“Is that a fact?” Brance replied. He shoved his glass over toward Spit, who was doing the pouring honors. “I wouldn’t have even thought a town no bigger’n this would be able to pay a sheriff.”
Barney hesitated, not sure if he should explain. “He don’t sheriff full-time,” he finally admitted. “Makes his livin’ as a blacksmith, but he does a dandy job keeping the peace.”
“Blacksmith?” Brance questioned. “We passed his place on the way in—young feller.”
“Bert’s a young feller,” Barney replied. “Strong as an ox, too.”
Eli interrupted the conversation. “You need a lot of law around here? The town don’t look like there’s enough folks around to stir up mischief.”
“Well, that’s a fact, I reckon. We are a peaceful town. Bert don’t have to work at sheriffin’ too often, but when trouble starts, he can handle it.”
Back in the dry goods section of the store, Roy Bannerman’s thoughts were running along the same lines as Barney’s. The five strangers looked like trouble searching for a place to light. Saddle tramps in appearance, they looked like some of the free-ranging raiders and bushwhackers that had roamed Missouri and Arkansas during the latter years of the war. The more thought he gave it, the more convinced he became that it would be wise on his part to take precautions. He called his son from the back room, and told him to fetch the sheriff. “Tell Bert there’s some suspicious-lookin’ strangers in the saloon, and it might be a good idea to stop by just to let ’em know there’s law in this town. Tell him it wouldn’t hurt to wear his gun.” As soon as the boy was gone, Bannerman walked over behind the counter and pulled his shotgun from the shelf beneath. Breaking the breech, he dropped two shells in and propped it against the back of the counter where it would be handy.
Beyond the door that separated the two sections of the store, Brance and his gang were feeling the effects of the raw whiskey. The conversation at the table began to grow in intensity until it approached a raucous chorus of laughter and swearing. Brance called a nervous Barney over to the table and ordered another bottle.
“Look, fellers,” Barney pleaded respectfully, “I’d really appreciate it if you’d hold it down a little. There’s womenfolk and children that come in the store, and we wouldn’t wanna offend them.”
“Is there any womenfolk in there right now?” Church immediately asked, grinning lecherously.
Before Barney tried to answer, Brance interrupted, amused by the bartender’s tentative approach. “Why, sure, Barney, we’ll try to keep it down. We don’t wanna be insultin’ none of the good women of Neosho.”
Equally amused by the cat-and-mouse game Brance was embarking upon, Eli grunted his indifference, pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’m ’bout to bust. I’ve gotta take a leak.”
“There’s an outhouse out back,” Barney quickly offered, almost afraid the sinister-looking stranger might decide to relieve himself right there on the floor. Eli grunted again and disappeared out the back door.
Eli had been gone no more than a minute or two when Bert Wheeler walked in the side door from the store. Wearing his badge pinned on his shirt, and his revolver strapped around his waist, he presented a formidable figure as he strode casually into the room. “Evenin’, Barney,” he greeted the white-haired bartender, to which Barney returned a loud and enthusiastic, “Evenin’, Sheriff.”
Bert stood there for a moment, then walked over to the table. “Evenin’, fellers,” he offered. His greeting was met by a line of wide grins and no verbal response. “You fellers just passin’ through town?”
There was still no response beyond the drunken grins for a long moment. Finally, as Bert began to find the silence uncomfortable, Brance answered him. “Why we ain’t decided yet. Have we, fellers?” He looked around him to acknowledge the grunts of confirmation. “We might decide to stick around for a spell to get to know the folks.”
There was no hiding the fact that the strangers were toying with him, and Bert was smart enough to know that he had better show some sign of authority. “I don’t expect there’s much here that would interest men like you. The folks around here are law-abidin’ farmers. You might wanna ride on over to Springfield or some bigger town.”
“Are you tellin’ us to get outta town?” Brance responded at once, the smile disappearing from his face.
Bert sensed a showdown—the last thing he wanted with the odds stacked so heavily against him. He thought carefully before answering. “Why, no, I’m just sayin’ that there ain’t much in Neosho unless you’re thinkin’ about buyin’ some land to farm.” As soon as he said it, he was afraid it would obviously be seen as backing down.
Brance laughed out loud. “Well, we might be thinkin’ about doin’ some farmin’ at that.” His three partners continued to sit there with foolish grins in place, entertained by the game. When the part-time sheriff seemed totally undecided as to what he should do, Brance said, “Hell, set down, Sheriff, and have a drink.”
Mistaking the invitation as a sign of capitulation, Bert decided his show of authority had won the battle of wits. “Thanks just the same, but I reckon not,” he said forcefully. Glancing briefly at Barney, who was watching wide-eyed, he turned back to Brance. “I expect you boys had best finish your drinks and ride on outta town. The folks around here like to keep a kinda quiet town, and you boys don’t strike me as bein’ that type.”
“Why, bless my soul,” Brance mocked. Pretending to ignore the sheriff, he turned to Church. “I believe the sheriff here has misjudged us. Whaddaya think, Church? Ain’t we the most peace-lovin’ folks around these parts? I believe he owes us an apology.”
“You’re damn right he does,” Church responded gleefully, his eyes riveted on the sheriff. “He oughta beg our pardons right now.”
“Damn right,” Brance huffed, looking around the table at the leering faces of his gang. Then he turned his attention back to land on Bert Wheeler. “We all think you owe us an apology,” he said.
Bert was in too deep now to back out without losing face. He didn’t like the direction this was heading, but he tried to show some backbone, even if his heart wasn’t in it. “I’d appreciate it if you boys would finish your drinks and head on outta town.”
Still wearing a smile on his face, Brance answered. “Me and the boys are pretty much used to leavin’ a place when we’re damn good and ready.” He locked his gaze firmly on the sheriff’s eyes, baiting him outright. “I expect we’ll hang around a while, since I don’t see nobody who can do anything about it.”
There it was, laid out and thrown at his feet. Young Bert Wheeler knew at that moment that his test of courage was now, in this place. His nerves turned to ice, and he could feel his pulse pounding away at his brain. He knew he was standing before the life-altering decision that confronted many men. There were four of them. He could walk away from it, or he could call what he hoped was a bluff. Either choice would forever reflect how he was remembered by his family and friends. He made his decision. “I’m not givin’ you any choice. Settle up with Barney, and get on your horses. Your kind ain’t welcome in Neosho.”
With his eyes fixed on the sneering face of Brance Burkett, he didn’t see it coming. The heavy silence that had descended upon the room was suddenly ripped apart by the shock of a pistol shot. Bert never even had a chance to go for his revolver. He took a step backward, clutching at his chest with both hands, staring with disbelieving eyes at the gun in Nate’s hand. He stood there for a brief moment before collapsing to the floor, with a bullet through the heart.
All eyes at the table calmly turned toward the bar to gauge Barney’s reaction. There was little to fear from that quarter. The frail old bartender was stunned into paralysis, staring stupidly at the body of Bert Wheeler sprawled awkwardly in the middle of the barroom floor. Spit stood up, and walked casually over to the bar to help himself to another bottle. He grinned at the befuddled old bartender as he passed. On his way back to the table, he paused to look at the corpse on the f
loor. Seeing no signs of life, he spat on the body and sat down at the table.
Roy Bannerman was startled by the shot inside the saloon. He froze for a long moment, waiting to hear if more were to follow. Thinking it unwise to charge through the door, he decided to stay behind the counter with his double-barreled shotgun trained on the doorway. He could only imagine what had taken place on the other side of the door, but he told himself that if anyone other than Bert or Barney came through it, he was going to cut them down, and ask questions later.
There was another who had heard the pistol shot inside the saloon. Eli stopped to listen when he heard the shot. Standing outside the outhouse, he decided against returning through the saloon’s back door. Looking toward the corner of the building, he saw another door that obviously led to the back of the dry goods section. As a precaution, he decided to go that way. When no additional shots followed the first, he was not overly alarmed. One of the men might have fired at a cockroach or a rat, or just for the pure hell of it—or Brance might have taken a notion to shoot the old bartender. Still, it always paid to exercise a little caution. So he turned the knob slowly, and carefully pushed the door open. He found himself in a small storeroom lined with shelves. Passing through the storeroom, he paused in the doorway to the main store. He paused again when he spied Roy Bannerman, his back toward him, crouching behind the counter. The storekeeper held a double-barreled shotgun trained on the door to the saloon. Eli gave the situation no more than a moment’s thought before he drew his pistol and pulled the trigger.
Bannerman jerked upright when the bullet slammed into his back. He grabbed for the edge of the counter to keep from falling. The shotgun clattered harmlessly to the floor. Eli kept his pistol trained on the wounded man as he watched him slide down the corner of the counter, half turning toward his assailant as he crumpled to the floor, his eyes wide and staring in shock. Eli spent another bullet, this one in Bannerman’s forehead.
Moments after Eli’s second shot, the door to the saloon was suddenly flung open, but no one came through. “It’s all right,” Eli called out. “It’s just me.” As he said it, he caught a flicker of movement near the front door of the store. Without consciously thinking about it, he immediately spun around and dropped to one knee, his pistol ready to fire. Bannerman’s young son stood frozen by the front door, terrified, having just seen his father shot down before his eyes. Eli rose to his feet again, the pistol still aimed at the stunned boy. After a long moment, Eli said, “Bang!” and laughed delightedly when the youngster bolted out the door.
“What was all the shootin’ about?” Nate asked as he preceded the others through the saloon door.
Eli nodded toward Bannerman’s body near the end of the counter. “He was fixin’ to give you a double load of buckshot when you walked out that door.” He glanced at Brance when he followed Nate out the door. “What was the shot I heard outside?”
“The sheriff came to call while you was in the outhouse,” Brance replied.
“I expect we’d best pack up everythin’ we can take, and clear outta here while we’ve still got a little daylight left,” Eli advised. “Somebody most likely heard the shootin’, and if they didn’t, that young’un that just run out of here will go for help.”
“Why didn’t you shoot him?” Brance wondered aloud.
“I don’t know,” Eli answered, replacing the two spent bullets. He looked up at Brance and smiled. “I reckon I’m just gettin’ softhearted.”
“That’ll be the day,” Church commented.
“Won’t it, though,” Spit said, and spat on Bannerman’s body.
Church shook his head and grinned. “Why do you always spit on ever’ corpse you see?”
Spit shrugged his shoulders, puzzled that Church would ask the question. For want of a better answer, he said, “It ain’t polite to spit on the floor.”
Chapter 12
It was not a difficult task, following the white raiders; they made no effort to hide their trail. But if they had, Matt was convinced that Crooked Foot would have been able to follow them anyway. He was impressed with the quiet confidence of the young Cherokee. Crooked Foot exhibited a maturity far beyond his fourteen years. Ike, by nature a competitive soul, and one who was accustomed to relying upon his skill as a tracker, sometimes found Crooked Foot’s quiet demeanor exasperating. Matt could not help but be amused by the difference of opinion between Ike and the boy over the number of white men they were tracking.
Ike was convinced that they were trailing six men and two pack horses. Matt figured that Ike was certain of that because there had originally been seven outlaws, according to what the people of the village had reported. With one dead, that left six. That much was true, Ike insisted, but he maintained that he had confirmed it by sorting out the tracks of eight horses, six carrying riders. Crooked Foot merely gazed at Ike through lifeless eyes, and when Ike was through arguing, he would simply insist without emotion, “Five riders, two pack horses.”
“Well, where’s the other rider, then?” Ike demanded. “There wasn’t but one dead white man back yonder.”
“Five riders, two pack horses,” Crooked Foot repeated stoically.
“Hardheaded young pup,” Ike complained, frustrated with the boy’s unflappable manner. “I was readin’ sign before you was on your mama’s tit.”
“Five riders, two pack horses,” Crooked Foot said softly and climbed back on his pony.
Matt slowly shook his head. It was of little concern to him whether there were five or six, even though the matter seemed to be of great significance to Ike and Crooked Foot. At least the argument served to free Ike’s mind from thoughts of Broken Reed for a time.
Whether left by seven horses or eight, the trail led to a point where it intercepted a well-used wagon track west of the Ozarks, and then followed it northward. There was no disagreement on that. It was late in the afternoon when they saw the buildings of Neosho. Riding past a modest church with recently whitewashed siding, Ike called their attention to the little cemetery beside it. “Looks like they been here,” he said, pointing to two obviously fresh graves. Unnoticed by the three riders, a man carrying a shotgun stepped out the door of the church after they had passed, and walked after them toward the town.
“Neosho.” Matt read the sign by the bridge as the big blue roan started across. There were only a few buildings in the town—a smithy, a carpenter’s shop, a small post office, a few others—and they all seemed to be closed. With evening shadows stretching across the dusty street, there should have normally been a lantern or a candle here and there. But that was not the case. The windows remained dark, and Matt had the feeling that there were people in every building, watching them as they rode through the silent town. The only sign of life came from a large building at the end of the street, where lantern light could be seen flickering through the open door. The three riders made for it.
Pulling up at the rail before Bannerman’s, they dismounted. As Matt threw a leg over and turned to step down, he spotted the lone man following them on foot, a shotgun draped over his arm. Matt caught Ike’s eye, and nodded toward the man. “I see him,” Ike said. “He came outta the church back there.” Matt pulled the Henry from the saddle sling. Ike smiled at him. “Town ain’t got a real friendly feel to it, has it?”
“Reckon not,” Matt replied. He stepped up on the walk. Looking back again, he caught a glimpse of a face peering from the doorway of the carpenter’s shop. It immediately disappeared again. Across the street at the post office, a man stepped out and locked the door behind him. He carried a rifle. Looking in the other direction, past the general store, he spotted another man coming from the stables, also armed. “Looks like they don’t care much for strangers around here,” Matt remarked. “I expect they’ve got their reasons, and those fresh graves back there might have a helluva lot to do with it.”
“Wonder how they feel ’bout Injuns,” Crooked Foot mumbled, causing Ike and Matt to laugh.
“Let’s go see,”
Ike said, and headed for the open door.
* * *
As Matt had surmised, the people of Neosho had plenty of reasons to distrust strangers in the wake of Brance Burkett’s visit. When she turned to see the three figures dressed in buckskins appear in the doorway, Roy Bannerman’s widow involuntarily drew a sharp breath and backed up to the counter. A boy of perhaps eleven or twelve ran behind the counter and picked up a double-barreled shotgun.
“Whoa, son,” Ike said, holding both hands up before him. “You won’t need that shotgun. We mean you no harm.”
The boy, unsure of himself, looked to his mother, then back at the strangers, still holding the shotgun as if ready to fire. “Ma’am,” Matt said softly, “we’ve not come to cause you any more grief.” Judging by the black dress she wore, he guessed that one of the fresh graves might be the final resting place for someone of the woman’s family, possibly her husband.
“Papa,” Myra Bannerman called out. Her eyes were still wide with fright, never leaving the face of the broad-shouldered young man who spoke to her in a reassuring tone. A few moments later, a white-haired old man appeared in the doorway leading to the saloon.
“The store ain’t open today,” the old man said, with as much authority as he could muster.
“We ain’t lookin’ to buy nothin’,” Ike started to explain.
“What are you looking for, then?” The voice came from the open doorway behind them. A tall, thin man stepped into the room, cradling a shotgun in his arms. Matt recognized him as the man who had followed them from the church. With deep-set dark eyes peering menacingly from under heavy black eyebrows, the man looked to be no one to be taken lightly. For a few moments, the room was leaden with tension. Then another voice came from just outside the door. “I’m right behind you, Reverend.”
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