While the saloon is obviously made from whatever wood they could find, it is quite well built. Being this close to the cross-timbers, most likely the wood was milled locally. It looks to be mostly black-jack. The tables and chairs are sturdy, but simply made. The floor is immaculate. Jake doesn’t see a lot of people working the saloon, but the few that are appear to be too busy tending their customers to pay close attention to the cleanliness of the saloon.
The patrons in the saloon are, to a person, who would be expected out here in the territory. While the saloon is rather large, it is neither sparsely nor heavily populated. There’s a group of ranch hands in one corner, a group of drunks in the center, and a couple of soldiers speaking quietly amongst themselves at the other end of the bar. The bartender, a heavyset, bearded man, tends the bar with efficiency. He keeps things meticulously clean, and treats everyone with a quiet courtesy. He also keeps a revolver on his hip. While he treats everyone with courtesy, he also lets it be known he will not tolerate any rudeness, to anyone.
While observing all the details around him, Jake sees two men enter. They are well dressed and appear to be business men. Dark suits, bowlers, not visibly armed. Their tones are urgent, but voices are quiet. They walk up to the bar and one of them holds up two fingers. He is quickly served two beers, and both step to the table. They continue their discussion animatedly, but quietly. Jake overhears the word “school”, and is intrigued, but doesn’t want to intrude.
The mood in the saloon is relaxed and comfortably intimate. The bat-wing doors slam open and in walks more than a dozen cavalry troops, still dusty from the road. Their loud voices shatter the comfortable quiet. They start yelling for drinks and though the barkeep shakes his head, he pours numerous mugs of the tasty brew.
Several of the troopers come over, grab the beers, and head back over to the tables that are now overflowing with their compadres. They start toasting each other over their latest conquest. They are reliving the experience, talking about roughing up a half-breed that was out on the road this side of the Shawnee lands. They are full-on laughing as they recall how he had a “stolen U.S. marshal’s badge” that they took away from him. Like the Marshal’s Service would ever employ a stinking half-breed like that.
Jake’s hearing suddenly became acute. Half-breed? Stolen marshal’s badge? Shawnee Lands? UH OH. He stands up and ambles his way over to one of the tables. “Heya, fellas! Sounds like you have been having some serious fun! Mind if I join you?”
“Who’re you?”
“Deputy U.S. Marshal Isaacson. I heard you boys talking about someone that was wearing a stolen marshal’s badge? We take things like that seriously. In fact, there’s a $50 reward for each person with information leading to the recovery of a stolen marshal’s badge. Think you boys can give me your names and unit numbers? I can make sure each one of you receives his reward.”
The one that slammed open the doors stands up and fishes out a badge from his pocket. He tosses it to Jake, who deftly catches it out of the air and saunters casually over to the bar and retrieves a pencil and paper from the smirking barkeep. Does he know what I’m up to? I wonder.
Dutifully, Jake takes down the name, rank and unit of each of the soldiers. Figures. They are regional militia. “Well, fellas, I am going to have to go report this to the marshal’s office. You should each receive your reward within the next few weeks. We will be delivering it to your post, so we will be needing you to get back to the post as quickly as you can, once you finish your current assignment. Speaking of which, what IS your assignment?”
The leader, a man calling himself Sargent Hillis, replies, “We don’t have no post, but we was hired to escort some idiot politician from Oklahoma City to Fort Smith. It seems like the Reds have been attacking single travelers, so we’s been hired to escort him. You want us to ride with you to the marshal’s office so we’s able to get our money faster?”
Jake hoped he wouldn’t think of that. “That’s okay, I have a quick run to make, to deliver a letter, and then I will have to hightail it back. You boys go finish your trip. I will leave word for you to be able to pick up your rewards out by Judge Parker’s courthouse.”
Jake steps over to the bar and asks the bartender, “Can you make sure those guys stay here? I need to take care of something real quick.”
The bartender nods shortly. Quietly, he says, “Hurry. They’re getting a little nervous.” He nods toward the unruly group, who are now looking back at them with looks of concern.
Jake nods and says under his breath, “If you have to draw down on them, you can. I’m getting the marshal so we can arrest them.”
The bartender nods in understanding and raises his voice, “Hey, fellas, the marshal here just bought you a round of drinks for doing such a fine job.”
Chapter 4
Jake smirks and leaves the sixteen militiamen to their drinks. As quickly as his hip will allow, Jake rushes over to the marshal’s office. He knocks quickly as he opens the door. He hurries inside and closes the door behind him. At John’s look of surprise, Jake says shortly, “We have some serious trouble. I need help arresting some people quickly.”
John looks at his old friend and asks, “What’d they do?” He rises from his seat, grabs several pairs of handcuffs from the drawer and moves toward the door.
“Attacked a marshal. From the sounds of it, an old friend of mine. I haven’t confirmed it yet, but that’s what it sounds like.”
John nods and puts the pairs of handcuffs behind his belt and motions toward the door.
As Jake leads the way into the saloon, he sees the militiamen standing at the bar, making a ruckus. He notes that the rest of the people that were there earlier are gone. Doing a quick headcount, Jake sees that two of the militiamen seem to be missing.
The soldier that identified himself as Corder yells, “I haven’t had my drink yet!”
The barkeeper slaps his palm down onto the bar sharply and yells, “Enough! You’re all done!”
From behind the rowdy group, Jake pulls his gun and drawls, “Come on, boys, we don’t want any trouble. We just want to have you come talk to us down at the marshal’s office. Come along quietly and everything will be fine.”
He feels a glow of satisfaction as he sees John step forward and draw the twin to his revolver. He still has it.
In his deep voice, John says, “It’ll be alright, boys. Just come with us for a little bit.”
Seeing the impending conflict, the bartender ducks under the bar and brings out a shotgun he apparently keeps there.
One by one, the men turn around to confront the marshals facing them. Hillis goes for the gun on his hip and is immediately gunned down by John.
All at once, chaos erupts. The soldiers go for their guns and start firing. John and Jake both open fire while kicking over tables to use as cover.
Jake looks at his old friend. John indicates Jake should try flanking their combatants. He nods agreement and pokes his head around the table checking to make sure the coast is clear. He pulls his head back just in time to keep from being shot several times.
John sees what happens, nods curtly, and stands, yelling, “Hey! Over here!” He dodges over and kicks another table, as the militiamen take aim and fire.
Jake takes the cue and moves over to another table. Both marshals manage to completely flank the soldiers by the same means.
Jake manages to kill the one named Lee, John ends up killing Corder. Finally, John can be heard yelling over the din, “We have you in the crossfire! If you want to live, throw down your weapons!”
The clatter of guns hitting the floor is almost deafening as all the men raise their hands in surrender. John stands slowly, keeping his gun trained on the group.
Jake stands, keeping his own gun trained on the fighters and asks John, “How man sets of cuffs you got?”
“A few sets, not this many. Josiah, do you have them covered? I think this is gonna take us a few trips to get these fellas locked up.”
; Josiah stands, holding his shotgun at the ready.
Jake says, “Dixon, step up.”
One of the men, still holding his hands high, walks up several steps.
Jake says, “I got him, John. Go ahead and cuff him.”
John nods, holsters his gun and pulls a pair of the cuffs from under his belt.
Once he’s done, Jake says, “Walker.” As John finishes up with each set of cuffs he brought with him, Jake calls another.
John reloads his pistol quickly. “Alright you four, come on.” He motions the prisoners out the door.
Jake feels the impatience to find the injured marshal tugging at him. He knows this is necessary, but he wants to be on the road, to find the marshal they attacked. He’s fairly sure he knows who it is, he just prays he gets there in time.
John comes back about ten minutes after leaving and brings a younger man with him. He looks like a studious young man, but is wearing a Cherokee beaded belt and moccasins.
John points to the several dead bodies and says quietly, “The rest shouldn’t give you any trouble. Can you pull them out, David? I bet Josiah would like to have his saloon back. Wouldn’t you?” The last question being referred to the bartender, who is nodding vigorously.
Josiah says, “I’ll have the boys come out and help clean up.”
John motions for four more of the prisoners to come forward and be bound over.
David wraps the ends of a rope around the ankles of two of the bodies and begins dragging them out the door.
As John leads the prisoners out, Jake looks to Josiah, “Can you handle them for a few? I need to reload.”
Keeping the shotgun trained on the last three militiamen, Josiah nods. Jake quickly reloads his revolver then says to Josiah, “Thanks. Go ahead and get your sons. I can handle this.”
Josiah nods and says, “It won’t be too long. They’re getting some food at the Jade Dragon.”
Jake smiles at the captives. “So. It’s just you three. It looks like you’re missing a couple of people. What happened? Or do you not wanna tell me?”
The youngest of the three, a teenager who identified himself before as Paulson, acts like he’s about to say something, before another one of them shoots him a glare, quieting the younger man.
“What’s wrong, Newkham? Cat got your tongue?” Jake smiles as the man glares daggers in response.
Josiah returns first, two teenagers following closely behind. Each one takes a look around the saloon, sighing in response.
Jake smiles tightly, remembering how he felt as a teenager having to clean up someone else’s mess.
He motions with his gun, indicating the men should move away from where the teenagers are working. They comply, however they grumble while doing it.
It isn’t but several moments later, that John returns, cuffs under the backside of his belt.
Jake glances over at his old friend and is surprised to see the look the town marshal has as he looks at the remaining dead body. Is that grief? Regret? Jake can’t tell. Is it possible that the “Blood Eagle” has grown to not enjoying the occasional bloodbath now? What has changed with him these last so many years?
John quickly cuffs the remaining prisoners, motions for one of the teenagers to gather up the weapons and asks Jake, “Coming?”
Jake shakes his head. “Can’t. Gotta go see who they attacked. I just pray I get there in time.”
John gives him a curious look, then says, “Be careful. I expect to finish our talk later.”
Jake nods and leaves the saloon. As he exits the front door, David crosses the street and flags him down.
“Sorry about that! My name’s David Bakker. I’m the doctor here in Denver. My wife runs the Denver Overlook Hotel. John said you’re a Deputy U.S. Marshal?”
Jake nods quickly. “Yeah. Sorry, I have to go. That group attacked a marshal on the road and I need to go find him.”
“I pray you get there in time. If he needs help, bring him by and I can check him out.”
Jake nods again and hurries to the stables. Just inside, he’s met by a young black man, who seems to be surprised to see him again.
“I’s heard the gunfire. Yousa doin okay?” the young man asks.
“Yeah. We arrested most of them. I need Ranger. I have to check on someone they attacked. Would you mind saddling him for me? I also need to rent another horse as well.” Jake looks at the back of the livery and sees a young black woman burping an infant. “Your son looks to be growing into a strong young fella.”
“Hesa ma brotha. Long story. I’ll getcha yer horse, missa.”
Jake looks again at the young black woman, who has now turned and is going back into a room built out of a stall. He shakes his head. That promises to be an interesting story, after all.
It isn’t but a few moments before the stable man returns with Ranger and an Indian Paint, both saddled and ready to go. The young man looks proud at having filled the request so quickly. “Yousa comin’ back?”
“I expect to. My friend may need Doc Bakker. Just hope I can get back in time to sleep in a real bed.”
“No charge. Yousa come back, I’s givin you a good deal.”
Jake nods his appreciation. He’s sure to give the young man more money now. He enjoys rewarding good service with a much better gratuity.
Ranger nickers when he sees Jake. Jake can see a look of annoyance on his mount’s face. He knows he’s got some explaining to do. Jake looks appreciatively at the sleek, muscular Paint. This horse is meant to run. His look is returned by the fierce eyed animal. Jake hasn’t seen that kind of look since he rode Lizzard, his mount from when he was in the Cherokee Mounted Rifles.
Jake smiles appreciatively to the young man. “I hope to be back soon. Thanks.” He quickly mounts Ranger and rides out of town, along the Shawnee Road.
He barely makes it a mile and a half out of town, when he comes upon the scene of the attack. It’s just off the side of the trail that he sees the broken and battered body of a man next to the body of a dead horse.
Under his breath, Jake curses. He quickly dismounts and approaches the crumpled form, checking for any signs of life.
He sees the man breathing, if just barely. Rolling him over, Jake identifies the victim as his old friend, Marshal Cherokee Brouwer.
Jake stares at the injured marshal a moment, disbelievingly. How is it possible he is still breathing? Cherokee groans, snapping Jake out of his reverie. He leans down and says, “Cherokee. It’s me, Jake. I’m here to get you to a doctor.”
Jake’s unsure Cherokee even heard him. The injured marshal stops moving. Fearing the worst, Jake reaches back down and feels a fleeting pulse. Jake looks at the sky and says, “Please, lay Your hand of healing on him. If it’s Your will, I beg of You to let him live.” He looks down at Cherokee. “In Your Son’s name I pray. Amen.”
Jake goes to Ranger’s saddle bags and pulls a length of rope out. Quickly, he goes into the woods and gathers dead-fall limbs to fashion a crude litter bound with the rope.
By the time he finishes the litter, Jake is breathing hard, barely able to stand up. He looks in dismay at the contraption for a moment. Now how is he going to get his friend up into it?
At the sharp sound of a twig breaking, Jake draws his gun and turns toward the sound. A moment later, John rides up out of the tree line at a slow walk. His gun is drawn and aimed directly at Jake’s head.
Jake sighs in relief and holsters his own revolver. “He’s tore up something fierce. Can you help me get him up on the litter?”
John looks at the scene, quickly assessing the danger, holsters his own gun and nods. He rides closer and dismounts. He takes one look at the injured man and curses. He reaches down and easily picks up the broken lawman. He speaks quietly while he carries Cherokee to the litter.
Jake can’t make out the words, but from the tone, it sounds as if John is reassuring the injured man. Gently, John places the man onto the litter and secures him in place, then steps over to the dead horse
and retrieves the injured man’s saddlebags.
While John is moving the injured marshal, Jake checks the saddle and tack on Ranger, then mounts him carefully and rides at a slow walk to keep from injuring Cherokee anymore.
John runs back to his horse, mounts quickly and rides out at a full gallop. As he passes Jake and the horses, he says, “I’m gonna go get some help. Keep riding for Denver, I should be able to meet you there.”
Jake nods and continues his slow pace, afraid anything faster might kill one of his oldest friends.
Chapter 5
John runs his horse as hard as he dares, back to Denver. Today has been a day of surprises. First there’s Josh still being alive; now his dear friend, Cherokee, is almost killed. In the quiet of his mind, John prays, “I beg You, save my friend. If it is Your will, please heal him of his pains. In Your Name, I pray. Amen.”
John arrives in front of David’s office and home, his horse skidding to a stop. He dismounts quickly, knocks on the door once and enters. “David? We got trouble.”
David steps into the entryway, from kitchen, drying his hands. “What’s going on? Did the deputy find the marshal?”
John nods. “It’s Cherokee. He’s tore up pretty bad.”
David sighs, disconsolate. “Joey’s not gonna be happy. Is he on his way here?”
Once again, John nods. “Deputy’s bringing him in. Trying not to jostle him too bad.”
David looks at John with a shrewd look. “What? What is it?”
John shakes his head. “Not now. Later. Will you need anything?”
David nods. “Could you get me some brandy from Josiah? I get the feeling I’m gonna need it.”
John nods, turns, and rushes across the street to the saloon. When he opens the door to the saloon, he is greeted by the sight of Josiah arguing with Daniel. John clears his throat meaningfully. “David needs brandy.”
Deputy at Large Page 3