Oklahoma Showdown (An Indian Territory Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “You knew you was taking a chance, didn’t you?” Spalding asked in a cold tone.

  “Yeah. I reckon I did,” Tom said.

  “Let’s get back to the wagon,” Spalding said. He returned to the vehicle with the boy following. “The kid is dead,” he told the others.

  “It’s awful,” Tom said barely able to control his sobbing.

  “That ain’t the half of it,” Shorty said. “There ain’t no money in here. Just shoes.”

  “Shoes!” the boy exclaimed incredulously. “What about the money?”

  “There ain’t none,” George said, disgusted.

  “You tole us there was lots o’ money,” Tom said with a tone of accusation in his voice.

  “Well, kid, the no good sonofabitch who tole me about this here wagon lied to me,” George said. “Either that or he made one hell of a big mistake.”

  “Petey got killed, Mr. McClary, and you said there was gonna be money,” the boy, now angry, said. “He got killed on account o’ you.”

  “Well, ain’t that too Goddamned bad!” George said angrily. “Now listen to me, kid. I’m riled enough right now without having to put up with you running off at the mouth, understand?”

  “But Petey’s dead!” Tom exclaimed. “This whole thing was real dumb—”

  George leaped down from the wagon. His fist shot out into the kid’s face, dumping him to the ground. “You dumb little shitass! You think I’m happy that all we got here is them Goddamned shoes?”

  Tom was visibly afraid. He sat on the ground and held his sore jaw. “N-no, sir, I’ll allow as how you ain’t.”

  “Then you just keep quiet while I figger out how I’m gonna get even with the no good ol’ bastard that sent us on this stupid job, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. McClary,” Tom said. “What are we gonna do with Pete?”

  George McClary eyed the youngster. “What the hell do you think we oughta do with him?”

  “We gotta bury him,” Tom said.

  “What the hell you think this is, kid? A Sunday-Go-To-Meeting? Outlaws don’t get buried by other outlaws. We gotta get the hell outta here now, afore any more soljer boys show up.”

  George, without uttering another word, went to his horse and leaped into the saddle. The others joined him, and the gang rode away leaving the prairie littered with bodies—and government issue shoes.

  ~*~

  The warm weather made Harriet McClary’s life a bit easier.

  The children had recovered from the bouts of illness, and returned to school, while her father found the balmy spring air nearly medicinal in nature. She had just begun scrubbing some of the winter’s accumulation of grime from the back steps when Herb Eldridge joined her. The old man looked past the farmyard out into the prairie. “It’s been about a year, ain’t it?”

  “A year for what, Papa?” Harriet asked.

  “Since they opened up Oklahoma.”

  She nodded, knowing what direction the conversation would take. “Yes, Papa. I guess it’s been nearly a year now.”

  “Ain’t seen much o’ your husband, have you?”

  “No,” she said concentrating on her task. ‘Course that don’t count when he was hiding out there in the barn, does it?”

  Harriet stopped. “I figured you knew he was there.”

  “Oh, yeah, I knowed all right,” Eldridge said. “I may be old-and-sick, but I ain’t old-and-stupid.”

  “I know you’re not, Papa.”

  Eldridge let a few minutes pass. “It was nice to see ol’ Dace now, wasn’t it?”

  Harriet smiled. “Yes. It truly was.”

  “Fine man, that Dace Halston,” Eldridge mused. “A mighty fine man.”

  “Uh huh,” she agreed, going back to scrubbing. “The kids sure like him.”

  “They like him a damn sight better’n they like their pa,” Eldridge said.

  Harriet decided not to answer that one.

  Her father eyed her carefully. “He’s doing an important job now. They need strict law enforcement down there to civilize the place. It’ll make it a hell of a lot better for us Kansans living near the Oklahoma line too, won’t it?”

  “Yes, Papa,” Harriet acknowledged, putting her brush into the dirty soapy water before reapplying it to the steps.

  “Ol’ Dace oughta leave off being a starpacker eventually though. Maybe take up farming,” Eldridge remarked. He paused. “He’d make a dandy farmer.”

  “I suppose, Papa.”

  “He’s got more sense than most cattlemen,” the old man said. “Dace Halston don’t believe in beating no dead horses.”

  Harriet nodded her head in agreement.

  “Why he could take a farm like this ’un and put some muscle and brains into it, and afore long he’d have a real prosperous enterprise going.”

  “Yes, Papa. Dace is a mite smart, no doubt.”

  “Well, I reckon I’ll go sit on the front porch for a spell. The sun’s warmer there.”

  “Go ahead, Papa. I’ll finish up here.”

  Harriet knew her father had made his point and wanted her to give some thought to Dace Halston. She wasn’t sure whether the old man wanted her to take some time to regret her marriage to George McClary or consider leaving him—perhaps for Dace Halston.

  Harriet’s mind turned to Dace. She could remember having a sort of crush on him as a younger girl. He had a tall, rugged style of good looks that went well with his easy talk and slow, manly movements. But he seemed so quiet and somber, almost boring to a teenage girl who loved to laugh and enjoy herself.

  George, on the other hand, carried an aura of liveliness and good humor around with him. His exuberance and joking during the visits he and Dace made when they came up from Oklahoma were diversionary and attractive to her. Of course, after they were married, she discovered he fell into every mood—whether good or bad—with the same emotional outpouring. His temper was as furious as his sense of humor was hilarious. And his hateful, bitter reaction to the events of a year ago had been typical of his uncontrolled temperament.

  Another thing had caused Harriet to ponder her life. When Dace Halston had called unexpectedly, she had been genuinely glad to see him.

  Perhaps more than just glad.

  Even before George had taken to the owlhoot trail and they lived on the ranch, Harriet had felt a certain growing attraction to Dace. She sensed a tender and sincere nature behind the facade of solemnity that Dace displayed. And, to her horror, on several occasions she had caught herself wondering what it would be like having Dace Halston make love to her. George was so quick with his brief pawing and mounting. She felt the act somehow was supposed to last longer, or be more gentle—or something besides a rapid coupling. She had figured Dace’s way would be languid and loving in a way that would put some meaning into an activity she merely endured without enjoyment. And, as ignorant as she was about sex, Harriet knew there had to be something better than submitting to George McClary’s husbandly rights. She wished she knew what it was.

  Harriet brushed her hair back with her hands. Then she returned to her task, her mind full of Dace Halston.

  Chapter Twelve

  The campfire crackled as Dace Halston spooned up the last bit of beans on his tin plate and downed them. Then, after picking up his coffee, he stretched out his legs and sipped the hot liquid.

  “I guess you’re not working alone like you figured, huh? Halston?” Ward Stormwell asked, grinning.

  Dace looked over to where the Pinkerton detective sat with the other marshals. “I reckon not.”

  “Law enforcement is teamwork, Halston,” Stormwell said. “You’ll be better off when you realize that.”

  “And you’ll be a lot better off when you realize you’d best keep your Goddamned mouth shut,” Dace said.

  The other members of the posse looked up at these unusually harsh words from a man they considered calm and cool at all times. Bill Tilghman laughed. “You better take his advice, Stormwell. I don’t think I’d go out of
my way to rile Dace Halston, if I was you.

  “Just conversing,” Stormwell said. “I don’t see any reason for anybody to take offense at what I just said.”

  “You ain’t talking to anybody,” Dace said. “You’re talking to me.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll direct my conversation toward people who are of a friendlier nature,” Stormwell said.

  “You do that,” Dace remarked. He was angry enough without having to put up with Stormwell’s jibes. After his meeting with Marshal Nix, Dace had prepared himself for a solo visit to Ingraham, but two days before he was to leave, he was informed that a full-scale raid on the town had been planned instead. Ingraham had become well known among various law enforcement agencies as a hangout for several outlaw gangs. Thus, it had been decided the town now merited the immediate attention of Marshal Nix’s office.

  Bill Tilghman had been placed in charge of the operation which included Dace and a half dozen other marshals. Ward Stormwell had attached himself to the little task force, and, despite his unpopularity with the majority of the marshals, was welcomed as an extra gun in what was perceived to be a dangerous undertaking.

  Dace and the others, posing as hunters, spent a leisurely week working themselves closer and closer to the town without making any attempts to conceal themselves. They wanted word of their activities to reach Ingraham’s inhabitants so that after a few days of killing game, their cover story could be accepted with ease.

  Stormwell helped himself to the communal coffee pot and settled back, making an obvious effort to ignore Dace. He nodded toward Tilghman. “Think we’ll get our hands on any fugitives that have rewards out on them?” he asked. “I’m not real familiar with the ones that are supposed to hang out in Ingraham.”

  Tilghman shrugged. “I don’t know. I reckon if I was real inter’sted in money, I’d be in some other line o’ work besides law enforcement.”

  Dace laughed out loud. “Maybe you’d be a Pinkerton detective.”

  Stormwell joined in the laughter, but his eyes showed no mirth. “Might not be a bad idea for you fellows at that. I probably make more money than you do.”

  “Yeah,” Tilghman said lazily. “I reckon you do, Stormwell.”

  Stormwell looked over at Dace. “You think your friend George McClary might be at Ingraham?”

  “Maybe,” Dace answered.

  “If he gets gunned down, his reward will be divided among us all,” Stormwell said.

  Dace nodded. “I suppose.”

  “If that happens, are you going to take your share?”

  “Yeah,” Dace said. “And yours too.”

  Stormwell took the subtle challenge with another of his humorless smiles. “You’re a real caution, Halston.”

  “I can make some fellers laugh out of the other side o’ their faces,” Dace said seriously.

  “You two got me worried,” Tilghman said. “I’m starting to think you’re more dangerous to each other than to the outlaws we’re after.”

  “I reckon we’ll find that out at Ingraham,” Dace said.

  “We sure will,” Stormwell said laughing in cold humor.

  “If I know of anybody here shooting one o’ this party, I ain’t gonna consider it an accident,” Tilghman said. “And I’ll be mighty quick to level charges o’ murder.”

  Stormwell grinned. “Damn, Marshal Tilghman! That’s a hanging offense.”

  Tilghman’s face was grim. “That’s right. And don’t either o’ you forget it!”

  ~*~

  George McClary rode into Kiowa Evans’ stockade. Shorty Eastman, Leon Spalding and the kid Tom Batkins came in behind him. The crude, rundown trading post was surrounded by a rickety wall made of dried-out saplings thrown up more for concealment than protection.

  The owner of the establishment mixed in a variety of crooked dealings. If anybody had booty from a robbery, illegal liquor for Indians, stolen guns or any other shady business to transact in Oklahoma or Indian Territory, Kiowa Evans was the man to contact. The wiry oldster had been crisscrossing and living in the area since the mid-1850s. He was as cruel and barbaric as any Kiowa or Comanche warrior—personal traits that contributed to his survival in a brutal, uncompromising environment.

  Only God knew for sure how many bodies of murdered persons lay buried in the vicinity of the stockade. Most folks figured they numbered in the hundreds. But Kiowa Evans never discussed the subject.

  George eased himself from the saddle and looped the reins around the hitching post outside Evans’ cabin that sat in the middle of the area. He nodded casually to a man loitering by the door. “Howdy. Is Kiowa close by?”

  The man nodded. “Yeah. You’re George McClary, ain’t you?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’ll let Kiowa know you’re here.”

  George smiled. “Why don’t I surprise him?”

  “Kiowa don’t like surprises, McClary,” the man said. “You wait ’til you’re called.”

  “’Til I’m called what?”

  The guard frowned at the poor attempt at humor as he looked over the other members of the McClary gang, then went inside.

  George stuck his hand out toward the kid. “Gimme the poke.”

  Tom handed him the cloth bag and nervously licked his lips. “You don’t sound so mad now, Mr. McClary.”

  “Son,” George said. “I’m more riled now than I was before.”

  “Just don’t get too excited,” Shorty said. “This here’s a dangerous place.”

  Leon Spalding looked around nervously. “Lots o’ mean looking jaspers around here.”

  “They ain’t all Evans’ men,” George reminded him. “This place is a reg’lar hangout. Sorta like Ingraham.”

  Spalding grinned. “Speaking o’ Ingraham, I’m sure anxious to get back there. I got me a real itch that only one o’ them gals at Maude’s can scratch for me.”

  “We’ll be there directly,” George said. “As soon as we finish up here.”

  Shorty shook his head. “I think you’re going too far, George.”

  “What the hell do you expect me to do?” George asked. “Let Kiowa Evans make a damn fool outta me?”

  “Maybe he made a mistake,” Spalding suggested. “I don’t think he’d do something like that on purpose.”

  “I don’t give a damn what the reason was,” George said. “If I let some sonofabitch make a jackass outta me without getting even, ever’body’d think I’d gone soft. That’s bad news on the owlhoot trail, pards.”

  “Well, maybe—” Shorty started to say.

  The gunman interrupted him by stepping outside the cabin. “Kiowa says for you boys to go right in. He’s anxious to see you.”

  “I reckon he is,” George conceded. “I got his share of the loot here.”

  “The army job?” the guard asked.

  “That’s the one,” Shorty answered.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Not quite what we expected,” George answered as he walked into the cabin.

  Kiowa Evans sat at a rough-hewn table eating boiled potatoes with an oversized spoon. He nodded curtly to George. “Howdy, McClary. You caught me at my supper.” He indicated the meal. “Biled ’taters is all I can wolf down anymore—my teeth is mostly gone now. It’s either this or corn mush.”

  “Must be tough being a old man,” George said.

  “I like soup,” Evans said. “They’s a Cherokee woman brings me a pot now an’ again. But most o’ the time it’s biled ’taters.”

  George, who didn’t give a damn about Kiowa’s dietary problems, dropped the sack on the table. “Here’s your part o’ the army payroll job.”

  Evans continued to eat as he reached over with one hand and dumped the contents on the table. Two brand-new shoes dropped with a clunk. The trader frowned. “What the hell is this?”

  “I thought you might explain that to me,” George said. “’Cause that’s all there was in the back o’ that Goddamn wagon.”

  “Shoes?”

  “
Yeah,” George said. “A box o’ brand new army shoes. Just like them.”

  “Sumbitch!” Evans said. “Ain’t that a hell of a note?”

  “One o’ the fellers with me got killed, Kiowa,” George said. “And over a bunch o’ Goddamned shoes.”

  “Wal, that’s the way things with the army goes,” Kiowa said with an unconcerned air as he watched his two interior guards give their full attention to the visitors. “I got the information from a soljer over there. I reckon he was just repeating a rumor he’d heered, huh?”

  “Yeah,” George said, seeming to calm down. Then he smiled. “We sure as hell didn’t make much money, did we?”

  “I reckon not,” Kiowa said.

  “Listen, Kiowa. You got anything else you could let us in on?” George asked in a friendly tone. “We’re near broke.”

  Kiowa smiled. “Oughta have something within a day or two if’n you boys’d like to hang around the stockade and wait.”

  “Sure,” George said. “We cain’t do much else anyhow.”

  “Too bad about them shoes,” Kiowa said apologetically. “I wish to hell the money would’ve been there. I could’ve used it myself.”

  George whipped his pistol clear of the holster and shot the old man in the face.

  The back of Evans’ head exploded like a hot watermelon on a summer day, spraying brains and blood on the bunk and wall behind him.

  At the same time, Shorty, Spalding and young Tom drew their own pistols and turned on the guards in the room. The sounds of the shooting in the enclosed cabin punished their eardrums to near deafness as the hired guns staggered, then crumpled under the rain of slugs that bit into them.

  The outside gunhawk leaped through the door in time to catch a bullet of his own in the neck. The wound, though bloody, was not fatal and the man was able to stagger outside until a well-aimed back shot from Leon Spalding knocked him to the ground.

  Shorty reloaded his Colt. “Next question is how the hell do we get outta here?”

  “Let’s toss ol’ Kiowa through the door,” George said.

  “What the hell good will that do?” Shorty asked.

  “He’s the man who pays the freight around here,” George said. “If any of his boys are among that group outside, they’ll see he won’t be doing ’em much good anymore.”