A Stranger in Town

by William W. Johnstone

  That wasn’t much to go on—Larsen could have gone in any direction from there. “Can you think of any town that’s forty-five miles from Baxter Springs?” Will asked.

  “No, not right off. There aren’t many towns that close that I can think of,” Holden said while searching his memory. “Coffeeville, maybe, but Coffeeville’s a little farther than that, more like fifty miles. Independence,” he suddenly remembered. “Independence is closer to sixty miles from here.” He shook his head. “I can’t think of anyplace else.”

  That’ll have to do, Will thought. He had been gambling against long odds on every decision he had made since leaving the campsite where Larsen made his escape. So far, his luck was holding out. Might as well gamble on Coffeeville, he thought. “You’re pretty sure he left town?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” Holden said. “When he came to get his horses, there were three other men with him. They rode out west on the road to Coffeeville.”

  Three men, Will thought. That put a different light on the situation. Now he had four to deal with. It didn’t change his objective, however, so he made arrangements with Holden to stable his horses overnight. At least he was familiar with Coffeeville, a little town on the west bank of the Verdigris River. And he knew Jim Davis, the owner of the Border House, a Kansas saloon just across the Oklahoma boundary. If the four men he now chased were in Coffeeville, Jim would surely know it. He planned to get an early start in the morning, so he paid Holden a little extra to sleep in the stable with his horses that night. Before turning in, he rode up to town and ate supper at a hotel Holden recommended.

  * * *

  Well before noon the next day, he crossed the Neosho River and continued on, not stopping to rest the horses until reaching a creek several miles farther distant. After some coffee and a breakfast of beef jerky, he got under way again and struck the Verdigris early that evening. Crossing over, he rode a short distance north to the Border House. He tied his horses at the rail beside a couple of others and stepped up on the narrow stoop. Opening the door about halfway, he paused to look the room over before entering. When he didn’t see Brock Larsen, he pushed the door open and walked in.

  Jim Davis, the owner, was tending bar, and when he recognized the tall lawman, he called out a welcome. “Well, if it ain’t Will Tanner!” He grinned broadly. “How the hell are you, Will? What are you doin’ up this way?”

  “Jim,” Will returned. “I just thought I’d get up here to see if you were still in business.”

  “Why, hell yes,” Jim said, “and doin’ better all the time. This little town is doin’ all right. New folks movin’ in every month through the summer—slowed down now that we’re lookin’ winter in the face.” He lowered his voice as if to keep anyone from overhearing. “You still ridin’ for the Marshals Service?”

  “That’s right,” Will said. “And I’m tryin’ to get on the trail of four men that mighta come this way. I thought maybe you mighta seen some strangers in town in the last couple of days.”

  Davis’s face immediately went blank and he shook his head. “Can’t say as I have. There ain’t been anybody new around here. You say there was four of ’em?” Will nodded. Davis continued. “I don’t know how four strangers coulda come into this little town without everybody knowin’ it. You sure they were headin’ here?”

  Will shook his head, disappointed. “I ain’t now.” He went on to tell Jim about the circumstances that led him to believe Larsen and his new friends were headed to Coffeeville.

  “I swear, that ain’t much to go on, is it?” Jim speculated. “Maybe it was Independence they were headin’ for. But you say your man told the feller at the stable he was gonna take a forty-five-mile ride. That would be more like sixty miles. Maybe he just didn’t know how far it was.” Then another possibility struck him. “Of course, you rode over from Baxter Springs on the wagon road, straight west. To go on to Independence from here, you have to head straight north for about fifteen miles. That puts it at about sixty miles, but if you knew the country and cut straight across, instead of followin’ the road, I expect it wouldn’t be but about forty-five as the crow flies.”

  “You might be right,” Will allowed, wondering why he hadn’t considered that possibility. Even if he had, however, he didn’t know the territory well enough to have known what direction would take him straight to the town. He knew Independence was northwest of Baxter Springs, but how far west and how far north would have been a guess. He was beginning to get the feeling that he was just wasting his time, but he decided to go on to Independence at least. If Larsen and his companions were not there, then he wouldn’t have any idea where to look for them next. And he didn’t like the bitter taste of the defeat he would have to admit. He offered a silent curse to Annabel Downing and her broken-down old horse, Caesar.

  Jim Davis watched the young deputy as he was obviously laboring with his possibilities. “Are you goin’ to Independence?” he finally asked.

  Will exhaled loudly and answered, “Yep, I reckon so.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Nope,” Will replied. “My horses are tired. I’ll go in the mornin’.”

  “If you wanna take ’em to the stable, there’s one not too far from here,” Jim suggested. “There’s a hotel in the middle of town.”

  “I’ll just ride on up the river a piece and make camp,” Will said. “This trip is costin’ me plenty already.”

  “Well, you can have your supper right here. Eat with me. I’ll have Annie cook us some stew.”

  “Who’s Annie?” Will asked. “Have you gone and got married since I was here last?”

  “Nah,” Jim said. “Annie’s an Osage woman that’s doin’ the cookin’ for me.” He chuckled at the thought. “I won’t even charge you nothin’.”

  “That sounds to my likin’,” Will said.

  CHAPTER 13

  Will rode a light snow shower into the thriving settlement of Independence. The town lay along the banks of the Verdigris River, just south of its confluence with the Elk River. He pulled Buster up to take a look at the cluster of businesses lining the main street, before proceeding on. The first place he was naturally inclined to look for Larsen and his companions was in a saloon, and he could see three from where he sat. The biggest one, and the only one with a formal name, proclaimed itself to be the River House. The other two were smaller, rougher establishments with signs that simply read SALOON. The men he searched for would more likely frequent the smaller saloons, but he couldn’t know that for sure. He could only guess about the three men Larsen hooked up with, but it was a good bet they were of the same caliber as Larsen. To be sure, however, he guided Buster toward the River House, since it was the first in line.

  As was his custom, he drew his rifle from the saddle sling and walked to the entrance, guarded only by two swinging doors, in spite of the cold weather. He paused for a few moments, peering over the doors to get a look at the room inside. It was a large barroom, with a long bar running half the length down one side of it. The rest of the spacious room was occupied with tables, half of them filled with patrons. Will scanned the room, his gaze quickly skipping from table to table, then back to the half a dozen men at the bar. Brock Larsen was not there, and after looking the saloon over, Will was not surprised. The River House did not look to be the kind of establishment to attract Larsen’s kind. It appeared to be a meeting place for the more respectable citizens of the town, judging by the number of business suits he saw at the tables. Might as well see if I can get any help, he thought, and pushed on through the doors.

  He immediately caught the attention of a good many of the patrons when he walked across the room and took a position at the end of the bar. He was confronted immediately by the bartender, a pleasant-looking man of middle age and the look of a lawyer or maybe a schoolteacher. “Good day, sir,” he said. “I guess you’re new to the River House.”

  “That’s a fact,” Will replied.

  “I suspect you didn’t notice the sign that said
‘No Firearms’ posted by the front door,” the bartender said.

  “For a fact, I didn’t,” Will said, genuinely surprised, for he had not seen it, having been concentrating on who was in the room. He looked around him then and realized that no one was wearing a weapon. “Sorry, I reckon it’s just a habit. I’ll leave, so I don’t upset your customers.”

  “It’s not your fault,” the bartender said. “Tell you what, why don’t you let me put your weapons behind the counter till you’re ready to leave?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Will confessed, “I was just lookin’ for a cup of coffee and a little information. It’s a little too early in the day for me to want a drink.”

  “I’ve got coffee. It’ll cost you a nickel, and the information is free.”

  “Fair enough,” Will said. “I appreciate it.” He handed his Winchester and Colt to the bartender, who put them behind the end of the bar. Then he went to a small potbelly stove near the middle of the bar and poured a cup of coffee from a metal pot resting on the corner of the stove.

  “I don’t sell much of this, except for first thing in the morning,” the bartender said as he set the cup before Will. “The rest of the day, I drink most of it. Now what kind of information are you looking for?”

  Will took a sip of the coffee, then looked around the room again, noticing that the hum of conversation had resumed after his weapons were safely out of sight. “I don’t see any sense in beatin’ around the bush, Mr. . . .” He paused. “What was your name?”

  “Harry,” he said, “just plain Harry.”

  “All right, Harry, my name’s Will Tanner, and like I said, there ain’t no sense in beatin’ around the bush. I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal and I’m lookin’ for an outlaw that I think is in this town. And I wanted to ask you if you’ve seen any strangers in town that don’t look like the upstandin’-lookin’ citizens I see in your saloon. He’s travelin’ with three other men, and I’d bet they don’t look much like your customers, either.”

  Surprised, Harry paused to think. “Well, not in here, I haven’t,” he said. “I can’t say about anywhere else in town. Independence has had its share of drunken, unruly cowboys, but more good families have settled on the farm and cattle land around the town. We’ve built churches and schools in the last few years. The two saloons down the street are about the only places that are left for the riffraff that still wander through town, and they don’t stay long after they find out the town doesn’t want their kind.”

  Will considered what Harry had just told him, and it caused him to wonder even more what business the four outlaws had in Independence. “Well,” he finally said, “I thank you for the information. It sure sounds like you’ve got a right ambitious town here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harry said with a great big smile. “We’re growing all the time. As a matter of fact, we’ve got a new bank just opened up a couple of weeks ago. It’s a branch of the Bank of Kansas, from over in Kansas City. They’re claiming to have money to lend to settlers who move here and want to improve on their property.”

  “I reckon that’s a good thing, all right,” Will allowed. A stray thought crossed his mind as he said it, and he wondered if the new bank had anything to do with Larsen and his friends coming to town. He thought about the possibility of that while Harry moved down the bar to pour another drink for one of his patrons. The bartender lingered to talk to that customer, until Will signaled that he was ready to leave. “Owe you a nickel for the coffee,” he said when Harry came back. But the bartender waved him off when he reached in his pocket.

  “I won’t charge you anything for the coffee,” he said, and pulled Will’s weapons out from behind the counter. “I hope you catch up with the men you’re chasing, but I hope you don’t find them here.”

  “Much obliged,” Will said. He holstered his Colt, took his Winchester, and walked out the door. Outside, he took another long look down the street. About forty or fifty yards north of the River House, there was a crossing street, and there were two banks on the corners, directly across from each other. From where he stood, it was difficult to tell which one was the new one. The thought he had had earlier caused him to decide to have a closer look, especially the new one, but he figured he might as well take a look in the two small saloons on the way. Just in case ol’ Brock Larsen is sitting on a barstool waiting for me, he thought, so he took Buster’s reins and led his two horses up the street.

  The first saloon he came to was a single-story building with a rough facade that held a hand painted sign that said SALOON. Unlike the River House, this saloon had a single door and it was closed. He opened it far enough to see one end of the room. Even though the room was dimly lit, he could see well enough to recognize Brock Larsen had he been seated at one of the tables. He was not there, so he opened the door farther and scanned the other end of the room with the same results, so he pushed the door wide and walked in. He was greeted by the bartender. “Hey, close the damn door. I ain’t tryin’ to heat the whole town.” This came in spite of the fact that the air was almost stifling, courtesy of a large iron stove in the middle of the room. It wasn’t helped by the low-hanging cloud of tobacco smoke.

  “Sorry,” Will replied, and pushed the door shut. He took a minute to survey the dozen or so patrons, sitting at the tables and standing at the bar. There were two card games in progress. It struck him that this looked more like the typical saloon in a frontier town, causing him to change the impression of the town he had first formed after visiting the River House. He strode over to the bar.

  “You drinkin’, or just lookin’?” the bartender asked.

  “Still too early for a drink,” Will replied as he had down the street. “I ain’t ready for a drink of whiskey. How ’bout some coffee? You got any for sale?”

  “Coffee?” the bartender responded. “No, I ain’t got no coffee to sell. This ain’t no dinin’ room.” He gave Will a hard looking-over then. “You’re new in town, ain’t you?” Will answered with a nod. “I didn’t think I’d seen you in here before.”

  “That’s right,” Will said. “How ’bout anybody else? Have you seen any other new faces, besides mine?”

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed and a suspicious frown formed on his face. “I don’t take much notice of everybody that walks in that door.”

  “Just me, huh?” Will said.

  A man standing close to Will, who had been listening to the word play between the two, spoke up then. “What about them fellers that walked in here last night, Whitey? They was new in town—said they was cattle buyers.”

  Will turned his attention to him. “Were there four of ’em?”

  He nodded and started to reply, but Whitey cut him off. “Hush up, Lem, you’re drunk.” He looked back at Will and said, “Lem says all kinda crazy things when he’s been drinkin’ too much.”

  “Was one of ’em wearin’ Indian moccasins?” Will asked Lem, ignoring Whitey’s interruption.

  Realizing now that he might be telling too much, Lem was relieved to reply, “Nope, they was all four wearin’ boots.”

  Will nodded to the flustered bystander, then smiled at Whitey. They had pretty much confirmed that there were four new faces in town. Larsen must have bought himself a new pair of boots, he thought. “Much obliged for the information.” He was about to suggest that when he caught up with the four outlaws, he’d be sure and tell them that Whitey had given him the lead. Before he could speak, however, a disturbance erupted at the back corner table.

  “By thunder, that’s the last card I’m gonna see come off the bottom of the deck!” The warning was bellowed out by a large brute who stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. The object of the brute’s fury was the player seated across from him. By his dress, Will speculated that he was a professional gambler. One of the other men at the table made an effort to calm his angry friend, but Will could not hear what he said. “The hell he didn’t!” the enraged brute charged. “And it’s the last time he’s gonna cheat anybody!” H
e drew the .44 he was wearing on his hip and leveled it at the gambler. There was an immediate hush over the noisy, smoke-filled barroom, accompanied by the sound of chairs scraping on the wooden floor as cautious patrons pushed back to give them room. The irate card player stood, threatening over the table, his .44 aimed at the gambler’s face. “I aim to get my money back, or this’ll be the last hand you ever deal.”

  Terrified moments before, but relieved when the huge man hesitated to pull the trigger, the gambler finally spoke in his defense. “I didn’t cheat you, mister. I didn’t have to, you’re just not any good at playing cards.” It was the wrong thing to say. The brute cocked his pistol.

  “Take it easy, Pratt,” his friend pleaded. “It ain’t worth killin’ him over it and goin’ to jail for it.”

  “That’s what you say,” Pratt replied. “He ain’t took all your money. I’m gonna shoot the bastard. It’ll be self-defense. He drew on me.” He glanced quickly around him. “Ever’body in here can see that. We’ll put a stop to these fancy gamblers comin’ in here and cheatin’ honest folks.”

  Will glanced at Whitey. “You gonna put a stop to that, or are you just gonna let him murder that man?”

  “Hell,” Whitey said. “I ain’t gonna get between ’em. It ain’t none of my business. Like he said, Pratt’ll put a gun in his hand after he shoots him. And when the sheriff comes in, everybody here will swear he drew on Pratt.” Whitey snorted in contempt and added, “That lily-livered sheriff ain’t gonna ask no questions, afraid he might have to do somethin’ about it.” As he said it, a smug grin broke out on Pratt’s face and the gambler began to cringe, realizing that the menacing hulk really intended to kill him.

  Will found it hard to believe that the whole crowd was willing to stand by and watch a senseless murder take place. Unwilling to participate in the entertainment, he moved away from the bar and walked straight up to Pratt, holding his rifle before him in both hands. Astonished to find the stranger almost nose to nose with him, Pratt jerked his head back and demanded, “What the hell do you want?” Without replying, Will suddenly brought his rifle up and slammed the butt against the side of Pratt’s head. Stunned, Pratt staggered backward, pulling the trigger as he did, sending a bullet through the tabletop. Will stepped with him, staying right in his face. Before Pratt could cock his .44 again, Will caught him hard against the other side of his head with the barrel of the rifle. It was enough to put the big man’s lights out for a few minutes.