by Bill Brooks
He heard the hard smack of flesh on flesh, heard the woman cry out, turned in time to see her falling to the floor, saw the Mexican standing over her, saw the satisfaction in their faces.
He dropped the flap of the duster back over the butt of his pistol.
“You leave up, mister.”
The Mexican turned, his dark gaze coming to bear on the lawman.
“Hombre, you better go on while you can, eh?”
It was a joke, a game with them, the violence, the inflicting of pain. The frontier left some men idle, and others mean.
There was no time. The blow struck him from behind and across his shoulders. He heard the breaking of wood as he staggered. And suddenly, he was being pummeled from every side.
He swung a hard right fist that struck flesh and bone, and another that hit the softness of gut. But, for every blow he gave, he received many in return. And once down, they began to kick him.
In the final fading awareness, he could feel them stripping him of his guns and belt, they were lifting him, carrying him somewhere. He was dropped to the ground and he tasted dirt in his mouth, dirt and blood. Then the darkness came.
He came to with a jerk, still feeling the fists and boots driving into his body. The pain shot through his ribs and his head felt as if it would explode.
He opened the eye least swollen as much as he could and a stab of light caused him to wince.
“Stay quiet, mister.” It was the woman’s voice—the prostitute. He saw her in the smear of light, the unattractive face, the thin body. She sat near him in the muted light coming through the tent.
His throat was parched, he swallowed away the dryness, struggled to sit up. She helped him.
“Migelo and the others worked you over pretty hard,” she said. “You’re all beat to hell.”
It was news she did not have to announce. He worked his arms; they were sore and bruised. At least a rib or two felt broken. He had no desire to look in a mirror, he could feel the damage to his face, he didn’t need to see it.
“Didn’t know you was a lawman,” she said. “Neither did they till they saw the badge you was wearing. Likely they would have killed you otherwise.”
“Surprised they didn’t,” he muttered through swollen cracked lips.
“Migelo said killing a lawman would just bring more. He wasn’t interested in that. They stole you blind, though. Even took your horse. Rode out. Probably won’t come back until after they figure you’re gone.”
“This your tent?” he asked, looking around. “This the one you wanted me to come to?”
“I guess I got you here after all,” she said with a slight smile that hid her poor teeth. He saw the bruise on her cheek where the Mexican had slapped her.
“Yeah, I reckon so,” he said, but unable to smile back.
“You want whiskey? I’ve got some whiskey.”
He nodded and she poured him some in a tin cup. It hurt like hell but seemed to help.
He worked a hand down inside his boot, found the folded paper money he kept there and handed it to her.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
She stared at the money.
“I need you to go buy me a pistol, two if you can. And, find me a doctor if there is one in town”
She didn’t move.
“Don’t worry, sis. I ain’t going after your man, I’ve got other business needs tending. You go on and do as I say, I’ll make it worth your time.”
She turned to go.
“Leave the whiskey, eh?” She handed him what was left in the bottle.
She returned shortly with a man who had a whiskey nose and wore a once white shirt without the paper collar.
“Doc Bitters is who I am. Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Janey told me you was stomped, mister,” the man said, leaning over to inspect the cuts and bruises on his face. “I’d say you was stomped pretty good.”
“Fix what you can.”
He sat patiently while the physician bound up his ribs. Bitters checked his scalp for cuts as well. After he had finished, he stood and said, “It’s about all I know how to do for you,” and handed him a small blue bottle with a cork in it.
“This is laudanum. Take a taste now and then for the pain, but don’t overdo it. It has a way of making you crave it.”
The physician looked at the woman, then back at him.
“Don’t worry about the charges, Janey’s offered to work it off. Lord knows that Janey’s the best this town has to offer. Loneliness has a way of affecting us all.”
The man made his departure.
She handed him a weighted burlap sack. “It’s all I could find to buy,” she said.
He took out a Schofield pistol that weighed as much as a brick, and a small Colt Lightening .38 caliber revolver with pearl grips. There was a box of shells for each as well.
“They cost me twenty dollars, here’s the rest of your money.”
“You go on and keep it,” he said.
“No. You’ll need to buy a horse. Don’t you remember I told you they took your horse, Migelo and his bunch?”
“Why the generosity, sis?”
“You bought me a meal and stood up for me with Migelo. It’s more than most men would have done.”
He nodded, stood with great effort, and took the bag with the pistols. He turned at the flap of the tent.
“There a livery in town?”
“Not far up the street. Don’t let ol’ Crazy Jess cheat you. He looks half-witted, but he’s as smart as a mule.”
He gave her one last look before leaving her tent. If her looks would have half matched her heart, she would have been a beauty.
He found the stables three blocks north of the woman’s tent. A man with a slab face sat out front, whittling a stick and whistling through his parted teeth. He looked up from the tip of the stick and observed the hitched gait of the stranger.
“I need a horse.” The man looked as though he had fallen off a roof and landed on a pile of lumber. The face was all bruised, and it was plain to see he favored his right side.
“Oh, you must be that feller that was whupped in Lacy’s Whiskey Tent last night. Whole town heard how you was whupped.”
“I’ve got two pistols in this sack, and shells for them. I’m not in the mood for conversation.” The threat was enough to cause the man to fold up his pocket knife and lift himself out of his chair.
“Horse, eh?”
“Got several you might be interested in, come on inside.”
The lawman nodded.
He followed the slab-faced man into the dim cool interior of the stables.
The man led him to a stall that contained a roan, but it was plain to see the horse was old and not much good for a long ride.
“Show me another.”
The next stall contained a small gray. Before he could speak, the slab-faced man said, “Naw, she’s too little for a big man like yourself. She’d give out in twenty miles.”
He found a dun in the next stall and the dun nickered at their presence.
“How much?” asked Henry.
“Need a hundred dollars for him,” said the slab-faced man.
“Don’t have a hundred, I’ll give you sixty.”
“Couldn’t take sixty, mister. Anybody can look at what a fine animal he is and see that I couldn’t take sixty.” The ranger was already looking at the other stalls, saw the black, moved to where the black had lifted its head over the gate.
“What about this one?”
The man shook his head with an exaggerated waggle.
“Couldn’t sell that horse, mister. That’s a racer and a trick horse.”
The stableman watched as the stranger moved closer to the black’s stall, moved closer and said, “Lead this one out.”
“Already told you, he ain’t for sell, that one.”
The cold stare of the man caused the stableman to swallow the rest of his argument. He led the black out into the ou
tside light.
Henry saw the patch along its neck, knew that it was Pete Winter’s black—the one he had taught to lay down on command.
“Where’d you get this animal?”
“A feller brought him in yesterday.”
“What sort of fellow?”
“Thin man, dark. Looked like he could be a gambler, maybe. Said he won money racing the black. Said he was teaching the black how to count. Don’t see how, though. All I can do is get him to lay down. Can’t get him to count.”
“You know if this fellow is still around town?”
“Don’t reckon so, I saw him riding out just past evening.”
“Which way?”
The man thumbed the air toward the west road.
“Throw a saddle on the dun.”
“I though you said you didn’t have but sixty dollars?”
“I’ll write a chit guaranteed by the state of Texas for the rest.”
The man scratched his forehead. “I dunno...”
“It’s either that, or take the sixty.” The man saw the stranger retrieve one of the pistols from the sack and load it from a box of shells. The demonstration was obvious in its purpose.
When the stranger stuck the pistol in his waistband, the slab-faced man saw the badge pinned beneath the duster. Half watching over his shoulder as he saddled the dun, he saw the man load the second pistol and place it cross wise from the first in his waistband.
“Reckon you’re after the feller that sold me the black, eh?”
The cold stare caused the stableman to step backwards.
Chapter Eighteen
Eli Stagg had stayed around the Nations for three days waiting for the Texas Ranger and Johnny Montana and the woman to show. He was nearly tapped out of funds, including the money he had taken off the murdered deputy.
The Yallar Rose had come looking for him and professed her love if only he’d return the twenty dollars he lifted off her. He bargained her into a three-course dinner instead, and over the next seventy-two hours did his best to use up his poke on whiskey, food, and a buggy ride to take her into the country for a picnic. She ate two whole chickens, and so did he.
Now he was broke, and the Yallar Rose had made herself scarce and the Nations was starting to stink too much of civilization as far as he was concerned.
The local lawman was a fellow by the name of Cherokee Tom, a half-breed who held the appointment of city marshal. The first two days that Eli Stagg had been in town, Cherokee Tom had been on a scout for some desperados that had stolen a wagon and a team of horses. The desperados turned out to be two drunken Choctaw Indians who stole the wagon rather than walk. They explained it to Cherokee Tom: “Why should us injuns walk when there was a perfectly good wagon and horses that nobody was using.”
Tom had made them return the rig to its owners and promise that they would either stay sober from that time forth, or steal their transportation out of his jurisdiction. He had no faith that they would do either.
When he arrived back in Ardmore on the afternoon of the third day, he got word quick that there was a federal lawman in town. Cherokee Tom got curious.
Eli Stagg sat in the NATIONS BAR sulking over a warm glass of beer when Cherokee Tom walked in.
The bounty hunter took in the appearance of the lawman the moment he entered: a hard-looking fellow, face as sharp as a raven, black hair like one, too. A dandy dresser though, especially the tall crowned hat with the rattlesnake headband.
The bounty hunter noticed the pair of ivory-handled Colt revolvers the city marshal had strapped high on his waist. Buckskin shirt, cowhide vest, corduroy pants tucked inside his tall boots, and gal-leg spurs. Looked like an Indian Chief in cowboy clothes. Damndest dressed man I ever saw, thought Eli Stagg.
Cherokee Tom knew practically everybody in Ardmore, but he didn’t know the big ugly man sitting at one of the tables nursing a beer. He wasn’t impressed by what the federal law was looking like these days. Cherokee Tom walked over and stood before the man’s table.
“I’m the city marshal and I hear that you are a Federal man,” said Cherokee Tom. “Why are you here?” Cherokee Tom’s voice was as flat and hard as a billiard table.
“I come over from Ft. Smith, from Judge Parker’s court. Supposed to meet a Ranger coming up this way from Pecos, Texas. Supposed to take charge of two prisoners he is escortin’. Been waitin’ three days. You ever hear of Pecos, Texas?”
“I have. But, why come here and not down there?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” growled the bounty hunter. “You understand how things work. You get orders to do this or that and you do them. You don’t ask the reason behind it because there usually ain’t none.”
Cherokee Tom studied the graveled face of the federal man, saw the deputy’s star he wore on his coat, the belted Colt revolver, the Creedmore leaning against the table.
“Don’t believe I caught your name?” said Cherokee Tom.
The bounty man thought hard, thought hard as to the name on the papers he had lifted from the deputy’s pocket. Damned if he could remember, never figured to be asked such a question. He saw the inquisitive stare of the breed lawman.
Failing to recall the murdered deputy’s name from the legal papers, he said the only thing he could: “Stagg, Eli Stagg.”
“Maybe I’ll wire on to Pecos and see if there’s a reason the party you’re waiting on hasn’t showed up yet.”
“ ’Tain’t no use troubling yourself on such matters, marshal. I had just made up my mind to go on down the trail looking for them when you walked in. I’ll be long gone time you hear back.”
“Well, Deputy Stagg, it’s a hard ride from here to Pecos, lots of dried up and empty land. Not at all friendly. Maybe you ought to stick around whilst I do some checking—could save you a peck of trouble?”
“Don’t believe I will, marshal. Done waited long enough. Sooner I catch up with ’em, the sooner I can get back to Arkansas. You ever been to Arkansas?”
“No sir, I never have. But, I hear Judge Parker is a severe man?”
“Oh, that he is. You wouldn’t want to commit an offense in Judge Parker’s district.” The conversation between the two men petered out. Each drew a breath, eyed the other, waited.
“Well, marshal, I guess there ain’t no use sitting here jawboning, not when I got duties to perform...”
“Suit yourself,” said Cherokee Tom. “You know your duties better ’n me. I wish you luck.” Cherokee Tom watched as the bulky man lifted himself from behind the table, gathered up his Creedmore, and walked on stumpy legs toward the door. The city marshal drifted to the lunch counter, ordered a slice of Dutch apple pie and black coffee, and when the cook laid the tare before him, Cherokee Tom said: “That man strikes me as false.”
“What man?” asked the waiter.
But Cherokee Tom was already absorbed in his pie and coffee and did not answer.
Caleb Drew was less than a day’s ride right out of Ardmore. His thoughts had been on the man he was pursuing. His concern was over the fact that he had never been in a gunfight, never been under fire. Once the moment came, as it surely would come when he caught up to Eli Stagg, how would he act?
With some men, just wearing the badge was enough to bring them up short but not, Caleb surmised, a man who was mean and vicious enough to track down a deputy U.S. Marshal and murder him. A man like that would not be cowed by the sight of a badge.
Caleb Drew had never thought much about his own death. Selling barbed wire to ranchers was not a dangerous profession. Being a Federal Marshal was only dangerous politically, for the most part.
Now, for several days running, he had thought about death. And the thinking had put a knot in his guts and forced him to think of other things. But, in spite of the fear, he pushed on, feeling possessed, feeling he was without choices anymore.
The day was warm and pleasant, and he was growing accustomed to riding saddle horse and found himself enjoying it. The big steel-dust beneath him, the weight o
f the pistol on his hip, the bedroll tied behind the cantle, and the stock of the Winchester just behind his right leg—all gave him the sense of being a lawman. A true lawman.
He would be in Ardmore by first light of morning. If Eli Stagg was there, Caleb Drew told himself, the law would be prosecuted as well as he was capable of doing. Even if it meant someone dying.
Cherokee Tom sent a wire to the Texas Ranger station in Pecos. It read: A man who calls himself Stagg and represents himself to be a Deputy U.S. Marshal from Judge Parker’s court in Ft. Smith, Ark., has this day passed through here. He has stated to me, that he waited here for 3 days hoping for a rendezvous with one of your men and some prisoners. I believed this man to be an imposter from the first, but have no proof. He has now left this place stating that he is on the trail of his quarry. I consider my duty complete in this matter—Thomas Blue Feather, City Marshal, Ardmore, The Indian Nations.
Cherokee Tom paid fifty cents to have the wire sent. It was a feeling he had about the man that had caused him to spend that much money to send a wire—an instinct—one that felt as strong as cheap whiskey. Life on the border was a mean and temporary thing, he reasoned. Might not hurt to let a fellow lawman know that there was trouble afoot—he’d expect the same if the tables were reversed.
Eli Stagg wasted no time in clearing the town. A man gets nosy, especially a lawman, there wasn’t any telling what could come of a thing like that. He was plum getting tired of waiting for the reward to come to him. He figured he’d just have to track it down. Tracking was something he was good at.
The first light of dawn lifted clear and cold over the shabby town of Ardmore. Cherokee Tom was already blowing steam off his second cup of coffee when the door rattled open.
“Are you the city marshal?”
“I am.”
“My name is Caleb Drew, I’m a U.S. Marshal out of Ft. Smith. I’m looking for a man.”
“Ardmore has had its share of Federal men from Ft. Smith lately,” said Cherokee Tom.
“Tell me about the other one,” said Caleb Drew.