Tilghman stopped to pull a cigar out of his pocket and put a lucifer to it, while Smoke refilled his brandy glass.
“Now, the Cheyenne just naturally resented us white men comin’ in an’ shootin’ up all their buffalo. One day, when we got back from an afternoon of shootin’ damn near ever’thing in sight, we found the camp destroyed . . . tents shredded, equipment smashed, and everything just generally torn up.”
Sally glanced at Smoke, her mouth open. “Did you then leave the area?”
“The other men wanted to, but I was a young buck, full of piss an’ vinegar.” He paused, his face reddening. “Excuse me, ma’am. Sometimes my mouth forgets I’m in the presence of a lady.”
Sally laughed. “Marshal, I’ve lived among cowboys too long to be offended by earthy language. You go ahead and tell your story in your own words. It’s a fascinating tale of the old West.”
“Yes, ma’am. Like I said, to me the attack was a personal insult, an’ I wasn’t about to stand for it. So, after the others took off, I hid in some tall prairie grass near the camp, figurin’ the Injuns would come back to see what we’d done.”
He took a drag on his cigar, a sip of his brandy, and continued. “Sure enough, I’d only been there a couple’a hours when three of ’em came back. One of ’em had a rifle, but the other two only had these long, nasty-lookin’ knives. When they saw me, they charged right at me, whoopin’ and hollerin’ to beat the band. Guess they figured it’d scare me off like the others.”
“And did it?” Sally asked, forgetting all about her tea and letting it get cold untouched on the table before her.
“No, ma’am. I let the hammer down on my shotgun, and a full double load of buckshot hit the lead one in the stomach, killin’ him right away. The second one, seein’ my gun was empty, ran up at me with that big knife in his hand, figurin’ on gettin’ my scalp. I clipped him hard under the chin with the butt of the shotgun and knocked him on his . . . uh, down in the grass, unconscious. The third one jumped on my back, intent on cuttin’ my throat, an’ we wrestled around a bit ’fore I was able to turn that knife into his own throat.”
“What happened to the one you knocked down?” Sally asked.
Tilghman chuckled. “Oh, when he got up an’ saw what’d happened to his friends, he took off runnin’ an’ never looked back.”
“I’d venture a guess that you had no further problems with the Cheyennes on that hunt,” Smoke said.
“Nope,” Tilghman replied. “As a matter of fact, a few days later we had the best hunt of the year at that particular spot.”
“So the other hunters returned after you’d gotten rid of the Indians?” Sally asked.
“Yeah. They showed up the next day, all carryin’ their big Sharps buffalo rifles, ready to do some shootin’.”
“What caliber Sharps did you use?” Smoke asked, interested, since he’d had lots of experience with the gun called the Sharps Big Fifty, a .52-caliber weapon, when he was up in the mountains with Preacher in his early days.
“Oh, I didn’t use a Sharps,” Tilghman replied. “I used a shotgun.”
“What?” Smoke asked, astounded. “How on earth could you kill a buffalo with a shotgun?”
Tilghman laughed. “You sound just like my old huntin’ partners. They asked the same question.”
“Well?”
“I made some special loads for my shells. Instead of buckshot, I substituted a single lead slug in the shell.”
“Why did you do that?” Sally asked.
Tilghman glanced at Smoke. “Smoke will know what I mean when I say I didn’t much like the way the Sharps kicked. I was afraid it’d knock me off my feet or give me a broken shoulder.”
“And did it work?” Smoke asked, thinking back to the times he’d had to put a poultice on his shoulder after firing his Sharps Big Fifty.
“Only too well,” Tilghman replied. “The best thing was, I could fire while ridin’ my pony, without having to jump down an’ fire from the ground like my partners. In less than half an hour that first day, I’d bagged a dozen buffalo. I guess the number I got total that year was over four thousand, while the combined total of all my partners taken together was less than half that.”
“Did they finally see the light?” Smoke asked, smiling at the innovation of this marshal.
“Oh, yeah. ’Fore long, all of ’em wanted to use shotguns ’stead of Sharps.”
Sally tasted her cold tea, made a face, and got up to make herself another cup. When she returned to the table, she asked, “What did you do after you gave up buffalo hunting, Marshal?”
“When the buffalo got scarce, sometime around ’75, I rode on over to Dodge City, just to see what was goin’ on. I met Charlie Basset, who was sheriff of Ford County, an’ he asked me if I’d consider bein’ his deputy.”
Tilghman shrugged. “Heck, I didn’t have nothin’ else goin’ on, an’ I’d never been a lawman before, so I said I’d give it a shot.”
“Wasn’t Dodge City very . . . rough back then?” Sally asked.
“Yes, ma’am. On my second day on the job I had a run-in with a local gunman named Texas Bill. When he saw my shiny new badge, he stepped in front of me on the boardwalk and blocked my path. I told him, ‘You’ll have to turn your guns in or leave town. It’s a new ordinance.’”
“Did he draw on you?” Smoke asked, enjoying the tales of towns he’d been in himself.
“Not then. He just said, ‘Never heard of it. If you want ’em, come an’ take ’em from me.’”
“Did you?” Sally asked.
Tilghman smiled at the memory. “Being new to the job, I didn’t quite know what to do. It seemed a small thing to shoot a man over, so I just slugged him.”
“You knocked him out?” Smoke asked, laughing.
“Yeah, an’ then two of his buddies jumped on me an’ I had to knock them out too. Once they was all out cold, I just got some citizens to help me carry ’em to jail.”
“Those were certainly rough times in Dodge,” Smoke said.
“You’re right, Smoke, an’ it went from bad to worse. In early ’76, Mayor Dog Kelly, who owned the Alhambra Saloon, wired Wyatt Earp over at Wichita to come to Dodge an’ take over from the town marshal. Old Dog had heard a bunch of Texas cowboys were on their way to Dodge an’ he didn’t think Bat Masterson an’ I could handle it alone.”
“So that’s how Wyatt got to Dodge?” Smoke asked. “I always wondered.”
Tilghman nodded. “Uh-huh, an’ he brought Neal Brown an’ Bat’s brother, Ed, with him.”
“I assume everything went all right and you were able to control the cowboys,” Smoke said.
“Yes, but it weren’t easy. Back then the town was full of toughs, men like Doc Holliday, Ben Thompson, and even the worst of ’em all, Wes Hardin. After a while, Bat Masterson was elected sheriff of Ford County an’ hired me to stay on as his deputy.”
“And how was that?” Smoke asked.
“It was all right, but I soon tired of it an’ homesteaded me a few hundred acres, built me a cabin, an’ married a widow woman named Flora Robinson. I partnered up with Neal Brown an’ just took life easy for a while.”
Smoke wanted to ask more about the wild days and times Tilghman had lived in, but noticed Sally trying to stifle a yawn across the table.
He took a final drink of his brandy, and stood up. “Well, Marshal, this has been most interesting, but I see my wife is about to fall asleep at the table. We’d better call it a night.”
Tilghman glanced at Sally, a chagrined look on his face. “Sorry, ma’am, hope we haven’t bored you to death with all this man talk about the past.”
“Oh, no,” Sally protested. “It was very interesting and exciting, but as you know, Marshal, we’ve been on trains for the better part of three days and I am just exhausted.” She stood up and held out her hand. “I hope we’ll be able to continue the stories tomorrow.”
“I’m done wore out talkin’ ’bout myself, ma’am, but maybe you can get Smo
ke to tell us some of his adventures up in the mountains back before white men came here,” Tilghman said, shaking her hand.
She looked at her husband. “Getting Smoke to talk about himself is like pulling teeth, but I’ll try. Good night, Marshal.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
28
The private car the group was riding in was divided into three parts; private sleeping quarters for Sally and Smoke, a bunk room for the other men, and the main part of the car.
After Sally and Smoke retired, Tilghman walked over to the poker table, where Louis Longmont was giving Cal and Pearlie and Monte Carson a lesson in cardsmanship.
“You boys have markedly improved your skills at poker,” Louis said with a grin. “It took me almost two hours to clean you out.”
They’d been playing with poker chips that came with the car, not for real money, but losing still stung the boys. “I’ve just never seen such a run of luck,” Pearlie complained, throwing his last hand down on the table.
Cal shook his head. “I don’t believe luck had nothin’ to do with it, Pearlie,” he said. “If I remember correctly, you had just as many good hands as Louis. You just didn’t win as much with ’em as he did.”
Monte smiled approvingly. “That’s the most important lesson you can learn about poker, Cal. Luck may determine who wins a particular hand, but at the end of the night, luck has nothing to do with who has the most chips.”
Louis nodded. “The sheriff’s right, boys. You got to know when to hold them and when to fold them, when to bet big and when to ease into a hand to make the most money from your luck when it hits.”
Pearlie frowned. “I guess I still got a lot to learn then.”
Louis smiled. “Don’t feel too bad, Pearlie. You didn’t learn to handle a cow pony or a mean steer overnight. It took you a lot of years and a lot of sore behinds before you could stay in the saddle in the middle of a stampeding herd, didn’t it?”
“You got that right, Mr. Longmont.”
“Well, the same is true of any other skill, even poker. You have to get your butt kicked a few times before the lessons sink in, but then you don’t forget them.”
“Gentlemen,” Tilghman said, “I’m gonna hit the hay. It’s been a long day, an’ tomorrow don’t figure to be any shorter. Good night.”
The other men agreed and all decided to hit the bunks.
As Bill Tilghman lay there, images from his past kept flicking through his mind, brought on by his retelling the story of his early days to Smoke and Sally. As he finally dozed off, the images turned into dreams. He occasionally moaned in his sleep as the recollections were reenacted in his thoughts . . .
* * *
After Tilghman left Dodge City, he met up with Chris Madsen and Henry “Heck” Thomas, and they all hired on to bring law to the town of Perry, where they became known as the “Three Guardsmen.” One of their first duties had been to track down the members of the Doolin Gang, headed by Bill Doolin.
One night, on patrol with Heck Thomas, Tilghman noticed a crude dugout cabin several hundred yards off the trail they were riding.
“Heck,” he said, pointing with his head, “there’s a place I ain’t never seen before. You hang here while I go check it out.”
He pulled the head of his bay around and walked it through the light underbrush to the doorway of the dugout. The night was wild, with heavy winds and light rain moving almost sideways in the gale.
Tilghman knocked, then pushed the door open and stepped inside, taking off his hat and flinging water off it to the floor. When he looked up, he noticed in the dim light of a lantern hung from a nail on the wall that both sides of the interior were lined with bunks, covered with hanging blankets.
At the end of the room, a large river-stone fireplace was blazing, sending out welcome waves of heat into the room. In the center of the open space between the bunks, a man sat with a Winchester rifle across his lap.
“Howdy,” Tilghman said, brushing more water from his slicker. “I’m lookin’ for Bee Dunn’s place. How far is it from here?”
“That’s for you to find out,” the man replied sourly.
“Well, I’s just passin’ by with my fightin’ dog and thought maybe I could get Bee to match a fight,” Tilghman said, keeping his voice light and calm. “He told me a while back he thought his dog could beat mine.”
Tilghman, every lawman instinct in him crying out danger, noticed the man’s eyes flicking to the sides to look at the bunks on either side of the room.
“I done tole you to find it on your own,” the man growled.
“All right, I’ll do that, but this fire sure feels good,” Tilghman said, rubbing his hands and stamping his feet in front of the blaze, using his movements to cover his looking at the bunks. He noticed the tips of several rifle barrels sticking out from behind the blankets, all aimed at him.
“I guess I’ll be goin’,” Tilghman said from his place near the fire. “Which way does a fellow go to get out of here?”
“The same damned way he came in.”
Without betraying the terror he felt, Tilghman calmly backed toward the door, jamming his hat back down on his head. “Well, adios, stranger. I’ll just let myself out an’ see if I can find the Dunn place on my own.”
The man in the chair didn’t answer, but his hands were tight on the rifle in his lap and his eyes were cold and hard as he watched Tilghman back out the door.
As fast as he could, Tilghman rode back to the trail where Heck was waiting.
“What’d you find out?” Heck asked.
“I couldn’t see much, it was too dark,” Tilghman replied. “But one thing’s sure. There’s a passel of men hidin’ out in there, an’ we’re gonna need help to bring ’em in.”
They rode over to Pawnee and enlisted the help of Chief Deputy John Hale, who formed a posse. When they got back to the cabin, the only occupant left was the man in the chair.
“What’s your name, mister?” Tilghman said after they’d disarmed the man of his rifle.
“Will Dunn,” the man replied, still in a surly mood.
“Where are the men who were hidin’ here when I was here before?” Tilghman asked after checking the bunks and finding them empty.
“The outlaws is already gone. An’ you would be too, lawman, if Bill Doolin hadn’t kept his men from shootin’ you in the back as you left.”
“What do you mean?” Heck Thomas asked.
“They was all here, ever’ one of Doolin’s gang . . . Bill Doolin, Red Buck, Charley Pierce, Tulsa Jack, and Little Bill Raidler. Old Red Buck sure wanted to kill you, Marshal,” Dunn said to Tilghman, smiling as if he agreed with the sentiment. “He was all ready to shoot you in the back, but Bill Doolin stopped him by grabbin’ his gun hand.”
“Why’d he do that?” Tilghman asked, a puzzled expression on his face.
Dunn snorted, “Doolin said Bill Tilghman is too good a man to be shot in the back.” He shook his head. “Red Buck was plenty peeved off at being stopped.... He must have a powerful hate for you, Marshal.”
Tilghman felt a chill up his spine at the close call he’d had, but it wasn’t to be his last by a long shot.
* * *
Bill Tilghman groaned and turned over in his bunk, the near miss in his dreams leading him to his next encounter with Bill Doolin . . .
* * *
A few months after the cabin incident, Bill Doolin and his gang held up the express station at Woodward and made off with over ten thousand dollars. Will Dunn, who was being left free but kept on a short leash by the lawmen, informed Tilghman that Doolin and some of his men were supposed to meet up at his brother Bee’s place in the next few days.
Tilghman, Heck Thomas, and a posse rode over to the Bee Dunn Ranch. Tilghman dragged Bee out to stand in front of the posse.
“Dunn,” Tilghman said, his face right up against Bee’s, “you’re gonna be arrested and tried as an accomplice if you don’t help us capture Doolin and his men when they arrive.�
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“But they’ll kill me, Deputy,” Dunn protested.
Tilghman shrugged. “Better’n spending the next twenty years caged up like an animal,” he replied.
Dunn finally nodded, broken.
Tilghman staked the posse out around the ranch, hidden and waiting for the outlaws to show up.
On the third night, Bitter Creek Newcombe and Charlie Pierce rode up to the corral.
When they got close enough, Heck Thomas stood up, his Winchester in his hands. “Hold on, boys. Put them hands up and give it up now, you hear?”
Newcombe and Pierce hesitated only a moment before they jumped from their horses to the ground. They pulled six-shooters and began to charge at the sound of Heck’s voice, firing wildly into the darkness as they ran.
Heck and Bill calmly aimed and returned the fire, not bothering to duck. As lead slugs whistled around their heads, the two lawmen continued to pull triggers and fight the bucking of their rifles, trying to hit the crouching, running figures barely outlined against a night sky.
Newcombe was the first to fall, two slugs hitting him almost simultaneously, one in the face and the other in the chest. He was stopped in midstride as if he’d run into a brick wall, falling dead on the cold hard ground.
Pierce slowed when he saw his partner fall, and it got him killed. When he hesitated, both Tilghman and Thomas fired, killing him where he stood.
“Damn,” Heck said, standing over the bodies. “Now Doolin will never come back to this place.”
Tilghman nodded. “Yeah, but I’m gonna get him anyway. I heard he’s got a hidin’ place in the Osage Nation.” He glanced at Heck. “You game to go up there after him with me?”
“Hell, yes,” Heck replied.
They headed for the ranch in the Indian Nations a few days later, finding it just where they’d been told it would be. They rode quietly up to the wooden structure, their guns loose and ready for trouble.
Justice of the Mountain Man Page 18