Outlaw

by Charles G. West

  Amused by the lawman’s obvious lack of backbone, Tyler again allowed a wicked grin to spread across his dark features. “I expect that’s between me and the lady here, and no business of yours. Ain’t that right, lady?”

  “Let it go, Waymon,” Myra said. “It ain’t worth causing a fuss over.” She could see that the situation might escalate into something ugly, maybe even deadly.

  “Yeah, Waymon,” Tyler chided, exaggerating the pronunciation of the name. “Let it go.” He sneered contemptuously at the hapless lawman. “How many of your friends were killed? Two? Well, the count is gonna go up one more if you don’t get outta here right quick. I’m tired of lookin’ at you.”

  Waymon flushed red, mortified by the blatant bully. Knowing that he could only save face by standing up to Tyler, he could not summon the courage to do so. He stood there helpless until Myra Bannerman told him to leave, that he was not needed. “Go on, Waymon. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  With nothing left of his pride, Waymon muttered, “Well, I reckon there ain’t been no crime committed.” He turned abruptly, ignoring the wide grin on Tyler’s face. “Send Nathaniel for me if you need me,” he mumbled, and never looked back again.

  When the sheriff had left, Tyler turned to Myra and asked, “How much do I owe you?”

  Genuinely surprised that he offered payment, she quickly totaled his purchases and took the money, half expecting him to snatch it back and laugh at her. He waited patiently now while she wrapped his bacon in paper and tied it with string.

  Leaving Bannerman’s, Waymon marched straight to his shop, feeling the hot burn of humiliation between his shoulder blades. He hated his cowardice, hated it to the point where he felt nauseous. Upon reaching his door, he stalked inside, and ripping the badge from his shirt, flung it across the room. Hounded by a failure to act on that fatal day when Roy and Bert were murdered, his mind was now overburdened with guilt and disgust for his weakness. He had heard the shots fired inside the saloon, and rushed to his door in time to see Brance Burkett and his four companions as they emerged from the building and unhurriedly prepared to mount up. There was time for him to act, and he had tried to. He grabbed his shotgun, and returned to the door, but he hesitated when he saw the outlaws talking and laughing as they stepped up into their saddles. He closed his eyes and grimaced painfully as he remembered how he had slinked back inside and waited until the outlaws were riding out of town.

  No one had blamed him for his lack of response, never questioning his explanation that he had been too late to take action. But it had been something that he had found difficult to expel from his memory. Feeling an obligation to the town, and especially to Myra Bannerman and Frances Wheeler, he had accepted the position of sheriff, even though he insisted it would be temporary. Now, the first time he had been called upon to confront a man who was obviously of the same ilk as the gang that murdered and robbed, he had backed down. The shame was eating away at his brain. He should have run Tyler out of town without explanation beyond the fact that vermin like him were not welcome in Neosho. His eyes came to rest upon the shotgun propped in the corner, and he knew what he must do.

  * * *

  Tyler took his change from Myra Bannerman, stoically watching as she counted it out. A jar containing peppermint sticks caught his eye, and he helped himself to one, and thrust it in his mouth. He glanced at Myra then to see if she was going to ask for payment. She did not, preferring to hurry him out of her store. He grunted his amusement, and gathering up his packages, left the store.

  Looking over the rump of his horse, he was surprised to see the sheriff coming from his carpentry shop down the street. Curious, because the lawman was now carrying a double-barreled shotgun, Tyler watched him closely as he dropped his supplies into his saddle bags. Not sure what Waymon had in mind, Tyler reached down and slipped his pistol from the holster. “Hold still,” he warned softly when the sorrel stamped its hooves nervously. Tyler shifted the piece of peppermint candy from one side of his mouth to the other, his eyes never leaving the lawman now obviously heading straight for him, the shotgun clutched before his chest with both hands.

  When he had approached within ten yards of Tyler, Waymon stopped and hesitated for a few seconds before speaking. Looking into the insolent gaze of the outlaw, his resolve, so recently summoned, began to evaporate, and he had to force his words to come. “I just wanted to make sure you were leavin’ town,” he managed without stumbling over the words.

  Shifting the stick of candy over to the opposite side of his mouth once more, Tyler grinned. “What did you say?” He had clearly heard what Waymon had said. He just wanted to make him say it again.

  “As sheriff,” Waymon stammered, “I’m tellin’ you to leave Neosho and don’t come back.”

  “You’re runnin’ me outta town?” Tyler asked, as if clarifying the sheriff’s directive.

  “That’s right,” Waymon replied, suddenly aware that his hands felt sweaty on the stock of the shotgun.

  “What if I ain’t ready to leave?”

  There it was, the response that Waymon had hoped and prayed he would not hear. He wished at that moment that he had remained hidden in his shop like the time before. Fighting the impulse to turn and run, he forced himself to say, “Then I reckon it’s my job to make you.” He moved the shotgun ever so slightly. It was enough to signal his fate.

  Without hesitating, Tyler brought his pistol up from behind his horse’s rump, and fired three times in succession, all three bullets slamming into the stunned lawman’s chest. Waymon staggered backward several steps, his face a mask of utter astonishment. He stood there for a brief moment, staring into the leering face of his assailant. Then the shotgun dropped from his hands, and he crumpled slowly to the ground.

  The shots brought Myra Bannerman and Nathaniel running to the door. Tyler looked at the frightened woman and her son. Seeing that they offered no threat, he holstered his pistol, and stepped up in the saddle. “You can see it was self-defense,” he commented smugly. “He was gonna use that shotgun on me.” Turning the sorrel away from the hitching rail, he touched a finger to the brim of his hat in a contemptuous salute to the lady. Then he looked back at the frightened boy, and it triggered an incident in his memory of another frightened boy—one who had the audacity to throw a hammer at him and then seek refuge in a church. He had been in Neosho before this. The memory of it caused him to laugh. He kicked the sorrel hard, and crunched the last of the peppermint stick between his teeth. “Hell, I’ve been to church in this town.”

  Chapter 15

  Eli bent low over his horse’s neck, driving the buckskin gelding hard. The big horse’s hooves beat out a hollow tattoo on the hard-packed sand along the edge of the creek that echoed back from the bluffs. He took time to glance over his shoulder at Brance, who was gradually falling behind. Brance’s Morgan could not stay with Eli’s buckskin over a great distance. The Morgan was a stout horse, but it lacked the stamina and determination of the buckskin. Knowing it was only a matter of minutes before Brance yelled for a halt, Eli let up on his horse, pulling him down to an easy lope until Brance caught up.

  It was time to rest the horses, anyway. They had been ridden hard all day, and even Eli’s buckskin was showing the strain. When they had galloped out of Springfield, they intended to put as much distance as possible between them and their pursuers. Even though the two buckskin-clad men were on their way to jail when Brance and Eli last saw them, there was something about the pair that made Eli want to leave them far behind. Brance, although scoffing at the potential danger, nonetheless made no objection when Eli said it was best to leave the territory.

  “Gawdam,” Brance swore when he pulled up beside Eli. “I thought I was gonna have to shoot that damn horse of yours to get you to stop. We’re gonna have to make camp before it gets too dark to see.”

  “This is as good a place as any,” Eli replied, looking around him. Satisfied, he dismounted.

  “I don’t know why we’ve been runnin�
�� so hard, anyway. Hell, there ain’t nobody after us,” Brance said as he led the big Morgan stallion down to the water’s edge.

  “Maybe,” Eli allowed. “But I don’t trust them two—especially that one with the Henry rifle.”

  Brance looked at his partner and shook his head in wonder. “I ain’t never seen you get spooked by anybody before. You ain’t losing your edge, are you?”

  “I ain’t spooked,” Eli replied, and turned to look Brance in the eye. “But my gut feelin’ tells me it’s a lot healthier to be where he ain’t.”

  Brance couldn’t believe he was hearing this kind of talk from Eli, especially in light of the fact they had been searching for this man, Shannon, for weeks. Maybe Eli was getting soft. But one look into the cold, hard eyes of his longtime partner in crime told Brance that this was not the case. “Hell, Eli, there ain’t but two men comin’ after us, and that’s sayin’ if they ain’t locked up in jail.”

  “There’s the Injun, too,” Eli said.

  “All right,” Brance allowed impatiently, “the Injun kid, so there’s two and a half men after us.” He snorted his contempt. “I, by God, don’t plan on turnin’ tail and runnin’ halfway across Kansas when there ain’t but two men and an Injun boy on my tail.” The more he thought about it, the more inflamed he became. It had been a real streak of bad luck that began when he decided to bushwhack the lone rider on the blue roan near the Arkansas River. He had been the leader of a sizable band of outlaws. Now his gang was reduced to the two of them—and they were on the run. All because of one man—Shannon. The sudden wave of frustration that swept over Brance served to trigger a slight aching in his brain, and he decided that it was time to put an end to this running.

  “I ain’t runnin’ another damn step from that son of a bitch,” he informed Eli. “He’s cost me too damn much. I say we hole up right here, and see if they’re still comin’ after us. If they don’t show up in a day or two, then, by God, I’m goin’ back and killin’ that son of a bitch, if I have to walk right in the jail to do it.”

  Eli fixed his gaze on Brance for a moment while he considered his words. He had a serious feeling about the man called Shannon. The other one, the big one, merited serious consideration as well. But there was a deeper ominous feeling about Shannon, and Eli believed that it was just a matter of time before a showdown. Somehow he knew that Shannon would keep coming until that final moment. Brance was letting his temper talk for him, but after more thought, Eli decided that what his partner proposed was the best solution to their problem. It would be better to be the hunter instead of the hunted. “You’re right,” he finally said, “we’d best finish up what we started out to do.”

  After some discussion, they decided that the spot where they had stopped was fine for a campsite, but not necessarily suited for ambush. Seeking better concealment, they mounted up again and walked their tired horses about a mile farther up the creek, where they found what they were looking for. The creek took a sharp turn where the bluffs were steeper and closer to the water’s edge. The top of the bluffs were cut by numerous slashes and gullies of various depths and aptly suited to hiding the two bushwhackers as well as their horses. They found the spot ideal for watching their back trail while affording a protected position from which to fire.

  “Hell, we could hold off an army from here,” Brance boasted as he sighted his rifle on the sandy creek bank below them.

  Eli busied himself with collecting dead branches to build a fire. When he felt he had collected enough, he selected a spot for the fire in the deep end of the gully, where there would be less chance of smoke giving away their presence. “We’d best take the horses on around the bend of the creek—see if we can find some grass.” He looked at Brance, and paused for a moment. Brance was in the process of making himself comfortable at the rim of the gully, showing no signs of moving. Eli shrugged and got to his feet. “I reckon I’ll take ’em. You can keep your eyes peeled.” He’s gone back to being the boss again, Eli thought as he led the horses up out of the gully.

  Brance heard Eli’s remarks, but he chose to ignore the obvious hint that he should help with the horses. At that particular time, his mind was occupied with more pressing problems. The mild headache that had been triggered by his anger and frustration was progressing into something more worrisome, as the dull pounding in his head increased to match the rhythm of his heartbeat. Not all of his headaches progressed in intensity until taking control of his entire brain and rendering him helpless before the debilitating pain. In fact, he reminded himself, very few of them developed into that paralyzing stage. The sobering realization struck him that he could not afford to have one of his spells at this crucial time. It was a helpless feeling, for there was nothing he could do but wait it out, and he cursed God for damning him with this weakness.

  He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, forcing himself to concentrate on the wide sandy bank of the creek below him and the gentle flow of the water. Now that his gang had been reduced to only Eli and himself, he had to wonder if Eli would stand by him if he became helpless with the pain. He promptly pushed that question from his thoughts. He and Eli had ridden together too long, covered each other’s backs too many times for Brance to concern himself with questions of Eli’s support. He gently turned his head to follow his partner as Eli led the horses across the gullies to a patch of grass a few yards away. Much to his relief, the turning of his head failed to bring on the spinning sensation in his brain that usually signaled the onset of a spell. He returned his gaze to the creek behind him, still with no dizziness, just the pounding in his brain. In a few minutes, the pounding eased off to a dull throb, and he knew from experience that the point of danger had passed.

  * * *

  It was not difficult to follow the trail left by the two outlaws. There had been some effort to disguise the general direction after they had taken the left fork in the road just north of town. But Crooked Foot found their tracks after a careful search turned up two sets of fresh prints leaving the wagon track about two miles north of Springfield. From that point on, there appeared to have been no efforts to cover their trail—and judging by the length of the strides, speed was the major consideration.

  Haste had to be a prime consideration for Matt and his two companions as well, for they could well anticipate a posse coming after them as soon as the deputy was found in the jail cell. It figured that a posse could follow the same trail they followed. So they stayed with the trail until darkness forced them to camp. Back in the saddle as soon as it was light enough to see, they continued following the two outlaws north, figuring that Brance and Eli were probably headed to Kansas City. But around noon that day, the trail veered more to the west, where the tracks ended at the bank of a narrow river. Crooked Foot swam his pony across, and motioned for Ike and Matt to follow when he picked up the trail on the opposite side.

  “Now where the hell are they headin’?” Ike wondered aloud. Of the three, he was the only one who had ridden this part of the country before. “Now that I recollect, there is a little town up this way called Topeka. Maybe they’re headin’ there. It’s on the Kansas River—Topeka Landing; they used to call it. Riverboats run back and forth on that river.”

  Matt and Crooked Foot were not particularly interested in the history of Topeka. They were more impressed with the fact that the tracks they followed appeared to be somewhat fresher in spite of the obvious lengthening of the stride. The men they chased were at a gallop again. “We gettin’ close,” Crooked Foot announced when the tracks descended to a creek bank, and followed the course of the water north. After following the creek for the better part of a mile, they came to a point where the tracks stopped.

  “Well,” Ike said, “they stopped runnin’.” He peered ahead toward a crook in the creek where it turned around some steep bluffs. “Looks like they musta stopped here and parlayed for a spell.” He looked at Crooked Foot to see if the boy disagreed. Crooked Foot nodded, and Ike continued. “Watered their horses
and started again, but this time at a walk.” Ike nodded his head, agreeing with his own assessment of the situation. “I’d say we’d best watch our behinds from here on.”

  “How close?” Matt asked. Like his companions, he had a strong feeling that the two outlaws had paused here to have a discussion about something. And it was a good possibility that the subject might be to lay in wait for anyone following them.

  “Pretty damn close,” Ike replied. “These tracks is pretty fresh.

  Matt glanced at Crooked Foot. The Cherokee boy was in agreement. Matt turned to study the steep bluffs at the bend of the creek. “If a man was planning to ambush somebody, those bluffs up ahead would be a damn good place to do it.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’,” Ike said.

  “Might be wise to circle that bend, and scout it from the other side,” Matt suggested.

  Ike and Crooked Foot concurred, so they turned and rode back the way they had come until reaching the cut where they had descended the bluffs that bordered the creek. Riding up into the bluffs again, they stopped momentarily before proceeding. A long ridge ran parallel to the bluffs, but there was very little cover in the way of trees, so Ike suggested they should cross over the ridge and take a wide swing around it, maybe finding better cover on the other side.

  As Ike had hoped, the ridge they crossed was one of a series, running more or less parallel and offering protection from any eyes watching from the bluffs. They guided their horses along the base of the second ridge until reaching a point they guessed was approximate to the steep bluff at the creek’s bend. “Best leave the horses here in these trees,” Ike suggested.

  On foot now, they spread out and started making their way carefully up to the bluffs again. Keeping low to the ground, Matt moved cautiously, but rapidly, to the crest of the ridge where he flattened himself on the ground, and scanned the broken line of bluffs some fifty yards before him. From where he lay, there was nothing but open ground between the trees on the ridge and the gullies and cuts that ran down to the creek. Crooked Foot crawled up beside him, and tapped him lightly on the arm. When Matt turned his head toward him, the Cherokee boy pointed to a small, dark object that appeared to be lying on the ground at the edge of one of the deeper gullies. Matt looked at it, then turned back to Crooked Foot, puzzled.