I Dreamt I Was in Heaven_The Rampage of the Rufus Buck Gang

by Leonce Gaiter

  ~

  After the guards discovered Bill’s bullets, Starr wanted to reschedule the escape attempt, but Bill refused. “Friday,” Bill insisted. It was Friday this time due to the Vann’s knowledge of the previous Sunday plan. Starr didn’t argue. Bill was the linchpin, and he wanted Bill happy. When you got right down to it, Sunday or Friday didn’t matter much. The Ft. Smith jail needed time to relax. After all the excitement of the rumors and the search, the guards needed to slip back to the their usual complacency. The flow of contraband needed to fully resume and the prisoners had to stop yammering about the gun that had been found inside a bucket of lime in the downstairs privy. On hearing of it, Bill and Henry knew that it was their gun—the gun that Sherman Vann had lost and that should have freed them by now.

  “If that boy was still here,” Starr laughed, “he would not rest until he found the sonofabitch who stole the gun, or some sonofabitch he thought mighta stole it and kicked the shit out of him.”

  Bill Smiled.

  “I wonder what he’s up to?” Starr added. Bill didn’t answer.

  “Don’t you wonder?”

  “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with me,” Bill replied.

  With his back to Bill, Starr smiled with satisfaction and shook his head knowingly. “I thought you was gonna ride with him.”

  “You too,” parried Bill.

  “Yeah, but I ain’t his hero an’ all.”

  “An’ I didn’t ask to be. So why don’t you shut up about it.”

  “You feelin’ a little guilty about that?”

  “I don’ owe nobody nothin’ an’ I said to shut up about it.”

  After a while, Starr broke the silence. “The week after next oughta do it,” he said, signaling satisfaction with the appointed date. “That oughta give ‘em all time to simmer down. And they won’t expect nothin’ so soon.”

  Bill nodded vaguely. He had gotten used to having Rufus around. He had grown accustomed to the flattery. He had never thought about riding with him one way or another—never took it seriously enough. When Henry told him how Rufus might help get a gun and the boy, in fact, proved useful, Bill thought about taking him on. Why not? The boy had done him a good turn. But now he was gone and the plan moved on without him. It would take commitment and a solid effort to track him down. It would take even more to teach him up so that he could do the job without getting things killed that Bill didn’t want dead. He was gone now, so there was no cause to think about it. He was part of the past, just another player in the pageant of happenstance that Bill marched innocently through. Gone or dead didn’t much matter. It was done. You didn’t go running after it any more than you would a bullet that passed you by.

  ~

  John Buck walked a bay gelding toward the front of the house. He stopped Rufus and gestured to the horse. “Go on. Take it,” he said. He patted the horse and ran his hand briefly along its flank as if saying goodbye to the horse instead of his son. And then in one of his most rare gestures, he looked his son in the eye. His features sat motionless and overwhelming. Without a word or movement, he asked where his son was going, what had happened to him, told him to go and wished him well, and mourned the fate he feared awaited him—all in a single swish of the horse’s tail against the omnipresent flies. Knowing there were no answers, John Buck entered his house. Rufus climbed on the horse and began his forty-mile trek to Okmulgee.

  ~

  The hullabaloo surrounding the prison search dulled Bill’s anxiety. He thought less about the enormity of nothing. Guards finding some of his shells but missing the gun behind his cell’s loose bricks proved a rare, prescient sort of luck. So nothing stood in his way. He began to believe that he’d soon be out in the world and doing as he pleased. On Murderer’s Row, his newfound self-possession proved as notable as his tension had been.

  “What is Bill gonna do when he’s outta here?” Starr teasingly asked him, daring to contemplate a future.

  Bill had considered it. “I’m gonna visit Ike Rogers,” he said. Rogers was the man who had informed on him and set him up for capture by the Marshals. He owed Ike Rogers. “Once I take care o’ that, I don’t know. Think I’ll leave the Territory. West. Texas, maybe.”

  “I’m thinkin’ California,” Starr mused. “San Francisco sounds like a place for a man of my quality.”

  “They prize bullshit there?”

  “I do think they might,” Starr smiled proudly. “I do think they might.”

  As the day approached, Bill tread carefully. He foresaw another attack of that cowardly fearfulness to which he’d once succumbed. He watched his hands, holding one out before him and waiting for the tiniest tremor. Seeing none, he’d relax. Each day without the sick feeling in his stomach or a trembling hand gave him confidence that he could resume his life as the man he had been. That he had once faltered… he’d have to live with that, like a physical defect, a bum leg that he knew might go out on him. He would just have to live with it.

  ~

  Arriving in Okmulgee on July 11, Rufus listened. He listened to the talk. Ever since he was a kid he had known you could find out what was happening by listening to folks passing by, overhearing the ones sitting outside the blacksmith or the dry goods store. To his surprise and alarm, today they talked of Bill. They talked of “catching” Bill. His mouth dry, he found a copy of the The Ft. Smith Elevator posted as ever in an Okmulgee main street window. He read the article. It described the jail lockdown, search and discovery of a revolver hidden in an indoor bucket of lime. It said they found bullets in Cherokee Bill’s cell.

  That was all it said. Shaking, barely breathing, Rufus searched all over the page for more, but there was nothing. Bill hadn’t hidden his gun in any lime. The article didn’t mention the wall, or the gun that Bill had hidden there. His breathing slowed. The trembling slipped off of him. He calmly considered what the newspaper hadn’t said: It didn’t say that they’d found Bill’s gun. Had Bill moved his gun to another hiding place? A bucket of lime? That wasn’t like Bill; he stuck with things. He had hidden his gun in the wall, and that’s where it would have stayed.

  Rufus turned from the window having convinced himself that Bill was safe, that the newspaper didn’t write about the gun because the guards hadn’t found it. The gun in the lime could have belonged to anyone.

  Comforted, he walked through the town regarding its people. Even the dandies no longer seemed bright butterflies; and even if they were, he was the snake that ate them. If they knew what was coming, he thought, they’d cower, guns at the ready to fend off the righteous vengeance headed straight for them. He mounted his horse to look for his men. Only the slightest twinge of doubt disturbed him.

  One of the first things Rufus had to do upon returning to his gang was beat the crap out of Maoma July.

  “Whatchu tellin’ us what to do for? You ain’t even been here.”

  “This the Maoma July gang now?” Rufus mocked.

  “Maybe it ought be…” Maoma mumbled.

  Maoma had prepared meticulously for his leader’s return. He and Sam Sampson hadn’t seen much of Lewis and Luckey since Rufus’ imprisonment. The pairs had gone their separate ways. Only upon checking with Mrs. Buck, which he did with metronomic regularity, and learning of Rufus’ imminent release did Maoma and Sam seek the others out.

  “We gotta get ready,” Maoma excitedly exclaimed. “He’s comin’ back.”

  Maoma had taken the liberty of stealing guns. With Sam he shared a makeshift leanto in the woods outside Okmulgee. Inside was an old chest he had filled with a substantial cache of stolen revolvers, rifles and bullets in preparation for the gang’s reunion. He proudly displayed the guns to Lewis and Luckey as he outlined the next step.

  “We need some horses,” he said. With great care, he planned a nighttime raid on a small farm owned by an elderly man up toward Baldhill who had once offended him. Despite the farm’s sole occupants being an old man and his equally old wife, the four managed to steal only two equally old, swayback ho
rses and had to dissuade the owner from pursuit with a hail of revolver fire.

  When Rufus returned, he wore a newfound air of majesty and poise. It impressed Maoma. It fulfilled his expectations of what a leader should be as it simultaneously stoked his jealousy.

  “We are gonna ride with Cherokee Bill,” Rufus proudly told them. “I brought him the gun he’s gonna use to bust out, and then we’ll be with his gang, makin’ a name for ourselves. Henry Starr, too, the train robber.”

  “We gonna rob trains?” an excited Luckey asked.

  “We gonna rob whatever we want. Whatever Bill says.”

  “How come we gotta do what he says. It’s our gang. He’d be in prison wasn’t for you,” Maoma snarled.

  “Cause he’s Cherokee Bill,” replied Rufus.

  Under his breath, Maoma mocked, “’Cause heee’s Cherokee Bill.”

  At first, Rufus ignored him. He wanted to enlighten them as he had been enlightened. He wanted to open their eyes to injustices and the possibilities for righting them as his had been. He tried to tell them what Henry Starr had said.

  “He tol’ me all about what it’s supposed to be like. Ain’t supposed to be white folks here. The land supposed to be ours and we supposed to be able to do what we want here.”

  “It is ours. It’s Indian Territory,” Maoma insisted.

  “White folks all over it,” Rufus countered. “Own most of it.”

  “Still Indian Territory,” Maoma needled.

  “We supposed to be different,” Rufus protested, growing more frustrated at his inability to convey what had been so powerfully impressed upon him. “We supposed to be free here.”

  “Ain’t we free?” Lewis asked quietly. “Niggers ain’t slaves no more.”

  “You full o’ shit,” Maoma spat. “Always been white people in Indian Territory.”

  “My father tol’ me about when there wasn’t an’ so did Henry Starr.”

  “Then your father’s as big a liar as he is.”

  Rufus lunged at him. Maoma did not believe what he had said. He had no idea who had been or had not been in Indian Territory. He said it to provoke a fight that he didn’t expect to win. Like a horse, he tested; he wanted to know that his leader deserved the honor of leadership and was a better man than he. He smiled with triumph when Rufus attacked him. He fought madly, with the excess enthusiasm and lack of discipline that marked his every move; and through it, he unleashed his anger and confirmed his admiration for the better man. Exhausted, he soon found himself flat on the ground, Rufus’ knee in his chest. He tasted his own blood as he suffered bruising blows to his stomach and sides.

  “I gib uh,” he panted through mangled lips. “I gib up.”

  Rufus slowly crept off of him. Maoma staggered to his feet.

  “Ain’t we free?” Lewis asked again intently, as if they had not been interrupted.

  Rufus placed his hands on his hips to catch his breath as he fought for the words. “It ain’t supposed to be like this,” he said with more exhaustion than passion. “That’s what Henry says. He says it oughta be like the folks my Daddy remembers. He had things… on his wall to remember ‘em.” Rufus grew emotional at the memory of his father’s mute adoration of the treasured objects—some of the few times he had seemed present and unbroken. He looked at the four youths standing before him. Maoma reached to the ground to snatch a bug in his hand. Sam stared attentively yet blankly at him, and Lewis and Luckey exchanged glances with each other. Rufus waved his arm at the land surrounding their makeshift home and raised his voice.

  “Like this,” he said. “Nothin’ here. Ain’t no one supposed to be here but us. No white folks, no Mission School, nothin’. Just us. And what we want.”

  The four boys looked confusedly at each other, and then, tentatively, as if not knowing what to expect, at the landscape surrounding them, heretofore as invisible as air. As if they had just magically appeared, the boys noted particular trees and wild grasses, bushes rustling from critter activity beneath. The noises struck them, occasional leaves and crows yapping in the still, sun-baked sea of brown and untamed green.

  “When you see a town full o’ white folks an’ they hangin’ us to death and throwin’ us in jail and doin’ what they done… it ain’t right.” Rufus paused with his gang’s eyes on him as he struggled not to cry at the mute pain that enveloped his house. His father’s eyes, aghast and impenetrable, his mother’s wordlessly brutal goodbye—they silenced him. They expected no better than the nothing they got and they had learned to live with it. Doing so had cost them their souls.

  Maoma, Sam, Lewis and Luckey recognized the depth of emotion staring at them, but did not know what it meant. However, they offered deference and respect, as you would to a lion’s low moan or a lone wolf’s howl. They knew it was heartfelt, and they knew it bespoke a warning.

  “When Bill gets out, we gonna change it,” Rufus continued in a choked voice. He would change it, he thought, for his Ma and Pa. His father would find a voice and his mother her freedom. He would give them that.

  He reviewed the four standing before him. Acknowledging the expressions of puzzlement and concern, he clarified. “We gonna take everything they got,” he said, “and drive ‘em outta here.”

  Maoma jumped in the air and loudly smacked his fist in his palm. Sam bounced up and down pounding on Maoma with congratulatory hands. Lewis and Luckey smiled at one another, finally appreciating the clarity and simplicity of the task ahead.

  6

  The gang had plenty of plans but only one good horse and two spent ones between the five of them.

  “We got a whole Territory to ride,” Rufus warned. He knew a well-stocked livery stable in Checotah. He had traveled there with his father. In Checotah, few knew him or his fellows as thieves and whiskey peddlers. They would not be among the first suspects tracked down.

  Arriving on town’s edge near dusk, they waited for nightfall and then for the livery, the dry goods store, the barbershop and all the other businesses to close for the night. When all they heard was the cry of the rail whistle and the faint rustle from the saloon, they moved. Leaving their horses tied up in some trees, they crept into town by the light of a full moon in a cloudless sky. Breaking into the livery was just a matter of quietly forcing a back door of the large barn. The six horses inside rustled at the noise. By the dim light through the open door, Lewis immediately worked to calm them, walking among them, whispering to them, lightly touching a velvet nose.

  “Pick four good ones,” Rufus said as he moved into the next room. He gestured at Maoma and Sam to follow.

  “Get a light,” Lewis whispered to Luckey. Lewis noted the horses’ conformations through the slatted stall gates. As the light arrived, he smiled, satisfied that his judgments in the darkness held true. He knew horses. He grabbed some lead rope hanging from the gate, slowly opened it and approached a small gelding. With its calm disposition and short stature it was perfect for Luckey. Lewis glanced at his friend, expecting him to shine at the prospect like a kid at a toy; but Luckey nervously watched the door, ignoring the horse, his arm holding the lantern straight up in the air.

  In the next room, Rufus collected tack. From the corner of his eye he saw Maoma on Sam Sampson’s back, miming whooping and whipping as Sam tossed his head and mock-galloped in small circles around a table full of bits and bridles.

  Rufus wanted to yell and he wanted to laugh. “Get a saddle, both o’ you,” he hissed. Maoma dropped from Sam’s back and ran to the most audacious saddle he saw, full of shiny silver tie and rigging accents. He grabbed it by the horn and cantle, heaved it to his chest and ran toward the back, leaving Sam scrambling to find a suitable saddle.

  “Get that to Lewis and come back for more,” Rufus stage-whispered to the retreating Maoma as he continued collected reins, cinches, bits and saddlebags and piling them on the floor. He knew they might never see such plenty again so he planned to take advantage. Sam left the room carting a saddle as Maoma returned. Rufus pointed to the
pile on the floor. Maoma grabbed two armsful of tack and ran.

  By the time Rufus finished piling and Maoma and Sam carting, Lewis was saddling the third horse. When Rufus returned to the stable with a saddlebag across his shoulder, he heard raised voices.

  “I want this one on him,” Maoma said too loudly, pointing at the silver-emblazoned saddle.

  “This one’s better. It’s broke in for this horse and fits him right.”

  “I don’t care ‘bout the damned horse.”

  “You better or it’ll buck you off and trample you dead.”

  “I’ll shoot it,” Maoma said, pulling the gun from his holster.

  “Leave the goddam saddle,” Rufus almost shouted. “Saddle the last of ‘em and let’s go,” he said to Lewis.

  Fuming, Maoma plastered an “I’ll show them” look on his face, pulled his knife, and began to saw the silver buckles and spangles from the impressively ornate saddle.

  “We’re ready,” Lewis announced. Four horses stood saddled.

  “We’ll walk ‘em out,” Rufus instructed. “Quiet.”

  “Gimme that light,” Maoma commanded. Luckey handed it over and took his horses’ reins from Lewis.