“Somebody’s been killin’ your cattle?” Will asked, thinking that he didn’t want to get delayed with a job to find some poor Indian family who needed some food.
“Well, they didn’t kill but one,” Johnny said. “They didn’t even butcher the whole cow. Looked like they just cut off enough for supper and left the rest for the buzzards. Me and Dave found their camp, but there was six of ’em, so we rode into Coffeyville to send a telegram for help. We didn’t know how long they was gonna stay there, eatin’ our cows.”
“They’re gone now,” his brother volunteered. “They weren’t there yesterday.”
Will’s interest was raised considerably now. “You say there were six of ’em?” Both brothers nodded. “And they weren’t Indians?” They nodded again.
“They were a pretty rough-lookin’ bunch,” Johnny said. “Looked like a gang of outlaws to me.”
“Can you show me where they camped?” Will asked. “I’d like to take a look around.” He told them why he happened to be riding by their ranch, and that there was a good chance the men they saw were a gang of bank robbers that lawmen in Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma were trying to catch up with. “It’s probably good you didn’t try to confront them about killin’ your cow. They’ve left a trail of dead men behind, killed two deputies up in Kansas just a few days ago.”
“We can show you where they camped,” Johnny said. “I hope to hell they don’t come back.”
“Yeah,” Dave added. “We thought you mighta been one of ’em when we saw you come ridin’ up the river trail.”
“Let’s go take a look at that camp and maybe we can see which way they went when they left your range,” Will said. Eager to show him, they wheeled their horses and led him on up the river. They rode for no more than a couple of miles before they pulled up where the river took a horseshoe-shaped bend and pointed to a grassy area near the water’s edge.
It didn’t take much looking around to get a picture of the camp, for there was plenty of sign that didn’t require an Indian to read. The gang was obviously there for a couple of days before they decided to move again. Scouting the perimeter of the camp, it was easy to see where they had come and gone. Tracks of all of the horses had clearly come from the north, and other than a few random prints from single riders, it was apparent that what the Whitsel brothers had told him was true. The gang stayed put for a day or two. When they left, they crossed over the river and their tracks on the other side showed that they set out to the west. It was obvious to Will that they had come down from Coffeyville, planning all along to move down into Indian Territory. The reports that had the gang heading north toward Independence were dead wrong. When he had seen all he needed to see, he told the Whitsel brothers that he appreciated their help. He might have ridden past the outlaws’ camp and never seen it. “I doubt you’ll ever see that gang again. If my guess is right, they were just layin’ low to give the law time to look for ’em in Independence, since witnesses reported that they had escaped north on the Independence road. I expect they were hoping that posse would keep ridin’ north till they had to give up lookin’ for ’em.”
“Glad we was able to help you out,” Johnny said. “Our house is just about half a mile on the other side of that ridge yonder. If you’re hungry, my wife will be fixin’ somethin’ to eat about now. You’d be welcome to share it with us.”
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Will replied, “but I need to get along after that bunch as quick as I can, so I’d best keep ridin’.” He bid them farewell and crossed over the river, where he picked up the tracks of six riders and probably three packhorses where they came out of the water.
It proved to be a relatively easy task to follow the trail left by that many horses, especially since most of the horses were carrying riders. At first starting directly west, they had not ridden far when they turned more toward a southwesterly direction. From having ridden in this part of the country on prior occasions, he wondered if the outlaws were heading to a little town on the Caney River, called Bartles Town. If they continued on the same line they were now on, they would most likely strike the Caney in about twenty-five miles. He wondered if they knew where they were going or were just riding to find a place to hide. He was not really sure how far behind them he now was. At least two days, he figured, judging by how much the tall grass had recovered from their passage.
Holding Buster to a pace the buckskin could maintain for a long distance, Will continued across a land of open and rolling prairie with only a lone tree here or there. A long way between shade spots, he thought. It was as if the Maker had planted one every once in a while, just so you wouldn’t forget what they looked like. After a ride that he estimated to be close to twenty miles, he saw a creek ahead, easily identified by the trees and bushes that lined its banks. Just about the right time to water my horses, he thought, and figured the men he was trailing probably thought the same thing. Their tracks led straight to the creek, and as he had guessed, he found the remains of a campfire and obvious signs of a temporary stop. That caused him to think they had not known about the little town less than five miles farther, or they might have pushed on to rest their horses there. Then it struck him that they might possibly be planning to raid the small settlement. If that was the case, they would likely stop here to rest their horses, so they would strike the town riding fresh mounts. In light of the reputation these men had already established, he was at once concerned for the good folk of Bartles Town. It was enough to convince him to push on to the town, instead of resting Buster and the bay there at the creek.
* * *
He noticed a couple of new buildings in the little town since the last time he had traveled this part of the territory. There was little activity on the street this close to suppertime, but he saw lights still on in the general store. Knowing they would most likely be out pretty soon, he decided to go there first, so he pulled Buster up at the rail and walked inside. As he had figured, Ned Carter and his wife were covering the counter with a dustcloth, preparing to close the store. They both turned when they heard the door open and stood watching the stranger. There was no welcome greeting from either. “I reckon I got here when you were about to close up,” he said. “I won’t be but a minute or two.”
“What can we help you with?” Ned finally asked. There was still no hint of welcome in his tone.
“My name’s Will Tanner. I’m a deputy marshal outta Fort Smith.” He saw eyes blink with surprise. “I’m on the trail of a gang of outlaws that rode down this way.” That was as far as he got before Marjorie Carter interrupted.
“Well, you’re late,” she charged. “My son is lying upstairs with a bullet in his back and we’ve been robbed of almost everything we own.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm. “We ain’t got half the merchandise we usually stock on these shelves.”
“Easy, Marge,” Ned said. “It ain’t the deputy’s fault they shot Tommy.” Turning back to Will, he offered an apology for the chilly greeting. “I reckon we’re just suspicious of any stranger that hits town after the other day.”
“I can understand that,” Will said. “I was afraid those men were going to cause trouble here. How bad is your son’s wound?”
“Well, like she just said, he’s got a bullet in his back,” Ned replied. “He’s bled a lot, but he ain’t dead. There ain’t no doctor nowhere near here, but he’s a right strong boy. I reckon he’ll make it all right.”
“I’m sure sorry your boy got hurt,” Will said. He could see by Marjorie’s frown that she felt that he was somehow responsible. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have gotten here sooner to help you, but we just got the word about this fellow, Ansel Beaudry, and his gang a few days ago. I left Fort Smith the next mornin’.”
“I don’t know if you coulda done much against that gang of outlaws by yourself,” Ned commented. “They were a pretty rough-lookin’ bunch. You shoulda brought a posse with you.”
“You’re right about that,” Will agreed, “but I couldn’t wai
t for some more deputies to get here. I’m hopin’ I can at least stay on their trail, so we’ll know where they end up.”
“In the meantime,” Marjorie couldn’t resist saying, “they’ll just keep stealing and killing all across the territory.”
“Well, I hope not,” Will responded, “but you might be right. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about Beaudry and his men. There were six of ’em altogether, right?”
“That’s right,” Ned answered. “That Beaudry fellow and five of the meanest-lookin’ men I’ve ever seen. The only reason we weren’t scared to death when they walked in the store was because Beaudry didn’t look as evil as his friends. He looked like somebody important, and he talked like a real gentleman, until he stuck a gun in my face.” He glanced at his wife before continuing. “When he said he was on his way to Oklahoma City, why, hell, I believed him—said those five were escortin’ him to protect him.”
“Ned wasn’t the only one that got fooled by that man,” Marjorie was quick to point out, lest the deputy might think her husband was an easy mark. “Bertha Ballard fed the six of them in her dining room and believed him when he told her he was coming back to pay her after they came here.”
“That’s right,” Ned commented. “He even talked Bertha into makin’ up a whole new batch of biscuits he said he wanted to take with him.” He shook his head slowly, still picturing Bertha’s angry face when she told them about it. “She was fit to be tied, but I told her she was lucky. At least nobody got shot at her place.”
“I reckon that’s true,” Will said, and expressed his sympathies again for their son’s wounding. “Can you give me some idea of what they looked like?” he asked. “Especially Beaudry, I don’t have any description of any of them.”
Ned did his best to describe the outlaws. He summed it up by saying four of the gang looked little different from trail-hardened cowboys, the other two were easiest to describe. “Like I’ve been saying, their boss did most of the talking, and he could pass for a lawyer, a judge, a preacher, or whatever else he said he was. The other one was as wild-looking as a coyote. A big fellow, he’s the one who shot Tommy. I’ll never forget that face.”
“What about their horses?” Will asked. “Any of ’em ridin’ unusual-lookin’ horses, or fancy saddles?” He needed anything that would identify them.
Ned scratched his head while he gave it some thought. “I’m sorry, Deputy, they kept me so busy takin’ stuff off the shelves till I didn’t take time to look at their horses. Then when they left, me and my wife were more worried about takin’ care of our son. It wasn’t safe to go out in the street, anyway, what with them shootin’ the town up when they charged outta here.”
“Bertha said the judge rode a gray horse,” Marjorie volunteered, referring to Ansel Beaudry. “I didn’t pay any attention to what the rest of the scum were riding.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Will said. “That’ll help.” He apologized again for their loss and bid them good evening after they told him which way the outlaws had left town.
“You’ve been mighty patient, boy,” he said to Buster as he climbed up into the saddle, “but we’re gonna make camp just as soon as we get outta town and find us a good place.” He rode south along Bird Creek until he found a spot that suited him, then unloaded his horses and let them drink while he gathered wood for a fire.
Chapter 5
After a peaceful night on Bird Creek, he set out at first light, easily picking up the trail left by the gang of six outlaws. Seeing no sign of wavering from their original line of travel, it was now Will’s impression that Beaudry had a definite destination in mind. After a short mile, he came to a common wagon trail that led to the Arkansas River. The tracks did not cross it. Instead, they followed it, and if they continued on this course, they would be heading straight for Wilbur Paul’s ferry. Will figured that to be a distance of about twenty-five miles, so he settled Buster into a comfortable gait, planning to eat his breakfast on the banks of the Arkansas.
The sun was high in a cloudless sky when he caught sight of the river. It had been a while since he had last used Wilbur Paul’s services, and at that time he was trailing a wanted man, much like today. Seeing the ferry on this side of the river, he guided Buster toward it and the little shack on the bank. “Will Tanner!” Wilbur exclaimed in greeting when he saw the rangy deputy marshal rein Buster to a halt beside the shack. “I ain’t seen you in I don’t know when.” He dropped the ax he had been in the process of sharpening and got up from his stool. “I thought some of them outlaws you’ve been chasin’ mighta shot you.”
“Howdy, Wilbur—last time I saw you, you were ridin’ that stool. I’ll bet you ain’t got off it since then.” Will climbed down from his saddle. “Reckon I’ll give you a little ferryin’ business, if you ain’t too busy to take me across.”
“Hah!” Wilbur snorted. “I ain’t had much time to do nothin’ but operate my ferry since the river’s been so high this month. And I sure wouldn’t wanna delay one of our brave deputy marshals from goin’ about his official business.” He responded in the same sarcastic vein as Will had. He and Will were accustomed to japing each other on the few occasions they crossed paths. “Where you headed?”
“Across the river right now,” Will answered. “After that, I ain’t sure where I’m goin’. I’m guessin’ you mighta got some ferryin’ business from some men I’m tryin’ to catch up with.”
“Six of ’em, I expect,” Wilbur spoke up at once. “I ain’t surprised you showed up. I figured some lawman would be after that gang of coyotes. What did they do?”
“Bank robbery and murder,” Will replied, then went on to tell Wilbur the story behind their appearance in Indian Territory. “I don’t reckon they said anything about where they were headin’.”
“No, they didn’t do a lot of talkin’ anytime I was nearby, and that wasn’t any more times than I could help. Tell you the truth, I just pulled ’em across as fast as I could. I was surprised when we got across and they paid the fare. I was gettin’ ready to have a gun stuck in my face when I asked for it, but the feller that looks like a banker or somethin’ paid me before I even asked. There ain’t no doubt he’s the boss.”
“That’d be Ansel Beaudry,” Will said. “The folks back in Bartles Town general store thought he was a judge before he robbed ’em and one of his gang shot their son. How long ago were they here?”
“Day before yesterday,” Wilbur replied.
“They stay on the road when they left?”
“Yep, rode on down the road toward the Pawnee Agency, at least until they was out of sight.” He paused a moment, studying Will’s reaction. “Will, I ain’t so sure you’d wanna catch up with that bunch. You’d be better off waitin’ till you can get some help.”
“You might be right,” Will said, “but I’d like to find out where they’re headin’, so I can keep an eye on ’em till I get some help. If I’m real lucky, maybe they’ll keep on the same line they’re ridin’ and pass right on into Texas. Then they’d be the Rangers’ problem.” Even as he said it, he knew it was unlikely, because the western border between Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle was a good distance away.
Will led Buster and his packhorse onto Wilbur’s flat, bargelike ferry while Wilbur untied it and prepared to pull it across. When they reached the other side, Will told him that he planned to rest his horses before starting out again. When told this, Wilbur decided to continue his visit, offering to contribute some smoked antelope for Will’s breakfast. While they ate, Wilbur tried to describe all the gang of outlaws. “I’d seen one of ’em before,” he said. “Drifter, don’t know his name, but he’s been by here two or three times in the last year or two. The feller you need to watch out for is the big one. I think I heard one of the others call him Whip, or somethin’ like that.”
“Why is that?” Will wondered, since Wilbur said he had heard very little of their conversation.
“I don’t know, he’s just got a look about him, the way h
e stares at you, like a big cat thinkin’ about havin’ you for supper.”
From Wilbur’s description, Whip, or whatever his name was, sounded like the one Ned Carter described as the man who shot his son. Everyone had warned him that this gang was going to be a problem he was not going to be able to handle by himself. The more Wilbur talked about them, the more Will was convinced of it. When his horses were ready to go again, he said so long and started out again on the common road toward the Pawnee Agency on Black Bear Creek, a short ride of maybe a dozen miles. He had limited experience with the Indian agent at Pawnee, for he had never been sent there for any trouble. Since the government had relocated the population in the Osage reserve, the Indian police seemed to handle their troubles without the help of the deputy marshals. For this reason, he felt no obligation to contact them, but since it was beginning to look like the men he followed were going to ride right through the agency, he would check in with the agent. The man assigned to the post was a conscientious man who lived in a frame house with his wife and three small boys. His office was housed in an addition built onto the back of his house.
It was close to the noon hour when Will rode up to the agency headquarters. Seeing no one in the office or the broad clearing that held the house, the barn, a small warehouse, and a few outbuildings, he figured that he might have arrived just when Franklin Tatum was having his noontime meal. That proved to be the case when Tatum, alerted by one of his sons, stepped out the kitchen door to signal him. “Deputy Tanner,” he called out, and waited until Will walked over.
“Mr. Tatum,” Will replied, mildly surprised that Tatum remembered him. “Looks like I mighta caught you at a bad time.”
“No trouble at all,” Tatum responded. “We were just sitting down at the table. You’re welcome to come in and join us—nothing fancy, but we’ve got plenty.”
“No,” Will said. “Thank you just the same. I didn’t wanna pass through without stoppin’ to say howdy. I just had something to eat back at the river.”
Dig Your Own Grave Page 6