Bess pulled her hands up to cover her ears.
Oliver's charge carried him into Russ, blasting him halfway across the room. Russ fell and Oliver smashed down on top of his back pinning him face down on the floor. He grabbed Russ by the hair and slammed his head twice on the plank floor. Russ turned his head enough so it hit on the side. He screamed in pain.
"Stop it, you bastard!" Russ bellowed. He tried to push off the heavier form. He got one hand free and punched Oliver in the face. Oliver never noticed the blow. He caught Russ's ears and used them as handles and smashed Russ's face twice into the floor boards, mashing his nose, bringing gouts of blood and a continuing scream of agony.
Russ heaved with all his strength and bucked Oliver off him. He sat up trying to get the blood out of his eyes. Oliver leaped to his feet and swung one heavy booted foot at the outlaw who had tried to rape his wife.
"Never again!" Oliver shouted over and over again. He kicked Russ in the face with all the furious strength within him. His heavy leather toe caught Russ under the chin and snapped his head back hard. There was a crack and Russ slammed to the rear sprawling on his back on the floor.
Oliver surged forward, dropped with both knees on Russ's chest and heard two ribs crack and dagger downward. Oliver grabbed Russ by his hair and pounded his head into the hard floor boards a dozen times until the back of it was a mass of bloody pulp.
"Enough, Oliver," Bess said softly. "He's already dead."
Oliver sat astride the man and stared at his head, then remembered the terrible cracking sound when he kicked him. He took a deep breath and stood. He scooped up Bess's ruined blouse and put it around her shoulders.
"Never again, Bess. Never again am I gonna let one man or six rape you like those others did. I'll die first. Mark my words. Never again, Bess."
She put her arms around him and held him like a child. Then she kissed his forehead and he moved away.
He looked at the man who called himself Russ Dolan. "Bess, you go find the kids. Tell them they did good by hiding when a stranger come with a gun. Bring them back for supper. I'll have this trash out of here by then. Run along."
She leaned in and kissed Oliver gently on his lips, her smile a glorious outpouring. Then she hurried out the rear door.
When she came back, twenty-minutes later, it was growing dark. She had the three kids with her and peered into the big room and saw that the body was gone.
The planks had been scrubbed clean. There was another batch of split potatoes in the fry pan. She rustled up more food and let them share the rest of the rabbit.
When Oliver came into the cabin, it had just turned dark. He lit two lamps and had a cup of scalding coffee as he watched the three children, two boys and a younger girl, finish their supper. The oldest was 12, the youngest, eight.
"Hello in the cabin!" a voice boomed from outside.
Oliver lifted the double barrelled shotgun from the pegs near the door and angled it outside as he unlatched the outward swinging door.
"Ahoy outside," Oliver said, letting the shotgun command the area directly in front. "Who's there and what do you want?"
He heard a chuckle. "I'm Chandler. I got no gun on you, so take it easy with that scattergun. I can see it in the light from your lamps. I mean you no harm."
Bess blew out both lamps and Oliver went through the door like a black shadow into the faint smudgy moonlight. He held the shotgun covering the man on the horse ten-feet away.
"Who's Chandler and what do you want?"
"Mind if I step down so we can talk?" the man asked.
"Slide down on this side of your mount, and keep your hands free. I don't like trouble, but I don't back away from it."
"I've heard that about you, Cherokee Oliver. Hear you're a good man. An honest one. Fact is, I'm hunting a man who rode away from me with some of my goods. You seen a lone rider out this way this afternoon? One-Eyed Louie said he came this direction."
"Mr. Chandler, I'm off the trail. Mostly nobody knows I'm here, which is fine by me. I don't bother them and the owlhoots don't bother me. What this outlaw steal off you?"
"Enough to make me unhappy. You see any sign of a tall, slim man? He's riding a chestnut mare from what I hear. Something like that chestnut in your corral."
"Don't recollect seeing nobody today. Been working hard getting some corn planted down in my plowed land in the little valley out here. Cleared the land two year ago."
"Not worried about your farming, Oliver. Was Dolan here, or wasn't he? I'll swear to Judge Parker that's his chestnut mare. Tomorrow we might just find a new grave hereabouts."
Chandler paused. "Would be neighborly of you to invite me in for some coffee. I been on a long ride."
"Fresh out of coffee, Chandler. I told you what I told you. Time for you to ride out." The shotgun kept Chandler covered.
"Look, Dolan was no friend of mine. I don't care if he's dead and fed to your hogs. I just want my goods back that he stole. You don't tell me what happened to Dolan tonight, I'll be back tomorrow with six of Judge Parker's Deputy Marshals and we'll take this little place of yours apart until we find what I'm looking for. I know the judge. He's a fair man, but he's tough. He's especially mean when it comes to murder."
"Mount up, Mr. Chandler. You'll be riding. You try to come back tonight, I'll be waiting somewhere along the trail and I'll shoot and find out who I killed when the sun comes up. Best you be riding and keep riding back to the ferry."
Chandler mounted and kept his hands well away from the six-gun on his hip.
"You haven't seen the last of me, Half Breed 01 iver. Dolan won't get away with stealing from me, and neither will you. When I come back tomorrow you have the goods ready and waiting for me, and we won't take it any further."
He swung the horse around and walked it slowly out the unsure trail toward the main track.
Oliver watched him go, then slipped forward with the shotgun, hammers both cocked, until he could hear the squeak of the saddle leather and the steady clopping of the horse's hooves. He followed Chandler silently all the way to the main trail and heard him move upstream. He'd probably go to One-Eyed Louie's to stay overnight. Then he'd be back in the morning.
On his way back to his cabin, Oliver rigged a thin wire across the trail chest-high for a man on a horse. Impossible to see at night, and hard to see in the daytime. He'd take it down at sunup.
Back at the cabin, he went to the lean-to beside the corral and dug out the saddlebags from the chestnut mare. He'd thrown them in the corner and piled hay on top of them when he unsaddled the dead man's mount. There had been a small roll of five-dollar bills in Dolan's pants pocket, and another sheaf of them in his shirt. Oliver had taken the money when he buried the body. Now he picked up the saddlebags and carried them into the cabin and dropped them on the table.
Bess had put the kids to bed in the back room. She stared at the saddlebags and at the two wads of five dollar bills.
"This Dolan, he steal the man's money?"
"Looks like."
Bess was good at doing numbers. She sat down at the table and counted the five dollar Federal notes.
"Twenty-seven of them," she said. That's a hundred and thirty-five dollars. More cash money than we've ever seen in our whole married life."
"Not ours," Oliver said. "Even after what he did and tried to do to you, the money ain't ours."
He upended the saddlebags and shook them out. Two bundles of greenbacks fell out.
"Good Lord!" Bess said. She crossed herself even though she wasn't Catholic. "Good Lord, those are ten and twenty dollar bills. Must be several thousand dollars worth."
Oliver shook his head. "What did we do to bring all of this trouble down on our heads? That's killing kind of money. That Chandler would kill all five of us to get that much money. For that kind of money he'll be back tomorrow morning with six hired gunmen and they'll tear our place apart and cut me up into small pieces. Come daylight, I want you and the kids five miles up that little creek ou
t there all the way to the spring. You watch your back trail. Any riders come your way, you hide your tracks and you fade into the brush."
Oliver shook his head. "Lord above. I don't know what I done to deserve this. I killed a man, but he deserved killing. He would have done my Bess and then shot us both. I know that for gospel. Lordy, wish I'd been born more Cherokee than Negro, then I'd know how to handle this kind of trouble."
Outside Half Breed Oliver's cabin, Spur McCoy lay in the early evening darkness. He'd moved silently as a Chiricahua Apache through the underbrush until he was within 20-yards of the cabin and in time to hear most of the conversation between Oliver and Doug Chandler.
So a man named Russ Dolan had stolen something from Chandler. He figured Chandler had stopped by here and that now Oliver had whatever the item was that had been stolen. If it was money, a lot of money say from a train robbery, then Chandler would be back in the morning. First he'd need to ride into Fort Smith and get help, hired help in the form of gunmen from some of the local saloons.
He was bluffing about Judge Parker. Spur guessed that Chandler wanted to stay as far away from the hanging judge as possible.
Spur had bought some provisions at One-Eyed Louie's place when he stopped there for supper. Now he chewed on a strip of jerky and some hard biscuits and sipped from his canteen. His horse was more than a quarter-of-a-mile away. He had one blanket with him, but the night was going to be warm. He'd pull back 50-yards and make himself a small cold camp and catch a few hours of sleep.
With dawn he wanted to slip into Oliver's place without getting shot and have a long talk with the man. They had struck up a quick friendship the last time they met. If he was lucky, the Indian half of Oliver would cooperate with Spur.
Doug Chandler would be a problem. Oliver had said he wanted to move, but it took a man some time to get ready. He had livestock and poultry. He might want to wait for some crops or garden to produce. No chance he'd want to move before morning.
Spur pulled back silently, not cracking a twig or letting a branch of the luxuriant hardwood undergrowth swish back. He found a good spot and dug a place for his hips in the soft earth, and lay down on his back. Spur set his mental alarm clock to awaken him at 4:30. It never failed. He looked for the cowboy's clock high in the heavens but couldn't even see the north star through the canopy of hardwood bright green leaves over his head.
Spur shrugged and went to sleep.
A sound not natural to the woodsy surroundings awoke Spur McCoy in his brushy camp. It was still dark. He lifted on one elbow and listened again. He heard the sound of an unhappy cow, then the creak of leather. A horseman was moving.
The sounds came from the direction of Half Breed Oliver's place. Spur took his Spencer rifle and moved through the woods the way his Indian friends had schooled him. When he lay down in the fringes of brush at the edge of the clearing at Oliver's place, he knew what was happening.
Three children, the oldest about 12, moved upstream along a small creek. One led an unhappy milk cow. The smallest rode on a horse. Two more horses were led by Oliver's wife. On both horses were sacks filled with something.
If Oliver expected trouble he was getting his family out of the way. As Spur watched, he saw the mixed blood man come jogging down the trail from the main road. He wore a filled holster that was tied down to his thigh. A second revolver showed pushed in the right side of his belt. Oliver was ready for trouble.
Spur waited until the family was out of sight in the darkness up the small valley to the rear of the house. A few stragglers of gray mist evaporated with the coming dawn and then the light devoured all that was left of the darkness and it was daylight.
Spur gave the call of a mourning dove and watched Oliver straighten up from where he had been near the cabin. He frowned, shook his head and went back to working on the door.
Spur gave the call again and this time Oliver laughed.
"That's the worst imitation of a mourning dove call I've ever heard. But it got my attention. Damn, I wish I was more Cherokee. Come on out, whoever you are. I won't shoot anybody dumb enough to make that bad a call."
Spur eased up from where he lay and held both arms straight out from his sides as he came out of the brush. He carried the Spencer rifle in one hand by the end of the barrel.
"Well now," Oliver said when he recognized Spur. "The Federal man, Spur McCoy, who is somewhat more than human. How come you up and out here so early?"
Spur walked up to the cabin and took the Negro-Cherokee's hand when he held it out. The grip was firm, his smile genuine.
"Just happened to be in your neighborhood, figured you was good for a hot cup of coffee."
"Usual, but not today. You saw my family leave?"
"Did."
"I got some troubles."
"I know. I followed Doug Chandler from Fort Smith and heard most of your exchange with him last night. I'd guess that Mr. Dolan is no longer a problem for anyone."
Oliver wiped one dark hand over his face that showed only touches of the Cherokee lineage and shook his head. "I can't afford to say yea or nay, about that. What I do know is that your Mr. Chandler gonna be back here about noon with enough shooters to make me look like a walking dead man."
"They'll have two of us to take out," Spur said lifting the Spencer.
Oliver looked up quickly. "You'd do that?" He rubbed his face with his hand again. "No questions? No wonder about Russ Dolan? No asking what it was Dolan must have stolen?"
"No questions. You want to fort up here, or pull back to a defensive position with rifles to take them by surprise?"
Oliver grinned. "You musta been in the big war. Talkin' like a soldier."
"Did my part. They might torch you."
Oliver nodded. "Me and Bess worked most of the night taking things out and stashing them in the woods. Gonna move anyway. Figure I can get the rest of what I want to save hidden before they get here."
Spur slung the Spencer over his shoulder. "Let's get at it. Give us more time to fort up. Save out a pair of shovels. We might want to move some dirt and dig a hole."
Oliver grinned and scratched his head. "You always..." He stopped. "I mean are you always so..." He stopped again and chuckled. "Yep, I reckon you are. Never met me no white man like you before, Spur McCoy." He held out his hand. Spur shook it and they walked in the front door of the cabin.
Three hours later, Spur and Oliver put down their shovels and looked at their handiwork. They were on a sharp rise behind the cabin and slightly away from the main trail. They had cut some brush and taken down one four-inch tree with an axe. Now they had a perfect field of fire at the trail coming to the cabin, along both sides of the structure and half of the space across the front.
They had dug into the soft soil behind a pair of rocks that extended two-feet out of the ground. One firing slot was between the rocks, and another on the far side of the largest boulder. They stood on their knees and were at the right level to fire on the area below.
For protection to their rear they had rolled in a number of foot-thick rocks and stacked them up forming a two-foot barricade. With the two-foot deep hole, they had four-feet of protection all the way around.
"About noon?" Spur asked.
"Depends if he rode back to town last night, or stayed at One-Eyed Louie's place. About a twohour ride to the ferry from here."
By eleven o'clock, they were in their fort. They had emptied the cabin of everything that would move and that Oliver wanted to save. Oliver had moved his farm wagon a quarter-of-a-mile up the creek before Spur got there.
They had jerky and two loaves of fresh bread and two canteens of water, as well as a big slab of ham. They could hold out all day if Chandler wanted to force the issue.
"He might not even put up a fight," Spur said.
"Maybe. My guess, we won't be shooting at him to advertise that we're here. He'll go a little crazy, might burn down the place. But I don't mind that. I'd just as soon not have to shoot down anybody he brings along.
"
Spur nodded. "Killing a man is nothing to take lightly. Sometimes it has to be done. Best is to try to forget about it. If it was a case of him or you dying, it's an easier task."
Oliver nodded. He looked at Spur for a long minute, then rubbed his face and glanced away. He started to say something, then stopped.
By eleven-thirty they could see four horsemen coming up the trail from the main road toward the cabin.
"Chandler could probably find only four men who were sober at that time of morning in the saloons," Spur said. He motioned to Oliver's single shot Winchester. "I'll let you take the first shot. You might decide you don't want them to bum down your cabin after all. You built it a log at a time, I'd imagine."
Oliver nodded. "Deed I did. Bess helped some." Soon the riders below came out of the trees into the clearing and Spur heard a man's voice call. He and Oliver were a little over a hundred-yards from the cabin.
"Oliver, you can come out now, with the money. You know what I want. I can get as nasty as I have to. I'm not leaving without what's rightfully mine."
The two men hunkered down and waited. Directly overhead were branches from trees that grew at each side. Smoke from their rounds would blow toward them and into the branches making it almost impossible from below to locate the source of the rifle fire by spotting the smoke.
A six-gun cracked below and a window shattered. It was the one in front and Spur saw Oliver wince.
Chandler motioned with his revolver and a man dismounted and ran to the cabin door. He jerked it open and ducked behind the wall. Nothing happened. The man peered around the edge of the door, then rushed inside.
He came back a minute or two later.
"Nobody here. Place has been stripped clean. Looks like they done moved out."
"Overnight they moved?" Chandler asked not believing it. "We didn't see any wagon tracks. Moving out would have loaded a farm wagon heavy. No deep tracks anywhere." Chandler shook his head.
"Oliver didn't move, he's trying to fool us. I'd bet if we start to burn down his cabin here, he'll surface in a rush."
Spur Giant: Soiled Dove Page 11