Will positioned himself a few yards away from them where he could see everything that passed between them. It had been his intention to take both of them back to Fort Smith to hang, if at all possible, but he had been given no choice. His concern now was the Colt .44 lying several feet away from Ben’s feet. So he walked over to pick it up before Brock might have a sudden impulse to avenge his killing. Will watched the final moments between the two murderers while he emptied the cartridges out of Ben’s gun and tossed it over with the other weapons on the ground. Seeing the genuine look of vengeance on Brock’s face, Will couldn’t help thinking it fateful justice for Brock to experience the loss that he and Ben had brought to innocent people. He thought of Ed Pine, especially, left for dead by the two outlaws, and for a brief moment, he was tempted to do the same to Brock. But he told himself that he was going to do his job and take him back to be tried.
When Brock finally accepted the fact that Ben was dead, he turned to gaze at the deputy marshal watching him, his rifle ready to fire if necessary. “You killed him,” Brock said in angry accusation. “You murdered him!”
“I didn’t murder him,” Will answered calmly. “He committed suicide.”
“Damn you, you son of a bitch,” Brock spat. “Are you gonna shoot me now?”
“If you do something stupid like he did,” Will replied. “It was my intention to take the two of you back to Fort Smith for trial. I kinda expected one of you to make a dumb move, and the same thing is gonna happen if you’re thinkin’ about tryin’ to be as dumb, too. Like I told you, you’re under arrest, but if you behave yourself and don’t give me any trouble, I won’t be hard on you. I’ve got a little shovel with my packs. I’ll even let you dig a grave and bury him if you want to. Or we can just leave him for the buzzards, like you did with Ed Pine.”
“Who the hell’s Ed Pine?” Brock growled.
“He’s that deputy marshal you bushwhacked west of Muskogee.”
“Oh,” Brock responded simply, then blurted, “Who said we killed that son of a bitch? We never killed no marshal.”
“Sorry, Brock,” Will said. “There was a witness to the murder, a young Creek boy saw you do it. Besides, there ain’t no need to lie about it. I expect you’ll hang for killin’ that train guard in Muskogee, anyway. There were witnesses on that job, too.”
“I didn’t kill nobody,” Brock said, realizing he was bound to be hanged. “Ben did the shootin’. I never shot at anybody. You’ve got no cause to arrest me.”
“Is that a fact?” Will replied. “Well, maybe the judge will just give you a little jail time for associatin’ with the wrong people. It doesn’t make a lot of difference to me. My job is to escort you back for trial, then it’s up to the judge and the witnesses.” He shrugged then and concluded, “So, you wanna dig a grave for Trout, or not? I figure we’ve got about a hundred and fifty miles or so from here to Fort Smith, and I’m aimin’ to get started at first light. That don’t give you much time.”
“I don’t think Ben gives a damn if I bury him or not,” Brock decided, having no inclination to dig a hole big enough for Ben’s huge body.
“Right,” Will said. “I expect he doesn’t. After I get you settled down real comfortable, I’ll drag his body away from the creek, so when he starts to rot, it won’t run down in the stream and ruin the drinkin’ water.”
He ordered Brock to get to his feet then and marched him back to a tree close to the fire. After he fitted him with a pair of the handcuffs Ben had discovered in the packs, he attached a short length of chain from the same pack and secured Brock to the tree. Then he dropped the blanket over him that he had used as a decoy by the fire. “This blanket’s got a lot of holes in it,” he said, “but I think there’s enough of it left to keep you from gettin’ too cold.” Satisfied that his prisoner was not going anywhere, he collected the weapons they had dropped and checked to be sure they were unloaded before leaving them with his packs. After he had taken care of the horses, he unrolled his bedroll, and using his saddle for a pillow, closed his eyes for a couple of hours’ sleep.
* * *
Will opened his eyes with the first rays of light that found the ravine. He looked at once toward the tree to make sure his prisoner was still secured. Brock was still sleeping. After having a difficult time adjusting to his new sleeping arrangement, he had finally succumbed to fatigue and drifted off barely an hour before dawn. Content to let him sleep while he broke camp, Will saddled the horses, including Ben’s and Coy’s, and loaded his packhorse. When he was ready to ride, he walked over and kicked the bottom of Brock’s boot. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”
Brock snorted, still groggy from lack of sleep, and started to scramble up on his feet, only to be jerked back by the chain attached to the tree. Back on his rear end again, he scowled as he came to his senses and realized where he was. “Take these things offa me,” he demanded. “I need to take a leak, and I can’t do nothin’ chained to a tree.”
Will removed the chain from Brock’s handcuffs, but left the handcuffs on. Brock protested that he needed his hands free to take care of his business. “You’re gonna find out that you can do most anything with those handcuffs on. So you go right ahead and take a leak. As soon as you’re done, you can step up in that saddle, and we’ll get started.”
“What about breakfast?” Brock asked.
“We’ll stop for breakfast when we have to rest the horses,” Will said.
Brock proceeded to perform his toilet while Will stood a few yards away with his Winchester trained on him. Finishing up, a question occurred to Brock that he hadn’t thought about till just that moment. “Where the hell were you hidin’ when we rode up here last night?”
“I wasn’t hidin’,” Will replied. “I was just sittin’ on that rock over there, waitin’ for you boys to show up.”
“The hell you were,” Brock growled after looking at the rock Will had motioned toward. “We’da seen you if you was.”
“You were just too anxious to see what I was carryin’ in my packs to notice anything else.” It was partly true—he had been at the large outcropping of rock, some fifteen yards from the fire. He was not sitting on it, however. When the shooting started, the bullets were flying so thick and fast from the top of the ravine, he had been flat on his belly, trying his best to crawl up under the rocks. He had remained there until the shooting finally stopped, regretting the fact that he had not found a better place. He saw no reason to confess this to his prisoner. “I believe I saw you come ridin’ by me on that sorrel when I was sittin’ on that rock, so suppose you climb up on him, and we’ll get started.”
Will rode out of the ravine with Brock on the sorrel behind him, his reins tied to a lead rope tied to Will’s saddle. Behind Brock, Ben Trout’s roan, the sorrel Coy had ridden, and Will’s bay packhorse followed. His prisoner had very little to say, having already learned that his complaints had no influence upon his jailor. And he had made no request to say a final word to his late partner.
Starting out on a course that he guessed was more or less in the direction of Fort Gibson, Will figured to strike that fort after about a day and a half. He had given a great deal of thought to the matter of Ed Pine. He knew he had to get back to see if Ed had survived his wounds. He had promised Ed that he would. If he had, then Will felt it his responsibility to take him back to Fort Smith as soon as he was able to ride. The problem was, Ed’s recovery might take some time yet, and Will had a prisoner on his hands that he needed to transport to Fort Smith as soon as possible. He couldn’t wait for Ed to get well enough to travel. Even if he was well enough to stay on a horse now, it might prove to be considerably difficult to try to deliver a prisoner at the same time. Then it occurred to him that he could take Ed to the army hospital at Fort Gibson and the doctors there.I should have done that in the first place, he thought. It would still depend on whether or not Ed was even well enough to take the ride to Fort Gibson. It was only a distance of about twenty-five or t
hirty miles. There was nothing left but to wait and see how well Ed was after Walking Bird’s care. Thinking again of his prisoner, he decided the best thing to do was to take Brock to Fort Gibson first. He was sure the soldiers would let him leave him in the guardhouse while he went to get Ed.
After a ride of about twelve miles, Will saw a line of trees snaking across the flat white prairie, which surely indicated water. He decided he would stop there to rest the horses and rustle up some breakfast for his prisoner and himself. There were a few snow flurries when they first left the low line of hills where he had captured Brock, but they had not been in the saddle long before there was a break in the clouds and the sun peeked through again. Will looked back at the sullen man behind him, and said, “We’ll stop up there by that creek and rest these horses. Then I’ll feed you.”
“It’s about time,” Brock grumbled, his first words since leaving the ravine.
They rode for almost another half hour before actually reaching the narrow creek, bordered on both sides by cottonwoods. Will pulled up near the bank and stepped down, his rifle in one hand, and stood beside the sorrel waiting for Brock to dismount. He watched patiently while Brock threw one leg over and lowered himself to the ground, his handcuffed hands holding on to the saddle horn. Based on his experience in transporting felons, Will figured this would probably be the time when his prisoner tested him. Brock didn’t disappoint him.
“Somethin’s wrong,” Brock started. “My hands are caught on the saddle horn.”
“Is that right?” Will replied, and stepped closer as if to take a look. When he did, Brock swung his bound hands around, using the weight of the heavy manacles like a bludgeon, aiming at Will’s head. Ready for just such a move, Will ducked and countered with a sharp blow to Brock’s ribs with the butt of his rifle. Brock dropped to the ground in pain, the wind knocked from him by the blow. Unable to move for a few moments while he struggled to regain his breathing, he was rendered helpless. “I thought I made myself clear when I told you if you behaved yourself, I wouldn’t go too hard on you. Looks like you already forgot that.” He left him there to recover while he led the horses to water. He was still on the ground, having struggled up on one knee when Will walked back up from the creek carrying the length of chain he had used before.
“Damn you,” Brock said, wincing with pain. “I think you broke my ribs.”
“I might have,” Will responded. “You didn’t give me much time to pick a spot that wasn’t so tender. Hold up your hands.” Brock did as he was told, and Will attached the length of chain to his handcuffs. “Now let’s see if we can get you on your feet.” Over Brock’s protest, Will pulled him up to stand on his feet. Brock remained stooped over, however, since his ribs hurt too badly when he tried to straighten up. With Will leading him with the chain, Brock walked slowly over to a large cottonwood with a low-hanging limb. Will hooked the end of the chain around the limb. With his prisoner chained to the tree, Will proceeded to gather wood to build a fire and prepared to cook some breakfast.
After a breakfast of nothing more than coffee and bacon, Brock’s condition improved to the point where he decided his ribs were probably bruised, but not broken. Convinced that he was not seriously injured, after all, he regained his contemptuous manner. He stared with intense defiance into Will’s eyes when Will emptied the last of the coffeepot into their cups. “What the hell is your name?” Brock suddenly blurted. “I know it ain’t Walker.”
“That’s a fact,” Will replied. “The name’s Will Tanner. I’m a deputy marshal outta Fort Smith, same as that deputy you and your partner gunned down.”
“Tanner, huh? I shoulda known you were a lawman the first time I saw you,” he said. “You had that look about you that a man can’t trust.” Will didn’t reply, his only response a wry smile, so Brock went on. “Me and Ben always figured any man’s a damn fool to ride for the law. How much they pay you for comin’ after us?”
“Not enough,” Will answered, and got to his feet to pick up his coffeepot and frying pan.
“If you had any sense, you’d throw that badge in the creek and make some real money,” Brock said, raising his voice to call after Will’s back, as he continued walking to the creek to rinse the coffeepot and pan in the creek. “That money you found in our saddlebags is just a little bit of the money that’s waitin’ out there—easy as pickin’ berries offa bush. You oughta think about that. Course you’d need a partner, one that knows how to get things done. You can’t tell me the thought ain’t ever crossed your mind. I know what you might be thinkin’—I mean about Ben and all. But I wouldn’t hold no hard feelin’s about that. Hell, he drew on you. You didn’t have no choice.”
Will came back up from the creek and paused to look at the deceitful man, scarcely able to believe that he was making a pitch to join him in crime. He found it impossible not to reply sarcastically. “That sure is a temptin’ idea,” he said. “But I reckon if I decide to go over to the other side of the law, I’d want a partner with a little more brains than to wind up chained to a tree with his ribs stove up. Now, get off your backside and let’s get movin’. The horses are rested enough.”
“Damn you,” Brock cursed, defiant again. “It’s a long way from here to Fort Smith. There’s a lot can happen before we get there.”
“You might be right,” Will said. “That’s why I’m fixin’ to let you visit the army for a spell while I go see if that deputy you shot is still alive.”
“I told you,” Brock protested, “I never shot nobody. Ben did all the killin’.” He didn’t like the idea of being turned over to the army, thinking his chances of escape might be worse in an army guardhouse. “Besides, ain’t no use goin’ back to look for that feller. He was dead when we rode outta that gulch. We might as well keep on ridin’ to Fort Smith.”
“Well, that ain’t exactly true,” Will said. “Ed Pine is a little bit tougher to put under than you and Trout thought. I’m figuring on Ed ridin’ to Fort Smith with us, and I’m thinkin’ he’s most likely gonna want his boots back. Too bad you didn’t bring along an extra pair when you came after me.”
Brock was visibly stunned by the remark, having forgotten that he was wearing Ed’s boots. “What . . . ?” he sputtered. “His boots? I ain’t got his boots.”
“When you and Ben left Ed to die, you stole his boots, and if I remember correctly, they look just like that pair you’re wearin’.”
“Somebody else stole his boots,” Brock insisted. “I bought these boots in Kansas City.”
“Is that a fact?” Will responded. “Well, I reckon they won’t have Ed’s initials scratched inside ’em, then.” He had no idea if Ed scratched his initials inside his boots or not, but he felt his hunch was a correct one when Brock couldn’t help taking a quick look inside the top of his boot. With cuffed hands, he hooked his thumbs inside the top of his other boot before he glanced up to see Will watching him, an accusing smile upon his face. Realizing then that he had been played, he claimed, “I bought these boots. I don’t know nothin’ about that deputy’s boots.”
“Right,” Will said. “I’ll let you wear ’em till I pick Ed up. Then I expect you’ll be goin’ barefoot.” The prospect of going without boots was not welcome news to Brock, and he thought of his old boots left with the packs back at Sartain’s.
CHAPTER 8
After another camp that night, they struck the Arkansas River and followed it for half a day before reaching Fort Gibson. The fort was built on the Neosho River, also known as the Grand, three miles upstream from the confluence of the Arkansas, Verdigris, and Neosho rivers. Located on a wide ledge of shelving rock on the east bank of the river, it would seem a natural boat landing. Will had never been to the fort, but was well aware of its location and how it happened to be there. At one time, it had been taken over by the Cherokees, but the Union army had reclaimed it after the Civil War. And now it was a key post in the army’s control of the various Indian tribes in the territory. He could see signs of continuing develop
ment as he led his prisoner toward the stockade. There were a few stone buildings, as well as the original log structures, and more stone buildings under construction. The fort looked busy, with soldiers coming and going in all directions, but none seemed to pay much attention to the man leading a handcuffed prisoner across the parade ground. So he guided Buster toward what he guessed might be the headquarters building, a stone structure on the far side of the parade ground. There was a hitching rail in front of the building, so he pulled the horses up there and tied them. He didn’t miss the faint gleam of hope in Brock’s eyes while he was looping the reins over the rail. “You wanna get down, or are you gonna sit there?” Will asked him.
“I’ll just set right where I am,” Brock said, his mind already working on the possible opportunity for escape when Will went inside.
“Suit yourself,” Will said. He went to his packhorse and pulled the length of chain out of one of the packs.
“Ah hell, no,” Brock protested at once. “There ain’t no call for that.”
Ignoring his objections, Will locked the chain around Brock’s cuffed hands and locked the other end around the hitching rail. “Just in case that horse decides to take off, I wanna be sure you stay here.” His remark was met with a sour scowl from his prisoner, which he also ignored.
He opened the door partway and looked in before entering since he was not sure he was in the right place. Two soldiers were seated at desks in the front room. Noticing that one of them was wearing sergeant’s stripes, he pushed on inside. The sudden appearance of the tall, rangy civilian in the doorway caused both men to stare in bored puzzlement. They remained silent, waiting for Will to state his business. Will walked over and stood before the sergeant’s desk. “Something I can do for you, mister?” the sergeant finally asked.
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