“Keep your shirt on, Tiny,” Harley responded. “There ain’t no posse chasin’ us, and there ain’t nobody saw us. There was somebody else up in the hayloft at the stables, and they started shootin’ at the corner of the jailhouse where we was hidin’. So we decided to get outta there before somebody did see us.” He looked at Tom, who was poking around the bullet hole in his lower leg. “And Tom was hit by a stray shot. Just plain bad luck, that’s all that it was, but ain’t nobody after us. Nobody saw us.”
Tiny considered what Harley was saying and decided to believe him, so he calmed down a little. “Well, if you’re sure, come on inside and Etta can take a look at that leg. It won’t be the first bullet she’s dug outta somebody’s hide.” He took another look at Tom, standing there holding on to his saddle horn in an effort not to put much weight on his left leg. “You look like you’ve been crawling in the mud.”
Tom shook his head and grimaced. “I took a dive when we was runnin’ for the horses. That bullet tripped me when it hit my leg, sent me for a tumble, I wanna tell ya. I landed flat on my belly.” He unconsciously took a few swipes across his chest with his hand in an effort to brush some of the wet dirt off.
“Well, come on,” Tiny said, and turned to go back inside. As soon as he was inside the door, he yelled, “Etta! We got a patient for you. Tom went out and got hisself shot in the leg.”
In a few seconds, the scrawny little woman came into the saloon and stood, hands on hips, watching Tom limp into the room. “Must not be too bad if he can walk on it,” she decided. “Bring him on in the kitchen.” Without waiting to see if they did or not, she spun around and went back into the kitchen, where Ida Simpson sat at the table, drinking a cup of coffee with Teddy Green, who took care of the barn and stable, and Bud the bartender. “Set down on that chair,” Etta directed Tom when he limped in behind her. She pointed to a chair in the corner close to the stove. “He got shot,” she said to Ida, who was just before asking the question, as Etta opened the pantry door. She came out of the pantry carrying a bottle of whiskey.
“Good,” Tom said when he saw it. “I could use a drink right now.”
“It ain’t for drinkin’,” Etta replied. When he responded with such a pitiful expression, she shrugged and said, “Might help, at that.” She picked up a glass and poured him a stiff drink. She proceeded to remove his boot and sock. That wasn’t enough to give her access to the wound, since she couldn’t pull his trouser leg up far enough. So she told him to drop his trousers and pull his wounded leg out of them. When Ida asked if she could help, Etta told her to fill the large dishpan with hot water from the kettle on the stove. Bud got up from the table and returned to the bar before Etta found something for him to do. “You were mighty lucky,” she told Tom when she examined the wound. “There ain’t no bullet in there. It went clear through. A little bit higher and it mighta broke your knee, but it didn’t hit bone a-tall. Went in the back of your calf and out the front. Just dug a tunnel. I’ll clean it up and wrap a bandage around it, and you’ll be ready to go to the square dance.”
“Maybe that’s just what I’ll do,” Tom boasted, and tossed the rest of his drink back, “if I knew where there was a square dance. Maybe I’d take you with . . . Yow!” He yelled before he could finish, when she cleaned around the wound with the hot water. Before he could catch his breath again, she splashed whiskey all over the raw area. He let out another bellow, this one louder than the first.
“I’ll bandage it up now and it’ll heal up if you don’t get it dirty,” she said, and handed the bottle to Ida, who poured some in her coffee before setting it on the table.
With his leg bandaged and back in his trouser leg, Tom hobbled back into the saloon, carrying his boot and sock. “What was all that hollerin’?” Tiny asked, and winked at Harley.
“She poured whiskey on that wound,” Tom answered, “and didn’t give me no warnin’ a-tall, just poured it on. It burnt like fire.”
“What a waste of good likker,” Harley commented. “You didn’t holler that loud when the bullet hit you.”
“That oughta tell you my whiskey ain’t watered down none,” Tiny said, and poured another drink for them. Getting back to a more serious issue, he said, “I know what the deal was, and I intend to pay you what I promised, but you can understand that I ain’t payin’ until I know for sure they’re dead.”
“Sure, Tiny,” Harley said. “We ain’t askin’ you to. Might be best to wait a day or two, then ride into town to see if they’re still there.”
“I can save you the trouble.” The statement came from the front door. They turned as one to see Will Tanner standing there, his rifle trained on them. All three bolted upright immediately, with Tom the first to reach for his six-gun. The front sight hadn’t cleared his holster when the .44 slug from Will’s rifle struck his chest. Harley, his eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost, started to go for his gun. But he threw his hands up when he saw that Will had already cranked the next round into the chamber and was gazing at him as if inviting him to try it. “Get on your feet,” Will ordered. When Harley did so, Will ordered him to walk over away from the table before telling him to unbuckle his gun belt and let it drop to the floor. He did so as a precaution against Tiny making a move to go for Harley’s gun. “Now kick it over this way.” When he did, Will bent down, picked it up, and stuck it in his belt. “You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of a U.S. Deputy Marshal and a citizen of Atoka.” Aware that Bud was gradually working his way down the bar, and assuming there was a shotgun down at that end, Will warned him. “You, behind the bar, you can keep on inchin’ down there to that shotgun. When you reach it, I want you to grab it by the barrel and lay it on the bar. If it comes up from under there with the barrel lookin’ at me, I won’t wait. I’ll cut you down. You understand?” Bud nodded rapidly and reached under the bar and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun, carefully holding it by the barrel.
Since he was not wearing a gun, and Tom was sprawled on the floor on top of his, Tiny had no choice but to sit there and watch his bartender surrender the shotgun. When Will took a couple of steps over and picked up the shotgun from the bar, Tiny complained. “You got no right comin’ into my place of business and shootin’ people,” he protested. “Harley’s been here all the time.”
“That’s right,” Harley spoke up. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You just shot Tom for no reason a-tall. We ain’t gone nowhere since you was in here last night.”
“Is that a fact, Harley?” Will asked. “Is Harley your first name or your last name?” When Harley replied that it was none of his business, Will shrugged. “Well, in my way of thinkin’, there’s plenty of reasons to shoot somebody who’s drawn a weapon and is fixin’ to shoot me. And you say you ain’t been anywhere? Well, somebody’s been ridin’ the hell out of your horses, and I’m wonderin’ what caused that bloody leg on your late friend’s body. I’m pretty sure I shot him in the chest just now.” He motioned toward the door with the barrel of his rifle. “Now, start walkin’ to that door, you’re wastin’ my time.” Glancing at Tiny again, he warned, “You just stay right where you are till I tell you to move, and we’ll be out of your way in a minute or two.”
Feeling helpless to do anything about the invasion of his saloon, Tiny sat at the table as he had been ordered to do. He couldn’t help wondering why Will was alone. He expected Ed Pine to come in from the back door at any minute. When he didn’t, he finally asked, “Where’s that other deputy?”
“He’s takin’ care of some other business,” Will answered. “I expect you’re wonderin’ about the man who got shot at the stable. That was Stanley Coons, the owner, and that’s one of the charges your friend, here, will stand trial for.” Upon hearing that, Tiny shot an accusing glance in Harley’s direction. It was returned with a shrug and a look of chagrin from Harley. When Harley started toward the door, Will motioned for Tiny to get on his feet. “I expect you’d best walk out with us.”
“What for?” Tiny
asked. “I sure as hell ain’t had nothin’ to do with whatever these two did in town.”
“It would just be the sociable thing to do, since he’s one of your customers,” Will answered. In fact, he was not willing to leave Tiny inside, unguarded, while he tried to get Harley on a horse and make his departure.
With thoughts along a similar line, Tiny remained seated. “I’ll just set here till you’re gone. Ain’t no use for me to walk outside with you.”
“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to insist,” Will said, and brought his rifle around to aim it directly at him. “It’s either that, or I’m gonna put a bullet in you to slow you down, so make up your mind.”
Tiny did not react immediately, his dark, hairy features reflecting the anger he felt, believing that the stoic lawman would do exactly that. After a long moment when he locked his gaze with that of the lawman, he mumbled, “You weasel,” and got up from the chair. Will marched the two disgruntled men out the door.
When they were outside, he directed Tiny to have a seat on the porch steps. Then he broke Bud’s shotgun open, removed the two shells, and put them in his pocket. He threw the empty shotgun out in the yard while Harley climbed on one of the weary horses at the rail. To Harley’s disappointment, the saddle sling that usually held his rifle was empty, causing him to curse.
When Harley was seated on his horse, Will reached in his saddlebag and pulled his handcuffs out. “Behind your back,” he ordered with a tap on one of Harley’s arms. Understanding, Harley put his hands behind his back. Still not trusting Tiny for even a minute, Will cocked his Winchester and leaned it against the post of the hitching rail, where he could snatch it up in a hurry. Keeping a watchful eye on the door, in case Bud found another weapon, he quickly clamped the cuffs around Harley’s wrists. His precautions brought only a snort of contempt from the massive man seated on the steps. With Harley in the saddle, his hands behind his back, Will untied Harley’s reins from the rail and held on to them while he picked up his rifle and stepped up on Buster. “I expect you’ll be packin’ up your belongin’s and movin’ outta here pretty quick now,” he said to Tiny.
“Yeah,” Tiny responded sarcastically, calling Will’s bluff. “I expect I’d better, before that posse and all them Texas Rangers come ridin’ in here.” When Will started to leave, Tiny blurted, “What about the money them two owe me for stayin’ here?”
“That fellow lyin’ in there on the floor is the one to see about that,” Will answered.
“What if he ain’t got no money on him?” Tiny asked.
“Send your bill to the U.S. Marshals’ office in Fort Smith.”
“Yeah, and you can go to hell, too,” Tiny responded. He figured he was going to get more than what the two of them owed him, because he would gain Tom Freeman’s horse, saddle, and anything he had of value in his saddlebags.
“I’ll be checkin’ on you,” Will promised. “Pack up your stuff and no more sales of whiskey to white or Indian.” He wheeled Buster away from the rail and led Harley’s horse toward the path that led to the creek trail. To McGee’s disappointment, Tom’s horse followed along behind Harley’s. Will had saved himself a little time when he first arrived by tying one of the horses’ reins behind the saddle of the other one. He had figured he was there to arrest two men and he might find himself a little busy while trying to get away without trouble from Tiny. He had no way of knowing which horse belonged to which outlaw. It just happened that Harley’s turned out to be the lead horse. Once he reached the path, he urged Buster into a lope in case one of Tiny’s people ran out right away with a rifle for him. Looking back, however, he could still see him seated on the steps, like an angry boulder. Will knew now that Tiny McGee was going to be difficult to shut down, and as hard to move out of the Nations as the boulder he resembled.
The problem facing him now, was what to do with his prisoner. The small converted storeroom that served as the jail had no office, no additional room of any kind. He couldn’t transport his prisoner back to Fort Smith, a trip of more than two and a half days. That would be the normal procedure, but even if he returned to Atoka immediately, he would be away for at least five days. And he couldn’t afford to let this business with McGee go on that long.
Behind him, an enraged Tiny McGee got up from the steps and walked out in the yard to retrieve the shotgun—fuming over the realization that one lone man had walked into his bar and overpowered the four of them.
* * *
Once Will was on the trail that followed the creek back to town, he eased Buster back to a walk. The two horses behind him had already been run pretty hard, so he thought it best not to push them. He still had the key to the jail, so he took Harley there right away and locked him up. Like everyone else he had locked in the small storeroom, Harley at once complained that it was not a real jail. He could still hear him complaining as he locked the door and took the horses down to the stable. Much to his surprise, Stanley Coons was at the barn. “Didn’t expect to find you here,” Will said when he led the three horses in. Jim Little Eagle was with him. “Thought you’d be home restin’ your wound,” Will said to Stanley.
“It ain’t near as bad as I thought it would be,” Stanley said. “I just ain’t mucked out no stalls. I got Jimmy Barnet to do that for me for twenty-five cents a day. He’s back in the stables now.” He reached up and rubbed his shoulder. “I don’t think it’ll be any time at all before I get my arm outta this sling, so I won’t need him that long.”
“Barnet,” Will asked. “Is that the railroad stationmaster’s son?” He was familiar with Sam Barnet.
“That’s right,” Stanley replied, then turned his attention to the horses Will brought in. “I see you got a couple extra horses. Do they belong to the men who shot me? Have you got ’em in jail?”
“One of ’em,” Will answered. “The other one didn’t wanna be arrested, so he ended up dead.” He went on to tell Stanley and Jim about the problem with the temporary jail. “It wouldn’t be near the problem if it was two rooms, so I could stay there at night to guard my prisoner.” He decided he was going to have to do what Jim Little Eagle did. Jim just locked up his Indian prisoners and went home at night.
“I see them plenty enough when I lock ’em up,” Jim said. “I don’t wanna spend the night with ’em.”
Young Jimmy Barnet walked in from the stable then to tell Stanley he was finished. As Stanley dug in his pocket for a quarter, the sight of the stationmaster’s son gave him an idea. “Say, Jimmy, did your daddy ever put anything in those empty storerooms behind the train station?”
“No, sir, not that I know of,” Jimmy replied.
Stanley turned back to Will. “That might be the answer to your problem with the jail. Solid building with two rooms. That’s right, ain’t it, Jimmy?” He asked to check his memory, and when Jimmy said that was true, he continued. “That would give you a room to hold your prisoner and another room to use as your office.”
That captured Will’s interest at once. “You might be right,” he said. “I’ll go over to the station right now and talk to Sam about it. You wanna go with me, Jim?”
“No,” Jim replied, “I gotta ride over to Switchback Creek. Leon Coyote Killer sent word that some young bucks have been causin’ trouble there. He thinks they got themselves some firewater somewhere.”
“I expect that would likely be from Mama’s Kitchen,” Will said. “I’m gonna pay Tiny McGee a little visit after I get my prisoner taken care of.” He left Buster and the other two horses in Stanley’s care after Stanley assured him he could take care of them with just his good arm. “I’d best pull the saddles off and put ’em in the tack room for ya. I don’t want you strainin’ your wound,” Will said.
After the horses were turned out in the corral, Will walked to the other end of town to find Sam Barnet sweeping his office floor. “Be with you in a minute,” Sam called out when he heard Will come in the door. “Will Tanner!” Sam greeted him when he turned around and came to the ticket window. “H
ow you doin’? I heard you were in town.” He laughed, then added, “A fellow would have to be deef and dumb not to know you were in town. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m hopin’ you can help the U.S. Marshals Service,” Will answered. Then he went on to explain what he had in mind.
Barnet heard him out, then turned a serious face to him. “You know I’m always ready to help you out, Will. But, dang it, turn that storeroom into a jailhouse? You know that’s the railroad’s property, and I ain’t got any say-so a-tall about what it’s used for. I don’t know what the folks at the MKT would say about that.”
“I understand your position, Sam,” Will said. “But it would just be for a little while, until I can get a jail wagon over here to transport the prisoner to Fort Smith. And I would be sleepin’ in one of the rooms to guard the prisoner.”
“Dang it, Will, I wish I could help you,” he said. “I just don’t know what would happen if my bosses found out I done it.”
It didn’t appear that Sam was going to be persuaded, so Will tried one more thing. “I thought it would be in the railroad’s interest to have this man captured. Him and his partner were plannin’ to rob the train right here in this station. I expect they’d be mighty glad to see he goes to Fort Smith for trial.” He shook his head as if concerned. “I ain’t seen anything but the outside of that storeroom we’re talkin’ about, but from the looks of it, I’d say it’s a lot more likely to hold this outlaw than Jim Little Eagle’s smokehouse jail.”
As Will had hoped, Sam was caused to reconsider his position after hearing Will’s elaborate lie. “Now, you’ve really got me confused,” he confessed. “If it’s in the railroad’s interest, I reckon that makes a difference.” Still he was reluctant to give his permission.
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