Powder Burn

by William W. Johnstone

  Inside what was now a flaming furnace, Tom Spotted Horse could scarcely believe he was still alive. He had been thrown violently against the wall by the force of the explosion, losing his carbine in the process. He knew now that his time had run out, for it was difficult for him to breathe in the smoke-choked fiery oven as the flames were even then hovering over his body. It was a terrible choice to have to make, but he quickly decided he had rather be shot to death than suffer the alternative of burning. He looked around him for his carbine, but it had already been engulfed in the inferno. It is a good day to die, he tried to tell himself, but he did not want to end his life at the hands of a lawless gang of white men. There was no more time to think about it—he could stand it no longer, he had to escape the fire. So he steeled himself to his fate and dragged his broken body out the open door to meet his end.

  “There he is!” Jack Lynch exclaimed. “Now, by God . . .” He jerked his rifle up to his shoulder. “Don’t nobody shoot,” he commanded, as the wounded man crawled out of his trap. “This is my shot.” As he took deliberate aim at the helpless target, he noticed something else. “He ain’t got his rifle. He lost his damn rifle!” Seeing an opportunity to enjoy the execution even more, he got up from his position behind the forge and walked blatantly out into the street, his rifle trained on the defeated policeman. Mace walked out to stand beside him, his rifle aimed at Tom as well. He would respect Lynch’s claim to take the shot, but he would not hesitate after that shot was fired. Hannah was not so intrigued by the slaughter of the helpless victim, but she decided the sooner the foolish men satisfied their desire for fun, the sooner they would get back to the more important business of finding Will Tanner.

  “You ain’t so sassy-mouthed right now, are you, Injun?” Lynch taunted. “I’m gonna place my shots real careful, so you don’t die on me too quick.” He raised his rifle to his shoulder again and took aim. The rifle shot rang out before he pulled the trigger, causing him to hesitate, confused. Standing beside him, Mace collapsed and crumpled face-first in the street. The next shot grazed Lynch’s shoulder before he realized what was happening and managed to dive back to the cover of the forge. “What the hell?” he shouted. “Where’d it come from?” To answer his question, two more shots in rapid succession snapped through the open shed where they had taken cover.

  “From the corral!” Hannah shouted back as she ran to her horse and scrambled up into the saddle. Whipping it violently with the reins, she galloped away from the back of the shop. As quickly as he could, Lynch was in the saddle and galloping off after her.

  Standing beside the corner of the corral by the stable, Will threw two more shots in the direction of the departing outlaws, but they were already too far away. He had intended to get closer to the burning building before making his move. But he had been forced to take the first shots from the edge of the corral when Tom Spotted Horse was forced from the office and lay defenseless in the street. Due to the distance, he had to make sure his first shot counted. It had just been Mace Weaver’s bad luck that placed him standing beside Lynch, and consequently, in the direct line of Will’s fire. Even at that distance, Will might have downed Lynch as well, had he not turned abruptly when Mace was hit. But at least he had prevented them from executing Tom.

  Cranking a new cartridge in the Winchester as he ran up the street to check on Tom and the two outlaws lying in the street, Will tried to get a look at the two galloping toward the creek, but they were too far by then. When he reached the blacksmith shop, he checked the outlaws first to make sure they posed no further threat. They didn’t. Will’s shot had hit Mace in the side, breaking his ribs and striking his heart, and the other man had caught the brunt of Tom’s shotgun blast. He turned to see Tom Spotted Horse propped up on one elbow, gazing at him with eyes glazed in disbelief when he realized he was not going to die after all. Will went to the wounded man then and knelt beside him. He didn’t have to ask if Tom’s wound was serious—it was fairly obvious that the Chickasaw policeman’s hip might be shattered. “I’d best get you to a doctor,” he said, even though there was none in Tishomingo that he was aware of.

  “Take me home,” Tom gasped painfully. “Sarah will ride to get Leon Coyote Killer.” He lay flat on the ground then, exhausted, having forced himself to make it to this point. Will nodded. When he looked around at the burning police building, he became aware of a handful of people who appeared now that the shooting was over. He couldn’t help wondering where they all were while Tom was under attack by the four outlaws.

  “Damn,” Wilbur Greene exhaled, gaping at Tom’s bloody hip. “That looks pretty bad. Good thing you came along when you did.”

  “Yeah,” Will replied. “Too bad there wasn’t anybody here to help him.” He stared in the direction the outlaws had fled. He wanted to pursue them before they had a chance to get too far, but he couldn’t leave Tom Spotted Horse in his condition. “Go back to the stable. Tom keeps his horse there, doesn’t he?” Wilbur nodded. Will continued, “Saddle it and bring it along with my horses.” He took another look at the injured man. “He can’t sit a saddle. We’re gonna need a wagon. Can you help me with that?”

  “Sure can,” Wilbur replied. “I’ll hitch it up and drive it out to Tom’s for you. His cabin ain’t half a mile from here.”

  “Good man,” Will said. “We need to get him some help. He’s bleedin’ pretty strong still.” Wilbur responded with a vigorous nod and ran to fetch his wagon.

  “Take me home,” Tom reminded him. “Sarah knows what to do.”

  “I will, partner,” Will said. “Just hang on.” He stayed by his side there on the cold ground, close enough to feel the heat from the burning building thirty feet away. Although obviously in pain, the Chickasaw policeman remained alert, his eyes clear as he studied Will’s face. Thinking it a good idea to try to keep him that way, Will talked to him, trying to keep his mind off his terrible wound if he could. “Was this the same bunch you telegraphed Dan Stone about?”

  “Same bunch,” Tom answered. “They come for you.”

  “You say they were lookin’ for me?” Will asked, and Tom nodded slowly. That caused Will to pause and wonder. Why would a gang of outlaws that had been operating in Colorado and Kansas be looking for him? He was certain that he had never seen the men now lying dead in the street. Jack Lynch, he repeated the name to himself, but he could not remember ever having any contact with a man named Jack Lynch. What bothered him the most was the fact that he might not recognize the man if he met him unexpectedly. For that reason, it was crucial that he should go after him while he had a trail to follow and before it became too old to read. He looked down at Tom Spotted Horse and considered telling Wilbur to haul the wounded Chickasaw to his cabin while he started after the man he now assumed was Jack Lynch. It was only for a moment, however, because he felt it his obligation to see that Tom was taken care of properly and to render such help as Tom’s wife needed. After all, Tom got shot because he was standing in the way of these killers coming after him. Probably, it would be quicker if he went to get Leon Coyote Killer, so Tom’s wife could take care of her husband. Even as he thought it, he wondered why Tom wanted to send for the Choctaw man. Will knew Leon as a resident of a small Choctaw farming community called Switchback Creek, halfway between Atoka and Tishomingo. He had not been back to Switchback Creek in quite some time, but he did recall Jim Little Eagle telling him that Leon was acting in a minor capacity as a medicine man since the death of old Walking Crow. Jim had said that Leon had been very close to Walking Crow and had learned a few of the old man’s rituals for driving away a bellyache or pulling a sore tooth. Still, Will was a little doubtful. Applying an herb for a sore tooth was one thing, treating a serious wound like Tom’s was quite another.

  While Wilbur went back to the stable, Will left Tom’s side for a few moments to collect the weapons and ammunition from the two bodies. There was always the obligation of burying any outlaws that were killed by a deputy, so Will offered the owner of the feed st
ore Mace Weaver’s .44 and holster to do the job. He gladly agreed to do it.

  It took Wilbur about a quarter of an hour to return with his wagon, but he had thought to fork a bed of hay into the bed of the wagon to make for a more comfortable ride for the wounded policeman. He also brought a horse blanket to keep him warm. As gently as they could manage, Will and Wilbur lifted Tom and placed him on the bed of hay. Try as they might, they could not pick him up without causing him a tremendous amount of pain. The Chickasaw Indian never made a sound, but the pain was obvious in his face. It was replaced by an expression of surprise when a barrage of shots inside the burning building began. The fire had evidently found the gun case with the ammunition in the cabinet below it. There was not much danger of getting hit by a bullet, but the sound was enough to encourage them to step lively. Will quickly untied Buster from the wagon tailgate and climbed into the saddle, and they were off to Tom’s cabin. Behind them, the few spectators backed away from the burning office to give it more room, but remained to watch it burn.

  While he rode beside the wagon, Will could not help feeling amazed by the confrontation just concluded and the unlikely coincidence that had placed him in a position to prevent Tom’s death. When he had followed the trail of the four outlaws that Tom had pointed out, it had indeed led in the general direction of Atoka. But after reaching the river, it doubled back in the opposite direction. He had followed it for a mile or more before he lost it at a river crossing and was unable to find it on the other side. Left with no trail to follow, he had decided to head back to Tishomingo, since that was the general direction the tracks led before he lost them. It was lucky for Tom that he did, because there had been no help in the small settlement for the outgunned lawman.

  * * *

  Sarah Little Foot stood in the front yard of her little cabin on the bank of the creek, watching the wagon and the man on horseback approach. She had been concerned ever since hearing the gunshots from the town half a mile away, concerned for her husband. There were many shots. That was not good, and she feared that Tom might be in trouble. The arrival of the wagon she now saw, seemed to confirm her fears. As it drew closer, she recognized Wilbur Greene on the wagon seat, and Will Tanner on the horse. She immediately frowned. Like her husband, she was not inclined to be cordial to Will, or any of the white deputy marshals who imposed their authority over the Indian police.

  At first, she thought Wilbur was driving an empty wagon when it rolled up to her front door. She gasped in alarm when she saw the body lying in the hay. “Tom!” she cried out at once.

  “He ain’t dead,” Will quickly informed her. “He’s bad hurt, but he’s alive.”

  She responded to his statement with a look of scorn, as if the deputy were to blame for Tom’s injuries. She rushed to the side of the wagon to find her husband silent, but very much alert. Obviously in pain, but with eyes open and steady, he said, “Will Tanner saved my life. We owe him thanks.” Uncertain, she looked back at Will, but said nothing, then turned her attention back to her husband. She pulled the horse blanket back to examine the wound and was immediately alarmed by the look of it. “Get Leon Coyote Killer,” Tom muttered, his voice barely audible as he became weaker.

  In obvious distress, Sarah said, “Leon cannot fix—wound too bad.” She looked directly at Will when she replied to her husband, her eyes pleading as she spoke. “We need white man doctor take a look.”

  Will was not really surprised to hear her say it. He knew Leon Coyote Killer would be hard pressed to take care of a wound that serious. He looked over at Wilbur, who was still seated on the wagon. “There ain’t no doctor in Tishomingo, is there?”

  Wilbur slowly shook his head. “Nearest doctor is ol’ Doc O’Shea over near Durant,” he said, “twenty miles from here.” He watched Will as the deputy looked at Sarah, then Tom, and finally back to him. He knew what he was thinking. “That’s a day’s drive with a wagon,” Wilbur said before Will could ask the question. “I ain’t got nobody to take care of the stable. I can’t leave for a whole day to go over there and another day to get back.”

  Will thought about the two fleeing outlaws, getting farther and farther away, and their trail getting colder and colder. It was going to be a hell of a job running them to ground if he lost that trail, seeing as how he couldn’t identify them by sight. He looked again at the suffering man lying in the wagon and knew there was really no decision. Dr. O’Shea was a competent physician when he was sober. Unfortunately, he was drunk most of the time, but he was the only reasonable option they had. “Looks like I’m gonna need to hire your wagon and team of horses,” he said. He dismounted and walked up beside the wagon. “You reckon you can hold up for twenty more miles?” he asked Tom.

  “I can make it,” Tom replied, but not without strain in his voice.

  “All right, then,” Will said, and turned to Sarah Little Foot. “Get whatever you need for a couple of days, ’cause we’re headin’ for Durant as soon as we can get started. We’ll drive right on through the night, so we can be there in the mornin’. I got a packhorse loaded with enough supplies to last me more’n a week, so it oughta do for us if we have to stay for a couple of days.”

  He didn’t miss the look of gratitude on Sarah’s face as she hopped to it. “I drive wagon,” she announced, which surprised him. It was a welcome statement because he much preferred to be in the saddle. She hurried to put out her fire and close up the cabin after loading clothes and blankets into the wagon.

  In order to save them the time to drive back to town, Wilbur volunteered to walk back to Tishomingo. “I reckon I can walk half a mile,” he said. “That ain’t much, but it’ll help a little.” Will took him up on his offer, and they set out for Durant with Sarah Little Foot confidently driving the two horses and Will riding along beside her, his packhorse following.

  CHAPTER 11

  Doc O’Shea squinted through bleary eyes that refused to focus on the ray of sunshine that beamed through the ragged hole in the window shade. After several attempts to force his puffy eyes to remain open, he was finally successful to the point where he could look around him to discover where he had awakened on a morning that felt like so many other mornings. In a few more moments, he was able to see objects in the room more clearly and was relieved to see that he was indeed in his very own room behind his tiny office. He could remember very little of the night just passed. He very rarely could on any morning, for that matter, but he had almost made it back to his bed, judging by the overturned chair between the bed and where he lay on the floor.

  “God, I need a drink,” he uttered, feeling as if his mouth and throat had somehow grown a thick layer of hair while he slept. There’s a bottle in the cupboard, he thought, and struggled to get up from the floor, making it to his feet on the second attempt, with help from the iron bedpost. After stumbling across the room to the cupboard, he found the bottle. It was empty. “Damn,” he swore. “Somebody’s been in my room.”

  Still a little unsteady, he made his way into his office and gazed at the clock on the wall. It was not yet eight. The Texas House was open for breakfast, but the clubroom in the back of the building would not be open for another two hours. That was when Sheldon Tate opened it to accommodate club members. As a rule, alcoholic beverages could not legally be sold in Indian Territory, but the law was somewhat lenient with private clubs as long as they were restricted to members of the local business community. The Texas House was so named because Texas was where Sheldon Tate was from. And it was not a very well-kept secret that membership was restricted to any non-Indian within the continental United States. “Damn,” Doc O’Shea muttered again, “at least I can get some coffee and maybe a little hair of the dog.”

  It was reassuring to find his hat hanging on the hall tree by the front door, for it had not always found its way home with him. As he placed it on his head, his attention was caught by the framed diploma hanging on the wall beside the tree. Oliver Halloran O’Shea, it read, Jefferson Medical College. He paused only
briefly to consider it. Too much had passed since that time—a marriage that had failed, a career that was destroyed when he was banned from practicing medicine in Wisconsin, all because of drinking. The thought of it only made him need a drink more. Medicine, he thought, I need my medicine, and out the door he went, almost colliding with Myra Skinner, a middle-aged widow he employed as a nurse, cook, and housekeeper.

  Myra stepped back and gave him a look of disgust, but since it was one he was accustomed to seeing from the patient woman, he responded with a smile. “You look like something the cat dragged in,” she said.

  “And you look especially fetching yourself this morning,” he returned with a disarming smile.

  “Where are you going?” Myra asked. “You look like you need some strong coffee. I’ll put on a pot.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Myra darling,” he said. “I’ll get a cup at the Texas House. I’m going that way anyway.”

  “Yeah, I ain’t surprised,” she replied, well aware of the “coffee” he was going for. “I’ll make a pot of the good kind of coffee, and you can have a cup of that when you come back.”