Oklahoma Showdown (An Indian Territory Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  They finally closed in on the leafless copse and Blevins yelled out, “Oh, hell!”

  A gunman, waiting for them there, stood up and fired several rapid shots at them from an old but well maintained Spencer repeater.

  One round tore into the top of Dace’s boot and bounced off to scrape his leg. Others zipped perilously close to his head. The marshal flopped to the ground and aimed at the bushwhacker’s middle. His first shot went high, but the second connected by smashing into the ambusher’s shin. This spun him around and dumped him to the ground in one flashing second. Before he could recover, Dace took careful aim and shot a .44 bullet into the back of the bounty hunter’s skull.

  He grabbed Blevins’ shirt. “Let’s go!”

  Once again the two raced toward the trees and managed to dive safely behind them as more slugs slammed into the dormant vegetation.

  “He dead?” Dace asked.

  Blevins looked at the corpse and grinned. “He sure as hell is!”

  “That one o’ the bounty hunters?”

  “Well, his face is blowed away, but I remember the clothes all right,” Blevins said. “That means there’s a coupla more around.”

  “Yep,” Dace agreed, recharging his carbine. “They had this figgered out perty good. By shooting at us from out there, they knowed we didn’t have no choice but to hightail it for these trees. So they had the sonofabitch waiting for us.”

  “Yeah,” Blevins agreed. “If he’d waited another half minute we’d be dead meat right now.”

  “We still got his pards to deal with,” Dace said. “There are only two of ’em left, right?”

  “Right. But don’t forget that Pinkerton feller will be coming along right after ’em,” Blevins said. “So how about letting me defend myself, Marshal? Three fellers against you is gonna be bad news for both us.”

  “They cain’t get to us any easier’n we could get to him,” Dace said pointing to the dead man.

  “They’ll wait ’til dark,” Blevins said. “And the moon ain’t worth nothing at this time o’ year. It’ll be blacker’n the insides of a coal mine.”

  Dace realized that Blevins wasn’t exaggerating the dangerous situation they were in. Men who made their living by bringing in wanted felons for reward were the most skillful and cunning of all hunters.

  Those that weren’t, died young.

  Their carefully planned ambush failed because of one moment of bad judgment. Dace Halston was absolutely sure there would be no more miscalculations on the bounty hunters’ part.

  The late afternoon drifted into a dark early evening as both marshal and prisoner huddled deeper into their coats while the temperature plunged. Even if the moon had been full and bright, the gathering cloud cover would have obscured its brilliance. The cold Oklahoma night became inky black as the wind picked up.

  Blevins shook his head at the strong breeze that whistled through the bare branches over his head. “Now they won’t have to worry about noise either, Marshal,” he said bitterly. “Gimme a gun, fer the love o’ God! I don’t want to be shot like a—” He remembered Dace’s warning. “Well—like a damn fish in a barrel.”

  “Shut up,” Dace said, “and get behind something.”

  Blevins grumbled to himself as he crawled to a spot at the base of one of the leafless tress. He huddled up and stared out into the darkness as time began to ease slowly by.

  Dace’s eyelids grew heavy in spite of the fear that gnawed at his innards. During the ensuing hours, he dozed off several times only to forcefully jerk himself awake. Then he would shake his head to clear away the cobwebs of weariness that some invisible spider seemed to be weaving into his senses. Dace strained his eyes until they watered, trying to perceive something in the all-encompassing dark that enveloped the scene.

  At one point, he actually sank deep enough into slumber to dream a bit. It was a disjointed, confused illusion that involved himself and George McClary looking for lost cattle. His sixth sense screamed a silent warning, and he awoke with a start. “Goddamn it!”

  “What?” Blevins whispered in fear. “Something the matter?”

  “Naw,” Dace said, breathing easier. “Just dreaming.”

  “I wonder what time it is,” Blevins remarked.

  “Who knows?” Dace said looking up into the cold darkness over their heads. “Cain’t see the stars or nothing.”

  “Lemme have a gun—please!”

  “Blevins, if we find ourselves between a rock and a hard place, I’ll toss you a pistol—I promise—I won’t let ’em kill you in cold blood.”

  Blevins, unconvinced of Dace’s sincerity, miserably huddled closer to the tree and shivered as much from fear as from the permeating cold.

  Dace continued to fight his sleepiness through the night. He rubbed his eyes and took cold drinks from his canteen wishing for a cup of strong, hot coffee. Finally there was a faint pink light on the eastern horizon. Not enough to drive a wedge into the darkness, but at least it heralded the slowly approaching dawn.

  “Look out!”

  Blevins’ scream broke into his thoughts, and Dace turned in panic toward his prisoner. There was nothing in that direction, but the sudden explosion from the other side of the grove gave away the bushwhacker there. More shots from another angle erupted as both bounty hunters moved in for the kill.

  “Blevins!” Dace called out as he pulled his .45 from its holster and tossed it to the outlaw. Then the marshal quickly oriented himself and fired two quick shots with his Winchester at the dark figure barely discernible in the trees.

  The man staggered from behind the cottonwood and collapsed out of sight. The second bounty hunter leaped into the small clearing and fired straight at Dace.

  Dace’s hands went numb and his Winchester slammed into his middle, knocking the wind out of him. The lawman doubled over in breathless pain, but managed to straighten up in time to see Blevins gun down the ambusher with a close headshot.

  “Oh—damn—” Dace panted. “There’s another’n—over there—I think—I hit him—take a look—”

  Blevins rushed over and kicked at the fallen man.

  Then he walked back. “You kilt him.” There was now enough light to make out objects in the grove. “Hey, it looks like your Winchester took a hit.”

  Dace looked down at his bent carbine showing a deep gouge where the bounty hunter’s slug had slammed into it. “Ruined, more’n likely.”

  “It don’t matter, Marshal,” Blevins said. “You’d never use it again anyhow.” The outlaw raised the Colt and took deliberate aim. “Nothing personal, Halston, but I got no hankering to see the inside o’ the territorial prison.”

  “I gave you a chance to save yourself,” Dace said. “Hell, you can walk away from me if you want. I ain’t got a gun left.”

  “You’d just come after me later on or see that another damn starpacker was sent to track me down,” Blevins said. “It’s a hell of a lot better for me if you never show up in Guthrie again.”

  “You ain’t wanted for a hanging crime, Blevins,” Dace said. “Why bring that on yourself?”

  “I gotta be brung in on them charges first,” Blevins said. “And, with you dead, I won’t have to face up to that—at least not for a while.”

  Dace snarled in anger. “You sonofabitch!”

  Blevins grinned. “Cain’t say I blame you for being riled some. So long, Halston.”

  The shot blasted loud in the heavy dawn air.

  Emmet Blevins’ head exploded out the left side from the impact of the expanding bullet. The outlaw pitched over to land on his side in the frost-covered vegetation under the trees.

  Ward Stormwell, the Pinkerton detective, stood up from where he’d been lying in the grass. He slowly lowered his Henry .44 and smiled calmly at Dace Halston.

  “Anything else I can do for you while I’m at it?”

  Chapter Six

  Shorty Eastman turned his horse in toward the hitching post and stopped. He took a lazy glance up and down Caldwell, Kansa
s’ main street. It was mid-morning, and only a few people were visible walking on the boardwalks in front of the stores or riding slowly down the dirt thoroughfare. Shorty dismounted and wrapped the reins over the worn rail. He nodded slightly to Leon Spalding who stood nearby with his own horse. “How’s it look?” Shorty asked softly.

  “Mighty good,” Leon answered. “George is walking down toward the bank now, and Earl is waiting in the alley.”

  “Where the hell is Al Durkins?” Shorty asked. He was mistrustful of the new man.

  “Don’t worry about Al,” Leon said. “I’ve knowed him for a long time. He’s due to come riding in any time.” He glanced down the street. “Look yonder. Here he comes now.”

  Durkins, the fifth member of the gang, rode casually toward them in a seemingly aimless manner. He dismounted and reached the boardwalk in front of the Stock Exchange Bank just as George McClary walked into the door.

  All movements, no matter how casual their appearance, were carefully orchestrated. Durkins followed George into the building at the same moment Earl Tolliver appeared from the alley. He led his own horse and George McClary’s over to Leon and winked at him. “Things oughta start getting hot pretty quick now.”

  “I reckon,” Spalding agreed.

  Inside the bank, George McClary approached one of the two tellers while Shorty Eastman did the same. Al Durkins stood at the door. George nodded to the man. “Howdy.”

  “Yes, sir?” the bored cashier asked.

  George shoved his pistol through the cage bars. “Let’s have the money, mister. Don’t make a fuss and nobody gets shot.”

  Shorty Eastman vaulted the rail and landed on the other side. His Starr .44 revolver seemed extra large in his small hands. He pulled two empty bags from under his shirt and tossed them on a desk bearing the sign: PRESIDENT. The man sitting there, well-dressed and portly, held his pudgy hands aloft. Shorty reached over and nudged him under his double chin with the pistol. “Don’t just sit there looking stupid! Get on over there and stuff money into them pokes.”

  At that moment a man walked through the door and noticed the unusual goings-on. He turned to leave and found himself looking down Al Durkins’ pistol. “Why don’t you sit down over there for a while?” Durkins asked, indicating a bench by the wall.

  “I reckon I’ll do just that,” the man said with a weak smile. He complied and sat stiffly watching the robbery in progress.

  Shorty’s teller passed one of the bags to the man under George’s pistol. Both cashiers worked fast to fill the long canvas containers with money as the smaller bandit snarled threats of instant death at them.

  Finally the cash drawers were emptied. George nodded at the open vault. “Let’s take a look inside.”

  The frightened tellers stepped back as George came through the gate in the railing to join them. Shorty Eastman, carrying the half-full bags, pushed the bank president into the vault. Within moments they emerged carrying the sacks crammed full of greenbacks.

  “Now y’all get into that vault,” George ordered them.

  “You too,” Durkins said motioning to the man on the bench. The customer stood up and walked through the gate with his hands up. As he passed the gang leader, he nodded. “Howdy, George.”

  George, startled, looked at the man who recognized him. “Oh, hell, Harry. What’re you doing in here of all places?”

  Shorty Eastman, without hesitating, swung his pistol toward George’s acquaintance and pulled the trigger. The report of the shot was emphasized in the close interior of the building as the man grasped his chest and fell against the president’s desk.

  “Jesus Christ!” Durkin hollered. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “He knowed George,” Shorty answered testily. “I tole you we shoulda wore masks!”

  “You dumb little shitass!” Durkins hissed in anger. “Now ever’body in town is gonna know this bank’s being robbed.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” George said. “Let’s get the hell outta here. Once the locals figger out we’ve hit their bank, they’ll be on us pronto.”

  The three rushed through the doors and joined Leon Spalding and Earl Tolliver who waited with the horses. “What the hell happened in there?” Spalding asked.

  “Shorty shot somebody,” Durkins said angrily. He looked down the street. “Oh, Lord!”

  Several townspeople rushed toward them. Again Shorty Eastman jumped into action with his pistol. He fired three shots at the approaching citizens, dropping one as the others drew off.

  “Bank robbery!” somebody yelled nearby.

  “They’re robbing the Stock Exchange Bank!” another resident hollered.

  “You loudmouthed sonofabitch!” Earl Tolliver screamed in rage. The outlaw fired across the street at the man who had shouted. The slug smacked into the citizen’s chest, flinging him through the plate-glass window of an apothecary store.

  Leon Spalding laughed. “Hell, there oughta be bandages and medicines right handy in there for him, huh, fellers?”

  George McClary, the first into the saddle, shouted at his gang. “Let’s go, you jackasses! This whole damn town’s gonna be all over us in a minute!”

  He no sooner spoke than splinters exploded out of the boardwalk as an eager town inhabitant cut loose with a Winchester. Fortunately for the bank robbers, the shooter was too excited to take careful aim. His bullets continued to spatter harmlessly around the gang as they kicked their horses’ flanks and bolted for the town limits.

  Dust flew up from the street as the robbers galloped for freedom. By this time more of the town had been alerted, but McClary and his men had the jump on them.

  They weren’t quick enough to save Earl Tolliver.

  The owner of a barbershop situated toward the city limits waited until the bunch rode past the store. He rushed out and emptied his Smith and Wesson .45 at them. Even though the shots were wild and erratic, one cracked into Tolliver’s side, throwing him off balance enough to send him tumbling from his saddle. The outlaw rolled, cursing and yelling, some five yards before he came to halt. He managed to get to his feet in time for a half dozen of the local rowdies to pile onto him and force him back into the dirt. A few good kicks and cuffs left him bleeding and nearly unconscious. Only the timely arrival of the town marshal saved him from further punishment.

  Meanwhile, with George McClary in the lead, the survivors pounded south across the winter grass seeking the safety of Oklahoma Territory.

  ~*~

  U.S. Deputy Marshal Dace Halston and Pinkerton detective Ward Stormwell presented a startling sight as they rode into Guthrie at a little past noon.

  The pair led four horses, all of which bore the gruesome burdens of dead bodies. Though each had been wrapped in the owner’s blanket, the protruding feet gave evidence of the dead men.

  There was a hoot from the boardwalk as some local wit shouted, “By God, Marshal Halston, you just don’t believe in bringing ’em back alive, do you?”

  “You got the Dalton gang there?” another yelled out.

  “I’ll bet there ain’t gonna be a outlaw left in the territory in another week or so if Dace Halston stays on the job,” the first man said.

  Dace and Stormwell took no notice of the comments as more people began to form a little procession that followed them to the United States marshal’s office.

  The two wearily dismounted as a trio of deputies appeared at the doorway. “What the hell you got there?” Heck Thomas asked as he walked down the steps.

  “Emmet Blevins and three bounty hunters that tried to take him away from me,” Dace said in a tired voice. “Got some help from this Pinkerton man. He’s Ward Stormwell.”

  “Yeah, I know him,” Thomas said disapprovingly. “I’d venture to say that them bounty hunters was trailing you while Stormwell here was tracking after them. Am I right?”

  “Appears that way,” Dace said.

  Stormwell nodded. “That’s the way it was. There’s a reward for Blevins. I was the one w
ho shot him.”

  Thomas looked at Dace. “That right?”

  “Yep. Blevins had throwed down on me when Stormwell showed up and gunned him down.”

  “How’d he get a gun?” Thomas asked.

  Dace sighed. “I gave it to him.”

  “You what?”

  “Let’s go inside,” Dace said, the fatigue evident in his face. “I’ll explain it all over a cup o’ hot coffee.”

  “You betcha,” Thomas said. “Marshal Nix is gonna be curious as hell about how a pris’ner got his hands on an officer’s gun.”

  Other deputies took over the animals and their macabre loads as Dace, Stormwell and Thomas went into the office.

  “How’ve things been the past few days?” Dace asked.

  “Hell’s been breakin loose as usual,” Thomas said. Then he remembered something. “You know a feller name of George McClary, don’t you?”

  “Sure as hell do,” Dace replied. “Knowed him since we was boys. We had a ranch afore they opened up the Territory.”

  “Perty good friends with him, huh?”

  “Sure,” Dace said. “Why?”

  “There was a train robbery over to Wharton,” Thomas said. “One o’ the passengers recognized McClary. He made a sworn statement naming him.”

  “Who was this passenger?” Dace asked.

  “Lemme see,” Thomas said. He went over to the chief clerk’s desk and sorted through the papers scattered around the top of the battered piece of furniture. Finally he found what he was looking for. “Says here the name is a citizen by the name of Elmer C. Barton.”

  Dace nodded. “Yeah, Elmer’d know George all right. That old codger had a spread about ten miles from our little place. Used to see him now and then.”

  Thomas put the paper back. “Well, your ol’ pard is wanted official now.”

  Stormwell gave out a low whistle. “Looks like you might be running dead on to this here McClary someday.”