Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “I ain’t doing nothing, mister!” the fat man exclaimed.

  Yule had sobered up quite a bit. “Leggo my hand!”

  “Go get the horses ready,” Tom said. “When we can ride, whistle.”

  Yule lurched forward and went out through the door.

  Tom moved everybody—kids, whores, and bartender—to the back of the room. “When I leave, I don’t expect to see any of y’all coming after me,” he said.

  “That’s right, mister,” the bartender said. He looked at the youngsters. “Ain’t that right?”

  The kids nodded, but it was obvious they didn’t mean it.

  Yule’s whistle sounded. Tom backed slowly to the door. When he reached it, he stood there with his pistol trained on the small crowd. Then he bolted through the door and ran to the horse, throwing himself up in the saddle.

  Yule yelled out happily. “Wahoo, Tom! We’re on the run!”

  “You son of a bitch!” Tom Deacon yelled back.

  The two charged down the road, then turned off and pounded toward the distant hills.

  Eleven

  Abbie Buchanan and Martha Tobey entered the dining room from the kitchen bearing trays holding cookies and cups of coffee. Their appearance elicited sound of happy anticipation from the other guests in J. T. Buchanan’s home that particular evening.

  Earl Tobey, Lighthorse Creek’s barber, smiled in undisguised pride at his wife’s culinary accomplishment. “I asked Martha to make them sugar cookies,” he said. “Most folks are real partial to ’em.”

  “Oh, Earl!” Martha clucked. “You’re enough to embarrass a body to death, I swear!” She and Abbie went around the room from person to person passing out the treats.

  Martin Blazer, impatient and a bit irritable, silently took the refreshments Abbie offered him. The young newspaperman controlled his annoyance and displayed a slight smile. “Thank you kindly,” he said with forced civility. He was anxious to get going on the purpose of the evening’s get-together that he himself had called.

  Besides Abbie, J. T. Buchanan, and the Tobeys, seated around the table, there were also Mr. and Mrs. Gus Brunswick, Mr. and Mrs. Lars Halversen, the town undertaker Charles Marley and his wife, and finally, Doctor Lewis Cranston. The doctor sat off by himself to one side of the dining room table. It was as if he were making studious observation of the others. As in all social events he attended, Cranston was more of a bystander than a participant.

  Martin took his cookie and dunked it into the coffee. He bit into the soggy sweet as his eyes darted about the room in exasperation. He had important business to discuss, and these people were treating the whole thing like a silly tea party. Every attempt he’d made at serious conversation had been turned away with smiles and pointless remarks.

  J. T. leaned toward Mrs. Brunswick. “Hattie, I meant to tell you that the calico material you wanted arrived today.”

  “Oh, J. T.!” Hattie Brunswick exclaimed. “Shame on you for not telling me earlier.”

  J. T. smiled sheepishly. “I hate to tell you this, but I plumb forgot. But I wouldn’t sell any to nobody else. I knew how much you counted on getting a bolt o’ the stuff.”

  “Are you going to make a dress, Hattie?” Karin Halversen asked.

  Martin groaned inwardly.

  “Yes,” Hattie answered. “For my daughter’s wedding. A drummer left a sample of the pattern with J. T. and I simply had to have it.”

  Sharon Marley was also interested. “Does it have bright colors, Hattie? How I love them.” She frowned at her undertaker husband. “Charlie’s business hardly ever gives me a chance to dress gaily.” Martin rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  Charlie pointed a finger at her. “Giving the dearly departed a fitting good-bye don’t allow for fun and games, Sharon.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t that be nice, to look like a lit-up Christmas tree at a funeral?”

  “I hope folks dress up all colorful-like when it’s my turn to leave this mortal world,” Earl Tobey said. “I want a happy farewell when I go to the hereafter.”

  J. T. laughed. “That depends on which direction you’re headed, Earl.”

  Earl’s wife displayed a frown. “That’ll be easy to know if he don’t start going to church more on Sundays.”

  “Sunday’s a day o’ rest,” Earl said,

  “It’s a day o’ worship and rest,” his wife countered.

  “We could all live better in the Lord’s way,” Martha Tobey said. She was a large woman with a big appetite, and reached for the tray to pick out her third cookie. “Arid, anyhow, J. T., we don’t want you to be secretive about things you got on order. You tell us what’s coming in and when it’s gonna get here.”

  J. T. laughed. “Martha, I can always tell you what I sent for. But only the Good Lord knows when it’ll reach the Injun Territory.”

  “Excuse me!” Martin spoke out loudly. “Excuse me!”

  Everyone turned toward him with puzzled expressions on their faces. “What’s on your mind, Martin?” J. T. asked. “You’re the only feller I know that’d asked to be excused when you really didn’t do nothing that needed a pardon.”

  “He was always such a polite boy,” Sharon Marley said with an affectionate smile.

  Martin sighed loudly. “We’re supposed to have a meeting tonight,” he said. The young newspaperman pulled a watch from his pocket and checked it. “It’s getting late.”

  “Aw!” Lars Halverson scoffed. “We got plenty of time, Martin.”

  “Yes,” Hattie Brunswick said. “By the way, Martin, the first issue of the Lighthorse Creek Sentinel was certainly impressive.” She beamed at her husband. “Especially Gus’s advertisement on page one.”

  “What about mine?” Earl Tobey asked. “The announcement of my barber shop was there too.”

  “Excuse me,” Martin said again. “Did anyone read the editorial page?”

  “Oh, Martin!” Karin Halversen said. “It was so-so moving!”

  “Damned strong!” Gus Brunswick said. “Beg pardon, ladies.”

  Abbie’s face lit up with an admiring smile. She didn’t think they were giving the editor his proper due. “Those words you penned were inspiring, Martin! That’s the only way to describe that wonderful editorial—as an inspiration!”

  Now it was Martin who forgot the reason for the evening’s gathering. “Thank you. Thank you very much, Abbie.”

  Doctor Lewis Cranston had remained silent during all the conversation. The town physician sipped his coffee and listened silently to all the inane conversation that floated around the table. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his somber yet commanding voice. “Young Martin Blazer called us here for something very important. He desires a serious discussion, as our town’s journalist, with other leaders of the community. Would you consider me rude if I suggested that we men retire to the living room to conduct that meeting?” He waited for any objections, and hearing none, he stood up. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

  Martin gratefully trailed after the half-dozen other men. When they settled down on the sofa and chairs, he wasted no time in addressing them.

  “Gentlemen, as Mrs. Halversen pointed out so kindly, the first issue of my newspaper carried an editorial. I fear the substance of the essay was more of protest than of guidance.”

  “But the wording really jumped out at you,” Earl Tobey said.

  “You always had a way of having your say that would knock a man straight outta his boots,” Lars Halversen said.

  “Thank you both, I appreciate that,” Martin said. “But strong words of denouncement are empty and useless by themselves. It is now time to add substance to that editorial in the guise of positive leadership.”

  J. T. lit a cigar, then passed the box around. “What’ve you got in mind, Martin?”

  Martin’s voice instinctively deepened and he spoke out loudly. “Gentlemen, this evening I am proposing that we form a city council and draft a set of ordinances to govern Lighthorse Creek.” Charles Marley bit the tip off his stog
ie. “Are you talking about a town government, Martin?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Marley,” Martin said. “With an elected mayor who has the powers to appoint needed officials and committees to get this town back on the right track.”

  Doctor Cranston nodded his head. “I know what you’re getting at, Martin. Probably every man here does. You, of course, want to rid the town of the likes of Culhane Riley and his organization.”

  “Exactly!” Martin exclaimed.

  “We tried that,” Lars said. “It didn’t work out. Ever’ lawman and gunman we sent against him got kilt. And Riley was getting so riled, I think he was ready to start shooting some of us. It won’t work.”

  “That was your biggest mistake,” Martin argued eagerly. “It will take more than a common thug with a pistol to clean up Lighthorse Creek. We need an ideal and a government. A strong set of laws, backed up by a crusading periodical, will bring popular pressure. And that is much more powerful than guns.”

  Charles Marley smirked. “What’re you gonna do, Martin? Roll up a newspaper and go over to the west side and hit Riley over the head with it.”

  “Yes, by God!” Martin shouted. “I’ll hit him hard and often with the Sentinel! I’ve already struck once, and I’ll do it again and again.”

  “Martin, boy, I ain’t trying to make fun o’ you, but you ain’t done nothing to Riley,” Gus Brunswick said. “That editorial ain’t gonna worry him none. Folks might agree with you and feel sorry for that dance-hall gal and her brother, but it ain’t gonna do nothing to make ’em get together to run them outlaws outta town.”

  “And you’re sure as hell ain’t gonna do nothing without guns!” Earl Tobey added.

  Martin was angry. “Culhane Riley will be plowed under by ideals, Earl! it was ideals that formed this country. Haven’t you heard of the Declaration of Independence? That was a written document that was all powerful. By God, it kicked King George out of America.”

  Doctor Cranston slowly shook his head. “It wasn’t the Declaration alone, Martin. It was George Washington and the Continental Army that did the job.”

  “With French help,” J. T. Buchanan added. “Don’t forget Lafayette.” He turned to Gus beside him. “Abbie told me all about that particular feller. She read about him in a book.”

  “Did she tell you about Von Steuben too?” Martin snapped. “That Prussian put the discipline into Washington’s men. But nothing those two men along with George Washington and the whole Continental Army did could have been done successfully without the framework provided by the written ideals expressed by the American Revolution’s intelligentsia.”

  Gus Brunswick stood up. “I ain’t sure of exactly what you just said, Martin. But the fact remains that if you want to run Culhane Riley and his pack o’ coyotes outta Lighthorse Creek, you need guns.” He turned to the others. “I’m going back for some more of Martha’s cookies.”

  “Damn it!” Martin yelled. “You’re backing down in the face of tyranny!”

  Earl Tobey also got to his feet. He walked over and kindly patted Martin on the shoulder. “We’d best let it ride, young’un. Things will eventually get better.”

  “No, they won’t!” Martin protested.

  “O’course they will, boy,” Charles Marley said. “Riley will just dry up and blow away someday. Now, excuse me, please.” He followed Gus and Earl out of the room. Then J. T. and Lars left in silence.

  Doctor Cranston walked over to Martin. “They’re not ready for you, Martin. You’re too much of a firebrand and an intellectual for this bunch.”

  “God! God!” Martin cried out, clinching his fists. “No wonder Culhane Riley was able to get such a grip on this town.”

  “Let’s go out with the others,” the physician suggested. “It won’t do you any good to work yourself into a seizure.”

  Martin was offended. “Doctor Cranston,” he said coldly. “I am not the type to suffer from fits! I am a level-headed, logical man with a mission to accomplish.”

  “Of course. But let’s retire to the dining room.” Martin’s voice was now subdued and cold. “No, thank you.”

  “Come down to my office and see me sometime, Martin. We’ll have a long talk.” Cranston returned to the dining room.

  Martin stomped outside to the porch. He stood, seething, against the railing, staring out into the darkness. The door opened and someone stood beside him.

  “Martin?”

  He turned. “Hello, Abbie.”

  “Martin,” she said softly. “You’re so superior to them.”

  “They need a leader,” Martin said.

  “Please, Martin. Be a little patient. These are small-town folks living out in the wilderness. Try to understand their limitations. Please?”

  “No, Abbie! No!” Martin said. “This is not a time to be condescending. I shall write an editorial so stinging, so accusing, and so inflammatory that Culhane Riley will have no choice but to crawl out of his rat hole and confront me.” He turned and pointed to the house. “Then perhaps those bumpkins in there will find the backbone to fight!”

  “Martin,” Abbie said with a worried tone in her voice. “Culhane Riley kills people!”

  Twelve

  The horses stumbled awkwardly, and snorted. They swung their large heads back and forth in an equine gesture of fatigue. Tom Deacon noticed the long stream of saliva hanging from his gelding’s mouth.

  “This is as far as I go for a while,” Tom said. “My horse is blowed.”

  “Mine too,” Yule Quint said. “And I ain’t much better off myself.”

  “That makes the two of us,” Tom said.

  “Hell, I ain’t surprised. We was riding all last night and half a day too.” He looked around. “That

  stand o’ cottonwoods over there was made to order

  for a couple of fellers that might have some unwanted comp’ny come riding up.”

  “The hell if it is,” Tom said. “That’s the first place they’d look.” He pointed to the north. “See how the ground dips out there? That means ravines. With a little luck there’ll be a deep one or two.

  Let’s get into one o’ them.”

  “By God, Tom!” Yule exclaimed. “Riding with you gives me a pure comfort in my troubled heart. You always was smart, and know how to make things turn out good.”

  “If I’m so damn smart, why am I running from the law?” Tom dismounted and led his horse toward the swells in the terrain. He frowned at his companion. “Or I really should say, if I’m so damn smart, what am I doing with the likes o’ you?”

  Yule, following his example, walked beside him. He grinned. “I been expecting this since we vamoosed away from that damn whorehouse. You’re riled, ain’t you?”

  “Goddamn, Yule! Don’t you think I oughta be? There I was minding my own business, just concentrating on getting peaceful drunk, and you took us into the middle of gunplay.”

  “Hell! I din’t start that damn fight,” Yule said. “The bigmouth kid did.”

  “There wasn’t no reason to shoot him,” Tom said. “Maybe he stepped outta line, but it wasn’t so far that a little joking couldn’t have set things right.”

  “I don’t joke,” Yule said seriously. “And when I do, it ain’t never at my own expense.”

  “I know! I know! You just haul off and shoot folks!” Tom took an instinctive look behind them. “This is some real deep shit we’re in right now.”

  “What the hell are you worried about?” Yule asked. “Nobody in that place knows who we are, and they sure ain’t gonna recognize either one ifn they see us later.”

  “The kid died, Yule,” Tom said. “That ought to rile somebody, ought’n it?”

  “Mebbe,” Yule said. “But I ain’t gonna lose any sleep over it.”

  “Don’t it bother you none about that kid dying?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Shit!”

  They went down into a deep, wide gully with buffalo grass growing along the crests. The partners worked silently in unsad
dling their horses and giving the animals a brief rubdown with the saddle blankets.

  “I’m sure glad we took them baths,” Yule said as he wiped down his mount. “Just think how damned dirty we’d be if we hadn’t.”

  Tom gritted his teeth in anger as he worked vigorously at the chore. “It would’ve been a hell of a lot nicer if we could have took another today.” Yule stopped and looked over his horse’s rump. “Now, goddamn it, Tom! I was drunk and the kid started it. What more can I say?”

  “There ain’t no sense in hashing it over,” Tom said. “The damage is done. But that don’t mean I’m gonna stop being mad about it.”

  “They don’t know who we are,” Yule said, falling back into his original argument.

  “Well, they ain’t gonna just let a coupla strangers ride into their town and kill somebody,” Tom said. “Don’t you think that kid had a family?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t give a shit,” Yule said. He glared at Tom. “Now I’m getting riled.”

  “Then, let’s not talk no more,” Tom suggested. “Damn good idea!”

  Another ten minutes passed, then Yule tried again.

  “Say, Tom. Are you still planning on heading up Kansas way for a lawman’s job?”

  “Yep.”

  “You oughta find one and stick with it,” Yule said. “I don’t think that wandering around is real good for the likes of you.”

  “You’re prob’ly right,” Tom said. “Particularly when you consider the comp’ny I find myself in sometimes.”

  “I thought you said we shouldn’t hash this over,” Yule said angrily.

  “Let’s hurry up so we can be ready for any nasty surprises,” Tom said.

  They finished tending the horses and gently resaddled the tired animals. A small brook wound through the ravine, and both men and their mounts refreshed themselves.

  Suddenly Tom signaled for quiet.

  Yule nervously drew his pistol and waited to see what had spooked him. “What the hell?” he whispered.

  “Stay here,” Tom said quietly. He slowly ascended the side of the gash in the ground and used the buffalo grass on the top for cover. After a few