Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “You know it now,” Riley said. “And I want you to go back to your supplier and your fellow whiskey peddlers. Tell them that they are free to pass through this area as long as they pay the proper taxes. If they don’t like it, they can go farther south or to the north toward the Kansas line.”

  “That’d be a hell of a long distance outta the way, mister,” the smuggler protested.

  Riley smiled. “Then, pay the proper taxes and save yourselves a lot of time. Now get out of here.”

  “What about my goods?”

  “Consider the liquor as part of a punitive fine,” Riley said.

  “And my wagon?”

  “Same thing,” Riley answered. “Now, I believe I told you to get out of here.”

  Before the man could protest or even say another word, Tad Perkins and Frank Colen grabbed him and propelled him toward the door.

  “Frank,” Riley said. “You take him to the edge of town.” He motioned to Perkins. “Tad, a word with you, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Perkins said. He turned and walked to the desk.

  “I hear a freight wagon came into town yesterday,” Riley said.

  “Oh, yeah. It had machinery in it,” Perkins said. “I remember you said not to bother with nothing but likker and guns and—”

  “Good, Tad,” Riley said patiently. “What sort of machinery was it?”

  Perkins shook his head. “I don’t know. It was a thing with a screw on it, and there was boxes of little pieces of metal.” His eyes suddenly widened. “Now I remember, boss! The feller said it was printing equipment.”

  Riley nodded and looked over at Donner. “And he went to the east side of town?”

  “Right, boss. Like I told you. He put ever’thing into a empty building.”

  Riley poured himself another cup of coffee. “Well! It looks like the good folks over there are going to have a print shop.”

  Donner laughed. “Can’t make much money on something like that, can we?”

  Riley laughed with him. “Not unless we wanted to print up a bunch of reward posters on ourselves.”

  Six

  Tom Deacon reined up in front of the large sod building. The one word on the sign that adorned the front of the low, dirt structure told him the single thing he craved the most at that moment was available inside. The letters had been burned into a shingle with a running-iron: WHISKEY.

  Tom swung out of the saddle and led his horse up to the hitching rail where several other mounts were tied. His eyes instinctively darted around, taking in the environment, as he secured the animal. The building sat by itself on the open prairie, standing out like a liquor bottle on a tabletop. Except for an outhouse a few yards behind it, it was all that occupied the open space between two sets of hills. The area was almost a valley, except it stretched out unhindered to the west. The myriad of tracks that approached the place showed that a crossroads of sorts existed there. Like most similar places, it had more than likely grown from a simple campsite with a tent or crude lean-to erected on it. Once the primitive establishment’s popularity gained, the frontier entrepreneur who had sensed the business advantage of a saloon had improved his investment by building the soddy.

  The door was no more than some planks nailed to a frame. Tom pushed it open and stepped into the dark, stuffy interior. Thick tobacco smoke and the smell of soiled clothes and unwashed bodies made up the atmosphere. The half-dozen men occupying the single room turned at his entrance and gave him gazes of curiosity. All were travelers, and their dusty outfits showed plainly they’d only recently stopped for a rest. Tom sensed for any overtures of unfriendliness, but relaxed as the drinkers went back to their murmured conversations.

  The bar was as crudely made as the portal to the establishment. Tom stepped up to it. “Whiskey.”

  “Bourbon or rye?” the bar keep asked. He was dressed the same as his customers, with the exception of a hat.

  “Bourbon,” Tom said, surprised he had a choice. A voice from one side of the room spoke up. “That’s Tom Deacon, all right. It’s him just as sure as shit stinks.”

  Tom’s hand dropped to his pistol holstered on his right side as his head whipped around. Then he grinned and eased up. “And that’s Quint Yule, who always proves shit does stink.”

  The two approached each other and shook hands with strong, sincere grips. Tom signaled to the bartender. “Another bourbon.”

  “Sure,” the man said.

  “Let’s get a bottle, Tom,” Quint Yule said. “C’mon over to my table, it’s been a hell of a long time since we shared a quart o’ likker.”

  “Then, we’ll do her right,” Tom said agreeably. He turned to the barkeep. “Give us your best.”

  “Whatever you say, feller,” the barkeep said. “I poured you a cupful here. You want that and the bottle too?”

  “Sure.” Tom dropped a coin to the bar. “I’ll warm up my gullet with the cup. That’ll make the bottle go down easier.” He walked over to the table with his friend. When they settled down on the low stools provided for the customers, Tom raised his drink. “Here’s to old friends.”

  “And here’s to old times shared by old friends,” Yule said. “What the hell you be doing with yourself, Tom?”

  “I been star-packing, as usual.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “On my last job I was sheriff down at Sondra,” Tom answered. “But I couldn’t get along with the local folks, so I quit. What’s been keeping you busy lately?”

  Yule grinned. “My line o’ business has sort o’ made me want to ride clear of sheriffs. There’s a few counties around I sort of avoid, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. I know,” Tom said. “You ain’t changed much, Yule.”

  “It don’t look like you have either. You been doing just about nothing but law work since the war, haven’t you? It seems to me that was your job that last time I seen you over New Mexico way.” Tom nodded. “Yeah. I suppose I might as well face up to the fact that it’s become my profession whether I like it or not.”

  “I think you like it, and that don’t surprise me none,” Yule said. “You always had a leaning that way. Leastways, you had some principles about things.” He laughed. “You wouldn’t steal even if you was hungry, would you, Tom?”

  “Maybe if I was real, real hungry, I might,” Tom allowed with a wink. “I’m thankful things ain’t come to that.”

  “I remember when we was fighting Yankees in the army,” Yule said. “There we was, serving ol’ Master Robert Lee and trying to get by on parched corn and damned little powder and ball. And you wouldn’t so much as take a damn chicken.”

  “I never saw a rooster or hen in all that time that tempted me,” Tom said, making a poor joke. “Hell, they was worse off than us.”

  “You was just sorry for them damn farmers,” Yule said.

  “Maybe. It don’t pleasure me to torment nobody,” Tom replied.

  Yule took a sip of his whiskey and gazed pensively at his old comrade in arms. “I bet you ain’t been light-fingered as a lawman, neither.”

  Tom shook his head. “Do I look like I’m rich?”

  “Shit! You been in the wrong law jobs, Tom,” Yule said. “There ain’t no place for a man like you in them little towns. Why don’t you head north to Wichita or Abilene or Dodge? Why, I hear them burgs is getting so uppity and big and fancy that they’ve took to calling their town marshals policemen.”

  “I heard that too,” Tom said.

  “Before long they’ll be wearing blue uniforms like eastern cities have for their police departments.” Yule exploded into laughter. “Now, wouldn’t that get in your craw, Tom? Imagine a Johnny Reb all duded out in Yankee blue.”

  “Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d let me wear gray,” Tom retorted with a smile.

  “It don’t matter. But it remains to reason that them bigger towns is where you belong, Tom. They pay better, and since you ain’t gonna steal nothing anyhow, you might as well get as big a salary as you can. Maybe you c
ould put away a few dollars for your old age that way.”

  “If I keep backing up the law, I ain’t gonna have an old age,” Tom said.

  “You won’t have no problems with an early death from the way you shoot, ol’ friend,” Yule said. “I heard what happened down in Wild Holler. You took out a couple o’ real bad’uns, didn’t you?”

  “It was them or me,” Tom said. He didn’t mention the latest killing of the three men in Sondra. “That sort o’ situation always inspires my shooting.” Yule nodded in agreement. “Yeah. It do make a feller aim with a mite more care, don’t it?” He poured out the last of the bottle into their cups, splitting the amount between them. “I always was puzzled about something, Tom.”

  “Yeah?” Tom turned, and hollered out, “Bring another here, barkeep.” He returned his gaze to his old friend. “You look like you’re about to get real serious.”

  “Maybe I am,” Yule said.

  The saloon owner set another bottle between them and took the coins offered him. “I heard you fellers talking about the war. I was in the Mississippi volunteers at Corinth.”

  Yule looked up hopefully. “You got special prices for ex-Confederates?”

  “Nope. Not even if we’d won the war.” The man went back to the bar.

  Yule turned his attention back to Tom. “What sets me to thinking about you is that fact that the war didn’t leave you bitter or nothing, did it?” Tom looked away with a frown. He turned his gaze back to his friend. “I don’t much like talking about it.”

  “It was hell, pure hell,” Yule said. “God! I recollect our dead at Antietam, all stacked up along that damn fence.”

  Tom took a quick drink.

  “We shoulda marched up that big street in Washington City and escorted ol’ Jeff Davis into the Capitol Building,” Yule said. “That’s after we took ol’ man Lincoln out and hung the son of a bitch.” Tom said nothing. He stared down at his glass. “But it didn’t work out that way,” Yule continued. “All them poor dead jaspers died for nothing.”

  “I don’t like to talk about it,” Tom said. “Maybe you are a mite bitter, huh?”

  “Yule,” he added in near animosity, “I don’t like to think about it, neither.”

  Yule took the hint. He fell into silence and helped himself to the bottle. After a few minutes he spoke again. “Are you on your way to some place in particular?”

  “I am now,” Tom said. “You gave me some good advice. I’m going to check out Wichita or Abilene maybe. Backing up the law in a bigger place might just be what I’ve been looking for.”

  “I got some more advice,” Yule said. “About what to do before you head up that way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Get drunker’n hell,” Yule said, beaming and lifting the bottle. “What do you think o’ that?”

  “That’s even better a recommendation,” Tom said. He turned toward the bar. “Hey, barkeep! You’d best bring another bottle over here.”

  Seven

  The time to launch the first business day of the Lighthouse Creek Sentinel had arrived. That morning was warm and balmy when Martin Blazer, dressed in his best suit and carrying a pad and pencil, sallied forth from his office to make the initial contacts with his potential readership and advertising customers. He knew that subscriptions alone would not provide enough capital to operate his publication. He would need advertising revenue and various job-printing tasks to bring in the necessary cash to provide him with a living and operating expenses.

  The preparation for this first day of business had been delayed by persistent romantic daydreaming. Martin’s concentration while drawing up advertising and printing prices was constantly interrupted by thoughts of Abbie Buchanan. Living in the same house and being so close to her had made his infatuation for the lovely young woman grow perplexedly deeper and more distracting in even the brief three days since he’d moved into the Buchanan home.

  Martin had finally forced her from his mind enough to complete the task. Now he walked purposefully down the boardwalk of Main Street. His first call would be at Earl Tobey’s barber shop. He walked up to the red-white-blue-striped pole and peered inside through the open door. Earl was busy shaving a customer. Martin stepped into the small establishment. “Good morning to you, Earl.”

  Earl looked up. “Why, hello, Martin.” Like the others in town he’d gone down to the former saddlery to check out the young man’s newspaper office as it was being set up. “How’s things going over at your business?”

  “My final arrangements are completed and all is in order to begin publishing,” Martin said. “The type is waiting in the cases, and my press seems to cry out to be put to use.”

  “By God, you got a way with words, boy,” Earl said.

  “In fact I’m here on business.”

  Earl walked over and lifted Martin’s hat. “You don’t need a haircut yet, Martin. Though I could improve what them Wichita barbers have been doing to you.”

  Martin shook his head. “No, Earl. I’m here on newspaper business, not for a haircut or shave.” The customer, Lars Halversen, the local gunsmith, sat up. He displayed a friendly smile through the lather on his face. “By God, Martin, I’ll buy a newspaper from you. How much are they?”

  “They’re a penny a copy, Lars,” Martin explained. “But I’ve yet to print any. I’m selling advertising space for the first issue. I’d come to talk to Earl, but I’m glad you’re here too. Maybe you’d each like to place an announcement of your businesses in the Sentinel.”

  “Well, sure,” Lars said. “That ain’t a bad idea. Folks reading the paper would know I fix and sell guns.” He paused. “But on the other hand, they already know that.”

  “That’s true. But you could also tell them what particular types you have on the market. Another consideration is the fact that your ads will be read by more than local people,” Martin quickly pointed out. “Newspapers are carried around quite a bit and left in various locations for folks to read. Remember. Nobody discards a newspaper in this part of the country no matter how long before they had been published.”

  “That’s right,” Lars agreed. “Why, I’ve seen ’em up to a year old being left off in here by some feller passing through. They get carried all over the place.”

  “There’s a good chance that a traveler in the need of services on his firearm might see your advertisement in a copy of the paper carried over to another town somewhere. He would come over to Lighthouse Creek to conduct his business with you.”

  “That’s right,” Earl agreed. “And he might be wanting a barber too, huh?”

  “How much would one of them ad-ver-tise-ments run a feller?” Lars asked.

  “That depends on the page,” Martin explained. “For the first page, one column by two inches will cost five dollars. Page four, the back page, is four dollars, and the inner pages two and three go for two. I might add that the newspapers in cities like Wichita would bill a customer four times those amounts. Of course I sell bigger displays, but that size would seem right for you two.”

  Lars was thoughtful. “I wouldn’t know exactly how to compose anything, Martin.”

  “Don’t worry. You and I can sit down and we’ll work out something you’ll be pleased with,” Martin promised.

  “Well, then, put me down for page two or three,” Lars said.

  Earl cleared his throat. “I think page four would be right for my business. Barbering is a mighty important profession that folks should know is available for them.”

  “What the hell do you think guns is —play toys!” Lars shouted. He pointed at Martin. “By God, put mine on page one—one!"

  “Mine too!” Earl said.

  Martin made notes on his pad. “That’s just wonderful, thank you very much. By the way, I do job printing too. Handbills, posters, announcements and invitations, those sorts of things.”

  “My daughter is getting married,” Earl said. “Her and the missus is getting set to write out the invites.” He looked at Lars. “Y
ou and your wife is invited, o’course, Lars.”

  “And we’ll be there,” Lars said happily, the brief spasm of animosity between the two completely forgotten.

  “I have some very beautiful script type they’ll love,” Martin said. “I could promise them a most elegant set of invitations that could compare with those in any large city. I’ll drop by your house with some specimens.”

  “They’ll like—” Earl’s remarks were cut off by an outburst of loud shouting and shooting as a couple of drunken cowboys staggered out of a saloon across the street. Earl went to the window. “Those son of a bitches!”

  “This town is ruined,” Lars said. “And what a shame.”

  “Something has to be done about that,” Martin said. “And very soon it shall.”

  Earl and Lars were both interested in the last remark. “Do you know where we can. get a good sheriff?”

  “Or even a fast gun that’ll do anything for money,” Lars added.

  “I know something better,” Martin said. “And it is sitting in my newspaper office down the street.”

  “You have a cannon in there, Martin?” Lars asked.

  “I have something even more powerful,” Martin said. “I have a printing press.”

  “What the hell-”

  “Thank you very much for your business,” Martin said. “I’ll be on my way. And don’t fret about Lighthorse Creek. Things are going to change around here very quickly.”

  Martin left the barber shop and went a few more yards down the way to a break in the boardwalk. This was the center of Main Street where Gus Brunswick had his blacksmith shop. The big barnlike structure that housed his business was actually the first permanent structure in Lighthorse Creek. It had been built when the rest of the town was nothing but tents and shanties. Since it was so formidable, the townspeople had decided to anchor their business district on it, and spread outward in straight lines from both sides.

  Gus had just finished shoeing a horse and was leading the animal into a stall when Martin walked through the huge double doors into the shop. Gus, his heavy torso covered by a leather apron, called out in his deep booming voice. “Howdy, Martin!”