by Clyde Barker
‘I don’t rightly know. Something on the watch-chain of him as had those papers in his possession.’
‘That’s a right nice watch, Clancy. Looks to me like you done alright from that little bit of business you conducted yesterday.’
‘Yes, and damned near had my eye shot out in the process. It wasn’t a walk in the park, you know.’
By inserting his fingernail in the edge of the tiny piece of jewellery, Clancy succeeded in prising it open, to reveal nothing more than a white, enamelled disc, which bore some indecipherable black marks. He held the thing up close to his eyes and discovered that the marks were ornate calligraphy, which must have been executed by somebody equipped with a jeweller’s glass. It took a moment or two for him to realize that he was looking at three letter Ks, linked intricately together.
‘Well,’ said Jake impatiently, ‘What is it?’
Seb had come over to join them, wondering what the cause of the delay might be. His eyes were keener than Clancy’s because he merely leaned forward and then grunted in recognition. He said, ‘The Klan, by God. You surely know how to mix in the wrong company, Clancy.’
‘Either of you know any other meaning behind a bunch of Ks set together like this,’ asked Clancy, ‘I’d say it was the Ku Klux too, but I don’t want to be hasty.’
‘Hasty, nothing,’ said Jake Booker, who had also been peering at the tiny disc and could now read for himself what was on it. ‘I’d say nobody but a member of the Klan would have such a thing on his watch. Must be a devoted man too, you know. Membership is a hanging matter in the south.’
Clancy’s face was grim and he said, ‘I don’t know but what I shouldn’t do something about this. There’s mischief afoot, I can feel it in my water.’
At these words, both the Booker brothers burst into quite genuine and unfeigned peels of merriment. Clancy shot them an angry glance and said, ‘What’s so all-fired funny, if you wouldn’t mind telling me?’
‘You are, you damned fool!’ said Jake Booker, when he had caught his breath, ‘You rob a man at gunpoint and now you’re worried about his soul or what he might be doing with his life. What’s it to you if he’s in the Klan or not? You got his watch, ain’t you? Lord, but you’re a strange one sometimes, you know that?’
Short of owning that his brother was a lawman, which might have dented his reputation and made his fellow crooks look askance at him, there was no explanation that Brent could give about his anxieties. He accordingly stuffed the watch inside his jacket, along with the vanity case and put off thinking too deeply about it. Then he saddled up and rode south with the brothers, notwithstanding the fact that he was not easy in his mind and felt more than half inclined to turn back and make his way to Terra Nova to warn Grant that some trouble might be headed his way. But there, like as not his brother would send him packing and want nothing to do with Brent for besmirching the previous family claim! He would have to see how he felt about things in a day or two.
Chapter 4
Technically, no white men were allowed to settle in the territories of the so-called five civilised tribes, namely the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek and Seminole. This vast area, which later became the state of Oklahoma, was known variously as the territories or Indian Nations. In the years following the War Between the States, it was, of course, appropriated by the federal government and opened up to settlers. This was on the grounds that the five tribes had collaborated with the Confederates and their loyalty to Washington was therefore in doubt. Even before this though, there were a few white men living and working in the territories. One such was Joe Abbot.
In the spring of 1858, Joseph Abbot from Nebraska arrived in the Indian Nations with his wife, a Kiowa squaw. Nobody knew how and why Abbot had picked up with a woman of the Kiowa and since she spoke hardly any English and Abbot himself wasn’t disposed to talk of the matter, this aspect of his life remained a mystery. He and his wife rode on a cart drawn by two oxen and piled high with their household goods. They halted for good in the heart of the territories and slept beneath the wagon until the pair of them built a wooden shack to dwell in. The location of this little hut was not chosen randomly. It was on a rocky slope, with a spring of fresh water near at hand. The perfect place, as Abbot saw it, for a trading post.
By some miracle, the Cherokee who lived thereabouts did not kill Abbot and his wife, and over the summer he set out the foundations for a modest house, which was to be built of the stones that were lying about the area in great abundance. These, he used to construct dry stone walls, caulked at first with mud, moss and twigs. It took the better part of eighteen months to construct, but in the end, he and his squaw had a modest house of such a size and construction as any farmer would feel satisfied to live in. Once they had moved into this handsome new abode, Joe Abbot dismantled their old shack and used the pieces to put together a kind of lean-to at the side of the building. This was to serve as a something along the lines of a Mexican cantina; a place where he would serve food and drink to white men who were travelling across the territories. While setting down roots in this way, Abbot and his wife scraped a living by selling cheap tin-ware, mirrors and trinkets to the Indians who came to trade. Every so often, he would take his cart off to a little town in Arkansas, where he would stock up on more goods to trade.
By 1866, what was known to one and all as ‘Abbot’s place’ had become something of an institution for those passing through the territories. For white men, it was somewhere to get a hot meal and a shot of hard liquor, a place to catch up on gossip and news, a clearing house for information and a safe shelter for those riding on the edge of the law. Abbot never asked any questions, his one inflexible rule being that there was to be no gun-play in and around his establishment. The local Indians tolerated his presence among them because Joe Abbot provided them with all manner of goods, including firearms and whiskey, which they would otherwise find great difficulty in obtaining.
It was then only natural that three men on the scout like Brent Clancy and the Booker brothers should gravitate towards Abbot’s place as a matter of course, certain-sure to pick up any intelligence relating to their projected enterprise of taking down the Flyer as it passed through the Indian Nations. That Clancy had confided to Maggie Hardcastle his intention of stopping off there though, had been an error that now looked as though it might prove the death of him, for it had been quite sufficient to put enemies on his track.
The morning was bright, Jake and Seb Booker were cheerful company and he had a fair sum of money in his possession. Despite all this, Clancy’s mind was not easy. Why it should matter at all to him that some villainy might be planned for the town of which his sainted brother had charge was not clear to him. But then it was no stranger than the fact that he eagerly devoured any newspaper across which he came for news of Terra Nova or its sheriff! Who can understand the workings of the human mind where it touches upon our families?
Jake Booker said, ‘Clancy, I declare you ain’t heard a single word I said for the past half-hour, you know that?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just dreaming.’
‘Still thinking about the Klan?’
‘Maybe.’
The three men were riding roughly due south and found after a while that they were drawing close to the new railroad line, which ran almost precisely from north to south through the territories. They approached the line at a shallow angle and found that the track they were following ran parallel to the gleaming steel rails, which were to their right. They were heading down a slope that grew progressively steeper, causing Clancy to speculate that any railroad locomotive heading north would need to build up a good head of steam to tackle such an incline. It was while musing on this that he heard a faint cry of surprise from Frank Booker, who was immediately to his left. As he turned to see what had occasioned this, Clancy heard two other sounds. One was the mournful sound of a locomotive whistle in the distance and the other was the unmistakeable crack of musketry.
When Clancy looked
at Jake Booker, it was not difficult to see why the fellow had sounded so surprised. He had been shot through the chest and was now slipping sideways from his mount; a circumstance that surely would have surprised anybody. A ball droned through the air, passing between Clancy and the man who was evidently mortally wounded, and soon after came the sound of another shot. When Clancy looked to see where the firing might be coming from, he saw that there was a little hillock perhaps a quarter of a mile from them, crowned by a stand of fir trees. A white puff of smoke was visible from this spot and it seemed to him that he could see some shadowy figures among the trees.
There are times when you can stand and fight and then again there are situations when the only rational course is to flee for your life. Clancy knew that his sawn-off scattergun would be utterly useless at such a range and beyond that, he had only the old single-action army Colt. From Clancy’s perspective, this was a time to fly and he hoped that Seb would view matters in the same light. But Seb Booker had watched as his beloved brother had slid apparently lifeless from his horse and he didn’t look to Clancy like a man who was accessible to reason. Seb spurred on his horse, drew his pistol and began firing as he rode straight towards the little copse from where men were shooting at him and Clancy. Brent Clancy decided that he owed no particular debt of gratitude to Seb Booker, certainly he himself had no obligation to sacrifice his life in order to be revenged for Jake’s death. He accordingly turned around and set off at a smart canter in the opposite direction from where the gunfire was emanating.
When he glanced back, Clancy saw to his dismay that Seb was nowhere to be seen and that five riders were now bearing down on him. The men were spread out, obviously intent on riding him down, and judging from the way that they had opened fire without any challenge, their intention was most likely to kill him without further ado. They were in a bleak, flat, grassy area, with no cover beyond the occasional clump of trees. The plain stretched to the horizon and it wasn’t hard to see how this was going to end, unless some other factor came into play. It was then that Clancy heard again the whistle of the railroad train, much louder than before. He looked back and saw that it was only thirty yards or so behind him.
Just as he had suspicioned, the locomotive was making heavy weather of the slope up which it was climbing. It was only gaining slowly upon him, which gave him the germ of an idea. It was a desperate one, but with those five men hot on his tail and clearly aiming for to kill him, it was a time when desperate measures were needed!
The men pursuing him were now no more than forty or fifty yards behind and they were gaining steadily upon Clancy. Presumably their horses were rested and fresh, to say nothing of being better beasts anyway than this old nag of his, which he had acquired for a song in Sheridan following a mishap with his previous mount. The locomotive was coming up now on his left and was no more than twenty yards behind him, narrowing the gap all the time. For a fleeting moment, Clancy hoped that some of the passengers might look from their windows and realize that they were witnessing an attempted murder, but then again, why should they? The men chasing him would be unlikely to fire at him until the train had passed out of sight, and to anybody watching the pursuit might look like some kind of playful lark between a bunch of high-spirited men. Certainly nothing to operate the emergency brake for!
The train was now barely a dozen feet behind Clancy, coming up behind his left shoulder. It was now or never and he suddenly lurched to the left; hoping that his horse would not stumble as it crossed the rails. The creature didn’t like having the thundering locomotive so close, but it did as it was bid and now Clancy had the length of the railroad train between him and his pursuers. He drew his feet from the stirrups and endeavoured at the same time to maintain the same speed. The horse did not care at all for the close proximity to the train and Clancy had to keep pulling the reins to the right to ensure that he remained close enough for his purposes. The slope up which they were travelling was beginning to level out, which caused the train to begin drawing ahead with ever greater speed. It was now or never.
While still keeping the horse as close as could be to the racing train, Brent Clancy drew up first one leg and then the other, until he was crouching on the saddle. Almost immediately, the beast began to slow down. He had been urging it on frantically before with his knees and spurs and once that encouragement abated, there was a slackening off of effort. The carriages containing people moved past at an alarmingly speedy pace and now the three freight vans were moving swiftly along on his right-hand side. There would only be one chance at this and if he failed then he would be dead in seconds. The horse was, despite Clancy’s frantic tugging to the right, beginning to move away from the train and so he took a deep breath and simply leapt at the gap between the last of the freight vans and the guard’s van at the rear.
He landed heavily on the coupling between the two coaches and for an instant, his leg trailed down towards the tracks and Clancy thought that the rest of his body was about to follow and he would end up being mangled beneath the wheels. It didn’t happen though and, despite being greatly winded by the fall, he was able to secure himself by clinging hard to the metal coupling. Then he managed to sit up and, peering back, he was delighted to see that the five riders were unable any longer to keep up with the train’s rapidly increasing pace, now that it was on the level ground again. They had reined in and even at the distance he was from them, he could sense the baffled fury that they felt at being cheated of their prey.
There was a hatchway leading into the freight van, through which, after prising open the wooden flap, Clancy succeeded in crawling. He found himself in a gloomy space piled with boxes, barrels and luggage. There was a small exit at the far end of the van, which enabled him to cross the coupling and reach the next van. In this way, he reached the passenger coaches and, after dusting himself down a little, he entered the main body of the train and contrived to look like an ordinary traveller who had paid for his ticket like everybody else. Finding a vacant seat, he sank into it with relief. The realization that he had come closer to death in the last hour than at any time since the end of the war gradually sank in and Brent Clancy knew that he had to think very carefully about his steps over the coming days.
By starting at four in the morning, when the first glimmer of false dawn was lightening the eastern sky, and riding hard, Frank Mason and his companions had managed to reach a spot roughly equidistant between the scene of the ambush on the coach heading to Indian Falls and Abbot’s place. It had been a calculated gamble that at first seemed to pay off gloriously. Mason had seen the boy who robbed him, opened fire and, missing his target, taken down one of the others with whom the young robber was riding. Then the other man had ridden straight for Mason and the others and been shot down in his turn. All that remained was to chase down the man they actually hoped to kill, recover Mason’s belongings from his corpse and then make their way to Terra Nova. If it hadn’t been for that cursed train arriving, almost as though by appointment, they would surely have accomplished their end.
Now, the five of them had dismounted after catching the horse that had been abandoned and were busily engaged in going through the saddle-bag for any clues that were to be found. It was Mason who found the sheaf of flimsy paper, torn from various newspapers. The top one sent a chill through him. He showed it to the others, saying, ‘There’s more to this matter than first appears. See here!’
‘You reckon he was on your track before he held up that stage?’
One of the others was leafing through the other cuttings and observed, ‘It’s not just about Johnson’s visit. That fellow has some interest in the sheriff of the town. I don’t like this one bit.’
Frank Mason said thoughtfully, ‘I’ll own as I’m a little taken aback here. But it don’t alter in any degree our course. I’ll warrant that for whatever reason, that young fellow’ll be making now for Terra Nova.’
‘Yes,’ said one of the men, ‘To alert that sheriff to our schemes, no doubt.’
‘You think as he’s guessed what’s afoot and is now scuttling off to Terra Nova with the news?’
‘Happen so, but there’s no solid evidence in those papers. I don’t see President Johnson cancelling his speech there. If needs be, we’ll just take out the sheriff first. Should be easily done, when so much is at stake.’
‘I should just about say that there’s a lot at stake,’ remarked one of the company who had not yet spoken. ‘We all stand to have our necks stretched if this miscarries.’
‘You think I forgot that?’ asked Frank Mason, turning to glare angrily at the last speaker. ‘I got as much to lose as any of you and I say that matters are not hopeless. We were headed for Terra Nova in any case, so that plan ain’t altered. We aim to kill that boy too, so that’s not changed either. All this means is that we might be well-advised to kill this sheriff, too. Which, considering what we’re playing for, is no more than straw in the wind.’
‘What now then?’
‘There’s a little way-halt north of here. There’s twelve hours ’til the next train through the territories and I hope for us to catch it. With luck, they’ll be able to take our mounts, too. In any event, we race to Terra Nova and then see how things stand. Long as we’re there a day or two before Johnson. Once that fish is fried, we’re home and dry.’
