Outlaw

by Charles G. West

  Church winked at Spit, and said, “Why don’t you go on in there and get him up, Nate?”

  “Why don’t you?” Nate shot back. “I ain’t that anxious to get myself shot.”

  Eli listened to the senseless banter for a few moments before going to the window of Ike’s cabin to take a look for himself. Of all the gang, Eli had ridden with Brance the longest and had witnessed many of Brance’s spells. Unlike the others, he did not believe Brance was in direct contact with the devil—a concept that he knew Brance encouraged. Something was wrong inside his partner’s head. Of that, there was no doubt. But whatever overcame the man, Eli was convinced that it was debilitating to the extent that Brance could not control it. That was the reason he always backed into a corner and drew his pistol, Eli figured. He had an idea that Brance was blinded by whatever went on inside his head, and that was the reason anyone who approached him was likely to get shot.

  Not anxious to get shot himself, Eli took an extra minute to observe the gang leader huddled in the corner of the cabin. When Brance’s gaze slowly shifted toward the window, Eli knew that he was out of his spell. Satisfied that it was now safe to approach him, Eli stepped away from the window and opened the door. “There’s coffee on the fire, and the boys found some dried meat of some kind. You about ready to get goin’?”

  Making an effort to appear rested after a night’s sleep, Brance slid his pistol back in the holster and got to his feet. Eli noticed that he held onto the log wall to steady himself. After a few moments, Brance seemed to regain his balance, and the drawn expression on his face relaxed to present his normal appearance. “I get a little stiff when I fall asleep crouched up like that,” he offered in excuse.

  “I reckon,” Eli replied. He watched his longtime partner for a few moments more before commenting again. “Why don’t we get the hell outta here, Brance? To hell with that damn Shannon. He ain’t worth chasin’ all over hell and back when we could be somewhere where’s there’s somethin’ worth stealin’. Besides, there’s no tellin’ how many Injuns has already seen the smoke from that cabin. We might have half the Cherokee Nation on our asses if we hang around here much longer.”

  Brance didn’t answer at once, his head still fragile after hours of a pounding headache. He stepped outside to squint painfully at a rising sun. Then he looked at the others sitting around a campfire, all staring at him. “What the hell is everybody gawkin’ at me for?” he finally said. “I need some of that coffee.” He walked over to take the cup Church held out to him. “I need a shot of whiskey in it,” he grumbled. “Nobody find any whiskey in this whole damn village?”

  “Nary a drop,” Spit answered and spat in the fire.

  “Not no whiskey, nor anythin’ else worth a damn,” Nate commented.

  Brance sipped cautiously from the hot metal cup, hoping that no one noticed his trembling hand. He knew from countless times before that it would become steady in a short time, and he would be recovered from the torment that occasionally overcame him. He thought for a few moments about Eli’s comments inside the cabin. It appeared that the rest of the men shared Eli’s opinion that it was time to move on to better pickings. He looked at the charred timbers of the funeral cabin, still smoking from a few little pockets of flame. Eli was probably right. The thin column of smoke could most likely be seen by anyone for miles around. Setting the cabin on fire was not the brightest thing to have done. Brance thought about the man he knew only by the name of Shannon. There was no denying the satisfaction he would enjoy by tracking the man down and killing him. But his desire for revenge had been dulled by days of riding from one desolate Indian village to the next. The men were becoming restless for something more satisfying to their lustful instincts, and less interested in punishing Shannon.

  Eli watched Brance as the somber man continued to sip his coffee in silent contemplation. He had willingly followed Brance for several years now, mainly because the brutal bushwhacker’s ideas had always been in line with his own. The two may have reached the fork in the road where it was time to make a change. Eli could understand Brance’s passion for catching up to Shannon, but he remembered the last encounter the gang had with the mysterious stranger—five empty saddles. Sometimes it was best to leave a rattlesnake alone, and get on about your business. Eli had made his decision. He was leaving with or without Brance.

  Brance suddenly broke his silence. “Seen anythin’ of Tyler?”

  “That crazy son of a bitch is probably halfway across Kansas Territory by now,” Church answered.

  Brance nodded, the beginnings of a faint smile nudging the corners of his mouth. “I expect so,” he said. “Maybe he’ll run Shannon down.” He looked at Eli and winked. “I expect it’s time for us to pack up and head for someplace where there’s some whiskey. Whaddaya say, boys?”

  By their reaction, there was little doubt that the men were ready to do just that. Eli nodded his approval, and without a word, turned to get his saddle. In his mind, however, he knew that he had come close to splitting with his longtime partner, and he had been prepared to handle whatever trouble that parting might have sparked—even if it had come to a confrontation with guns.

  A short time later, the gang filed out of the Cherokee village, passing by the smoldering logs of the cabin and the charred bodies of the dead.

  * * *

  After a seemingly endless night, the first rays of the sun found the hunting party within a mile of the village. Already tired from the prior day’s hunt and the sleepless night, Ike signaled a halt to decide how best to approach the village. If the raiders were still there, it would require some plan to surprise them and negate their edge in weapons. In a matter of minutes, the sky began to accept the sun’s light, and the eastern hills appeared and took shape.

  “Look!” Crooked Foot exclaimed, pointing toward a thin gray column rising up into the morning light.

  “Smoke,” Ike confirmed, and a new sense of urgency took hold in the party of hunters. Everyone prepared to ride again at once.

  “Wait,” Matt said. “They said there were only seven white men. I think we would have a better chance if just the two of us slipped up on them. If we can surprise them, we can probably cut the odds down before they knew what hit ’em. I think we’ll have less chance of gettin’ more of your friends killed. If we go chargin’ in there with this bunch, we’re bound to lose a few more.”

  Ike thought about it for a brief moment before agreeing. It made sense to him. He’d already seen a demonstration of how quick and accurate his young friend was with a repeating rifle. His heart still leaden with grief over the death of Broken Reed, Ike was in a revengeful mood, for a precious part of his life had been ripped from him. He wanted to kill every man of the raiding party himself, but he knew that was not a likely prospect. With just the two of them, he was bound to get his share, however. He preferred not to have to be concerned with the rest of the survivors. They would only be in his way. He and Matt were all that were needed to erase this gang of scum from the face of the earth.

  It was settled then, although most of the hunters argued that they, too, had a score to settle. Ike convinced them that he and Matt had a better chance with their repeating rifles if they went alone—all but one. Young Crooked Foot was adamant that he should go with them. His mother and father were among those reported killed, and he argued so persistently that it was difficult to deny him. When finally he threatened to go on his own, Ike relented. “All right,” he said. “You can go along, but you better do like I tell you, and don’t go off like a wild Injun.” Leaving the main party behind, the three rode off toward the column of smoke.

  Crossing the river above the village, they worked their way down along the bluffs until they had the huts in sight. Dismounting and leaving the horses there, they moved in closer until they were no more than two hundred yards away. There they paused to plan their assault while they watched the camp.

  Matt scanned the cluster of dwellings, settling his gaze first upon the smoking ruins of
the burnt-out cabin, then shifting back to the others, one by one. There was no sign of a living soul among the cabins. Glancing over toward the other side of the river, he could see no horses grazing. The village was deserted. “We’re too late,” he said, stating the obvious.

  Ike could not contain a painful cry of frustration at the thought of the gang of murderers riding free. “We’ll get ’em,” Matt promised, trying to reassure his grieving friend. “First, we’ll see if anything can be done for those poor folks down there.” Crooked Foot ran back for the horses, and Matt fired three shots in the air to summon the rest of the hunters.

  It was a dreadful sight that greeted the three when they rode into the deserted village. The burnt-out cabin had served as a poor funeral pyre, leaving a sickening pile of blackened bodies in the center of the charred logs. Those on top, though burnt almost beyond recognition, had served to insulate those beneath them. The smell of burnt flesh was one that Matt would remember for a long time. When he attempted to pull one of the bodies from the top of the pile, the flesh of the arm came free from the bone, causing him to step away to get a breath of fresh air. After a minute to collect his wits, he took a length of timber, and using it as a pry bar, he and Ike began uncovering bodies.

  Slowly, as the outer covering of human bodies was removed, the corpses beneath became more recognizable, although bloated and swollen. Crooked Foot’s parents were near the top of the pile, recognizable but badly burned. The shock of seeing his mother and father so horribly disfigured was too much for the boy. He cried out in despair, turned, and walked away, unable to look at their corpses. Matt wished at that moment that they had made the boy remain with the rest of the hunting party. The image of his parents in death would be permanently burned into Crooked Foot’s memory.

  Finally, near the bottom of the pile, they uncovered Old Bear’s body, and just beneath, Broken Reed. Ike staggered back, reeling under the shock of seeing her. Her dress had been cut away, leaving her exposed, obviously done for no other purpose than to gaze upon her nakedness. “They cooked her,” he gasped before a sob choked his throat, leaving him unable to continue.

  “Go on outside,” Matt said. “I’ll cover her and carry her out of here.”

  Ike just stood there. “They cooked her,” he sobbed again, his brain paralyzed by the image that still burned in his mind. Matt took him by the arm and turned him away. Ike dutifully stepped over the charred timbers and walked out of the cabin.

  “Go find somethin’ to dig graves with,” Matt said, thinking it best to give the devastated man something to occupy his mind. “We’ve got to get these people in the ground.” Ike nodded silently and started toward his cabin for a shovel, leaving Matt to finish the grim chore of uncovering the remaining bodies.

  The last body was that of a white man. Matt paused to speculate on the circumstances that caused the body to be among those of the Indians. Corbin’s corpse showed no evidence of seared flesh like the others. Having been insulated by the bodies on top of him, his corpse showed only signs of puffiness from the heat. Matt found it interesting that the man’s boots were missing. There were seven, he thought, now there are six. He knew that he and Ike would be tracking the six raiders as soon as the burying was finished. It was such a senseless massacre. What would any ruthless gang of outlaws have to gain by attacking a peaceful, defenseless village of mostly women and old men? There was nothing in Old Bear’s camp of great value. Matt found it impossible to understand such wanton violence. One thing he knew with certainty, however: the act must not go unpunished. Had he known that the reason for the attack on the poor people of Old Bear’s village was to kill a man named Shannon, the burden of guilt might have been devastating.

  Broken Reed and Old Bear were in the ground by the time the rest of the hunters arrived. Amid the chorus of grieving survivors, Ike and Matt helped Crooked Foot bury his parents. Once that was done, the two wasted little time preparing to go after the outlaws. Once again, Crooked Foot insisted he was going to accompany them. Feeling they had no right to deny him, they made no protest. Packing what essentials they could find, they started out, following an obvious trail that led to the northeast. As they left the river behind them, Crooked Foot took one long look back at the village of his family and friends. Ike never looked back. That part of his life was ended. He would forever be thankful for the time he had been allowed with Broken Reed, and her memory would be with him always.

  Chapter 11

  “If we don’t find a damn town pretty soon, I’m gonna go plum loco,” Church complained. “My ass is gettin’ calluses from this damn saddle, and my shoulder hurts where one of you bastards shot me. I need a drink of likker bad.”

  “Hell, Church, you’re already loco,” Nate teased, riding along beside him. “Look at ol’ Spit up there. He don’t care if the sun don’t shine.” A few yards ahead of them, Spit rode along the wagon track, patiently following Brance and Eli. Thinking no farther than the present moment, Spit contented himself with the feel of his new boots, posthumously donated by the late Dick Corbin. As far as Spit was concerned, it was a good trade: Corbin’s life for the hand-tooled boots. As if punctuating Nate’s remarks, he turned his head to the side and spat.

  “I swear,” Church felt compelled to comment. “Where the hell does he get all that spit? My mouth’s so dry you could start a fire in it.” Dropping the thought immediately, he returned to his original complaint. “I hope to hell this road leads to a town somewhere.”

  “Well, if it don’t,” Nate replied, “then it wouldn’t make a helluva lot of sense, now would it?”

  The band of outlaws had struck the wagon track earlier in the day, and Brance had decided to follow it, feeling certain it would lead to a town. The two-rut trail tracked northward along the western edge of the Ozarks, and appeared to be well traveled. They had passed a farmhouse a few miles back. It was little more than a shanty. Sitting far back from the road, it was barely visible through the trees. Nate and Church were in favor of riding over to see if there was anything worth taking, but Brance was against it. His reasons were simple. If there was a town at the end of this road, they might decide to stay there a while to really look over the prospects. And it wouldn’t do for some neighbor of the farmer to come riding in to report a robbery—or worse, a murder. “Don’t look like there could be much worth takin’, anyway,” Eli commented, backing Brance’s decision.

  Toward the shank of the afternoon, the road made a long curve around an outcropping of granite to reveal a gathering of rough structures about a quarter of a mile ahead. “Well, there she is,” Spit announced, “just like you said.” Following the road down to the town, they passed a small church with a cemetery just beyond. Past that, they crossed a series of small springs, and Spit summoned a saliva missile for each one. “Don’t look like they’re liable to run outta water in this town,” he observed.

  Beside a log bridge that had been built over the largest of the springs there was a weathered sign that extended a welcome to the town of Neosho, county seat of Newton County. It didn’t appear to be an especially lively town. The half-dozen buildings were almost barren in their plainness, with weathered gray siding and shingle roofs. Beyond these buildings, there appeared to be ruins of burnt-out structures where perhaps the major part of the town had once been. They were now grown up in grass and tall brush. Brance took all of this in as the five outlaws crossed over the bridge. He glanced at Eli. “Ain’t big enough to have a bank,” he said, disappointed. “I was hopin’ there’d be a bank.”

  Looking down the street at the largest building in the town, Eli answered, “I reckon the general store will have to do.”

  They continued along the street, gaping at the few people they saw as they passed the post office and the land office. The blacksmith paused in his work to stare at the five riders as they ambled past his forge. Eli nodded, and the smithy nodded in response, although his face reflected the sense of wariness he no doubt felt inside. “He looks like he seen a snake,” Churc
h said aside to Nate, and chuckled.

  At the large building near the end of town, they pulled up at the hitching rail. Dismounting, Brance stepped up on the boardwalk, and looked up and down the almost-deserted street. He nodded to Eli, who had walked out into the middle of the rutted dirt thoroughfare to have a look back the way they had come. Eli nodded in return. The two outlaws seemed in agreement that the town was theirs for the taking. The other three had little more on their minds than finding a drink of whiskey. They entered the store as soon as they dismounted.

  BANNERMAN’S, the sign over the door proclaimed. Eli and Brance followed the others inside. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” Roy Bannerman greeted his visitors. It was apparent by the disappointment on their faces that neither dry goods nor horse feed were what they were looking for. “If you’re looking for a drink,” Bannerman said, “the saloon’s in the other side of the building.” He motioned toward a door on his right. “You can go right through there. Barney’s over there, he’ll be glad to help you.”

  “Much obliged,” Brance replied, looking Bannerman over. Seeing no real threat from the store owner, his face broke into a wide grin. “I reckon we could use a little somethin’ to cut the dust. We’ll be needin’ some supplies later.” The other four followed him into the saloon.

  “I reckon you’d be Barney,” Brance said to the white-haired man reading a newspaper spread out on the counter.

  “Yessir, I’m Barney. You fellers lookin’ for a drink?”

  Brance fixed the old man with a grin. “Why, this here’s a saloon, ain’t it, Barney?” Looking around him, he saw one round table in the back corner of the room. “Just bring us a bottle of the best you got, and set it right down on the table there, Barney.” The five outlaws filed around the table and sat down.

  Barney brought a bottle and five glasses, and placed them on the table. Then he stood there a moment studying their faces before speaking. “This here’s the best in the house. This is the brand of whiskey that Sheriff Wheeler always drinks. He’ll most likely show up pretty soon now for his evenin’ drink.” Barney wasn’t real comfortable with the five strangers. They had a rough look about them, and he figured it might be a good idea to mention the sheriff’s name.