Go-Ahead Rider

by Robert J Conley

  Rider waited at the depot. He stayed on the opposite side of the street, hoping that he would catch sight of Lyons trying to buy his ticket without allowing Lyons the chance of seeing him. He knew that he might be spotted by Lyons, but that would be better than allowing Lyons to get away undetected. He filled his pipe and smoked it and watched. And he thought about his family back in Tahlequah. He missed them. He knew that he wasn’t terribly far away and he hadn’t been gone all that long. But he missed them. He wasn’t worried about them. Not exactly. Not really. George would watch out for them. He knew that. But he did miss them.

  And he wondered how George was handling things on his own. He expected that George would do just fine. Perhaps they would go ahead and appoint George sheriff. If they were smart, he thought, they would do that. After all, Rider had resigned, and they needed to fill his position. They wouldn’t find a better man for it. And usually it was a pretty good job. Tahlequah was a quiet town most of the time. Not like this railroad town called Muskogee. He felt a sense of pride and accomplishment when he realized that his National Council had defeated the railroad interests and that Tahlequah would not become another railroad town like Muskogee. He drew at his pipe, but it had gone out. He tapped the pipe against the bottom of his left boot and tucked it back into his pocket. People were beginning to go into the depot in groups, in more numbers. It must be getting near arrival time for the next train, he thought. They must be going in to get their tickets. Many of them carried bags. He watched closely, hoping to catch sight of Lyons.

  Lyons stopped.

  “Damn,” he said out loud but in a low, harsh whisper. “Damn him.”

  He had been heading for the depot, intending to buy a ticket on the next train south, his destination Texas. The train would be pulling in soon, and he wanted to be on it, but there was that damned Rider. He was just standing there, watching. Lyons gripped the handle of his new Smith and Wesson Russian. He squeezed the handle and he gritted his teeth. He ached to put a bullet in Rider, several bullets, but he could not make himself pull the gun. Was he a coward? Of course not, he told himself. It was broad daylight, and there were way too many people around. He would never be able to get away with it. Not now. Not here. Perhaps there would be another time. He loosened his grip on the Russian, and then he realized how tightly he was clenching his teeth. His jaw was sore already from the tension. He stood for a moment and took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to relax at least a little. Well, he would try the stage. It was a change in plans, but it was a way out of town, a way away from Rider. He would try the stage.

  Beehunter saw Lyons stop, saw him grip his revolver, then saw him turn and leave. From where he stood, Beehunter could not see what Lyons was looking at. He did not know that Rider was up ahead, did not know where Lyons was going. He did know that he didn’t want to be seen by Lyons or to lose sight of Lyons, so when Lyons turned to retrace his own steps, Beehunter faded down a side street and waited until Lyons had passed him by, then he resumed following him. Near the stage station, Lyons spotted Lovely. Then he began to figure out the situation he was in.

  Lovely had come from Tahlequah with Rider. Lovely was a federal lawman. That meant that they likely had something on him, something that he was unaware of. It also meant the strong possibility of other lawmen being involved. There was a marshal’s office in Muskogee. Lovely would have enlisted help there. The railroad was out and so was the stage. He would have to get a horse. But if they were watching the depot and the stage station, wouldn’t they also be watching the livery stables? Of course they would. If that was his next thought, it would almost certainly have been theirs as well. He was trapped. Trapped. And it was only a matter of time before someone would spot him in Muskogee. He could sneak out of town on foot. That was the only way. He suddenly felt very conspicuous carrying his suitcase. He stopped for a moment and leaned against the wall, looking up and down the sidewalk. He set the suitcase down at his feet, took out a handkerchief, and mopped his brow. He saw no one on the street he recognized, nor anyone who appeared to be following him or watching him. He stood up straight and walked down the street, abandoning the suitcase. At the next corner he turned. He was walking east toward Arkansas. He would tackle this problem one step at a time. The first step was to get out of Muskogee.

  When Beehunter realized that Lyons was leaving town, he knew that he had a problem. He had not been sent to trail Lyons. He had been sent to find Rider, to help him out if need be. But Rider did not seem to be anywhere around, in spite of the fact that it was Lyons Rider had followed in the first place. Could something have happened to Rider? Beehunter didn’t know what to do. He could keep following Lyons, but for how long? How far? He could go back to Muskogee and look for Rider. But where? He could also go back to Tahlequah and tell George Tanner that he had failed. That he did not want to do.

  He stayed on Lyons’s trail a little while longer. He was traveling along a road that was not much more than a wagon trail heading east. He must, Beehunter thought, be going to Arkansas, but he was certainly going to have a long walk. When it became clear to Beehunter that Lyons had nowhere to go but straight ahead, straight east along this road, he turned around and started back toward Muskogee. He still wasn’t sure what he would do, but he did know that he had no intention of walking to Arkansas behind Lyons. He would go back to his horse, and then he would decide. If he should decide after all to follow Lyons, at least it would be on horseback. He would be able to catch up easily with Lyons if he decided to do that.

  Lyons’s pace had slowed considerably. His feet hurt. He could feel blisters that had been raised on his feet by his long walk, the longest walk he had taken in years. His muscles were beginning to ache as well, and his clothing was soaked with sweat. He stopped to rest and stood panting. He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket to mop his brow. The handkerchief was still wet from the last mopping. Things had certainly not turned out the way he had planned them. Yes, he had money in his pocket, but there was little he could do with it walking along this wretched little road. He longed for an inn to appear around the next bend in the road. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw no one, heard no telltale sounds. It was quiet and still. Small birds sang in the trees off to the sides of the road. He faced forward again and forced his tired legs and sore feet to carry him along his way. He walked another fifty feet or so to make it around the next curve, and then he stopped again. There was a house. It was a small house, probably the house of a small subsistence farmer, he thought. It was no inn, but it would do. It would have to do. He hurried toward the house, but before he reached it, a man stepped out through the front door and stood on the porch, holding in his hands a shotgun. Lyons stopped. He took a deep breath, and then he smiled.

  “Hello,” he said. “Might I get a drink of water from you?”

  “Water’s cheap,” said the man. “Help yourself.”

  He jerked his head toward a barrel that stood on the right-hand side of the porch. As Lyons moved forward toward the barrel, the man moved to his own left, keeping a careful eye on Lyons, holding the shotgun ready. Lyons noticed that the man took a good long look at his Russian pistol. A dipper hung on a nail on the post beside the barrel. Lyons took it down and dipped it into the water barrel. He took a long drink, and it felt good.

  “Mind if I sit a spell?” he said. “I just walked out from Muskogee.”

  “A long walk,” said the man. “Go ahead and set.”

  Lyons sat down on the edge of the porch with a groan.

  “Say,” he said, “you wouldn’t have a drink of whiskey around the place, would you?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “I can pay,” said Lyons. He reached into an inside coat pocket, slowly and carefully because of the shotgun, and he extracted from the pocket a wallet. Opening the wallet he pulled out a bill.

  “Yeah,” said the man. “I might have.”

  Elwood Lovely was getting bored. The stagecoach was about ready to load up and pull out on
its way to Fort Gibson, and he had seen no sign of Omer Lyons. He hadn’t really expected to. Fort Gibson was back in the direction of Tahlequah, and Lyons would have little reason to head back that way. If he had no other means of getting out of town, away from Rider, he might take the coach. But Lovely doubted it very much. He rolled a cigarette and lit it, and as he tossed the match away he noticed a familiar figure walking down the street. He looked again to be sure.

  “Beehunter,” he shouted.

  One of the few English words that Beehunter might have understood was the translation of his own name, but he was not attuned to the sounds of language in Muskogee. Expecting to hear nothing but English and Creek, Beehunter simply was not listening to the voices around him. He kept on walking. Lovely looked after Beehunter. He looked back at the stagecoach. The passengers were climbing aboard. He made a move as if to follow Beehunter, then hesitated. Lyons might come along at the last minute and get on the coach. Get it rolling, he said to himself. Come on. One more passenger got into the coach. The driver shut the door and climbed up onto the box. He released the brake and snapped the reins, and the stagecoach jerked forward and started to roll down the street. Lovely ran after Beehunter. Coming up beside him, he put a hand on Beehunter’s shoulder.

  “Beehunter,” he said. “Wait up.”

  Beehunter recognized Lovely, but he didn’t understand what the man was saying.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” said Lovely

  Beehunter responded in Cherokee. Lovely looked around in frustration as if he might just see someone around who could translate for him. He knew, of course, that the Indians in Muskogee were mostly Creek. Finally he gestured for Beehunter to follow him, and Beehunter understood the makeshift sign language. Lovely led him to the railroad depot and Rider, who was still watching the station. The train had not yet arrived.

  “Hey, Rider,” shouted Lovely. “Look who I found.”

  Looking surprised, Rider spoke in Cherokee to his Cherokee friend.

  “Beehunter,” he said, “what are you doing in Muskogee?”

  “I came looking for you,” said Beehunter, “in case you need some help.”

  “I’m here unofficially,” said Rider. “I can’t hire a deputy here.”

  “I’m unofficial, too,” said Beehunter. “You came after Lyons?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw him.”

  “When?” said Rider.

  “I just came from him. I can show you. He left town.”

  Lyons had another drink of the rotgut the farmer had brought out of his house. He would have liked more, but he knew that he should be getting along. His feet were sore, and he didn’t like the idea of starting to walk again. He had noticed a small barn out behind the house.

  “You have a horse around here?” he asked. “A saddle horse?”

  “I just got one,” said the man, “and I need her.”

  “I’d pay you a good price,” said Lyons.

  The farmer was a good horse trader, and his skill was enhanced by the fact that he held a shotgun in his hands. Pretty soon Lyons had agreed to a price way too high. He was angry, but he was also desperate and in a hurry.

  “Wait here,” said the farmer. “I’ll fetch her out.”

  Lyons had another drink of the man’s whiskey while he waited. Then the farmer came walking back from the barn. He was leading a brown mare by the reins. The horse had on a homemade hackamore but no saddle.

  “Where’s the saddle?” said Lyons.

  “You didn’t buy the saddle.”

  “Well, you got one?”

  “I got one.”

  “I figured you’d let me have the saddle with the horse,” said Lyons.

  “You’ll have to pay extra.”

  Lyons got up and walked to the horse. As he approached, the man dropped the reins and backed away. Lyons caught up the reins and moved to the horse’s left side.

  “To hell with you,” he said. “I’ll ride her bareback.”

  He made two false starts at mounting, then stood with his arms resting on the animal’s back.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “All right. Go get me the saddle.”

  “Let’s see your money first.”

  Lyons took out his wallet again. He pulled out a few bills. The man didn’t budge. He pulled out another. The farmer stepped forward just enough to reach out and take the money.

  “Be right back,” he said.

  When the farmer walked toward his barn, he left Lyons standing in the yard on the far side of the mare. Lyons felt his heartbeat increase. He slipped the big Smith and Wesson out of its holster and waited. The farmer came back carrying the saddle. He still held the shotgun, too, but it was not in a ready position. The saddle had him off guard. The man was within ten feet of the mare when Lyons raised the revolver up and laid his arm across the horse’s back. The man stopped. His mouth fell open and his eyes opened wide. He dropped the saddle, intending to swing his shotgun around, but before the saddle hit the ground, Lyons had pulled the trigger. The heavy .44 Russian slug smashed into the man’s sternum and tore apart his backbone on the way out. His face sagged and took on a stupid expression. He walked backward two steps, stopped, then dropped to his knees and fell forward. Lyons steadied the horse, and he ran to the body to retrieve his money. Then he saddled the mare and climbed onto her back.

  Rider, Beehunter, and Lovely were riding along the road where Beehunter had followed Lyons earlier. Beehunter had assured Rider that they were not far behind the man. They couldn’t be, he said. Lyons had been on foot, and he didn’t walk very fast. Beehunter had calculated the time it had taken him to walk back to town, find Rider, get their horses, and then ride out along the road. Lyons was not far ahead. Then they heard the shot.

  “Let’s go,” said Rider. They spurred their horses into a run. Rounding a bend in the road, they came to the farmhouse. Lovely spotted the body first. The three riders slowed almost to a stop.

  “Go on,” said Lovely. “I’ll see about this.”

  Rider and Beehunter rode on while Lovely dismounted and ran to where the unfortunate farmer lay. He soon saw that the man was dead, and he remounted his horse. Then he rode hard after his two companions.

  Omer Lyons heard the riders coming up behind him. He looked over his shoulder, but he could not see them. In a panic he kicked the sides of his mare and she jumped forward. He rode hard around another curve in the narrow road, and then he saw the outcropping of rocks off to the left side of the road. He turned the mare toward the rocks and pulled her up hard at the base of the outcropping. The horse had not quite stopped when he swung down too hastily from the saddle. He fell to the ground. Scampering to his feet he ran to the rocks and clambered upward. The rocks didn’t rise very high, perhaps fifteen feet, but at the top of the rock shelf was an oval-shaped rock. He worked his way behind it and found it to be near perfect. He could settle himself behind it and fire over its top, and he had a good view of the road. He pulled out the big pistol and reloaded the empty chamber. Then he saw them. He took aim and fired.

  “Ow. God damn,” Lovely cried, grabbing at his left shoulder. He half fell, half threw himself from the saddle. His companions each quickly dismounted, taking hold of him and helping him to the side of the road. They got themselves back into the trees that grew beside the road. Beehunter pulled a bandanna out of his hip pocket and wrapped Lovely’s wound as best he could.

  “He’s up there on those rocks,” said Rider.

  “What the hell’s he shooting?” said Lovely.

  Rider eased around the tree, which was protecting him, and fired a shot at the rocks. Lyons came up and shot again just as Rider ducked back behind the tree. The .44 Russian bullet tore bark from the tree just about where Rider had been.

  “It’s a pistol,” said Rider.

  “Damn heavy load,” said Lovely. “That’s a big gun.”

  “I’m going to try to work my way closer through these trees,” said Rider. “You just stay put.”
r />   Then he turned to Beehunter and spoke in Cherokee.

  “Stay with him,” he said. “I’m going closer.”

  Beehunter also realized that Lyons was firing no ordinary pistol. It was too accurate at that range, and it made a powerful loud noise. He knew why Rider was creeping through the woods to get closer. His Colts were no match for that thing at their present distance. As Rider vanished through the woods, Beehunter looked out onto the road. The three abandoned horses were milling around nervously and snorting. Then from somewhere up ahead Rider fired a shot at Lyons. Lyons soon figured out that someone had crept closer, and he shifted his position on the rocks to compensate for the different angle. Rider fired again, and Lyons popped up from behind his cover to aim the big Russian model revolver. Beehunter ran onto the road to the side of his horse and pulled his Henry rifle out of its scabbard. He took quick but careful aim and pulled the trigger. The .44 rifle slug struck Lyons just above the right eye and tore out a piece of the back of his skull. His head jerked backward with the impact, his hands went limp, and he dropped his pistol, finally toppling back off the rocks.