“I can’t stand up—you shot me,” Sonny protested pitifully. “I need a doctor.”
“You’ve still got one good leg,” Will said. He reached down with his free hand and grabbed Sonny by the collar. “Gimme a hand,” he said to Jack, and the two of them stood Sonny up and bound him up with his partners. Now that he had the three of them tied up and no longer a threat, he had to figure out what to do with them. He had already lost too much time because of the unlucky encounter, and he didn’t like the idea of wasting any further time with them. “There’s a Creek Lighthorse policeman headquartered here, right?” he asked Jack.
“That’s right,” Jack answered, “Marvin Big Sky. He’s most likely down at the Council House.”
“I’m here,” a voice from the front door announced, and Will turned to see a broad-shouldered man with long black hair in two braids down his back. He carried a rifle in his hand. “I heard a shot, so I came to see.” He took a long look at the three men tied together before turning to address Will. “Are you Will Tanner?”
“I am,” Will answered.
“I heard you were coming,” Marvin said.
“How’d you hear that?” Will asked. “There ain’t no telegraph in Okmulkee, is there?”
Marvin smiled. “Indian telegraph—works faster than white man’s wire. Sam Black Crow sent word.”
“Well, I’m glad you showed up,” Will said. “Maybe you can help me out here.” He took him aside and told him the circumstances that led to the capture of the three men and the wounding of one of them. “They’re just three saddle bums that got a little too drunk. The problem is they’re holdin’ me up from doin’ what I was sent over here to do. Have you got a jail where you could hold these prisoners for a day or two, so I can get back after Brock Larsen and Ben Trout?”
“We got a lockup room in the bottom of the Council House,” Marvin said. “I can hold ’em there.” He shook his head slowly when Will told him that Ed Pine had been shot. “That’s bad news about Ed. He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is,” Will said. “And I sure appreciate your help. I’m losin’ too much ground on the pair that shot him, and they’re two killers that I don’t want to get away.”
Marvin shrugged indifferently. “I’ll lock ’em up. You planning on takin’ ’em back to Fort Smith with those two train robbers if you catch ’em?”
“No, I ain’t gonna fool with these three,” Will was quick to explain. “I just wanna get a head start in case that one I shot, or the tall, lanky one wants to get even with me for that welt on the side of his head. Most likely, they’ll leave your town as fast as they can when you cut ’em loose. We’ll just call it disturbin’ the peace and let ’em go.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Marvin said. “Glad to help.”
“I appreciate it,” Will repeated. “If that Indian telegraph is still workin’, you might wanna get word to Sam Black Crow that Deputy Ed Pine is lyin’ shot up about a half day’s ride west of Muskogee. An old Creek woman named Walkin’ Bird and her grandson are takin’ care of him till I can come back for him. Maybe he knows where her camp is. There ain’t nobody in the camp but her and the boy.” He paused then. “One last question: Do you know where Buzzard’s Roost is?”
“Never heard of it,” Marvin said. “What is it?”
“Supposed to be an outlaw hideout somewhere up on the Cimarron, but damned if anybody knows where it is.” He turned back toward the counter, where his three prisoners were standing sullenly waiting. “Come on, I’ll help you take these three to the Council House, then I’ve gotta get ridin’.”
“We can’t walk nowhere all bunched up like this,” Nate protested when they were told to start toward the door. “And Sonny with only one good leg.” Sonny groaned painfully to confirm it.
“It’s either walk up there in a bunch or get dragged up there by a horse,” Will informed him. “So you might as well get started.”
Outside, Will climbed into the saddle and herded the bound-up trio up the street to the Creek Council House. Marvin Big Sky rode one of the outlaws’ horses and led the others. It was an odd, slow-moving parade, led by a grumbling, cursing knot of outlaws trying to stumble together in an effort to all move in one direction. Billy Avery walked along with them, enjoying the show. When they reached the Council House and saw their accommodations, Nate protested again. “This ain’t nothin’ but a smokehouse under that stone house.”
Marvin grinned. “It’s got a stout door and a good lock, though, in case you’re worried about somebody breakin’ in on you.”
“This place is for Injuns,” Pete Scoggins complained. “You ain’t supposed to put no white prisoners in an Injun jail.”
“That’s all right,” Marvin replied. “You boys ain’t prisoners, you’re guests of the Creek Nation. We hope you enjoy your visit with us.”
While Will held his rifle on the prisoners, Marvin untied them and hustled them into the twelve-foot-square, windowless room. Will almost felt sorry for them when Marvin latched the door and closed the padlock. “That’s a helluva place to spend any time,” he said to Marvin.
“Ain’t it, though,” the Creek policeman replied with a chuckle. “When I let ’em out, they ain’t likely to wanna come back to Okmulkee.”
“What about food?” Will asked.
“There’s a Creek woman that’ll cook for ’em. Don’t worry, I’ll feed ’em, but I reckon I’m gonna have to charge you for their food.”
“I figured,” Will said. “I’ll leave you enough money for three meals each. How much does the Creek woman charge?”
“Twenty-five cents,” Marvin answered. “Won’t cost you nothin’ to take care of their horses. I’ll let ’em eat grass.”
“Maybe I can talk Dan Stone into payin’ me back if I add it to my expenses for this trip.” He had already spent extra for Ed Pine’s food, but Marshal Stone had always treated him fairly on expenses so far. “I reckon I’d best get started,” he said to Marvin, and walked back toward his horses.
“It’s almost dark,” Marvin said. “You might as well stay here tonight. My place ain’t but a half a mile from town.”
“’Preciate the offer,” Will replied. He decided Marvin was right. It was already too dark to even try to pick up any tracks the two outlaws might have left him.
CHAPTER 4
After making camp close to Marvin Big Sky’s cabin on the Deep Fork River and eating a fine supper provided by Marvin’s wife, Will left at first light to return to town in hopes of striking Ben and Brock’s trail. Jack Burns had told him he thought the two outlaws rode out the north road three nights ago. That would make it four nights now, and as he realistically expected, he couldn’t distinguish between the tracks he searched for and the many others on the road. “Well,” he sighed aloud to Buster, “I reckon we’ve gotta switch from trackin’ to hopin’.” He climbed into the saddle and started out the north road to search for a place that nobody had ever heard of, never mind knowing where it was.
He continued on the road as it led past several small farms until he found himself at the last farm and the end of the road. The sun was high in the sky now, even though it had warmed the frosty prairie very little. Will estimated that he had ridden about seven miles, only to find a surprised Indian farmer driving a horse and cart toward him. The farmer pulled his horse to a stop and waited while Will rode up beside him. “I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal,” Will said. The man nodded, but did not speak, clearly puzzled to find a deputy approaching his homestead. “I don’t suppose you saw two white men pass your farm in the last several days, did you?” The man solemnly shook his head. I didn’t think so, Will thought, figuring then that he had been following a road to nowhere. He already knew the answer, but he asked the question anyway. “Does this road end here, or is there another piece of it farther on?”
“End here.” The man finally spoke.
“Figured that,” Will groused, frustrated, knowing that the two outlaws had no doubt left the road some miles ba
ck, and he had missed it. The tracks were just too old. “Much obliged,” he said, and turned Buster back the way he had come. Going back over the road, he realized there were any number of places where the outlaws could have abandoned the wagon road out of town, and there was very little chance of his finding the right one. A picture of Ed Pine lying in that tipi, most likely dying, came to his mind, and he resolved anew to find his attackers. With no trail to follow, he decided he might as well head west to strike the Cimarron River. When he got there, he would scout the river until he found Buzzard’s Roost. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he had.
* * *
A day and a half’s ride brought him to the Cimarron, striking it at one of the many loops of the snakelike river and leaving him with still no idea where to look for Buzzard’s Roost. His choices were two: follow the winding river in search of the outlaw camp, or turn around and go back to get Ed Pine. Thinking again of the two killers that bushwhacked Ed, he chose the former and decided to follow the river west, so he made a mental note of his starting point and set out along the bank.
He spent the rest of that day riding the bank of the river with absolutely no sign of a cabin, or even tracks to indicate anyone had ridden there before him. When darkness forced him to make camp, he was already of the opinion that he was on a fool’s mission, but he was not inclined to admit that he would not eventually find Buzzard’s Roost. He told himself that he had chosen the wrong direction to search in, so he crossed over the wide, shallow river to make camp, planning to start back in the other direction in the morning.
* * *
He awakened the next morning to a sky overcast by heavy snow clouds. By the time he reached the point where his search had started the day before, a light snow was falling. After resting the horses, he started following the river in the opposite direction from that taken the night before. As the afternoon wore on, with no sign of anything resembling a camp, he came to the conclusion that he was a damn fool. He had no idea what he was looking for, just betting on luck, and he began to wonder if there was such a place as Buzzard’s Roost. He was beginning to give serious thought to the notion of returning for Ed Pine and taking him back to Fort Smith, which might have been the thing to do in the first place. At least the snow had stopped, after leaving a light blanket of perhaps an inch and a half. It was then that he came upon a camp. Rounding one of the many bends of the Cimarron, he spotted what appeared to be one man tending a campfire. Will stopped immediately, guiding Buster up into the trees that bordered the river, pretty sure the man had not seen him.
With his rifle in hand, Will dismounted and left his horses tied while he worked his way up closer to the camp on foot. A clump of laurel bushes growing near the edge of the water was as close as he could advance without coming out in the open, so he knelt there while he tried to get a better look. What he had first thought was an Indian turned out to be a white man dressed in hides. He was not close enough, however, to tell much more about him, since the man was turned partially away from him as he tended some meat over his fire. After a few more minutes, without turning around, the man suddenly spoke. “Well,” he called out, “you comin’ in, or are you just gonna set there in them bushes?”
Startled, Will hesitated for a moment before rising to his feet and answering. “If it’s all right with you, I reckon I’ll come on in.”
“Come ahead then,” the man replied.
Will left the cover of the laurels and walked across a wide expanse of flat bank, his rifle carried in one hand by his side. Feeling a little perturbed at himself for having been spotted, he paused a few yards before the fire to look around the camp to make sure there was no one else there. The man turned to consider the unexpected visitor to his fire, and for a few moments the two strangers studied each other intently. Will decided the man was older than he had at first thought, for there were faint streaks of gray woven in the Indian-style braids he wore. There was a frank expression of curiosity in the lean face, and none of fear. When the man spoke again, it was a simple question. “You on foot?”
“My horses are back there in the trees,” Will answered. He paused to study the man’s face again, deciding there was no evil intent in his manner, merely curiosity. “I’ll go back and get ’em.” He nodded toward the meat roasting over the flames. “Whaddaya cookin’?”
“Rabbit,” the man said. “Ain’t a helluva lot, but I reckon there’s enough for two of us.”
“Got any coffee?” Will asked.
“Not for about two months,” was the reply.
“No problem,” Will said. “I’ve got plenty, and maybe some sowbelly to help that rabbit out a little.” His remark brought a gleam to the stranger’s eyes. Will walked back to the trees to bring his horses in.
When Will returned, leading the buckskin and the bay to the water’s edge, the man watched him, unconsciously nodding his approval for Will’s seeing to his horses’ needs first. He got to his feet and extended his hand. “The name’s Oscar Moon,” he said.
Will shook his hand. “Will Tanner,” he said as he took a closer look at the thin, lined face, sporting no hair other than a bushy mustache, which was streaked with gray like his braids. He wore an expression that seemed to convey he had nothing to hide.
“You a deputy marshal?” Moon asked.
Surprised, since his badge was inside his coat, Will asked, “What makes you think that?”
“Your horses,” Moon replied. “I ain’t never seen a marshal ridin’ any old crow-bait horse. And them look like stout horses, ’specially that buckskin.”
“Maybe I stole ’em,” Will countered.
Moon took a harder look at his visitor. “You ain’t got the look of a horse thief,” he finally decided.
Will laughed. “Well, you’re right, I ain’t a horse thief, and you’re right again. I am a deputy marshal.”
“Kinda thought you might be,” Moon said. “Whaddaya doin’ up here in Osage country?”
Before answering, Will got his coffeepot and some coffee from his packhorse. Then he unwrapped the slab of bacon to slice. “I’m lookin’ for a couple of train robbers who murdered a train guard and possibly a deputy. They rode up this way,” he said when he returned to the fire. “Maybe you’ve run across ’em—Ben Trout and Brock Larsen.”
“Can’t say as I have,” Moon said. “But I ain’t been down this way for a while. I got a place up on the Arkansas River where I do most of my trappin’ and huntin’.”
“Maybe you know where a place called Buzzard’s Roost is,” Will said.
“Buzzard’s Roost?” Moon repeated, and thought for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope, never heard of it, and I know the Cimarron and Arkansas country as good as any man, I reckon. What is it, a town?”
“No, from the little bit I know about it, it’s just a couple of cabins, an outlaw hideout. And I think these two outlaws I’m lookin’ for were headin’ there. All I know for sure is that it’s on the Cimarron somewhere.”
Moon thought about that for another moment. “I don’t know about no Buzzard’s Roost,” he said. “The place you’re talking about sounds more like Sartain’s. Feller name of Elmer Sartain built a cabin there quite a few years back. He was a stagecoach robber as I recollect. Over the years, it got to be a regular hangout for outlaws on the run, and there’s three cabins there now. Only, it ain’t on the Cimarron, it’s on Muskrat Creek that empties into the Cimarron. There’s a woman name of Elmira Tate who lives in one of the cabins, and she does the cookin’ for whoever’s there at the time. Sartain ain’t there no more. Winter before last, he got throwed off his horse when he was tryin’ to chase a pack of wolves away from a stray cow. The wolves jumped him when he hit the snow. He chased ’em off, but one of ’em bit him pretty bad. I reckon he got the poison in it, or somethin’, ’cause a couple of weeks later, he took to his bed with fever and woke up one mornin’ dead.” Moon nodded solemnly to emphasize the finality of it. “Ever since Sartain died, Elmira took it over and has be
en runnin’ it like it was hers.”
To Will, that surely sounded more like the place the outlaws were seeking. He had to consider the fact that Buzzard’s Roost might just be what these two called the hideout, their own pet name for the group of cabins, and not how anyone else referred to it. “Sartain’s, huh?” he asked. “I reckon you most likely know where that is, right?”
“Why, sure,” Moon responded. “I used to take a deer or an antelope in there once in a while for Elmira to cook. They’d pay me good money to bring ’em fresh meat, but I ain’t been down this way since early summer.” He paused to scratch his chin whiskers. “I reckon I oughta ride over that way to see if they need some fresh meat. I might be able to run up on a herd of deer down near the shallows where there’s a natural crossin’. I came up that way yesterday and there was plenty of sign.” He gave Will a sharp look then. “Course, I can’t go ridin’ in there with a deputy marshal. That’d be the end of my business dealin’s with the crowd that stays there, and might be the end of my life.” He cocked a suspicious eye at Will. “You know, I ain’t broke no laws, myself. I just sell a little meat from time to time to get enough money for some cartridges and such. Sartain’s is about as far south as I get in Injun Territory. I’ve sold meat to other camps, but they’re up around Wichita.”
Will couldn’t help smiling. “And you don’t supply anything but deer meat, and antelope, and other wild game,” he chided. “Not ever a stray cow from one of the cattle ranches in the Flint Hills, just north of the Kansas line, I suppose.”
“Oh mercy, no,” Moon replied at once. “That would be cattle rustlin’, and I sure ain’t no rustler.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I thought I had you figured for an honest man,” Will said, even though he would have bet a month’s pay that the residents at Sartain’s most likely enjoyed good Kansas beef on a regular basis—and a fair amount of it probably came from Moon. “I sure don’t wanna risk your business dealin’s with the lady there,” Will said, “so I won’t ask you to take me there, but I’d sure consider it a favor if you could just tell me how to find it. Whaddaya say?”
A Stranger in Town Page 5