Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Hello, Gus,” Martin said. “I’ve come to see if you would care to purchase an advertisement in the Sentinel. Five dollars for page one, four dollars for the fourth page, and two dollars for either pages two or three.”

  “Not a bad idea if it will get me more business, Martin. Think that might happen?” Gus asked, wanting to be sold. He slipped the chain gate across the stall.

  “You bet,” Martin said. “My newspaper is going to be read far and wide. Folks passing through here will move on and carry copies with them. Gus’s Smithy will be a well-known place. At least it should be.”

  Gus laughed. “Your eagerness makes you a good salesman, Martin. And I believe you.”

  “Earl and Lars both bought on page one,” Martin said. “They’re the first two advertisers, so I still have lots of space left.” Then he added, “I write up the advertisements myself as a free service.”

  “It might be a good idea at that,” Gus mused. “You think you’ll make enough money from local businesses to make a good profit at this here newspaper of yours?”

  “I’ll at least earn a living,” Martin said. “But I’ve fired letters off to other advertisers like we had on the Wichita Herald. Patent-medicine companies like to have their products displayed wherever possible. So do mail-orders places. That ought to pull in a few dollars.”

  Gus went over to his anvil. He picked up the big hammer there and tapped it thoughtfully on the hunk of heavy metal. “So Earl and Lars are on page one, huh?”

  “They sure are,” Martin said.

  “That means they’ll be there with them big companies selling medicine and other goods,” Gus said. He thought about it for a few more moments. “All right. Put me down for page one too.”

  Martin was delighted. In less than three quarters of an hour he’d sold fifteen dollars’ worth of ads in the first edition. “I do job printing too,” he said as he wrote down Gus’s order.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Handbills and announcements,” Martin said. “I’ve been sort of disappointed in not having all the business I want in making tools,” Gus said. “I can even turn out skillets and pots for the ladies. Would that be good on a handbill?”

  “That’s the perfect subject for them. We could announce that you’re now offering this service,” Martin said. “It would be wise to print up something special for the ladies in town. Any energetic young boy would be happy to pass them out to the shoppers on a Saturday afternoon when all the farmers are in town.”

  “I’d like something like that,” Gus said. “If you could tell ’em to place an order, I could fill it in a couple of weeks or so.”

  “We’ll do it,” Martin promised.

  “O’course the day’s coming when folks won’t be coming into town so much,” Gus said. He walked to the door and pointed to the west side. “Them bawdies over there with all that hell-raising is making it so a man don’t want his wife and young’uns in Lighthorse Creek no more.”

  “That will be addressed by this same newspaper in which you advertise,” Martin said.

  Gus was puzzled. “How the hell is a damned periodical gonna do that?”

  “With the most powerful weapon in man’s arsenal, Gus,” Martin said. “Words—strong words. Words of righteous defiance that demand an end to tyranny.”

  “It’ll take more’n them words,” Gus said, unconvinced.

  “You’ll see,” Martin said. “Thanks for the business, Gus. I’ll be down later for us to compose your ad. So long.”

  “So long, Martin.”

  The young newspaper man’s next stop was in the well-appointed office of the town physician. Doctor Lewis Cranston had been serving Lighthorse Creek for ten years. Although not a skilled surgeon by any sense, he was an expert in the treatment of other frontier ailments that included setting broken bones and digging bullets out of unlucky people’s flesh. When Martin called on him, he had no patients in his treatment room.

  “Why, Martin,” he said, answering the knock on the door. “Have you come down ill after such a short time back home?”

  “No, sir,” Martin answered. “I’m here on business, Doctor Cranston. It seems a physician should have an announcement of his professional services displayed prominently in the local journal.” Martin launched into his spiel and made another sale in a very quick time. The commercial side of the visit was promptly concluded and the two sat down to enjoy a cup of coffee off the doctor’s wood-burning stove.

  “Hear anything from your brother?” Cranston asked.

  “I got a letter or two in Wichita,” Martin answered. “He was on his way to California, but it seems that Arizona held a few attractions for him. He has found interest in a town with the ominous name of Tombstone.” Martin took a sip of coffee and winced. “You still make terrible coffee, Doctor Cranston.” The awful stuff the doctor boiled up was a local joke.

  “I keep telling you people that it’s the strength, not the taste, that counts,” Cranston said. “Coffee is nature’s way of giving us energy. I prefer to take advantage of its good qualities.”

  “I always figured a fellow could go three or four days without sleep on a pot of your brew,” Martin said smiling.

  “Oh, to hell with the coffee,” the doctor said. “Tell me about this newspaper. Will it be a rendering of the latest current events to keep us fully informed and abreast of world happenings?”

  “Of course,” Martin answered. “And something else too. What do you think of hard-hitting editorials on issues where I decide to take a strong stand?”

  “Ah, then you’ll be espousing a case or two, eh?”

  “Most assuredly. And I intend to rid our town of that scum over on the west side.”

  Cranston sat his coffee down and leaned forward. “Listen to me, young man. Culhane Riley is not a man to be trifled with. We tried ourselves, and had a couple of good men shot. Then we set up a sheriff and he didn’t make it through the first week of office. After that we tried to deal for hired guns, but none would take the job.”

  “The power of the press is an awesome thing,” Martin said. “I have truth and right on my side, Doctor Cranston. I shall call for a crusade that will drive that Saracen from our midst.” He took a small drink of coffee. “Excuse me, Doctor, but you wouldn’t be offended if I didn’t finish this, would you?”

  Cranston was not amused. “If you start anything here in Lighthorse Creek, that coffee won’t be the first thing you’ll leave unfinished, Martin Blazer!” Martin stood up. “I thank you for your advice, and I understand your reasons for giving it. I hope you understand mine for ignoring it. Now I must get on with business. There are still some potential advertisers to call on.”

  Martin waved good-bye and took his leave. The doctor went to the window overlooking the street. He watched the thin young man walk down the street and turn into Marley’s undertaking parlor.

  “Ah, Martin Blazer,” Cranston said. “If you’re not careful, the next time you have business with Marley, we may have to carry you there.”

  Eight

  The kerosene lamp on the dining room table was turned down low. Its dim light cast soft shadows across Abbie Buchanan’s pretty face, and shone on her deep auburn locks so that they seemed to glisten.

  Martin, his heart smothered in the love he felt for her, cast furtive glances at the young woman. He was fearful of what passions a long gaze might stir up in his soul.

  J. T. Buchanan, well aware of the young man’s unspoken feelings for his daughter, smiled to himself as he noisily slurped a spoonful of the beef stew from the bowl in front of him. He looked up and wiped his chin. “How’s work going, Martin?”

  “Huh?”

  Abbie smiled and looked into her own bowl.

  “I said—how’s work going?”

  “Work?” Martin asked with a dreamy expression in his eyes. Then he snapped out of his reverie. “Oh, work? Just fine, J. T. I have pages one and two completed and locked in the chases. Page three is still in galleys, but it
’s about three-quarters done.”

  “Hmmph! I don’t know what all that means, but I reckon you’re trying to say that things is going fine, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I am,” Martin said, making a quick glance at Abbie.

  “Is that there advertisement of mine sitting right out there on page one,” J. T. wanted to know.

  “It sure is. And the first edition will be out on schedule Saturday. I have to go back to the office after supper.”

  Abbie looked up at Martin. “How much advertising did you finally sell, Martin?”

  “I sold forty dollars’ worth on the first edition, and some of those will be standing ads,” Martin answered. “That means they’ll run until cancelled by the customers.”

  “Papa,” Abbie said. “Your advertisement is a standing one, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” J. T. answered. “I ain’t about to sit here ever’ evening and have you two frowning at me if I cancelled out.”

  “I’m trying to promote more of them,” Martin said.

  “Damn, boy! You’re working too hard,” J. T. said. “I’ll bet you put in at least eighteen hours a day. You need some hired help.”

  “Unfortunately there’re no printers around Lighthorse Creek,” Martin said. “I’m afraid I must do all the writing and the typesetting too.”

  “I could help!” Abbie piped up.

  J. T. scowled. “You ain’t no printer, girl.”

  “I’m a good writer, though,” Abbie said. “And I can spell and know my punctuation.”

  “Well, you was good in school,” J. T. allowed. “But-”

  “You’d make a dandy proofreader,” Martin interrupted. “I could certainly use someone to mark the typos for correction. And some help in writing advertising copy would come in handy too.”

  “Now just a damn minute!” J. T. protested. “I need Abbie in the store.”

  “Not all the time, Papa!” Abbie said. “I could work half the day with you and half with—” she turned and smiled coyly at him, “Martin.”

  His heart melted.

  “Well,” J. T. said thoughtfully. “I need you in the morning for opening and setting up the displays. But I suppose the afternoon would be fine.” He nudged the younger man. “What do you think o’ that?”

  “Huh?”

  J. T. sighed. “I said—what do you think of Abbie working in the afternoons with you?”

  “I think it would be wonderful,” Martin said, smiling idiotically.

  “Wonderful?” J. T. snorted.

  “Uh, I mean adequate,” Martin said.

  “Oh, Martin! Only ‘adequate’?” Abbie pouted. “Oh, Abbie,” Martin said. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Leave the boy in peace,” J. T. said. “He’ll be right happy to have you help him out, won’t you, Martin?”

  “Yes!”

  “Fine,” J. T. said. “Now that we’ve settled that, let’s finish supper before it gets cold as ice.”

  They settled back into their quiet routine of eating. Martin was once again playing his glancing game at Abbie when several loud shots burst the evening’s calm.

  “Damn west side!” J. T. scowled.

  Martin jumped up. “I must see what that is about.”

  “Hold it, young feller!” J. T. cautioned him. “Don’t you go over there and get involved in nothing.”

  “Yes, please, Martin!” Abbie implored him.

  Martin pulled his ever-present pad and pencil from his inside jacket pocket. “I must go,” he said, doing his best to sound dramatic for Abbie’s sake. “I am — ” he paused for effect, “a newspaper man!”

  He had presence of mind to grab his hat off the coat rack by the front door as he charged out into the night and rushed down toward the business district. The young man dodged around a couple of houses and leaped a fence into someone’s yard. The family dog gave chase and snapped ineffectively as the fleet-footed journalist sailed over on the other side.

  When Martin reached Main Street he could see a crowd gathered on the west side. Boldly and eagerly, he pushed his way through the throng until he reached the center. A cowboy, half drunk and blear-eyed, scowled at him. “Who the hell do you think you are, pushing through here?”

  Martin turned on the drover with such an indignant expression that the man backed off a bit. “I represent,” he said, “the Lighthorse Creek Sentinel!”

  “Oh!” the cowboy said, slightly impressed over something he couldn’t quite comprehend.

  Martin turned his attention to the real event at hand. A young man dressed in the rough clothing of a farmer lay on the dirt street. He was badly hurt, with the front of his homespun shirt soaked in blood. A saloon girl knelt beside him, gently stroking his brow. “Oh, my Lord, Davey!” she said. She looked up at a rough-looking man standing nearby. “You didn’t have to shoot him.”

  “When I’m paying for a gal’s time, nobody else butts in,” the man said. He looked around at the crowd. “I told him to git, but he wouldn’t do it. I had a right to plug him, didn’t I?”

  The mob shouted their approval.

  The girl became angry. “Sure! You back him up, don’t you? And just because he’s one of Culhane Riley’s men.”

  “And you’re one of his dance-hall gals,” the man said. “So let’s hop back in there so’s you can tend to your business.”

  Martin recognized the man as one of them who had stopped him on the road into town to check his wagon for taxes.

  “I ain’t going no place with you!” the girl shrieked. She turned her attention back to the victim. Again she spoke to him by name. “Davey! Davey!”

  At that moment Doctor Cranston appeared through the mass of people. He went directly to the task awaiting him. He knelt down and took a close look at the boy. He glanced over at the saloon girl. “You know him?”

  “He’s my brother,” she said.

  “Your brother!” the man who had shot the kid exclaimed. “Now, don’t that beat all?”

  “We’ve got to get him to my treatment room,” Cranston said. “Can anyone give me a hand?”

  “I’ll help,” Martin said.

  “Take his feet, then,” the doctor ordered. He motioned to the girl. “And you support his middle.”

  The three struggled back through the crowd. A few of the more curious followed, but soon lost interest and turned back to the drinking. The majority of the people, including the man who’d shot the young man, had already returned to the bar.

  Within five minutes the patient was laid out on the sheet-draped table in Cranston’s office. Cranston started to tear open the victim’s shirt, but he stopped. The doctor checked for breathing, then a pulse, and sighed. “He’s dead.”

  The girl sobbed and sank to the floor.

  Martin helped her up and led her over to a chair. But he was persistent in a gentle manner. “How did this happen, miss?”

  “Davey come over to see me from Arkansas,” she said sobbing. “Our folks have a little farm over there. He just walked up to the table where I was sitting with Tad Perkins. And before I knowed it, they was arguing.”

  “What was their quarrel about?” Martin asked. “Davey wanted me to go home to the farm,” the girl said. “He’d found out from another feller I was here in Lighthorse Creek. So he come over to find me. That’s when him and Tad got into it. They started yelling, then Tad shot him.”

  “Was your brother armed?” Martin asked.

  “No, he didn’t have nothing on him,” the girl said. “He didn’t expect no trouble. Our folks is old, and he just wanted me to come home.”

  “That’s cold-blooded murder,” Martin said. Cranston walked over to his coffeepot. “I’d say that about describes the incident.”

  “Justice must be served here!” Martin insisted. Cranston laughed without amusement. “Justice? What justice, young Mr. Blazer?” He turned his attention to more practical matters. “Do you want to take your brother back to Arkansas, miss?”

  “I cain’t. There’s no way I
could do that. I couldn’t face Ma and Pa after he got kilt on account of me. But I can pay for a burial.”

  “There’s an undertaker next door, miss. I’d be pleased to notify him for you.”

  “Thank you kindly,” the girl said.

  Martin watched the two discuss burying the young man. After a few moments he took the girl aside for some further questioning. He was sensitive to her grief that was beginning to become apparent as the shock of the incident wore off. He probed as deep as he could into the situation. When the young man was certain he’d gathered all the facts, he went to the door and let himself out.

  Martin walked slowly back to the Buchanan house, the cold rage in him expressing itself in the editorial that was forming in his mind.

  Nine

  The eyeshade was low on his forehead, and the sleeves of Martin’s shirt were rolled up to expose his skinny forearms. This was on a Friday evening as he dipped the pen into the ink bottle and began to write.

  As the writing instrument scratched, the young editor’s breath quickened and he clenched his teeth as the anger poured outward, flowing from the creative recesses of his mind onto the paper:

  WHERE IS JUSTICE?

  On Thursday evening last, a young man on a noble, selfless mission was wantonly and cruelly murdered. This hero, pure and unsullied, expired in surroundings of degeneracy as his blood flowed unchecked into the dirt of the wicked west side of our fair town’s Main Street.

  His name is not important, but the pure motives that brought him to this undeserved and unhappy fate most certainly are. He had come across the Arkansas line to seek out a sister who had gone wrong. A soiled dove still loved and cherished in the hearts of her aged parents. And this young man, who was her brother and the beloved son of that same mother and father, had come to beseech her to return to the warm hearth of their humble yet devout Christian home. There, where her past transgressions would be forgiven, she would be taken back into the chaste life which her loving family so desperately wanted for her.