Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

by Matt Braun

  He still felt watched.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sam Irvin showed up unexpectedly. The Katy was some six miles into the Cherokee Nation, having spanned Russell Creek with a timbered bridge. The track-laying crew had so far delivered on Scullin’s promise of a mile a day.

  A deputy marshal, Irvin worked out of Fort Smith. He’d worn a badge most of his adult life, serving as a federal lawman for the last five years. He was on the sundown side of thirty, with a bulge around his beltline and flecks of gray in his hair. Yet no one, least of all the men he hunted, was fooled by his fatherly appearance. When crossed, he was a dangerous man.

  Ryan and Irvin were old friends. Over the years they had teamed up on several assignments in Indian Territory. On occasion each had saved the life of the other, which engendered a very special sort of kinship. In a gunfight Ryan knew of no one else he’d rather have as a partner. Many men were what he tended to categorize as toughnuts; they thrived on rough-and-tumble fisticuffs and eagerly invited trouble. But a man like Sam Irvin was another breed entirely. When words failed, he never resorted to fists or a contest of physical strength. He pulled a gun.

  Irvin rode into camp late Sunday afternoon. The construction crew was quitting for the day, having just completed the sixth mile of track. Ryan, as he’d done every day, had stationed himself some distance ahead of the graders. He grinned upon spotting Irvin, genuinely pleased to see an old comrade. Still mounted, they shook hands warmly.

  “Long time no see,” Ryan greeted him. “How the hell you been?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” Irvin allowed. “No need to ask about you. Any fool could see you’re in hog heaven.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Ryan laughed. “All I’ve got to do is wet-nurse a whole railroad through the Nations. It’s a cushy life.”

  “Beats chasin’ a bunch of hard-ass badmen.”

  “I take it you’re on the hunt.”

  Irvin nodded. “Ed Garrett was killed four days ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Creek Nation,” Irvin said. “Outside of Okmulgee.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “Ever hear of a robber named Jack Spainyard?”

  “I recall the wanted circulars.”

  “Well, him and a couple of other hardcases went on a spree. Started out, they robbed a Texican horse buyer just north of Okmulgee.”

  “And Ed Garrett went after them?”

  “Caught ’em too,” Irvin said dourly. “Only he must’ve got a mite careless. They killed him.”

  “Damn shame,” Ryan said, tight-lipped. “Ed was a better peace officer than most.”

  “It gets worse. Spainyard and his gang hightailed it into Cherokee country. They took a farmer and his family hostage and holed up night before last.”

  Ryan waited, knowing there was more.

  “Then the bastards,” Irvin went on, “raped the farmer’s wife. All three of them took turns—all night.”

  Irvin avoided his eyes as though embarrassed by the words. Like many lawmen, he was hardened to murder and the ways of cold-blooded killers. Yet he was acutely uncomfortable with the thought of a woman being violated, forced to perform indecent acts. Ryan finally broke the silence.

  “Was the woman Cherokee?”

  “Yeah,” Irvin affirmed. “But Garrett’s murder takes precedence. So Oliver Logan ordered me to bring ’em in—or kill ’em.”

  “By yourself?” Ryan asked, surprised. “Seems like Oliver would have sent along some help.”

  “We’re damned shorthanded, John. Since Judge Story took over, he’s fired about half the deputies. Told everybody the money had to be appropriated to ‘court costs.’ Which means it’ll wind up in his own pockets.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ryan muttered. “That’ll double every marshal’s workload.”

  “Doubles the territory we’ve gotta cover too.”

  Irvin’s statement underscored an already critical problem. Law enforcement in Indian Territory was a grueling business, conducted under the strangest circumstances ever faced by men who wore a badge. With the advance of civilization, a new pattern of lawlessness began to emerge on the plains. The era of the lone bandit gradually faded into obscurity, evolving into something far worse. Outlaws began to run in packs.

  Local peace officers found themselves unable to cope with the vast distances involved. Gangs made lightning strikes into Kansas and Missouri and Texas, terrorizing the settlements, and then retreated into Indian Territory. These wild forays, particularly bank holdups and train robberies, were planned and executed with the precision of military campaigns. In time, due to the limitations of state jurisdiction, the war became a grisly contest between the gangs and the federal marshals. But it was hide-and-seek with a unique advantage falling to the outlaws.

  Once in the Nations the gangs found virtual immunity from the law. And by any yardstick, they enjoyed the oddest sanctuary in the history of crime. While each of the Five Civilized Tribes maintained Light Horse Police, their authority extended only to Indian citizens. However heinous the offense, white men were exempt from all prosecution except that of a federal court. It was the marshals who had to pursue and capture every wanted white man. The Nations quickly became infested with fugitives from justice. Curiously enough, the problem was compounded by the Indians themselves.

  All too often the red men connived with the outlaws, offering them asylum. Few in the Nations had any respect for white man’s law, and the marshals were looked upon as intruders. So the job of ferreting out and capturing lawbreakers became a herculean task. Adding yet another obstacle, even the terrain itself favored the outlaws. A man could lose himself in the mountains or along wooded river bottoms and live outdoors for extended periods of time in relative comfort. Tracking badmen into the Nations was a dirty, dangerous business. It was no job for the faint of heart.

  Judge William Story merely intensified the problem. With his reduction in the number of federal marshals, the outlaws’ advantage suddenly became a deadly edge. The favorable terrain and a general atmosphere of sanctuary were now improved by too few lawmen chasing too many desperadoes. The Nations swarmed with killers and robbers and dozens of small gangs like the one led by Jack Spainyard. Outnumbered and outgunned, marshals were forced to ride alone into Indian Territory. Sam Irvin clearly was faced with the specter of his own death. That was the thought Ryan expressed now.

  “Aren’t you playing into a cold deck?”

  Irvin smiled. “Oliver Logan figured it the same way. He told me to drop by here and ask you to lend a hand.”

  “Lend a hand! Hell, I’m a civilian now.”

  “I got the authority to deputize you.”

  “What about my job here? The Cherokees are on the warpath, and no bones about it, I can’t just walk out.”

  “John, I need your help,” Irvin said solemnly. “We go back a long ways or I wouldn’t ask. Course, you don’t owe me nothin’ … .”

  “Don’t soft-soap me,” Ryan cut him short. “You know damn well you meant to put me on the spot.”

  “A man does what he has to.”

  Ryan pondered it a moment. “How long you figure it’d take?”

  “Couple of days. No more’n three at the outside.”

  “Any idea where Spainyard and his bunch are holed up?”

  “Nope,” Irvin admitted. “But I thought our first stop ought to be Tahlequah. Major Tappin might’ve heard something.”

  “While we’re there, why not ask him for the loan of a few Light Horse? You said the farmer and his wife are Cherokee.”

  “Maybe,” Irvin said doubtfully. “I just don’t want any argument about jurisdiction. Spainyard killed a federal marshal, and that makes him ours—not Tappin’s.”

  “By ‘ours’ I assume you mean you and me.”

  Irvin grinned. “You as much as said you’d come along.”

  “Yeah, but it’ll take some powerful explaining to Tom Scullin. He’s the Katy construction boss.”

  Irvin m
otioned toward the tracklaying gangs, who were trooping back to the supply train. “All the men look full-growed to me. You’d think they could wet-nurse themselves for a couple of nights.”

  “If they can’t,” Ryan noted, “I’m liable to be an unemployed special agent.”

  Irvin eyed him with a crafty look. Shaking his head, Ryan reined about and gigged his horse. They rode off in search of Scullin.

  Late the next afternoon Ryan and Irvin entered the Cherokee capitol building. Upstairs they were ushered into Major David Tappin’s rather monkish office. The furnishings consisted of a desk and chair and a lone file cabinet. The tribal treasurer apparently believed in the brisk conduct of business.

  Forced to stand, Ryan and Irvin planted themselves in front of the desk. Tappin finished signing a letter and carefully returned the pen to the inkwell. Then he sat back in his chair, hands flat on the desk, and stared at them. His mouth was razored in a polite smile.

  “Gentlemen,” he said civilly. “What brings you to Tahlequah?”

  “Jack Spainyard,” Irvin told him.

  “Of course,” Tappin said matter-of-factly. “I understand he killed one of your marshals.”

  “After which,” Irvin said, “him and his men raped a Cherokee woman. We have reason to believe he’s holed up somewheres hereabouts.”

  “Indeed?”

  “We thought maybe your Light Horse might know where—just exactly.”

  Tappin sat perfectly still for a moment. Then his gaze shifted to Ryan. “Have you resigned from the railroad, Mr. Ryan?”

  “No,” Ryan said. “I’ve been deputized on a temporary basis.”

  “Too bad,” Tappin remarked. “Your work with the Katy seems a little beneath you. Some people might even call it a gun for hire.”

  Ryan ignored the barb. “We’re not here to talk about the railroad. We’re looking for Jack Spainyard.”

  “And welcome to him!” Tappin said shortly. “We’re already overrun with your outlaws and gunmen.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Irvin interjected. “You won’t argue about jurisdiction then?”

  “No, not this time. Take him back to Fort Smith and hang him.”

  “In that case let’s go back to my first question. Any ideas as to his whereabouts?”

  Tappin spun around in his chair. He opened the top drawer on the file cabinet and riffled through a folder. Extracting a sheet of paper, he consulted it briefly and closed the drawer. Then he turned back to them.

  “Spainyard and his men were reported camped on Blackgum Creek.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “And you made no effort to notify Fort Smith?”

  Tappin smiled. “You seem to forget, Marshal, we Cherokees are a very backward people. We haven’t the benefit of the telegraph.”

  “Would it make any difference if you did?”

  “Perhaps,” Tappin said equably. “Perhaps not.”

  “Well, thanks for your time anyway.”

  “You’re entirely welcome.”

  “One more thing,” Ryan said, almost as an afterthought. “We were wondering if you could spare a couple of Light Horse. It would improve the odds some.”

  “Spainyard is your responsibility. I couldn’t jeopardize my own men, not under the circumstances.”

  “You’ve got a funny way of looking at things, Tappin.”

  “Do I?” Tappin said pleasantly. “Well, no matter. I understand you thrive on long odds.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “A passing comment,” Tappin said, nodding to Irvin. “Good day, Marshal. Always a pleasure to see you.”

  Outside, Ryan led the way along the corridor. He was quietly seething, but he said nothing as they went down the stairs. Finally, as they emerged from the front door, Irvin chuckled and shook his head.

  “You know something, John? I don’t think that son of a bitch likes you.”

  “He especially doesn’t like who I work for.”

  “What was all that about you thrivin’ on long odds?”

  “Hard to say, Sam. Tappin talks in riddles about half the time.”

  Yet it was no riddle to Ryan. He’d understood perfectly what the remark meant. Tappin was talking about the four dead Cherokees, the ones he’d killed.

  As of today, he’d been put on warning.

  Dawn tinged the skyline. Blackgum Creek, flowing swiftly from winter melt-off, wound through a tangle of hills and wooded undergrowth. Nothing stirred where the stream made a sharp dogleg and gurgled off in a southeasterly direction. A deafening stillness hung over the land.

  Ryan and Irvin were crouched behind trees on the slope of a hill. Below them, just past the bend in the stream, there was a small clearing where three horses were tied along the treeline. Around a smoldering campfire, the outlines of three men in bedrolls were dimly visible. In the dusky light, a tendril of smoke drifted skyward.

  The lawmen had approached from the northwest shortly before dawn. They had hidden their horses in a stand of trees some distance upstream and slowly and with great caution had catfooted through the woods. Upon spotting the clearing, they had crouched down. Now, their eyes fixed on the sleeping figures, they spoke in whispers.

  Irvin, who was armed with a Winchester carbine, nodded toward the clearing. His lips barely moved. “What d’you think?”

  “Looks good,” Ryan said. “I doubt they’ll roll out before sunrise. So there’s no need to rush it.”

  “You figure we ought to separate?”

  Ryan understood that the older man was offering a suggestion. He studied the terrain a moment, estimating time and distance. On the opposite side of the creek, the woods were thick and brushy, skirting the shoreline. He judged the stream itself to be eight feet wide, studded in spots with large stones. The ground underfoot was still damp with dew, and therefore quiet.

  “I’ll cross over,” he said softly. “You cover me till I’m on the other side. Then I’ll work through those trees and come up directly opposite the camp. We’ll have them in a crossfire.”

  Irvin nodded. It was the very plan he’d had in mind himself. Once Ryan was in position, there would be no need to delay further. His own field of fire already enabled him to cover the clearing from woods to creek bank. He glanced at the younger man.

  “Don’t take no chances.”

  “It’s your show.” Ryan shrugged. “How do you want them—dead or alive?”

  “I’ll give ’em one chance to surrender.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Kill ’em,” Irvin said flatly. “Save the trouble of hangin’ them anyway.”

  “Whatever suits. I’ll wait for you to make the first play.”

  Ryan climbed to his feet. Angling downslope, taking it one step at a time, he drifted toward the dogleg. There, like a wraith he moved clear of the treeline and forded the creek, hopping from boulder to boulder. On the far side he quickly took cover in the brushy undergrowth. Quiet as wood smoke, he slipped through the shadowed timberland. Within ten minutes he was positioned immediately opposite the campsite. He waited behind the broad trunk of an oak tree.

  Jack Spainyard suddenly awoke. Reacting to a faint noise or some instinct, he went from deep sleep to a state of instant alertness. He sat up in his bedroll and looked around the clearing. Then his gaze shifted to the woods.

  Ryan froze. On the opposite side of the creek, Irvin went still as a stone monument. Hardly breathing, they held themselves motionless as Spainyard scanned the trees. For a long moment they were like partially hidden hunters who had inadvertently spooked their quarry. They waited in the deepening silence.

  Finally Spainyard crawled out of his bedroll and stood. As he stepped from the blankets, he pulled a pistol from his waistband and peered warily into the trees. His eyes flicked to the tethered horses, then moved back to the woods. His look was at once guarded and puzzled, and he hesitated only briefly. He rapped out a sharp command to the other two me
n.

  “Lem! Chuck! Haul your ass outa there. Let’s go!”

  Irvin reacted instantly. As the two outlaws scrambled from their bedrolls, he threw the carbine to his shoulder. He centered the sights on Jack Spainyard’s chest.

  “Hands up!” he yelled. “Do it, goddammit! Now!”

  Spainyard snapped off a hurried shot. He fired in the general direction of the voice, already moving toward the woods as he pulled the trigger. Irvin levered three quick shots from the carbine. The slugs pocked crimson dots on Spainyard’s shirtfront and he lurched sideways in a grotesque reeling dance. He went down, arms and legs akimbo, firing another shot as he fell. He dropped to the ground in a lifeless ball.

  At the first shot the other two men sprang to their feet. Guns drawn, they seemed intent only on escape. One of them backed across the stream, firing wildly at the muzzle flash of Irvin’s carbine. As he turned to the creek bank, Ryan stepped around the tree and triggered one barrel of his scattergun. The fist-sized load caught the outlaw in the brisket, splattering bone and gore. Legs pumping crazily, he stumbled backward into the creek. He hit the water with a loud splash.

  The sound of the shotgun stopped the second man. Sprinting toward the horses, he halted in midstride and turned to fight. His pistol leveled as he spotted Ryan across the creek, and he fired. The slug shaved bark off the trunk beside Ryan’s head and whistled harmlessly into the woods. Ryan let go with the shotgun, and in the same instant Irvin touched off another round from the carbine. Struck by a load of buckshot, the outlaw clutched his stomach as a carbine slug plowed through his rib cage. Like a puppet with his strings gone haywire, he collapsed to the earth.

  A stillness descended on the clearing. Irvin started downslope, and Ryan waded across the creek. They met beside the campfire and stood for a moment staring down at Spainyard’s body. The ground was puddled with blood, and the stench of bowels loosed in death filled the air. Irvin wrinkled his nose, slowly wagged his head. His voice was somehow rueful.