Outlaw

by Charles G. West

  “Obliged,” Matt said, and stepped around the bartender. His gaze sweeping the crowded saloon, he squinted hard, trying to see through the blue-gray haze of tobacco smoke that hung over the noisy room. He and Ike made their way around the room, searching the faces seated around the small tables. In reality, they weren’t sure what they were looking for. They had no real means of identifying the men they sought. They only knew that they numbered five, and they would probably hang together.

  It appeared to be a futile exercise. There was no obvious group of five men that stood apart from the rest of the noisy crowd. They had just about decided that the men they were after were not there, when Ike walked by the poker table in the back. He almost went on past, but something caught his eye, and he stopped in his tracks. Raising his rifle to a ready position, he took a step back. “That’s a mighty unusual cross you’re wearin’ there, friend. Mind if I ask you where you got it?”

  Action at the poker table immediately stopped. All turned to look at the small silver cross hanging from a rawhide thong around Spit’s neck. For a man who had made many a mistake in his life, Spit now made his biggest. Riding what he thought was a lucky streak, he sneered at Ike, and spat. “I took it offen a dead Injun,” he snarled, and reached for the pistol in his belt.

  Ike did not hesitate. His rifle ball slammed into Spit’s chest before the unfortunate man could clear the revolver from his belt. Spit went over backward on the floor. What happened after that took place in less than a minute’s time. The sudden report of the rifle sent the saloon patrons scattering in every direction. Matt immediately whirled around, ready to cover Ike. Church shoved his stunned dance partner aside and drew his pistol, only to drop to the floor when Matt’s Henry cut him down.

  Trying to look in every direction at once, Matt did not notice Nate in the far corner, still holding onto the ample figure of his dance partner. He was in no hurry to get the same hand that Matt had dealt Church. He hesitated, and when Matt turned his attention to the table where Ike was still searching the faces, Nate carefully eased his Colt Army revolver from the holster. Keeping the terrified woman between him and the table, he slowly raised the weapon to take aim at Matt’s back. Just as his finger began to squeeze the trigger, he was suddenly dealt a solid blow between his shoulder blades, causing his pistol to discharge and send a bullet into the ceiling. Stunned and confused, he staggered forward a couple of steps, holding onto the woman’s shoulder for support. A second blow to his side pounded his ribcage like a strike from a hammer, and everything went black before his eyes. The woman screamed and jumped back in fright as Nate crumpled to the saloon floor, two arrows protruding cruelly from his body.

  In the general pandemonium of the sudden violence, those nearest the door bolted, most of the others dived under tables or flattened themselves against the walls. The saloon floor was now cleared of everyone except Matt, who stood in the center, poised to strike at anything that moved. The stunned patrons, some of whom were armed, lacked the time to make a decision to act or not. The acrid aroma of gun smoke mixed in with the tobacco smoke and lay like a thin gray cloud over the center of the floor.

  Ike, his eyes still focused on the card players at the table, warned everyone in the room. “No need for all you folks to get nervous and get yourself killed. We’re just lookin’ for five murderers that killed a lot of innocent people. The rest of you ain’t got nothin’ to fear from us.” He directed his next remarks back to the table. “There’s two more that come in with them three.” He shifted his gaze from one face to the next, set to react to the slightest movement.

  Brance was not foolish enough to make a play for his pistol after having witnessed the lightninglike reaction from the buckskin-clad rifleman. Keeping a blank expression on his face, and daring not to glance at Eli, he met Ike’s gaze when it settled upon him. The owner of the saloon was the first to speak up, identifying himself at once. He was followed immediately by the dairy farmer who proclaimed that most everyone in the saloon knew him.

  Eli, deadly calm in every situation, had sized his situation up exactly as Brance had. “Friend, I don’t know any of these folks here. I’m just on my way back from Kansas City—thought I’d play a few hands of poker.” Ike hesitated a moment as he studied the man. Eli’s gaze met his, steady and unblinking. After a moment, Ike turned his eyes on Brance.

  “I’ve got a wife and young’uns camped outside of town,” Brance proclaimed in mock innocence. “I don’t know nothin’ about the men you’re lookin’ for.” Inside, he was struggling to hold his anger, knowing it would be suicide to lose control of it now.

  Ike turned to the saloon owner again. “Point out the two that come in with them three.”

  The man hesitated for a brief second, looking to his right and left, obviously nervous. He started to speak, but checked it abruptly when he felt the hard steel barrel of Eli’s derringer pressed against his gut, the hand that held it hidden from Ike’s view by the edge of the table. The message clear, the owner of the saloon swallowed hard before he forced the words out. “I don’t see them right now,” he managed.

  “I think they left about an hour ago,” Eli spoke up, his gaze calm and deliberate.

  The dairy farmer started to speak, but Brance was quick to interrupt. “That’s a fact,” he said. “They went out the door a while back.” He shot a hidden glance toward the farmer that needed no interpretation.

  Ike looked at the farmer. “Was you gonna say somethin’?”

  “No,” the man blurted. “Like he said, they’re not here.”

  Watching the interrogation from the center of the room, Matt was not sure he accepted the story the players told. He had a feeling that the other two outlaws were still in the saloon. And for that reason, he kept a constant watch over the spectators, alert for any sudden motion. He felt a certain reassurance knowing that Crooked Foot’s sharp eyes were behind him as well. It appeared that he and Ike faced a stalemate with no way to properly identify the two they sought. They were there—he knew it in his gut. Matt turned, about to question one of the frightened spectators, only to find himself staring at the sheriff and two deputies, their rifles leveled at him. Crooked Foot was nowhere to be seen.

  Matt’s reaction was almost automatic, but he checked himself hard, reluctant to fire on a man wearing a badge. “This little party is over,” the sheriff announced and directed his deputies to take Matt’s and Ike’s weapons. Neither man resisted, unwilling to endanger innocent lives. The sheriff looked around the room until his eyes settled on one of the spectators. “Pete,” he instructed, “you and a couple of the boys lend a hand to haul these bodies outta here.”

  Brance stole a quick glance in Eli’s direction with just a hint of a smile on his face. Like his partner, he now had his revolver pressed against the farmer’s ribs. A din of excited voices returned to fill the saloon once again as several men dragged or carried the three bodies toward the door. The four poker players remained seated at the table until the sheriff and his deputies escorted their two prisoners outside.

  “You done real good, friend,” Eli hissed into the saloon owner’s ear. “You just saved your life. I expect you and your friend here best stay right where you are until we leave.” He and Brance stood up then, and calmly made their way to the door, leaving the owner and the farmer properly frightened for their safety. Once outside, the two lost no time in getting to the stable and their horses.

  “Who in the hell was them two?” Eli asked as they hurried down the street. “And how come they’re raggin’ our asses?”

  Brance was pretty confident that he knew. “That one with the Henry rifle was the same bastard we tried to jump down in Arkansas—cost us five men.”

  “Damn!” Eli exclaimed. “You’re right.” He shook his head, thinking of the irony of the situation. “Hell, I thought we was chasin’ him—not the other way around.”

  “I reckon it’s on account of that little party we had back at that Cherokee village—musta been some folks he knew
. They had that Injun with ’em.” Brance thought about the man with the repeating rifle. “He’s cost me a helluva lot,” he mumbled under his breath. Then he looked at Eli and grinned. “But I expect he ain’t goin’ nowhere for a spell now, and we’ll be long gone even if they let him outta jail.”

  “That may be,” Eli replied. “But we’d better not lose any time gettin’ outta this town. Them two we was playin’ cards with ain’t gonna wait long before tellin’ the sheriff we was with Nate and the others.”

  “Hell, we didn’t shoot anybody.”

  “All the same, they might start askin’ questions. Ain’t no sense in hangin’ around.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Brance conceded.

  As the two outlaws walked toward the stables, they were generally ignored by the curious people they met, who were hurrying toward the saloon and the source of the gunshots—except for one shadowy figure in the alley between the post office and the general store. Crooked Foot knelt on one knee in the darkness of the alley, watching the saloon door. By the light of the saloon windows, he recognized Brance and Eli as two of the men who had been playing cards with the man Ike killed. Thinking it significant that the two were the only ones hurrying away from the scene of the shooting, he reasoned that they were the two he and his companions had come looking for.

  When the lawmen had suddenly appeared, he slipped out of the saloon. The first thing he did was take the horses and lead them out of sight behind the stores. Once he was confident they were safe from confiscation, he returned to see what was to happen to Ike and Matt. When they were escorted from the saloon by the three lawmen, he started to follow. But within a matter of seconds, Brance and Eli appeared in the doorway, and he had changed his mind about following his friends.

  Feeling confident that they were the final two in the gang that murdered his people, he notched an arrow and positioned himself at the corner of the post office building, and waited for his opportunity. When the two men were opposite the mouth of the alley, he took steady aim at the one closest to him and drew his bowstring. A fraction of a second before releasing his arrow, his view was suddenly blocked by several young boys who were running up the street to see what the shooting was about. With his bowstring still drawn fully back, he waited until the boys had passed. It was too late. He no longer had a clear shot. Releasing the tension on the bow, he moved out of the alley, and followed the two outlaws toward the stables.

  In the shadowy light of the main street, he passed unnoticed by the few people still converging upon the saloon. When he got to the end of the street, he was just in time to see the two figures disappear into the stables. Looking around him then, he tried to select a suitable place to wait in ambush. There were no buildings close to the stables, and very few choices for concealment. Concealment was important, since his only weapon was his bow, and the two outlaws were armed with rifles. With that in mind, he chose the only tree of any size across from the front opening of the stable. Settling himself behind the oak, he notched his arrow again, and waited.

  Several long minutes passed, and Crooked Foot began to wonder if perhaps he had been wrong in his presumption that the two were in the process of fleeing town. His thoughts shifted to Ike and Matt, and he wondered about their fate. In the next instant, he was startled by the sudden appearance of two riders charging from the stable at a full gallop. For some reason, he had not expected them to emerge in such haste, and he hurried to draw his bow. They did not offer an easy target, and he scolded himself for not being ready. There was only one slim chance for a shot, and he took it in desperation. Brance and Eli rode off into the darkness, oblivious of the arrow that passed behind them and embedded itself in the side of the stable.

  The opportunity lost, Crooked Foot ran out into the dark street, his eyes following the rapidly departing figures. His horse was too far away to be of any use at that moment. With no other choice, he started running after the outlaws. They soon left him far behind, but he was able to determine the direction they took when they reached a fork in the road north of town. He remained standing there where the road split, staring into the darkness, waiting for his breath to return to normal. They had come so close to exacting complete vengeance upon the ruthless murderers, only to permit the last two to slip through their fingers.

  Chapter 13

  “Mornin’, Jim,” Sheriff Grayson Taylor greeted his deputy. “Any trouble with the prisoners?” The sheriff hung his hat on a peg behind the desk, and slipped out of his coat. “It’s gettin’ a mite chilly these last few mornings. Winter’s gonna be here before you know it.” He stepped over by the stove to warm his hands.

  “I expect you’re right,” the deputy replied. “We’re gonna need to bust up some more firewood, too.” He poured a cup of coffee from the gray metal pot sitting on top of the stove, and handed it to the sheriff. “No trouble from them two,” he answered Taylor’s question. “They’ve been pretty much quiet all night.”

  Taylor nodded and took a tentative sip of the steaming hot coffee. “Damn, that pot’s been settin’ for a while. It’s stronger’n mule piss.”

  Jim laughed. “I made it about five o’clock. I reckon it has got a little stronger since then. I guess I’d better make another pot, so we can feed our prisoners some breakfast. It wouldn’t do for word to get out that our prisoners don’t get fresh coffee with their breakfast.”

  “I’ll check to see if I’ve got any paper on them two before I go see Judge Harris. You can stop by Farmer’s and tell ’em to send over two plates of food.” He thought twice about it, then said, “Make it three plates. I ain’t had that much to eat myself.” He took his coffee back to his desk and sat down. Taking another sip of the hot liquid, he made a face and cursed, “Damn, that’s rank.” Setting the cup aside, he pulled a drawer open and took out a stack of Wanted bulletins, and started shuffling through them. Selecting a few that he wanted to look at more closely, he got up and climbed the stairs to the upper floor where the cells were located.

  “Well, I hope you boys are enjoying our hospitality,” Sheriff Taylor mocked, stepping up close to the bars. “You be sure and let us know if everything ain’t comfy.” His sarcasm was met with silence, which seemed to amuse him. “Now, lemme see,” he went on. “Which one of you is Smith, and which one is Shannon?” There was still no response from the prisoners. “Just one name for both of you—you boys musta come from poor families—couldn’t afford first and last names. Well, don’t matter much. Them three fellers you killed didn’t have no names neither.”

  He shuffled through his handful of papers, stopping to study one in particular. Then he nodded his head toward Ike. “I’m gonna call you Ike Brister. This drawing sure looks like you, with that face full of whiskers and that bald dome.” He paused to read the bulletin. “This one’s over a year old. Fits you to a tee, though. Puts you at about the right age, too.” He shook his head in mock celebration. “Damn, this is the first time I’ve ever caught somebody that was on one of these papers. All right, so we got us a Mr. Ike Brister.”

  He turned his attention to Matt then. “Now, you . . . I ain’t quite sure. I don’t see nothin’ that fits you.” He looked up from the paper and smiled. “Suppose I just oughta turn you loose?” He frowned and turned his chin toward the ceiling as if concentrating hard. “Nah, I reckon not.” Then, having amused himself sufficiently, he turned deadly serious. “You see, young feller, I don’t stand for nobody coming into my town and shootin’ three men down. I don’t care what they did, murderers or whatnot. I’m the law in this town, and to me, you ain’t no better’n them you killed. I expect we’ll have a hangin’ after Judge Harris rules on you.”

  “I’m goin’ now, Sheriff,” the deputy called from the downstairs.

  “All right, Jim,” Taylor called back. “Tell Farmer to put extra potatoes on one of them plates.” Aiming his question at Matt then, he continued. “All right, Mr. Shannon, there’s one thing we ain’t settled yet. One of them dead men had a couple of arrows
in his back. I know an Injun came into the saloon with you. The bartender told me he made him stand by the door. But when me and my deputies came in, I didn’t see no Injun. It might go easier on you with the judge if you was to tell me where I can find that Injun.”

  Matt shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He and Ike had exhausted themselves the night before trying to convince the sheriff that he was letting two murderers escape. They had explained why they had followed Brance Burkett and his men to Springfield, but Taylor was not sympathetic to the degree that he would let them go. Vigilantes were not tolerated in Springfield, Taylor had explained, and they would be tried before a judge like any other bushwhackers.

  “If he’s got any notion of springin’ you boys, he’s a dead Injun,” the sheriff said. “Might as well tell me where he’s hidin’.”

  “I expect he’s probably halfway back to Indian Territory by now,” Matt replied.

  Taylor gazed steadily into Matt’s eyes for a long moment, trying to decide if it was worth questioning him further. “We didn’t find no horses. You boys didn’t walk over here from Oklahoma Territory, did you? I reckon your Injun friend took off with your horses while you set here in jail.”

  Matt shrugged again. “Well, he’s an Injun, ain’t he?”

  “Suit yourself,” Taylor sighed, and turned to leave. “You boys shoulda stayed in Oklahoma Territory.” He called back over his shoulder as he started down the steps, “I’ll have you some breakfast in a minute or two.”

  Matt waited until the sheriff had left the cell block, then he asked softly, “What do you expect happened to Crooked Foot?”

  “Most likely gone to the hills,” Ike said with some confidence. “I’m glad he had sense enough to get the horses outta town. Right now, I expect he’s tryin’ to figure out what the hell he’s gonna do.” He walked over to the window and tested the bars. “I know one thing, we’ve gotta get the hell outta here. Them two bastards is layin’ out prairie behind ’em, and we can’t afford to let ’em get too much lead on us.” He tugged at the steel bars. “And these bars are too stout to pull out, even with a horse.” The chances of escape looked pretty slim.