Powder Burn

by William W. Johnstone

  Back on foot again, he looked around him, not sure where he was, but thinking that surely he must be less than a day’s ride from Fort Smith—if he had a horse. He cursed the sorrel again. It seemed a shame to leave a fine saddle, but he didn’t care for the notion of lugging it all the way to Fort Smith. So he removed the saddlebags and a coil of rope and started out once again on foot.

  He had put several miles between himself and Hardy’s dead sorrel when an opportunity to ride again presented itself. He had come to a section where the fields of a large farm came right up to the road he was walking on. At the far end of one of the fields, he could see several men working to clear some additional land. His initial reaction was to slip into the trees on the opposite side of the road to avoid being seen, returning to the road only after he was sure he was clear. Looking out across the rolling fields he now passed, he saw a house and barn in the distance. They looked to be located near the creek he could see ahead of him. “Hot damn!” he blurted suddenly when some movement in a pasture below the barn caught his eye. He stopped abruptly to make sure. It was horses, all right, a dozen or more. “And just when I need one,” he muttered. He turned around and looked back the way he had come. He could no longer see the men working in the field, but he figured they most likely came from the farm buildings he had just spotted. There was no decision to be made, and no hesitation to head for the herd of horses in the pasture. Preferably, he would pick out a nice horse for himself and ride off without anyone knowing. But even if he was spotted stealing a horse, he was now armed with Hardy’s weapons, so he wasn’t worried about anyone left at the farmhouse stopping him.

  When he got to the pasture by the creek, he took a few moments to watch the horses, as well as keeping an eye on the barn and the house. He realized then that there was another house beyond the one he had seen from the road. It was smaller than the one closest to the barn. The only activity he saw was when a woman came from the house and went to the outhouse. While he waited for her to complete her business, he took the time to select his pick of the horses, settling on a flea-bitten gray that showed a lot of spirit. He shifted his gaze back to the outhouse. “Come on, lady,” he complained softly. “You gonna spend the day in there?” It seemed an unusual amount of time to get the job done. When finally, the door opened and she reappeared, it occurred to him that in that lengthy session in the toilet, there had still been no sign of any other activity around the barn. “If I was sure you were the only one left at the house,” he muttered, “I might take an extra minute or two and pay you a visit.” It was only wishful thinking, however, for he was in a hurry to get to Fort Smith. The situation was enough to encourage him to think about sneaking over to the barn with the possibility of finding a bridle and saddle. “First, I’ll get me that speckled gray,” he said.

  The horse showed no sign of resistance, plodding slowly forth to meet him when he approached. Mike looped the rope he had taken from Hardy’s saddle over the gray’s head and led the horse into the trees lining the creek. Having decided there was no one around to even attempt to stop him, he tied the horse to a small tree and proceeded to the barn, where he found a bridle and saddle conveniently waiting for him sitting on the top rail of the last stall. He couldn’t help smiling—it was almost too easy. He didn’t even have to go to the tack room, where saddles and other tack were usually kept. And as he hurried back along the creek, his new saddle on his shoulder, he was almost of a mind to knock on the kitchen door to get a closer look at the woman.

  * * *

  It was no more than a half-day’s ride to Fort Smith from the farm that had unknowingly provided him with a fine riding horse and saddle. Mike Lynch had not been sure of the distance, but he knew where to go when he got there. So he headed straight through town and rode down to the river near the docks and the ferry slips until he found a battered old two-story building with a sign that identified it as Jake’s Place. He figured that to be the best place to stay the night before heading out again in the morning for Tishomingo. Jake’s was a popular saloon for men on the wrong side of the law, according to what some of his fellow inmates at Arkansas State Prison had told him. He was feeling a little less pressure now that he had gotten away with no apparent pursuit. And thanks to Deputy Marshal Bob Hardy, he could afford to rent a room upstairs and have a couple of drinks with some supper. He pulled the gray up before the hitching rail, dismounted, and went inside, where Jake Cochran welcomed him—just like his fellow prisoners said he would.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Will Tanner,” Sally Evening Star murmured, her usually solemn face taking on a smile when she caught sight of the lone rider leading a couple of horses down the path toward the house. “Gonna need more potatoes.” She put the pan of potatoes she had been peeling down on a chair and walked to the edge of the porch to get a better look. It was Will, all right. It would be hard to mistake the easy way he moved with his horse’s motion, almost as if they were one. And he was still riding that big buckskin gelding named Buster. “Will Tanner,” Sally repeated softly, her smile breaking into a wide grin as she turned toward the front door to fetch Miss Jean.

  The widow Hightower, known more familiarly as Miss Jean, was in the kitchen, helping her sister-in-law prepare supper when Sally came through the doorway. “We got company for supper,” Sally announced.

  “Oh?” Marjorie Ward responded. “Who’s the company?”

  Looking at Miss Jean, Sally answered, “Will Tanner,” then waited for the reaction she knew would follow.

  Miss Jean didn’t disappoint her. “Will’s here?” she exclaimed. “Well, for goodness’ sakes, I thought he had forgotten his way to Ward’s Corner.” She placed the stack of dishes she was holding on the corner of the table and quickly followed Sally down the hall toward the front door. At first glimpse of the tall sandy-haired rider she was immediately reminded of her late husband. Jim Hightower had always been proud of the young boy he had taken in to raise. And while she felt sure Jim would have preferred that Will would remain in Texas to run the ranch he had worked so hard to help build, at least Will still owned the J-Bar-J. Actually, he owned only half of the ranch, since he had split the ownership with Shorty Watts, fifty-fifty. Miss Jean was confident that Will’s fifty percent was heavier than Shorty’s fifty. She suspected that that was the way Shorty saw it, since he was always hoping Will would return to Sulphur Springs when he grew weary of chasing outlaws for Judge Isaac Parker’s federal district court.

  At the sight of the frail little woman standing on the porch, Will raised his hand in greeting and turned Buster toward the two waiting to greet him. “Think a fellow could get a cup of coffee around here, and maybe a biscuit to go with it?” he asked as he pulled his horses up before the porch.

  “I don’t know,” Miss Jean returned. “The folks who own this house are mighty particular about who they share food with.” She smiled at the still-grinning Osage woman standing beside her, and joked. “They went out of their way to take Sally and me in. Didn’t they, Sally?”

  Will stepped down to receive a welcoming hug from the woman who had been like a mother to him for so long. When he thought about it sometimes, it occurred to him that Miss Jean never hugged him when he was a boy. This gesture of affection had begun only after her husband’s death. After a brief embrace, Will stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “Looks like they’re treatin’ you pretty good here,” he said. “You must be behavin’ yourself.”

  “We only get on her once in a while when she kicks up her heels too high,” Marjorie Ward teased as she stepped out the door to join them. “How are you doing, Will?”

  “Can’t complain,” Will replied. “I brought a couple more horses to put with my others while I’ve got a little free time. I might have more than Henry and Hank wanna fool with now, about fourteen if I’ve got my figures right. These two oughta make sixteen. So if things at the courthouse stay pretty quiet till after Christmas, I’m thinkin’ about moving my horses down to the J-Bar-J.” Marjorie’
s husband, Henry, was a farmer and not into the business of raising cattle and horses, so Will figured he’d welcome the chance to rid himself of the care of Will’s growing horse herd.

  “I’m sure it’s all right with Henry if you leave them here for as long as you need to,” Marjorie said. “My daughter’s boys, Jimmy and Thomas, have sorta taken over the job of looking after the horses. Keeps them out of mischief.”

  “Well, I surely do appreciate it,” Will said.

  “You’d best take care of your horses now,” Marjorie said. “We’re getting ready to put supper on the table as soon as Sally cooks the potatoes. Henry and the menfolk will be showing up to eat before long, and you don’t wanna get left out.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll get right to it.” He stepped up into the saddle and turned his horses toward the barn and the pasture behind it.

  There were two houses built close beside Sawyer’s Creek, the larger one belonged to Henry Ward Jr. and was home to him, his wife, Marjorie, and their son, Henry III, who was called Hank. Hank was nearing his thirty-fifth birthday and had never married. The smaller cabin belonged to Henry and Marjorie’s daughter, Helen, her husband, Jim Smithwick, and their two teenage boys. The Ward and Smithwick families farmed a rich piece of land just under four hundred acres in size. Will couldn’t help admiring the success the two families had enjoyed as he led his horses to the barn where he would leave his saddle. After that, he turned them loose to graze with his other horses in a six-acre pasture behind the barn.

  He stood there for a few minutes, watching Buster as the big buckskin trotted to the creek to drink. Then he walked out into the pasture a little way to look over the rest of his horses where they were bunched together near the creek. They were all good stock, for he kept only the good ones, and all had been acquired through the arrests of outlaws, many of whom were killed in the process. Just as a matter of habit, he started counting the horses. Coming up one short, he counted them again, but could still count only fifteen, not counting Buster. Maybe, he thought, one of the boys is riding one. He shrugged and turned to walk back to the house. As he walked, he realized which horse was missing. It was a flea-bitten gray that he had been especially impressed by. A strong, sturdy horse, and he was not surprised that one of the boys would pick the gray to ride.

  * * *

  Even though the two families lived in their separate houses, they still maintained a tradition of eating supper together at the main house, so the evening meal was a noisy occasion that always fascinated Will on his infrequent visits. This evening was no different, and Will was greeted warmly by the men of the two families. After supper, when the young boys left the older folks to sit and talk while the coffee was finished up, Will told Henry about his plans to move his horses to Texas. “I reckon you didn’t think I was ever gonna take ’em off your hands,” he said.

  “They ain’t been no trouble a-tall,” Jim Smithwick spoke up. “You don’t need to be in a hurry to move ’em. Jimmy and Thomas have been watchin’ ’em.”

  “’Preciate that, Jim,” Will said. “Tell you the truth, I was thinkin’ about lettin’ your boys pick a horse outta the herd for their own. I figure I owe ’em at least that much for takin’ care of ’em. I noticed one of the horses wasn’t there, so maybe somebody already picked a favorite, that flea-bitten gray. I ain’t surprised. That’s the one I woulda picked, myself.”

  His statement was met with blank stares, then Hank spoke. “I didn’t think anybody had cut out any of those horses to ride. Have they, Jim?”

  “No, not that I know of,” Jim replied. He looked at Will. “You say that gray is missin’?” When Will nodded, Jim continued. “It musta wandered off somewhere. They usually stay pretty much in a bunch. We’ll go look for it if it don’t show up tonight.”

  “Nothin’ to worry about,” Will said. “I’ll go look for it in the morning.” He wasn’t concerned about the horse. He felt sure the horse would wander back to the others, since horses tend to feel safer in the herd. He would concern himself with it in the morning. At least, that’s what he thought until Jim’s younger son, Thomas, came back from the barn.

  “What did you do with your good saddle, Pa?” Thomas asked. “It ain’t by the back stall where you always keep it.”

  “It ain’t?” Jim responded. “Well, somebody musta moved it. Ask your brother, he’s always settin’ on it.”

  “Jimmy was with me in the tack room,” Thomas said. “Ain’t neither one of us moved it, and it ain’t in the tack room, either.”

  “You just didn’t look in the right place,” his father said. “I haven’t moved it, ain’t had no reason to. I saw it there this mornin’ on the top rail of the back stall, right where it always is. It couldn’ta just walked off by itself.” He seemed not overly concerned about it.

  Will, on the other hand, was more than curious. A missing horse, and now a missing saddle, that added up to something worth looking into. “How ’bout bridles, Thomas. Any bridles missin’?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy answered. “I didn’t look to see if any bridles were gone.”

  “I expect we’d best do that now,” Will said. “Come on, I’ll go to the barn with you and you can show me where your pa’s saddle usually sets.”

  “He probably just didn’t look in the right place,” Jim insisted, but then realized that Will was deadly serious. He became immediately concerned as well. “You don’t think . . .” he started, but didn’t finish. “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  It didn’t take long to determine that the saddle in question was definitely gone, and one of Jim’s newer bridles was missing as well. Jim pointed to the top rail of the stall. “Right there is where it was this mornin’,” he said. “And the bridle was hangin’ on the saddle horn.” He scratched his head, bewildered.

  As unlikely as it seemed, there was no reasonable answer other than one of the horses had been stolen. That conclusion was difficult for Jim and Hank to accept because there had been no trouble from horse thieves since before the end of the Civil War. Due no doubt to being in the business of chasing horse thieves and cattle rustlers, Will accepted the possibility at once and turned his focus toward catching the perpetrator. It might be a difficult thing to do. He didn’t know how much head start the thief had, but at least he knew it was sometime after breakfast and morning chores when the saddle was stolen from the barn. He also had no description of the person he was looking for, but he was certain he could recognize the horse. I like that gray, he thought, and I’m damn sure gonna go after the son of a bitch that stole him.

  The fact that only one horse had been taken, plus the theft of a saddle and bridle, made it easy to assume that probably it was a one-man job. The thief needed transportation and he came upon a herd of grazing horses that obviously were not closely watched. A gang of rustlers could have easily driven off the entire herd in broad daylight after realizing all the men at the farm were off working in the fields. A lone thief could have come to the same conclusion, slipped into the back of the barn, and taken what he needed without fear of being caught. As a matter of habit, Will began a search of the tracks close to the stall. There were many—of all sizes, some old, some new—people and horses. They had nothing to tell him—there was too much confusion of footprints. He went to the back door of the barn to see if he would have better luck where the thief probably entered. About to conclude it was a waste of time and wouldn’t tell him anything that would help him, anyway, he paused when one print caught his eye. Next to the door post where a rat or some other varmint had been digging a hole, there was a clear print in the loose dirt. It was from a man’s shoe and was of the approximate size of one that could have been left by Hank or Jim. The thing that made it stand out, however, was the clear impression of an X in the rear center of the heel. Little Rock was the thought that immediately leaped to his mind. Marshal Dan Stone had told him of a trial practice at Arkansas State Prison to help identify inmates. The shoe repair shop had undergone a program where heels on th
e prison work shoes were replaced with heels bearing an X burned into them like a brand. According to Dan, the program was short-lived, for they found that the heels were soon worn down so that the X was no longer there. Now Will knew that his horse thief was either an escapee or recently released from prison. And Jim was just unlucky that he had passed his farm. There was nothing he could do about it tonight, so he would see what he could find in the morning.

  * * *

  The women were upset to learn that someone had brazenly gone into the barn to steal while the men were all working in the fields. “What if one of us had happened to go out to the barn for something and bumped into him?” Marjorie asked. “With none of you men here,” she added.

  Henry and Jim did their best to allay their fears, assuring them that it was a case of a man on foot seeing an opportunity to ride, and nothing more sinister than that. Miss Jean seemed almost unconcerned about it, saying there were a lot of cowardly people in the world, and they were the ones always sneaking into barns and henhouses. She was more disappointed that Will would have to leave right away to go after the thief. “I know you have to go after the thief,” she said to him, “but I don’t think you’ve got much chance of catching him.”

  “You may be right,” Will said. “The first thing I’ll have to do is figure out which way he’s headed. He musta been walkin’ on the road to Fort Smith, so I’ll have to find out if he’s headed there, or goin’ the other way, toward Little Rock. I’m willin’ to bet he ain’t headin’ toward Arkansas State Prison.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you can’t stay around and visit for a little while at least, but I understand.” She affected an impish smile for him. “If somebody hadn’t stole one of your horses, I know you’d have come up with some other reason to go.”

  “I need to get back to Fort Smith pretty quick, anyway,” Will said. “Maybe I’ll catch up with my flea-bitten gray if he’s headin’ that way. But I’ll be back before long to take those horses off your hands.”