Will hesitated a moment. “I don’t know, but I’ve been thinkin’ about it a lot more lately.” He made sure he didn’t glance at Sophie when he said it.
Ruth looked at once at her daughter to see the faint smile on Sophie’s face. She said nothing, but she wanted to warn her. Don’t you go getting your hopes up, young lady. Getting him to settle down on a ranch would be like telling a hawk not to fly anymore. Sometimes it was all she could do to keep from screaming at her daughter in a desperate plea to stop her from traveling the same road she had. She looked at Will. “Are you going to be here for breakfast in the morning?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon I’ll most likely be the first one at the table. I wanna get an early start, but I don’t wanna miss breakfast here.” He told himself that it would take some time to transfer the prisoner into his custody, anyway, so he might as well settle for a late start.
After supper, he went out on the porch while the women cleaned up the dishes to sit and talk with Leonard Dickens and Ron Sample, who had been living at the boardinghouse long before Will came. They were the eldest of Ruth’s boarders and they usually sat on the porch after supper to light up their pipes and discuss the news of the day. Will often wondered how they could have any news to discuss, since it seemed they never left the boardinghouse. “Ain’t gonna be many more nights before it’ll be right nippy settin’ out here on the porch,” Leonard commented.
“I expect so,” Ron agreed. “Then it’ll be back to the parlor till spring.” Directing his question at Will, he asked, “Gets pretty cold sleepin’ out on the prairie, don’t it?” When Will confirmed that it did, Ron went on. “You start puttin’ some years on you and it’ll get a damn sight harder to keep warm. You need you a good woman to keep you warm, and you ain’t likely to find one as long as you’re ridin’ all over Injun Territory, lookin’ for outlaws. Ain’t that right, Leonard?”
“That’s right,” Leonard said. “And I expect he knows it. You can tell that by the way he looks at Sophie every time he thinks she ain’t lookin’ at him.”
“You must be smokin’ loco weed in that pipe,” Will said, with a dismissive chuckle. But the comment gave him reason to be concerned. Had he been that obvious?
“Some lucky young man is bound to tie that little gal up before much longer,” Ron said. “Garth Pearson thought he had her lassoed, but she’s got too much spirit for him. You’d best step up there, if you’re of a mind to. She ain’t likely to wait much longer.”
“Whaddaya tellin’ me all this for?” Will responded. “That’s Sophie’s business.”
At that moment, the front door opened and Sophie came out. “What’s Sophie’s business?” she asked. No one answered, so she asked again. “What’s Sophie’s business?” She looked directly at Will for an answer.
“Settin’ up the coffeepot in the mornin’,” Will came back with the only thing he could think of. “I was just sayin’ I’d like to get an early start in the mornin’ and I might have to get by on nothing but coffee.”
Sophie was not satisfied that he had answered her honestly, especially when it was accompanied by snickers from the two older men. Fortunately for Will, the evening light had faded enough to hide the sudden blush that had come to his face. “Well, I reckon I’m gonna turn in,” he said. “I’ve got a long ride to Texas in the mornin’.” He stepped quickly to the door and went inside.
* * *
Sid Randolph met Will by the side door of the jail. Standing behind him, another guard was holding the prisoner by the manacles locking his hands behind his back. “Mornin’, Will,” Sid greeted him. “Looks like you’re ready to ride. I’ve got your boy here, Mr. Billy Cotton.” He handed Will a paper with the order and authorization by Judge Isaac Parker. “I see you ain’t got no jail wagon, Dan Stone said you wouldn’t have one. You want me to unlock his wrists?”
“Yep,” Will answered. “Unlock ’em, then lock ’em again in front of him. No sense in makin’ him ride all the way to Texas with his hands behind his back. Accordin’ to this paper here, I’m authorized to shoot him at the first sign of trouble.” The remark was meant to give the prisoner something to think about, even though the paper he held said nothing of the kind. He took a long moment to study his prisoner while the guard handcuffed him again. Billy Cotton looked even younger than Dan Stone had described. He said he was eighteen, but he looked no more than fifteen or sixteen. He stood there, patiently waiting for the cuffs to be locked, his head down, with no effort to make eye contact with Will. Will remembered that Stone had remarked that he thought Alvin Greeley might have been a little rough on the boy and it occurred to him that Stone’s remark could very well be an understatement. Looking still closer, Will asked Sid, “Was he wearin’ those bruises around his eyes when Greeley brought him in, or did he get ’em here?”
“He had ’em when we got him,” Sid answered. “My guards don’t use any force on our prisoners unless they start it.” He paused to look at Billy. “And he ain’t done nothin’ but sit in a corner of the cell room since he got here. Ain’t said more’n two or three words the whole time.”
Will took a long look at his prisoner before introducing himself. “I don’t know if they told you or not, but my name’s Will Tanner and it’s my job to take you down to Sulphur Springs in Texas. It won’t be a hard ride if you’ve got your mind in the right place. You don’t give me any trouble and I won’t give you a hard time. If you try to escape, I won’t hesitate to use my rifle to slow you down. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir,” Billy replied. “I won’t cause you no trouble.”
The young man’s respectful, even gentle, nature aroused Will’s curiosity. He didn’t seem at all like the typical young hellion that aspired to operate on the wrong side of the law. “What kinda warrants are out for you in Texas?”
“Somebody saw me ridin’ with some of my cousins,” Billy said.
“Is that against the law in Texas?” Will asked with only a hint of sarcasm.
“No, sir, but most folks around Red River County know that the Cottons and the Treadwells are cattle rustlers. So I reckon they figured I was a rustler, too.”
“Are you sayin’ you’re not?” Will asked.
“No, sir . . . I mean yes, sir, I’m sayin’ I’m not.”
“When Deputy Greeley caught up with those two men down near the Mountain Fork River, you were with ’em, right? So you were ridin’ with ’em up in Choctaw country.” Will was still trying to pin him down.
“No, sir,” Billy replied. “I rode up to Buford Ramsey’s store at Little River to see his daughter, Sarah. She works in her daddy’s store and told me to come back to see her one time when I was there before. I went back to see her again and we sorta hit it off. I sure as shootin’ didn’t expect to run into Joe and Barney there. Those two men are my cousins, Joe Treadwell and Barney Treadwell. They tried to tell that deputy I wasn’t with ’em when they robbed that store up in McAlester. They just happened to show up at that tradin’ post when I was there—didn’t have no idea they’d run into me. We tried to tell the deputy, but he said he knew better’n that. After we got to Fort Smith was when he found out I wasn’t lyin’.”
Will listened patiently and found himself believing the young man was simply the victim of some mighty bad luck. “How’d you get those bruises around your eyes?”
“I didn’t set down quick enough,” Billy replied. “That deputy told me to set down on the ground while he unlocked the leg chains. I didn’t understand what he said, so I didn’t move quick enough, I reckon. He whacked me with the barrel of his rifle a coupla times.”
To Will, that sounded typical of Alvin Greeley. Victims of his arrests often showed up in court with cuts and bruises. Will found it ironic that, in view of this, Greeley seemed to constantly campaign to paint him as a lawman who preferred to put a bullet in the back of a man’s head than go to the trouble of bringing him in alive. It was a reputation he did not deserve and certainly one he didn
’t want. “Well,” he decided, “step up in that saddle and we’ll get started.”
They rode off toward the river, headed for Indian Territory, Will leading with Billy’s reins tied to his saddle, and his packhorse following behind on a lead rope. Billy seemed to be content sitting in his saddle. Will figured it was a far sight better than the hard bench of the jail wagon he had made the trip to Fort Smith in. Will figured he was not being too careless when he discounted the possibility of any trouble from the mild young man. He figured it close to one hundred miles to that trading post on the Little River, down in the area known as Little Dixie. It was a small section of Oklahoma near the borders of Texas and Arkansas that had gotten its name because of the number of Southern sympathizers that moved there after the Civil War. He had an idea that it might be worthwhile to stop there on his way to Texas to hear what folks there said about the arrests of the two Treadwell boys and Billy.
* * *
It was a good day to ride. Dog days of summer brought some unexpected pleasant days with nights chilly enough to remind folks that winter was not that far away. Will decided to follow the Poteau River trail south, once they crossed over into Indian Territory, planning to rest the horses at a favorite spot about twenty-five miles from Fort Smith. Because of their late start, it was past noon when Will turned Buster down a path that led through the trees that lined the riverbank. After they dismounted, Will handcuffed Billy’s hands around a small tree while he took care of the horses and built a fire. “You like coffee?” he asked Billy while he was filling the small coffeepot he always carried.
“Yes, sir,” Billy replied respectfully.
“Well, we’ll have us a cup while the horses are restin’,” Will said. When the coffee was ready, he walked over and unlocked the manacles. “It’ll be a helluva lot easier to drink your coffee if your hands ain’t wrapped around a tree.” He was going on a gut feeling that the young man offered no threat of violence, nor an attempt to escape. Even so, he would keep a sharp eye on him in case he was wrong and had to take action in a hurry. Once Billy was settled on the bank, Will handed him his cup.
“Much obliged,” Billy said.
Convinced that the young man had been honest when he said he had never stolen any cattle, Will purposely tried to engage him in idle conversation. It wasn’t long before Billy was talking freely and the longer they talked, the more convinced Will became of Billy’s innocence. He told Will about his desire to marry Buford Ramsey’s daughter, Sarah, and work his own small farm in Little Dixie. She had already said she would marry him and that was after only his second visit. “I reckon it was one of those love-at-first-sight things,” Billy said. “We were both ready to get married right away.” It was just bad luck that his cousins had shown up when they did, bringing Alvin Greeley right behind them. “I just wanna get back to Sarah, so we can start our life together,” Billy said.
Finally Will decided it was time to get started again. Billy got to his feet and dutifully extended his wrists for the manacles. Will hesitated, wondering if he should trust his gut feelings that Billy didn’t have an evil bone in his body. “I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,” he said. “I’m bound to deliver you to the Texas Rangers in Sulphur Springs. I believe you when you say you ain’t guilty of any crime and I’ll do my best to convince the Rangers that they ain’t got no reason to hold you. That’s about the best I can do for you.” He didn’t tell him that he was thinking over the possibility of letting him escape before they reached the Red River. The only reason he probably wouldn’t was because that would brand Billy as a definite fugitive from justice.
“I surely do thank you, sir,” Billy said, showing genuine excitement for the first time. “I knew you were a good man right off.” He was so excited, he fairly leaped into the saddle, anxious to get started. Will had trouble keeping the grin off his own face as he led out through the trees that bordered the river.
Thinking about it later, he thought he might have heard the impact of the bullet when it struck Billy, a fraction of a second before he heard the report of the rifle that fired it. With no time to think, his natural reactions had taken over and he wheeled Buster around a stand of oak trees, seeking cover from the shooter. He yanked hard on Billy’s reins to bring the horse behind the trees with him. At that moment, he didn’t know that Billy was hit and he drew his rifle as he jumped out of the saddle to help him dismount. When he reached up to grab his arm, Billy collapsed sideways to land heavily on him. Since he was holding his rifle in one hand, he had only one arm to catch Billy, causing him to stagger backward before regaining his balance. Only then did he discover the bullet hole in the young man’s shirt, right between his shoulder blades.
As quickly as he could manage, he laid Billy down behind the largest of the oaks. Then he crawled toward the edge of the trees, trying to see where the attack had come from. The only place that afforded a shooter a spot to hide was a wooded ridge about seventy-five yards from the river. So he cranked a cartridge into the magazine and held his Winchester ready to fire at the first sight of a muzzle flash from the next shot. But there was no second shot. Still he waited as the seconds ticked slowly by, until the minutes began to pile up. When there were still no more shots, he had to figure the sniper was lying in wait for another target to show himself. Waiting for me to come out in the open, he thought. He had to see how badly Billy was hit, but he was reluctant to take his eyes off the ridge when there was a chance the bushwhacker might move to a new spot himself. After another wait of about ten minutes, with all still quiet, he decided he had to act.
CHAPTER 2
I can’t sit here in the bushes all day, he thought, and started scanning the open ground between him and the ridge. Several mounds caught his eye as possible points of cover, and he thought that maybe he could advance on that ridge by running from one mound to the next. Not a chance in hell, he counseled himself, but he considered himself a fair runner. So before he could talk himself out of it, he sprang to his feet and took off as fast as he could run for the first mound. Only after he slid to a clumsy stop behind the small swale of sand did he speculate that he should have taken his boots off. The high heels weren’t meant for running.
Surprised that their bushwhacker had not taken a shot at him, he peeked over the top of the mound. When there was no reaction from the ridge, he took a deep breath and ran to another mound, this one closer to the row of laurels at the foot of the ridge. As before, there was no shot. He dived behind the second mound and paused there until his breathing slowed down again. He found it hard to believe the sniper took that one shot, then left. Who was he? Likely some relative of an outlaw he had arrested, seeking revenge for his hanging. Will wondered if the shooter realized he had shot Billy and not him. Probably not, and thinking he had gotten the man he came after, he rode away. But Will had to make sure the sniper was gone.
With one last dash to gain the cover of the laurel, he took off, and again there was no shot. By this time, he was convinced that the assassin had run, so he kept going, climbing the ridge to the top to find no one there. A quick look around turned up a footprint that led him to the spot where the rifleman had lain. Will looked back toward the oak trees beside the river as the shooter would have seen them. It was a clear target area and in Will’s opinion, open enough to have given the shooter time for a second shot—had he wanted it. You shot the wrong man, he thought, still finding it hard to believe the assassin didn’t take the second shot.
Half a dozen yards down the back side of the ridge, Will found the spot where the shooter had left his horse. And tracks down the slope told him he had hurried down the back of the ridge in a direction that would lead him to the trail north toward Fort Smith. His thought was to go after him, but first he had to go back to help Billy, so he hurried back down the ridge toward the trees where he had left him.
Billy was lying right where he had left him, never having moved or shifted his body. Will guessed his prisoner was dead, even before he knelt beside him. There wa
s no response to his efforts to revive him and the blank gaze of his open eyes confirmed there was no life left in the body. A little wave of sorrow swept over Will for a moment. In the short time he had been exposed to Billy Cotton, he had come to the opinion that the guileless young man was no more than an innocent bystander and was probably guilty of no crime. And now to die because he had been mistaken for him was really hard luck. “I reckon that cancels the trip to Texas,” he said aloud. The decision to be made now was whether to bury Billy, or take him back to Fort Smith. And that led to the question of the shooter. He preferred not to waste any more time before going after him, not sure he wouldn’t make another attempt if he found out he had shot the prisoner and not the deputy.
Another thought struck him then, one that seemed too twisted to consider, but could not be discounted right away. What if the shooter had not killed the wrong man? What if he was so sure he had shot the man he came after, that he saw no need for a second shot? Who would stand to gain by the killing? The first answer that came to mind was Alvin Greeley. It was outrageous to think a man would go to that extent, but if Will returned Billy Cotton’s body to Fort Smith with a bullet in his back, Greeley would tell the world, “I told you so.” It would go a long way in justifying his claims that Will killed for the convenience of not having to transport prisoners. It was still hard for Will to believe that even Greeley was not above such a murderous act. On the other hand, Greeley might have been shamed enough by the incident between them in the Morning Glory to seek revenge. And it might seem better to Greeley to see Will saddled with the reputation of a cowardly back-shooter. He thought of the satisfaction Greeley would enjoy if Dan Stone would demand Will’s badge. It made more sense, the more he thought about it. Greeley might like to see him dead, but he wanted him disgraced more and that’s why he didn’t take that second shot.
Evil Never Sleeps Page 2