She blushed when she realized how she had rattled on. “Well,” she declared, “a body wouldn’t know if it was night or day, if they had to ask one of these two. Why don’t you stay for supper? I was just fixing it when I heard you out here. I’ll bet you don’t get many good meals when you’re out riding all over creation.”
“You’re right about that,” Will said. “But I wouldn’t wanna put you out none. I’ll just make my camp up the creek a ways and cook some of that sowbelly I just bought.”
“Nonsense,” she responded. “We’ve got plenty. I’m frying potatoes, I’ll cut up a few more to add to them, biscuits are baking right now. I’d best see to them before I burn ’em up.” She turned to go back to her stove. “You’re stayin’ for supper, I insist.”
Left with no choice, Will enjoyed a hearty supper with the Sams family before taking his leave to ride about a quarter of a mile along the creek where he made his camp for the night. The visit was enough to take his mind off the reason for his being in this part of the Nations again, if only for the evening. There were good people moving into the Oklahoma Territory every day to offset the area’s reputation as a hideout for outlaws. Sometimes that was hard to remember.
Already figuring that it would be useless to try to track the three horses, he decided to head toward the Arbuckle Mountains. It was a day’s ride from Tishomingo and judging by the road the outlaws took out of town, it appeared that might be their destination. Considering the path they had taken since leaving Durant, it struck him that they knew where they were heading. Many an outlaw on the run had picked the Arbuckles to hide out. And he had to admit that he didn’t have any idea where else to search. There were no towns of any size in the direction they rode, but if he was lucky, he might cross their trail somewhere. There was one trading post on the trail he would ride that was a possibility. It was conveniently located on a wide creek halfway to the mountains, just the right distance for a rider to think about resting his horse.
With the lack of settlement in that part of the territory, the Arbuckles offered almost everything an outlaw on the run could want. It was a small range with mountains no higher than three to five hundred feet above the surrounding land and covered an area of about thirty-five miles east to west, and only ten or fifteen miles north to south. Although small, the mountains provided numerous springs and streams, and a maze of caves and hollows, designed by nature to hide an outlaw’s camp. The only things not provided that were essential to most outlaws were saloons and brothels.
CHAPTER 4
The sun had not reached the noon position overhead when he came upon the log buildings of Jeremy Cannon’s trading post beside the Blue River. There was a fairly new outhouse between the store and the cabin behind the store, which was the only change Will could see since he had last been up this way. One thing he could count on as having never changed was Cannon’s disgust for the law. He depended on a great portion of his business to come from outlaws on the run. His trading post was well known among those who operated outside the law, even though he had only built it a couple years before. Cannon moved into the territory after the death of Lem Stark, and the closing of his store. Lem was another favorite of the outlaw. Cannon built his store farther up the river than Stark had, placing it about halfway between Tishomingo and the Arbuckle Mountains and a logical place to rest the horses.
There were six horses in the corral beside the small barn, which told him Cannon was still in the business of trading horses. One in particular caught his interest, a sorrel with white stockings on its front legs. The blacksmith in Durant had described one of the outlaws’ horses as a sorrel with markings like that. Will didn’t expect to find the two he sought hanging around Cannon’s, but it would pay to be cautious, now that he had seen the sorrel. So he cast a wary eye around him as he guided Buster up to the hitching rail beside the lone horse tied there and dismounted.
“Well, now, if this ain’t a sign it’s gonna be a fine day,” Jeremy Cannon blurted upon seeing the deputy in his doorway, making no effort to disguise his sarcasm. “U.S. Deputy Marshal Will Tanner,” he announced. The one customer, a gray-haired man with a bushy gray beard, seated at a small table against the wall, looked up immediately, alerted by the booming voice. Will had no interest in the customer, nor the fact that he was obviously drinking bootleg whiskey. “What dragged you up this way, Deputy? If you’re lookin’ to arrest somebody for sellin’ whiskey, Zeb over there ain’t no damn Injun,” he challenged, his deep voice still at a loud, rumbling pitch. “And he’s havin’ a drink of my private stock.” It had occurred to Will before that Cannon must have been named for his voice, which sounded as loud as an army cannon. The first time he had met the man, he suspected Cannon might have been talking so loudly to alert a fugitive who might be hiding in the storeroom. But he soon realized that it was Cannon’s normal volume. Everything about him was oversize to excess, and he used it to his advantage.
“Good to see you again, too,” Will said, matching Cannon’s sarcasm with some of his own. “I’m not interested in Zeb’s whiskey. I’m more interested in the two fellows who stopped in here a couple of days ago, headed toward the Arbuckles.” The reaction registering on Cannon’s face told him that he had guessed right.
The expected denial came immediately. “I don’t recollect seein’ nobody like that pass by this way in the last week or two. What are you chasin’ ’em for?”
“Murder,” Will replied. “They killed a couple of people in Durant.”
“Is that a fact?” Cannon feigned concern. “I’m damn glad there ain’t been nobody like that around here. I expect you’ve hitched onto a cold trail, Deputy. Now is there anythin’ I can do for you in the store?”
“Nope,” Will said. “I think you’ve told me what I wanted to know and I just stocked up on supplies in Tishomingo. So I’ll say good day to you.” He turned and walked out. He was outside on the porch when he heard Cannon call him a son of a bitch, no doubt thinking he was mumbling it under his breath.
He smiled and stepped up into the saddle and turned Buster’s head toward the river, planning to ride out of sight of Cannon’s place before stopping to rest the horses. He could be wrong, he allowed, but he felt confident he was riding the same trail that the two outlaws rode, basing his feelings solely on Jeremy Cannon’s facial expressions. The sorrel he had spotted in the corral was evidently not the one he thought it might be—unless the men he chased had traded horses there. He doubted that was the case, there were a lot of horses with the same markings. The problem facing him, however, was where Elmo and whatever his partner’s name was found a place to hole up in the Arbuckle Mountains. There were hundreds of caves and gulches in those mountains and he would have no choice but to search until he struck their trail. That’s what they pay me to do, he told himself, and guided the big buckskin gelding toward a grassy apron near the river’s edge.
* * *
“Damn, Slick,” Elmo Black complained as he used a spoon to lift a slice of bacon out of his frying pan. “Look at this damn bacon we got from Cannon. There ain’t hardly no lean in it a-tall. By the time it’s done, all the fat’s cooked out of it and don’t leave you a wad no bigger’n a chaw of tobacco. It does leave you plenty of grease to slick your hair back, though.” To emphasize his last remark, he wiped his hands on the sides of his head.
“Why don’t you eat it raw and you won’t lose all the grease,” Slick Towsen japed. Tall and bone-thin, Slick never spared his partner the contempt he felt for his insatiable appetite. Lacking in physical dominance, Slick relied on his speed with the Colt .44 he wore in any altercation he might find himself in. It gave him an advantage and he practiced on a regular basis, at times on live targets, like the Indian and the station operator in Durant a few nights before. Although understanding why he shot the Indian standing near their horses, Elmo had questioned the reason for shooting the stationmaster when he stepped out the station door. “Reflexes,” Slick had told him. “It was right after I shot the Inj
un. That feller popped outta the door like he was fixin’ to shoot at me, and my reflexes are so fast, I cut him down before I had time to think about it.”
“You ever think about what’s gonna happen if you run up against a feller faster’n you?” Elmo had asked at the time. No matter how fast you are, he was thinking, there’s always somebody faster.
“That ain’t never gonna happen,” Slick had answered, confident that there was no man faster. “You’re fussin’ about that bacon,” Slick continued. “What you oughta be bellyachin’ about is the trade you made for that paint you’re ridin’. Ol’ Cannon skinned you good on that deal.”
At once on defense, Elmo insisted, “Hell, what you talkin’ about? That horse’ll run rings around that sorrel I traded Cannon.”
“If you say so,” Slick replied. “I hope you’re right, ’cause I’da never gave Cannon your sorrel and thirty bucks extra for a horse he most likely bought from an Injun for ajar of whiskey. That horse ain’t ever been shod.”
“Damn right,” Elmo came back. “And I’ll remind you of that next time you’re puttin’ shoes on that bay while I’m spending my money in the saloon.” He gulped down the last of his bacon and got up on his feet. “I’m goin’ to see how my new horse is gettin’ along,” he said, and walked toward the mouth of the narrow cave where they had set up their camp next to a waterfall. Standing with his back to him, Slick suddenly spun around, whipping out his .44 ready to shoot. “I wish to hell you’d stop doin’ that,” Elmo complained. “One of these days that gun’s liable to go off.” Slick made no reply. Smiling, he gave the .44 a twirl around his finger and holstered it.
They were an unlikely pair to be partnering. Truth be known, they didn’t really care much for each other. Happenstance had sent them to ride the trail up from Texas to cross over into Indian Territory. There were four of them when they robbed the bank in Sherman, Texas, and fled west to a secluded creek three miles from town where they stopped to divide the money. Concerned about a posse, Preacher McCoy, the leader of the gang, decided they should split up and meet again at one of his favorite spots to hole up. Neither Lon Jackson nor Slick Towsen was with him and Elmo when he last camped in the Arbuckles, so he took Lon with him and headed out to the west to strike an old Indian trail up into the Oklahoma Territory. Slick and Elmo started straight north toward Durant. The holdup was a rich payday for all of them, so the plan was to meet up in the Arbuckle Mountains in a cave that Preacher and Elmo had used before, and wait until the Texas Rangers gave up on them. Then they would target some of the cow town banks in Kansas, or return to Texas. Preacher was convinced that four was the best number to work with, enough to overpower any bank guards or town sheriff, but not so many that the money had to be split too many ways. Elmo had always thanked his lucky stars that he had joined up with Preacher McCoy. Preacher always made the right decisions when it came to robbing a bank or holding up a stagecoach and this last bank had been the biggest payday they had ever enjoyed. The only decision of Preacher’s that Elmo questioned was the selection of Slick to make their fourth. That thought was interrupted by a question from his partner.
“Where the hell are those two jaspers?” Slick asked. “I thought they’d be here before we got here. Maybe they decided they’d be better off if they didn’t join up with us.”
“They’ll be here directly,” Elmo said. “You ain’t rode with Preacher long as I have. When he says he’s gonna do somethin’, you can call it done.”
“Hell, you had to turn around twice before you found the trail leadin’ to this waterfall,” Slick complained. “Maybe Preacher can’t find this cave.”
“He’ll be here,” Elmo assured him. “The bushes has growed up a lot since we was last here, so one trail looks like another. What are you worryin’ about, anyway? You ain’t got no place to go. Look at me. I’ll just sit back and rest my bones in this nice little hole we got here. Fresh water runnin’ right by the door, plenty of grass for the horses, and plenty of money to buy whatever we need from ol’ Cannon.”
“Yeah, less the thirty dollars he slickered you out of,” Slick said, not willing to let him forget it.
“You’re talkin’ to a rich man,” Elmo declared, thinking of his share of the bank money. “I won’t ever miss that little thirty dollars.”
Slick grunted scornfully. “Why do they call him Preacher, anyway? What’s his real name?”
Elmo had to pause to think. “You know, blamed if I know what his real name is. It’s been Preacher ever since I’ve been ridin’ with him—and for good reason. We robbed a bank down near Dallas not long after I joined up and was lookin’ for a place to lay low for a while. We found this little settlement called Thomasville. They had a little church, but they didn’t have a preacher. The men were takin’ turns givin’ the sermon every Sunday. Well, don’t you know, ol’ Preacher showed up one Sunday and took over the lesson. Stood right up there and preached a fire and brimstone sermon that had them folks’ eyeballs bulgin’.” He paused to chuckle over the memory of that time. “He was the official preacher for six months, till we figured it was safe to move on. By that time, Preacher was in charge of holdin’ on to the collections, so we rode outta town with a little extra money. It was not a lot, ’cause those folks didn’t have much to spare, but it was enough to buy some whiskey and tobacco for a while. Yessir, it was a mighty peaceful six months. You shoulda seen ol’ Preacher tellin’ those poor farmers to change their sinful ways and walk the straight and narrow path to righteousness. He almost persuaded me to give up my wicked ways. I asked him one time if he had really been a preacher, but he never did give me a straight answer.”
“Is that a fact?” Slick scoffed. “Well, if he don’t show up here pretty soon, I reckon I’ll do the preachin’.”
Having noticed the tendencies before, Elmo felt he’d better warn Slick that there was no question as to who was the leader of this gang. He had seen challenges to Preacher’s leadership before and it didn’t bode well for the challenger.
* * *
“All right! You two outlaws come outta that cave with your hands in the air. Ain’t no use to try to slip out the back, we’ve got you surrounded.” The booming voice rang out from the trees outside the cave and echoed in the narrow canyon.
Still in their blankets, Slick and Elmo scrambled up and grabbed their weapons. “Hot damn, hot damn,” Elmo repeated over and over while he scurried to the mouth of the cave to position himself behind a large boulder just inside the opening. Slick took cover behind another rock on the other side.
“Ain’t gonna give you no more warnin’. Come on out, or I’m comin’ in to getcha.”
“Come ahead, you son of a bitch,” Slick mumbled to himself, ready to fire at the first soul that appeared in the opening. In the next moment, he was astonished to hear Elmo throw his head back to release a loud guffaw. He was baffled more when Elmo got up from behind the boulder and walked through the opening.
“I give up,” Elmo called out, “but I believe you’re gonna have to go in to get Slick.”
“We’ll just let him stay in there,” Preacher called back, and the three of them had a good laugh over the ruse.
“Come on out, Slick,” Elmo called back over his shoulder, and went to greet Preacher and Lon where they sat on their horses across the creek, well out of the line of fire from a shot from inside the cave. “Where the hell you been?” Elmo asked. “We’ve been here since yesterday and I’m damn ready for some company besides Slick.”
“Me and Lon just weren’t that anxious to join up with you two buzzards,” Preacher joked. “We was better company by ourselves.”
“That was really funny,” Slick commented sarcastically when he finally walked out of the cave to meet them. “You damn near got a bullet for your little joke.”
“Hell,” Lon said, “we could hear you two snorin’ half a mile back down the trail. We coulda walked right in that cave and cut both of your throats.”
“How come you’re gettin’ here th
is time of day?” Slick wanted to know. “It ain’t hardly daylight yet.”
“We was plannin’ on gettin’ here last night, but I swear, it got so dark I couldn’t find the trail up here,” Preacher said. “There’re so dang many of these little springs, I wasn’t sure which one was the right one. We gave up and camped down at the foot of this mountain and when it was light enough to see this mornin’, damned if we weren’t campin’ right beside the start of the trail up here.” He laughed at the irony of it. “But I reckon that’s what makes this place a good hideout. It ain’t easy to find all these caves.”
“That’s what I was tellin’ Slick,” Elmo said. “See any sign of anybody comin’ after you?” he asked.
“Nope,” Preacher answered. “We didn’t slow down till we crossed the Red. They’da had to really hump it to get up a posse in time to come after us. How ’bout you? Run into any trouble?”
“Not really,” Elmo replied, “none we didn’t start ourselves. We stopped in Durant to wet our whistles and Slick decided to shoot a couple of people, but nobody followed us up this way. There wasn’t nobody to follow us in that little town.”
This caused some concern on Preacher’s part. “Whaddaya mean, he shot a couple of people?” He frowned at Slick, waiting for his answer, already aware that Slick was always too anxious to shoot somebody. It was one of the reasons Preacher had suggested splitting up after the bank robbery, thinking about the dead bank teller they had left in Sherman—killed because he didn’t move fast enough to please Slick. It was not the first time Preacher had doubts about his decision to let Slick join up with him.
Slick shrugged. “We came outta the saloon and there was an Injun fixin’ to steal our horses, so I shot him.” He shrugged again as if thinking that was explanation enough.
Preacher looked at Elmo, who shook his head slowly. “You said there was two,” Preacher said, looking back at Slick. “Who was the other’n?”
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