by Charles Ray
“You reckon the money from the bank’s in their saddle bags?”
“Let’s go check.”
They did, and it was. The entire haul from the Blossom bank robbery had been divided evenly between the two saddle horses. Bass took the two saddle bags of money and secured them behind his saddle.
“What do we do with them?”
Bass knew that Joseph was referring to the two, no three, dead outlaws.
“Ordinarily, I’d just have ‘em buried where they lay,” he said. “But, considerin’ who it is, I think I better take the three of ‘em back to Fort Smith, so there ain’t no question we got ‘em.”
Joseph’s brows rose. “Three? You mean we’re going to dig up the dead man?”
“Yeah. There was three men what robbed that bank, and we need to show the Texas folks that we got all three, so they shed the foolish notion of comin’ into the territory.”
Chapter 28.
Digging up the dead outlaw’s body wasn’t a pleasant task, but they managed, and thankfully, he hadn’t been in the ground long, so decomposition was minimal. The smell was still terrible, and when added to the two recently deceased men, Bass and Joseph tied the three horses carrying them on long leads and had them follow far behind them. Even with this, whenever the wind shifted, their eyes stung from the stench.
This solemn, and noxious smelling parade made its way from the Cherokee Hills to the Red River in two days, drawing large, curious crowds in every town and settlement it passed through. Despite the smell, people crowded in close to get a glimpse of the body of the infamous Bob Dozier.
At the crossing, they met the Texas Rangers, who had camped there, on the Texas side, since their meeting with Bass a few days earlier. To say that they were happy when he informed them that not only had they got Dozier and his gang, but had recovered the bank money would have been an understatement. They whooped and hollered and fired their guns in the air until Bass informed them that he wasn’t returning the money to them—just yet. It would first have to be taken to the court house in Fort Smith, he told them, where Judge Parker would have to make the decision that it could be returned, but until that time, it was evidence that he was duty bound to retain. The mood quickly turned ugly until the ranger captain agreed that this was the correct legal procedure. The man then congratulated and thanked Bass and Joseph—although, his thanks to Joseph were a bit muted—for ridding the world of Dozier and his ilk, and the rangers decamped and headed southwest toward Fort Worth.
Bass and Joseph then headed back north to the road heading east to Fort Smith, where Bass paid Joseph his posse man fee and bade him good bye until his next trip. Bass then went on to Fort Smith where, to the pleasant surprise of Marshal Fagan, who’d not actually been completely convinced that Bass would succeed in finding, much less capturing, Dozier, he turned over the dead outlaws and the bank money. Fagan had been so pleased that he personally wrote the report that Bass dictated regarding the capture. The bodies of Bob Dozier, Hank Garner, and Harley Williams were duly identified, and Bass collected the reward for their capture along with his own fees, and then they were turned over to the jailer for burial in the potters’ field near the jail, joining other deceased fugitives, indigents, and unknowns.
His business in Fort Smith concluded, Bass returned to his ranch near Van Buren, a trip that he took with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he’d missed his wife and family, and was anxious to be reunited with them. On the other, though, he feared that Nellie, the perceptive woman that she was, knew what he’d been up to. Once word of what he’d done filtered out from Fort Smith, she would know for sure, so he would have to tell her first to mitigate her wrath. And, he was not looking forward to having to do that.
It was getting late in the day when he rode into his front yard, with long shadows painting the landscape with dark, but pleasant colors. Nellie, her arms folded beneath her breasts, stood on the front porch, at the top of the steps, waiting for him. The expression on her face was unreadable.
He dismounted, tied off his horse and walked to the bottom of the steps. Looking up at her, trying to discern her mood, Bass felt as nervous as a young man about to pop the question to his beloved.
Behind Nellie, Bass could see the faces of three of his younger children, peering through the door from the shadowy front room. The room was lit only by the light coming through the windows because, Nellie, despite the fact that the income he made from crops and livestock, when combined with the rewards he collected for bringing in fugitives, made him one of the wealthier farmers in Van Buren, Nellie believed in ‘waste not, want not.’ She never lit a lamp until it was dark, or near dark. He looked around. The older children were probably finishing up their daily chores. When he was away, they pitched in around the farm after coming home from school. And, it was his Nellie who kept it all together. He was proud of his wife, and, though he would never admit it to anyone, a bit afraid and in awe of her, as were most men of his age who were smart enough to know that for all their pompous bragging, it was really the women who ruled.
He swept his hat off. “Hello, Nellie,” he said.
“Hello, Bass. It’s good to have you home.”
“Good to be home. I missed your cookin’.”
“That all you missed, Bass Reeves?”
She smiled wickedly at him. His face felt hot.
“Naw, ‘course not, ‘n you know it, woman.”
“Well then, come on up here and give me a hug.”
Smiling, he mounted the steps and took her into his arms. She nestled her head against his neck as he rubbed her back.
“I am glad to be home, Nellie. I know you was prob’ly worried ‘bout me.”
“I was when you first left,” she said. “But, then I had me another dream, and I knowed it was gon’ be all right.”
“So, you knowed I wasn’t gon’ have no trouble.”
She pulled back and smiled up at him. “Oh, I knowed you was gon’ have some trouble, but that you was gon’ be okay.”
“Wish’t I’d knowed that. It would’ve saved me a lot of worry.”
“If you’d come home ‘stead of sleepin’ in Fort Smith, ‘n goin’ right back to Injun Territory, I could’ve told you.”
Eyes wide, he looked down at her. She smiled up at him.
“You knowed I come back to Fort Smith?”
“’Course I did. You think just ‘cause you slept in the jail, folks wouldn’t know you was back in town, and they wouldn’t tell me? What I don’t understand is why you felt you had to try to keep me from knowin’.”
“I didn’t want you to worry any more ‘n you already was, Nellie. What with your dream ‘n all, I thought if you knowed I was goin’ back, you might pressure me not to go.”
She thumped a fist against his chest. “You know I would’ve tried to do just that, and you know it wouldn’t have worked. It ain’t never worked before.”
He pulled her body closer and kissed the top of her head. “I know it’s hard on you and the young-uns, with me bein’ gone so much, Nellie,” he said. “But, they’s a lot of people out there who done broke the law, and they got to be brought in.”
She pulled back from him, looking up into his face, a mixture of pride, fear, and longing in her eyes. “I know, Bass. Lots of bad people what got to be brought to justice. But, why it have to be you doin’ it?”
“It ain’t just me. They’s lots of other deputies. But, I feel I got to be part of it. I can’t explain it, Nellie. I know sometimes the law ain’t all that fair to us colored folks, but if we don’t work to make it better, it ain’t never gon’ be. I don’t know if that make any sense, but it’s what I believe, and I think it’s what Judge Parker and Marshal Fagan believe, else why they hire a bunch of black men to be deputies? We might not make it right today, but if we don’t try and do our best, it ain’t never gon’ be made right.”
She smiled, and her smile told him that she understood—or, at least, that she accepted him for what he was. The truth was, he w
asn’t sure he fully understood it himself. He just knew, deep down inside, that he was right. Change wouldn’t come overnight, but if he kept trying, and if those with whom he worked kept trying, one day, change would come.
“Anyway,” he said, rubbing her back. “I’m home now, and I’m gon’ be here for at least a week or two ‘fore I go out again. Got lots of chores ‘round here to catch up on.”
She pulled away and slapped his chest. “Fore you go talkin’ ‘bout chores, I knows you ain’t had a decent meal since you left last time,” she said. “So, you come on in the house and put your feet under the table. I got some fried chicken and cornbread with your name on it. You can do chores and save the world another time.”
Laughing, with their arms around each other, they went inside.
THE MARSHAL AND THE MADAM
THE ADVENTURES
OF
BASS REEVES
DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL
Volume Two
CHARLES RAY
Dedication
To the valiant men and women of the U.S. Marshals Service, who have been serving the country since 1789. Created by the first Continental Congress, they are the oldest law enforcement agency in the United States.
CHAPTER 1
“Howdy, Miz Belle. How you doin’ today?” He tipped his hat as he walked toward the porch.
“I’m doing just fine. How are you, Bass?” the woman replied, smiling.
While she wasn’t entirely unpleasant to look at, with her square jaw and eyes set a little too close together, she was not what one would call a great beauty, nothing like the painted ladies who worked in the saloons, dance halls and brothels throughout the Indian Territory. Despite the lack of classic beauty, though, whenever she rode into town, or walked into a room, people took notice. It might have been her sense of style. When she went riding side saddle, she always wore a dark velvet riding habit, and a man’s hat with plumes, and around her waist she carried two revolvers. The fact that she was an expert rider and a crack shot was known by all, and also impressed them. She cut an impressive figure wherever she went. She didn’t encourage people to believe the things they did, but she didn’t discourage them either.
The same things could be said of the man, Bass Reeves. He stood six feet, two inches tall, and his two-hundred-pound frame was well muscled and broad shouldered, with hands at the ends of his arms that were big enough to crush a man’s head. He, too, was a snappy dresser, and wore two Colt .45 caliber revolvers, butt first around his waist, and was such a good shot with either hand that in his home in Arkansas, he was often barred from entering shooting competitions. He was also a man who took pride in his appearance, usually wearing a nicely turned out jacket of gray, brown, or black, and a Stetson with a straight brim. His boots, unless he was in disguise, were always polished to a high gloss. When he walked into a room, everyone, man or woman, stopped what he or she was doing and gawked. Unlike Belle, though, he could, when he chose, become almost invisible. During his time in Indian Territory during the war, his Indian friends had taught him to ride ‘small in the saddle.’ Not only did this make for a smaller target for ambushers to shoot at, it helped to disguise his large frame from a distance, enabling him at times to ride right up to fugitives unnoticed until it was too late.
A person could search Indian Territory for a lifetime and not find two more unlikely friends. She was short, he was tall, much taller than the average man. She was petite, and he was large and muscular. Her skin, when she stayed out of the sun, was the color of ivory, and she had long, brown hair, while his skin was the color of polished mahogany, and his hair was short, curly, and beginning to grow gray at the temples. She had come from a family that, though they themselves had owned no slaves, had been friends with many who did, and had supported the southern slaveholders in the North-South war. He had been born a slave, had run away to Indian Territory during the war after a dispute with his master, returning to his home in Arkansas in 1863, after President Lincoln issued the proclamation freeing the slaves in the rebelling states. Despite these differences, they found pleasure in each other’s company.
“I’m fair to middlin’, Miz Belle,” he said.
“It’s been a while. Where you off to this time?”
“I got me some warrants to serve over at Fort Sill.”
“Well, I’m pleased you took the time to drop in and visit a spell,” she said. “Would you like a cup of coffee, or maybe some fresh-made lemonade?”
“Why, coffee would do just fine.”
Belle Starr, born Myra Maybelle Shirley, in Carthage, Missouri, reached for the silver coffee urn on the carved wooden table at her side. She poured the brown brew into a fancy porcelain cup, and handed it up to the man who now stood at the empty chair on the other side of the table. He took a sip of the hot liquid, and then sat.
The two sat in silence for a long time. Finally, the silence was broken when a man of middle height, his dark brown hair flowing back and down over his head in waves, displaying a high, broad forehead, and piercing brown eyes. A neat mustache and goatee gave him a sinister appearance, until he smiled. It had been his smile that had attracted Belle to him in the first place.
Sam Starr was the son of Tom Starr, part Irish, part Cherokee, who had for a long time been leader of the Starr gang, a band of pro-treaty Cherokee, who after being attacked by those who opposed the treaties with the U.S. Government, had avenged the attacks with a reign of terror. Sam had assumed the leadership after his father got too old to keep pace, and had added cattle theft to the long list of crimes the gang was involved in. He had, though, confined his crimes to actions against Indian residents of the territory, as far as people knew, which kept the U.S. marshals off his tail.
“Well, hello, deputy. Ain’t seen you in a while,” the man said.
“Howdy to you too, Sam. What you been up to lately?”
Sam’s smile broadened, and he looked down at the woman. “Ain’t been up to nothin’ a’tall. Ain’t that right, Belle?”
They shared a look and a smile. “No, Bass, he hasn’t been up to anything.”
Sam Starr poured himself a cup of coffee, and took a sip.
“What about you, deputy,” he said. “What you been up to lately?”
“Same as always,” Bass said. “Got me some fugitives here in the territory that I got to take back to Fort Smith.”
“More poor fools for Judge Parker to hang, eh?” Starr laughed.
Bass didn’t. He frowned. “Ain’t like that. Folks call Judge Parker the Hangin’ Judge, but that’s ‘cause so many of the people what come into his court done things that call for hangin’. Fact is, though, he ain’t sent all that many people to the gallows.”
“Whatever you say, deputy. Say, Belle, I gotta ride over to Porum Gap to the general store to pick up some supplies. Nice talking to ya, deputy.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat, stepped off the porch and headed for the corral attached to the large barn off to the side of the ranch house.
After he’d ridden away to the north, Bass finished his coffee and stood. “Well, Miz Belle, I got to be movin’ myself. My guard and cook’s waitin’ for me up at Porum Gap. We got a long ride ahead of us.”
Belle stood. “You sure you can’t stay a mite longer, Bass. I was going to play the piano a little later.”
“Well now, you know ain’t nothin’ I like more ‘n listenin’ to you play, but I really best be movin’ on. Maybe on the way back from Fort Smith, we can stop and listen to you play.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Bass Reeves.”
Bass mounted his grey stallion, tipped his hat, and rode away. When he was out of sight, the front door opened, and two men walked out onto the porch.
“You know, Belle, I just don’t understand why you so friendly with that colored lawman, or any colored man, for that matter,” the older of the two said.
“You wouldn’t understand, Frank,” she said. “You, Jesse, and Cole and his brothers still fighting the war. It’s o
ver, and the colored been freed. We have to accept that.”
The younger of the two men ran a hand through his slicked back brown hair. “I got nothin’ agin colored, but ain’t no lawman ever done favors for the James family, ‘n I know Cole feels the same on the part of the Younger clan. The Yankees might’ve won the war, but it ain’t hardly over long’s we got southern warriors willin’ to take up the gun. We can make sure the Yankees and all their sympathizers pay for what they done to our homes.”
The trio, to a casual observer, seemed a most unlikely matchup. Belle Starr, born to John Shirley and Eliza Hatfield Shirley, had been brought up in relative affluence in Carthage, where her father, after giving up farming, had owned an inn, a livery, and a blacksmith shop, located in Carthage’s town square. A pillar of the town community, he’d been one of the cofounders of a school for young women there, where young Myra Maybelle, who in her teens took to calling herself Belle, received a classical education. She had known the James and Younger families, local farmers, from childhood, and like them, her family had supported the southern side in the fratricidal War of Secession. When Carthage was sacked by Union forces, Belle’s family had moved south to Texas, while the James and Younger boys had joined the Bushwhackers, Confederate sympathizers in Missouri and Kansas, such as William Quantrill, who raided, robbed, and killed, and spread terror throughout the war, and after it ended, had turned to lives of crime. When pressure from the law built up in Kansas and Missouri, they would often flee to Indian Territory, and because of the family connections, sought safe haven at the ranch Belle shared with her second husband, Sam Starr, leader of the notorious Starr clan, a group of Cherokee bandits who stole cattle, and committed various other crimes in the territory. Starr’s father, Tom Starr, half-Cherokee, half-Irish, was known as one of the most vicious criminals in the territory, and before his death was reported to have killed over a hundred men. Although she knew that providing shelter for wanted men was a crime, she was from a culture that valued family and friends over government, and in addition to having grown up with the James and Younger families, as a young woman she’d been romantically involved with Cole Younger, a relationship that ended when her family moved to Texas.