Desperado Run (An Indian Territory Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Macon and his pals played games with the two. The outlaws were allowed to ride freely until they reached a point close the end of the bluffs. Then the firing built up, forcing them back to the center. Even the kill-crazy Macon wanted a prisoner or two out of the situation, so he ordered his men to cease fire when their quarry once again was driven inward.

  There was only a fifty-yard distance down to the river from the cliffs, and the U.S. marshal had recognized one of the horse thieves. He took a deep breath and shouted, “How’re you doing down there, Ben Cullen?”

  Ben, unable to spot anyone on the bluffs, kept his rifle held ready. “I’m having a nice afternoon. Who’s that?”

  “Macon—Jack Macon—you little peckerhead,” he yelled back. “You and your pard throw down them guns and we’ll take you in to Guthrie. How’s that?”

  Ben licked his lips. He didn’t figure he’d be hanged, since the law couldn’t prove he actually shot any of the soldiers back at Fort Sill. But there was at least a thirty-year stretch in the Oklahoma Territorial Prison waiting for him. He looked over at his pard. “What do you say?”

  “I’m going into the river.”

  “You’ll never make it,” Ben warned him.

  The other rustler only grinned, then suddenly wheeled his horse and sped toward the water. Neither he nor the animal got beyond ten yards before the volleys did them in.

  A split second after the kid had made his move, Ben slipped down on the other side of his own horse on the far side from the lawmen as he took his chance. He got a good couple of seconds to get up some speed, but that was enough. Before the lawmen could draw a bead on him, he had streaked out of the dangerous area and pounded over the prairie toward freedom.

  Ben evaded escape for three days before he was sure he’d made it to freedom for certain.

  The affair enraged Macon and he made it his own personal crusade to bring Ben Cullen to justice—either in handcuffs or laid across the back of a horse.

  Ben made contact with the marshal off and on for the next four years. Finally, Macon had gotten so close that Ben decided to change his lifestyle. The close calls and explosive gunfights taught him a lot of respect for Jack Macon’s tenacity. Ben took a breather for a while and stopped riding the owlhoot trail. He decided to lay low by seeking anonymity in the guise of a hand on some secluded ranch. The Texas panhandle offered the best opportunities with its seemingly limitless expanses and wide separation of cattle outfits. Ben finally found a small place and hired on.

  That situation had come to a conclusion on a dark, moonless August night of the year 1901.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A sharp jolt of pain brought Ben Cullen out of his deep, troubled sleep. He sat up knowing too well that he had rolled over on his dog-bitten arm. Ben gently held and caressed the injured limb.

  Suddenly he noticed that the sun was mid-morning high. The realization brought a stab of panic—as shocking as the hurt in his arm—but it quickly subsided as he checked out the campsite he had established the previous evening. All was serene, and the only sounds were those of birds, insects, and the gentle wafting of the water stroking past the bank.

  He had slept through the entire night, but rather than enjoying the deep, dreamless rest experienced on the Baldwin farm, the previous night’s slumber had been full of disjointed, disturbing dreams. The fever had caused his memories to travel across his mind in wavery, uneven images that went as far back as his boyhood in Pleasanton. During one episode, he had been standing at the fence of the Beardsley’s home. Oren Beardsley had called in a posse to chase him away. The horsemen, shooting wildly, chased him across a dreamscape of ravines and creeks while Maybelle Beardsley ran alongside him shouting taunts and insults. That nightmare evolved into another in which he was back in Leavenworth Penitentiary. This time he was unarmed while Marshal Jack Macon chased him up and down the cell tiers firing at him until Ben left the blockhouse and raced for the safety of the mineshaft. But Morley Jackson and his gang of prison rapists were waiting for him there—armed and mounted. They chased Ben back toward Macon. And Maybelle Beardsley was there too, standing by the railing of a guard tower, pointing and laughing at him. Suddenly it turned night and the prison yard was drenched in the pale yellow glare of the watch lanterns . A movement in the door of the infirmary caught his eye, and Ben saw Arlena standing in the doorway of the prison hospital. Her dress was unbuttoned and her breasts were exposed to him in the moonlight. Morley Jackson spotted the woman and let out a bellow of lustful delight. He turned toward her. Ben wanted to save the woman he loved, but now he could hardly move as he tried to run toward the door where she stood.

  It was at that point that he’d tossed and turned until he rolled over on the arm and woke up.

  Despite these horrible dreams, the sleep had done Ben some good. He felt fairly rested, though his wound still hurt like hell. The faithful horse, hobbled nearby, languidly nibbled on the sweet prairie grass near the bank of the river. A grove of cottonwoods shielded the camp from sight and offered a windbreak at the same time.

  Ben got to his feet and was somewhat relieved to note that the usual dizziness was not so strong. It was obvious he would have to travel slow and rest plenty if he was to continue his journey, however. Ben took his time saddling the horse and gathering up his gear. His left hand was almost useless, but he could still manage without much trouble. He was just starting to slip his foot in the stirrup when the sound of someone walking toward him sounded in the cottonwoods around the camp.

  Ben drew his pistol while his eyes darted about, picking the best route out of the brush. The noise continued until two boys suddenly crashed into the open area. The pair, with fishing poles over their shoulders, stopped when they saw Ben.

  “Howdy, mister,” one said.

  Ben nodded. “How’re you boys doing?” He stood on the far side of the horse, and they couldn’t see he’d drawn the six-shooter.

  “Perty good,” the more gabby one answered. “You’re right here at our best fishing spot.”

  Ben glanced back toward the river. “Well, now, that looks like the right place, all right.”

  The second boy, smaller and less talkative, was eager to fish. He went directly over to the bank and began preparing his line. His pal was more inclined to conversation. “Did you do any fishing here, mister?”

  “Nope,” Ben answered. “Didn’t have the time.” By then he’d figured out the boys were alone, so he reholstered the revolver. “I got to get to Kansas.”

  “You’re in Kansas, mister,” the boy said. “If you’re headed toward Liberal, it’s another ten miles west.” The boy squinted his eyes as he looked closer at Ben. “Or are you with the posse?”

  “Posse?”

  “Them fellers from the Territory,” the boy said. “Say, did you ever find the outlaw you’re hunting?”

  “Not that I know of,” Ben said. He held up his arm. “My horse throwed me and I hurt my arm, so I let the others go on ahead.” He paused to note the kid was buying his story. “So I’d better go on and find ’em. Do you know which direction they went?”

  “Yes, sir. They was going to Liberal,” the boy said. “I heard ’em when they talked with my pa at our farm. They was pretty well scattered around, but ever’one was to meet there in town and either hunt some more for the bad man or go back home.”

  “I’ll meet up with ’em there,” Ben said.

  “They say that outlaw is a mean ’un,” the boy said. “According to one o’ them Oklahoma fellers, he’s a cold-blooded killer with the look o’ the devil in his eye.”

  “That’s right, boy,” Ben said. “I swear he’s eight foot tall and you know what else ...” He let the question hang for effect.

  “What?” the boy asked eagerly.

  “He’s got a tail,” Ben said.

  The boy scoffed. “Aw!”

  “He sure does!” Ben said. “And that jasper keeps the thing coiled up and tied to his back.”

  “Lord above!”
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br />   Ben swung up into the saddle. “Well, son, I don’t want to run into that big feller with the tail while I’m alone, so’s I reckon I better get over to Liberal and find my pards. That’s ten miles west, huh?”

  “Yes, sir”

  “Obliged, boy. I hope the fishing’s good. So long.”

  “So long, mister.” The kid, suddenly remembering why he’d gone there in the first place, wasted no time in rushing toward his friend down on the river bank. Ben could hear him shouting to his little friend, “Hey, Tommy Joe! Did you hear about that outlaw?”

  Ben, grinning despite his physical discomfort, rode out of the trees and went due north until he was well beyond the campsite. When he was sure that neither one of the boys could see him, he turned east.

  The ground rolled in swells in that part of Kansas and the grass was thick and high. Although there were not many trees, that sort of terrain offered cover in the form of depressions and ravines. Once, hundreds of thousands of buffalo had thrived on the lush prairie land, but they and the noble Plains Indians who hunted them were gone. Now farms and towns were spotted across the mighty expanse of earth, and barbed wire was making its insidious inroad on a land where both men and animals had once known complete freedom.

  Ben had to continue his zigzag journey to avoid these places of habitat. Between that and his slow pace, he made very little progress in miles traveled. Once more he weakened in the pounding heat of the afternoon sun, and the throbbing began in his arm, sending streaks of pain up as high as his shoulder. When he took the time to cut off a hunk of the ham to eat, he thought of the terrible price he’d paid for the meat. The situation grew worse as the afternoon’s ride continued. Waves of nausea and faintness swept over him. A few times, Ben was forced to slip out of the saddle and hang on until the sickness passed. Each time the horse, sensing its rider’s distress, stood patiently still until Ben laboriously pulled himself back up to continue the ride.

  The bandage seemed to grow tighter around the arm, but Ben knew this was because the swelling was increasing. The fingers were now thick and purple, swollen so badly that the fingernails looked like they’d been pushed down into the swollen flesh. Fortunately, there were plenty of creeks in the area. Ben stopped and stuck the arm in the cooling water each time he crossed one. This would bring the swelling down a bit, but within a quarter of an hour the good effects of the soaking would wear off.

  Finally Ben felt so worn and exhausted that he needed to stop until the next day. He’d spotted a line of trees a mile away that gave promise not only to a good hiding place, but to the water he would need to nurse himself. He swung the horse in that direction and rode slowly to the spot.

  He found a narrow, shallow creek there. The rapidly flowing water was noisy as it rolled over the rocky bed that was bounded by grass and clover. Ben dismounted and tended the horse first. Then he lay down his blankets and arranged them so he could use the saddle as a pillow. Then he settled down and gently laid his arm across his stomach. Within minutes he’d fallen into another one of the disturbing naps that took him from deep slumber to restless sleep in alternating, feverish waves.

  “Wake up, mister!”

  Ben’s eyes came open and he saw the two men looking down at him. Each had a carbine pointed dead on his chest. He licked his lips as the sleepiness evaporated and the fear took over. “Yeah?”

  “You just stay the way you are,” the larger, darker one said. “I think you’re just the feller we’re looking for.”

  The other left them to rifle through Ben’s saddlebags. “There ain’t nothing in here but bullets and some clothes, Bob.”

  The man called Bob didn’t take his eyes off Ben. “Is there any red checkedy shirts in there? The sheriff said he had one like that in the bundle.”

  “Nope.”

  “Just a minute, Jim,” Bob said. He nudged Ben with his boot. “What’s the matter with your arm?”

  “My horse throwed me,” Ben said. “Can I sit up? I feel silly laying down here.”

  “Go ahead,” Bob said. “But don’t try nothing. What’s your name?”

  “Fred Jones,” Ben said.

  “You sure it ain’t Ben Cullen?” Jim said, coming back over.

  “I oughta know my own name,” Ben said.

  “To hell with your name,” Bob said. He looked closer at the bandage on Ben’s arm. “That used to be a red checkedy shirt. I can see that even through the blood on it.”

  Ben noticed that the man named Jim was a cross draw type. The butt of the holstered revolver stuck out conveniently into Ben’s face. That was his favorite kind to be captured by. “How come you fellers is bothering me?”

  “We’re part of a posse outta Red Rock in the territory,” Jim said. “And if you’re Ben Cullen, you killed our deputy and stuck a knife in the sheriff. You—” He stopped. “Looky at that saddle! I swear that’s the one that was on Crease’s horse that was stolen.” He glared at the fugitive. “You rustled that horse in Red Rock, didn’t you?”

  “Hell, no!” Ben protested. “I didn’t steal nothing nowhere. You fellers got no right to talk to me like this.”

  Jim motioned at Ben. “Move over, godammit!”

  Ben got to his knees and moved to his left. Jim walked up to check the saddle, and Ben’s hand shot out at the cross-draw holster. He pulled the pistol loose and fired in almost the same motion. Jim jumped straight up in the air and fell down in a heap.

  “You little bastard!” Bob bellowed. He fired a quick shot from the carbine that zapped past Ben’s face.

  Ben swung the pistol revolver toward him, pulling the trigger. He missed while Bob worked the cocking lever to chamber another round. Ben shot again and missed. Bob brought the carbine up while Ben fired twice in panicky jerks of the trigger.

  Both rounds hit the man and he stumbled backward with a puzzled, angry expression on his face. He died without closing his eyes.

  Ben couldn’t waste time resaddling his own horse. The sounds of the shots might have alerted other members of the posse. There was every possibility he would be in for a wild, shooting ride. After grabbing his own saddlebags and Winchester rifle, he mounted Bob’s horse and crashed blindly through the trees to the open prairie.

  The run continued.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On the afternoon of the day following the shooting of the two posse men, Ben Cullen’s arm was hurting so bad it forced him to make a dramatic and dangerous decision.

  He would seek out a doctor.

  Although such an action would surely set the law straight on him, there was no choice. If a physician helped him, Ben would never be able to bring himself to silence him with a bullet. Because of this aversion to cold-blooded murder, the best chance he had—and it was a slim one—was to remain as anonymous as possible with the hope that the doctor would not inform any lawmen of his presence.

  The arm was festering badly, and his own physical condition was deteriorating so fast that he couldn’t even monitor it himself. Ben consoled himself with the wild hope that all a doctor would have to do would be to lance, clean, and rebandage the wound. Once that was done, with any luck, recovery would only be a matter of time.

  Ben’s arrival at the town of Medicine Lodge was timely. It was just past dusk and there were few people about. Ben rode slowly onto the nearly deserted main street to search out any sign of a local doctor. His feverish red eyes burned as he scanned the hand painted signs mounted over the storefronts. Although he could barely read, he knew he would recognize the words he sought if he saw them.

  “Hey, mister. Who’re you looking for?”

  Ben, startled, had failed to notice the man in the shadows on the boardwalk. “What?” he said awkwardly.

  The man stepped out where he was easier to see. He was a cheerful-looking portly citizen, wearing a cocky derby. “I seen you riding down the street. Even a fool like me could see you was looking for something.”

  “I need a doctor,” Ben said. “My horse throwed me.”


  “I’ll say you do! That hand looks badly swole up.” The stranger pointed down on the street. “He’s just on the other side o’ Woods’s general store there. Fact o’ the matter, he rented the space from Elmer.”

  “Elmer? Elmer Woods?” Ben asked.

  “Sure. You know him?”

  “Naw, I guess not,” Ben lied. Memories of Elmer Woods in the Gilray gang flooded Ben’s tortured mind. The last time he’d seen his old friend had been a similar situation. But it was Elmer who’d been left bleeding on a physician’s front porch in Fort Smith, Arkansas.

  “Obliged,” Ben said.

  “Sure,” the man said. “The doc lives there. You can wake him up.”

  Ben rode down the street to the general store. He had a completely different idea in mind now. He looked at the store, then let the horse carry him around the corner to the alley. He came back up behind the business and stopped. Ben dismounted and tied the horse to the back of a shed directly in back of the store. When he was sure the animal was secure and out of sight, he went to the door. It took him only a few moments to work the hasp loose. He let himself in and stumbled around in the dark until he found a comfortable place on some feed sacks.

  Ben drew his pistol and settled down. He drifted into a restless slumber, hoping like hell that this was the Elmer Woods he’d ridden with on the owlhoot trail such a long, long time before.

  ~*~

  Thin, red shafts of the rising sun shot through the windowpanes of the back room. Ben had hardly slept because of pain the previous night. He shifted his position on the feed sacks and groaned softly.

  There was a loud click from the front of the store.

  Ben eased himself to his feet and walked quietly to the back door to peer out into the establishment. In the light he could see a profitable-looking operation with plenty of merchandise arranged neatly on shelves. A long counter ran the length of the building. Ben’s eyes jerked toward the door as it opened.