Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  His approach had brought him in on the east side of the community. This was a residential section and hadn’t changed all that much in the five years he’d been gone. There were a couple of new homes—and three or four abandoned ones—but in a fluid population like the Indian Territory this was to be expected.

  The west side of town had always been an area reserved for the hard-working activity of Lighthorse Creek. The corrals for the livestock auctions were there, along with the livery stable and blacksmith establishments.

  But what Martin now saw on that sunset side of the street had nothing to do with industry or animal husbandry. A row of saloons dominated the entire stretch of Main Street’s west side. These buildings were even fancier than the regular businesses located across the street. A couple were two-storied and sported balconies that overlooked the street.

  Martin, confused and curious, whistled low at the mules and snapped the reins to get them moving again. His big wagon rolled slowly down the rustic, dirt avenue. Even at midday there was a sound of music and laughter coming from the barrooms.

  “Hey, you, sweetie!”

  Martin looked up toward the sound of the feminine voice that had called out to him. He saw a plump, heavily made-up blond woman leering at him from one of the balconies. He tipped his hat to her. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’ll bet you’re a-looking for a good time, ain’t you, teamster?” she asked. “So why’n’t you come on up and spend a little money on me? It’ll be worth it.”

  Martin blushed and swallowed hard. “Uh—oh— well, I got to go someplace. Thank you just the same.”

  “Hey, you ain’t bashful, are you?” she called out with a high-pitched cackle. Then she raised her skirt and displayed a pair of meaty thighs. “I got the cure for the bashfuls, teamster.”

  Martin, his eyes cast down at his boots, said nothing. A few minutes later he hauled back on the reins and brought his vehicle to a stop in front of a store that identified itself as Buchanan’s General Mercantile. He jumped down to the street and cast another glance over at the west side before stepping up on the boardwalk and walking inside.

  The man he was looking for was wrapping up a package for a lady. He was a short man, balding, with full sideburns sprouting from the side of his craggy face. A pair of spectacles rested on the end of his nose, and he peered through them with eyes crowned by heavy, bushy brows.

  Martin waited until the transaction was completed before he stepped up to the counter. “Howdy, Mr. Buchanan.”

  J. T. Buchanan glanced over at him, and squinted his eyes as he came closer. Then he stopped. “Martin Blazer!”

  Martin grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  J. T. walked around the counter with his hand outstretched. “You’ve growed some in the past five years and changed a little, I reckon. But it’s you, all right.”

  “Yes, sir,” Martin assured him. “It’s me, all right.”

  “We got your letter and we’ve been waiting on pins and needles for you to show up, boy. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, sir,” Martin said, shaking hands. “It was a long journey down from Wichita.” J. T. glanced past Martin out onto the street. “I reckon it was a hell of a trip if you drove that big wagon.”

  “That I did,” Martin said a little proudly. “And I got all my stuff loaded aboard her.”

  “I got a place arranged for you,” J. T. said. “It’s the building where ol’ Wally Fredericks had his saddlery. Nobody’s been in it for a while, and it seemed to answer the description of the place you was looking for that you wrote in your letter.” He took Martin’s arm and led him to the door. “Let’s go on down there and have a look.”

  “I can’t wait,” Martin said.

  J. T. turned toward the back of the store. “Abbie! Abbie!”

  A curtain across a door leading to the back room rustled and a young woman stepped out. “Yes, Papa?”

  Martin’s heartbeats increased rapidly for a couple of moments before settling down. This was one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen. Petite and graceful, she had auburn hair and bright green eyes.

  J. T. nudged Martin. “You remember Abbie, don’t you, Martin?”

  Abbie, as far as Martin’s recollections went, was an awkward, leggy thirteen-year-old girl who walked like a boy and had a loud, irritating voice to match. He didn’t say anything as he tried to equate this lovely young woman with the tomboy of five years previously.

  J. T. gave up on Martin saying anything, so he pointed to him. “Well, I’ll bet you can recall Martin, can’t you, Abbie?”

  She smiled in a way that delighted Martin. And her voice most assuredly had mellowed. “I sure do. And we still have his books we promised to keep for him.”

  Now Martin affected a smile—which he displayed as a rather silly grin—and he said, “How do you do, Abbie—I mean, Miss Abbie.”

  “I’m fine,” she answered. “How was your trip?”

  “I drove a wagon,” he said. He suddenly felt stupid saying such a dumb thing, but he followed it up by pointing awkwardly outside. “That one there.”

  J. T. grabbed his arm. “We can talk later. I’m going to take Martin over to Wally’s old place. You watch the store while we’re gone. Won’t be a minute.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Martin allowed himself to be pulled outside. He became himself only after they’d gone some ten yards down the boardwalk. A glance across the street took his mind off Abbie Buchanan. He pointed at the saloons. “When did all that move in here?”

  “A coupla years back,” J. T. said unhappily. “And another strange thing,” Martin said. “There were two fellows out on the road that stopped me and talked about taxes.”

  “Culhane Riley’s men,” J. T. said. “He’s behind the saloons on the west side o’ the street.”

  “Does he own all that?”

  “He might as well,” J. T. said. “In fact, he might as well own the whole of Lighthorse Creek.”

  “Well, what about those taxes?”

  J. T. stopped. “It’s best not to talk too loud about such things in the open, Martin. I’ll explain it to you after supper tonight.”

  Martin’s spirits soared. “I didn’t know I’d been invited. But I’m much obliged.”

  “You’re staying with us, ain’t you?” J. T. asked. “We got the spare room. And, anyhow, you’d better, ’cause there ain’t no other place.”

  “What about the hotel or Mrs. Fletcher’s boardinghouse?”

  “They ain’t no more,” J. T. said. “So you can take that extry room in the back or you’ll be camping outside of town.” He frowned. “Either that or staying in one o’ Culhane Riley’s whorehouses.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble,” Martin said. Then he realized that any polite protests on his part would make it sound like he preferred a brothel, so he quickly added, “—but I’m pleased to accept. Thank you kindly.”

  “Here we are.” J. T. pulled the stick of wood out of the hasp and pushed the door open. He stepped through and stomped on the floor. “You said you needed a good solid bottom to the building.”

  “That I do,” Martin said. “Type and presses are heavy stuff.” He looked around. “This is fine, Mr. Buchanan. It’ll make a nifty newspaper office.”

  J. T. shook his head. “Newspaper, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “The Lighthorse Creek Sentinel. A publication guaranteed to be the guardian of truth and honesty.”

  J. T. snorted. “There’s been a hell of a shortage of them two commodities in this town for a while.”

  “I want to talk to you about that, Mr. Buchanan.”

  J. T. held up his hand. “The first thing you can do is stop that ‘Mr. Buchanan’ stuff. That was fine while you was a boy, but you’re a man now. From now on I’m J. T. to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve arranged to have some fellers unload your stuff,” J. T. said. “You said in your letter it was heavy, so I got a half dozen that stay reasonab
ly sober a decent part of the time. But it’s getting late, so we’d best round ’em up and get the job did quick.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr.-J. T.”

  The two left the building and went back up Main Street.

  ~*~

  That evening’s supper was one of the most pleasant meals of Martin Blazer’s life.

  Not only was it one of his favorites—chicken and dumplings—but there were two desserts: apple pie and Miss Abbie Buchanan.

  Although he was tongue-tied at first, Martin found a common subject that he could warm up to. And it was one in which Abbie had a great deal of interest too. In fact, it was the young woman who brought it up initially.

  “I read all the books you left with us,” Abbie said.

  Martin, who had been stuttering and gurgling through his side of the conversation, looked up. “All of them?”

  Abbie laughed. “Every last page.”

  J. T. Buchanan scraped up the final piece of apple on the saucer in front of him. “Reading, hmmph! I’m a thinking person myself. I’d rather contemplate than strain my eyeballs.”

  “Don’t pay him any mind, Martin,” Abbie said. “His idea of mental reflection is to sip on a whiskey bottle and stare into space.”

  “Sure it is!” J. T. exclaimed. “And there ain’t nothing wrong with it either.” Then he quickly added, “As long as there’s a good see-gar involved too.”

  Martin wasn’t paying any attention to the father. His whole being was wrapped up in the daughter. “Which book was your favorite?” he asked her dreamily.

  “I had three,” Abbie answered. “Great Expectations, The Innocents Abroad, and the one with the stories called Old Creole Days.”

  “Yes,” Martin said. “George Washington Cable.”

  “That’s right,” Abbie said. “But my favorite authors are Dickens and Mark Twain.”

  “I like Washington Irving,” Martin said dreamily. “Another favorite of mine is Edgar Allen Poe,” Abbie said. '

  J. T. laughed out loud. “Well, by God, John Barleycorn is my favorite!” He stood up. “Come on, Martin. Let’s you and me have a manly slug of likker to help with the digestion while Abbie sees that the table is cleared.”

  Martin hated to leave her, but he didn’t want to be impolite. “Yes, sir.”

  “You do take a drink now and then, don’t you?” J. T. asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Martin said, “now and then.”

  “Do you favor see-gars?”

  “No, sir. I don’t use tobacco.”

  “Good,” J. T. said. “That means you won’t be smoking or chewing none of mine.”

  The two men went to the cupboard and J. T. poured out a couple of tumblers from the bottle he kept there. Martin took his glass and followed the man out to the porch.

  They could hear the wild yelling and the tinkling of pianos over on the west side. Martin’s natural curiosity as a journalist came to the fore. “You were going to explain all that to me,” he reminded his host.

  J. T. pulled a cigar from his vest, and sat down on the railing. “A lot has happened here while you was gone, Martin. It can best be summed up by saying that Culhane Riley and his gang moved into Lighthorse Creek and took it over.”

  “Lord!” Martin exclaimed. It seemed the old story to him: White criminals found the safety and isolation of the Indian Territory too good to pass up. “Are they bandits?”

  J. T. shook his head. “Not in the strictest sense of the word. But they’re just as bad. Lighthorse Creek has been turned into a hideout for ever’ varmint on the run from the law. And Riley’s profits also come from dealing in stolen livestock, buying and selling loot from robberies, peddling likker to the wild Indians, and other illegal shenanigans.” J. T. took a deep drink from his glass, and a pull from his cigar. “And in the meantime, Riley runs saloons and bawdyhouses too. He’s making a powerful amount of cash money here.”

  “Looks like a job that could be handled by the law,” Martin said.

  “The law?” J. T. laughed without humor. “You know the Indian Territory is the same as being lawless, Martin. It always has been. The tribes have their own rules they enforce, but whites can only be brung to justice over to the federal court in Fort Smith, Arkansas. That takes a United States marshal, and most of them jaspers are having to spend their time chasing the galoots who bring their loot to Riley.”

  “What about local law?” Martin asked. “A sheriff could clean things up, and thumb his nose at this Culhane Riley.”

  J. T. laughed again. “Would you want to be sheriff here, Martin?”

  “I’d afraid not, J. T. I’m not in that profession,” Martin answered.

  “That’s good, my boy. Because you’d last about a day, with luck. One gun against many don’t stand a chance.”

  “What about an ideal?” Martin asked. “That’s more powerful than a thousand guns.”

  “An ideal? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the Lighthorse Creek Sentinel,” Martin said.

  J. T.’s eyes opened wide, and he pointed a cautioning finger at the younger man. “You be careful, you hear, Martin?”

  Martin took a drink of the whiskey. “I’m a newspaperman, by God!”

  “You’ll be a dead man, by God!” J. T. said. “Don’t you go off half-cocked, young feller.”

  But Martin didn’t hear him. The sudden awareness that a real crusade awaited his neophyte publication thrilled him so much that for a moment he didn’t even think of Abbie Buchanan.

  Five

  Culhane Riley stood in front of the mirror in his dressing room and tied the huge cravat he’d put around the size-eighteen collar of his shirt.

  His number-one lieutenant, a hardcase by the name of Jake Donner, watched the boss with hidden amusement. Donner spat at the cuspidor a couple of feet away. “Boss, that seems like a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  Riley smiled as he stuck the diamond stickpin into place. “You should always look your best, Jake.” He made a final adjustment to the big tie, then walked over to his closet and pulled out a silk vest. Riley was a large, dark man with perceptively thinning hair. In a time when men’s fashions called for large mustaches, he preferred to be clean-shaven, and had the heavy beard on his jowls worked over by a barber twice a day. His body was fat, but there was hard muscle and great physical strength despite the large belly.

  Donner grinned. “You’re a real dandy, boss.” Riley buttoned the vest and finished off his dressing routine by slipping into his suit coat. “Remember what I said, Jake. Always look your best.”

  Jake Donner, as usual, was dressed for the trail and heavily armed with a tie-down holster on his right side and a large bowie knife on the left. He also carried a derringer in his right boot. “I prefer duds that help me in my work.”

  “So do I,” Riley said. “But I concentrate on the occasion as well.”

  The two were in Riley’s suite over Lighthouse Creek’s fanciest saloon. This was a rustically gaudy establishment known as the Silk Garter. The boss’s digs were well organized into four rooms: a bedroom, sitting room, dressing room, and office made up the layout. This was the man’s headquarters, and where he kept his praetorian guard of gunslingers quartered.

  Riley led the way out to the office. A couple more of his most trusted men waited there. They stood up respectfully to give the bossman his due. Riley nodded to them as he situated himself behind the desk. A huge breakfast tray, complete with a silver coffee service, sat there waiting for him —all piping hot. Riley took a sip of the coffee. “How’s it going, boys? Anything to deal with yet this early?” Donner acted as the spokesman. “We got a whiskey peddler down in the cellar.”

  Riley took a bite of the scrambled eggs. “Where’d he come from?”

  “From over the Arkansas line,” a man named Tad Perkins said. “Me and Frank caught him late yesterday.”

  “Five miles south o’ town,” Frank Colen added. “He was headed for the Comanche country.”

&nb
sp; “Anybody we know?” Riley asked, now working on the huge slab of ham on his plate.

  “Nope,” Perkins said.

  “Go on down and fetch him up here,” Riley said. “I think we ought to talk to the man.”

  “Right, boss,” Perkins said. “C’mon, Frank.”

  The two left to tend to the chore as Jake Donner settled down in a nearby chair. “There was something else yesterday too. It damn near slipped my mind. Perkins and Collins said a little skinny feller came rolling into town with a freight wagon.”

  Riley looked up, interested. “What kind o’ freight was in it?”

  “They said it was machinery,” Donner answered.

  “Goddamn it! What kind of machinery?” Riley asked, exasperated.

  Donner shrugged. “I don’t know. I reckon he had business on the east side. He unloaded it all into a empty store over there.”

  “I’ll look a little more into this,” Riley said.

  By the time he finished his breakfast, Perkins and Collins were back with a man between them. Their unwilling companion showed the effect of getting a thorough, rough work over not too long previously. One eye was swollen shut, and his nose was broken.

  “This is the whiskey man,” Perkins said, shoving him forward.

  The prisoner snuffled through his damaged breathing organ. “I don’t know what you fellers want, but I ain’t did nothing wrong to none o’ y’all.”

  Riley leaned forward a bit. “What you did, was to try to run whiskey past us without paying the proper taxes on it.”

  “Taxes? They ain’t no tax on whiskey going to Injuns,” the smuggler said. He affected an expression of indignity with his battered features. “Hell, it ain’t legal, so it ain’t taxed.”

  “It’s legal as far as I’m concerned,” Riley said. “And you have to pay me for the right to travel through this part of the territory.”

  “Pay you? I thought this was part o’ the Cherokee Nation,” the man said.

  Tad Perkins grinned and hit the man sharply on the back of the head. “This here land belongs to Mr. Riley here.”

  “Ow!” The man rubbed his head. “Now, how was I supposed to know that?”