John Henry had not been able to track them when he was first given the mission of bringing them in, but he could track them now, because he was able to pick up their tracks from the creek.
Long before he got there, John Henry could see the community of Doster. The tracks of the two men he was following had led him here to this little town that lay baking under the sun, hot, dry, dusty, and as brittle as tumbleweed. Before leaving his campsite, he had filled his canteen at the stream and now, with the town in front of him, he allowed himself to drink the final few swallows. The water was warm, but his tongue was swollen and dry so that any moisture, regardless of temperature, was welcome. And, although he was drinking tepid water, he could almost taste the cool beer he would have once his job was done. Alcohol was not allowed in The Nations, but John Henry had developed a taste for beer and had one whenever the opportunity presented itself.
John Henry hooked his canteen back onto the saddle pommel, then urged the two horses, the one he was riding and the one he was leading, forward. The horse he was leading was carrying Pete, belly down across the saddle. If the horse had any reaction to its rider being dead, he didn’t show it.
The buildings in the town had collected the day’s heat and they were now giving it back in waves so that Doster seemed to shimmer in the distance. A dust devil was born in front of him, propelled by a wind that felt as if it were blowing straight from the fires of hell. A jackrabbit popped up, ran for several feet, then darted under a dusty clump of fescue sedge.
It took another ten minutes to reach the town after he first saw it, and he rode in slowly, sizing it up with wary eyes. It was a town with only one street and a dozen or more ramshackle buildings that fronted the street. The unpainted wood of the few buildings was turning gray and splitting. Hitching poles lined either side of the street and the horses thereon tied nodded and stamped at the flies. There was no railroad coming into the town, but there was a stagecoach station with a schedule board announcing the arrival and departure of two stagecoaches per week. The town appeared to be isolated, inbred, and stagnant.
John Henry rode past the buildings, checking each of them over as he passed. There was a rooming house, a livery, a smithy’s, and a general store that said DRUGS, MEATS, GOODS on its high, false front. There was a hotel and restaurant, too, and, of course, the ubiquitous saloon . . . this one called the Kansas Prairie Saloon. Across the street from the saloon was the city marshal’s office.
John Henry rode up to the hitching rail in front of the jail, dismounted, then looked up and down the street. He knew that coming into town with a body thrown over a horse would attract some attention, and evidently it did. A few buildings away a door slammed, while across the street an isinglass shade came down on the upstairs window of the hotel. A sign creaked in the wind and flies buzzed loudly around the piles of horse manure that lay in the street.
John pushed open the door. There was no one at the desk, but he saw someone sleeping on the bunk of one of the three cells. The door to that cell, like the door to the other two, was standing open. Except for this one, all the cells were empty. John Henry had left the door to the building standing open, and a gust of wind blew it shut with a loud bang.
“What? What?” the man in the cell said, awakened by the loud pop. He sat up on the bunk and saw John Henry standing just outside the cell.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for the town marshal.”
“Yeah? Well, you found him. I’m Marshal Dawes.”
“You’re taking a chance, aren’t you, Marshal Dawes? Sleeping in the cell, I mean. What if someone came in here and slammed the door shut on you?”
“I’ve got the keys,” the marshal said. “What are you lookin’ for me for?”
“Marshal, I am United States Marshal Sixkiller and I . . .”
“Sixkiller? Is that an Indian name?”
“Yes, I’m Cherokee.”
“You don’t look like no Indian.”
“My mother is white.”
Marshal Dawes stroked his jaw and stared at John Henry. “U.S. Marshal, huh? Well, what brings you to Doster, Marshal?”
“I’ve got a body for you,” John Henry said.
“A body? Where?”
“Belly down across his horse,” John Henry answered. “He’s tied up out front.”
“Who is it?”
John Henry saw a poster with Pete Fuller’s name and picture, and he tore it down. “This man.”
The town marshal, who was bald headed and overweight, came out of the cell poking his shirt down into his trousers. “The hell you say. Pete Fuller, huh? He’s a bad one. Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, good riddance, I say. What do you want me to do with him?”
“Get a notary to validate who it is, then get him buried.”
“What? You want the town to bury him? Who’s goin’ to pay for that? Maybe you didn’t notice, but this town ain’t all that large. We don’t have a lot of—what you call—disposable income.”
“You can keep his horse and tack,” John Henry said. “That should cover it.”
“All right,” Marshal Dawes said. “That seems about right. What are you goin’ to do now? You’ll be goin’ back down into The Nations?”
“No, the other two men who were with Fuller are here in town now. I’m going after them.”
“There’s two more of ’em, you say?”
“Yes. Vernon Simmons and Injun Joe Pipestem.”
“Damn!” Marshal Dawes said, his eyes opening wide. “That’s a couple of bad ones. And they are here, you say? In my town? How do you know they are here?”
“Because I tracked them here, and I intend to arrest them and take them back to Judge Parker to be hanged.”
“Hanging Judge Parker,” Marshal Dawes said. He nodded. “Yes, sir, you take them boys back to him, and he’ll hang ’em all right. Uh, would you be wantin’—that is, are you askin’ me to come help you arrest ’em?”
“No.”
“That’s good. Don’t get me wrong, I mean, if I thought you really needed help, I’d come along with you, though I don’t know how legal that would be. I mean, me being nothin’ but a town marshal and them two boys wanted by the state and federal government means I ain’t really got no right to be messin’ with ’em.”
“I’ll handle them myself,” John Henry said.
“Well, if they’re in town, it’s a guarantee that they’ll be down at the saloon. Either that, or in the cathouse, which turns out to be the same thing, since a couple of the girls that’s workin’ there is the town’s only whores.”
“John Henry Sixkiller is here,” Injun Joe said. “He just rode in down at the marshal’s office. He’ll be comin’ down here next.”
“What’s he doin’ up here? He’s an Injun policeman, ain’t he?”
“I think that is true,” Injun Joe said.
“Then I ain’t worried about him. He’s got no authority over us here.”
“I think for a man like Sixkiller it will not matter whether he has the authority or not,” Injun Joe said.
“Yeah, maybe you are right. All right then, we’ll be waitin’ for him,” Vernon said. “Start blasting away as soon as he sets foot on the porch.”
Vernon and Injun Joe both moved up to the front door and, with guns drawn, looked down toward the marshal’s office.
“You have a back way out of this building?” John Henry asked Marshal Dawes.
“Yeah, I do, but I keep it locked.”
“Unlock it. I’d just as soon not be seen going down to the saloon. I take it the saloon has a back door.”
“Yes, and it isn’t locked, because the privy is out back.”
“Thanks.”
Marshal Dawes unlocked the back door to the jail house and John Henry stepped outside.
“Good luck,” Dawes said.
John Henry nodded in reply to the sheriff’s best wishes, then moved quickly up
the alley, which was lined with at least five privies, all of which were competing with each other with their odiferous emanations. When he reached the back door of the saloon, he pulled his pistol, then stepped inside.
The back door was shielded by the piano, which wasn’t being played at the time. That allowed John Henry a moment to peruse the room. There were three men standing on one side of the bar, and the bartender on the other side. There were two other men sitting at one of the tables, and a man and a bar girl sitting at another table. There were three more tables that were empty. Everyone in the saloon was staring at the two men who were standing up front, just inside the swinging bat-wing doors. Both had pistols drawn, and were looking outside.
John Henry took a few more steps into the saloon, so far not noticed by any of the others in the saloon, all of whom had their attention riveted upon the two armed men standing up by the front door. John raised his pistol, pointed it at the two men, then called out.
“Vernon Simmons, Injun Joe, drop your guns!”
“What the hell?” Vernon shouted, spinning around.
“Don’t do it!” John Henry warned, cocking his pistol and aiming it directly at Vernon.
Injun Joe was the first to drop his pistol and put his hands up. Then, seeing that he would have to face John Henry alone, Vernon dropped his pistol as well.
“That’s real smart of you boys,” he said. “Now, let’s take a little walk down to the jail.”
“You got them, did you?” Marshal Dawes asked nervously, as John Henry brought the two men in. “Good, I was getting a little nervous waiting, wondering what was going on. I was about to come down there and offer you my help if you needed it.”
“As you can see, I didn’t need it.”
“So, what do we do with them now?” Marshal Dawes asked.
“We’ll keep them here, in your jail, until Fort Smith sends a prisoner transport van for them.”
“Here? You are going to keep them here?” Dawes asked. “But, do you think that’s wise? I mean, them being federal prisoners and all? This is just a small city jail.”
“Where else would you suggest I keep them? In the hotel?”
“No, I, uh, I guess it will be okay to keep them here.”
“I’ll sleep in the next cell,” John Henry said.
“Yeah, yeah, that would probably be a pretty good idea. I mean, in case they try to escape or something,” Marshal Dawes said, relief obvious in his voice.
“Will you be all right with them until I get back?”
“Get back? Get back from where?”
“I put in a lot of miles today, hot, dry, dusty miles. And I intend to have a beer.”
“I thought Indians couldn’t drink.”
“Indians can’t, but that’s all right. It just means more beer for the white half of me,” John Henry said with a chuckle.
Chapter Thirteen
“What do mean, my brother is in jail?” Milton Simmons said.
“I mean he is in jail,” Abner Turner said. “Him, and that Injun he runs with.”
“Injun Joe.”
“Yeah. Well, they was both in here, but that Injun marshal, the one they call Sixkiller, took ’em both down to the jailhouse.”
“He’s just one man. I can’t see one man bein’ able to do that. Not with Vernon and Injun Joe both.”
“Vernon and Injun Joe didn’t have no choice in it,” Turner said. “Sixkiller come in through the back door with his gun already drawed. If Vernon or the Injun had tried anything, he would’a shot ’em both.”
“Why didn’t you do somethin’?”
“There weren’t nothin’ I could have done except maybe got the two of ’em kilt. You didn’t want that, did you?”
“Well, I can tell you right now, my brother ain’t goin’ to stay in no jail,” Milton said.
“Sumbitch,” Turner said quietly. “There he is now.”
Turner nodded, but did not point at the tall, powerfully built man who had just come in. John Henry stepped up to the bar, and the bartender moved down to him.
“Did you get the two boys put away for the night?” the bartender asked.
“I did.”
“What’ll you have?”
John Henry took a nickel out of his pocket and put it, with a snap, on the bar.
“No, sir,” the bartender said. “This first beer is on me. I figure puttin’ away those two characters is worth a beer in anybody’s saloon.”
“Hey you!” Milton called out. “You, the Injun standin’ at the bar! What are you doin’ up here with the white people? Don’t you know Injuns aren’t welcome up here? Why don’t you go back down into The Nations where you belong?”
“Why don’t you have a beer on me?” John Henry replied.
“I don’t want a beer on you, you son of a bitch. You’re the one who just put my brother in jail.”
John Henry turned toward him and studied him for a long moment.
“You don’t appear to be an Indian, so I’m guessing Vernon Simmons is your brother.”
“You’re guessing right.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Simmons?”
“You can let my brother and Injun Joe out of jail.”
“I don’t think so,” John Henry said. “Your brother and Mr. Pipestem murdered six people. I’m taking them back to Fort Smith to hang.”
“No, you ain’t goin’ to do that.” He moved his hand in such a way as to take in Turner. “As you can see, there’s two of us and only one of you,” Milton said. “And you ain’t standin’ behind us the way you was when you got the drop on my brother.”
From behind the bar came the sound of hammers being pulled back on a shotgun, and looking toward the bar, John Henry saw the bartender pointing the shotgun at Simmons and Turner.
“You are sounding most quarrelsome, Mr. Simmons. And I don’t like quarrelsome people in my saloon.”
“You think you are scarin’ me with that scattergun?” Milton asked. “I know damn well you ain’t willin’ to shoot me just ’cause I’m quarrelsome.”
“Maybe he isn’t, but I am,” John Henry said.
“You are what?”
“I’m willing to shoot you.”
There was neither anxiousness nor fear in John Henry’s voice. There was no expression of any kind, other than a cold statement of fact.
“Hah!” Turner said. “You ain’t thinkin’ very straight, are you? You was behind Vernon and Injun Joe. You’re right here in front of us.”
“Shut up, Turner,” Milton said sharply. He continued to stare at John Henry. “I think the son of a bitch means it.”
“I do mean it. Now, drop your gun belts,” John Henry ordered.
Milton hesitated.
“Now!” John Henry repeated, the word loud and reverberating through the saloon. By now everyone present was watching the drama that was being played out in front of them.
“Do what the marshal says,” the bartender said, raising the shotgun to his shoulder.
First Milton, and then Turner, unbuckled their pistol belts and let them fall to the floor.
“Now step back away from them,” John Henry ordered.
“Look here, Marshal, this is gettin’ a little out of hand now,” Milton said. “Like you said, let’s just stop this now. I reckon I’ll take that beer after all.”
John Henry nodded at the bartender, who put his shotgun away, then drew two beers and set them on the bar.
Suddenly, Milton spun away from the bar toward John Henry. He had a pistol in his hand and an evil smile on his face.
“Did you think I was really dumb enough to drop my gun unless I had another?” he asked. “Turner, pick up the other guns.”
With a big smile on his face, Turner retrieved the two belts and holsters. He strapped his on, then pulled his pistol and pointed it at John Henry, holding it there as Milton started to strap on his own gun.
“Now here is what we are going to do,” Milton said, laying his second pistol on the bar as he b
egan strapping on his holster. “We’re goin’ to go down to the jail, and you are goin’ to turn my brother and Injun Joe loose.”
“You wouldn’t listen to me, would you?” John Henry replied. “You could have enjoyed your beer, then walked out of here free men. Now you are both under arrest.”
“What?” Milton asked, barking a laugh. “Why you dumb son of a bitch! We got the drop on you, and you are telling us that we are under arrest?”
“You have your choice,” John Henry said calmly. “You can either come down to the jail with me now, or . . .” He let the last word hang.
“Or what?”
“I’ll kill you both.”
Milton laughed again. “Let me get this straight. Your gun is in your holster, Turner and I are both holding our pistols on you, but you are going to kill us both. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Then, Injun, you’d better start killin’, ’cause I’ve had about enough of you. I’m goin’ to count to three, and if you ain’t started toward the jail to let my brother and Injun Joe out, you’re the one that’s goin’ to get kilt. One, two . . .”
In a draw that was so fast that his hand was a blur, John Henry pulled his pistol and fired two times. The shots were so close together that most thought he had shot only once, until they saw Turner down and Milton leaning back against the bar, his hand covering a bleeding belly wound.
“You . . . didn’t . . . let . . . me get to three,” Milton said.
“Yeah. Sometimes I cheat,” Sixkiller said.
Milton slid down to the floor, sitting against the bar. Then he fell over, his head hitting a filled spittoon, turning it over and spilling the expectorated tobacco juice on his face.
He didn’t feel it.
One hundred and fifty miles northeast of Doster, in the town of Emporia, Kansas, Octave Chanute, the chief construction engineer for the Border Tier Line was standing in the station, waiting for the afternoon train to arrive. He wasn’t alone; train activity in and out of Emporia was still an exciting enough event to cause more than half the town to be at the depot to watch the arrivals and departures. Chanute had a legitimate reason for being at the station because he was meeting with James Joy, the president of the Border Tier Railroad.
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