Outlaw

by Charles G. West

  “Well, you can get some supper in the saloon,” Jonah answered. “But if you’re talkin’ ’bout home-style cookin’, there’s Libby’s Kitchen, behind the hotel. That’s where most of the teamsters eat.”

  Matt smiled. “That sounds like the place I’m lookin’ for.”

  With the horses settled in, they walked out to look the town over. Considering the fact that the soldiers at the fort were uneasy about Sioux activity, no one in town appeared to give it any thought. “I expect I’m gonna need a shot before my supper,” Ike said when they stopped in front of the saloon.

  “You go ahead,” Matt replied. “I think I wanna sample Miss Libby’s cookin’ while I’m sober. Maybe I’ll join you later. If not, I’ll see you back at the stable.” He turned to leave, but then remembered the first time he met Ike. “Don’t get in any card game. You’re the worst poker player I’ve ever seen.”

  Ike grinned, not at all insulted by his friend’s remark. “You just ain’t ever seen me on a good night. I was drunk that night in Fort Smith.”

  * * *

  Libby Donovan barely glanced up when the tall young man in buckskins opened the door and paused to look around the room. She had seen hundreds of roughshod men since she took over the hotel kitchen five years ago—trappers, soldiers, scouts, teamsters, saddle tramps. This one didn’t look much different from the rest. Equally disinterested, most of the men gathered around the twelve-foot table wasted no more than a casual glance at the stranger, their attention focused on the huge bowl of stew Libby was holding.

  “Am I too late to get supper?” Matt asked.

  “I reckon not,” the belabored woman replied, brushing a wayward strand of hair from her face with the hand that held the serving spoon. A blob of stew dropped to the floor, and was immediately retrieved by a black-and-white mongrel dog that had been lying under the table. “Molly!” Libby yelled. “Bring out another plate.” Turning back to Matt, she said, “Well, don’t stand there with the door open. The food’s gettin’ cold. You can lay that rifle down on the table by the door.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Matt replied dutifully, and stepped inside. There was a table just inside the door where several weapons were parked. He propped the Henry carefully against the wall next to the table.

  “Jake, slide over that way a little so’s this feller can set down,” Libby commanded. “Calvin there ain’t gonna bite you. Are you, Calvin?”

  The man called Calvin grinned and replied, “I don’t know. If he gets his elbows in my way, I might.”

  “That would be a bite of some pretty rancid meat,” one of the others remarked, causing the diners to laugh.

  “Much obliged,” Matt said to Jake as he wedged his wide shoulders in the gap created between the two men, and gave a brief nod to the others.

  In a few minutes, a young girl came from the kitchen, carrying a plate, fork, and spoon. She gave the stranger a good looking over as she set them before him on the table. Matt barely noticed her. His eyes were following the bowl of stew in the older woman’s hands, following its progress around the table toward him. Libby’s portions were generous, and Matt feared that she might empty the bowl before she got to him. She must have sensed it, because she sent Molly back to the kitchen to get another bowl. When she got to Matt, she said, “Don’t fret, young feller, I ain’t ever sent anybody away hungry.”

  She was as good as her word. Matt had never seen so much food in one place before. There was not a wide variety of dishes to be sure, but there were ample supplies of the few she served—stew, corn bread and biscuits, soup-beans, fried potatoes, and all the coffee you could drink. Like the other customers, Matt dug in with a vengeance. For a long period, until appetites had been sated, there was no talking beyond an occasional word, a grunt here, a belch there. After most bellies were tightened to discomfort, some casual conversation broke out around the table.

  Matt sat back to finish his coffee and listen to the idle talk. His gaze shifted back and forth around the room until it settled for a moment on the young girl clearing the empty dishes from the table. She was looking at him, and did not look away when their eyes met. He smiled, causing her to blush and quickly avert her gaze.

  “I ain’t never seen you around here before,” the man identified as Jake remarked.

  Matt smiled. “I ain’t ever been around here before,” he replied.

  “You figurin’ on workin’ for the army?” Jake asked. “From what I hear, the army’s lookin’ to hire more scouts.”

  “Hadn’t figured on it,” Matt said. “I don’t know anything about this country out here. I’d be a poor scout right now.”

  “From what they say, a lot of the army’s scouts don’t know much about this country. I reckon all they need to know is how to find their way back home and tell the soldiers if they see any Injuns.”

  A man across the table from them, who had been listening in on their conversation, joined in. “I hear they pay pretty good. Tell you the truth, I thought you looked like one of them army scouts when you walked in here—even thought you mighta been in the army.”

  There were beginning to be too many questions for his comfort, so Matt got up from the table. “I used to be in the army,” he said, “but it was a different army.” Turning to Libby, he said, “That was a mighty fine meal, ma’am. How much do I owe you?”

  After he settled up with Libby, he picked up his rifle to leave. She followed him to the door. “If you’re gonna be in town for a while,” she said, “I serve breakfast and supper, six days a week.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “I expect you’ll see me again.” He glanced over her shoulder to discover Molly staring at him. Upon being discovered, she quickly turned and disappeared through the kitchen door. Outside, he breathed in deeply, embracing the cold night air. Then he went in search of Ike.

  Ike was still in the saloon where the two had parted about an hour earlier. Much to Matt’s relief, his huge partner had found a friendly game of cards and was only slightly drunk. When Matt walked in, Ike grinned wide, and introduced him to his friends. “Fellers, meet my partner, Shannon. He’s come to make sure I get home all right.” The three men all nodded and said howdy. Matt sat and watched for a while. It seemed like an honest game.

  Later when they walked back to the stable, Ike seemed content. He had a comfortable whiskey buzz on, and he had lost no more than five or ten dollars. And as he put it, “Where can you buy a better evening’s pleasure for five dollars?” After settling down in the fresh hay Jonah had forked out for their beds, both men were leaning toward staying in Nebraska City for a few days more. Just before drifting off to sleep, Matt concentrated on the young girl at Libby’s, trying to picture her face. No particular reason, he told himself. He was just curious.

  * * *

  Sheriff Sam Baldwin sat at the back corner table in the saloon with Boyd Jenkins across from him. It had been two days since Sam’s deputy had come to work to find Lonnie Johnson’s old hound dog cleaning up a plate of food on the front porch of the jail. The deputy usually unlocked the front door every morning and started a fire in the stove. But that morning he had been surprised to find the door unlocked. Inside, the sheriff was asleep on the rough bunk in a locked cell. The other cell was occupied by Lonnie Johnson, who had let himself in, being too drunk to find his way home. The deputy had laughingly told Boyd Jenkins that it was the first time the sheriff had slept off a drunk in the jailhouse, and one of the few times that Lonnie had enjoyed some company.

  The incident was talked about in humorous conversation all over Topeka Landing, but not in the sheriff’s presence. Sam was not prone to being the butt of any joke, and this incident was especially galling. On this day, having a drink with Boyd, Sam complained that there was nothing any man could have done to prevent Ike Brister’s escape. “The son of a bitch had the drop on me,” he explained, referring to Brister’s partner. He tossed back the remains of his drink, and stared wistfully past Boyd, his mind on what might have been. “I had a
five-hundred-dollar reward in my hands.” His focus returned to the present then. “But a man don’t argue with a Henry rifle aimed at him.”

  “You did as much as any man could, Sam,” Boyd said in an attempt to placate the sheriff. “Well, I reckon I’d better get back to the stable.” He prepared to get up from the table.

  Sam’s attention was distracted by someone at the door. “Who the hell’s that?” he asked.

  Boyd turned to see. “Don’t know. I ain’t ever seen him before.”

  Sam and Boyd were not the only ones noticing the man who stepped inside the saloon door, and stood surveying the room before entering. All conversation ceased for a moment as everyone gaped at the dark stranger. Dressed almost entirely in black, his shoulders protected from the afternoon chill by a wide black cloak that hung almost to the tops of his black leather boots, he stood motionless while deep-set eyes scanned the room from beneath heavy brows. A wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hat was pulled down to his eyebrows. His dark hair was shoulder-length and lay heavily upon his shoulders. He carried a Spencer carbine in one hand, and when he moved to approach the bar, he pushed the cloak back to reveal two revolvers worn in his belt, the butts of the handles forward.

  “I swear,” Boyd remarked quietly, “I believe the devil himself has come to call.” Had he known more about Jesse Tyler, he would have realized how close to being accurate he was.

  “What’s your pleasure, mister?” The bartender asked.

  “I’m lookin’ for a man,” Tyler replied. “He came this way—name’s Shannon.”

  The bartender shook his head, then looked at a couple of other men standing at the bar. Like him, they shook their heads. “I don’t recall meetin’ anybody by that name,” the bartender said.

  Tyler scowled his displeasure. He had been tracking the man he knew as Shannon for weeks, and the trail had led to Topeka Landing. “Carries a fancy Henry rifle,” he pressed. “He’s riding with another man—a big man.”

  There was little doubt then. The bartender nodded vigorously. “You must be talkin’ about the feller that walked right in Doc Manning’s treatment room and shot some feller.” The other men standing at the bar nodded in unison. “I don’t rightly know what his name was, but the other’un, the big’un was locked up in the jail till that feller sprung ’im.”

  “Who was he?” Tyler demanded. “The man he shot, who was he?”

  “I can’t say, mister, didn’t nobody know his name. Couple of the fellers toted him up to the cemetery and buried him. He weren’t from around here. They said he was as bald as an onion, didn’t look like he had no hair on him a’tall.”

  Eli! Tyler thought. The image of his former partner sprang immediately to mind. He gripped the Spencer tightly, the scowl deepening as he thought of Shannon leaving another dead man in his wake. One by one, Shannon had eliminated the entire gang that rode with Brance Burkett. Tyler had found Brance’s body in a gully north of Springfield—and now Eli here in this town. His frustration had built to a blinding crusade to kill this one man who tormented his soul so. Each mile he trailed him intensified his hatred for the man who had killed his brother. “Where is he now?” Tyler demanded.

  “Hell, mister, I told you. He busted his partner outta jail and hightailed it.” When the look on the stranger’s face hinted that he might hold him accountable for Shannon’s whereabouts, the bartender directed him toward the table in the back corner. “There’s the sheriff settin’ over there. Maybe he can tell you more.”

  Tyler jerked his eyes over toward the table, squinting at the two men in the back corner. He had a natural aversion to lawmen in any form, but he wanted Shannon, so he walked over to the table. Standing before them, he scowled at one and then the other, deciding which one was the sheriff, for neither wore a badge. Baldwin broke the silence.

  “I’m the sheriff here,” Sam said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Shannon,” Tyler replied. “I’m lookin’ for him—bartender says you let him bust his partner outta jail.”

  The comment caused Sam to redden a bit. “Was that his name? I didn’t have much choice,” the sheriff replied heatedly. “He got the drop on me with that repeatin’ rifle.”

  “Which way did he go?” Tyler asked, unconcerned with the sheriff’s defense of his inability to hold his prisoner.

  “Who wants to know?” Sam responded, getting a bit more hot under the collar from the stranger’s tone.

  Tyler didn’t answer right away, his gaze like cold steel as it locked onto Sam’s. When he spoke, it came as a growl. “Somebody who ain’t got time to play games with a two-bit lawman.”

  The two men glowered at each other for a long moment before Sam yielded, and shifted his gaze toward Boyd, who was staring wide-eyed, waiting for Sam’s reaction. Just then aware of the deathly silence in the previously noisy saloon, the sheriff realized that everyone there was watching for his reaction. In an attempt to exhibit some authority, he started to get out of his chair to face the sinister stranger.

  “Set down,” Tyler commanded softly, and brought the Spencer up before him.

  There was no bluff in the dark stranger’s eyes. Sam sank back down in the chair. He had faced some rough and desperate men before—though not on many occasions—but this was the first time he had ever faced pure evil in its earthly form. He had no reason to believe the man would hesitate to shoot him, and his better judgment told him this was not the time to push his luck. He tried to grin as he said, “There ain’t no sense in gettin’ riled, is there?” Tyler continued to stare at him. “It’d be a good thing if you did catch him. I got a posse together, and we trailed him to the county line, but they had too much of a start on us.”

  “Which way?” Tyler pressed impatiently.

  “West,” Sam sputtered. “They was following the river. That’s all I know. We had to turn back at the Big Blue.”

  “When?” Tyler demanded.

  “Three days ago,” Sam replied.

  Tyler paused to consider that. Three days. He was getting closer to him. He could feel his blood heating up. It was only a matter of time before the final reckoning. Satisfied then, he turned abruptly and walked toward the door, not willing to waste any more time.

  Staring at the man’s back, Sam could not resist making a move to save some of the respect he had no doubt lost as a result of his obvious backing down. He pushed his chair back, and drew his pistol as he stood up. “Now, mister, you can just hold up there a minute. I got a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  Tyler stopped, and stood with his back toward Sam for a moment before slowly turning to face him. He didn’t speak, but stood silently measuring his adversary. The gun in Sam’s hand was trembling. Though slight, it did not go unnoticed by the sneering man in black as he made judgment upon the sheriff’s courage.

  “Drop the rifle,” Sam ordered, his voice betraying a lack of conviction.

  A thin smile appeared at the corners of Tyler’s mouth, and the rifle dropped to the barroom floor with a loud clatter. Startled, Sam’s eyes flicked toward the rifle, shifting back just in time to see a pistol come out from under the black cloak. The silence of the spellbound saloon was shattered by three shots, two ripping into the sheriff’s belly, the third from the sheriff’s revolver, sending a slug into the floor. Tyler surveyed the spectators calmly before picking up his rifle, and unhurriedly taking his leave.

  Chapter 18

  Libby Donovan paused in the kitchen doorway for a moment, watching her daughter as the young girl slowly circled the table, stopping at each plate to dish out a heaping spoonful of corn pudding. Poor Molly, she thought, not much of a life for a young girl. It saddened her to know that her daughter had few prospects for a happy life, and she worried about what might become of the frail young girl if something should happen to her mother. It was a hard life for Molly. That fact in itself was not cause for despair. Most everyone Libby knew had a hard life. It was the fact that life was unfair when the cards were dealt, and every once in a
while these thoughts came to trouble Libby’s mind.

  She had been a widow for twelve years now since God’s hand had reached down to touch Robert Donovan in his prime. On stormy nights, even to this day, Libby imagined that she could still smell the faint sulfurous odor wafting up from the muddy ruts on the night lightning struck their wagon during the worst storm she had ever experienced. It had come upon them so suddenly that Libby sometimes felt that God had intentionally come for Robert. When the bolt struck the wagon, the flash of fire that jumped from the iron rim of the wheel was so bright that it blinded her for a few moments. When she could see again, Robert was lying dead in the mud beside the wagon, his skin burned black all over his body, the hair on his head singed off. He had been holding onto the wheel while he climbed down from the wagon carrying four-year-old Molly in his arms. When Libby looked around for the child, she found little Molly some yards away, still breathing, but unconscious.

  In that horrible moment when God touched her life, Libby thought she had lost both husband and child. Little Molly lay sleeping for two days and three nights before she awakened, apparently without memory of the tragedy. She appeared to be normal except for one thing: the child never spoke another word from that day until this. And that was the inequity of life, as Libby saw it. Molly was a bright and cheerful girl, though shy around other people. Because she was mute, most people assumed she was also slow-witted.

  Libby could not help but sigh as she watched the girl serving her guests. She feared the day had arrived that she most dreaded. She had first noticed it when the tall young stranger in buckskins returned for breakfast the day before. And now it was even more obvious to her when Molly’s eyes never left the young man as she ladled out the corn pudding on one plate after another. Libby felt the hurt that Molly was bound to experience.

  Matt extracted his long legs from the bench, and stood up, waiting for Ike to finish his last biscuit. When the big man finally called it quits, Matt retrieved his rifle from the table by the door, and stepped out on the porch. In a few moments, Ike followed him, and they stood filling their lungs with the crisp autumn air. “I could use a little shooter to settle my vittles,” Ike announced.