Oklahoma Showdown (An Indian Territory Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Dace reached the town in mid-afternoon and wasted no time in seeking out Al Durkins. The ex-cowboy had to be in one of two places: either camped out somewhere in the vicinity or at the bar of the Palace Saloon. The time of day dictated the correct place to locate him.

  Dace dismounted and leisurely tied his horse to the hitching post outside the drinking establishment. A quick survey of the street showed it to be nearly empty. Obviously, even a one-man invasion by the law had not been expected.

  Dace walked into the saloon and immediately spotted Durkins at the bar. He stood alone, slowly sipping from a glass, studying his reflection in the dusty mirror above the saloon’s supply of liquor behind the bartender. Dace noticed the bottle at Durkins’ elbow had hardly been touched. He had just begun drinking. The marshal thought about quietly withdrawing and waiting until the fugitive had time to get good and drunk, but the barkeep spoiled his plan.

  “What’s your pleasure, mister?”

  Durkins glanced down the bar and spotted Dace standing there. He stepped back, then paused. Finally he nodded. “Howdy, Dace.”

  “Howdy, Al.”

  Durkins smiled. “You look like a man with a purpose.”

  “I reckon I am,” Dace said.

  “I hear tell you’re a lawman.”

  “Yeah.”

  Durkins took a drink. “Here on business?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Am I that business?”

  “Yeah,” Dace answered.

  “The same kind you had with Norb Sullivan, right?”

  “I’m afraid you ain’t mistaken,” Dace said. He shifted his shoulders. “I got a warrant for you.”

  The bartender glowered. “Hey! You two take your damn troubles outside, hear?”

  “Shut up,” Dace said.

  “Yes, sir,” the bartender answered, sensing the seriousness of the situation. He eased away from behind the bar. “I reckon I’ll do the going outside.”

  Durkins grinned. “I wish I could.”

  “I got to take you into Guthrie, Al,” Dace said.

  “I can’t go.”

  “Sure,” Dace said. “I understand.”

  “Nothing personal, Dace. I always thought a lot o’ you,” Durkins said. His hand suddenly dipped toward his holster.

  Dace stepped sideways as his hand dragged out his own .45, and he actually cleared leather before Durkins did. His first shot whizzed past the outlaw’s shoulder and slapped into the cheap ceiling overhead.

  Durkins’ premier effort in the gunfight was a premature shot that blew splinters at Dace’s feet. The second went wide.

  From that moment on, all shooting was simultaneous.

  Dace’s next shot managed to tear Durkins’ floppy shirt, but failed to bite flesh.

  Meanwhile Durkins released two quick shots that whistled harmlessly out the open door and flew off into the prairie sky.

  At that same instant, Dace brought his pistol up for a quick aim and squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet slammed into Durkins’ chest and threw the bank robber against the bar so hard that his pistol flew out of his hand. He stood there breathing heavily as the first pink specks of blood appeared on his lips. “Oooh,” he moaned softly. Then he smiled and grimaced. “That one—was dead on—Dace—got me—a solid hit—”

  “You better sit down, Al,” Dace said, reholstering his pistol.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather stand,” Durkins said.

  “Lemme help you,” Dace offered, walking up to his former friend.

  “I’m starting to feel poorly,” Durkins said. He slowly lost his grip and staggered away from Dace’s grasp until he collapsed to the floor. He rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling. Dace knelt beside him.

  “It’ll be round-up time in another month, won’t it, Dace?”

  “Yeah, Al, it sure will.”

  “Well—looks like I won’t be there—give the boys—my regards—” Durkins’ eyes glazed over and his breathing ceased.

  Curious passersby stared in the room over the batwing doors. “Hey, is it over?” one asked.

  “Yeah,” Dace answered.

  “Who died?”

  Dace felt terribly sad. “A cowboy died. A poor ol’ cowboy.”

  ~*~

  Bright sunlight warmed the streets of Guthrie, and the climbing temperature softened the spring chill that had gripped the area for so many weeks. Dace Halston, not wearing his heavy mackinaw jacket for a change, made his way through the busy streets of the town. It seemed that every time he returned from a trip, he found several new buildings had been erected during his absence. The town’s phenomenal growth never ceased to amaze the former rancher who had spent most of his life in the static sameness of the prairie country.

  He walked into the U.S. marshal’s office and nodded to the clerks. J. K. McGoodwin, looking up from the reports he was checking over, tilted his head toward E. D. Nix’s private office. “He’s expecting you, Dace. Go right in.”

  “Thanks.” Dace knocked on the door twice and stepped through it. He was not pleased to see the Pinkerton detective Ward Stormwell seated in a chair by the desk. Dace swung his eyes from him to Marshal Nix. “I hear you want to see me, sir.”

  “I sure do, Dace. You know Detective Stormwell, of course,” Nix said.

  “Yeah,” Dace said without enthusiasm. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks, Halston. How’s yourself?”

  “Tolerable,” Dace answered.

  “Weather’s nice outside, isn’t it?” Stormwell remarked. “Looks like it’s really spring.”

  “And a mighty warm one,” Nix added.

  “Yeah,” Dace said.

  “Sit down, Dace,” Nix said. “Congratulations on getting Al Durkins. Too bad you couldn’t have brought him in alive, but I suppose he had made up his mind to resist long ago.”

  “Yes, sir. I reckon he did,” Dace said.

  “Terrible about Tolliver getting lynched,” Nix added. “I’ll be glad when enough law and order is established in this neck of the woods so that people will be more patient with the wheels of justice.”

  “The day’s coming,” Dace said.

  Nix checked the paper on his desk. “Let’s see who you’ve got left of the McClary gang to track down, Dace. There’s George McClary, of course, and two henchmen by the names of Shorty Eastman and Leon Spalding.”

  “I know Spalding,” Stormwell interjected. “He’s been involved in a couple of our cases. This other fellow Shorty Eastman is a stranger.”

  “To you,” Dace said. “He was an honest cow-puncher once, but just couldn’t cope with all the quick changes out here.”

  Stormwell smiled. “Hell, Halston, I don’t care what made him go bad. I just don’t want him robbing the Santa Fe trains again.”

  Nix, sensing the animosity between the two, spoke quietly. “The Pinkerton Detective Agency has been contracted to aid the Santa Fe Railroad in their war against the bandits who are preying on them. Mr. Stormwell has been assigned to the case, and our office has been instructed to cooperate with him.”

  “It appears we’re after the same fugitives,” Stormwell said. Then he added. “It’ll be a real pleasure to work with you, Halston.”

  “I work alone,” Dace said pointedly.

  “Well, now, Dace,” Nix began. “Our official orders are to work closely with the Pinkerton organization. But of course, we have a lot of latitude. If you think you might be able to do the job better alone, I will most certainly back you up a hundred percent.”

  Dace appreciating Nix’s loyalty to a subordinate, wasted no time. “I’ll be working alone then, Marshal Nix. If it’s all right with you.”

  Nix nodded. “That’s fine with me.”

  Stormwell sighed loudly to display his displeasure. “Christ! Everyone will be disappointed about that.” Then he smiled again at Dace. “Of course, this is a free country, and a pretty big one too. So don’t be surprised if you see me from time to time, Ha
lston.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ll suit myself, don’t worry about that,” Stormwell said. “And I’ll be suiting the Santa Fe Railroad and the Pinkerton Detective Agency too.”

  “Your concern and dedication is appreciated, Mr. Stormwell,” Nix said. “I also have complete faith in Marshal Halston’s ability to perform his duties. I think the Santa Fe Railroad will be most happy with the results of his efforts in bringing the gang of bandits to justice.”

  Stormwell stood up. “I hope you’re right, Marshal. I must be moving along. I’ll see you later.” He looked down at Dace. “You too, Halston.”

  “So long, Stormwell,” Dace said. He waited for the detective to leave before he spoke again. “Thanks for standing up for me, Marshal Nix. I don’t like that man, and I don’t trust him none neither.”

  “I suppose I agree with you,” Nix said. “Your intuition and abilities have served this office well, Dace. I certainly won’t interfere in what you want.”

  “I’d better go sign them reports that Mr. McGoodwin had drawed up,” Dace said. “Then I’ll see about locating George and the others.”

  “That’s the reason I called you in, Dace. We know where you can find them,” Nix said. “I didn’t say anything while Stormwell was here, because I figured you wouldn’t want him to know.”

  “Where do I find ’em, Marshal?” Dace asked.

  “In Ingraham. Know about it?”

  “Heard of it,” Dace said. “I reckon I can find it and take care o’ things.”

  “Fine, Dace. Goodbye and good luck,” Nix said offering his hand. “I’ll see you later.”

  Dace left the office to spend a few moments scribbling his signature on the papers the chief clerk had for him. Then he went back outside into the balmy sunshine and stood on the boardwalk enjoying the warmth. A shadow fell near him, and he looked around to see Stormwell standing beside him.

  “You’re right persistent, ain’t you?” Dace said.

  “Why don’t you give in, Halston?” Stormwell asked. “You have to admit we could do better together than separately.”

  “I thought that was all settled in there when we talked to Marshal Nix,” Dace said coldly.

  “Well,” Stormwell said, “sometimes a fellow talks one way in front of his boss, and another when he gets out on his own.”

  “Ever’thing I said in there is exactly how I feel,” Dace said. “So there ain’t no reason for you to be confused about nothing.”

  The detective had dropped his friendly facade. “I know you’re planning to help out your old friend McClary, Halston. But I want you to know there’s a five thousand dollar reward for him. And I’m willing to fill that sonofabitch—and you, if necessary—full of lead to get the money.”

  He turned away abruptly and disappeared down the crowded street.

  Chapter Eleven

  A warm southern breeze danced intermittently among the branches of the rosebud tree as George McClary, Shorty Eastman, and Leon Spalding sprawled around the trunk.

  “Leaves is coming out,” Spalding said absentmindedly.

  “Too early for spring,” George remarked. “Another cold snap and they’ll die soon enough.”

  Shorty Eastman yawned. “Won’t be no more cold weather. Spring is set in solid and summer is on the way.”

  “How the hell do you know?” Spalding asked.

  “From spending my Goddamned life out in the Goddamned outdoors, that’s how,” Shorty shot back. “Maybe I cain’t read or write, but I got a edjacation o’ sorts just the same. I know the outdoors and how nature works. And what it’s gonna do too.”

  Spalding pointed toward a distant knoll. “What about them kids over there? You know what they’re gonna do?”

  “I reckon not,” Shorty said. “But I wished I did.”

  “Are you two gonna start up again?” George asked.

  “Them boys is gonna do fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  “They’re still wet behind the ears, George,” Spalding said. “What’d you ask ’em to join up with us for?”

  “’Cause we need all the help we can get right now, that’s why,” George said. “Tolliver’s in jail up at Caldwell, and Durkins wandered off as usual. When I heard about that army pay wagon, I just didn’t have time to be particular. A coupla extry guns’ll come in handy.”

  “Damnation!” Spalding swore. “They don’t even know what the hell they’re in for.”

  “They know they’re gonna rob a government payroll,” George said.

  “Coupla tads wanta ride the owlhoot trail, huh?” Shorty snorted. “Well, if they stick with us, I’ll . guarantee ’em a bellyfull of outlaw life.”

  Spalding laughed. “Yeah. And then some.”

  “They both been in trouble before,” George said. “And I heard they faced up to a sheriff without flinching.”

  “What for?” Shorty asked with a laugh. “Stealing peppermint sticks?”

  Spalding joined in the laughter as George glanced toward the spot where the two youngsters were stationed. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “Here comes one of ’em now.”

  A rider, galloping from the knoll, headed toward them. When he arrived, he reined up, splattering dust and clumps of grass over the three bandits.

  “Goddamn it!” Shorty said. “You don’t have to charge in here like that!”

  The rider, a boy in his mid-teens named Tom Batkins, reddened in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mr. Eastman. But Mr. McClary told me to hurry on down here when we spotted the wagon.”

  The outlaws immediately became attentive. George McClary stood up. “Is it a army wagon?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tom said.

  “You sure, young’un? Maybe it’s just a damn ol’ dirt farmer slopping around looking for someplace to stick a plow in.”

  “No, sir, it’s a army wagon all right,” the youngster insisted. “Got soljers around it and ever’thing.”

  “Christ!” Shorty said. “How many soljers?”

  Tom smiled proudly. “Well, I remember what Mr. McClary said about counting ’em, so that’s just what I done. I counted the soljers—each and ever’ solitary one.”

  “Yeah?” George said, waiting for the boy to continue.

  “There’s five of ’em, Mr. McClary,” he answered. “Six if you count the driver.”

  “Let’s go then,” George said. He and the others swung up into their saddles and rode back to the high point of ground the boy had just left. Another teenager, shorter and even more youthful looking than Tom, stood up and pointed. “There they be, Mr. McClary. Just a-riding along right peaceful-like.”

  George peered across the prairie at the wagon and its escort moving slowly through the deep grass. The riders around the vehicle seemed to be dozing in a contented stupor as their ride progressed lethargically through the warm afternoon.

  “They don’t seem to be too damned concerned about the money they’re guarding,” Shorty remarked.

  “Hell!” George scoffed. “They ain’t expecting us, are they? What do you want? Bugle calls and a charge?”

  Leon Spalding joined Shorty’s misgivings. “Something’s mighty strange about the whole thing.”

  “You two shut up and listen,” George said. “I reckon we won’t have to be too fancy. Let’s have ’em get close enough, then we’ll mount up and hit ’em dead on. Ought to be enough, don’t you reckon?”

  “For them sleepyheads, yeah,” Spalding agreed.

  “It looks like it’s gonna be easy,” Shorty said. He turned to the youngsters who were visibly agitated and tense. “Y’all gonna be all right, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t you worry none about us,” Pete answered.

  “Now listen up. Here’s the way we do her,” George said. “Ever’body mount up and ride down to wait down at the base o’ this knoll. You—” He pointed to Tom. “Get on up there and when they get up by them thorn bushes over yonder, wave back to us. We ride into ’em shooting. Everybody got that?”
r />   “Sure, George,” Shorty said. “Let’s get ready.”

  It took but a couple of minutes for the gang to prepare themselves for the assault. Pete, designated as the lookout, took his post and squatted in the grass out of sight. Finally, after a scant ten minutes had passed, he stood up and waved his hat.

  “Let’s go!” George cried. He kicked his horse’s flanks.

  The four riders crested the small hill in time for Pete to mount his own horse and join them as they charged into the startled troopers a scant few yards away. Pistol shots cracked in rapid succession. Three of the soldiers were dumped from their saddles immediately. A fourth spun on his horse and managed to get off one shot with his Springfield carbine. The heavy .45 slug hit Pete and lifted him from the saddle like some giant, invisible hand had swatted him.

  By the time the boy had crashed into the soft prairie dirt, the other two soldiers were down and the driver had slumped onto the wagon seat.

  While the outlaws brought the wagon’s team of horses under control, Tom leaped from his saddle and sprinted to where his friend lay.

  George quickly dismounted and ran to the back of the wagon and lowered the tailgate. He peered in. “God damn it to hell!” he screamed. “Son of a bitch!”

  “What’s the matter?” Shorty Eastman asked, joining him.

  “There ain’t nothing in here but a big ol’ box o’ shoes!” George exclaimed.

  Leon Spalding ran up to them. “Maybe the money’s under ’em, huh, George? It’s prob’ly hid there.”

  George jumped in and began to frantically plow through the box, tossing shoes out of the wagon. Finally he stopped. “Just shoes,” he said. “An’ they’re them damn ol’ army kind where you cain’t tell the left from the right.”

  “Hell!” Spalding said.

  “Hey, mister! Mister!” Tom said, running up with tears in his eyes. “Come and look at Petey, will ya? He’s hurt bad, mister. Help him, please. Please!”

  “Oh, hell, all right,” Spalding said. He followed the boy back to his friend, but he could tell a close examination wasn’t necessary. “He’s dead, kid. Deader’n hell.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!” Tom moaned. He stared down at his dead friend in mixed emotions of horror and grief. “I just didn’t think—”