The Adventures of Bass Reeves Deputy US Marshal

by Charles Ray

  Two men, Bass thought. Could it possibly be the Barker brothers?

  “What’d they look like?”

  “A coupla white boys,” the man said. “One’s a runt with yellow hair ‘n the other one’s a pudgy fella with black hair that hangs over his ears and almost cover his eyes.”

  So, Bass thought, not the Barkers, but it really didn’t matter. He had a duty as a deputy marshal to act when he encountered laws being broken, and robbing a bank was pretty serious.

  “What are we going to do, Bass?” Henry asked.

  Bass pulled his coat closed to cover his two Colt Peacemakers. “I reckon I’m gon’ have to go in and arrest ‘em,” he said. “You wait here.”

  He walked along the sidewalk until he came to the big double front doors of the bank. The shade had been drawn over the panes in the doors and the front window. He could hear the scuffle of boots on the wooden floor inside the building. He stopped at the doors and rapped sharply on the glass pane.

  “Who is it?” a squeaky voice said from inside.

  “My name’s Bass Reeves. I need to talk to you.”

  “I ain’t never heard of you, Bass Reeves. Why would we wanta talk to you?”

  “I got a way you can git outa this without gittin’ yourselves shot fulla holes.”

  Bass heard more scuffling and the muffled sounds of voices. Then the doors opened a crack and a bright blue eye peered through the slit.

  “What you wanta talk about?” It was the same squeaky voice. From the light color of the eyebrow he could see, he figured this one was the skinny one with yellow hair.

  “What’s yo name, boy?” he asked.

  “Kyle Wade. What’s it to you?”

  “I jest likes to know who I’m talkin’ to. What’s yo partner’s name.”

  “Don’t tell him nothin’,” another squeaky voice said from somewhere behind the eye. “Jest find out what he can do to help us git outa here.”

  “His name’s Tim Johnson,” Wade said. “Now, how you gonna help us git outa here?”

  “Let me in ‘n I’ll tell you,” Bass said. “I don’t cotton talkin’ to an eye. I likes to look a man full in the face when I talks to him.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to let him in,” the voice in back said.

  The eye blinked and then moved back into darkness. Bass could hear more muffled conversation. Then, the doors began to swing inward.

  “Come on in,” the boy with the blue eyes and yellow hair said, holding the doors open just wide enough for Bass to squeeze his big frame through.

  Once inside the lobby of the bank, Bass had to blink to let his eyes adjust to the dimness, as all the curtains were drawn and the only light came from two lamps sitting at either end of the teller counter and another on a large desk off to the right of the lobby. A portly, balding, middle-aged man wearing a vest that strained over his stomach, sat behind the desk. He had a large blue bruise on his left cheek. A thin, older man with hair that was thinning on top, also wearing a vest, but with blue bands around his shirt sleeves at the biceps, stood behind the teller counter, his hands raised to his shoulders.

  The two would-be robbers were, as the man outside had said, little more than boys. Bass estimated them to be in their early twenties at most, barely old enough to shave, stood in the center of the lobby, each with a large revolver in his hand. The thin one, with blue eyes and lank yellow hair, Kyle Wade, stood over a brown canvas bag that looked stuffed full of banknotes, if the few spilling out the top were any indication. The other, Tim Johnson, was shorter, about up to Bass’s breastbone, was a little pudgy, and had coal black hair that hung partly over his eyes and on the sides came to his shoulder. But for his piggy brown eyes, bulbous nose and angry sneer, with the hair he would’ve looked like a girl. Both looked nervously at Bass as he entered.

  “I still think this is a bad idea,” Johnson said.

  “Ain’t hurtin’ nothin’ to listen to what he got to say,” Wade said. “Otherwise we ain’t gettin’ outa here.”

  “I guess you right. Okay, old man, how you gonna git us outa this bank without us gettin’ shot?”

  “It ain’t hard, really,” Bass said. He moved the lapel of his coat to show his badge. “I’m a deputy marshal, and I’m gon’ arrest you and take you to jail. That way, we walk out ‘n ain’t nobody gon’ shoot you.”

  Wade laughed. “You think you, all by yourself, can take the two of us? Old man, you must be crazy.”

  He still held the revolver, but had it pointed at the floor instead of Bass. Johnson’s revolver kept moving from the teller to the man behind the desk.

  In a flash, Bass flipped his coat open and using a cross draw, whipped out his Colts and aimed them at the faces of the two startled young robbers.

  “Now, here’s how it’s gon’ be, fellas,” he said. “You drop them shootin’ irons on the floor and put your hands up, and you walk out. You try to raise ‘em and point ‘em at me, and I put a slug right twixt your eyes. ‘N believe me, ain’t no way I kin miss from here.”

  Something in Bass’s voice, or maybe it was the steely look of determination in his eyes, got through to the two. After a second or two of hesitation, they let their weapons fall from limp fingers and raised their hands.

  “Now, that,” Bass said. “Is the smartest thing you two done the whole blessed day, I’ll wager.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Titusville didn’t have a sheriff. The old sheriff had died when he fell off his horse and broke his neck, and the town council had yet to hire someone to replace him, so Bass was forced to take custody of the two young robbers, further crowding the prison wagon.

  “We’ll have to stuff the Barkers in when we catch ‘em,” Henry said.

  “Mebbe we’ll make ‘em walk part way,” Bass said, only partially joking.

  “I do not know why you’re taking these two. There’s no reward for them, but you still have to feed them. It would have been better to let the people of the town have them.”

  “Now, Henry, you know good ‘n well I don’t cotton to lynchin’, ‘n that is exactly what them folks would’ve done to ‘em for what they was tryin’ to do at the bank.”

  After they put the two new prisoners into the wagon, though, Bass, upon seeing the glares the other prisoners gave them, began to wonder if they’d be safe with him. He gave them all a stern lecture, promising dire consequences if there was any trouble. There was some grumbling, but none of the prisoners wanted to incur the wrath of the tall, muscular black deputy.

  With the prisoners finally quieted, they resumed their journey west. Bass hoped they wouldn’t run into any more lawbreakers before he was able to round up the two Barker boys. He didn’t relish the prospect of having to rent a wagon and hire an extra driver.

  He looked up at the sky, wondering if praying might help, then decided that the Lord had a lot more important things to deal with than his petty problems.

  CHAPTER 11

  Chet and Clint Barker were happy. Finally, they could go home to their mother and for a change wouldn’t be empty handed as they so often had been in the past. Neither relished the idea of feeling the sharp edge of her tongue.

  They sang as they rode, off-key songs in high-pitched nasal voices that startled birds and rabbits in the grassy edges of the road. But, neither cared.

  A day from home, they came around a bend and saw a stage coach canted to the right, with two men standing near the right rear wheel scratching their heads. The team of four horses had been unhitched and were grazing at the roadside, still in their traces.

  They stopped a few feet shy of the scene.

  “Howdy,” Chet said. “Looks like you fellas have a problem.”

  One of the men, a lanky, thin-faced man with thin brown hair sticking from beneath his hat, looked up at them with a frown on his face.

  “Yeah. Wheel hit a rock and snapped the axle. It’s gonna take a while to git it fixed.”

  Chet peered past him. “Whyn’t your passengers git out
‘n help you.”

  The other man, older, with more gray color than brown in the shaggy hair at his temples, kicked at the wheel.

  “Ain’t got no passengers, jest some supplies and a strongbox for the bank in Anadarko.”

  His companion shot him a warning look, and he snapped his mouth shut.

  But, not fast enough for Chet, who at times actually thought. And, he’d caught the looks between the two men, and the worried frown of the first man when the second mentioned the strongbox heading for a bank. Now, he thought, what might be in a crate for a bank? Why, money of course. He couldn’t believe their luck.

  “Need any help from us?” he asked.

  The man regarded him through narrowed slits, seemed to make some kind of decision, and shook his head.

  “Naw, we kin do it,” he said. “Thank you anyway.”

  “Well,” Chet said. “Mebbe you kin help us.”

  Chet drew his revolver from the holster and pointed it at the startled man’s face. Clint, not always the fastest thinker, and given to letting his mind drift away from conversations, took a few seconds to understand what his brother was doing, but when he did, he acted quickly. He whipped out his sidearm and pointed it at the hapless stagecoach crew.

  “What the hell you doin, fella?” the thin-faced man said.

  “We robbin’ you, ponder,” Chet said. “Now, git up there and haul that there strongbox down.”

  “Yeah, ‘n be quick about it. We got a long ride ahead of us,” Clint added.

  The two men looked for a moment as if they might have decided to fight. Then, they looked at each other and shrugged. They climbed up the back of the precariously slanted coach and, with some effort, lifted the heavy box and put it on the ground.

  It was about two feet wide, three feet long, and two feet high, and was made of some dark, heavy wood. Two one-inch-wide black iron bands, six inches in from each end, encircled it, and a shiny black iron padlock secured the hasp in front. From the way the two men strained to move it, Chet was sure it was stuffed full of banknotes. He smiled. Ma would be so proud of him.

  “Unlock it,” he demanded.

  “Sorry, fella,” the thin-faced man said. “They don’t give us the key. Only two keys; one at the shippin’ end and t’other at the bank in Anadarko.”

  Chet looked at the man, a deep frown on his face. Then, his expression softened. It made sense, not tempting a poorly-paid stagecoach driver by giving him the key to so much money. Chet knew that if he were that driver and he was given a key to the strongbox it would never arrive at the bank.

  Of course, that left the problem of transporting the heavy box. While he pondered the problem, he and Clint relieved the stagecoach crew of their weapons, cinched ropes around their wrists and ankles and shoved them into the ditch.

  “Now, you two stay real nice and quiet until we’re gone,” Chet said. “And we won’t shoot you.”

  To emphasize that they would comply, the two men merely bobbed their heads up and down instead of verbally answering.

  Once they were sure the two trussed-up men weren’t going to give them any problems, the brothers turned their attention to the strongbox.

  “Should we open it, Chet?”

  “You heard the man. They ain’t got no key.”

  “We could shoot it off.”

  Chet shrugged, drew his revolver, aimed at the lock and pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang, a gush of flame and smoke, and a ‘ping’ sound as the .45 caliber slug hit the iron lock and ricocheted off into the hard dirt a few feet to the left of the box. The two men ducked.

  “I don’t think tryin’ to shoot it off’s such a good idea,” Chet said as he rose and dusted himself off.

  “Well,” Clint said. “There’s more ‘n one way to skin a cat.” He looked around until he found a rock in the ditch about the size of a large pear.

  Kneeling next to the box, he began hammering at the lock, sending sparks flying in all directions.

  “That ain’t gonna work,” said Chet.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when the lock popped open, one of the pins broken by the force of Clint’s blows. The younger brother looked up, a triumphant grin on his face.

  “Okay,” Chet said sheepishly. “Guess I was wrong.”

  Clint opened the strongbox and both men gasped.

  “Holy jumpin’ Jesus,” Clint said.

  “Whoo-ee, would you look at that. Have you ever seen anything that pretty in your life?”

  The thing they were looking at was a jumble of silver coins, mostly of dollar denomination. The afternoon sun glinted off the polished metal.

  “I wonder how much is in there,” Clint said.

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” one of the men in the ditch said. “Least, that’s what I heard one of the men who delivered it to the stage office say.”

  The bothers’ eyes went wide.

  “Holy jumpin’ bullfrog,” Chet said. “We won’t ever have to work agin. Ma’s gonna be proud as puddin’ when we show her this.”

  Clint’s brow furrowed. “But, how we gonna carry it all?”

  Now, it was Chet’s turn to look confused. “Oh,” he said. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “There’s two old canvas bags inside the coach,” the man in the ditch said. “They oughta be big enough to hold it all.”

  The brothers smiled. Their prayers—if they’d been praying men—had been answered. Chet reached into the box and filled his hands with coins. He stood and walked to the ditch and dropped the coins next to the two men.

  “What’s this for?” the other man asked.

  “You done us a favor,” Chet said. “This is my way of sayin’ thank you.”

  The two men looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Well now,” the man said. “I reckon we was robbed by two older men wearin’ masks, ‘n . . . by the way, which way you boys headin’?”

  “We’re goin’ to Ana--, we’re goin’ west,” Chet said.

  The man nodded. “After they robbed us, they headed south, prob’ly headin’ for Mexico, I reckon.”

  Chet smiled and nodded. “I reckon I can loosen them ropes a little, so’s you two can wriggle yourselves free in about an hour. How’s that?”

  “Why, that’d be jest fine, young fella, but we ain’t in no hurry to leave. Y’all have yourselves a good journey . . . south.” The man smiled and nodded.

  As Chet stood and went back to help his brother put the rest of the coins in the bags Clint had retrieved from the stagecoach, he felt that nothing from that point forward could ever go wrong.

  The two men in the ditch looked at each other. “What say you ‘n me head on down to Mexico after these boys leave,” one said.

  “Sounds fine to me,” the other replied. “Say, young fella, you mine leavin’ two of the horses when you go?”

  Chet had overheard the two men’s conversation. He turned and smiled. “Tell you what, old man,” he said. “I’ll leave all four of ‘em. You goin’ all the way to Mexico, you gonna need spare horses.”

  He laughed and slapped his brother on the back. Clint joined him in laughter, and soon, the two men in the ditch were laughing as well.

  CHAPTER 12

  After a few miles the prisoners adjusted to the extra bodies in the wagon and the grousing ceased. Although he didn’t want to stretch this trip into the territory too long, Bass also allowed frequent stops to allow them to get out of the wagon and stretch, and though during those times they were chained to the axles and could only walk a few feet, they were grateful for even that limited opportunity.

  They were, Bass reckoned, just over a day’s ride from Anadarko when they spotted the stagecoach on the side of the road, tilted to the right due to a broken right-rear wheel. On the ground beside the coach was a busted strongbox and a rock, and in the ditch beside the road Henry spotted something shiny which turned out to be a silver dollar coin.

  “Looks like somebody robbed the stage,” he said, holding up the coi
n. “I wonder what happened to the crew and the horses.”

  Bass pointed to tracks heading back the way they’d come. “Appears that somebody unhitched the horses and headed south. From the looks of the tracks it was two men, ‘cause two sets of tracks is lighter than the others.”

  Henry looked and grunted. “You are right. There are tracks of two more heading west.” He pointed. “And they too are leading horses, maybe four or five.”

  Bass rubbed at his chin.

  “This here’s passin’ strange,” he said. “But, we got to git them Barker boys. I’m thinkin’ the tracks headin’ west belong to them. Mebbe somebody else robbed this here stagecoach.”

  Bass hated leaving a mystery unsolved, but his task was clear; get the Barkers and return to Fort Smith.

  From the strange scene with the abandoned stagecoach, the trip went well. The sky was a deep blue with a few fluffy white clouds scattered about, the breeze blew gently from the north—not at all like it blew south near Fort Sill in the Wichita Mountains, kicking up brown dust that stung your eyes constantly—a couple of hawks flew lazy circles in the sky looking for prey, and the prisoners, for a change weren’t complaining.

  He took a deep breath, hoping it would stay that way until the trip was over. But, of course, that was not the way things worked out, they never did.

  Up ahead, just over a rise, Bass spotted a thick, billowing cloud of gray smoke.

  “Looks like there’s something burnin’ up ahead,” he said to Henry, who rode beside him.

  “Yeah,” Henry agreed. “It looks like it.”

  “It ain’t spread out enough to be a brush fire.”

  “No, it is not.”

  “And, it’s too thick to be a chimney fire.”

  “True. So, it must be a house on fire,” Henry said.

  That was how they conducted conversations when things began to go bad; expressing thoughts that each knew the other had but doing it in a way to confirm what he was thinking. It was also a process of making a decision, although it might not have looked that way to an outside observer. It worked for them, though.