Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Nineteen

  When the door of the Sentinel’s office burst open, Martin didn’t even have time to utter any sounds of protest. The three men charged inside, leaping over the counter to get at the publisher. Martin’s first full realization that he was being attacked was Jake Donner’s big fist slammed straight into his face.

  The young newspaperman’s eyes rolled upward and he felt a surge of dizziness so heavy that it overcame the pain of his broken nose. He was hardly aware of the sharp crack when the back of his head collided with the floor.

  Jake Donner motioned to Tad Perkins and Frank Colen. “What the hell are you two waiting for? Get to work!”

  “We ain’t finished whipping on him!” Tad protested.

  “The boss wants the place tore up first,” Jake said. “Take care o’ that, then we can get back to finishing up this here banty rooster.”

  Tad and Frank walked up to a cabinet holding cases of type. Tad tried to tip it over by himself. “Damn! This thing is heavy. Gimme a hand, Frank.”

  The two strained for a full minute before they got the huge piece of printing furniture to begin tipping. Jake rushed up and added his own efforts before the entire affair finally went over and hit the floor with a loud crash. Pieces of individual type scattered outward.

  “Damn! Look at all that lead,” Frank complained. “No wonder there was so much weight in it.”

  “Goddamnit! Stop jawing! Let’s get that thing over there,” Jake said, pointing to the press. He reached it first and attempted to pull it up on one side. “Goddamn it! Does ever’thing in here weigh a ton? You two stop standing there like a coupla idjits! Help me out.”

  Once more the trio of henchmen struggled, using their combined strength, until they accomplished their goal. The press went over with a thundering impact that made the wooden floor of the building shake.

  “Whew! That’s enough of the heavy stuff,” Tad said. “Let’s just start throwing the rest o’ this junk around.”

  “Now you got the idea. Don’t take a lot o’ time either,” Jake said. “Get to it.”

  For the next twenty minutes they began an orgy of destruction. Boxes were kicked over, drawers pulled out and the contents scattered around the room. Ink was spilled all over the floor, and stacks of paper were thrown wildly around to float down over the mess that was once a well-organized newspaper office.

  Martin’s senses returned to him in a slowly receding haze of pain. He couldn’t even remember where he was as he laboriously struggled to his feet. The wounds he’d suffered in his previous encounter with Riley’s men had hardly begun to heal. Now the injuries were freshly opened and bleeding, the pain even worse than the first beating.

  It took him a couple of minutes to comprehend what was going on, but when the sight of the three men ripping his business apart finally sank in, Martin’s combination of Anglo-Saxon and Cherokee blood came to a quick, violent boil.

  He didn’t hesitate for a single instant.

  “You sons of bitches!” he cried out. He staggered through the mess in a fury. The first man he grabbed was Frank Colen. “Get out of here, you bastard!”

  Frank snarled and spun around to meet the puny threat. “We’re saving you for last, but here’s something to think about. Anyhow, you called me a yellow-bellied skunk, didn’t ya?’ He hit Martin with three quick but heavy punches.

  Martin’s head snapped back with each blow. He staggered sideways and bumped into Tad, who was waiting for him. The outlaw added a few cuffs and jabs of his own that sent Martin reeling straight over to Jake.

  Jake grabbed the semiconscious youth’s shirt collar, violently shaking him. “I reckon we might as well take care o’ this fancy-pants now as ever, boys.” He glared at Martin. “Don’t you pass out no more, you hear, Blazer? We don’t want you to miss all this fun.” He delivered a vicious open-handed slap that took Martin back to Frank.

  “That’s right,” Frank said, delivering a bolo punch to the belly. “We’re your pals. We want you in on all our good times, right, Tad?” He shoved Martin to his partner.

  Tad delivered a brutal attack of numerous punches that opened a deep gash over Martin’s right eye. The journalist collapsed to the floor, his face a bloody mess.

  “Aw!” Frank scoffed. “He’s tired. He went to sleep on us.”

  “Let’s wake him up with a little run outside,” Jake said. He motioned to Tad. “Go get my horse. He’s saddled up behind the Silk Garter.”

  “You bet!” Tad said, hurrying off on the errand. “C’mon, Slim,” Jake said, picking up Martin. “Let’s go outside so’s ever’body can see you. The boss wants folks around here to know for sure what happens to anybody that riles him.” He dragged Martin through the door and out onto the middle of Main Street. He stood holding the semiconscious victim. “Hey! Ever’body! Hey!” he bellowed.

  People on the street stopped their activity and looked at the cause of the disturbance. Others came out of the stores, including Abbie and J. T. Buchanan. The girl screamed and rushed for Martin, but her father grabbed her. He pushed her back to some of the ladies on the boardwalk.

  “Let me go, Papa! They’ve hurt him.”

  J. T.’s jaw tightened at the sight of his bloodied future son-in-law. He motioned to the ladies holding Abbie. “Hang on to her.”

  “Stay with us, dear!” one urged her. “This is something the men have to handle.”

  “What men?” Abbie shouted. “My father and Martin alone?”

  J. T. hurried out toward Jake and Martin. But he stopped at the ominous sound of a hammer drawn back on a single-action revolver.

  “Looking for trouble, baldy?” Frank asked.

  J. T., nearly snarling, faced up to the threat. “Does it take two of you to handle that little feller?”

  “Nope. Three.” Frank grinned and pointed to Tad Perkins leading Jake Donner’s horse up the street.

  “Hurry up!” Jake hollered out. When the horse arrived, he let Martin slump to the ground. He jumped up into the saddle and loosened the attached lariat. Jake loved having a crowd watching. “Our old pal Blazer is tired,” he yelled out. “So we’re gonna perk him up with a little run.” Being an ex-cowboy, he was expert with a rope. He took a few turns then looped the lasso around Martin’s sitting form.

  “Leave him be!” J. T. yelled out. He realized they meant to drag Martin. “For the love of God Almighty, you don’t have to kill the boy!”

  But Jake only clicked his tongue as a signal to his horse. The animal backed away until the rope was taut. Jake dug his spurs in a bit, and the lariat tightened. Martin was pulled over to his side. “Get on your feet, boy!”

  Martin, dazed and unable to think or react rationally, instinctively complied. It took a couple of more moments for his head to clear. When he realized his arms were pinned to his side, he struggled to free himself. But Jake only backed his mount up some more to keep the lasso tight.

  Abbie shrieked out in terror while the other women held on to her struggling form. “Papa! Papa! Make them stop!”

  “Let’s see how fast you can run, Paper Boy,” Jake said. He pulled on the bridle to turn the horse and began a gallop.

  The shot exploded outward, and was followed -quickly by one more. All eyes turned toward the sound of the sudden disturbance.

  Tom Deacon had his pistol in one hand, and his scattergun in the other. He spoke distinctly and loudly to the crowd watching the torment. He made no effort to hide the contemptuous tone in his voice. “Don’t you fine people have a sheriff in this town?”

  “This ain’t none o’ your affair,” Jake said from his horse.

  Tom looked down at the small bloodied man bound tightly by the rope. “That must be a pretty dangerous feller to warrant the three of you and a horse to take care of him.” He looked around again. “I asked you once before. Now answer me! Where’s the local law?” he hollered.

  Somebody in the crowd called out, “There ain’t any!” '

  “In that case,” Tom said. “It
looks like I got me some work cut out.” He turned the muzzle of the scattergun in Jake’s direction. “Let him go.”

  Jake hesitated, but the look in the man’s eye gave every evidence of getting himself blown out of the saddle. He dropped the rope to the dusty street. But Frank Colen’s pistol was still loose in the holster. He slapped for it, and brought the Colt up unwavering and fast.

  Tom flipped his own pistol in that direction and fired two quick shots. Both missed, but they startled Frank enough for him to jump back a bit as he fired. His shot went over the stranger’s head.

  Tom’s trigger finger worked again.

  The bullet hit Frank’s knee, knocking him flat on his face. The outlaw raised his head in time for the fourth bullet to punch into the top of his skull. He shook violently, then went still.

  Martin, his head clearing a little, got to his feet. He lurched for the street and J. T. rushed forward to help him up to the boardwalk. Abbie finally freed himself from the women’s near-hysterical clutches. She ran to Martin, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Meanwhile, Tom kept the scattergun at the ready. “You two jaspers get closer together,” he ordered Jake Donner and Tad Perkins. When they hesitated, he growled in a deep voice. “Goddamn your eyes! I’ll unload this into you in another second!”

  Tad ran over to Frank and his horse.

  “Now,” Tom said. “Git!”

  They started for the west side of the street.

  “Not that way, you bastards! Out of town to the north.”

  Sullenly, but respectfully, the Riley gang duo did as they were told.

  “Hey, mister,” J. T. Buchanan called. “C’mon over here, will you, please?”

  Tom, not taking his eyes off the retreating figures of his adversaries, edged his horse to the east boardwalk. “Yeah?”

  “That’s my daughter’s fiancé you just saved from being drug to death,” J. T. said. “I’m obliged.”

  “Yes!” Abbie chimed in.

  Martin Blazer, his anger now replacing his helpless feeling, wiped at the blood on his face. “I wish to thank you for your assistance, sir.”

  “You’re welcome,” Tom said.

  Martin stepped up on the water trough in front of where they all stood. He decided to play up the dramatics of the scene to the hilt. “Good people of Lighthorse Creek! Listen to me! I beg of you to listen to me!”

  It hadn’t been necessary to call out to them. Everyone’s eyes were staring in fascinated wonder at the people who had played out the drama on the town street. The injured newspaperman had their full and deferential attention.

  “Now will you join me in my fight against Culhane Riley and his bandits?” Martin asked them in a loud voice. “Must I fight alone with a stranger’s aid while you stand and watch? Shame! Shame!” he shouted. He took full advantage of his natural sense of manipulation. “Where is your manhood, men of Lighthorse Creek? Who is next to be humiliated in the street? You, Lars Halversen? Earl Tobey? Gus Brunswick? Or your women? What happens if the brutes on the west side tire of their sport with saloon girls? Will your wives and daughters be the next to be abused by Culhane Riley’s men?”

  Tom Deacon smiled slightly. “You have a tendency to ask a lot of questions, mister.”

  Martin turned toward him. “And I have one more, sir. Will you agree to serve as our sheriff?”

  “You don’t know nothing about me,” Tom said. “It ain’t a real good idea to pass out a lawman’s star to just anybody.”

  “I know you are a decisive man who has considerable courage and skill with guns,” Martin said. “That is good enough for me.”

  “I do have some experience in enforcing the law,” he admitted modestly.

  “I can’t even tell you what the pay will be,” Martin said. “But, sir, will you take the position?” Tom thought a moment. The situation of the three bullies running roughshod over a little fellow while the local citizenry watched riled him considerably. “Sure.”

  “I must warn you,” Martin said. “You may be serving a lost cause.”

  Now Tom Deacon laughed aloud. “You’re talking to me about serving a lost cause? Hell, boy, I’m a veteran of the Confederate army!”

  Twenty

  The Winchester’s barrel was used to deftly push the living room curtains aside. “Nothing out there,” Lars Halversen announced to the others in the room.

  “I don’t expect much of anything tonight or even tomorrow,” Tom Deacon said. He had a sheriffs star pinned to his vest. J. T. Buchanan had fetched it from a box he kept in the back of his store. The cardboard container held the small amount of property left over from the town’s previous attempt at establishing a local government.

  Abbie and Martha Tobey appeared briefly to pass out cups of hot strong coffee. When the eight men in the room had been served, they withdrew to join the other three women in the kitchen.

  Martin drank his coffee quickly. His face was a mess. The eye that had the gash over it was a deep purple, and swollen shut. His nose, also bruised, was much larger than its normal size. “Shall we get to business, gentlemen?” he asked.

  Earl Tobey, Lars Halversen, Gus Brunswick, Charles Marley, and Doctor Lewis Cranston were in the room with Martin, Tom Deacon, and J. T. Gus stood up. “Before we start into this here meeting, there’s something the boys have asked me to say, Martin.”

  Martin was curious, “Yes, Gus?”

  “Well, we’re ashamed and that’s a fact. We knowed you was determined to go your own way all along, but we was all hoping that things would work out.”

  “And we still do,” Charles Marley said. “This ain’t nothing pleasant to say, but it’s got to be said ’cause this is the right time.” He took a deep breath. “We don’t think you’re handling this right, but we sure as hell didn’t enjoying watching you take a whipping there in the street.”

  “Yeah,” Gus said. “What all of us want to say, Martin, is that we wished we coulda helped you out there today. We was just overwhelmed by it all, I reckon. Nobody thought fast enough. It was a good thing that Mister, er, that is, Sheriff Deacon rode up. We’re right sorry, Martin. But we’ll stand by you tonight in case Riley sends any of his gang over here.”

  Martin nodded. “I’m not as upset by your inaction earlier as I am about your indecisiveness now. I really wish to impress on you that there is no natural order of things that will drive Culhane Riley out of here.”

  Tom Deacon interrupted. “Normally, since I’m a stranger here, I wouldn’t say nothing. But seeing as how I been made sheriff, I think I should get something across. I learned a long time ago that fellers like this here Riley don’t go nowheres unless they’re drove away. Sometimes, they get in so deep they can’t be kicked out no matter what. I just left a town called Sondra down in Texas where some high-handed fellers is pretty much having their own way. The only chance the other folks have in getting rid of ’em is to make a fight out of it.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” Martin said. “We appreciate your advice.”

  “I always agreed we needed a sheriff,” Lars said. “But I’m gonna be honest here. We told Tom that the others we hired as lawmen was kilt. And if Tom moves against Riley, he’s gonna be in boot hill too. So I ain’t holding back. This is a time for nothing but true talking, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. I don’t think there’s a damn thing that can be done about Culhane Riley unless we all take up guns. And I ain’t gonna take part in nothing like that!”

  “Me either,” Earl Tobey said.

  “I don’t want to get all shot up,” Gus said. “Hell, he ain’t taking none of our property or nothing.”

  “I suppose I should be angry,” Martin said. “But at least you’ve agreed to set up a town council and hire a sheriff. That’s one step toward my goal.” Marley, the undertaker, was more outspoken than the others. “Martin, you’re bringing this on yourself.” He pointed to Tom. “And you, too, Sheriff. I, for one, ain’t ashamed to say that I ain’t going out on the street and facing down Riley’s
men if they repeat what they done today. Hell, that’d be like jumping in to pull a drowning, man out of a lake when he keeps diving back in.”

  Martin displayed a sardonic smile. “But if Culhane Riley is run off, you’ll not object to enjoying the benefits of his defeat, will you?”

  Marley wiped a nervous hand across his face. “I said what I thought.”

  “You’re a stubborn feller, Martin Blazer,” Gus said. “That’s where you and Sheriff Deacon are like peas in a pod. Both o’ you got a streak deep inside that would make you stand up naked to a grizzly bear. If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re both a little crazy.”

  Tom grinned. “I’ll plead guilty to that. But when I feel something is worth fighting for, I’ll do it.” Lars Halversen was a bit astounded. “Hell, Deacon, you don’t even live here! You ain’t ever been in Lighthorse Creek before in your whole life. It don’t make sense.”

  Tom shrugged. “It didn’t make sense to cross that open field with Pickett at Gettysburg, but I done it.”

  “Pickett’s Charge!” J. T. Buchanan exclaimed. “They was pretty near wiped out.”

  “Pretty near,” Tom agreed. “But a few of us made it back.”

  “No matter how tough the fight,” Martin said. “There is always the possibility that a few will make it back.”

  Doctor Cranston finally spoke up. “We can discuss this until dawn and still not accomplish a thing. I have decided to throw in my lot with our intrepid newspaperman here and the brave sheriff. It’s time to stand and be counted.”

  Charles Marley didn’t wait an extra second. “I’ll be saying good-night.” He walked toward the kitchen. “Sharon! We’re going home now.”

  Earl Tobey and Gus Brunswick were more hesitant, but they, too, made their good-byes. Lars Halversen at least wished them luck, then he went to fetch his own wife.

  Doctor Cranston smiled and held his arms open. “Well, gentlemen, here we are. What’s the first thing we do?”