Powder Burn

by William W. Johnstone

  “He’ll come,” Hannah replied, confident that she knew the man. “And when he does, we’ll kill him.”

  “How’s he gonna know where we went?” Tater asked. He had proposed going to the Arbuckles for the purpose of avoiding the rogue lawman.

  “We won’t take any trouble to hide our trail,” Hannah said. “We’ll just lead him right into a trap.”

  Lynch nodded in agreement, feeling confident now that there was a plan instead of their running all over looking for each other. Still, he had to question. “It’s a good plan, but ain’t worth a damn if he don’t come after us.”

  “He’ll come,” Hannah insisted. “The man’s a hunter, he can’t help himself.” Her steady confidence in her opinion was enough to convince the others. At once, they were all in accord. The bickering between Hannah and Lynch disappeared for the moment as the four of them mounted up and rode out of Tishomingo, heading back to Lem Stark’s old trading post on Blue River.

  * * *

  Intent upon giving themselves plenty of time to reach the hideout in the mountains, the four outlaws were packed up and on their way early the following morning, after a night with very little sleep. They took turns standing watch in case the relentless deputy showed up, but there was no sign of him when the morning sun spilled over the silent river bluffs. So it was a somber party of partners that rode single file along the bank of the river. Hunters or hunted, they were not certain. Their plan to retreat to the mountain hideout to wait in ambush for Will Tanner was based on nothing more than speculation, for they were only guessing on whether they were running from a posse or one lone lawman. They could not even be sure Tanner would trail them to a hideout, tucked away in a narrow canyon that very few people knew about. Although unwilling to admit it, Jack Lynch could not deny having deep concerns about the man who might be chasing them. The more he found out about Will Tanner, the more he began to wonder how he could show up in the middle of Indian Territory right where he was. Tanner killed his son, and now he was coming after him, one dead body at a time, just as he had with Ike Cheney and his sons. Lynch still blustered about his determination to avenge his son’s death, but he couldn’t rid his mind of the feeling of being stalked by an agent of the devil. The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea of holing up in a well-fortified cabin in the mountains. As far as his partners were concerned, both Tater and Rubin were convinced that Will Tanner was an agent of the devil, if not ol’ Satan, himself. And they were of the opinion that to run was the most sensible course for them, and hopefully Tanner would not find them. Of course, neither man would admit to having those feelings. Of the four, Hannah was the only one truly committed to avenge her father and brothers, no matter how dangerous their adversary.

  * * *

  Will pulled Buster to a stop in the trees that lined the bank of the creek while he took a good look at the cabin in the bend. There was no sign of anyone, or anything unusual, so he nudged the big buckskin forward and rode up to the cabin. The lock was still in place on the door, but there had been visitors, judging by the hoofprints around the cabin. And when he dismounted to inspect the droppings left behind by one of the horses, he determined the visit to be no more than a day earlier. There was little doubt as to who left the tracks, but maybe they would not be coming for another visit. He decided they would most likely check in town after they had found no one at Tom’s cabin. The notion was confirmed when he did a quick scout around the cabin and saw that the tracks leading away from the cabin seemed to lead toward town. Figuring it safe for the time being, he climbed back into the saddle and went back to wave Sarah on in with the wagon.

  Even though Tom tried to tell him he was all right, and he should not waste any more time there, Will would not leave until he had helped Sarah settle her husband in. Then he took the time to split some firewood to make sure she had plenty for her stove. At Tom’s insistence, he left them then, after making sure the wounded policeman had weapons and ammunition. With his horses tied to the tailgate, he set out for town with Wilbur Greene’s wagon. He left behind him two grateful friends who had one less white man to dislike.

  * * *

  As he had when approaching Tom Spotted Horse’s cabin, Will pulled the wagon up short at the edge of town to take a good look to make sure he didn’t drive blindly into a welcoming party hosted by the four outlaws. Judging by the number of horses tied up at the hitching rails, he was satisfied that the four outlaws were not there, so he drove the wagon on in to the stables.

  “Man, am I glad to see you,” Wilbur Greene exclaimed when he walked out of the stable to meet Will. “They were in town lookin’ for you.”

  “How long ago?” Will asked.

  “Yesterday,” Wilbur said. “The four of ’em were here. One of ’em’s a woman, but she’s tough enough to be a man.”

  Wilbur’s remark was enough to make Will wonder. Tom Spotted Horse had originally reported seeing four men when he spotted their camp. There was no mention of a woman. Since then, two of the outlaws were killed in the attack on the Chickasaw policeman’s office. But Wilbur said there were four riders who came looking for him the day before. Where did the other two come from? It was something to keep in mind. There might be more in the gang than he thought, so he planned to proceed with caution. And the first thing to do was to find out where they were camped, for as often as they showed up in town, it could not be far away. There had been too many comings and goings in the little town during the past few days, so if there was a fresh trail to follow, there was little chance of finding it. So he was just going to have to scout for likely camping spots within a half-day’s ride. And that might take forever, he thought. Then Lem Stark’s old trading post on the river came to mind. The old store had been empty for some time now, and he silently chastised himself for not checking it out to begin with. Any number of outlaws knew about Stark’s place over the past few years. It figured that Jack Lynch knew about it, too. With the sudden feeling that he was wasting time, he said a quick good-bye to Wilbur Greene and climbed back into the saddle.

  CHAPTER 13

  It had been some time since Will had followed the old trail along the bank of the Blue River to the path down through the bluffs to Lem Stark’s trading post. But the violent confrontation that had taken place remained in his memory like it was just yesterday, so the evil that had dwelt there seemed to still be hovering over the store and barn. Thinking it best to leave the trail about one hundred yards short of the path that led to the front door, he guided Buster slowly along the river’s edge, remaining in the cover of the trees. When he was within fifty yards of the barn, he dismounted, tied his horses there, and proceeded on foot.

  Reaching the edge of the clearing, he knelt to take a careful look before going any farther. There was no sign of anyone, no horses in the corral, and no smoke coming from the chimney. He remained there for a few moments more while he scanned the yard from the front of the trading post to the back of the barn. There was no one there, and he had been so sure that this was a most likely place for the outlaws to hole up. Damn, he cursed silently, thinking of the time it would take to scout for another campsite. Hell, this is the most likely place to camp, he told himself, and rose to his feet. Cautious by nature, he held his rifle ready to fire in case this seemingly deserted trading post was in fact a cleverly arranged ambush. When he felt satisfied that there was no one there, he left the cover of the trees. There was no reaction from any quarter, so he walked across the yard to the store and went inside.

  “Maybe I was right after all,” he muttered after a brief look around the front room, for there was evidence that someone had been there, as recently as the night before, judging by the ashes in the fireplace. Raking them aside with his fingertips, he found them still warm deep down. “They were here,” he announced quietly, but there was no evidence that indicated they were planning to return, for they had left nothing behind. He made a quick search of the rooms behind the store, which he remembered were Lem Stark’s bedr
oom and kitchen where his bony little Chickasaw wife, Minnie Three Toes, cooked for him and his sons. He cautioned himself not to distract himself with thoughts of things that had happened there before and get back to the business at hand. And that was Jack Lynch and his three partners, so he decided to scout the area around the barn and corral and hope to find fresh tracks that might tell him which way they went when they left. He walked back across the clearing to get his horses.

  He was in luck, for he found fresh tracks from at least half a dozen horses leading away from the river, up through the bluffs, and heading straight west. There was no apparent effort to disguise their trail. It almost seemed an invitation for him to follow at his risk. Since they held a four-to-one advantage, he wasn’t surprised.

  The trail continued west with a slight tendency to bear northward for about fifteen miles until coming to a wide creek just short of an old trail that led toward the Arbuckle Mountains. The mountains could clearly be seen in the distance, rising no more than five hundred feet above the horizon. Heavily forested, the gentle foothills gave no indication of the many hidden springs and caves to be found in the mountains beyond them. Seeing that the riders he followed had evidently paused by the creek to rest their horses, he decided to do the same. He took advantage of the time to build a fire to cook a little bacon for himself in the same ashes of the fire built by those he followed.

  When Buster and the packhorse were rested, he started out again, crossing the creek and continuing on until striking the common wagon trail north to the Arbuckles. Here he took a little extra time to make sure the tracks didn’t continue westward, in case they were intent upon making it only appear they were taking the trail to the mountains. As before, there seemed to be no attempt to disguise their line of travel, so he felt their intention was to seek the cover of that small range of mountains with its many hidden cuts and canyons. He hoped that they were counting on his not knowing of the log cabin built tight up against a seventy-foot cliff where a busy waterfall fell to a sizable pond below.

  As he followed the wagon trail that led through the foothills to the south of the mountain range, he remained alert for a small game trail that crossed the common track. It was a trail that he had followed once before when tracking another gang of outlaws. And if Lynch took this same game trail, Will would almost guarantee he was heading for that cabin at the waterfall.

  In time, he found the game trail. The bushes where it crossed the wagon track had grown since he had first discovered it, but it appeared that the trail was still used by the herds of mule deer that roamed the heavily forested hills. The freshest tracks he found, however, were left by the shod hooves of horses. He knew then that there was only one place the outlaws were heading. He also knew that he could not follow that trail to the cabin sitting deep in a canyon, backed up against the cliff. No wider than the space necessary to allow horses and riders to travel it single file, the trail was easily watched by anyone standing on the front step of the cabin.

  It had been quite a while since he had traveled this part of the Chickasaw Nation, but the circumstances of that particular time would always remain in his memory. Two good men were killed on that occasion, one of them was Fletcher Pride, the veteran deputy marshal who had taken him under his wing and broken him into the Marshals Service. Now almost two years later, he found himself once again trying to figure out how to ride into that canyon alone to arrest four outlaws. But it was too late to think about going for help. Jim Little Eagle was the closest but he was sixty miles away, so there was really no option except to go it alone. It’s gonna be the same way I did it last time, he thought, on foot. And that meant leaving his horses hidden in the fir trees while he climbed up a ravine whose steep western wall formed one side of the canyon. With a new feeling of urgency, he nudged Buster to break into a lope as he guided the big buckskin toward the base of the ravine.

  By the time he reached the entrance to the canyon, the sun had already started to sink behind the mountain. But even with the prospect of darkness on the way, he was not inclined to ride up the narrow trail. So he led his horses up into the trees at the base of the ravine and tied them there. After a quick check to make sure his rifle was fully loaded, he started up the steep side of the ravine on foot. When he figured he was about as high up as the pond and the cabin beside it, he paused to listen for the sound of the waterfall for a few moments before climbing to the rim of the ravine, where he had a view of the canyon below. With no real plan of attack decided upon at this point, he took the time to look the situation over. Even in the darkness settling into the canyon, he could still see well enough to note the horses in the small corral close up beside the cabin. Good, he thought, they’re all here, assuming they were still four in number, leading two packhorses. There was no sign of anyone outside the cabin, and there was a healthy fire in the fireplace, judging by the dark cloud of smoke rising from the chimney.

  It occurred to him then, that although he was 90 percent sure the people in the cabin were Jack Lynch and his gang, it would be best to make sure before he made any attempt to act. Although he had come into contact with Lynch’s men, he had never been face-to-face with Jack Lynch, having seen him only from a distance when he shot at him in the street at Tishomingo. He wasn’t certain he could identify him. He glanced up at the fading sky and decided he’d better slip over the side of the ravine and make his way down the steep side of the canyon before it became so dark he couldn’t see. So he pushed on over the rim of the canyon, and as carefully as he could, lowered himself crawling and sliding in the patches of loose gravel, his rifle in one hand and his free hand grasping at the small fir trees to slow his descent. Damn! he expressed under his breath when he finally reached the floor of the canyon, apparently without alerting anyone inside the cabin. After a moment to stop and listen for any sign of activity inside, he moved to the edge of the trees, some fifty feet from the cabin. There remained an open space before him filled with nothing but tree stumps, the logs from which were evidently used to build the cabin. The log cabin had only one door and two windows, one in the front, and one in the back. To confirm his targets, he decided to make his way to the back window.

  By this time, it was dark enough deep in the canyon to allow him to move quickly through the stump-filled yard without much chance of being seen, unless he was just unlucky enough for someone to happen outside. Sliding up close beside the back window, he peeked cautiously through a crack in the closed shutter. The light was not good in the room, but he felt sure the tall, wide-shouldered man standing near the fireplace was the same man he missed with his second shot fired from the corner of the stables in Tishomingo. There were two others sitting at a table in the middle of the room and it was hard to tell if one of them was a woman. As far as number four, Will’s vantage point did not allow him to see that one. Well, he thought, I reckon I’ve run them to ground. Now what the hell am I gonna do with them? The problem was how to avoid facing all four of them at the same time, and that wasn’t going to be easy, especially since he was going to try to arrest them if possible. One thing he knew for sure was that he was going to have to draw them out of that cabin, so he backed away from the window to seek the cover of the trees again while he decided how to go about it.

  * * *

  Inside the snug log cabin, Jack Lynch cursed when he reached for the coffeepot sitting in the coals in the fireplace. “Damn, that’s hot,” he exclaimed.

  “What did you expect?” Hannah retorted. “I left that rag on the floor beside it. I didn’t think I’d have to tell you to use it to pick up the pot.” She walked over from the corner of the cabin she had claimed for herself as soon as they had arrived, picked up the rag, and refilled her cup. Then she tossed the rag to Lynch. “We could use some more wood for the fire,” she said, but was met with no response when none of the men volunteered to fetch it. Tired of expecting much voluntary help with the chores, she just shook her head in disgust and went to get it herself. There was a sizable stack of firewood on the
small porch where it could remain dry, so it was really not much of a chore. And it was right outside the door, but when she stepped out on the porch, she found that all the firewood was gone. Surprised, she went back inside. “What happened to the firewood?” She looked accusingly at Tater and Rubin, still seated at the table. “I thought you were gonna cut enough wood to take us through the night.”

  “We did,” Rubin answered her. “It’s right there on the porch.”

  “The hell it is,” Hannah said. “Not a stick of wood left. You musta been in a big hurry to get in here and set on your behind.”

  “Hell,” Rubin said, “we split up enough wood to take us to tomorrow afternoon. You musta been feedin’ that fire way more than you needed. There ain’t no way we coulda used all that wood.” Not trusting his sister’s report, he got up from the table. “I’ll go get the wood,” he said, and went out the door. In a few seconds, he returned, a look of astonishment on his face. “I swear, she’s right. There ain’t no wood left.”

  “Well, you’d best get your behind out to that woodpile and split some more,” Lynch ordered. “You and Tater was supposed to do that job. It’s gonna get mighty cold in here tonight if that fire goes out.”

  “Hold on a minute, Jack,” Tater said. “Rubin’s right. We split up enough wood to last a couple of days. Somebody took that wood offa the porch.”

  “Who the hell’s gonna steal the wood offa the porch?” Lynch retorted.

  “Will Tanner is who,” Tater said. “That son of a bitch has already found us.” He looked around him as if expecting someone to grab him at any minute. “Drop that bar on the door,” he said, then got up and dropped the heavy bar on the door, himself.

  “He couldn’t have caught up with us this fast,” Lynch said. “We don’t know if he’ll even be able to find us at all. This place ain’t that easy to find.” Even as he said it, he couldn’t help but harbor some doubt.