Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  With the town of Fort Smith approximately two miles behind him, Jordan led the horses to a large oak whose branches spread like a giant fan over the wagon track. Confident that the two lawmen’s horses would be readily seen from the road, he dismounted and looped their reins over a low-hanging limb. Wasting no time, for he figured a posse was being rounded up as quickly as the marshal could manage, he searched the saddlebags until he found the oil cloth that held his money. Content to settle for the recovery of his property, he replaced everything he had removed from the saddlebags—with the exception of a box of forty-four cartridges. He hesitated for only a moment before dropping it inside his own saddlebags. Without spending a lot of thought on his actions, he tucked a couple of bills under the flap of the marshal’s saddlebags. Satisfied that his ledger was balanced, as far as the law at Fort Smith was concerned, he climbed aboard the chestnut. Bending low in the saddle to avoid the low-sweeping limbs of the giant oak, he left the well-traveled wagon track and rode down through a heavily wooded hillside. Letting the chestnut find his own way through the trees, he headed for the river and Indian Territory beyond.

  Chapter 5

  The old man was close enough now to smell the coffee. The aroma of the boiling black liquid wafted by his nostrils on the gentle evening breeze, luring him like the song of a sultry siren. It must have been nearly a month since Perley had run out of coffee beans, and the prospect of a friendly cup was too much to pass up.

  Ordinarily, Perley would have taken a wide pass around a lone campfire this deep in Indian Territory, but this one had aroused his curiosity. Although apparently from a small fire, the thin trail of smoke had been obvious to his trained eye from a couple of miles away. He had first spotted it just before sundown and decided right away that it was not an Indian campfire. His guess had been that it was most likely that of a white man, which, in most cases in this part of the territory, would have given him reason to avoid it even more. White men in this part of the wilderness were usually outlaws on the run, and Perley avoided them whenever possible. About the only time he came into contact with the lawless breed who hid out in the endless rolling hills was when he rode into Bannerman’s to trade some hides to supplement his meager supplies. He didn’t require much: coffee, flour, occasionally a tin of oysters to celebrate Christmas. There was little left over after his basic requirements were met, namely, cartridges for his rifle.

  Just like I figured, he thought as he watched the lonely camp by the stream below him. It was a white man all right. And from his position lying in the tall grass atop the hill, Perley took his time to look the situation over. The stranger appeared to be a young fellow, and from the look of his gear, he didn’t appear to be a miner or a trapper. Somebody running, Perley decided. Might be best to leave him be. There were ever-increasing numbers of settlers moving into the territory, ignoring the fact that it was designated as Indian Territory, but this young fellow was most likely a fugitive from the law. He might be quick to use the rifle propped near his knee. Even as Perley decided it best to avoid contact with a stranger riding alone across the Choctaw Nation, the aroma of coffee floated by his nose on the evening breeze. “What the hell?” he mumbled. “There are some things worth riskin’ your neck for.”

  * * *

  “Hello the camp.”

  Startled by the sudden greeting from the hill above him, Jordan reacted at once. Without taking time to think about it, he grabbed his rifle by the barrel and rolled over behind a cottonwood log. Peering out into the fading light, he looked quickly to his sides and behind him to make sure he wasn’t surrounded. Making no reply to the greeting, he scanned back and forth across the ridge above him, trying to locate the spot from which the voice had come. There was nothing he could see among the scattering of oaks that dotted the ridge as his gaze moved from one tree to the next.

  “Ain’t no reason to get excited,” the voice called out. “It’s just ol’ Perley.” This time the voice seemed to come from farther down the hill to Jordan’s right. Jordan immediately shifted his rifle to bear toward the base of the hill.

  “Show yourself,” Jordan called out. “If you’re a peaceful man, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about.”

  “All right,” Perley answered, “but don’t go gettin’ excited with that rifle. I’m just lookin’ for a cup of that coffee I’ve been smellin’ for half a mile.”

  “Come on, then. I ain’t gonna shoot.” Peering hard along the base of the hill, Jordan kept the rifle aimed in the direction from which the sound had come. In a few seconds, a form emerged from the heavy shadows, walking slowly toward him. As his visitor approached, Jordan could see that he was leading two horses, one heavily loaded with packs. Whether he was Indian or white, Jordan could not tell in the fading light, but the man could have been either. Dressed in animal skins and wearing a floppy wide-brimmed hat, he walked with a rolling gate, as if his feet hurt. Still cautious, Jordan rolled over on his back and peered out behind him in the near darkness. Seeing no sign of anyone at his back, he rolled over again to keep an eye on his guest.

  Perley had not survived the past five years, rambling on his own through Indian Territory, by trusting every stranger he met. Although the young man, now on one knee and watching him approach, appeared to be harmless enough, Perley kept one hand close to the handle of his pistol just in case. In motions slow and deliberate, so as to be obvious, he replaced his rifle in his saddle sling. “Good evenin’ to you, young man,” he offered.

  “Evenin’ to you,” Jordan returned somewhat cautiously. Now that the old man was close enough to be seen a little better, Jordan decided he posed no threat. Scraggly strands of white hair protruded from around his hatband like the fringe on a buggy, so long that they intertwined with his full face of whiskers, making the old man appear to be peeking out from a mass of vines. Still with his eye on his guest, he nodded toward the pot resting in the coals of his fire. “You’re welcome to coffee, but I don’t have but one cup.”

  His eye on the young man as well, Perley grinned. “Oh, I’ve got a cup, all right.” Under Jordan’s watchful eye, he looped his horses’ reins over a tree limb and rummaged through a pack until he produced a tin coffee cup. “I’ve been smellin’ that coffee for half a mile.” He went straight for the pot. When his cup was filled, and he had cautiously sipped a taste of the hot liquid, he smacked his lips and settled himself by the fire. He waited while Jordan propped his rifle against the log he had taken cover behind and moved back to join him at the fire. “It’s been at least a month since I’ve had a cup of coffee,” Perley went on. He took another cautious sip, since the metal cup was now hotter than the coffee it held. “The good Lord ain’t never invented nothin’ to take the place of coffee. I’ve drunk ever’ kind of concoction you can think of to replace it. There ain’t nothin’. The Injuns can brew up all kinds of nasty-tastin’ medicine outta bark and berries and ever’ thin’ else, but it’s a long sight from genuine coffee.”

  Jordan made no reply, so Perley rambled on in an attempt to be sociable. Finally he paused, then dispensing with meaningless conversation, he asked, “You don’t say a helluva lot, do you?”

  Jordan shrugged. “You didn’t seem to need any help,” he replied.

  Perley laughed. “I reckon I do tend to run off at the mouth sometimes.” Trusting his instincts, he suddenly extended his hand to Jordan. “My name’s Perley Gates,” he said. “And I reckon I’ve been away from folks too long. You’re the first white man I’ve seed for a while.” He nodded his head in the direction of his packhorse. “I’m on my way to Bannerman’s to trade them skins for supplies. Ten years ago, I coulda loaded that horse up like that in two weeks. Nowadays it takes most of two months, and the pelts ain’t near as prime as they was then. Hell, it used to be a man had to spread his bedroll in a tree to keep from gettin’ run over by a herd of antelope. And buffalo—hell, I’ve shot and skinned buffalo right on this spot, but not no more. It’s gettin’ so’s a man can hardly scratch out enough to keep his bel
ly from rubbin’ his backbone.”

  Jordan listened with mild interest. “Why do you stay on in Indian Territory?” The question seemed obvious to him, if there was as little game left as the old man claimed.

  “I don’t know,” Perley replied. “’cause I was born here, I reckon. It warn’t Injun Territory then. When I was just a young’un, the government moved all them Injuns from back east out here and called it Injun Territory. The game got scarce right quick after that. A few years back, I decided to go on out to have a look at the Rockies. Stayed for most part of two years. I’m thinkin’ more and more about goin’ back. Trouble is, the damn Injuns out there is still wild. I’m thinkin’ about goin’, anyway.” He paused for a moment. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what are you doin’ out here?”

  “Lookin’ for somebody,” Jordan answered. He let it go at that at first, but the longer he listened to Perley talk, the more convinced he became that the old man was harmless and no threat to him. In fact, he began to believe that it was a stroke of luck that he had run across Perley. The old man might be able to help him, for Jordan had no clue as to where he was searching. This was a fact that he had not allowed to come to the forefront of his mind: he was just wandering, hoping for a stroke of luck. He had not permitted himself to even consider the probability that he might never find the four men he hunted. He wasn’t even sure just how vast an area Indian Territory was. And what was beyond? According to his new acquaintance, the high plains and the Rockies were a world apart from the rolling hills of the Oklahoma country. Jordan would have to take his word, for this spot he was camped upon was as far west as he had ever been. Finally deciding that Perley was a friend, Jordan told him who he was looking for and why.

  “Well, I swear . . .” Perley uttered after learning of the events that brought Jordan to this little stream in Indian Territory. “Wife and child!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in sympathy. “No wonder you was lookin’ like you didn’t trust nobody.” He squatted by the fire to refill his coffee cup, then settled himself against a tree trunk to enjoy it. “So you had a little run-in with the deputy marshal over in Fort Smith, didja? I expect ol’ Ramey will be comin’ lookin’ for you.”

  “You know him?” Jordan asked.

  “Know of him,” Perley replied. “I’ve seed him. I was over to Skullyville one time when he come ridin’ in, lookin’ for some feller that broke outta jail.” He paused to cast a sideways glance at Jordan. “I expect that’s the first place he’ll look for you. It ain’t even a day’s ride from Fort Smith.”

  “Where’s . . . what did you call it?” Jordan asked,

  “Skullyville,” Perley said. “South of here, not too far from Swallow Rock boat landin’ on the Arkansas. It used to be a right thrivin’ little town before the war back east, but it’s kinda slid downhill ever since. It’s where the Injuns went to git their money from the government. I reckon that’s where Skullyville got its name. The Choctaw word for money is iskuli, so I reckon they called it Moneytown. Anyway, there was a time when ever’ outlaw runnin’ from the federal marshal passed through Skullyville. But not so much anymore—they know that’s the first place ol’ Ramey is likely to look fer ’em.”

  “Where would you look for the four I’m after?”

  “Bannerman’s is as good a place as any to start. That’s where I’m headin’. I can show you the way. Bannerman’s run a tradin’ post on Bitter Creek for about twenty years. The Injuns don’t bother him because a lot of ’em trade with him. And he sells ’em whiskey. The government would probably close him down, but they ain’t ever been able to catch him at it. I’d say there’s a good chance the skunks you’re after passed through that way. ’Course it’s just a guess. Who the hell knows where they’re headed? Might be they’re just layin’ around somewhere, or they’ve gone on through. But if they came this way, they most likely know about Bannerman’s.”

  With no better option, Jordan decided to follow the old man’s advice and accompany him to Bannerman’s. Perley took care of his horses, then settled himself by the fire again. Jordan couldn’t help but wonder at the almost constant chatter from his new traveling companion. Maybe, he speculated, it was as he had said: he hadn’t seen a white man in a couple of months and he was starved for conversation. Jordan had never been one to make small talk, but it didn’t matter. Perley didn’t seem to notice, leaving little room for Jordan to comment beyond a grunt or nod. In the course of the evening, Jordan came to know almost everything about Perley Gates.

  “Yep, my pap was a preacher. Used his life up tryin’ to put the Choctaws and the Creeks on the road to heaven. It plum wore him out. My ma had a brother named Perley. She thought a lot of, so she wanted to name me after him. Pap thought that was a fine idea and might help me stay on the straight and narrow if I was always reminded of the Pearly Gates that only opened wide for the Lord’s children. When I was a young’un, it started more fights than anything else. But I reckon it toughened me up in the long run.”

  Perley’s talk went on and on until it was time to retire to the bedrolls. As they were arranging their blankets to take best advantage of the warmth offered by the fire, Perley offered one last observation. “I ain’t tryin’ to tell you how to take care of your business. But if I was you, next time I’d make my camp on the other side of the stream, so’s you had it between you and the hill right behind you. Ain’t as easy for somebody to sneak up on you. Nothing but open country on the other side—see somebody comin’ for a mile.” Jordan nodded but did not speak in reply. Perley turned his back to the fire and pulled his blanket up over his shoulders. “Might not be a bad idea to look for a little dryer wood to burn, neither—less smoke.”

  Again, Jordan made no reply, but he made a mental note to remember to be a little more thoughtful when selecting a campsite from that point on. It was the first of many lessons Jordan was to learn about staying alive in the wilderness. Had he known Perley a little better, he would have realized that the old man had seen something of value in Jordan Gray. Had he not, his many comments and advice would have been withheld.

  * * *

  The sun had not fully crested the low hills to the east when Perley led his packhorse across the stream and set a course toward the northwest. Jordan followed on the chestnut, but not too close. “Don’t follow up too close to ol’ Sweet Pea there,” Perley had cautioned. “She’ll give your horse a kick if you come up too close behind her. If you ride up beside her, she’ll try to take a nip outta you. I ain’t never figured out why she’s got that mean streak—the female in ’er, I guess. She’ll tolerate me, but she ain’t got much patience for nobody else. I reckon I coulda rightly named her Hell on the Hoof, but I thought if I called her Sweet Pea, she might git to thinkin’ she was a lady.”

  “It ain’t workin’, is it?”

  Perley laughed. “Not so far, it ain’t—she’s about the most cantankerous beast I’ve ever seed. But she’s a helluva packhorse. If you can load it, she can tote it. It don’t make no difference what it is. She’ll haul it and still be ready to go when this horse is plum wore out just totin’ my old bones.”

  “Sweet Pea, huh?” Jordan grunted, giving the mottled gray animal a curious eye. His curiosity aroused only slightly, he asked, “What’s your saddle horse’s name?”

  “Frank,” Perley replied.

  “Frank?” Jordan echoed, somewhat surprised, expecting something of a symbolic nature. “Why Frank?”

  Perley shrugged. “I just like it.”

  If Jordan remembered correctly, he had not smiled since before finding his wife and child in the ruins of his cabin. He could not resist a faint smile now, however, as he followed an old man called Perley Gates on a horse named Frank, leading a pack animal called Sweet Pea, across the Choctaw Nation.

  * * *

  John Bannerman had constructed a small stockade around his trading post back in 1830 when the first news reached the territory that the government was relocating five Indian nations from the East. Before that, he had
enjoyed a cordial relationship with the tribes native to that area, primarily the Osage, for over fifteen years. Not certain what to expect with the influx of these displaced bands, he speculated that he might have to defend his store on the banks of Bitter Creek. With help only from his wife, Rose, and his ten-year-old son he built his little fort during a bitter-cold winter, snaking logs in from the hills beyond the creek. The labor proved to be too much for poor Rose, who succumbed to a bout of pneumonia and passed away just weeks after the fort was finished. Bannerman, never a sensitive man, was philosophical about her passing, saying that she had at least held on until the fort was finished.

  For the next fifteen years, father and son worked the trading post together. The stockade, it turned out, was unnecessary. After the first year, the gate was never closed, even at night, for the newly arrived tribes offered no threat to the small store near the northern boundary of the Choctaw Nation. The labor that had caused the early death of Bannerman’s wife would have been regretted by most men, but Bannerman showed no remorse. His only comment when referring to his late wife was usually to point out that he had been deprived of a damn good cook and he had had to raise a young’un by himself.