Go-Ahead Rider

by Robert J Conley

  “I do suspicion him,” he said, “but that’s all we got. We can’t arrest him for driving ole Mix somewhere in his buggy.”

  George walked back to his chair and sat down.

  “What then?” he said.

  Rider struck a match, and the flame burst out in the darkness. He lit his pipe and took several puffs to make sure it was going well.

  “I think we’ll just let it rest awhile, George,” he said. “Go back to the whiskey case. Work on that.”

  “What?”

  “Sleep on it. Think about it. We’ll talk about it some more in the morning.”

  George tossed in his bed that night. Why would Rider abandon a murder case—one that Chief Ross was particularly concerned about—to chase down a whiskey seller? That didn’t make any sense. If it had been anyone besides Rider, George would have thought him a fool or an incompetent, but he couldn’t think either of those things about Go-Ahead Rider. No. Rider knew what he was doing. But George didn’t know, and that frustrated George. The selling of illegal whiskey was a serious crime; George knew that. And in the absence of a murder, it would make perfect sense to concentrate on that problem. But George couldn’t help but think that the murder should take precedence. What was Rider thinking? “Go back to the whiskey case,” he had said. That had been Rider’s top priority before the disappearance of Mix Hail. George had accompanied Rider on his visit to the Capital Hotel when Rider questioned Riley about that, and—wait a minute, thought George. What had Rider said? “Bean is the man we’re after.” He’d said that just after they had left the hotel. Bean Riley was the whiskey seller. At least that’s what Rider believed. And now they knew that Bean Riley was the last man seen with Mix Hail. It began to make sense.

  George was awake early the next morning. He hadn’t slept much the night before, but he wasn’t sleepy, and he wasn’t tired. He was wide awake and anxious to start the day.

  He looked across the dog run to the other cabin and saw no evidence that anyone was up yet over there. He dressed, strapped on the Starr revolver, and went out to sit in the dog run. In less than a minute he was up and pacing out to the road. He pulled the Illinois Railroad watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. Damn, he said to himself. He was up too early. It would be an hour before breakfast, at least a half hour before Rider would stir. He paced back to the chair, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to stand the wait. He took a little notebook and a pencil out of his pocket, and he penciled a note to Rider.

  Going downtown for breakfast. See you at the office.

  George

  He put the note on the table in the dog run, knowing that Rider would be out there with his first cup of coffee and weighed it down with a small rock, then he began walking down the hill. He walked past the jail and on down to Muskogee Avenue as far as Al’s Eats. He went inside, sat down, and when Al came over to his table, ordered himself a big breakfast of eggs, sausage, biscuits, and gravy. He drank three cups of coffee while he was waiting for the breakfast, another with the meal, and two more after he had finished eating.

  He pulled the watch out of his pocket and checked the time. In another fifteen minutes, Rider would be at the office. He thought about having one more cup of coffee to pass the time, but his stomach was already sloshing from the previous six cups. He decided against it, got up, paid for his breakfast, and turned to walk out the door. Just then the door opened, and Omer Lyons and Bean Riley walked in together. George gave them a nod as he left. Outside he hesitated. He looked back through the window and saw them sit down together. He wanted to be sure. Yes. They sat down together. He walked on to the office.

  The office was still locked up when George got there, so he started walking back up the hill, back toward Rider’s house. About halfway up the hill, he saw Rider coming down. He hurried to meet him.

  “You got out early this morning, George,” said Rider.

  “Yeah,” said George, turning to walk alongside Rider. “I’ve been thinking. I know what you’re up to. At least I think I do.”

  “All right,” said Rider. “Tell me about it.”

  “You think that Bean Riley is the man who’s been selling whiskey around here. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “But you also think that Bean is guilty of Mix Hail’s murder—or at the least, he’s involved in it. Right?”

  “Right again.”

  “Well, we’ve got nothing to go on with the murder case. I mean, we’ve got a lot of evidence, but nothing that really points to anyone. We don’t have any real strong evidence against Riley or anyone else—just suspicions. Am I right there?”

  “You’re right there,” said Rider.

  “So we’ll arrest Riley on the whiskey charge. Get him in jail. Once we’ve got him, maybe we can get something more out of him. Maybe he’ll break down in jail and tell us what we need to know.”

  They had reached the bottom of the hill, and the jail was just ahead. George was puffing from talking so much and walking at the same time.

  “Or maybe,” said Rider, “someone else will get excited about Bean being in jail and be afraid that ole Bean might have said something out of turn.”

  “You mean Omer Lyons. You think that Riley is working for Lyons. Right?”

  “You’re right with me, George,” said Rider. “So far.”

  “I just saw Riley and Lyons go into Al’s Eats together. They sat down together. Just as I was leaving. Just now.”

  “That ain’t no crime,” said Rider, “but it is interesting.”

  They had reached the jail, and Rider unlocked the front door. They went inside the building and into the office. Rider started messing with the wood stove to build up the fire for the coffeepot. George took the pot and went for water. He felt good about himself. He was thinking the same way Rider was thinking. Maybe he would make it in this police business after all. He brought the pot back in and set it on the stove. Rider had the fire going, and he took a handful of coffee grounds and dropped them into the pot of water. He moved over to his desk, sat down behind it, placed his big pistols on the desk before him, pulled out his pipe and tobacco, and began filling his pipe. Still standing by the stove, George followed Rider with his gaze.

  “Rider?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Before we heard about Mix Hail, you were tracking the whiskey sales.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said that Riley was the one you were after, but you didn’t arrest him. You didn’t have any evidence.”

  “That’s right.”

  Rider struck a match on the side of his desk and began puffing at his pipe.

  “So how are we going to arrest him now?”

  “George,” said Rider, talking between puffs, “the boys ought to start gathering right about now down around the capitol. Go on down there and send them down to see me one at a time. And keep your ears open. Listen to the talk.”

  George looked at Rider, puzzled. He hesitated.

  “Go on now,” said Rider.

  At the capitol, George found all of the special deputies except Beehunter. He approached Delbert Swim first.

  “Delbert,” he said, “run over to the office. Rider wants to talk to you.”

  “What about?” said Swim.

  “I don’t know,” said George, “but it’s not just you. He wants to talk to each of you—one at a time.”

  “Oh,” said Swim, and he looked somewhat relieved. “Right now?”

  “Yeah,” said George. “Go ahead. I’ll spell you here.”

  Swim took off at a trot toward the jail, and George began working his way toward the front door of the building. “Keep your ears open,” Rider had said. If there was anything to be heard around the capitol at this time of morning, it would be around the front door. Two men were walking side by side toward the building. George thought that they were council members. He didn’t really know all the councilmen, so he wasn’t sure, but he thought they were. Elmer Lee walked around the corner of the buildin
g and up to George.

  “Morning, George,” he said.

  “Hi, Elmer. Say. These two coming here. They council members?”

  “Yeah. You send Delbert off somewhere?”

  “Yeah,” said George. “Rider wants to see each of you alone. When Delbert gets back, you run on down there next. Okay?”

  “Okay. You know what it’s about?”

  “I sure don’t,” said George. The two council members were getting close, and George stopped talking. He put a hand on Elmer’s shoulder and turned his back on the approaching legislators. He thought that they were talking Cherokee. “Listen,” he whispered to Elmer Lee.

  They came closer, passed by, and walked into the building.

  “Did you hear what they were saying?” said George.

  “Some of it,” said Elmer. “It sounds like they’re fixing to vote on the railroad thing this morning. They’re going to vote against it. They think the railroad killed Mix.”

  Over Elmer Lee’s shoulder, George could see Beehunter trotting up toward the square. He was late to work, so he was in a hurry. George glanced back toward the jail and saw Delbert Swim coming back. He gestured toward Swim and told Elmer Lee to go on. Swim took off, and Beehunter came trotting up. George nodded to Beehunter, then turned to wait for Swim.

  “What did he want?” he asked when Swim came close.

  “I don’t know,” said Swim. “He give me some coffee and then bullshit. That’s all. I sure don’t know.”

  George was puzzled and slightly irritated. Why couldn’t Rider let him in on his little secrets? After all, he was Rider’s chief deputy.

  “Tell Beehunter to go on down there as soon as Elmer Lee gets back, will you?”

  Swim walked over to Beehunter and started talking in Cherokee. George stared off toward the jail, an ambiguous furrow in his brow.

  Chapter Seven

  Rider stood at the window of his office looking toward the capitol. He could see the council members leaving the building, and soon he saw his deputies walking toward the jail. It’s all over, he thought. One way or the other. He moved back to his chair, sat down, filled and lit his pipe. He was smoking contentedly when they came in.

  “The meeting’s over, Rider,” said George. “Council’s adjourned. They voted down the railroad. Apparently everyone thinks that the railroad lobby is responsible for the murder of Mix Hail, and that swung the vote against them.”

  Rider nodded and puffed his pipe. He reached into a desk drawer and took out some money, which he divided into five equal portions. Then he opened a ledger book and turned it around on the desktop to face the deputies.

  “Sign your names and take your pay,” he said. “Wado.”

  In a few minutes the deputies were gone—all except George Tanner. George sat on the edge of his desk, his arms folded across his chest, and he stared at Rider. Suddenly he became aware of what he was doing and remembered the inherent cultural rudeness of the act. He was ashamed of himself, and he looked down at the floor before he spoke.

  “Rider,” he said, “what the hell are you up to?”

  Beehunter walked down Muskogee Avenue, holding his pay out in front of himself and smiling. He spoke to everyone he passed on the street, and he waved and gestured toward them with his money showing in his hand. By the time he had turned off the main street and headed toward the east edge of town, just about everyone in Tahlequah knew that Beehunter had been paid and that he was in a very good mood. About a half mile out of town, Beehunter came to a small frame house badly in need of paint. As he approached the house he called out in a loud and friendly voice.

  “’Siyo. ’Siyo.”

  The door opened just a crack, enough for someone inside to peek out to see who was coming. Then it was opened further and a woman stood in the doorway. She spoke to Beehunter in Cherokee.

  “Hello,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Beehunter answered. “Where is your old man?”

  “He’s coming, I think.”

  The woman stepped back and disappeared again into the house, but in less than a minute, Tom Spike Buck appeared in the doorway. He looked at Beehunter suspiciously for a few seconds then he stepped outside.

  “What are you doing, Beehunter?” he said in Cherokee.

  “I came looking for you, old friend. Look. I got paid for my work. The meeting’s over and I’m free again. I need to celebrate.”

  “How are you going to celebrate?” said Buck.

  Beehunter stuffed the money into a shirt pocket and eyed Buck coyly.

  “You got a drink on you?” he asked.

  “No,” said Buck. “I don’t have any. I know where to get some, but I don’t have any money either.”

  “I got money,” said Beehunter, and he patted the pocket into which he had stuffed his pay. “Right here.”

  “You work for Rider,” said Buck.

  “Not any more. The meeting’s over. Rider just hires some of us extra just long enough for the meeting. We’re not real deputies. His real deputy is that new one. Little white boy.”

  Beehunter laughed at his own joke, but Tom Spike Buck maintained the same sullen expression on his face. Beehunter shrugged and turned to leave.

  “Ah, well,” he said, “I got to go. I’ll see you sometime.”

  “Where you going?” said Buck.

  Beehunter kept walking away from Buck’s house.

  “Going to find somebody with a drink,” he said.

  Buck trotted after Beehunter and moved up beside him.

  “Come on,” he said. “I know where to go.”

  “George,” said Rider, “let’s go get us some dinner. You’re making me nervous pacing around like that.”

  “It’s early,” said George.

  “What time is it?”

  George pulled out his watch and gave it a glance.

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, it’s about a quarter of twelve. It’s later than I thought.”

  “Come on,” said Rider, and he walked out of the office without looking back. George followed him, almost angry. They walked up the hill to Rider’s house without speaking. Exie gave them each a cup of coffee to keep them occupied while she finished putting the noon meal on the table. The children were at school. Rider’s small talk at the table annoyed George, but he tried not to show it for Exie’s sake. When the meal was done, George thanked Exie and excused himself. He walked out to the dog run and paced until Rider came out to join him. Then he started to walk toward the road, but Rider had gone to his chair. He sat down and started to load his pipe.

  “Are we going back to the office?” said George, the irritation showing through in his voice.

  “In a while,” said Rider. “Ain’t no hurry. Sit down and relax.”

  George sat down, but he didn’t relax. He glanced at Rider, then looked away again.

  “Rider,” he said, “are we going to arrest Riley or not?”

  “What would we arrest him for?” said Rider.

  “Selling whiskey, I guess. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Rider sent a large cloud of blue smoke drifting up over his head.

  “I said we’d get back to work on that case. We don’t have any evidence on ole Bean yet. We can’t arrest the man on just my suspicion, now, can we?”

  “So why are we just sitting here? Why aren’t we out looking—for evidence?”

  “Where would we look, George?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Just calm down,” said Rider. “We’ll stroll on back down to the office here in a little bit and wait there. I got something going. We’ll have him before the day’s out.”

  Beehunter was broke, and he was a bit unsteady on his feet. He felt light-headed and dizzy as he weaved his way down Muskogee Avenue. He bumped into a wall, avoiding a passing lady. The lady stopped and turned to watch him stagger on, her expression clearly one of stem disapproval. Finally, Beehunter could see the jail. He took a deep breath and aimed himself carefully, then
began walking toward it with a slight list to his left. He hoped that Rider was still there. He had no idea of the time. When he reached the office inside the jail, he shoved too hard on the door and almost fell into the room. He caught his balance and straightened himself up, facing Rider.

  “I’m drunk,” he said to Rider in Cherokee.

  Rider got up and moved around the desk. He pulled a chair across the room and placed it behind Beehunter, then took Beehunter by the shoulders to help him.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Beehunter dropped heavily into the chair, and Rider stepped around in front of him.

  “Where’d you get it?” he asked.

  “Tom Spike Buck got it for me first. He wouldn’t say where. Made me wait for him. So I had to drink with him. Then we got a little drunk and ran out. He didn’t care so much then, and I went with him. We bought it from Bean Riley.”

  George couldn’t understand the Cherokee conversation, but he did catch the word tuya, bean, and he began to understand what was going on. At least he thought that he did. He sat quietly in his chair and listened carefully for any other words he might understand, but he knew that he would have to wait for Rider’s explanation.

  “Where does he keep it?” said Rider.

  “The springhouse.”

  “Good work, Beehunter.”

  “Go-Ahead,” said Beehunter, “I feel kind of funny.”

  “Go find you a comfortable bed in a cell and sleep it off. You’ll be all right.”

  Beehunter rose uneasily to his feet and began to slowly turn toward the door. Rider took hold of him by an arm and glanced over his shoulder toward George.

  “George,” he said, switching to English, “help Beehunter to a cell.”

  As George, supporting Beehunter, went through the office door leading to the cells, Rider called out after him, “But don’t lock the door on him.” Then he stepped over to his desk and picked up his two Colts. He pushed the six-guns into the waistband of his trousers and went to the hatrack to get his hat. George came back into the office.

  “Inena,” said Rider. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  They stopped by the capitol and picked up a search warrant from Harm Boley, then walked on down to Riley’s hotel. Riley was behind the counter.