Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Plan our strategy,” Martin said, “And I have some very definite ideas.”

  Tom, interested in what he’d gotten himself into, settled back and listened intently as Martin laid out a plan of editorials and broadsheets to be posted around town. Each one would be a combination of fiery denouncement and a call to action of the citizenry.

  “I’m going to have to get these folks excited enough and angry enough to commit themselves,” Martin said. “And that’s going to take the full power of the Sentinel”

  “Martin,” Tom said. “I don’t think you stand a chance in getting the locals riled up. These fellers that was here are your friends, and they walked out. All they’d do was guard your house for a while so’s you wouldn’t get drygulched. Other folks will do even less.”

  “I’m not saying I can do it in just a Couple of issues,” Martin argued. “It will take time, but I can swing the citizenry into action. That’s all we need.”

  “I agree with you on the power of the press,” Tom said. “But it ain’t worth piddling if guns don’t back it up.” He gave Martin a meaningful look. “I notice you don’t tote iron.”

  Martin shrugged. “It’s not my style. I am a journalist.”

  Tom pulled his Colt from the holster and held it up. “Can you use one of these?”

  J. T. Buchanan laughed loudly. “This little feller is one o’ the best shots in Lighthorse Creek,” he said, reaching over and patting Martin on the shoulder. “It’s a natural talent he’s got, and that includes rifle and shotgun too.”

  “That’s right,” Doctor Cranston added. “He was always the winner in our annual duck hunts every fall. And that was when he wasn’t much bigger than that old Remington shotgun his father let him use."

  “That’s good to hear,” Tom said. “It’s somewhat comforting to know the feller I’m backing up can back me up too.”

  Martin fumed. “But I don’t want to use a gun! I wish you all would finally understand and accept that! I do not wish to resort to firearms. That’s the crux of my method of conquering Culhane Riley. I want to prove that the pen is mightier than the sword, as the old saying goes.”

  Tom Deacon was blunt. “The pen ain’t shit without a sword.”

  “I don’t want to argue about this,” Martin said. “I shall continue to fight through my editorials.”

  “You do what you have to, and I’ll do the same,” Tom said. “Anyhow, we ain’t gonna get no place arguing. Let’s decide what we’re gonna do.”

  “The first thing is obvious,” Martin said. “The Sentinel’s office must be cleaned up, and the newspaper put back in operation.”

  “I don’t recommend that as a midday job,” Tom said. “That Culhane Riley might decide to shoot the place up. I’d say he was determined to put you out of business.”

  “Fine,” Martin said. “Then, let’s do it at dawn. There’ll be enough light to see, but not enough to attract outside viewers. We can sneak in through the back way and have things back in order within two or three hours.”

  “If them fellers on the west side even suspect we’re setting up again, they’ll shoot the place apart,” Tom said. “And when they find out later that you’re printing again, they’ll sure as hell come a-calling on you. What do you say to the idea of arranging things in there to make it easier to defend?”

  “What do you have in mind?” Doctor Cranston asked.

  “I think the front of the place should be fortified as much as possible,” Tom said. “Maybe we can sandbag the place.”

  “What about hay?” J. T. volunteered. “Gus Brunswick has a steam baler out at his hay yard just outside o’ town.”

  Tom wasn’t sure. “He didn’t seem to support the fight here too much.”

  “But he’ll still sell us hay,” J. T. assured him. Tom almost sneered. “Just like a contractor supplying the army during the war for Southern independence, huh?”

  J. T. shrugged, the disappointment in his friend evident. “Yeah. Same thing.”

  “We can pile up the hay so that no shots from the west side can penetrate the insides of the building,” Tom continued. “Then you can have your printing equipment in the back. It’ll be easy to defend the place through the alley.”

  “What about fire?” J. T. asked. “Hay burns.” Tom shook his head. “The only time that Riley would try to burn Martin out would be when he was so damned desperate he had nothing to lose. A fire would easily spread over to his side o’ town.”

  “So the only thing we got to worry about is getting shot, huh?” J. T. asked with a laugh.

  “So it appears,” Tom said. He switched his gaze to Martin. “When do we start working on that office of yours?”

  “Dawn tomorrow,” Martin said.

  “Fine,” Tom said. “But let’s be sneaky and get over there just before daylight. From the looks o’ things, by being real careful, we should be able to reach the place without being seen. If Riley knows what’s going on, he’ll be there to meet us.”

  “You mean a group of his henchmen will be there,” Martin said disdainfully.

  “What it means,” Tom said, “is that we’ll get the living hell shot out of ourselves.”

  Twenty-One

  Lighthorse Creek was placid and still in the reddish glow of early dawn. Martin Blazer and Tom Deacon peered cautiously out the windows of the Buchanan home, using the partially opened curtains as cover.

  “Nary a soul out there,” Tom remarked. Then he displayed a sardonic grin. “At least for our sakes I sure as hell hope not!”

  “I’ll have to go along with you on that,” Martin said. He glanced across the yard to the dirt road beyond. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to wait any longer. Shall we go?”

  “I suppose,” Tom said slowly. He hesitated slightly, however, as his eyes continued to scan the scene. “I hate to rush into something that could cause me some personal grief.” He looked again for any telltale signs of moving shadows. “What the hell? We ain’t gonna live forever anyhow. C’mon!”

  The two made a slow, careful exit from the house. Tom loosened the Colt in its holster, and kept one hand on the butt of the Remington stuck in his belt. “I wish you’d pack some iron,” he whispered.

  Martin shook his head. “It would make a lie out of everything I’ve said so far. This situation is going to be handled through the strength of either the Sentinel or gunplay. The latter idea didn’t work before. Therefore, I shall continue to advocate the newspaper.”

  “You’re a smart feller,” Tom said. “But sometimes you don’t make sense. Going around unarmed in a situation like this is like ignoring a wild joker in a poker game. It adds to your hand and don’t cost nothing.”

  “Your point is well taken,” Martin said. “But I’ll resist the logic as strongly as possible.”

  They cleared the residential section. Martin envied the people in their homes still sleeping peacefully. He and his companion walked slowly into the commercial district. The two paused under a huge oak tree that sat to the east of the corral at Gus Brunswick’s smithy. Both men gave the area a careful viewing, paying particular attention to spots that offered cover for any potential bushwhackers.

  “It looks quiet enough,” Martin said. “Let’s—”

  “Wait! Tom whispered. A movement in the back of Halversen’s gun shop caught his eye. He eased the Colt from its holster, pressing back the hammer.

  “What do you see?”

  “Shhh!” Tom insisted.

  A tall stand of weeds wiggled a bit, making the observers tense. Tom drew the Colt and pulled back the hammer. Then a large orange cat strolled slowly out into the alley to cross it and go down toward Toby’s barbershop.

  Tom grinned sheepishly while he carefully lowered the hammer. “You suppose that ol’ cat is on Rileys’ payroll?”

  “Could be,” Martin said, winking at him.

  “I think we’d best to do like the cat. We can go down the alley and through the back,” Tom said. “Even if Riley ain’t gonna t
ry nothing, he might get some mean ideas if he catches sight of us.”

  “Right,” Martin said.

  The pair instinctively separated as they moved down the narrow lane behind the east side’s business establishments. Tom walked close to the buildings, sticking deep within their shadows. He had replaced the Colt in the holster, but he kept a ready hand on the weapon. Martin stayed even with Tom, but was more in the open. It took them almost a quarter of an hour to finally reach the back of the newspaper.

  “Looks like we made it,” Tom said. “Is there any cover inside?”

  “There’s a counter that runs the length of the front window,” Martin said. “It’s a pretty heavy affair. But I don’t think it would stop a bullet.”

  “That ain’t real comforting news, but I’ll use that for pertection while you straighten up,” Tom said. “One of us is going to have to keep watch on Riley’s saloon. More’n likely that’s where trouble will be coming from.”

  “Fine,” Martin agreed. “But I’ll need your help in picking up some of the heavier stuff. We might even have to wait for J. T. to come down and lend a hand.”

  “If we can get through this morning, we’ll be all right,” Tom said. He motioned toward the newspaper building. “Let’s go to it.”

  They walked up the back step. After one more careful scan of the immediate area, they nodded in satisfaction to each other. Martin let out his breath. “Here we-”

  The back door burst open.

  A man, one of Riley’s gang, swung up his Winchester and fired. The heavy slug whipped through the short distance and passed directly between Martin and Tom. Tom’s moves were instinctive and lightning quick. The Colt was into his hands and barking twice.

  Splinters exploded out from the door jamb, but the second bullet smacked straight into the outlaw’s groin, causing him to flip into an undignified somersault and land flat on the top of his head in the alley.

  More shots followed from behind.

  Martin drove to the ground and emitted a yell of pain as his bandaged ribs absorbed the full impact on the ground. Tom had spun around and backed into the building to face the newest adversary. He fired blindly, then ducked as several slugs slapped into the wooden siding behind him. He couldn’t see where the ambusher was located.

  Martin rolled over and got to his feet. He pointed ahead of himself. “There! There!”

  Tom dodged another fusillade. He pulled his Remington free and tossed it to Martin. “I can’t see him!”

  The pistol turned lazily through the air. Martin had to reach out awkwardly to catch it, and more heavy stabs of pain hit his ribs. He breathed in painful gasps, staggering sideways while adjusting his grip on the pistol. Then he brought it up for a quick snap shot at the figure behind Earl Tobey’s wash-house in the alley.

  Tad Perkins, crouching to take a more carefully aimed shot at Tom Deacon, straightened up when the bullet hit his elbow. He cursed loudly and sunk down into a sitting position to get out of the line of fire.

  “I got him!” Martin yelled. Then he instantly regretted hollering out when the agony in his ribs increased so much that he couldn’t catch his breath for a few moments.

  Now there was more shooting at Martin and Tom. Figures could be seen advancing toward them, using the ample cover in the alley for concealment.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Tom said. He grabbed Martin and roughly pulled him back down the alley in the direction from which they’d come.

  “Ow! Ow!” Martin yelled out. Tears streamed down his eyes as the intensity of the hurting became nearly unendurable.

  Back up the access behind the buildings, Jake Donner and two more of Riley’s gang continued to advance. They fired rapidly but inaccurately at the retreating figures.

  “Hold it!” Jake called out. “They’ve skedaddled.”

  Tad Perkins, holding his shot arm, struggled to his feet and came out from behind the wash-house almost bent over double. “That little bastard shot me! First he writes all them shitty things and calls me names. Then he hauls off and puts a slug in my arm.”

  “Hell, you was shooting at him, wasn’t you. What’d you expect the little turd to do? Even a sissy newspaper writer is gonna fight back. Now shut up and let’s have a look, shithead,” Jake said. He stripped back the sleeve and took an expert look at the wound. “You’re lucky. He missed the joint and hit meat. See if you can move it.”

  Tad winced, but was able to display full movement of the injured limb. “I reckon it ain’t bleeding too bad.”

  “A week or so in a sling ought to fix you up,” Jake said.

  “Goddamn, Jake! I’ll tell you one thing. That kid can shoot. So can the other feller.”

  “Hell, we knowed that,” Jake said. “He did for Frank right smart yesterday, didn’t he? And for ol’ Pete here too.” He walked over to the corpse lying bunched up outside the back door of the newspaper. “Now, if that ain’t a silly sight.”

  Tad walked over and, still holding on to his hurt arm, used his boot to roll the dead man over. “Dumb bastard. I told him to use a shotgun instead of that damn rifle.”

  “Leave him be,” Jake said. “It’s getting late and all this gunplay is gonna have the folks that live over here on the east side showing up soon. They’ll take care o’ burying Pete for us.”

  “I’m gonna see Cranston and get my arm took care of,” Tad said.

  “Don’t take all day,” Jake told him. “Pm gonna go see the boss.” He walked through the narrow opening between the buildings, and crossed the street.

  Happy Jack stood in the door of the Silk Garter. “Did ya get ’em, Jake?”

  “Aw, shut up, you drunken shit!” Jake said. He cuffed the drunkard, then went on inside going straight up to Riley’s office on the second floor. He knocked. “Boss. It’s me.”

  “Come in, Jake.”

  Jake went into the room. “They got away, but we scared the shit out of ’em. I had Pete wait inside the place. When they walked up, he kicked the door open and cut loose.”

  Riley, eating his breakfast off a tray on his desk, stirred his coffee. “He couldn’t hit them at that close a range?”

  Jake shrugged. “Too bad for him that he didn’t. He got shot for being sloppy.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yep. And Tad got hit in the arm. That newspaper kid done it.”

  “So he can write and shoot, can he?”

  “I reckon.”

  Riley started to eat, but his disgust got the best of him. He laid down his fork. “You boys didn’t do worth a damn, did you?”

  “It’s hard to fight in a town, boss. There ain’t a lot of room to move around,” Jake said.

  “Christ! You knew they were coming,” Riley said. “You almost knew the exact minute they would show up.”

  Jake didn’t say anything. Riley didn’t seem to be really enraged, but the gunman thought it wiser to stay shut up.

  Riley stood up and pulled a cigar from the box in his desk drawer. He walked to the window. “Another idea has come to the fore, Jake. As a matter of fact, I was considering the scheme while the sounds of your futile gun battle were disturbing my breakfast.”

  “What do you have in mind, boss?”

  Riley ignored the question. Instead, he asked one of his own. “The boys out on the whiskey run have never been in Lighthouse Creek before, have they?” Jake thought a minute. “Nope. There was always plenty for ’em to do out there.”

  “So none would be recognized by any of the citizenry, correct?”

  “That’s right, boss.”

  Riley was thoughtful for several more moments. “Tell me. How soon could you have Zebediah Black brought in from the cattle camp outside of town?”

  “About two hours,” Jake answered, puzzled. “Go get him, Jake,” Riley said. “Don’t waste a minute. And, on your way out, tell Happy Jack to come and see me. I have an important errand for him.” He smiled at Jake. “Things are about to get back to the way they were around here before that newspaper came
to town. I don’t think it’ll take long for Martin Blazer and the Sentinel to be forgotten.”

  Twenty-Two

  “Those son of a bitches were waiting for us,” Tom Deacon said. “I swear they knew we were going to show up.”

  “Perhaps not,” Doctor Cranston suggested. “Culhane Riley might have set some of his men in the building as a precaution.”

  “It is possible we walked into the ambush through misadventure,” Martin said painfully from his position on the sofa. It hurt him even to talk since the mistreatment of his injured ribs.

  Tom was angry. “Goddamn it! Pm telling you they not only knew we was going to be there, but they damned near had the exact time too!”

  “No matter whether they did or not,” Martin said. “We must regain control of the Sentinel. It is vital to our cause.”

  Tom, who had been standing an impromptu watch at the window, walked over to Martin and sat down beside him. “I want you to start carrying a gun. I ain’t taking no for an answer. We got a sneaky situation going on here. It’s got to the point that not packing iron is more’n silly. Now it’s stupid.”

  Martin sighed. “You’re probably right. I hate like the very devil to admit it. But there’s a great reason in your argument.”

  “I’ll give you another reason,” Tom said. “If you don’t, I’m gonna turn in this here badge and get outta here. I ain’t dying being pumped full of holes while the feller next to me is crouching behind cover.”

  “I concede to your proposal,” Martin said. “Does that mean you’ll carry a gun?” Tom asked. “You talk in circles a lot, boy.”

  “Yes, Tom. I will carry a gun,” Martin said, grinning weakly. “I’ve learned a valuable lesson this morning. I am no more anxious to get shot to pieces than you are.”

  J. T. Buchanan, who had been sitting quietly by in his favorite armchair, nodded his approval. “I got a brand new Colt .45 down to the store that’ll fit your hand nicely, Martin. I don’t mind saying that giving it to you is gonna take a hell of a load off my mind. Now that you’ve decided that, what other bit of ideas is in the wind?”