A Stranger in Town

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hello, yourself,” Sophie called back, knowing why he had warned them and resenting the fact that he thought it necessary. She freed her hand from Garth’s as Will walked up the steps, but not before he noticed it.

  “Kinda chilly to be sittin’ out here on the swing,” Will commented as he stepped up on the porch.

  “Not if you’re wearing plenty of clothes,” Sophie informed him.

  “Reckon not,” Will said, and went inside.

  * * *

  It was early afternoon when Will arrived at the site of Brock Larsen’s escape and the start of a search that he hoped wouldn’t be as long as he feared. He had to rest Buster and the roan packhorse. They had already covered twenty miles since leaving Fort Smith early that morning. While they rested, he built a fire and boiled some coffee to wash down some fried bacon, and tried to think like Larsen would have. He had no way of knowing where the outlaw would head. Back to Sartain’s? Probably not. He could have gone in any direction, up in Kansas, or back south to Texas, or maybe northwest to Osage country. But first, he would have had to free himself from his handcuffs and the chain around his ankle. That brought to mind Plum Creek and Zach Goodson. Zach was a blacksmith as well as a trader, so he had the tools to free Larsen. The question was, did Larsen know about Zach’s trading post? Maybe he could pick up Larsen’s trail away from here to find out. Zach’s place was on Sallisaw Creek, about twenty miles north of the spot where Will had come upon Annabel Downing. According to her, when he made his escape, Larsen had ridden up the stream where they had stopped to rest the horses after leaving Sallisaw Creek.

  Just to be sure, he scouted the area around the place where her wagon was parked when he had gone back to look for Caesar. Annabel was somewhat in a state of bewilderment when he had returned with her old horse, so it was possible she may have been confused. When he could find no tracks leading into the stream in a southerly direction, he decided she had been right. That was confirmed when he saw tracks leading upstream into the water. When the horses were rested, he rode north along the stream, watching for any tracks leading out of it. After approximately forty or forty-five yards, the stream split around a large rock, creating two narrow gullies, so Larsen was obliged to take to the bank, leaving the tracks Will was looking for. They continued to follow the stream north. Whether or not Larsen knew about Goodson’s place, he was going to strike it if he continued on this course.

  * * *

  Zach Goodson looked toward the path leading down to his forge when a whinny from one of his horses told him a strange horse was approaching. It was getting along toward sundown, and Zach’s eyes weren’t as sharp as they used to be, so he squinted in an effort to identify the rider. A muscular man, Zach wore nothing but a heavy blacksmith’s apron over his long handles, even though the evening was chilly. He took one more look at the red-hot horseshoe he had just hammered out, dropped it into a half barrel filled with water beside his anvil. Pulling a dirty rag from a pocket in the apron, he mopped the sweat from the top of his bald head before walking out to meet his visitor. When he recognized the rider, he wasn’t surprised, in spite of the fact that it had been some time since he had last seen him. “Deputy Will Tanner,” Zach announced when Will rode up to his shop and dismounted.

  “Howdy, Zach,” Will came back.

  “I was wonderin’ if one of you boys was gonna show up here pretty quick,” Zach said.

  That was what Will wanted to hear. “Sounds like you mighta seen a fellow I’m lookin’ for.”

  “I expect I have,” Zach said. “Day before yesterday I took these handcuffs and a chain off of him.” He walked over to a barrel in the corner of his shop and held the cuffs up for Will to see. “You might want these cuffs back, but they ain’t much good after I got through with ’em.”

  Will took a look at the mangled cuffs. “I expect you’re right.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with the chain,” Zach went on. “I took that off his ankle—he was wearin’ Injun moccasins—said I could keep the chain as payment, on account he didn’t have no money.” He wiped his head again to remove the sweat that continued to form. “He was leadin’ a packhorse that looked like it was carryin’ a good bit of stuff, but he said he didn’t have nothin’ he wanted to trade as payment, either. I mighta held out for a better deal, but he was holdin’ a Colt .44 on me the whole time we was negotiatin’ the price. He said if I did a proper job, I could have the chain and my life. At the time, that didn’t seem like a bad deal, so I said, ‘Fine by me,’ and that was that.” He paused finally to hear what Will had to say.

  “Sounds like you met Brock Larsen, all right,” Will said. “And you’re right, you got a pretty good deal. Larsen doesn’t mind killin’ instead of payin’. I don’t reckon you’ve got any idea where he was headin’ when he left here.”

  “Not for a fact,” Zach said. “He asked me how far it was to the territory line. I told him it wasn’t but about seven miles east of here to the Arkansas line. But he said, ‘Hell, I don’t wanna go to Arkansas. How far is it to Kansas?’ I told him it was about eighty-five miles to Baxter Springs, if he rode due north.” He paused to let Will think about that. “What’s he wanted for?”

  “Held up the Katy over in Muskogee and killed a guard,” Will replied, “plus, he shot Ed Pine up pretty bad.”

  “Well, I ain’t surprised,” Zach said. “I didn’t figure you was chasin’ him for stealin’ handcuffs.” He shook his head. “Ed Pine, huh? How bad is he?”

  “Like I said, pretty bad. Larsen left him for dead, but Ed is still hangin’ on. He’s over in the hospital at Fort Gibson. Did you see which way Larsen rode outta here? Did he go north to Kansas?”

  “That would be my guess,” Zach replied. “Couldn’t say for sure, but when he rode up the path to the trail by the creek, he cut to the north. Don’t know if he stuck to it after he got outta sight. Tell you the truth, I didn’t care a helluva lot which way he went. I was just as happy to see him go.”

  “Well, I expect I’ll head out that way and see if I can catch up with him somewhere,” Will said. He would have thought Larsen would have headed for the wild country west of the five Indian nations, looking for a remote place to hide out. But maybe his plan was to return to Kansas, since he had asked about the distance to Baxter Springs.

  “You ain’t thinkin’ about headin’ out tonight, are you?” Zach asked. “You ain’t gonna be able to do much trackin’ in the dark.” He nodded toward the sun settling down on the horizon, in case Will had failed to notice.

  “No,” Will replied. “It’s a little too late tonight. I’ll camp tonight and start first thing in the mornin’. My horses have already had a full day, so I reckon I’d better give ’em a good rest, and I expect they’d appreciate a portion of grain, too, if you’ve got some to sell.”

  “Sure do,” Zach said. “Anything else you need?”

  “Have you got any yeast?” Will asked, suddenly recalling Annabel Downing’s recipe for slapjack.

  “Yeast?” Zach echoed. “Nah, I ain’t never carried nothin’ like that. Whaddaya want it for?”

  Will shrugged. “Ah, nothin’ really, just something I was gonna try.”

  Zach matched Will’s shrug with one of his own. “Why don’t you make your camp right here next to the creek and take supper with me tonight? I’ve got a hindquarter of deer meat hangin’ in my smokehouse. I’ll cut a couple of slabs offen it and we’ll roast it over the fire. I’d admire havin’ somebody to swap lies with for a change. It gets pretty lonesome around here ever since my woman run off.”

  “How come she ran off?” Will asked, aware then that there was no sign of the Cherokee woman in the cabin next to the store.

  “I don’t know,” Zach replied, scratching his head as if puzzled himself. “I been tryin’ to figure that out myself. I give ’er a lickin’ one night about a week ago for knockin’ over a fruit jar full of good corn likker. I reckon that got her back up a little, ’cause I woke up the next mornin’ and she was gone
. Women are a funny breed, hard to figure out sometimes.” He shook his head as if still puzzled. “Just as well, I reckon. She couldn’t cook worth a flip, anyway.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you,” Will said, not eager to get into a long discussion about women since his recent encounter with Annabel Downing. “Smoked deer meat sounds pretty good right now. I’ll take care of my horses, then I’ll make us some coffee to go with it.”

  “Ain’t no need,” Zach said, and pointed toward a large gray pot sitting on the edge of the forge. “There’s still plenty in that pot I made fresh this mornin’.”

  Will tried to keep from cringing. He had sampled a cup of Zach’s coffee on one occasion before, and he swore he would never drink another one. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll make us another pot. I’ve got this new coffeepot I had to buy when Brock Larsen ran off with my packhorse, and I wanna see what kinda job it does. While I’m at it, I’ll buy a sack of coffee beans from you, if you’ve got some.” Never hurts to have some extra, he thought.

  “Suit yourself,” Zach said. “Always glad to sell some coffee beans, and I’ll run ’em through my grinder for you. Seems a shame to waste half a pot of good coffee, though.” He shrugged. “I can set it on the fire in the mornin’. It’ll still be good.”

  “Let me unsaddle my horses,” Will said. “I’ll let ’em graze for a while before I put ’em in the corral with yours.”

  “Fine and dandy,” Zach replied. “I’ll fetch the meat, then I’ll grind you up some coffee beans.”

  Will went down close to the creek, took Buster’s saddle off, then unloaded the packhorse. He took his bedroll off, but didn’t unroll it, thinking there was no reason to give any critters an invitation to move in. When he got back to the shop, Zach had a spit set up right over the forge and was in the process of spearing two large portions of venison on it. “There’s your coffee right there,” he said, pointing toward a sack sitting on a stool in the corner. “I always like to have a little snort before supper. How ’bout it?” He reached down beside his foot and picked up a fruit jar filled with moonshine. “I won’t tell you where I got this, so you won’t have to worry about goin’ to arrest some honest bootlegger.”

  Will couldn’t help laughing at the remark. “I reckon I could use a drink at that.”

  Zach poured into two cups he had set out on his anvil. He tossed the whiskey down, then followed it with a loud snort, dipped his cup in the barrel of water beside the anvil, and gulped that down. “It’s a fair batch of whiskey, but it needs a chaser.” There was no telling how many horseshoes, wagon wheel rims, and other items had been cooled in that half barrel of water. That was evident by the dark scale floating on the top. And Will felt sure the water was never replaced, only added to when needed. So he took his shot of whiskey without the chaser. Guessing that Will was reluctant to dip in the barrel for water, Zach commented, “A little iron won’t hurtcha, might even be good for what ails you.”

  “Maybe so,” Will replied when he could talk again. He picked up his coffeepot and went to the creek to fill it.

  * * *

  They talked a long while after they had finished supper, with Zach doing most of the talking. Knowing the blacksmith was enjoying an opportunity to visit, Will stuck with it for a good bit longer than he desired. When he thought he’d had enough, he announced that he had to get started early in the morning and was ready to crawl into his bedroll for the night. Zach was disappointed, but got to his feet when Will did and volunteered to help him put his horses in the corral. Will declined an invitation to have breakfast with him, saying he planned to hold off on breakfast until he had to stop to rest his horses. “All right,” Zach said. “But remember there’s still half a pot of coffee left in my pot. I’ll let it sit in the coals in my forge. They’ll keep it hot, if you want a cup of coffee before you start out.”

  “Much obliged,” Will said while doubting he was man enough to handle a cup of that coffee.

  CHAPTER 12

  Brock Larsen pushed his horses hard, making no efforts toward hiding his trail. If he had judged Will Tanner correctly, there was a chance the deputy would be left stuck with Annabel and would be delayed in coming after him. In case he left the woman on her own again, however, he was pressing the horses to put as much distance behind him as possible without killing them. He was fortunate in that he had two good horses that seemed up to the task, so he kept them at a good pace, not stopping the first night until he had covered about fifty miles. He had to smile when he thought about having Tanner’s packhorse with plenty of supplies to take care of his needs. The old blacksmith said Baxter Springs was eighty-five miles. Larsen planned to make that in two days, and with the ground he had covered on the first day, he was left with a short day to reach the border. Based on the quality of his horses, he saw no problem with that. He knew people in Baxter Springs, men he used to ride with, so he was confident that if he reached there ahead of Tanner, he’d be safe from pursuit. Tanner had no authority out of Oklahoma, at any rate. Just like he and Ben Trout had escaped the Rangers down in Texas, he could leave Will Tanner in Indian Territory. The old hunt for him and Ben by the Kansas authorities should have had time to cool down by now. As far as he knew, none of the gang of cattle rustlers the two of them had ridden with had ever been identified. So there wasn’t much risk in going back to Kansas.

  With no sign of anyone trailing him, Larsen reached the Spring River early in the afternoon. The busy cattle town sprawled along the other side of the river promised refuge for sure. Once he crossed to the other side, he felt he would have beaten the determined deputy marshal behind him. With no money to his name, he couldn’t take the cable ferry across, so he swam the horses to the other side downriver from the ferry. Lack of money was a problem that he had to fix as soon as possible, and he knew where his best bet was to do so.

  * * *

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Ike Bowers started. “Lookee yonder, Earl.” He yelled to the bartender, “Hey, Ernie, reckon you oughta close that door? All kinds of trash is blowin’ in.”

  Ernie looked at the man walking into the Trail’s End Saloon. “Well, I’ll be . . .” he echoed Ike’s words. “Brock Larsen, what are you doin’ back here? Last time you was in here musta been close to a year. You and Ben Trout was on your way down to Texas.”

  Ike and the two men seated at the table with him got up and walked to the bar to meet Larsen. “Looks like you’ve gone Injun since you left here,” Ike said, nodding toward Larsen’s moccasins.

  “It sure as hell wasn’t because I had any choice,” Larsen replied. “And I aim to buy me a pair of boots just as soon as I can.”

  He didn’t get a chance to explain before Earl Suggins asked, “Where’s Ben? Is he with you?”

  “Howdy Earl, Ike. How you doin’, Jake?” Larsen greeted them all before answering. “Who’s gonna buy me a drink? Ben’s gone under, shot dead by one of those damn deputy marshals down in Injun Territory. He had me, too, but I got away from him.” He grinned. “Stole his packhorse and left him whistlin’ in the wind down in Oklahoma.” He paused before repeating, “Who’s gonna buy me a drink?” No one had volunteered to so far.

  “Hell, I’ll let you have the first one on the house,” Ernie finally spoke up, and set a glass on the bar. “You boys bring your glasses over here and we’ll all drink one to ol’ Ben Trout, whose string finally run out.”

  “I know ol’ Ben would appreciate that,” Larsen said. “And, hell, I’d spring for the next round, but I ain’t got a dime to my name. That deputy cleaned me outta all the money me and Ben took in a train holdup down at Muskogee.”

  “I swear, was that you and Ben?” Jake Roper asked. “We heard about the robbery, but we thought you boys were down in Texas.” Everyone wanted to know all about the train robbery and especially the circumstances that led to Ben Trout’s death, so Larsen told them about their ill-fated encounter with Deputy Marshal Will Tanner.

  “Ben shouldn’ta tried that move,” Larsen
concluded. “Tanner was holdin’ a cocked Winchester on us when Ben decided to draw on him. He didn’t even come close to gettin’ a shot off.”

  “Damn fool,” Earl said. “He always was a little tetched in the head.” It was no secret that Earl Suggins had very little use for Ben Trout. There was no debating the fact that Earl was the leader of the small gang of outlaws rustling cattle in Kansas. The trouble between him and Ben started when Ben decided Earl wasn’t running things as well as he could. Ben wanted to start hitting the banks and trains instead of stealing cattle. Larsen had been the only one siding with Ben, and when Trout decided to split from the gang, Brock decided to go with him. “So things didn’t turn out so good ridin’ with Ben?” Earl asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.

  “Well, we had a little bad luck,” Larsen said. “We was gettin’ along pretty good till that marshal got onto our trail. He even knew about Sartain’s, and don’t nobody know about that place but outlaws. We was on our way back here, anyway, figured it was better to ride with you boys.” That was a lie, but Larsen needed a place to light where he might have a chance to make some money, and at the moment, to rejoin the Suggins gang was his only prospect.

  “That so?” Earl replied. “On your way back to the old gang, huh?” He doubted that, but he needed another man for a little job he was planning. Two more would be better, so he might even have welcomed Trout, too, if the fool hadn’t gotten himself shot. “Well, you came back at the right time. I could use another man, and there ain’t no hard feelin’s, ’cause you sided with Trout.”

  “I ’preciate it,” Larsen said. “I didn’t have no hard feelin’s when I left here, so I was hopin’ I could ride with you fellers again—like old times.”