Lucas Redbone, Tyrone Rogers, and Ray Gibson were at the Big Turkey way station, a gray, weather-beaten building which had been abandoned, and now sat baking in the afternoon sun. A faded sign just outside the door of the building gave the arrival and departure schedule of stagecoaches that no longer ran, for a line that no longer existed.
The roof and one wall of the nearby barn were caved in, but there was an overhang at the other end that provided some much-needed shade for their horses. Ray Gibson, a short man with a pock-marked face and a walrus style mustache was sitting on the front porch with his back against the wall. Redbone was a man of average size, clean shaven, but with long, black hair. He was inside the building, looking around at what remained of a once-busy passenger terminal.
Tyrone Rogers, who was of average size, and distinguishable by one eye which drooped so that it always appeared to be half closed, was outside, by the pump. A little earlier, he had taken the pump apart and now he was reassembling it.
Redbone stepped back out onto the front porch.
“Find anything interesting in there, Redbone?” Rogers asked from his position, bent over the pump.
“Not really,” Redbone answered. He looked down at Gibson. “All right, Gibson, we busted you out of jail. You said you would make it worthwhile, so when are you goin’ to do it? If your idea of worthwhile was robbin’ the Boydkin farm, well, that ain’t much. All we got from it was a lousy thirty dollars. Thirty dollars, which is only ten dollars apiece. We could do better than that working as cowboys for twenty dollars a month and found. At least cowboys got their food furnished for ’em.”
“I met a feller in the jail last week, just before he got out. We didn’t know each other durin’ the war, but it turns out that our paths must’a crossed only we just never know’d it. I mean, me an’ him had never run acrost each other before, but he know’d lots of the same folks I know’d. Like ole Bill Anderson, and George Todd. Hell, he even know’d Quantrill.”
“They’re all dead,” Redbone said.
“I know they are dead. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It means we have no way of checking him out.”
“He’s all right,” Gibson said.
“How do you know?”
“I can feel it.”
“That’s it? You feel it?”
“Yeah, I feel it.”
“All right, so he rode with Quantrill. What does that mean?”
“After he found out I oncet rode with Quantrill, he said he trusted me, and he asked me could I round up a couple more men for a job.”
“What kind of job?” Redbone asked.
“That’s what I asked him, and he said it was one that would let us make a lot of easy money. So I said, ‘I’m always lookin’ for an easy job.’ But he says, ‘It ain’t like we’re goin’ to be takin’ money from a baby. There’s goin’ to be some risks.’ And when I asked him what kind of risks, he said it would be just like the risks we took when we was ridin’ with Quantrill. Only this time, we’d get to keep a lot more of the money.”
“Did he say how much money?” Redbone asked.
Gibson shook his head. “He just said there was a lot of it. More’n any of us had ever seen before.”
“What do you think, Tyrone?” Redbone asked.
“I think if there is a lot of money we’d better be getting an equal share,” Rogers replied. “I mean none of this, he set up the job so he’s gettin’ most of the money. If we share equally in the risk, then we are going to share equally in the money.”
“He didn’t say nothin’ ’bout whether the share would be equal or not. He just said there’d be lots of money,” Gibson said.
“Equal,” Rogers said again.
“What if he won’t go along with that?” Ray asked. “I mean, it is his plan. He may figure he deserves more. And I don’t want to pass up the deal, not if it means a lot of money.”
Redbone smiled. “We’ll do the job. And if he don’t like the idea of an equal split, we’ll just kill the son of a bitch and take his share. That is, unless he’s some personal friend of yours and you don’t want to see him kilt.”
“Hell, I barely know the son of a bitch,” Gibson said. “Yeah,” he added with a big smile. “Yeah, I like the idea of killin’ him, and takin’ his share.”
“Hey,” Rogers called, smiling broadly as he began working the pump handle up and down. “Hey, you guys, look here! The pump is moving real smooth now! I think I fixed it.”
“Don’t do no good to have a working pump if there ain’t no water down there,” Gibson said.
“What do you think? That they pumped all the water out? There’s water down there,” Rogers said. “There’s plenty of water down there.” He started toward the barn.
“Where you goin’?” Gibson asked.
“To the horses. I’m going to get my canteen so I can prime the pump.”
“Rogers, wait a minute! Do you think that’s a good idea?” Redbone asked. “If you use up all your water trying to prime this pump, there’s no telling where we’re going to find some more.”
“There’s water down there, Redbone. I can smell it. Only we ain’t going to get it if the pump ain’t primed.”
“You use all your water up, don’t think you’re goin’ to get any of mine,” Gibson warned him.
“Hell, as I recall, it ain’t your water anyway,” Rogers called back. “I seem to mind that you was in jail. We had to dig up a horse and tack for you.”
Rogers returned a moment later with his canteen. He unscrewed the cap and held it over the pump for a second as if trying to make up his mind, then he poured it in. The water glistened brightly in the sun, then gurgled as it all rushed down the pipe.
Rogers began working the handle. “It’s comin’!” he said. “I can feel the pressure in the pipe!”
Redbone moved over to the pump, and even Gibson stood up to watch.
Suddenly the suction was broken, and the pump handle began to move easily again.
“Damn!” Rogers said.
“What happened?” Redbone asked.
“I don’t know. The water was right there, I know it. Then it just went away.”
“I told you, you wasn’t goin’ to get no water out of that pump. It’s a dry hole.” Gibson said, moving back over to resume his position on the porch.
“Gibson, let me have your water.”
“The hell you say.”
“Give me your water, damn it! It was almost there. I need to prime the pump again.”
“Well you ain’t goin’ to prime it with my water.”
Redbone pointed his pistol at Gibson. “Like he said, it ain’t your water. We just loaned it to you when we broke you out of jail. Give him your water.”
“What if there ain’t no water down there?”
“Then you ain’t no worse off than you was before we broke you out of jail,” Redbone said.
“It’s there, I tell you. I just lost the suction, that’s all.”
“Give him your canteen,” Redbone ordered.
“All right, all right,” Gibson said. “I’ll go get my canteen.”
“And don’t get any ideas about runnin’ off. You promised us a payoff for gettin’ you out of jail, and I aim to see that we collect.”
“I ain’t goin’ to go nowhere. I aim to be around to collect my share after we do that job.”
Gibson went to get his canteen, then he came back and sat down on the edge of the porch. He reached down to pull up a straw, then stuck the end of it in his mouth. “I still think this is crazy. We’re throwin’ away good drinkin’ water on the chance there might be some in that well.”
Rogers took the canteen, then poured it into the top of the pump. Once again, he began pumping.
“Yes!” he said, after a moment. “Yes, it’s coming!”
Redbone stood by watching with intense interest and even Gibson came over to see what was happening.
“Shit!” Tyrone Rogers shouted. “Shit, I need
some more water to hold the suction. It’s almost there, but I may lose it. I need more water!”
“Well, don’t look at me,” Redbone said. “You ain’t gettin’ my water.”
“Come on, we’re almost there.”
Redbone sighed. “If I pour my canteen into that pump and we don’t get no water, I’m goin’ to shoot you.”
“All right, all right, just get some more water. But hurry!”
Redbone ran to his horse, got his canteen, then ran back.
“Pour it in while I’m still pumpin’,” Rogers said.
“You crazy son of a bitch!” Gibson shouted. “You’ve used up ever’ damn bit of our water!”
Ignoring him, Redbone began to pour as Rogers continued to pump.
There were more gurgling sounds as the water disappeared down the pipe. They watched as Rogers continued to pump, the only sound being the squeak and clank of the pump handle and piston.
Redbone pulled his pistol and pointed it at Rogers. “I told you I was going to shoot you if you didn’t get water!” he said angrily.
“Wait! Wait!” Rogers said. Suddenly a big smile spread across his face. “Get ready,” he said. “Here it comes!”
At that moment, water began pouring out of the mouth of the pump. For the first few seconds, the water was red with rust, then it cleared.
“Look at that!” Rogers said. “What did I tell you? There’s all the water you need. And it’s goin’ to taste a hell of a lot better than that warm piss for water we had in our canteens.”
Chapter Seventeen
John Henry had been on the trail for three days when he found what he was looking for. He had traced Lucas Redbone and the others into a canyon.
Actually, he was pretty sure of its location even before he found it, because he had already looked up every other valley and draw within thirty miles of the Boydkin farm and this was the only place left that they could be. Then, when he started exploring this canyon and saw that it had a narrow, easily guarded entrance, he knew he was in the right spot. After that there was nothing for him to do but just dismount and let Iron Heart eat grass while he sat in the shade and kept watch for a while.
It was mid-afternoon when two riders finally exited the canyon. One was short, with a bushy, walrus mustache. The other was an average-sized man, with one eye that was half closed. The description of these two men fit perfectly with the way Mrs. Boydkin had described them.
“Well now, I thought you might show up sooner or later,” John Henry said under his breath. He was so close that he could hear them as they were talking.
“I tell you, Tyrone, this may not be the smartest thing we’ve ever done,” Gibson said. “What’s Redbone goin’ to think when he wakes up from his nap and sees that the two of us have gone?”
“When we come back with a side of beef, he won’t say nothin’,” Rogers said. “You think he ain’t about as tired of eatin’ dried jerky as we are?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Gibson replied. “But I still don’t know if this is such a good idea. I mean us doin’ a job on our own.”
“What job would that be?” Rogers replied. “It ain’t like we are out rustling cows or somethin’ like that. We’re goin’ to find us one cow, that’s all. And we ain’t even goin’ to move it. We’re goin’ to kill it on the spot, then butcher it and take back only the choice pieces. We’ll be back before sundown and have beef in our bellies before we go to sleep.”
The two men continued their conversation, but they rode out of earshot so that John Henry was no longer able to follow what they were saying. It didn’t matter. Just from what he heard, he knew that they were acting on their own, and that Redbone wasn’t right behind them.
John Henry hurried back to his horse, mounted, then rode parallel with the two riders while taking precautions so as not to be seen. He put his horse into a ground-eating gallop and easily raced ahead of them. Then, a few minutes later, he suddenly appeared on the trail just ahead of the two riders. Startled by his unexpected appearance, both horses reared and Gibson and Rogers had to fight to stay mounted, and bring their animals under control.
John Henry sat his saddle calmly, patting his own horse on the neck so that it wouldn’t become excited by the antics of Gibson and Rogers’s mounts.
“You two men going somewhere?” John Henry asked easily.
“Who the hell are you?” Rogers shouted. “What do you mean, jumpin’ out in front of us like that? Where’d you come from?”
“Whoa, now, that’s an awful lot of questions,” John Henry said.
Rogers started toward his gun. “Mister, I’m going to . . .”
“You are going to sit there quietly,” John Henry said, finishing the sentence. John Henry cocked the pistol he was already holding in his hand. The metallic sound of the clicking gear as the cylinder rolled into position was cold and frightening, and it stopped Rogers before he made a mistake. Rogers dropped his hand by his side, making no effort to go for his gun.
“There, now, that’s more like it,” John Henry said. “The two of you undo your gun belts and hand them to me.”
Rogers and Gibson did as they were ordered.
“Thanks,” John Henry said, hooking the gun belts across his saddle pommel.
“What do you want with us?”
John Henry waved the barrel of his pistol in a motion to indicate they should get going. “I want you to come back to Sequoyah with me.”
“You think we’re going to ride back to Sequoyah with you just because you asked?” Rogers asked.
“It’s your choice. You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m looking for Lucas Redbone. If I take the two of you back to Sequoyah now, I’m going to lose him. I’d rather just shoot the two of you, so I don’t lose Redbone.”
“Ha! You’re bluffing, Marshal. The truth is, right now, you don’t know whether to scratch your ass or pick your nose,” Gibson said. “We’ve got you in a bind, don’t we?”
“Oh, I’m not in that much of a bind,” John Henry said. “I’m not going to scratch my ass or pick my nose. I’m just going to kill the two of you and be done with it.”
John Henry raised his pistol and aimed it at Rogers’s head.
“No, no!” Rogers said, holding up his hands. “We’ll come with you!”
“Without giving me any trouble?”
“We won’t give you any trouble at all, I promise.”
John Henry held the pistol in position for several long seconds, as if trying to make up his mind whether he should just shoot them now, and get on with his search for Redbone.
“Please, Marshal, don’t shoot! We’ll go with you! We’ll go!” Rogers said.
D2It was nearly sundown by the time John Henry herded his two prisoners back to Sequoyah. A shimmer of sunlight bounced off the roofs and sides of the buildings, painting the town red as he prodded his horse and prisoners down the street toward the office of the Deputy U.S. Marshal.
John Henry rode straight to the jail, then dismounted and signaled for his prisoners to do the same. He and the prisoners tied their horses to the rail. Deputy Marshal Bill Ferrell met them just in front of the door.
“Well, John Henry, I see that you’ve brought me some business,” Ferrell said. “Come on in, boys. I think you’re going to like it here.”
“You think you’re going to keep us here, do you?” Gibson asked as he and Rogers were led into the jailhouse. “As soon as Redbone finds out where we are, he’s going to come in here and take this town apart. You just mark my words.”
“You have that much confidence in Redbone, do you?” Ferrell asked. He opened the door to one of the cells, and gave the two men a shove. “Well, then, we’d better keep you where he can find you, don’t you think?”
“I’m tellin’ you, Deputy, you’re makin’ a very big mistake,” Gibson said again.
“Is that a fact? Well, I’m due a mistake,” Deputy Ferrell said. “I was f
ive years old when I made my last mistake. That was thirty years ago.” He slammed the door behind them, then turned the key in the lock.
“This is a mistake you ain’t likely to walk away from,” Gibson said ominously.
“What did they do?” Ferrell asked John Henry as he walked over to rehang the key on the hook on the wall.
“You can ask Mrs. Boydkin and her daughter that. I’m sure she’ll identify them.”
“Good Lord. Are these the men who killed Mr. Boydkin and his son?”
“I’d bet a year’s pay that they are. Mrs. Boydkin can verify it for us.”
“I’ll get Mrs. Boydkin and her daughter to come into town tomorrow,” Ferrell said.
“Good enough. Now I’m going after Redbone.”
“Yeah, he’s a bad one all right. Oh, before you leave, you got a telegram from Judge Parker. He sent it to you in care of me, because he figured you would be checking in here from time to time.”
“Where is it?”
“In my desk drawer. Just a moment, I’ll get it for you.”
“Hey, Deputy! What time do we eat around here?” Rogers called.
“You’ll eat next Wednesday,” Deputy Ferrell called back. “No, wait a minute. We fed the prisoners this Wednesday. I guess you won’t be eating until Thursday.”
“What?” Rogers called back, the tone of his voice reflecting his despair. “You ain’t goin’ to feed us for a week?”
Deputy Ferrell laughed out loud and Rogers, realizing he was the butt of Ferrell’s joke, swore at him.
John Henry took the telegram.
MARSHAL SIXKILLER, PLEASE RETURN TO FORT SMITH EARLIEST. THE COURT HAS NEW ASSIGNMENT FOR YOU. PARKER
After reading it, John Henry folded up the telegram and stuck it in his pocket. “I guess Redbone is going to have to wait for a while.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been called back to Fort Smith.”
Eagle Hill, Arkansas, was a typical western town, flyblown, with a single street lined on both sides by unpainted false-fronted buildings. It could have been any of several hundred towns in a dozen western states. The most substantial building in Eagle Hill was Nippy’s Saloon.
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