“So he beat me and tossed me in the back of that wagon,” Robin said. “An’ that’s the last I ever seed of my ol’ man or my family.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Near the Red River, Chickasaw Nation
It had been pure luck that they had come across the trail, picking it up at the crossing of Caddo Creek and then following it south. A large freight wagon and a shod horse. It simply had to be Wildcat Lamar Bodeen and his poisoned whiskey.
The only scare came when maybe two dozen Chickasaws—at least, that’s what the smoking Indian said they were—rode up on them, but Link McCoy turned around his horse and showed them the working end of his sawed-off Winchester ’87 ten-gauge with the pistol grip.
That would not have been enough, except McCoy had plenty of company.
Zane Maxwell jacked a .44-40 round into his Winchester rifle, and Tulip Bells filled both hands, thumbing back the hammers of the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson No. 3 and the Starr Army—even though the .44 was double-action.
There were more. Locksburgh found one of his self-cocking Lightnings, John Smith palmed a Remington. 44, Red opted for his Yellow Boy, and Jared Whitney ignored his old Starrs and drew his Winchester ’92 carbine. The only rider who did not draw a weapon was the constant-smoking Choctaw breed, Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee, who calmly rolled another smoke and said, “They’re Chickasaws.”
Staying a good two hundred yards from them, the Indians watched the gunmen and talked among themselves before turning their horses around and heading north.
“What was that about?” McCoy asked.
“Probably after Bodeen.” Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee fired up a match and lighted his cigarette. “Same as you.”
It was enough to cause the outlaws to slow down and keep a keen eye on their back trail. McCoy and Maxwell did not trust Indians, not even Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee.
When the half-breed Choctaw said, “Chickasaws are cowards. They won’t trouble you,” McCoy figured the smoking man said that about every Indian tribe and probably even white men.
The outlaws slowed down, but they were chasing a heavy freight wagon pulled by worn-out oxen. And the Red River would be impossible for a wagon like that to ford. Soon enough, the McCoy-Maxwell Gang would catch up to the whiskey runner.
As they neared the Red River, McCoy knew they were close to catching up. He called a halt to rest their horses, dismounted, and took time to load some shells for his ten-gauge.
He never trusted factory loads, the kinds to buy in a mercantile or hardware store. He trusted himself, and only himself. All he needed was gunpowder and a shot dipper. He found a piece of wood to use as a base, set the empty shell on that, punched out the primer, then turned the primer punch around to push the wads in the shell. Pliers, powder and shot funnel, and he was practically ready . . . except he enjoyed making his loads personal.
Years back, he had read about a deputy marshal in New Mexico Territory who had put cut-up dimes in his shotgun shells. McCoy had grown up poor, knowing only a fool or a filthy rich man would destroy good currency, but that newspaper account had given him an idea and he had sprinkled some barbs from barbed wire, chunks of metal, sometimes even glass in some shells.
He used a heavy pair of scissors to cut the thin metal of some keenly honed razors he’d bought from a barber in the new unincorporated town of Addington and dropped the sharp chunks into his shotgun shells.
“Plan on giving someone a close shave?” Maxwell asked.
“So he’ll never have to shave again,” McCoy answered with an evil grin.
When he had finished with the last shell, he pushed four of his new creations into the ten-gauge, jacked the lever to chamber a round, and slid in one more two-and-seven-eights inch shell. He rose and walked to his horse. “Let’s ride.”
No one protested.
He didn’t know what to expect from Lamar Bodeen when they finally caught up with the whiskey runner, but doubted if the man would mind earning $500 for his whiskey. Not that McCoy had any intention of paying a fool like Bodeen. McCoy didn’t plan on paying the gunman Maxwell had brought along, either. Jared Whitney would sell his own mother out, but McCoy didn’t blame his partner for letting Whitney tag along. They could use a few extra guns. That’s why they had brought in Locksburgh, Red, and John Smith. But once the job was said and done, and they had all of that gold coin from the Texans and Chickasaws, Link McCoy was counting on a three-way split. Tulip Bells and Zane Maxwell were men to ride the river with. The others were men to get killed, after the job was done.
“How far’s the river?” he asked the half-breed Indian riding on his right.
For once, the smoking man had no cigarette in his mouth, nor was he in the process of rolling one . . . but he had fished out his sack of tobacco. He jutted his jaw toward the south, Indian-fashion.
Along the north bank of the Red River
“Why don’t you try that Remington?” Millard Mann, full from the last of the deer meat, removed the straw from his mouth and pointed at the old .44 conversion in his son’s waistband.
“Sir?” James asked in surprise.
“See if those loads I made will actually shoot . . . and not blow off your hand.” He grinned to let his son and Robin Gillett understand that he was joking. At least, Millard hoped it was a joke. Those old pistols had been known to misfire.
He had relaxed and decided it was time to be the father he should have been for a long, long time. “Go ahead. Just one shot. See if that old thing works.”
Reluctantly, James rose from where he was seated beside Robin and started to tug on the walnut grips of the converted .44, but stopped and nodded at the oxen and horses.
“I think those oxen are deaf,” Millard said, grinning. “And too tired anyway. And my chestnut”—he stopped, remembering—“is used to gunfire.” By now.
He thought back to thirty years earlier, when he would have been a long way before leaving his teenage years, and later, riding with the Texas Rangers. In those days, Borden, Jimmy, and he had trained their horses not to be spooked by gunfire.
James walked a good way from camp, drew the revolver, and looked back at his father, the barrel of the Remington pointed at the ground, his index finger resting on the trigger guard, but not inside.
Good, Millard thought. Be careful. Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready and willing to shoot.
“What do I shoot at?” James called out.
“Blackjack on the bank,” Millard said, pointing with the straw.
Nodding, James turned, brought up the .44, eared back the hammer, aimed, and fired. The gun boomed like a cannon, and the gelding danced around a bit, flattening its ears, but then quickly settled as the echo of the Remington’s shot faded into the evening air. White smoke enveloped James’s right hand, but the breeze quickly carried it away as he lowered the pistol.
Near the Red River
Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee was about to answer when the gang heard a gunshot.
They reined up, guns instantly at the ready.
“Quarter mile south.” the breed said, returning the tobacco pouch to a pocket. Smoking was a bad habit in a gunfight, or when trying to surprise some whiskey runner. Someone might see the glow of the cigarette, the smoke you blew, or smell it on the wind.
“Shooting a rabbit maybe?” Zane Maxwell asked. After all, it was closing in on supper time.
Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee shook his head. “Pistol shot. I doubt he was hunting.”
“Warning shot?” Tulip Bells asked.
The half-breed shrugged and grinned at McCoy. “But I do believe you have found your whiskey.”
“We’ll split up,” McCoy said as he eased his horse forward. “Indian, you’ll stay with the horses when we get close. We’ll come in from all sides, but remember this, every one of you, and remember it good. The whiskey runner, Bodeen, ain’t no good to us dead.”
Along the north bank of the Red River
The tree stood a good
thirty yards from James’s position, but Millard had seen bark fly off one of the lower limbs. “What were you aiming at?”
“The center of the trunk.” He began walking back to the camp, letting the barrel cool before returning it inside his pants.
Millard grinned again. James was a Mann, all right, all the way through. A mighty fine shot with a long gun, but a tad shaky when it came to firing a revolver.
“That gun kicks,” James said as he sat down.
“It oughta,” Robin said. “You see’d the size of the load your pa packed, an’ that bullet he had to whittle down with his knife so ’em ca’tridges would even fit in that relic. ’Bout like a cannon, that pistol be.”
James pointed toward the freight wagon, where the empty Winchester Model 1886 rifle sat. “Wish we had bullets for that.”
“We’ll get you some. Once we’re in Denison.” Millard pulled himself to his feet. “Let’s put out the fire, get ready to move camp.” He pointed the straw downstream, then tossed the straw away. “We’ll move two or three more miles, run a cold camp, get an early start in the morning for the ferry at Willis. With luck, we should be there in two days.”
Robin, feeling better and having regained much of her strength, helped James get the wagon ready to move—although James did most of the work and all the heavy lifting. Millard saddled the gelding.
As soon as the two kids had climbed into the front box of the big freight wagon, he led the liver chestnut ahead, shoved his One of One Thousand into the scabbard, and had put his left boot in the stirrup when a voice called out.
“Hallloooo the camp!”
Millard came down ready, turning toward the voice but also turning the gelding to use the animal as a shield. The Winchester was sheathed on the other side, but his right hand darted down and gripped the butt of his converted Army Colt. He waited.
A man stepped out of the brush. Afoot. He held a shotgun in his hand, not threatening with the weapon, just letting Millard see that he was armed and was not green. “Was hoping for a taste of coffee.”
“Sorry,” Millard called out to the stranger. “Dumped it on the fire.”
“You pulling out?”
Millard nodded his head.
The man grinned. “Careful, ain’t you?”
“It pays to be.” Millard started to pull the .44 from its holster and heard a rifle cock behind him. At the metallic click of the rifle’s lever, he detected two men walking on his left.
“Pa!” James called out, pointing at the bank.
Two men had climbed up from the soggy bottoms, brandishing six-shooters.
James’s right hand started for the Remington in his waistband.
Millard shouted, “No.” Lowering his voice, he said, “No sudden moves. Keep your hands up and away from that .44. Both of you, just sit still.” He did not move from the horse, but looked over the saddle at the man with the shotgun, who resembled the cat that had eaten the canary.
The other men began walking toward camp.
Millard cursed his stupidity. He’d acted like a greenhorn, letting James fire that revolver. It had given away their position. That’s how people got killed in the Indian Nations . . . or anywhere in the West, even in 1895. He had made a bad mistake, thinking they were safe, relaxing, lowering his guard. He didn’t know what these men wanted, but he could tell they were not law-abiding citizens.
He leaned onto the saddle, keeping his right hand away from the holstered revolver—like he could do anything with his six-shooter against seven men—and made himself smile at the one with the shotgun on his shoulder. “You must want coffee mighty bad.”
The man laughed and started crossing the clearing.
Millard observed him closely. Average height and weight, clean-shaven except for the stubble, and fairly well dressed. Brown boots, trousers of brushed cotton, a fancy light blue vest with yellow paisley designs and a shawl collar, a black silk puff tie with a shiny stickpin in the center, white shirt, camel-colored wool frock coat and nice hat with a flat crown, the color of pecan. Dressed like a gentleman, until you considered the shotgun he pointed in the general direction of Millard and the chestnut.
It was a Winchester ’87, lever-action, but Millard knew it had not left the factory in New Haven, Connecticut, looking that way. A smooth pistol grip instead of the traditional stock, beaded leather covering the fore end, and a sawed-off barrel, case-hardened and blued.
He also knew only one man in the West was known to carry a shotgun like that, but he did not mention the name of Link McCoy.
“Now before anyone gets fidgety and gets killed, let’s all relax. I’m not here to rob you, kill you, but to offer a proposition. One that could bring us all a lot of wealth.” McCoy took another step. That sound fine?”
Millard nodded.
“But, just so no one does get fidgety and then gets killed, why don’t you drop your six-shooter and step away from that fine-looking horse?”
Slowly, the .44 conversion cleared the leather then slipped from Millard’s two fingers and thumb and landed on the wet grass. He turned toward the wagon and gave a nod at James and the girl.
James stood, showing the two men coming up from the banks of the Red River the .44 Remington, which he let fall over the side. “I’m going to pick up a shotgun and drop it.”
“Do it right careful-like,” said one of the men coming from the bank, a pockmarked fellow with a gray mustache, sliver of a beard under his lip, and a bell crown hat. The man cocked a shiny revolver just to get his point across.
Robin cleared her throat, bent down, and picked up the double-barrel shotgun, which she pitched over the side and onto the grass.
“That all?” called the leader.
“You see the Winchester in the scabbard,” Millard told him.
“That ain’t what I asked,” said McCoy.
“That’s all.” Millard saw no point in telling them about the old horseman’s pistol in the back of the wagon or his son’s .50-caliber repeating Winchester. If the outlaws found the weapons, and Millard figured they would, it wouldn’t matter. Both guns were empty. Besides, a man like Link McCoy would have expected a lie.
“That’s fine, then,” McCoy said, but he did not lower the fancy shotgun. “I’m hoping you got plenty of leftover whiskey, because that’s what brung us to you, Wildcat Bodeen.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
McCoy told one of the men who had approached from Millard’s right to go help with the horses.
The man with a red mustache, dressed like a dollar-a-day cowhand and armed with a Winchester Model 1866 carbine, nodded. His spurs rang out a tune as he jogged off to the north. Most of the men wore lavender bandanas.
“So you want to hear my proposition, Bodeen?”
They think I’m the whiskey runner. It might buy some time. “Sure.” Millard grinned as he added, “Link.”
The gunman grinned at such recognition. “You flatter me.”
“As you do me. Teaming up with”—Millard slowly turned, sought out until he recognized the one who had to be Zane Maxwell, and gave that man a soft salute—“the McCoy-Maxwell Gang would be an honor.” Then he made himself sound like a businessman. “If the price is right.”
“It is,” Maxwell said from behind him.
“All we want, really, is your whiskey,” McCoy said. “But just to be safe, and so you’d really earn your share of our haul, we’ll want to keep you with us. Till we make the score.”
Millard nodded. “I see.” There was just one problem, he realized.
So did the man with a patch over one eye who had placed himself at the back of the big wagon. “Zane! There ain’t no whiskey in here!”
McCoy’s expression changed instantly. He shoved his way past one of his men and strode toward the wagon, where Robin and James were climbing out, watched by the pockmarked man in the bell crown hat. That one, Millard figured, had to be Tulip Bells. The others he didn’t recognize. Then he remembered. Most of the others were already dead.
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br /> McCoy jumped into the back of the wagon, but there wasn’t much to see. He didn’t look for weapons—a stroke of luck—though Millard couldn’t figure out what he’d be able to do with two empty guns against seven outlaws bound for the gallows or a shallow grave.
Almost immediately, McCoy leaped out of the wagon and went back to Millard, stopping a few feet from him, bringing up the shotgun, waist-high, and slipping his finger against the trigger. “You couldn’t have sold all that liquor, mister. I heard you was carrying a ton.”
Millard shrugged. “You weren’t at Wild Horse Creek.”
McCoy glanced at Maxwell, then at another gunman, asking a question with his eyes.
“North of where we picked up the trail,” said the one with the eye patch. He also was missing a left ear. A name flashed through Millard’s mind. He remembered seeing a wanted poster on him at the Fort Worth depot. Jared Whitney.
“Well.” McCoy demanded.
“Chickasaws jumped us,” Millard said.
“They didn’t like getting cheated and poisoned?” Maxwell asked.
Millard shrugged, wondering how much longer he could pull off the faux bravado. “I didn’t ask them. Had to shove out the barrels just to save our hides. Killed one of them. Maybe more.” He decided to chance another lie, just in case they had seen the body of the real Lamar Bodeen up at the site of the gun battle. “Had one renegade white man with them. Killed him, too.”
McCoy cursed. Maxwell echoed it with his own round of profanity.
“Do we really need hooch?” asked Whitney.
“Yes!” McCoy snapped.
Millard made himself smile. “Boys, y’all don’t know me well, I reckon. But you ask anyone in Indian Territory, and they’ll be sure to tell you that Wildcat Lamar Bodeen can brew up some good liquor. Right quick like. Me and my boys.” He gave James and Robin a short wave.
“You must not know me very well,” said the tallest one of the outlaws. An edge accented his voice. He had a match dangling between his teeth, dancing underneath the neat black mustache, wore fancy Texas boots, and carried a brace of old Remington revolvers. “But this fellow ain’t Wildcat Bodeen.”
Winchester 1887 Page 19
