“I’ve heard of that place, Newton, Kansas. It’s already supposed to be the toughest place in the West,” Jed said to Tim as they walked to where they’d hitched their horses. “If Newt Grago has a lot of friends there, we’ll be in for a rough time.”
“Then we both best be ready for it,” said Tim, staring straight ahead, “because it looks like that’s where we’re headed, come hell or high water.”
Chapter 18
Leaving the narrow trail and riding wide of the encampment to the northwest, Danielle, Tim, and Jed Strange avoided the posse, keeping close to a stretch of low rock cliffs along a dry creek bed. For the first half hour they’d pushed the horses hard until they were sure the sound of rifle fire had turned away from them, following a more southerly direction. Most of the outlaws who had managed to get away from the encampment had fled southwest toward Texas. From there they would head for the Rio Grande, crossing into Mexico the way Cincinnati Carver and Morgan Goss planned to do.
When Danielle and her brothers stopped to rest their mounts, they did so atop a rock ledge that faced the encampment from less than half a mile away. From there, the site of the encampment looked like a place struck by a cyclone. Danielle, Tim, and Jed gazed out across the wavering heat toward the flattened tent. Gambling tables lay broken and scattered. Bodies of outlaws lay strewn within the wide clearing across a fifty-yard stretch of surrounding land. Lulu and her girls were handcuffed and sitting on the ground, along with four wounded outlaws who sat with their heads bowed. Two Cherokee trackers stood guarding the prisoners with their rifles propped on their hips.
Danielle stood up, dusting her trousers, and backed away from the rock ledge. “Well, that does it for Newt Grago’s shooting contest,” she said. “All he managed to do was get a bunch of men killed.”
Jed and Tim both stood up and backed away from the ledge beside her. “One good thing came out of it though,” Jed said. “If Arno Dunne hadn’t been so eager to bring us here, we might not have found you.”
“That’s right,” Tim joined in. “Plus, we got to meet up with some of Pa’s killers face-to-face.” He looked at Danielle. “Of course, Jed and I didn’t know which one was which, but I reckon you did, didn’t you?”
Danielle shook her head, saying, “No, I never laid eyes on those men back there. But don’t worry, they’re Pa’s killers all right. One of them gave me all their names last year before he died. Newt Grago is the only one left.”
Just saying Grago’s name caused her to grow anxious, wanting to get back in the saddle. She walked to Sundown and took up the reins. “Come on,” she said to Tim and Jed, “time’s a-wasting.”
The three mounted up and rode away. In a thicket of scrub cedar not twenty feet from where they had stood, Saul Delmano lowered his rifle and watched their backs until they disappeared around a turn in the trail. Delmano had heard every word they’d said. It would have been easy to take aim and ambush them, but a shot from his rifle would have alerted the Cherokee guards and any other deputy who might be in the encampment.
“I’ll get my chance,” Delmano said to himself. He waited a few minutes longer, then led his horse from the thicket, and followed their tracks wide of the slim buttes toward the northern boundary of Indian Territory. For the next three days he managed to stay within a mile of them, keeping to the brush and dry washes, cautiously keeping an eye on the rise of dust Danielle and her brothers left in their wake.
The Canadian River, July 29, 1871
Newt Grago had not traveled alone these past three days. At the first sign of the posse converging on the encampment, he’d collected Merlin Haas and three other hardcases to ride with him. He’d taken Merlin Haas along because Haas still held most of their winnings. Once Newt Grago took the large roll of money from Merlin Haas, it became apparent to Haas that Grago had no more use for him. Merlin Haas kept as quiet as possible, hoping to get away from the outlaw leader as soon as they crossed into Kansas. The three other men with Grago were the two Stanley brothers, Hop and Renfrow—both former guerrilla riders from the old Quantrill Raiders days—and a Missouri stagecoach robber named Willis McNutt, who had ridden off and on with Newt Grago over the past few years. Grago had left the Stanley brothers along the Washita River the day before, to ambush anyone who might be following their tracks. He’d promised the Stanleys two hundred dollars apiece once they met up with him later in Newton, Kansas.
“The Stanley brothers won’t have a chance in hell if they get into a shoot-out with a posse that large,” McNutt said in a guarded tone to Merlin Haas as the two of them huddled near a low fire. Newt Grago stood a few yards away at the river’s edge, checking his horse’s hooves.
Merlin Haas whispered to McNutt in reply, “I’m thinking it ain’t so much the posse he’s concerned about now as it is that gunslinger, Danny Duggin. Grago wants Duggin dead awfully bad. Says he’s the one what left Dunc hanging from a rope. Besides, the posse most likely has their hands full with everybody headed across Texas for the border.”
McNutt looked Merlin Haas up and down, a trace of a cruel grin showing through his red beard. “You think you know so much, Haas? Then think of this. Newt’s going to close his trail behind him once he gets on over to Kansas. He don’t like leaving wit nesses behind him. When he leaves here in the morning, only one of us will be going with him. The other is going to be sitting here with a rifle waiting for whoever comes along.”
“You’re wrong, McNutt,” Haas said, but his voice lacked conviction.
McNutt stifled a laugh, saying, “Yeah, you hope I’m wrong, Haas, but you know better. When Grago gets to Newton, he won’t need neither one of us. He’s got protection there. He’ll be walking the streets in a suit and tie, smoking a big cigar.”
Merlin Haas swallowed back the dryness in his throat and said, “Well, he knows I can make him money. He’d be foolish to let something happen to me.”
“Yeah?” McNutt patted the pistol standing in a holster across his stomach. “Maybe you can grift and gamble, but I can help him stay alive. Which one would you pick if you was him?”
Merlin Haas started to respond, but then stopped himself and sat silent as Newt Grago walked back to the small fire and crouched down on his haunches, saying, “Boys, the horses are in bad shape, us pushing them so hard.” He picked up a short stick of kindling and stirred it around in the bed of glowing embers. “Resting tonight will help them some, but we’ll be lucky if they make it all the way into Kansas.”
“Then what do you suppose we do?” McNutt asked Grago, giving Merlin Haas a knowing glance as he did so.
“I don’t know,” said Grago, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve got to think about it and figure something out.” He stood back up and stepped over to unroll a blanket on the ground. “Meanwhile, let’s get some rest ourselves. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
But Merlin Haas got very little rest that night. In spite of his long day in the saddle, he rolled back and forth from one side to the next in his blanket. More than once he thought about easing over to the horses, cutting one out, and slipping away into the darkness. His hand went now and then to his share of the winnings in his coat pocket, reassuring himself that it was still there. At one point he came close to rising up and making his move to the horses, yet before he got to his feet, McNutt’s voice spoke to him from across the campfire.
“What’s the matter, Haas, can’t sleep?” McNutt murmured, a dark, playful tone to his voice.
“I—I thought I heard something out there,” Haas replied.
“You didn’t hear nothing, Haas,” McNutt said. “If you did, don’t worry about it. That’s why I’m sitting guard.”
“Oh, all right then,” Haas said, feeling his heart pound in his chest. He lay back down and turned away from McNutt, his hand resting inside his coat on the small Uhlinger pistol he kept there.
The Canadian River, July 30, 1871
In the gray hour before dawn, Merlin Haas had finally dozed off when he felt Newt Grago’s b
oot nudge him roughly in his side. “Wake up, Haas,” Grago said, standing above him, “I’ve made us a plan that’ll work out best for all of us.”
Merlin Haas rolled onto his back, his hand still beneath the blanket, on the pistol inside his coat. “What’s the plan?” Haas asked, suddenly aware of the tip of Grago’s rifle barrel hovering near him. The rifle was not pointed at Haas, but it was close enough that he got the message. Behind Grago, McNutt sat stooped over the low glowing embers, his face shadowed by the low brim of his hat.
“Like I told you last night,” said Grago, “these horses are blowing out on us. I figure it’s best you stay behind here on the Canadian and keep an eye on the trail. Me and McNutt will take your horse as a spare. If we find fresh horses up ahead, we’ll come back for you. If not, you take up with the Stanleys when they come through here.”
“But—but what if they don’t come?” Haas asked, getting a sick feeling low in his stomach.
“Then somebody has killed them,” Grago said, leaving no room for questioning in his voice. “You’ll take a horse from whoever comes along next.” His rifle barrel tipped slightly closer to Merlin Haas’s face. “Do you see any problem with that?” he asked.
Merlin Haas knew better than to push it, so he said, “Well, no, anything you say, Newt. Leave me a rifle though, won’t you?”
Grago seemed to think about it, then said, “No, that’s probably not a good idea. You’ve got that little Uhlinger. It’ll do the job for you.” He paused, then added, “It’d be best if you gave me your share of the winnings, just for safekeeping till we meet up again, don’t you think?”
Merlin Haas reached his free hand inside his coat pocket, feeling his legs tremble, knowing better than to resist. “Yes, that’s a good idea, Newt.” He handed the thick roll of money up to him. “Here, take it all. I want you to have it . . . I mean, to keep for me, that is.” He knew his voice sounded shaky. Behind Grago, Haas heard McNutt chuckle under his breath.
“What’s so funny?” Grago asked McNutt, turning a wary eye toward him as he shoved the money down into his pocket.
“Nothing,” said McNutt. “Just recalling something that happened to me once a long time ago.”
“Well, keep it to yourself.” Grago sneered. “Go get the horses. We’ve got a long ride ahead.”
As McNutt stood and moved away to where the horses stood saddled and ready, Newt Grago turned back to Merlin Haas. “We made some money together, Haas. If you make it to Newton, just look me up.” He smiled in the darkness. “I won’t be hard to find. Hell, the town’s named after me.”
Merlin Haas tried to calm himself, unable to speak without his voice betraying him. He only nodded, trying to return the smile, but finding his lips stiff, he was unable to do so.
When McNutt walked the three horses over to the low circle of firelight, he looked down at Haas and winked, saying in a hushed voice, “I told you, didn’t I?” Then he turned to Grago, handed him the reins to one of the horses, and in a moment all that remained of the two was the low drumming of hooves moving along the bank of the river.
It took Merlin Haas a few minutes to collect himself and stand up without his knees feeling too weak to support him. Once he was sure the two men were gone, he staggered in place and rubbed his face in his hands. Then he took a deep breath, pulled the Uhlinger pistol from inside his coat, and turned it over and over in his hand. What were the odds of his staying here and picking up a horse? Even as he asked himself, he already the answer. “Slim to none,” he said aloud, his voice sounding hollow to him in the still dawn air. He sighed and sat back down in the low glow of the firelight and looked around bleakly at the deserted camp.
The Washita River, July 30, 1871
It was not anything that Danielle heard or saw riding closer to the rise of ground near the banks of the Washita. It was something she felt, something she’d learned to pay attention to this past year on countless trails through the lawless frontier. The tracks they’d been following swung to the left, toward a low spot where the river crossing would be shallow. Yet something told her there was trouble waiting behind the low rise forty yards to the right. From the low rise, the crossing lay bare and unprotected. It was the kind of spot that was perfect for an ambush. Once at the crossing, she and her brothers would be in the open, helpless in the sights of a good rifleman.
“Hold up,” she said suddenly to Tim and Jed riding beside her. She reined Sundown to a halt and scanned the low rise and the river crossing a hundred and fifty yards ahead of them.
“What is it?” Tim asked, the three of them squinting in the midmorning sun’s glare.
“We’re not going in there just yet,” Danielle said, stepping Sundown back and forth. “Don’t let your bays stand still. Keep them moving. I’ve got a hunch there’s rifles looking at us from that rise.”
“So do I,” said Tim, as he and Jed kept their bays moving back and forth now, “but I’ve been feeling like there’s somebody behind us too. Maybe it’s just nerves.”
“Nope,” Danielle said, “there is somebody behind us, probably has been ever since we left the buttes. I caught a glimpse of dust a while ago. But this is different. Keep moving. Let’s cut west, see if we can tip their hand. If they see us leaving, they’ll take a long shot instead of letting us get past them.”
“Good thinking,” Jed replied, gigging his bay quarter-wise, not letting it stand still beneath him. When Danielle cut west on Sundown and heeled forward, Tim did the same, Jed dropping in behind him. Before they had gone ten yards, two rifle shots thumped into the ground at the hooves of Tim and Jed’s bays, causing the horses to rear sideways as the sound of the shots echoed around them.
“Hurry up!” Danielle called out behind her, giving Sundown more heel. “They’re still too close for comfort!” Sundown bolted west, and Jed and Tim’s bays followed, all three of them staying back from the riv erbank until Danielle had put another hundred or more yards between them and the crossing. When she cut back toward the river, she slowed enough to let Tim bring his bay in beside her as he spoke.
“What now?” Tim called out above the sound of hooves beneath them.
“They’ve got to come out of their cover if they want us,” Danielle said, drawing her Colt as she shouted to him. “Let’s see if they will!”
Behind the low rise, Hop Stanley stood up, dusting his knees, cursing aloud to his brother Renfrow. “Damn it to hell! Look what we’ve brought on. Can’t you hit anything with that Winchester?”
“Me? What about you?” Renfrow shouted, jerking his horse’s reins up from the ground and swinging up into the saddle. “I didn’t see you doing so hot yourself! You was afraid they’d get out of range, and now by God they have!”
“Come on,” said Hop Stanley, also snatching up his horse’s reins and levering another round into his rifle chamber, “if we don’t get them now, they’ll be all over us. Keep them on the run!”
Bringing up the rear behind Tim and Danielle, Jed Strange looked back over his shoulder as they headed into a wide, sloping turn toward the river-bank. He saw the two riders pounding hard on their trail and shouted forward to Tim and Danielle, “Here they come—looks like there’s only two of them!”
“Good!” Danielle shouted without looking back. “Make this turn out of sight, then stop!”
Hop and Renfrow Stanley pressed their horses flat-out along the trail, the dust of the other three horses still looming in the air, stinging their eyes and faces. Hop Stanley had his rifle cocked and ready to raise as soon as they made the wide turn toward the river. But straightening out around the bend, both Hop and Renfrow sat back hard on their reins, trying to slide their horses to a halt. They failed to do so before the blasts of pistol fire lifted them from their saddles. Danielle, Tim, and Jed stood in the center of the trail, their pistols smoking as the Stanley brothers rolled dead to the ground, a red mist of blood seeming to hang in the air for a second, then settling with the dust.
The twins stared, their pistols
still trained on the two lifeless bodies. Danielle stepped forward, watching one of the Stanley brothers’ horses stand up from where it had faltered and tumbled in the dirt. The horse nickered and shook itself off, then trotted to one side, its saddle loose and drooping beneath its belly. “Get those horses,” Danielle said over her shoulder, “we might need them for spares.”
“Are they Newt Grago’s men?” Tim asked, stepping forward beside her and nodding at the two bodies.
“You can bet on it,” Danielle replied. She cut her gaze off along the rise and fall of the land behind them. “That takes care of them. But we’ve still got somebody trailing us.”
Two hundred yards away, lying on his belly in tall grass, Saul Delmano cursed to himself, seeing the two bodies lying on the trail. He wasn’t sure from this distance, but it looked like it was the Stanley brothers riding in, making a stupid fatal mistake. Well, so much for that, he thought, sliding backward to where the land sloped down behind him. Once behind the cover of the rise, he walked over to his horse and shoved his rifle back into its boot. He wasn’t about to get those three on his tail. He would stay back and play it safe. They still had a long way to go.
Chapter 19
Newton, Kansas, August 7, 1871
The town of Newton sat on the Chisholm Trail, where only a year before there had been nothing but a few dust-blown shacks, stacks of cross ties and steel rails, and a crew of determined gandy dancers7. Judge R. P. Muse, an agent for the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad, had chosen the spot as a likely site for a rail terminal, owing to the big herds of cattle coming up the trail from Texas, and the settlers and businessmen coming in from the East. The stockyards and loading chutes seemed to swell with longhorns from daylight to dark. With the longhorns came the men who drove them, good, hard-working men for the most part. Yet among them came the lawless element; the grifters, the thieves and killers, whose only interest in cattle lay in the large amounts of cash that the industry generated. Newton, although still in its infancy as a rail town, had already been labeled the wickedest city in the West.
The Shadow of a Noose Page 24
