by Charles Ray
The relationship, though, still occupied a place in her mind, for the area on the Canadian River where she and Sam had built their ranch had been named Younger’s Bend, many believed in honor of Cole Younger.
Sam Starr had, up to that time, not been accused of committing a crime that fell under the jurisdiction of Judge Isaac Parker’s court in Fort Smith, Arkansas, so, even though Bass had heard the rumors about him, since he had no warrant for his arrest, he did nothing. The other reason was his admiration for Belle. Her polish and education, and the friendly, even-handed treatment she accorded him was the cause—that, and her piano playing. She did not act intimidated by his size, nor did she seem to act friendly to him just because he was a lawman; in fact, she seemed to like him despite that fact. She just accepted him for what he was. For his part, he chose to ignore the gossipers who labeled her ‘the Bandit Queen,’ believing instead that this was just idle gossip due to her association with the likes of Sam Starr.
The respect was mutual.
“Just don’t be bringing your war to my home, Jesse James,” she said. “And, I see that look in your eyes when you talk about Bass. You steer clear of him, you hear?”
James held his hands up in surrender. “I ain’t got no quarrel with him. Long’s he leaves me alone, I’ll leave him alone.”
“Don’t you be getting up to any of your ruffian ways down here. If you do, and they issue a warrant for you out of Fort Smith, Bass will come after you, and word is, he always gets his man.”
“Let’s hope it don’t come to that,” Frank James said. “I know he’s a friend of yours, and I’d plumb hate to have to kill him.”
“And,” she said. “I’d hate for him to kill you.”
“You think that boy would stand a chance against me? Hellfire, Belle, I done killed more men than I can count on all my fingers ‘n toes. What do you think I’d do to that boy if he was to come after me?”
She faced him down. “If you were smart, you’d give yourself up. You see those two sidearms he wears around his waist? Well, he’s a dead shot with either of them, in either hand, and he can hit a hickory nut at the top of a tree from a hundred yards. He’s such a good marksman, over in Arkansas they won’t let him enter the shooting competitions.”
He shrugged. “Okay, so I wouldn’t challenge him to a draw down. There’s more ‘n one way to take care of a meddlesome lawman.”
“Now, you listen here, Frank James, I don’t want to hear nothing about you bushwhacking, Bass Reeves, you got that?”
“Aw, come on, Belle, I ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout bushwhackin’ him.”
“You think I was born yesterday. I know what you meant, and I will hear none of that if you want to be welcome in my house.”
“Okay, Belle, me ‘n Jesse won’t be goin’ after your pet lawman. That make you happy?”
“What would make me happy is if you and your brother would stay out of sight. I don’t want the neighbors gossiping about the notorious James boys living at Younger’s Bend.”
What she really wanted to say was that she would be happier if they packed their gear and took themselves back to Missouri or Kansas, and left her in peace. Instead, she slapped her riding crop against her leg and strode off the porch.
“I’m going for a ride to clear my head,” she said. “You boys try not to cause any trouble while I’m gone.”
Jesse, though younger, was the principal initiator of most of their escapades, took his hat off and bowed deeply in her direction.
“Your wish is our command, Miz Belle,” he said, a mocking expression on his youthful face. “Me ‘n Frank will be as quiet as field mice.”
Belle rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hold back a smile. As bloodthirsty and violent as he could be, Jesse James had a magnetic personality, and like most people, she was not immune to his charm.
CHAPTER 2
After nearly three weeks in the area around Fort Sill, in west-central Oklahoma Territory, and with just a few days left on his thirty-day limit, Bass didn’t stop at Younger’s Bend on his way back to Fort Smith with a wagon-load of fugitives. After such long absences, he was always anxious to get home to his farm near Van Buren, and spend some time with his wife and children.
After getting his posse man to fill out the paperwork he was required to submit, which he signed by making an X at the bottom, and paying his friend Henry Lone Tree his scout fee for the month, he turned the prisoners over to the jailer and made his way to Marshal James Fagan’s office in the Fort Smith Federal Courthouse.
“Howdy, Bass,” Fagan said. “Have a seat. How was your trip?” Fagan looked up from some papers he’d been studying and waved Bass to the chair beside his desk. He toyed with his beard as he eyed the black deputy. “I hear you stopped at Younger’s Bend on your way out.”
That Fagan knew of his movements, even over a hundred miles away from Fort Smith, didn’t surprise Bass. Gossip in the territory spread like a wild fire on a dry prairie.
Bass’s relationship with Belle Starr had long been an issue between the two men. Fagan was among those who were convinced that Belle was heavily involved in illegal activities, and he worried that Bass, despite his reputation for enforcing the law, without fear or favor, would not be able to carry out his duties when, as he knew it inevitably would, the time came to serve a warrant on the woman.
“Yes, sir. I stopped and had coffee with Miz Belle.”
“You know, Bass, I’m not one to tell you who you can associate with, but I worry sometimes about your relationship with the Starr clan.”
Bass sat forward in his chair.
“I know, Marshal,” he said. “I done heard all the stories, ‘n I’m pretty sure the ones I hear ‘bout Sam Starr are mostly true. After all, he’s the son of Tom Starr, one of the meanest Cherokee that ever lived. But, his crimes are against Injuns, and that’s a matter for the tribal police. And, I also done heard all the stories ‘bout Miz Belle, too. But, ain’t a one of ‘em ever been proved. They’s just rumors. You don’t issue warrants based on rumors, do you?”
Fagan tugged at his beard, his broad brow furrowed. “Well, of course not, Bass. But, with so much smoke, there’s bound to be a little fire somewhere.”
“Well, if I see any fire, I’ll sho nuff try to put it out.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, if somebody show me some proof that Miz Belle done broke the law, and Judge Parker issues a warrant, I’ll go and bring her in.”
Fagan stared across the desk. Bass’s face was as immobile as the trunk of an oak tree. Fingering the silver marshal’s badge he wore on his vest, he nodded. “Danged if I don’t believe you would. Well, let’s hope it don’t come to that. Now, I know you want to get on home and spend some time with Nellie and them kids of yours, but I got another stack of warrants, so I’m gonna need you back here in a week.”
Bass stood, his serious expression easing. “Sure nuff, Marshal. I’ll be here soon’s I get some new fence put up in my south pasture. Prob’ly won’t be more ‘n four, five days.”
Fagan smiled at his broad back as he left. Maybe he need not worry about his best deputy after all.
CHAPTER 3
At the very moment that Bass was riding out of Fort Smith, heading toward his farm near Van Buren, Belle Starr stood on the porch of her ranch house at Younger’s Bend, in Indian Territory, watching three horsemen approaching down the road leading to the main gate to the property. She recognized the roans ridden by Frank and Jesse James, and when they were close enough that she recognized the third rider, she frowned.
The last person she wanted to see was Cole Younger. Her husband, Sam, knew of her relationship with Cole when they both were teens, and, with the temper he’d inherited from his father, Tom, she worried about his reaction to Cole being in Oklahoma, and worse, in their home.
She tried not to let her worry show as the three men stopped their horses and dismounted, or to show the tingle of excitement as Cole stepped up close to her, too close f
or comfort. Their relationship had never gone beyond her looking at him with stars in her eyes, but she had to admit that he’d only gotten more handsome as he’d gotten older. If Sam ever saw her looking at Cole with her eyes bugged and her mouth half open like she knew it was, he’d go crazy, and there would be bloodshed. Despite the ties of friendship that existed between her and these men and their families, she would have to find a way to encourage them to make their stays at Younger’s Bend short.
“Hi, Belle,” Younger said.
She swallowed hard. “Hello, Cole. What are you doing here?”
She didn’t need to ask the question, because she already knew the answer; it was the same as it was for all of her former friends from Missouri. He was on the run from the law. Like the James brothers, Cole Younger and his brothers and cousins had been Bushwhackers during the war, laying waste to settlements that supported the Union, killing Union soldiers and sympathizers alike, stealing Union supplies, and when the war ended, instead of laying down their arms and returning to farming, had continued to ply the trade they’d learned in the war, by robbing banks and stage coaches, and killing anyone who got in their way. Letting them stay here at Younger’s Bend was, she knew, a big mistake, one that could get everyone into trouble, especially in light of her husband, Sam’s, sideline. But bonds of kinship were important. She’d been taught never to turn away a friend in need.
And, when that friend was as handsome as Cole Younger, it was impossible to say no to a request for help.
He looked down at her, his trademark smile, causing her knees to tremble.
“Just thought I’d come down and see how you were doin’, Belle,” he said. “I been meanin’ to come down and visit ever since I heard your first husband, Jim Reed, got himself kilt. Hear you done married yourself a redskin? What’s his Injun name?”
Her cheeks flamed red.
“There’s no need to use words like that, Cole. I don’t allow it in my house. Sam’s part Cherokee, part Irish. He doesn’t have an Indian name, so you can call him Sam, or maybe it’d be better if you just called him Mister Starr.”
Younger laughed derisively.
“No offense meant, Belle. You think Mister Star would mind if I hung out here for a few days?”
Of course, he’ll mind, she thought, but he wouldn’t say anything. Even though he was as deadly as his father had been, he was completely smitten by her, and would do anything she asked of him. Besides, Sam also understood the obligations of family and clan as well, if not better, than Belle did. He wouldn’t object to their presence unless one of them crossed the line that defined his honor.
“No, he won’t mind,” she said. “But, you’ll have to stay in the bunkhouse with the hands.”
He looked disappointed, but smiled at her. “That won’t be a problem, Belle, no problem at all.”
“And, Cole,” she said. “I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve told Frank and Jesse; while you’re here, I don’t want any trouble.”
He bowed, a mocking smile on his face. “I give you my word, Belle. I will not start any trouble.”
CHAPTER 4
Bass’s homecoming was a raucous one. With ten children ranging in age from six to seventeen, the place was always noisy, but never more so than when he returned from one of his long trips into Indian Territory.
Before leaving Fort Smith, he’d stopped at a general store and bought gifts for Nellie and each of the children, gifts that were greeted with cheers and hugs.
That first day back home, he spent time listening to each child tell him what he or she had done while he was gone, paying particular attention to the older ones’ recitation of the tasks he’d set them around the ranch, and happy to see that each had completed everything assigned. When the last child was finally tucked in and pretending to be asleep, he and Nellie retired to the front porch, where they sat in silence, enjoying the solitude and companionship.
From the second day, and for five days thereafter, he was busy stringing fence, replacing broken boards in the barn, and putting in pipes to enable Nellie to pump water into the kitchen, something he’d seen in one of the big houses near Fort Smith. One day, he thought, maybe someone would even figure out a way to put a toilet inside the house, so they wouldn’t have to make the long trek to the outhouse on cold winter nights.
On the sixth day, the compulsion to get back on the trail of wanted fugitives was just too strong. At mid-morning, he called Nellie out to the porch.
“You leavin’ already?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. This was always how he prepared to leave on one of his trips into the territory.
He put his large hands on her shoulder and pulled her close. “Yeah, hon. Marshal Kagan’s got a whole buncha warrants for me.”
She put her arms around his waist and hugged hard.
“Bass, I wish you didn’t have to do this. I worry ‘bout you so much when you go out there.”
“There’s no need to worry,” he said. “I know how to take care of myself.”
She pulled back and looked up into his eyes. “I know, but I still worry. You hurry up and get on back here, you hear me? Me ‘n the children miss you so much when you gone.”
“I will, baby girl, ‘cause I miss y’all, too.”
He kissed her on the forehead, patted her shoulder, and left her standing there on the porch as he walked to the stable to saddle his horse.
She was still standing there, when he rode out of the stable. He slowed as he passed the front of the house, tipped his hat to her, and then, kicked his horse’s flanks, urging the animal into a gentle trot.
It was approaching mid-day when he arrived in Fort Smith and presented himself in Fagan’s office.
Fagan gave him a wry look. “You’re back a few days early, Bass,” he said. “But, I’m not really surprised. How’d your wife take it this time?”
“She ain’t none too happy, but she knows that it’s the money from this job that lets us live nice lives. She’s a tough woman, but I think she gets put out havin’ to keep track of all them young’uns by herself.”
“Can’t say’s I blame her. How many you got now?’
Bass had to think a few seconds. “Ten, last count,” he said. “I ‘spect they can be a hand full, for sure. But, the oldest ones help with the little ones, so it can’t be too bad. I think she just misses me. Now, Marshal, what you got for me?”
Fagan shuffled some papers on his desk.
“Got a bank robber, a couple of land swindlers, and a fella who killed his friend in an argument over a card game. You ought to be able to get all these done in a couple of weeks.”
They went through the usual routine; Fagan held up each warrant so that Bass could see and memorize it, while he read the particulars of each fugitive. Even after several years of Bass’s performance, he was still amazed at his ability to retain such a volume of information. But, retain it, he did. He had, thus far, never made a mistake, even when he had as many as ten or fifteen warrants. Once, Bass had brought in sixteen wanted men, men he’d located and arrested in less than twenty days in settlements and hideouts throughout Indian Territory. And, unlike many of the deputies, Bass didn’t often get into shootouts with the men he pursued, instead, often tricking them into surrendering. On the few occasions when a wanted man had been foolish enough to engage in gunplay, Bass had arranged for a suitable funeral, after getting witnesses to write a report of the incident for him, to which he affixed his ‘X’ dutifully.
Satisfied that Bass had memorized the content of the four warrants, Fagan stacked them neatly and passed them across the desk. Bass went through them once more, peering intently at each, and then folded them neatly and tucked them in his jacket pocket. He would later, upon encountering a wanted man, remove them, select the correct one without fail, and let the man see it to verify that he was being placed under arrest. Sometimes, the man would already be in handcuffs when this occurred.
Bass stood, saluted the marshal, and left. Outside the courthouse, he
met up with his cook, a freckle-faced red head named Patrick Donovan, the driver of his prisoner wagon, Robert Jefferson, a tall, skinny man with unruly brown hair, who wore a battered derby hat, and carried a shotgun rather than a revolver. He would meet up with his posse man, his friend, Henry Lone Tree, west of the deadline, a north-south line about eighty miles west of Fort Smith, beyond which a lawman traveled at his own peril. Outlaws in Indian Territory often posted notices near the deadline, warning the deputy marshals, sometimes by name, that if they crossed the line, they would be killed, and during the time since Bass became a deputy, several deputies had been killed in the territory. Bass had been the personal subject of several such notices, messages that his guard wagon driver or cook had read to him. Each time, he’d taken the notice, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his pocket. He’d been shot at several times, once a bullet had even punched through the crown of his hat, missing his skull by a hair’s breadth, and one outlaw had shot off his saddle horn, but he’d not been injured.
In one incident, he’d cornered two outlaws, and they’d gotten the drop on him. He’d asked them if, before they shot him, they would read a letter he’d received from his wife. He took a folded paper from his pocket, and when one of the men had reached for it, Bass had grabbed his gun hand. He’d pulled his own revolver and smashed the other man over the head with it, before subduing the man he’d grabbed.
His exploits were known throughout the territory, and had earned him the nickname, ‘The Indomitable Marshal.’ His knowledge of the tribal customs and languages had earned him the respect of most of the Indian inhabitants, and his tracking ability, dogged persistence, strength, and bravery, caused the territory’s outlaws to hate and fear him in equal measure.