“I am,” Jeb answered.
“Sorry I had to wound you, but you didn’t give me much choice,” Will said to him. “Your son and I got along real good and I never thought he was guilty of anything—just thought I’d tell you that. And another thing, Billy’s hands weren’t tied behind his back. He was riding along behind me when he got hit. Now, I expect you fellows best get on your way and take care of those wounds.” He kept his rifle ready to fire while they left him to get their horses. “If we meet again, at least I’ll know who you are.” That was his real purpose in moving to stand over them, so he would recognize them if he had occasion for contact in the future. He remained on the bank, watching until they came up from the river on their horses. He watched them disappear beyond the bend before retreating into the trees to get his horses. Luck was with him on this day, he decided, but he was not happy that he had never become aware that he was being tracked. He stepped up in the saddle and started north toward the Kansas border before turning around when it occurred to him that he might do Clem Scully a service if he went back to tell him the gunfire he heard posed no danger for him and Louise. The thought of Louise brought Sophie Bennett to mind again and where his thoughts were when that bullet passed close to his ear. “You almost got me shot,” he said aloud.
As for his encounter with the Treadwells and the Cottons, he had no interest in seeing what they were up to in the Nations. Billy Cotton had told him that they were involved in some cattle rustling in Texas, so it was fair to say they were in Oklahoma for health reasons. It was fair to assume that the Texas Rangers might be looking for them in Texas. His interest was in running Preacher McCoy to ground, and his introductions to the Treadwells and the Cottons had further delayed him in that endeavor.
After another visit with Clem and Louise Scully, during which he explained the cause of the gunfire just down the river from their store, he once again said good-bye and turned Buster north. With the Arkansas River behind him, he started out onto a seemingly empty prairie of flat, treeless land. Twenty miles or more would bring him to the boundary between Oklahoma and Kansas. There was nothing between the Arkansas and the border but endless grass. He would camp that night, hopefully by a stream or creek, under a wide starry sky, then ride another half a day to arrive at the small settlement of Wellington. It was the only thing resembling a town before another half day’s ride to Wichita. And according to Elmo Black, Wichita was the town Preacher McCoy was eager to reach.
CHAPTER 8
Coming to a grove of cottonwood trees that had situated themselves in a horseshoe-shaped bend of a wide creek, he couldn’t help appreciating the ideal camping spot they offered. He had planned to ride a few miles farther before resting the horses, but he decided to take advantage of the water and grass offered here. It appeared that Jeb Cotton had accepted his story about his son as the truth. There had been no sign of anyone following him, and he had been a sight more diligent about checking, so he turned Buster toward the bank of the creek and dismounted. He was still fortified by the huge breakfast Louise Scully had prepared, so he wasn’t ready to fix anything to eat. But coffee was always in order on any stop of this length, so he got his little coffeepot from his packs and filled it from the creek. In a short time, he had a small fire working and his coffee bubbling away. It seemed so peaceful that he almost forgot what had drawn him all the way up to the Kansas border. The mood was quickly snatched back to the reality of his purpose there when Buster raised his head from the thick grass and whinnied an enquiry. “Damn!” he cursed, thinking he had been followed again, in spite of his diligence. Knowing he had company, whether human or animal, he didn’t hesitate to pick up his rifle and roll over behind the closest cottonwood. The buckskin gelding never failed to warn him of company, but it would help a lot if the horse could learn to identify the caller.
“I hope you made enough in that pot to share a cup,” a gravelly voice called out from the middle of the trees. “I’ve been smellin’ it ever since I crossed over that ridge back yonder.”
Easily recognizing the voice, for there was none other like it, Will answered, “I sure did, maybe a couple of extra cups. I’m sellin’ ’em for a hundred dollars a cup.”
“Damn, that’s pretty steep, but danged if I don’t believe a cup of coffee would be worth it right about now. How’s my credit?”
“No better’n it was the last time I saw you,” Will replied, laughing. He got up from behind the cottonwood to greet Oscar Moon. “Have you got a cup, or do I have to supply that, too?”
“I brung my cup,” Oscar said, holding it up for Will to see as he emerged from the bushes between the trees, leading his horse. Behind the paint gelding, two horses followed on lead ropes. They were both loaded heavily with deer meat. It had been a while since he had last seen his friend, but like always, Oscar never seemed to change—same dirty buckskins, hair in two long braids, Indian-style, maybe a touch more gray in the hair and beard. “Will,” he blurted, “what the hell are you doin’ up here again? You’ve ’bout run out of your territory, ain’t you?”
“Pretty much,” Will said, “but I’m tryin’ to catch up with a fellow named Preacher McCoy. He and three other fellows robbed the bank in Sherman, Texas, killed one of the bank’s tellers, then headed up here in Indian country. I took up the trail of two of ’em in Tishomingo, where they shot two people, then I followed ’em up into the Arbuckles, where they joined up with the other two. The one called Preacher is all by his lonesome now. Two of the four are locked up in Atoka. The other one’s dead. And I need to get to Preacher before he spends all the bank’s money.” He paused to see if his story touched off any clues from Oscar. “Don’t reckon you’ve seen a rider pass through this section in the last day or so. He’d be easy to spot,” Will said, “big man, ridin’ a solid black horse and leadin’ a sorrel packhorse.”
Oscar scratched his beard and made a show of trying to recall. “Sorry, Will, I ain’t seen nobody on this side of the river all week. You’re the first soul I’ve seen.” He read Will’s casual shrug as a signal telling him he didn’t really expect him to have seen Preacher. “Now,” Oscar started, “whaddaya say we cook us up some of that fresh deer meat and have us a good supper.”
“That sounds to my likin’,” Will said with a grin. He had not planned to eat so soon, but it was hard to pass up fresh venison. “Looks like you’ve got a lotta meat to take care of. Whaddaya gonna do, smoke it? It ain’t gonna keep long, warm as it is.”
“You got that right,” Oscar said. “I got the meat for Elvira and her bunch down at Sartain’s and I’m gonna have to smoke cure it to keep it from turning. I’ll charge her a little bit more for that. This time of year, it’s most often cool enough to haul the carcasses down to her place and let her and Slim do the butcherin’, but this summer don’t seem to wanna call it quits.”
“Too bad you have to go to the extra trouble,” Will said, still inclined to jape Oscar a little. “It’d make it a whole lot easier on you if you could drive deer and antelope like cattle, wouldn’t it?”
Oscar chuckled in response. “Now, it would at that, but I ain’t in the habit of drivin’ cattle anywhere. There’s a law up here in Kansas against drivin’ another feller’s cattle without his sayin’ it’s all right. Besides, you know I wouldn’t do nothin’ agin’ the law like rustlin’ cattle, especially in your territory.”
After roasting some of Oscar’s venison and finishing off another pot of coffee, Will regretfully announced that he had best get moving again. His horses were rested and he didn’t want to give Preacher time to increase the lead he already enjoyed. “How far are you plannin’ to follow this feller up into Kansas?” Oscar asked.
“I don’t know, as far as it takes, I reckon, but at least as far as Wichita. I think that might be where he’s thinkin’ about headin’. If I remember correctly, there’s a little town I stopped at one time called Wellington between here and Wichita. You know much about that town?”
Oscar shrugged. “I’ve
been there a time or two. Ain’t much there but a post office and a store that sells dry goods in one half of it and a saloon in the other half. Feller runs the store name of Bailey and he’s got a woman runnin’ the saloon side of it. Her name’s Emma Story. She’ll pour you a drink of likker and visit with you while you’re drinkin’ it.” He paused to smile at the image created in his head. “You can buy some supper there, too. They got an Osage woman in the kitchen that don’t do too bad with the cookin’. There’s a couple of other folks in town now, tryin’ to make it offa tradin’ with the cattle herds that push up the Chisholm Trail. A blacksmith had just set up shop last time I was there and he was talkin’ about maybe tryin’ to build a stable.”
“I’ll ride through there in case Preacher decided to light there. I reckon I’ll see you when I see you,” Will said in departing, as he nudged Buster forward. “Maybe we’ll run into each other on my way back.”
“Maybe,” Oscar allowed. “Watch your back. There’s a lotta folks up Wichita way that ain’t got enough to do this time of year, but mischief.” He had decided to stay right there until he had smoked all his venison before riding down to Sartain’s.
* * *
The small gathering of buildings came into view a little before noon. He could see the modest signs of progress that Oscar had spoken of. But there were no new buildings except a barn and stable that looked to be still under construction. When he got close enough to read it, he saw the sign above the door of a board structure. It read BAILEY’S STORE & SALOON. The last time he had ridden by—the only time, actually—Bailey’s store was a joining of three large tents. Will figured Bailey must have a considerable investment in his business. For starters, lumber to build his store had to be hauled in, for there were no forests to amount to anything beyond enough material to build an outhouse or two.
The town was built between two creeks, so he could rest and water his horses here. And he decided he’d take Oscar’s recommendation and try out the Osage woman’s cooking. In order to give the town a quick looking over before heading to Bailey’s, he slow-walked his horses from one end of the short street to the other. It was just a precaution in case he happened upon a dark black horse like the blue roan Preacher rode. There were few horses of any color in the little town and most of them were tied up in front of Bailey’s, so he tied up alongside them and walked inside.
A tall, thin man with dark hair and a mustache stood at the end of a long counter, filling small sacks from a barrel of flour. He turned when he heard the door open and Will walked in. “Howdy, friend,” he greeted Will as he looked him over. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before.”
“Never been in before,” Will replied as he glanced over toward the other side of the building where the saloon was located. The only division between the two businesses was provided by a couple of steps up to the saloon floor, which was a couple of feet above the store. There were two men seated at a table, drinking, and one man standing at the bar. He noticed that the man sacking flour seemed to be frequently taking nervous glances toward the saloon, as if worried about something.
“Well, welcome to Bailey’s Store. My name’s Jack Bailey. What brings you to Wellington? You ridin’ with a herd?” He asked the question in hopes there might be a large cattle herd approaching town, although he knew it was late in the season to be expecting one.
“Nope,” Will replied. “I’m just on my way to Wichita. Thought I’d stop in. A friend of mine told me I could buy a good meal here if I hit town at the right time of day. Any truth to that?”
“Yes, sir, there sure is,” Bailey answered. “And you’ve hit town at the right time. You go on over to the saloon and the lady there, Emma, will fix you right up. You picked a good day to try out the cookin’. Lily cooked up one of her specialties, Cowboy Stew.” This was the first time Will had heard anyone referring to Cowboy Stew other than Gus Johnson at the Morning Glory back in Fort Smith, bragging about Mammy’s beef stew. So he braced himself for the punch line that Gus never failed to deliver—that the stew was so good because Mammy only used fresh cowboys. But it didn’t come. Evidently, Bailey wasn’t as clever as Gus, or maybe whatever seemed to be making him nervous in the saloon had taken his appetite for humor. “You go get yourself something to eat,” Bailey said. “Then if there’s something I can help you with in the store, I’d be glad to do it.”
“I’ll do that,” Will assured him, then paused. “You ain’t by any chance seen a big man ridin’ a black horse come through town a day or two ago, have you?”
Bailey hesitated before answering, wondering now what manner of man he might be talking to. Preacher McCoy had stopped in the saloon long enough to have a couple of drinks before buying some supplies in the store. Bailey wished then that he had more customers like the big man riding the dark horse. He was free with his money, never bickering or bargaining. The man he was talking to in his store today, holding a rifle as if it was a part of him, looked capable of handling himself in a shoot-out or a fistfight. He was reluctant to answer, fearing that he might be causing trouble for Preacher.
Will sensed Bailey’s reluctance, so he opened his vest to reveal the badge he wore on his shirt. “I’m a U.S. deputy marshal,” he said. “The man I’m lookin’ for robbed a bank in Texas where one man was killed, and he’s responsible for the deaths of three other men that we know about in Oklahoma Territory.”
“Well, I’ll be go to hell,” Bailey responded. “He sure as hell fooled everybody here.” He shook his head in disbelief. “He was here, all right and, like I said, nice a feller as you’re likely to run into. I swear.” Then he showed a little excitement when another thought occurred to him. “Might be a good thing you dropped in today, deputy. See that feller standin’ at the bar? He goes by the name Bill Pike—rode in here two nights ago and he’s been hangin’ out at the bar ever since. He’s already run a couple of my regular customers away and I ain’t got so many I can afford to lose any.”
“What’s he doin’ to make ’em leave?” Will asked.
“One thing and then another,” Bailey said. “It’s like he’s lookin’ to draw down on somebody. He must be fast with that .44 he’s wearin’. I was hopin’ he’d move on to Delano, that little town across the river from Wichita. I expect he wouldn’t be actin’ so big up there.”
This was not news that Will wanted to hear. His intention was to stop here long enough to rest his horses and get something to eat. He hadn’t planned to tell Bailey that he was a deputy marshal, since he had no real authority in Kansas. But it had appeared that Bailey had been reluctant to admit having seen Preacher before Will told him he was a lawman. “Well, I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Bailey. So far, this Bill Pike ain’t committed any crime from what you tell me, other than bein’ a blowhard. Have you asked him to leave and he refused to go?”
“Well, no,” Bailey replied. “Tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.”
“Like I said, I’m on an important job right now and I need to catch Preacher McCoy before he disappears somewhere I can’t find him. You say this Pike fellow’s been here a couple of days?” Bailey nodded. “Was he here when Preacher was?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t start botherin’ everybody till after Preacher left.”
“Sounds like he had sense enough not to poke a coiled rattlesnake. But I do plan to get something to eat while I’m here, so I’ll go on over and do that and we’ll keep an eye on Pike. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t about ready to move on, since it sounds like he ain’t havin’ much luck buildin’ a reputation here.”
“Maybe you could show him your badge and tell him to move on outta town,” Bailey suggested.
“It ain’t against the law to be born a son of a bitch,” Will said. “As long as he ain’t caused no real trouble, there ain’t much I can do legally.” He could see the disappointment in Bailey’s face, but he figured the man worrying him would probably move on pretty soon. “I’ll go on over and try out the cookin’,” he said, an
d started toward the other side of the room.
Just then remembering Will’s earlier question, Bailey asked, “Who’s the feller that told you you could get a good meal here?”
“Oscar Moon,” Will called back over his shoulder.
“You know Oscar?” Bailey replied at once. “I expect it’s been a month or more since he rode through here.” Will merely shook his head, once again thinking that Oscar must know everybody in Kansas as well as Oklahoma.
The woman named Emma was trying to stay busy by washing glasses and cleaning her counter, obvious to Will’s eye that she was doing so in an effort to disengage from conversation with Bill Pike. It was apparent that Pike was not discouraged as he followed her from one end of the bar to the other. Seeing Will coming up from the general store, she gave him her full attention. “Howdy, friend, what’ll it be, whiskey?”
“No, ma’am,” Will replied. “It’s a little early for that. I was thinkin’ I might try some of that Cowboy Stew that Mr. Bailey was braggin’ on.” He was not oblivious to the outright scrutiny of Bill Pike as he walked up to the bar.
“Why, sure,” Emma responded cheerfully. “I’ll have Lily fix up a plate for you. Set yourself down at one of the tables and she’ll bring it right out. You want coffee, I reckon.” He nodded and she went immediately to the kitchen to give the Osage cook his order.
As she had suggested, Will sat down at a table close to the bar, avoiding eye contact with the glowering man leaning on the bar. He laid his rifle across the arms of the chair beside him, already knowing he was going to be forced to confront him. He was typical of troublemakers that most saloons had to deal with. It didn’t take long. Pike favored him with an undisguised sneer for only a few moments before beginning. “Cowboy Stew,” he said. “Are you a cowboy?”
“Nope,” Will answered. “I used to be, but I ain’t now.”
“Is that a fact? Well, maybe it ain’t fittin’ for you to eat Cowboy Stew. It’s like you’re pretending to be somebody you ain’t.” When Will responded with no more than a shrug, Pike continued to press him. “You know, you interrupted a conversation me and the woman was havin’, without so much as a ‘pardon me.’ That kinda riled me a little.”
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