A Stranger in Town

by William W. Johnstone

  * * *

  Early the next morning, they carried Ed Pine down the path by the creek and made him as comfortable as possible in the ambulance. As a parting gift, Walking Bird brought Will and the soldiers some corn cakes she had made early that morning. After Ed had expressed his appreciation to her and her grandson, the party prepared to get under way. Walking Bird walked over beside Will’s horse when he was about to step up into the saddle. “You are a good man, Will Tanner,” she said to him. “You be careful chasing those bad men.”

  “I will,” he said, and thanked her again for taking care of Ed. With a nod to Walter Strong Bow, he said, “Take care of your grandmother.” Walter nodded in return.

  Will turned Buster toward the northern end of the hills, and the big buckskin gelding led the ambulance bearing Ed Pine back the way they had come. As they reached the northernmost hill in the range and struck a more easterly course, Will couldn’t help wondering how much longer the old woman could continue to live in her isolated tipi with no one but her grandson to support her.

  As they had on the ride down to the hills, they traveled over the open prairie until it was time to stop and rest the horses. Ed seemed to be comfortable enough in the ambulance, actually sleeping for a good part of the time, causing a wisecrack from Private Blunt. “Hell, he don’t mind this wagon ride a-tall. How ’bout swappin’ off some? Let him drive these horses, and I’ll take a turn in the back.”

  Under way again, they made good time. The weather was cool, but with no snowfall to amount to much, allowing the ambulance to travel easily. They arrived at Fort Gibson at around four-thirty in the afternoon, just as the bugler sounded “Stable Call.” The sound of the bugle caused Blunt and Corporal Ware to encourage the horses, since “Mess Call” would follow thirty minutes later. In their haste to make it to the mess hall in time, they drove the ambulance straight to the post hospital and lost no time carrying Ed Pine in the door. They were met by a hospital orderly named Johnson, who was reluctant to admit the patient without some form of authorization, for Ed was clearly not a soldier. In the midst of a hurried attempt to explain, Corporal Ware was saved by the arrival of Captain John Welch.

  “Is this the wounded deputy marshal?” Welch, a surgeon, asked. When Ware said that it was, Welch turned to the orderly and said, “Find him a bed, Johnson. Major Vancil told me we were getting a gunshot marshal, if he was still alive. I’ll have a look at him before I go to supper.”

  Standing, silently watching during Ed’s admittance, Will stepped forward to speak to him before leaving him in the army’s hands. “Well, I reckon I’ll be seein’ you sometime after they fix you all up. Don’t give the doctor no trouble, and if they don’t do a good job, I’ll come getcha and take you back to see old Walkin’ Bird.” Ed made an effort to give him a grin.

  Will left the hospital, feeling that he had done what he could for Ed. His thoughts were now concentrated on Brock Larsen, so he went directly to the guardhouse. He caught Sergeant Gossage just as he was about to go to supper. “I see you made it back,” Gossage said when Will reined Buster up before the door. “How ’bout your man, did he make it back all right?” Will said that he had and he was already in the hospital. “Well, that’s good,” Gossage went on. “You come to get your prisoner now?”

  “No,” Will replied. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to leave him with you one more night and pick him up in the mornin’.”

  “Fine with me,” Gossage said. “I was afraid you wanted me to release him right now when I was fixin’ to go to supper. Why don’t you tie your horse on the porch post, and we’ll go get something to eat? Have a little supper courtesy of the U.S. army.”

  “That sounds to my likin’,” Will said. “I believe I will.” They walked across the parade ground to the mess hall, after Will promised Buster he’d see that he got a full ration of oats when he got back. After supper, Will thanked Gossage for the army’s hospitality, then rode Buster to the stables to get his other horses. All four, their bridles still on, were bunched together in a corner of the corral. After helping himself to a portion of oats for each horse, he collected his saddlebags and his packs, loaded his horses, and led them back to the spot near the corn mill where he had camped before. He could have left the horses in the corral overnight, but he preferred to camp with his horses. He had an idea it would be better to avoid the early routine around the stables of an army post waking up in the morning. Unloading the horses once again by the river, he settled in for what he anticipated to be at least one more peaceful night before picking up his prisoner. As he kindled a fire in the ashes of the one he had built when he was there before, he thought about the ride ahead of him. Fort Smith would be a hard day’s ride from where he now was, a distance of over sixty miles. It was a ride he could make, if it was only him and Buster, but it would be hard on the buckskin. Even as anxious as he was to get Brock Larsen off his hands, he was going to have to make it a two-day ride back to Fort Smith. Since that would give him plenty of time, he decided he might as well let Larsen eat breakfast at the army’s expense before they started.

  * * *

  “Well, if it ain’t my old friend Will Tanner,” Brock Larsen snarled. “I was hopin’ you’d fell offa that buckskin of yours and broke your neck.” He held his wrists out for Will to put the handcuffs on him while Sergeant Gossage stood watching.

  “He’s a beaut, ain’t he?” Gossage commented. “He’s been doin’ some big talkin’ to the other prisoners—said he’d bet any of ’em that you’ll never get him all the way to Fort Smith.”

  “Is that so?” Will replied, not really concerned with Larsen’s boastful threats. “He might be right—I might shoot the son of a bitch before we get back to Fort Smith.” His response brought a few chuckles from the prisoners in the lockup behind Larsen.

  “You heard him, Sergeant,” Larsen charged. “Anything happens to me, it’ll be because he went loco again, like he did when he shot my partner—cold-blooded murder. Ain’t there somethin’ you soldiers can do to keep me here? My life ain’t worth a plug nickel the minute I set foot outta this fort with this hired killer.” He had decided that he might have more opportunity to escape from the guardhouse than he would with Will Tanner.

  “That is pretty serious business,” Gossage said, making no effort to hide his sarcasm. “I’ll tell Major Vancil to wire President Grant and see if he can get you a pardon.”

  “I expect you can go to hell, too,” Larsen grumbled.

  With an air of indifference, Will ignored the banter between the sergeant and his prisoner while he locked the cuffs securely. Turning to Gossage, he thanked him for letting him leave Larsen there while he went to get Ed Pine. Back to Larsen then, he said, “Let’s get movin’, we’ve got a ways to go today.”

  Gossage and a guard walked outside with Will and Larsen and stood by while they climbed into the saddle. “Well,” Gossage said, “he’s all yours. Come back and see us, Deputy—without your friend next time.” He and the guard stepped back then and watched as Will started out, leading Larsen behind him, and three horses on a line behind Larsen.

  CHAPTER 9

  After a short stop to rest the horses, Will pushed on, planning to stop for the night at Sallisaw Creek, a wide creek that journeyed down out of the hills to join the Arkansas River. Through most of the day, he was spared the complaints normally expected from his sullen prisoner. He might have been led to believe that Larsen had finally accepted his fate had it not been for his constant watchful eye, as if alert for any opportunity to escape.

  They arrived on the tree-covered banks of Sallisaw Creek in the middle of the afternoon. With plenty of daylight left to make camp, he decided to lead the horses south along the creek, looking for an easier crossing for them. Rounding a sharp bend, he was surprised to come upon a covered farm wagon on the opposite bank, halfway out of the water. Pulled by one old horse that appeared to have had better days, the wagon’s front wheels had managed to gain the creek bank, while the rear w
heels were submerged. Holding on to the horse’s bridle, a woman was pleading with the helpless horse to try harder to free the wagon. Beside her, a small boy pulled on one corner of the front wagon box, trying to help the horse in its task. Will reined Buster to a halt while he stared, astonished by the scene. There was no sign of a man anywhere, only the woman and the boy. “Would you look at that?” Will heard Larsen mutter behind him, the first words he had spoken in more than an hour. After a few moments more, Will nudged Buster to proceed.

  * * *

  “Curse you, Caesar,” Annabel Downing cried in utter frustration, “you can’t leave us stranded here! I’ve got everything I own in this wagon.” She pulled on the bridle as hard as she could, but the horse could not pull the wagon up the bank, even though it made an effort to hunker down and strain against the harness.

  “The back wheels must be hung on somethin’, Mama,” her son, Bobby, offered.

  “The front wheels made it to the bank,” his mother said. “I don’t understand why Caesar can’t pull the back wheels up, too.” She paused for a moment to take a breath, thinking about her cooking staples and their bedding and clothes, which were dangerously close to getting wet. The rear of the wagon box was almost sitting in the water already. She feared that if the horse didn’t continue to pull, the wagon might roll backward and water would seep into the bed.

  “What are we gonna do?” Bobby asked. “I don’t think Caesar can do it.”

  Annabel drew out a long sigh. “God has gotten us this far. I’m sure he won’t leave us here at this creek.” She only wished she believed it as she reached up to push a strand of hair from her forehead. Only then did she discover the two men and the horses standing still on the other side of the creek. At once alarmed, she instinctively drew her son to her side. When she and Bobby had jumped from the wagon, there had been no thought of grabbing the shotgun under the seat. Feeling helpless to defend Bobby and herself, if it came to that, she could only stand and watch as the men started across, guiding their horses into the water. Before they reached the bank where she stood, she could see that one of the men was leading the other’s horse. A lawman? She hoped so. There was nothing she could do but stand and wait. She attempted to assume a bearing of confidence and a lack of fear.

  “Looks like you’re havin’ yourself a little trouble,” Will called out as he approached the wagon. “Maybe I can lend a hand.” He made a point then of looking right and left before asking, “You and the boy ain’t alone, are you? Where’s your husband?”

  Annabel didn’t answer at once, still staring at the smiling face of Brock Larsen, who was openly appraising her. When she did respond, it was with a question. “Are you a lawman?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Will replied. “I’m a deputy marshal.”

  “And he’s a prisoner?” she asked, noticing that Brock’s hands were in irons.

  “That’s right,” Will said. “I’m takin’ him to Fort Smith to stand trial. But you ain’t told me what you’re doin’ out here—just you and the boy. Where’s your husband?”

  “Oh, he should be back any minute now,” Annabel said.

  “Ma?” the boy started, but she quickly shushed him, telling him not to interrupt the grown-ups. Her reaction did not go unnoticed by Will.

  “Maybe we can give you a hand. I expect you’d like to get your wagon outta the creek before he gets back,” Will said.

  “That would be a godsend,” Annabel said at once. “I know Robert will surely appreciate your help.”

  Will turned Buster’s head and led the horses a few yards away before pulling his rifle from the saddle sling and dismounting. “Get down and we’ll see if we can get the lady’s wagon on dry land,” he said to Larsen. He lowered his voice then and said, “Don’t think I won’t shoot you down if you try anything funny.”

  “I’m already about to freeze from crossin’ that creek,” Larsen complained. “I ain’t gonna get in that water, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.” They were both wet from the knees down because of the depth of the creek.

  “I think the back wheels are caught on somethin’,” the boy suggested.

  “Might be,” Will said. “I reckon we’ll find out. I expect you mighta found a hole in the bottom of the creek for the back end to sink like that.” He noticed that the wagon was loaded fairly heavy.

  Then Larsen blurted what Will was thinking. “More likely your horse is too poor to pull it outta the hole.”

  “He might be right,” Will said. “We’ll give him a little help. He looks like he could use it.” He glanced over at Larsen. “First we’ll find you a seat where you can be nice and comfortable while you watch.”

  “Ah no,” Larsen complained when Will got the length of chain from the pack. “You don’t need to put that damn leg iron on me again. It’s so tight it’s about to cut through my leg.”

  “Your new shoes are supposed to make it easier on you. You just figure this chain is your lifesaver,” Will said. “It’ll keep me from shootin’ you if you take a notion to run for it.” He pointed to a young oak. “Walk on over to that tree.”

  Annabel watched while Will secured Larsen to the tree, then took a coil of rope from one of the saddles. Before tying it onto the front axle, he waded partway into the creek to take a look at the back wagon wheels. Reluctant to getting wet over his boots if it wasn’t necessary, he decided to go ahead and tie the rope on and see if Buster could pull the wagon out. He figured if the wheels really had gotten hung up on some roots or something, Buster would snap the rope. Then he’d go in the water, if that happened, so he proceeded to tie the rope and hope Buster could do it without help from the other horses.

  Not sure what to say up to that point, Annabel finally expressed her appreciation. “I’m glad you came along when you did, sir. My husband will be sorry he missed you. He would certainly have helped you get the wagon out.” She looked around as if expecting to see him. “I don’t know what’s keeping him.”

  Busy testing the knot, Will paused and asked, “Where did he go?”

  “Uh . . .” she stammered, trying to think quickly, “. . . looking for some help.”

  Will started toward his horse, stringing the rope out behind him. When he reached her he paused. “Ma’am, I ain’t got no idea why you’re out here in Cherokee country all by yourself, but there ain’t no husband comin’ back to help you. You’ve got no need to worry about me and my prisoner. I’m just gonna try to help you if I can.”

  She flushed slightly, embarrassed by having been caught in what she realized was a pathetic attempt to deceive him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s pretty obvious that Bobby and I are traveling alone. But I do truly thank you for helping us.” She glanced at Brock Larsen, chained to the tree. “Your prisoner, what did he do?”

  “Oh, he’s done a lotta bad things,” Will said, not wishing to alarm her, “enough to earn him a day in court.” He started toward his horse again. “But before you go to thankin’ me, let’s see if Buster can get your wagon outta that hole.”

  Once he had secured the end of his rope to the saddle, he took Buster’s bridle in hand and led him until the slack was out. “All right,” he said, “get your horse to start pullin’ again.” The old horse gave his all once more. At Will’s command, Buster hunkered down and the wagon resisted for a brief moment, then rolled up over the creek bank, pulling one end of a fair-sized oak root with it. Bobby cheered and his mother smiled, relieved. Will untied his rope and coiled it. He gave Bobby a pat on the head and said, “Looks like you figured right, son, it was hung on a root,” even though he knew the root had little to do with holding the wagon back. He was a little surprised that the front wheels managed somehow to avoid the hole. He assumed that the back end of the wagon must have somehow shifted sideways when the lady’s horse was straining against the load.

  “I am so very grateful for your help,” Annabel said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t happened along.” She extended her hand. “I guess
I should at least introduce myself. I’m Annabel Downing, and this is my son, Bobby.”

  “Pleased to meetcha, ma’am. My name’s Will Tanner. I’m glad I could help.”

  She paused for an awkward moment before announcing, “Well, I guess Bobby and I can be on our way.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend you goin’ anywhere right now,” Will said. “That horse of yours is pretty much wore out. He’s gonna need some rest.” He nodded toward the sun lying low on the horizon. “There ain’t much daylight left, so you might as well make camp for the night. That’s what I was plannin’ to do when I came up on you, and this spot looks as good as any.”

  She hesitated again. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I guess I wasn’t thinking about poor Caesar—he must be tired.”

  He studied her face for a moment, while he considered whether or not to concern himself further. “If you don’t mind me askin’, where is it you’re goin’?”

  Looking suddenly tired, she replied, “I’m trying to get to Fort Smith.”

  “You got family there?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I have a sister and her husband there.”

  “Do they know you’re comin’?”

  “No, but I’m sure they’ll take Bobby and me in.” Even as she said it, she hoped that would be the case. She actually wasn’t sure Helen and Wallace still lived there. It had been two years since she and Robert stayed with them on their way to the farm Robert had bought north of Tahlequah. Bobby was only three then. Just thinking about it caused her mind to bring forth the last miserable years of her marriage to Robert Downing. In one sense, she dreaded going back to Helen’s home in Fort Smith. Helen and Wallace had tried to talk her out of going to Tahlequah, thinking it another of Robert’s poor decisions in a long list of moneymaking schemes. Unfortunately, they had been right, and she was not looking forward to telling them the rest of the story, even though they would no doubt say she was better off without Robert. Although she would rather keep it to herself, she knew she would have to tell Helen of the note he left under his pillow when he rode into town, supposedly to buy seed. She stifled a bitter smirk as she recalled his farewell, along with some simple directions back to Fort Smith. Drive the wagon south until you reach the Arkansas, follow it to Fort Smith. Good luck to you and Bobby. It’s better for both of us this way.