Will Tanner

by William W. Johnstone

  For a change, Tarbow had little to say about the way he was being treated, his only complaint being the fact that Will had misjudged the length of the chain, preventing him from getting close enough to the fire. He ate the food Will prepared with no complaints, however. Will couldn’t help wondering if maybe the gruff outlaw had finally accepted the fact that he was going to jail, and then to trial. Whatever the reason, he thought, it’s a hell of a lot easier on my ears. While he appreciated the silence, he was astonished a moment later when Tarbow came out with a confession of guilt.

  “I reckon I have done some mighty bad things to a lot of people,” he blurted. “Some of ’em deserved it, some of ’em didn’t. So I reckon it’s right that I pay for what I done, and I don’t hold it against you for just doin’ your job. I mean it. I don’t hold nothin’ against you.”

  Will was almost stunned. His first reaction was suspicion. He found it difficult to believe the man was truly remorseful. This was a man who had shot Fletcher Pride in the back of the head and hung him from a tree to warn other lawmen. Will was sure he was up to something. “Well, I reckon that’s something you’ll have to work out between yourself and God—or the devil, whichever one you see first.”

  “I don’t blame you for thinkin’ I’m lyin’,” Tarbow said. “It was just somethin’ that needed sayin’. Maybe at least it was worth another cup of that coffee before I turn in.”

  “Well, yeah, sure,” Will said, still unable to believe what was coming out of the mouth of the notorious murderer. “Set your cup down—you know how.”

  Tarbow was accustomed to the procedure the deputy had established to give him coffee or his plate of food. With the chain permitting him to get only so far from the wagon, his food was always placed on the ground just close enough to the end of the chain for him to reach out and pick it up. Will had seen no sense in taking any chances with the brute. Tarbow dutifully reached out and set his cup on the ground, so Will picked up the pot, leaned over, and started to fill it. Before he could straighten up, he was thrown off balance when Tarbow suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him up against his massive chest. Caught completely by surprise, Will dropped the coffeepot, and fought to free himself, but Tarbow’s huge hands were already locked around his neck. Will’s only option was to pound away at the brute’s midsection, but just as suddenly as he had attacked, Tarbow relaxed his stranglehold, and a split second later, Will heard the shot. An instant after that, he heard the second shot, and Tarbow’s body sagged and slid to the ground.

  It seemed longer, but only seconds passed as Will dived for his rifle on the other side of the fire and rolled out of the circle of firelight. With no time to figure the why of it, his concern now was to seek cover until he could determine where the rifle fire was coming from. So he crawled a few feet farther to a narrow gully carved in the side of the gulch. One look back at Tarbow told him that his prisoner was done for. The huge body lay still, where it had fallen. There were no more shots after the two that killed Tarbow, so Will had no idea if they had been attacked by one man or many. Their purpose was also a mystery. Maybe they were after the horses and whatever was in the wagon. If it was a planned assassination, then he had to assume that he had been the real target, and Tarbow had just been unfortunate to get in the way. He realized then that if Tarbow had not grabbed him, he would have been directly in the line of fire. It was his impression, although he could not be sure, that the shots had struck Tarbow at a flat trajectory. Consequently, he was led to guess that his assailants did not fire from the ridges on either side of him. So he concentrated his search on the mouth of the gulch, scanning back and forth across the dark void to pick up the muzzle flashes if more shots were fired.

  Long minutes passed and still there were no more shots. Pinned down there in the dark, he could only wait until daylight unless he tried to go on the offensive and see if he could find his attackers. His safest option was probably to just stay put and wait them out, but he had never been one to sit and patiently wait for something to happen. He told himself to remain where he was for a few minutes longer to see if his assailants might try to move in closer to his camp. After several minutes ticked slowly by, he said to hell with it and crawled up the back of the gully to the top, then he crawled over the side onto the ridge. Making his way through the trees that covered the ridge, he moved as quickly as he dared while being cautious in case he met someone with the same idea that he had.

  From his new position on the side of the slope, he could look back on his camp below him. There was still no sign of anyone advancing on the faint circle of firelight, so he continued on along the ridge until he reached a point that he estimated to be a little outside the decent range of a rifle. Then he made his way down through the trees to the bottom of the slope, where he dropped to one knee and paused to look around him. It was a good deal easier to see now that he was outside the dark gulch, but he saw no sign of anyone. He started to move in closer to his camp when he was suddenly stopped by the sound of a horse’s hooves off to his left. He whirled at once, cocking his rifle as he did, but saw no one. The sound of the hoofbeats, fading away in the darkness, told him that his assailant was only one, and he had evidently decided to break off the attack.

  Standing there in the dark, Will tried to make sense of the attack, and why the gunman had broken off and retreated. The sight of a full moon just then shining through the trees on top of the ridge behind him might have had something to do with it. Maybe the shooter feared he would be more easily seen when the moon rose from behind the ridge. “Maybe,” Will allowed. “But it looks like he’s gone for now.” He turned after another look down the valley and walked back to his camp.

  “Well, I reckon you cheated the hangman’s rope after all,” Will mused aloud as he stood looking down at Tarbow’s body. “Maybe I oughta thank you for savin’ my life.” He shook his head, amazed now by what had just taken place. “You damn near fell in the fire.” He grabbed the big man’s boots and dragged him back from the edge of the campfire. “I reckon you might be lookin’ at a helluva lot bigger fire right about now, though.” A puzzling thought occurred to him then. “How the hell did you get that close to the fire, anyway?” Curious now, he picked up the chain to take a closer look. When he reached down to take hold of it, he saw no difference. A few feet back, however, he saw a short stick jammed in one of the links. Curious as to how it had managed to get there, he examined the chain more closely and discovered another stick a couple of feet farther down. It struck him then that an equal length of the chain could be doubled over, effectively making the chain two feet shorter. Tarbow had held it in place by jamming the two pieces of a stick between the links. And he probably did it while he was answering nature’s call. That’s how he was able to grab me when I started to pour him some coffee, Will thought. The chain was two feet longer than I thought. He had taken no notice of the doubled-up section of chain lying behind Tarbow in the darkness. He was reminded then of something Fletcher Pride had once told him. In this business, you can think you’re being careful when you’re transporting felons, but it’ll most likely be some little mistake that’ll do you in. “Well, Fletcher,” Will said, “I reckon I just found that out.” He pictured the good-natured grizzly nodding and chuckling in response.

  * * *

  Damn! Eli swore to himself as he whipped his horse for more speed. That big one-eyed fool had to jump in the way. He had the deputy marshal in his sights, and Tarbow had picked the exact moment he squeezed the trigger to lunge at the lawman. As quick as he could crank another cartridge in the chamber, he had fired again, hoping to hit Tanner, but hit Tarbow again. Now Tanner knew he was being stalked and it was bound to make killing him a whole lot harder. The thought of trying to work in closer to get another shot at him had entered Eli’s mind, but the rising full moon caused him to reconsider. There was no sense in finding out if the deputy was a good shot the hard way. It was still a long way to Fort Smith. He would pick his spot more carefully next time.


  * * *

  As a precaution, Will pulled his horses in and tied them between the wagon and the side of the gulch. He had an idea that the shooter might not be back that night, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He made his bed away from the campfire as a further precaution and kept his rifle by his side.

  The night passed without incident, and the next morning he saddled Buster and made a little scout around the mouth of the gulch to make sure he was alone. After that, he looked for the spot he had gotten to the night before when he heard the shooter leave. Tracks he found verified what he had already surmised—this assassin was working alone. It was easy to see where he had tied his horse and where he had fired from. Two spent cartridges by a mound of dirt told him from where the man had actually fired. Will turned and sighted toward his wagon to see the target as the shooter had. He shouldn’t have missed, if Tarbow hadn’t made his move.

  Back at the wagon, he stood looking at Tarbow’s body for a few minutes, trying to decide what he should do. Somewhere out there a man with a rifle was evidently planning on killing him. For what reason, Will still didn’t know. His inclination at this point was to leave the wagon and start tracking him, but he had to decide what to do about Tarbow. He had been determined to take the outlaw back to Fort Smith, no matter what. That’s what he and Pride had been charged to do. It seemed especially important since Pride had been killed. There was also the matter of the large quantity of money he was carrying. He would feel a lot better after he turned that over to the court.

  But now Tarbow had to go and get himself shot. If he hauled his body back in that wagon, it might take him six days to do it, and that corpse would get mighty ripe by that time. On the other hand, if he left the wagon and headed for Fort Smith on horseback, he could make it in three days, and probably less. It was a difficult decision to make. He had a fresh trail to follow if he set out to track the gunman right away. However, he was hampered by the fact that he had not a clue who the gunman was or why he attempted to shoot him. There was always the possibility that the man had just happened upon him and thought it an opportunity to steal four horses and whatever was in the wagon. The problem he had to consider was, if he went after him and lost his trail, he would have wasted valuable time that would have been spent packing Tarbow’s body to Fort Smith. I’ll probably never see that shooter again, he thought finally. I’d best get started before Tarbow gets really ripe.

  He put Tarbow’s saddle on the blue roan the outlaw had ridden and loaded his body across it, along with some firearms and ammunition he had collected. The other horses that had pulled the wagon were again loaded with packs. He stepped up into the saddle and took one last look around him to remember where he had left the wagon. He was thinking that maybe, when he reached Fort Smith, someone could telegraph Atoka Station to tell Jim Little Eagle where it was. Glad to be rid of it then, he turned the buckskin to the northeast and headed for Fort Smith. He was leading his string of three horses, one of which carried a grotesquely awkward load across the saddle. Since it had been almost nine hours since Tarbow’s death, his body was already stiff. Wrapped in a canvas sheet, it had given Will a devilish chore to secure it on the horse. The trail he set out on was a well-traveled one, and was the very track on which he, Pride, and Charlie Tate had traveled to Atoka. Unknown to Will, his choice of trails was of particular interest to the man watching him from a ridge a mile away.

  Eli was satisfied to see that the deputy seemed intent upon following the Jack Fork Mountain trail. He knew that trail well. There were any number of places along it to wait in ambush. It would not be easy, however, because Tanner had left the wagon and was pushing his horses to maintain a fast pace. Eli could see that he was going to have to ride hard to keep up with him.

  CHAPTER 12

  Will had made good time during the morning, holding the horses to a steady pace for what he estimated to be about twenty-five miles. It was time to let them rest, so he was glad when he came to a small creek south of the Jack Fork Mountains. He was hoping to make fifty miles that first day, but it would depend on the condition of his packhorses after the morning segment. He already knew that Buster was up to it, and the roan seemed to be just fine. Of course, everything depended on the packhorses. If they didn’t hold up, he’d have to stop sooner than he wanted to.

  Following the creek for fifty yards or so, he came to what he considered a good spot to rest the horses. There was a small grassy clearing in the cottonwoods that lined both banks of the creek that would provide grass for grazing. The south bank formed a chest-high bluff where the creek took a sharp bend to the north. He decided that to be the best place to build a fire to cook something for himself, since the bluff would provide good cover in the event he might suddenly need it. Although he had tried to constantly keep a sharp eye on the trail ahead of him, there had been nothing to arouse his suspicions. And the farther he had ridden without any sign of trouble, the more he suspected the attack of the night before was a random act by a would-be horse thief—and he most likely had not known whom he was shooting at. That made more sense, anyway, for he hadn’t been a deputy long enough to have made any enemies besides Max Tarbow’s gang. And they were all dead. Still, it was always a good idea to keep a sharp eye for trouble of any sort. There were a great many outlaws of all kinds hiding out in Indian Territory. It had not stuck in his mind that one of the men killed on this mission had been Lem Stark’s son Jeb.

  He took the saddle off his horse and unloaded the packhorses. Since Tarbow had gone into full rigor mortis, his body was stiff as a pine log, and because of his size, was just about as heavy. Will led the horse over to a tree, untied the body, and let it slide off. Holding it upright, he leaned it up against the tree. That way, when it was time to load it up again, he could simply let the body fall across his shoulder, making it much easier to shift it from his shoulder to the horse’s back. It wasn’t a big thing, but it did eliminate having to lift the dead weight up from the ground. As he pulled the saddle off, he was about to compliment himself for being innovative when he was startled by the first shot.

  A chunk of bark flew by his face as the rifle slug buried in the trunk and the heavy report of a Henry rifle sang out across the creek. With no time for thinking, Will dived to the ground as a second and third shot snapped sharply as they passed overhead. “Damn!” Will exclaimed in anger. “That son of a bitch ain’t gonna give up!” He rolled over until he got the tree between him and where he thought the shots were coming from. Then he scurried backward on his hands and knees while the rifle shots continued to snap and whine all about him. The problem facing him now was that his rifle was still in his saddle sling, and the saddle was on the ground about fifteen feet from him in the clearing. He was pretty sure the shooter was firing blindly now, just hoping to get lucky, for Will knew he couldn’t see him because of the tree. But as soon as I make a run for my rifle, he’ll see me, he thought.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, the shooting stopped. Empty magazine? Will wondered. How many shots had been fired? He had been too busy trying to keep from getting killed to think about counting the shots. The silence was suddenly deafening. He hesitated for only a couple of seconds more before he made a dash for his rifle, hoping he could cover the distance to his saddle and back before his assailant could reload his rifle. He made it to his saddle and was almost back under cover before a bullet kicked dirt up between his feet. “The bastard didn’t load the whole magazine,” he complained, as if there were rules to the deadly game.

  Armed with his rifle now, and with a good idea where the shots were coming from, Will dropped over the lip of the creek and made his way to the bend in the creek where the bank was higher. As soon as he settled in against the sandy bank, he brought his Winchester to bear on a small cluster of trees atop a low rise about one hundred and fifty yards away. Sighting on one side of the cluster, he squeezed off the first shot, then walked the Winchester across the width of it, a few feet at a time, until the magazine was empty. Then h
e reloaded and reversed the volley, starting from the other side, intending to make it too hot for his adversary to stay in the trees.

  Dismayed by the hailstorm of return fire he had incited, Eli Stark hugged the ground behind a scrub oak while the series of rifle slugs snapped the leaves over his head. In his excitement to kill Will while he was in the open, unloading his horses, he had hurried his shot, and consequently missed. In frustration then, he tried to fire as fast as he could, thinking one of his shots would find the target. Now he was getting the same volley from the deputy, and he immediately regretted choosing the clump of smallish scrub oaks for his cover. He was reluctant to continue firing at the creek bank for fear that Will might pinpoint his position in the oaks and concentrate his fire on that spot. His decision to retreat was made for him when a bullet clipped a large limb directly over his head and dropped it across his back. Bitter with the taste of his second defeat in his attempt to avenge his brother and grab the bank money, he dragged himself backward to the edge of the trees and ran down the rise to his horse.

  From the protection of the creek bank, Will fired four shots in a circular pattern, centering on what appeared to be the thickest part of the clump, then waited for the sniper’s response. Several minutes passed with no further return fire, causing Will to wonder if one of the shots had found the target. He was not of a mind to climb up on the bank, however, in case it was a ploy to lure him out in the open. Half a minute later, he saw a rider gallop up from the swale behind the rise, then disappear again into the hills behind it. Fully half a mile away by that time, Will could not get a close enough look at the man’s face to remember it again. All he could tell was that he appeared to be dressed all in black, including his hat, and the horse he rode was black as well. “That son of a bitch!” Will blurted, afraid he was going to get away again. Holding his rifle in one hand, he ran to the horses. With no time to saddle him, he jumped on Buster’s back and gave him his heels. Galloping up from the creek, the big buckskin responded faithfully, even though already tired from a hard ride that morning.