A Friendly Favor
“Okay,” Clint said, buttering a biscuit, “what’s going on, Bass?”
“I just rode in today with two dead men slung over their horses,” Reeves said. “Bank robbers and killers who didn’t give me no choice.”
“And why do I sense you’re not happy about it?” Clint asked.
“I ain’t never happy about havin’ to kill a man, Clint,” Reeves said, “but this was different.”
“Why?”
“Because they was black.”
“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, there’s more,” Reeves said. “They were former Buffalo Soldiers—and I think the rest of the gang are also former Buffalo Soldiers.”
Clint knew that Reeves had gone to the Buffalo Soldier Academy to learn how to be a proper lawman. Having other men—even former Buffalo Soldiers—go rogue would not sit well with him, at all.
“Are you determined to go after these men and bring them back? Even though they were Buffalo Soldiers?”
“I am.”
“Alone?”
“Well,” Reeves said, “I need a favor.”
Clint cut into his inch-thick steak and said, “Then I’m your man.”
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THE
GUNSMITH
362
BUFFALO SOLDIERS
J.R.ROBERTS
JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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BUFFALO SOLDIERS
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / February 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
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EISBN: 9781101554388
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Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
Forty
Forty One
Forty Two
ONE
Bass Reeves had been tracking the gang for weeks. Now he was closer than he’d ever been. The tracks ahead of him were as fresh as he had seen.
A former slave, the black man had been wearing a badge for many years, ever since he was freed. During those years he had learned his job by doing it. He certainly wasn’t an expert tracker, but he had learned enough over the years to be confident that he was reading sign correctly.
The gang of eleven had split up, forcing Reeves to make a choice. He chose the trail left by two, figuring that when he caught them, they would tell him where the others were going.
As a black man wearing a badge, he was often the victim of double prejudice. Riding into the town of Muskogee, one of the towns that had been founded by the five tribes who inhabited this part of the region—the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole—he was regarded with suspicion for both reasons. But he sat his horse tall and ignored the stares.
The gang Judge Parker had sent Reeves after h
ad robbed a number of banks in Arkansas, had killed several people in their most recent holdup. Parker wanted them back alive so he could hang them.
They had no descriptions of the men, as they wore masks in each of the banks they had robbed. Reeves had used word of mouth across the Territories to finally pick up their trail, and maybe today would be the day he’d catch a couple of them and find out who they all were.
He rode his horse to the livery and handed it to a wary white man.
“Keep him ready,” Reeves said. “No tellin’ when I’ll need him.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. He was impressed—or intimidated—by both Reeves’s sheer size, and his badge.
“A couple of strangers rode into town ahead of me,” Reeves said. “Did they leave their horses here?”
“No, sir, ain’t nobody been here all day.”
“What about yesterday?”
“No, sir.”
“All right,” he said. “You got a sheriff here?”
“Yessir, but he’s an Injun.”
“That don’t matter to me,” Reeves said.
“His name’s Sam Overbay,” the man said. “He’s a Cherokee.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll find him.”
“You can’t miss ’im,” the man said. “He’s probably the only man in town you’ll have to look up to.”
Bass Reeves drew himself up to his full six feet four and said, “That should make him easy enough to find.”
He left the livery.
Bass Reeves found Sheriff Overbay sitting in a chair outside the sheriff’s office, whittling on a block of wood with a huge knife.
“Sheriff?”
The Indian looked up at him, squinting against the sun.
“Saw you ride in,” he said. “The sun was comin’ off your badge. Deputy marshal?”
“That’s right,” Reeves said. “Judge Parker’s court.”
“What brings you here?”
“Tracked a couple of bank robbers here,” Reeves said.
“Are you gonna kill them?”
“The Judge wants them alive,” Reeves said. “That’s my job. But in the end, it’s gonna be up to them.”
“Well,” Overbay said, putting his block of wood aside and sheathing his knife, “a couple of strangers rode in earlier today.”
“I asked the liveryman about that.”
“They didn’t go to the livery,” Overbay said. “They went to the saloon.”
Reeves turned, looked down the block, saw the word “Saloon” on one of the adobe buildings.
“Thanks.”
“You want some help?”
“Don’t think so,” Reeves said.
“Well, if I hear shots, I’ll come runnin’.”
“That’s fine.”
Reeves turned to leave and the sheriff said, “It must be tough on you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, I don’t like it when I have to throw my own people into jail,” Overbay said. “I just thought you’d feel the same.”
“My people?” Reeves looked confused.
“Oh, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“The two fellas you’re lookin’ for,” Overbay said. “They’re black.”
TWO
Reeves walked down the street with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The only black men he knew of who were riding the Territories with guns were Buffalo Soldiers who were helping to uphold the law. He didn’t like the idea of black men robbing banks and murdering innocent people.
He turned and looked behind him. Sheriff Overbay had picked up his block of wood and was once again worrying at it with his knife.
When Reeves reached the front of the saloon, he heard a few voices from inside, but it didn’t sound like a busy place. He took a deep breath and entered through the batwing doors.
There was a short bar on the left with a couple of men standing at it. There was one bartender behind the bar, who eyed Reeves with distaste. In the back, sitting together at a table, were two black men, who perked up when they saw Reeves enter.
“Jesus,” one of the men at the bar said, “another nigger.”
“Where the hell are they comin’ from?” his partner wondered.
“And why are they comin’ to my place?” the barkeep added.
They hadn’t seen the badge on Reeves’s chest until he turned to face the bar. The bartender straightened up, reached beneath the bar.
“If you come out from under there with a shotgun, I’ll have to kill you,” Reeves said.
“You—You’re Bass Reeves,” one of the other men said.
“That’s right.”
Both men spread their arms so that their hands were away from their guns.
“We didn’t mean nothin’,” one of them said.
“You boys better get out, then,” Reeves said. “I got other things on my mind, but if you stay here—”
“No, no,” the other man said, “we’ll go.”
They made a wide circle around Reeves and left the saloon.
“You wanna cold beer, Marshal?” the bartender asked nervously.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The bartender nervously put a beer in front of Reeves. He hoped none of his white customers would come in and see. He’d have to throw out the mug after the black lawman left. And also the glasses the other two black men were using.
“How long have those two been in here?” Reeves asked.
“Which two?”
“The only other two in here,” Reeves said. “The two black men at the table. See ’em?”
“Oh, yeah, sure—”
“What’s your name?”
“Eddie.”
“How long have they been here, Eddie?”
“A couple of hours, I guess,” the bartender said.
“Drinkin’ the whole time?” Reeves asked. “Or nursing those drinks in front of them?”
“No, they pretty much been drinkin’ the whole time.”
“Drinkin’ what?”
“Whiskey.”
“That a fact?”
Reeves stared at the man, who averted his eyes and said, “Rotgut.”
“Probably worse than that,” Reeves said. “You wouldn’t want to waste real whiskey on two niggers, would you?”
“Hey, I never said they was—”
“You got a shotgun under the bar?”
“Yessir.”
“I want you to reach under there and unload it. Then put the shells on top of the bar.”
“Yessir.”
The bartender reached under the bar.
“You try and shoot me through the bar and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
The bartender nodded nervously. Moments later he put two double-aught shells on the bar. If he had fired through the bar, he would have shredded Reeves, but he didn’t have the nerve to try.
Reeves took the shells and put them in his pocket.
“Don’t try reloadin’.”
“No, sir.”
Reeves finished his beer, slapped the empty mug down on the bar.
He turned and started walking toward the two black men.
“I’m tellin’ you, man,” one of the black men told the other, “dat man is Bass Reeves.”
“Just relax,” the second man said. “He might not be here for us.”
“Why else would he be here?”
“Maybe jus’ for a cold beer.”
“I’m warnin’ ya,” the first man said. “If he comes towards us, I’m gonna cut him down.”
“Yeah, okay,” the second man said. “Jes’ don’t do nothin’ stupid.”
“Onliest thing that’d be stupid is to let ourselves get taken to jail,” the first man said. “Dat Judge Parker would stretch our necks for sure.”
“I’m jes’ sayin’ be careful,” the second man said. “Let’s jes’ watch and see what—”
As he was speaking, Bass Reeves slapped his beer mug down and turned to walk toward them.
“Damn it—” the first man said, shoving his chair back and going for his gun.
“Aw, jeez—” the second man said, coming to his feet fast.
Reeves saw both men coming to their feet, both going for their guns. He wanted to yell for them to hold it and not be stupid, but he could see that he was way too late for that.
There’d be no talking.
THREE
As the two men went for their guns, Reeves reacted out of pure reflex. He drew and fired three times. Two bullets hit one man in the chest, one a perfect heart shot, the other one just insurance. Then he fired at the other men, and held himself back from pulling the trigger a second time.
The single bullet hit the man in the chest and his gun flew from his hand as he went down. Reeves rushed to him, hoping he could get a word or two out of him before he expired.
“Who are you?” he asked the bleeding man. “Who are you ridin’ with?”
“Oh Lord, I’s gonna die,” the man cried. “Don’ let me die, Mister Reeves!”
“I won’t let you die,” Bass Reeves lied. “Just tell me who you’re ridin’ with.”
“Lord, save me!” the man shouted at the ceiling. “Don’ let me die!”
Reeves shook the man and said, “I’ll kill you myself if you don’t tell me who you’re with!”
“Soldiers!” the man cried.
“What?”
“B-Buffalo Soldiers,” the man said, and died with a blood bubble on his lips. It popped and left dots of blood on his face.
Half an hour later Bass Reeves was sitting in the sheriff’s office, looking across Overbay’s desk at him.
“You’re sayin’,” the big Indian said, “that some Buffalo Soldiers are robbing banks and killin’ people in the Territories?”
“Ex-Buffalo Soldiers,” Reeves said. “I mean, I’m sure they’re ex-Buffalo Soldiers.”
“Were you once a Buffalo Soldier?” Overybay asked.
“No,” Reeves said, “I enlisted in the Buffalo Soldier Police Academy, to learn how to be a proper marshal.”
“From what I hear, you learned pretty good.”
“I learned what I needed to in the Academy, but I learned the rest on the trail.”
“Well,” Sheriff Overbay asked, “what are you going to do now?”
“I have to go back to Fort Smith, with the two bodies,” Reeves said. “Judge Parker needs to know what we’re up against.”
Gunsmith #362 : Buffalo Soldiers (9781101554388) Page 1