Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  moments he slid back down. “Riders—a posse.”

  “How do you know they’re a posse?” Yule asked.

  Tom gave him such a look of disgust that Yule accepted the judgment without further comment. The ex-sheriff went back up to his observation point. After a few minutes he returned to the bottom of the ravine. “I seen a dozen at first. Now there’s only eight. That means four of ’em are scouting around.”

  “I reckon you were right about them cottonwoods,” Yule said. “They’d have caught us for sure in there.”

  “They’ll catch us here too eventually,” Tom reminded him. “We left a real careless trail behind us. They know we’re in here someplace.”

  “Want to make a break for it?” Yule asked.

  Shots exploded from off to the right and zinging slugs slammed into the ground around them.

  “Yes!” Tom answered.

  They leaped into their saddles and forgot trying to be tricky. The all-or-nothing situation called for fast riding.

  Tom kicked his horse’s flanks and yelled encouragement in its ear. “Yah! Yah!”

  Yule, laughing crazily, rode beside him. He’d drawn his pistol, and fired a few ineffective shots at their pursuers.

  More of the posse came in from the left, shooting at the fugitives in careless anger. Tom pulled off into the opposite direction, but Yule continued going straight ahead.

  Within two short minutes the two hunted men had split off from each other, each riding for his life.

  Thirteen

  Martin slid the block of type from the galley into the chase holding the rest of the editorial page. He wiped his inky hands on the denim apron he wore. The front door opened, and he looked up to see Abbie coming into the newspaper office.

  As usual, any unexpected sighting of the pretty young woman caused his heart to flutter. He also displayed the silly grin that leapt to his face on such occasions. “Hello, Abbie,” Martin said.

  Abbie smiled a greeting. “Have you written the new editorial?” she asked, walking over to him.

  “Yes,” Martin answered. “And I feel better for having done the job. It’s into type now.”

  Abbie looked at the type in the chase. “Is that it?”

  “Yes,” Martin said. “The copy and the proof are over on my desk if you would care to proofread them.”

  “Of course,” she said. Abbie walked over and settled down to work. She arranged the project in front of her and began to read the words whose creation had occupied Martin’s attention for the previous two hours:

  A CALL TO A NOBLE CAUSE

  In the last issue of the Sentinel, your editor expressed his outrage at the senseless murder of a young farm boy whose only offense had been the brave and selfless mission to rescue his sister, a soiled dove, from the clutches of despair and degradation.

  Quite frankly, dear readers, we expected a stronger, more resolute reaction from our readership to the words. Instead of a shared sense of fury, the townspeople of Lighthorse Creek have responded with abject apathy and complete unconcern.

  We can only ask ourselves, why is this?

  A callous disregard for human suffering? We think not. Having been born and raised in this community, we recall most fondly countless instances of neighbor helping neighbor through numerous disasters both natural and man-made.

  Or was this late display of indifference caused by contempt for the young lady involved? Again, we come to a negative conclusion. Humble origins are not unique among us, and, dear friends, there is more than one of our honest, hard-working citizens who has a past he would rather forget.

  Cowardice? The thought is so absurd as to invite resonant ridicule. What pioneer among us who has braved the harsh elements, bandits, hostile Indians, and disease to establish homes in a bleak wilderness could be classified as a poltroon? The answer, of course, is not a single, solitary one!

  Then, why this seeming passiveness? Why, the answer is simple. This situation calls for determined, declared, unflinching leadership. Even the hardiest immigrant from the east who seeks land in the west needs a trailblazer. Only a complete fool would sally forth from New England or the Ohio Valley without a proper guide. Thus, the correct conclusion is that a leader is needed.

  And, without false modesty, your editor and the Sentinel will assume that office of responsibility and deep obligation. And our first act of moral authority and command will be to accuse and denounce the villain behind all the crime and depredation that eats away at our community like an odorous, insidious cancer.

  I now hereby publicly accuse Mister Culhane Riley of being the mastermind behind the criminal organization that has changed our town from a peaceful farming community to a den of murderers and thieves. And I further call for the formation of a Citizens’ Council to be charged with the singular purpose of running the aforementioned scoundrel out of our midst.

  Who will answer this Call to a Noble Crusade? Who will serve no less than a soldier serves in this War against Iniquity? Who, for the sake of family and home, stands with us?

  This issue of the Sentinel will be in your capable hands on Saturday. We call for a public meeting in the offices of the newspaper on Monday evening for the righteous purpose of cleansing ourselves of the evil that now walks among us.

  May we point out to you the stirring words of the Bard—William Shakespeare?

  Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just.

  And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel.

  Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

  Those words written in another land, so long ago, ring so true and meaningfully here in Lighthorse Creek in this modern age. We beg you, dear reader, to peruse the lines of the English language’s greatest poet, and stamp them on your heart.

  If, indeed, your conscience was corrupted with injustice, your chance to cleanse it thoroughly and permanently will come to you at the meeting on Monday next. Hail to you, brave citizens of Lighthorse Creek! We salute your bravery and resoluteness!

  Abbie set the proof down and stared at it for several long moments. Then she turned her hazel eyes onto Martin’s eager face. “Oh!”

  Martin frowned in puzzlement. “Is that all you have to say, Abbie?”

  “Martin!” She looked back at the paper, then returned her gaze to him. “I have never read anything so moving and powerful.”

  “Really?” he asked, pleased.

  “The great writers put such words in their stories, but they seem meaningless when put alongside yours which were written in reality,” Abbie said. “So, you say they moved you?”

  “Oh, yes, Martin!”

  “Do you think they will move others?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “But they frighten me, Martin. They truly do.” She walked slowly away from him toward the back of the office. Abbie went to the back door and opened it, staring out into the alley. “I must have some fresh air!”

  Martin joined her. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Abbie. But the situation is most serious and calls for vigorous action.”

  “I’m afraid for you, Martin,” Abbie said. She turned to him, her face as imploring as her words. “Please, take care and don’t be harmed, Martin. I couldn’t stand it.”

  Martin looked down at her. Then he put his arm around the girl and pulled her in close. All the shyness and uncertainties he had felt about Abbie had been swept away in the outpouring of his editorial. “I love you,” he said without hope. “Although it means nothing, I want you to know that.”

  “I love you too, Martin.”

  “You do?” He regretted destroying the mood with such a stupid reaction. But he noticed she had not laughed. He hesitated but once, then steeled himself and leaned down, kissing her gently on the cheek. “Martin,” she said softly.

  He kissed her next on the mouth and she offered no resistance. Instead she responded positively, now embracing him as tightly as he held her. Martin wanted so much to say it again that he spoke his heart’s deepest emotions three times.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  Abbie smiled and stepped back slightly, but not enough to break the embrace. “Martin, are your intentions honorable?”

  “Of course, Abbie!” he quickly answered.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” he asked.

  She laughed and playfully reached up and ruffled his hair. “Prove to me that the affection you’re showing me is pure and true.”

  “Huh?”

  “Martin!”

  “Oh—oh!” He smiled and again held her close. “Abbie, dear Abbie, sweet Abbie, will you marry me?”

  “Yes, Martin,” Abbie replied.

  “I’m so happy!” Martin exclaimed.

  “You must ask Papa,” she reminded him.

  “Oh, Lord!” Martin said. “I think I am more afraid of him than I am of Culhane Riley!”

  Fourteen

  Jake Donner rapped lightly on Culhane Riley’s door.

  The sound was so light that Riley wasn’t sure he heard anything. He had to listen intently before he was positive there was a gentle tapping. “Yeah?” Jake stepped inside the office in a slightly hesitant manner. “How’re you doing, boss?”

  “I’m doing fine,” Riley answered. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Wrong?”

  “Yes, for the love of God! It is a simple question, and I shall repeat it. Is there something wrong?”

  “Aw, hell no, boss,” Jake said. “But I got something to show you.”

  Riley, sitting with his feet up on his desk, held a snifter of brandy that was balanced gently in his large hands. The man was curious about both the statement and Jake’s strange conduct. He looked closely at his chief lieutenant. “Now, why don’t you just speak right out about why you’ve come to see me?”

  “I got a copy of the new town newspaper,” Jake said.

  Riley laughed. “Hell, Jake. I already knew you could read.”

  “Yeah. I can read.”

  Riley took a sip of his brandy. “You’re showing a real interest in that rag. It appears that there’s something in it you feel merits discussion. So go to it. Don’t let me hold you back.”

  “Sure, boss. As a matter o’ fact, I got two copies of the thing,” Jake explained further. “There’s the first issue and the second.”

  Riley’s patience started to thin out. “Damn it, Jake! If you have something to say, speak out and stop leaving me sitting here trying to pull it out of you a word at a time.”

  “Read these, boss.” Jake quickly handed over the newspapers opened at the editorial page.

  Jake shifted his drink to one hand and took the first one. The gang leader scanned the front page. “The Sentinel, huh? I like the name—seems real forceful, doesn’t it?” He read a few of the stories. “Nothing remarkable here, it seems there are a few minor occurrences in town. Ah! and the daughter of the local barber is getting married. How socially portentous!”

  “Turn the page and read the editorial section,” Jake urged him.

  Riley did as he had been requested and read the first one. It caused more laughter. “Very dramatic and touching, huh? This fellow seems to have a real soft spot in his heart for saloon girls.” He thought for a moment. “Say! Wasn’t it you that shot that kid? Are you angry over this write-up, Jake?”

  “Aw, hell, boss. That wasn’t me. It was Tad. I didn’t do nothing but watch it happen.”

  “Then, you want me to read about Tad, is that it?”

  “Not exactly, boss. But I think you oughta read the second one.”

  Riley sensed the seriousness in Jake’s words. He sat the snifter down and turned his full attention to the editorial in the second edition of the Sentinel. “Goddamn it!”

  Jake almost grinned. “I knew it’d rile you.”

  “Hell, yes! Who is this son of a bitch—what’s his name?” He angrily looked through the newspaper until he found the name of the publisher just below the masthead. “Martin Blazer. Who the hell is Martin Blazer?”

  “We don’t know him,” Jake said with a shrug. “Maybe he’s new in town.”

  “I wonder if that’s the same fellow that Tad and Frank let into town with his printing machinery.” Riley was thoughtful for a moment. “Sure. He has to be.”

  “I took a walk and looked around,” Jake said. “The newspaper office is over on the east side o’ Main Street.”

  “I think I’d better go have a little talk with this— this Martin Blazer,” Riley said, standing up.

  “Why don’t I just go over there and shoot the son of a bitch, boss?” Jake asked.

  Riley shook his head. “We have to find out the exact position this man holds in the community. If, indeed, he has formed some sort of citizens’ group, it will call for a certain finesse to put an effective and permanent end to it.”

  “What if he’s just blowing hard, boss?”

  Riley smiled. “Then, Jake, you can go over there and shoot the son of a bitch at your pleasure.” Riley didn’t immediately get up to tend to the task. Instead he sat thoughtfully, and slowly finished off the brandy. When he was ready, he got to his feet and went to the door. “This is so damned important that I didn’t want to charge into things at a high emotional peak, Jake. And, anyway, I never rush good brandy, no matter the circumstances.” Jake opened the door and stood waiting with his boss’s derby hat and walking stick in his hands. “I reckon you’ll want me to come along, right, boss?”

  “Correct, Jake. Our crusading newspaperman may be expecting some sort of a violent reaction on my part. That means he might have a hired gun or two handy to his premises,” Riley said. “I certainly have no desire to get myself shot up while”—he grinned—“disagreeing with the press.”

  The two went down the stairs to the saloon. The cleanup man, a drunk who earned his liquor and keep with a broom and mop, displayed the correct deference to the boss. “Morning to you, Mr. Riley.”

  “How are you this morning, Happy Jack?”

  “A little shaky,” Happy Jack reported.

  “Well, you finish up your chores and Charlie will give you something to soothe your nerves,” Riley said. He snapped his fingers at the bartender. “I’m feeling good this morning. Give Happy Jack a full

  bottle when he’s finished up.”

  “Yes, sir!” the barman promptly acknowledged.

  “Much obliged, Mr. Riley!” Happy Jack doubled his efforts and swung the mop in wider circles.

  Riley, with Jake behind him, strode through the batwing doors and went straight across the street to the boardwalk. He swung north, walking rapidly past the gunsmith and the barber shop. When he reached the newspaper office, he paused only long enough to notice the fresh paint on the plate-glass window there that identified the place.

  Riley walked straight in. He noticed a very young man wearing a denim apron working at some task he couldn’t quite recognize. “Hey, kid!”

  The youth looked up. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m looking for a fellow who goes by the name of Martin Blazer,” Riley said. “I understand he is the publisher and editor of this newspaper.”

  The kid walked over to him. “I am Martin Blazer.”

  Riley frowned. “You!”

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  Riley broke out into laughter—peals of earth-shaking laughter—that was so loud it boomed off the walls and ceiling.

  Martin scowled. “I wasn’t aware I’d told a joke.”

  “You’ve told a hell of a joke, boy,” Riley said. He pulled the newspaper from his pocket and pointed to the editorial. “Did you write this?”

  “I did,” Martin said proudly.

  “Did you call Culhane Riley a ‘mastermind behind a criminal organization’?”

  “I most certainly did!”

  “Well, youngster, I am Culhane Riley.”

  Martin’s face twitched a bit, but he heroically maintained control over any other emotional display. He cleared his throat. “I seem to have upset you, Mr. Riley.” />
  “Upset me? Not at all, Mr. Blazer,” Riley said with a smile. “As a matter of fact, you impress me quite favorably.” He turned to Jake. “This young man quotes Shakespeare, Jake.”

  “Who?”

  Riley winked at Martin. “Isn’t it a living hell to be a learned man surrounded by ignorance and near illiteracy?”

  “A good portion of the Sentinel’s mission is to shine a bright light of intellect and learning on its readership,” Martin said.

  “As well as crusade for decency?” Riley remarked. “My God! How incredibly noble. You stagger my mind, Mr. Blazer! You tickle the deepest recesses of my intellectual sensitivities!”

  Martin realized the man was far from a strutting buffoon. “Perhaps I can also touch your moral being, Mr. Riley. Even your soul, perhaps?”

  “I think not.”

  “Then, sir, the Sentinel will have no choice but to run you out of Lighthorse Creek,” Martin promised.

  “My dear Mr. Blazer,” Riley said with a wide smile. “I am a man of purpose and design. I will let nothing stand in my way. You should already realize my devotion to my own ambitions. But, then, you are new in town, are you not?”

  “I am not! I was born and raised in Lighthorse Creek,” Martin said. “I have only lately returned here to establish my newspaper after an absence of five years.”

  “Ah! You have been away for a while,” Riley surmised. “Then pray let me enlighten you on a fact of which you may not be aware. There have already been several attempts to dislodge me from this community. They failed. As a matter of fact, these puny endeavors cost some human lives.”

  “I am aware of that, of course,” Martin said. “Then you appreciate the dangerous undertaking you have assigned yourself and your newspaper?”

  “I have no fear.”

  Riley shook his head in amazement. “You are truly remarkable, young sir. I think it a shame that we are adversaries. As a matter of fact, an alliance between us would most certainly be advantageous to both.”

  Martin felt insulted. “I will not associate with criminals.”

  “There is a lot of money to be made, Mr. Blazer,” Riley said. “And you certainly wouldn’t be the first journalist to throw in your lot with an aggressive and—shall we say—extra-legal organization. Why joining my association could spawn a chain of newspapers across this midcontinental area, Mr. Blazer. Your fortunes would grow with my own. Believe me, I have plans to expand my financial endeavors far afield. Any man going along with me would also benefit greatly. Civilization will be here soon. You could be a power to be reckoned with by the time it arrives.”