by Matt Braun
Oliphant drew himself a warm beer and downed half the mug in a thirsty gulp. He wasn’t a man who liked riddles, and the boy had been a puzzle of sorts from the day he walked through the door. Looking back, he often wondered why he’d taken the kid on in the first place. He knew galloping consumption when he saw it, and a smoky saloon didn’t exactly qualify as a sanatorium. Which was what the youngster needed. When he rode into town, he’d been nothing but skin and bones, pale and sickly and wracked with fits of coughing. The saloonkeeper would have laid odds that he’d never make it through the winter. But the kid had hung on somehow, and never once had he shirked the job.
Still, after all these months, Oliphant had to admit to himself that he really didn’t know the kid. Like this deal with the tin cans. He had sneaked down and watched the boy practice a few times. What he saw left him flabbergasted. Kinch made greased lightning look like molasses at forty below. Moreover, he rarely ever missed, and he went through the daily drills as if his life depended on every shot. The saloonkeeper was baffled by the whole thing, plagued by questions that seemingly defied any reasonable answer.
Where had he learned to handle a gun that slick? Who taught him? And most confusing of all, why in the name of Christ did he practice so religiously, day in and day out?
But Roy Oliphant wasn’t the kind to stick his nose in other people’s business. He ruminated on it a lot, watching silently as the kid spent every spare nickel on powder and lead, yet he had never once allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. Not until today.
Kinch was still staring at him as he drained the mug and set it on the bar. “That’s what I like about you, bub. You’re closemouthed as a bear trap.”
“You mean the gun?”
“Hell, yes. What did you think I was talkin’ about? You work at it like your tail was on fire, but I never once seen you wear the damn thing. Sorta gets a fellow to wonderin’ after a while.”
“Aw, it’s just a game somebody taught me. Y’know, something to help pass the time.”
Oliphant gave him a skeptical look, but decided to let it drop. He hadn’t meant to bring it up in the first place, and why he’d picked this morning to get nosy puzzled him all the more. Live and let live was his motto, and he’d never lost any skin minding his own business. If the kid had some deep dark secret, that was his privilege. Most times, what a man didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, and it was best left that way.
“Well, I guess you’d better finish up and get on back to your game. Only do me a favor, will you? Don’t wear out my mops so fast. Them goddamn things cost money.”
Kinch grinned and went back to swabbing the floor. Presently he disappeared into the storeroom and after a while the rusty hinges on the alley door groaned. Oliphant listened, waiting for it to close, then smiled and drew himself another beer.
Some more tin cans were about to bite the dust.
The kid’s routine varied little from day to day. Swamp out the saloon, put in an hour or so working with the Colt, then return to his room and clean and reload the pistol. Afterward, he would stroll around town, always keeping his eye peeled for horses with a certain brand, and generally end up back at the saloon not long after noontime. There, he took up a position at the back of the room, supposedly on hand in case Oliphant needed any help. But his purpose in being there had nothing to do with the job. Whenever a fresh batch of Texans rode into town they made straight for the Alamo, and he carefully scrutinized each face that came through the door. While the long hours sapped his strength, and breathing the smoke-filled air steadily worsened his cough, he seldom budged from his post till closing time. Sooner or later the face he sought would come through the door, and he wasn’t about to muff the only chance he might get.
Time was running out too fast for that.
Hardly anyone paid him any mind. He was just a skinny kid with a hacking cough who cleaned up their messes. That was the way Kinch wanted it. He kept himself in the background, and since coming to town, he had made it a habit to never wear a gun. With the Colt on his hip, there was the ever present likelihood he might become involved in an argument and wind up getting himself killed. That was one chance he wasn’t willing to risk. Not until he’d performed a little chore of his own.
Yet there were times when he despaired of ever pulling it off, and this was one of those days. His cough was progressively growing worse, and the only thing that kept it under control was the bottle he had stashed in the storeroom. It was something to ponder. Nine months he had waited, and unless something happened damned quick, he’d cough once too often and that would be the end of it. Which wasn’t what he’d planned at all, and personal feelings aside, it seemed unfair as hell to boot. Justice deserved a better shake than that. But then, as the Irishman had once observed, life was like a big bird. It had a way of dumping a load on a man’s head just when he needed it least.
This was a thought much on his mind as he returned from the storeroom. He had developed quite a tolerance for whiskey the past few months, and the fiery trickle seeping down through his innards right now felt very pleasant. With any luck at all it would hold his cough at bay for a good hour. Not that an hour was what he needed, though. The way things were shaping up he had to figure out a cure that would hold him for a month, or more. Maybe the whole damn summer. Then he chuckled grimly to himself, amused by the absurdity of it.
There wasn’t any cure, and if that big bird didn’t dump all over him, he might just luck out with a couple of more weeks. But as he came through the door the laugh died, and his throat went dry as a bone.
Hugh Anderson and his crew were bellied up to the bar.
Kinch couldn’t quite believe it for a minute. After all this time they had finally showed. He stood there, watching Oliphant serve them, and it slowly became real. The waiting had ended, at last, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt calm and rested and cold as a chunk of ice. Stepping back, just the way he’d planned it, he simply vanished in the doorway and headed for his room.
Moments later, he reappeared and the Colt was cinched high on his hip. Walking forward, he stopped at the end of the bar, standing loose and easy, just the way the Irishman had taught him.
“Anderson.”
The word ripped across the saloon and everyone turned in his direction. Somebody snickered, but most of the crowd just gawked. The hard edge to his voice had fooled them, and they weren’t quite sure it was this raggedy kid who had spoken. Then they saw the gun, and the look in his eye, and the place went still as a church. Kid or not, he had dealt himself a man’s hand.
Anderson took a step away from the bar and gave him a quizzical frown. The Texan had slimmed down some from last summer, but other than that, he looked mean as ever.
“You want somethin’, button?”
“Yeah. I want you.”
“That a fact?” Anderson eyed him a little closer. “I don’t place you just exactly. We met somewheres?”
“It’ll come back to you. Tuttle’s Dancehall in Newton. The night you murdered Mike McCluskie.”
“Sonovabitch!” Anderson stiffened and a dark scowl came over his face. “You’re the one that shot up my crew.”
Kinch nodded, smiling. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Sonny, you done bought yourself a fistful of daisies.”
“You gonna fight, yellowbelly, or just talk me to death?”
The Texan grabbed for his gun and got it halfway out of the holster. Kinch’s arm hardly seemed to move, but the battered old Navy suddenly appeared in his hand. Anderson froze and they stared at one another for an instant, then the kid smiled and pulled the trigger. A bright red dot blossomed on the Texan’s shirt front, just below the brisket, and he slammed sideways into the bar. Kinch gun-shot him as he hung there, and when he slumped forward, placed still a third slug squarely in his chest. Anderson hit the floor like a felled ox, stone cold and stiffening fast.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Before anybo
dy could move, Roy Oliphant hauled out a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the bar. The hammers were earred back and he waved it in the general direction of Anderson’s crew. “Boys, the way I call it, that was a fair fight. Everybody satisfied, or you want to argue about it?”
One of the cowhands snorted, flicking a glance down at the body. “Mister, there ain’t no argument to it. The kid gave him his chance. More’n he deserved, I reckon. Leastways some folks’d say so.”
Kinch turned, holstering the Colt, and walked back toward the storeroom. His eyes were bright and alive, and oddly enough, his lungs had never pumped better. He felt like a man who had just settled a long-standing debt.
What the Irish would have called a family debt.
Late that afternoon Kinch stepped aboard his horse and leaned down to shake hands with the saloonkeeper. “I’m obliged for everything, Mr. Oliphant.”
“Hell, you earned your keep. Just wish you’d have give me the lowdown sooner, that’s all. Not that you needed any help. But it don’t never hurt to have somebody backin’ your play.”
“Yeah, that’s the same thing I used to tell a friend of mine.” The kid sobered a minute, then he grunted and gave off a little chuckle. “He was sort of bullheaded, too.”
“You’re talkin’ about that McCluskie fellow.”
“Irish, his friends called him. You should’ve known him, Mr. Oliphant. He was one of a kind. Won’t never be another one like him.”
“Well, it’s finished now. You ever get back this way, you look me up, bub. I can always use a good man.” They both knew it wasn’t likely, but it sounded good. Oliphant suddenly threw back his head and glared up at the boy. “Say, goddamn! I ain’t ever thought to ask. Which way you headed?”
“Wichita. Just as fast as this nag’ll carry me.”
“That’s a pretty fair ride. Sure you’re in any kind o’ shape to make it?”
“I’ll make it.” The kid went warm all over, and in a sudden flash, Sugartit’s kewpie-doll face passed through his mind. “Got somebody waitin’ on me.”
Oliphant leered back at him and grinned. “Yah, what’s her name?”
“Mr. Oliphant, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Kinch laughed and kicked his horse into a scrambling lope. Just as he hit the grade down to the river, he turned back and waved. Then he was gone.
One last time, he was off to see the elephant.
COURTROOM SHOOTOUT
“Marshall Irvin,” he intoned, “I order you to remove yourself and those men from my court. If you refuse—”
A strangled scream echoed off the walls. Bud Wilson leaped past Irvin, his Remington six-gun extended at arm’s length. The pistol roared and Proctor staggered backward into the defense table. In the next instant gunfire erupted throughout the courtoom.
Ryan acted on reflex alone. He saw the Light Horse sergeant’s carbine aimed directly at him. Ryan’s arm moved in a blurred motion. The Colt appeared in his hand and spat a sheet of flame. The slug impacted beneath the sergeant’s breastbone and jerked him sideways … .
A hail of lead whistled across the room as the Light Horse Police exchanged shots with Wilson and the Cherokees. The ranks of both sides were winnowed as though chopped down by a giant scythe. Three of the Cherokees were hurled backward. Another dropped, and finally Wilson staggered …
Through a haze of gunsmoke, Ryan sensed all around him the carnage of a bloodbath. He was vaguely aware that he’d been wounded himself …
Look for MATT BRAUN’s
EL PASO
and
THE WILD ONES
Also available in a special two-in-one edition for $6.99
… and don’t miss the author’s
other classic Western adventures
Dodge City
Dakota
A Distant Land
Windward West
Crossfire
Highbinders
The Warlords
The Spoilers
Hickok and Cody
The Overlords
Tombstone
Rio Grande
Brannocks
The Gamblers
Rio Hondo
Savage Land
Noble Outlaw
Cimarron Jordan
Lords of the Land
One Last Town
Texas Empire
Jury of Six
Available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
INDIAN TERRITORY
MATT
BRAUN
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
The story which follows is fiction, based on the true facts gleaned from musty newspaper archives and the chronicles of men who were there.
INDIAN TERRITORY
Copyright © 1985 by Matt Braun.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-94853-0
EAN: 9780312-94853-5
Printed in the United States of America
Pinnacle edition / August 1985
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 1999
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
To Leslie, Nicole, and Darren
CHAPTER ONE
The town took shape like a wintry mirage. On a wooded creek bank Ryan reined his gelding to a halt. He sat studying the distant buildings.
A light February snowfall covered the plains. Located in the southeastern quadrant of Kansas, the town stood framed against an overcast sky. It was called Parsons, the latest in a line of railheads advancing across the prairie. As yet, it appeared on no map.
Somewhat bemused, Ryan slowly inspected the layout. Only last spring he’d ridden through here on his way to Abilene. From Fort Smith, where he served as a deputy U.S. Marshal, it was a five-day trip by horseback. At the time there had been nothing along Labette Creek except a vast expanse of prairie grassland. But now, bundled in a mackinaw against the cold, he saw a bustling little metropolis. He was impressed, and all the more curious about the man who had summoned him.
Parsons was the offspring of the railroad. Chartered several years ago, the Missouri, Kansas and Texas had begun operations in Junction City. The company name, too cumbersome for everyday use, had been shortened by natives to the “Katy.” Last year, the summer of 1870, the line had laid track to the border of Indian Territory. Then, some miles above the border, the Katy turned eastward and began laying track toward Sedalia, Missouri. The juncture, situated on a fertile prairie, was only a stone’s throw from Labette Creek. Here, seemingly overnight, Parsons sprang from the earth.
Windswept and sprawling, the town was a beehive of activity. Along the main thoroughfare was a collection of stores and businesses, clapboard buildings wedged side by side. Immense piles of trade goods, offloaded at the Katy depot, were stacked in snow-crowned mounds. Beyond the main street board shanties and canvas tents were rapidly being replaced by newly built houses. The population was approaching two thousand, and the inhabitants seemed charged with the galvanic energy peculiar to boom towns. Parsons had assumed a look of permanence.
Gathering the reins, Ryan kneed his gelding forward into the creek. A short distance beyond the opposite bank, he skirted the train depot and the rail yards. The main street was jammed with wagons and a noonday throng crowded the boardwalks. As he rode past, he noted that everyone, even the farmers, seemed in a hurry. Farther uptown he spotted the Belmont House Hotel directly across the street from a bank. At the hitch rack he stepped down from the saddle, then loosened the cinch. He left the gelding tied out front.
Inside the hotel he took a moment to shrug off his mackinaw. The lobby was furnished with a horsehair-and-leather sofa and several easy chairs. The room clerk behind the desk was painfully frail, with a pu
rsed smile and round moist eyes. He nodded as Ryan crossed the lobby.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Afternoon,” Ryan replied. “I’m looking for Colonel Robert Stevens.”
“Oh, yes sir! Colonel Stevens is in room two-oh-one. Just take the stairs and turn left.”
The clerk’s snap-to-attention reaction amused Ryan. But it was hardly more than he’d expected. Colonel Robert Stevens was, after all, managing director of the Katy railroad. Upstairs he turned left and proceeded along the hallway. He idly wondered if Stevens’ rank was from wartime service or simply an honorary title. On second thought, he decided it wasn’t worth asking. He rapped on the door.
The man who opened it was attired in a broadcloth coat, with matching vest and trousers. He was of medium height, with brown hair receding into a widow’s peak and nut-brown eyes. Something about him gave an impression of raw vitality, an air of enormous confidence. He smiled cordially.
“May I help you?”
“Colonel Stevens?”
“Yes.”
“I’m John Ryan.”
“Well, do come in, Mr. Ryan. I’m delighted to see you.”
Stevens thrust out his hand. Ryan pumped his arm a couple of times and moved through the door. The room was a combination bedchamber and parlor overlooking the town’s main street. A brass bed along with a dresser and washstand were positioned off to one side. Nearer the windows were a small desk and two overstuffed armchairs.
“Allow me to take your coat.”
Stevens hooked his hat and mackinaw on a hall tree. Then, leading the way, he motioned Ryan to one of the chairs. After seating himself, his eyes flicked over Ryan in rapid assessment. He noted the leather vest and and boots, and his gaze touched briefly on the Colt .44 strapped to Ryan’s hip. He settled back, crossed his legs.