Chapter 8
Jesse Tyler reluctantly stopped to water his horse, then only because of the real possibility he would soon be on foot if he didn’t rest the tired animal. It had been a hard ride from West Virginia, through parts of Kentucky and Missouri, and now finally back in Arkansas territory. He had shown the weary horse no mercy in his urgency to track down the man called Shannon. Knowing his brother as well as he did, it wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. When Wesley had heard about the turkey shoot in the little hollow in West Virginia, he figured he was going to have that Henry rifle one way or another. When he failed to return, Jesse went there to find out why. It didn’t take much persuasion to learn the man’s name who had won the rifle. There could be little doubt that Shannon was the man who killed his brother. It made no difference to Jesse that his brother had trailed Shannon for the purpose of murdering him. Wesley was his brother, and nobody was going to get away with killing Jesse Tyler’s brother.
It had been pure luck that he had picked up Shannon’s trail in the little town of Boiling Springs. He had been about to admit he had lost him when he decided to ride into Boiling Springs to buy a bottle of whiskey. A casual remark by the bartender caused Tyler to seek out the blacksmith and inquire about another stranger who recently passed through.
“Feller over at the saloon said you was talkin’ about a stranger ridin’ through here a few days ago.”
The blacksmith, Bowers, turned to face Tyler. “Is that so?” he replied. This stranger in black asking questions made him cautious for some reason. The man had a look about him that some would call calculating. Others, less eloquent, would simply describe it as a cold, mean scowl. Bowers took an immediate dislike to the man. “I’d say it was more like a week or so,” he said.
“What was his name?” Tyler demanded.
“I don’t believe he give his name,” Bowers said. “Leastways, I don’t recollect that he did.”
Tyler was suspicious. He had a feeling that the smithy had some reason to cover up for Shannon. He was beginning to lose his temper. He pulled out his pistol, and held it up before Bowers’ face. “Would it help your memory if I was to stick this pistol up your nose?”
Bowers suddenly realized what manner of man he was dealing with, and an earlier sense of caution gave way to fright. The look on Jesse Tyler’s snarling face bore testimony that he was not a man to cross. “There’s no call to get riled, mister,” he quickly replied. “Now that I think on it some, I believe his name was Shannon.”
“Where was he headin’ when he left here?”
“I don’t know,” Bowers stammered. Then, noticing the narrowing of Tyler’s eyes, he hastily added, “He asked about the way to Fort Smith.”
Tyler nodded thoughtfully, and holstered his weapon. “Headin’ for Injun Territory,” he said to himself, no longer interested in the blacksmith. Without another word to Bowers, he climbed up in the saddle and rode out of town. Bowers stood watching him, feeling a sudden need to empty his bladder, until he disappeared from sight, hoping it was the last he would see of the man.
* * *
Jesse Tyler was possessed of an evil determination. He was a born loner, even when his brother was alive and the two of them rode with Brance Burkett and his gang. Very few members of the gang approached him, due to his brooding nature. His brother had advised them that it was best to just leave him alone. Not long after the two brothers joined the gang, the rest of the men were witness to the depth of Jesse’s determination.
Raiding along the Missouri border during the last months of the war, the gang happened upon a farmer named Miller, his wife, and two small children—a girl around nine, and a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy. They were driving a wagon back from the little town of Neosho with a few meager supplies. When waylaid by Brance and his men, the father elected to reject the demand to hand over the supplies, resulting in his untimely death. Once the shooting started, there seemed no sense in leaving witnesses. The man’s wife and the little girl were shot immediately. But the boy picked up a hammer that lay in the wagon, and hurled it at those approaching him. It grazed Jesse’s arm. The boy dived over the side of the wagon, and was off through the brush like a rabbit.
“Hell, let him go,” Brance called out. “We’re headin’ south, anyway.”
“The little shit almost took my head off,” Jesse growled, and turned his horse in pursuit. The brush, though easily penetrated by a small boy, was too thick for a man on a horse. Jesse cursed and kicked his horse hard, galloping down the road until he could swing around the dense thicket. Ignoring the calls from his brother to let the boy go, he searched the woods, trying to pick up the boy’s trail. Once he found it, he trailed the youngster relentlessly until the boy emerged from the woods no more than a quarter of a mile from town. Jesse picked up the boy’s footprints in the soft sand of the road, and followed them through the lower part of the town to the church.
An evening prayer service was interrupted by the sudden appearance of the frightened child as he burst into the church, seeking safety. Gasping for breath, he ran up the center aisle toward the startled minister and fell before the pulpit. Moments later, the congregation was jolted yet again by another abrupt intrusion upon their service, this time in the form of Satan himself, wearing a gun belt. Shocked speechless, not one of the good Christians in the tiny church was moved to take action against this flagrant invasion of evil. They watched, horrified, as Jesse drew his pistol and calmly walked up to the cowering boy. Without hesitation, he executed the defenseless lad, placing two bullets in the boy’s brain.
The sudden explosion of the pistol shots ripped the silence of the church like bolts of lightning, rendering every gentle soul in the congregation aghast in shocked paralysis. Those closest to the aisle would later recall the sulfurous odor of gun smoke that wafted slowly from the barrel of Jesse’s revolver. With no show of haste, he turned, and with the weapon still drawn, walked back down the aisle toward the door. Stunned, each male member of the congregation averted his eyes as Jesse passed, fearful that he might intercept the evil one’s gaze.
Outside the church, there were still no sounds of reaction from the stunned gathering inside. Feeling no sense of urgency, Jesse calmly stepped up in the saddle, wheeled his horse, and took his leave of Neosho, feeling that the boy’s attack upon him had been met with sufficient retaliation. By the time the good folk of Neosho had recovered enough to inform the sheriff, and a posse was formed, Jesse and the Burkett gang were miles away to the south. This evil determination that relentlessly followed a twelve-year-old boy to his execution was now focused upon the man who had killed Jesse’s brother—a man called Shannon.
* * *
“Yessir, we had ourselves some excitement around here about a week ago.” Jake Barnhill, the bartender, polished a shot glass as he talked. The stranger at the bar seemed interested, so he continued. “Three fellers was gunned down over in the livery stable—the ones that did it was settin’ right over at that table playin’ cards, right where your friends is settin’.” He went on to relate the events that led to the fight in the saloon. The stranger was keenly interested when he described the two men who had the altercation with Shiner and his cronies.
“And you say them two didn’t come in together?” Brance Burkett asked.
“Nah, they didn’t,” Jake replied, folding the soiled cloth and laying it on the bar. “I don’t think they even knew each other before they came in here.”
“The younger one, you say you ain’t never seen him around here before?”
“Nope,” Jake said. “He was totin’ one of those Henry rifles, and he looked like he might be pretty handy with it.”
Jake’s last remark caused Brance to raise an eyebrow. “And him and the other feller, the bald-headed one, they was the ones that gunned down three fellers in the stable?”
“Well, I reckon,” Jake asserted. “Sam Pickens seen the two of ’em walk into his stable not five minutes before the shootin’ started. And th
ey sure as hell hightailed it outta town right after.”
Brance couldn’t help smiling to himself when he thought about the bartender’s accounting of the shooting. It was him, all right—him and that fancy repeating rifle of his. “Did you get his name?” Brance asked, “The younger one.”
“Shannon,” Jake replied.
Brance smiled as he repeated the name to himself. Shannon. There was little question where Shannon and his partner had headed—Indian Territory, where most outlaws found refuge from the law. Brance and his boys knew something about Indian Territory. He just might meet up with Shannon again. Next time, it would be with a better consequence. Bringing his thoughts back to the conversation, he asked, “Didn’t nobody go after them two? No posse or nothin’?”
“Oh, hell, yeah,” Jake replied. “There was even a cavalry patrol sent out lookin’ for ’em, but they never picked up their trail past Rottenwood Creek. Hell, them two is gone, most likely past the dead line.”
“Maybe so,” Brance said, thinking that it might take an outlaw to find an outlaw. He was more than casually familiar with the dead line, an imaginary boundary about ninety miles beyond Fort Smith. It was beyond this line that the odds a lawman could venture and still come back with his life were slim at best. “Well, much obliged,” he said to Jake, and returned to the table to join his friends.
Brance sat down at the table next to Eli and poured himself a drink from the bottle in the center. “I’m thinkin’ about a little ride over in Injun Territory,” he said, “to do a little huntin’.” He then proceeded to tell the story he had just learned from the bartender.
“Hell, we might as well,” Spit remarked. “We sure ain’t doin’ nothin’ around here.” He leaned over and spat on the plank floor for emphasis.
“Well, I’ll be go to hell,” Eli suddenly exclaimed. “Would you look what the cat just drug in.” Everyone turned to follow the direction of his gaze. A shadowy figure stood just outside the swinging doors of the saloon, looking the room over before entering. “Bartender! You’d best bring us another bottle,” Eli ordered.
Seeing the familiar faces of his partners, Jesse Tyler stepped inside, into the light of the room. He stood there for a moment, his wide-brimmed, flat-crowned black hat pulled low on his forehead, showing almost no sign that he recognized the six men seated at the table. It was typical of Tyler’s manner—devoid of expression, his face hard as granite. After a moment, he walked over to the table, his Spencer cradled in his arms. Each man nodded a respectful greeting as Jesse pulled up a chair from another table. Brance was the first to speak to him.
“Well, damn, Tyler, I see you missed us enough to come back.” He craned his neck to look toward the door. “Where’s Wesley?”
“Wesley’s dead,” Tyler replied without emotion. “Murdered by the bastard I’m on my way to kill.”
“Goddam,” Brance responded, shaking his head slowly. “Well, we’re right sorry to hear that. Ain’t we boys?” To a man, they all nodded slowly. “This feller, this walkin’ dead man, has he got a name?”
“Shannon,” Tyler answered.
“Shannon?” Eli exclaimed, unable to keep a smile from his face. “Small world, ain’t it, Brance?”
“It is for a fact,” Brance responded, then turned back to explain to the puzzled Tyler. “You ain’t the only one lookin’ for Mr. Shannon. We’ve got a little score to settle with that man ourselves. If you’ll notice, there ain’t but six of us settin’ around here drinking liquor.”
Tyler acknowledged the remark with little more than a shift of his eyes. He had noticed that half of the gang was absent, but he had not been interested enough to ask why. When Brance explained, the only emotion Jesse felt was a deepening of the determination he harbored to find Shannon and kill him.
“It’s a wonder that ol’ boy ain’t feelin’ shivers runnin’ up and down his spine,” Spit commented. “He’s got plenty o’ folks lookin’ for his ass. You, us six, the deputy marshal, even the damn army is on his trail.” He spat, and wiped the lingering spittle from his chin with the back of his hand.
“We was just talkin’ about headin’ out to Injun Territory,” Brance said. “I expect that’s where we might find this feller Shannon.”
“I expect so,” Tyler agreed. “I’ve been followin’ the bastard all the way from West Virginia, and all along he ‘peared to be headin’ for the Territory.” He fixed a cold eye on Brance. “I’m claimin’ first rights on him. He murdered my brother. I figure that gives me a claim.”
“Yeah, hell, we’ve got no problem with that, have we boys?” He looked around him, receiving nods of agreement from the others. “I don’t rightly care who takes care of him, just so it’s done.”
“Injun Territory covers a helluva lot of ground,” Corbin spoke up. Silent to that point, he was skeptical about their chances of tracking down two men in a parcel of land that stretched from Texas to Kansas Territory. “Them two might be hard to find.”
Having eavesdropped on the conversation between the members of the gang up to that point, the bartender decided to offer a comment. He walked over to the table and placed a spittoon next to Spit’s chair, hoping it might encourage him to use it. Spit got the point, and aimed his next expectoration at the brass vessel, barely missing it by an inch or so. He glanced apologetically at the bartender.
“You know, if it would help you fellers,” Jake said, “Sam Pickens said he’d never seen the young feller before, but the big bald-headed one has put his horses up in his stable two or three times before.” When he saw that he had captured their attention, he went on to elaborate. “Sam said he didn’t know much about him, but he did say he was a squaw man—Cherokee woman. So I reckon he’s most likely gone to one of the villages in the Cherokee Nation.”
“That makes sense,” Brance said.
“There’s more’n one village in the Cherokee Nation,” Corbin felt inclined to say. He was not as passionate for vengeance as Brance or Tyler. The five empty saddles Shannon had left meant a bigger share of their next score for the rest of them. “There ain’t a helluva lot to go after in Injun Territory, anyway, unless you want some hides or beads or somethin’.”
“There’s squaws,” Church replied with a grin.
Tyler shifted his lifeless gaze to fix upon Corbin. “Nobody’s makin’ you go, Corbin. If you ain’t got the belly for it, stay here. The bastard killed my brother, and I aim to get him.”
“Hell, Tyler,” Corbin quickly replied. He had no wish to annoy the belligerent outlaw. “I ain’t sayin’ I don’t wanna go. I was just pointin’ out that there’s a lot of ground to cover. ’Course I’m goin’.”
“’Course he’s goin’,” Brance echoed. “We’ll all start out first thing in the mornin’.”
Chapter 9
“Ma-du,” Broken Reed pronounced softly, and smiled as she passed Matt on her way to fill her water bucket.
Matt nodded and returned the smile. He watched the ample figure as she made her way down to the edge of the river for a moment before he turned to Ike. “She always says that, Ma-do, when she sees me. What does it mean? Is she callin’ me a coyote or somethin’?”
The question caused Ike to chuckle. “Nah, she ain’t callin’ you nothin’. She’s just callin’ your name, Ma-du—that’s Cherokee for Matt.”
“Oh.” Matt thought about that for a moment, then pronounced it again as it sounded to him, “Ma-do.” He smiled at Ike. “I didn’t figure there was a Cherokee word for Matt. You speak Cherokee?”
“Tsalagi is how they say it,” Ike replied. “There ain’t no ch sound in their language. Their real name, when they’re talkin’ about theirselves, is Aniyunwiya. It means real people or somethin’ like that. I don’t know but a few words—enough to let Broken Reed know what I want. She knows enough American so’s I know what she’s wantin’. We get along pretty good—sorta meet in the middle.” He chuckled at the thought.
Matt sat down next to the cabin wall, letting the warm afternoon sun pen
etrate to his bones. The days were getting shorter. Ike said that chilly weather could probably be expected within three or four weeks. The thought caused him to look at the deer hides stretched out to dry. Broken Reed had taken over his hides, and was busy softening them. Not willing to wait for the stiff skins to cure, she had already begun sewing Matt’s new clothes, using previously softened hides of her own. Like Ike, she felt there was little time left before the chilly breezes would come sweeping across the prairie, cutting through Matt’s threadbare cavalry britches.
Following his new friend’s gaze, Ike guessed what Matt was thinking. “It won’t be long till you’ll be all dressed up like a wild Injun. Broken Reed works fast. I seen her eyeballin’ them boots of your’n, too—wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t make you some warm moccasins for the winter.”
“I’m obliged,” Matt said. He had been warmly received by Broken Reed and her father, Old Bear. The old man lived in a lodge made of buffalo hides, attached to the cabin Ike had built for his wife. Ike said that Old Bear was the chief of this little band of Cherokees. He had walked the Trail of Tears from Carolina, when so many of his people had perished when the government forced them from their ancestral home. The only symbol of any authority he now wore was a small silver cross, given to him by a missionary. The cross was worn on a rawhide thong around the old man’s neck. Thinking about it, Matt unconsciously reached up and stroked the tiny silver medal he wore around his own neck.
Old Bear’s village was small, with no evidence of prosperity, but the people all seemed to hold Ike in high regard. Matt supposed their fondness for the grizzly bear of a man had a lot to do with the fact that Ike supplied the village with meat and hides. Most of the game around Old Bear’s village had been hunted out, and the food rations promised by the government were slow in coming, and sometimes not coming at all. Ike complained that hunting trips were taking longer and longer, since the game was getting so scarce. When Matt asked why the young men of the village didn’t do more to supply food, Ike responded. “Look around you. You see many young men?” He answered his own question. “Hell, there ain’t no young men. Any that can, get the hell outta here as soon as they can. Wouldn’t you?”
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