shouted. Luther saw the flash of his white sightless eye. It had to be Curly Meantoe! Luther had not realized the one-eyed outlaw was among them. Before he could swing his gun around and shoot at him, Meantoe ducked beneath the wagon. There was no chance of Luther firing it without hitting one of the others. Meantoe fled on his hand and knees, and Choc rushed around to stop him.
“Stay there!” Luther warned the others, and leveled the Colt at them. He shoved the brother hard toward them and felt he had things under control.
Choc came back in a few minutes. “Got away.”
“It was Curly Meantoe.”
“Yeah,” Choc said, sounding disgusted over their loss. “I didn’t know he was even here in all the confusion.”
“How many we got here?”
Rancher's Law Page 6
