Lovell's Prize

by Randy D. Smith

  His thoughts returned to Betsy and the ten years he had given to her. Never in that time had he abused her, degraded her or refused to give her anything he could afford. He had tried over and over to adjust to her demands and had wrecked himself financially. He had treated her children as his own. When she had the affair with Halderman, he took her back, no questions asked. For five more years after that he never mentioned Halderman and never questioned where she was going or what she was doing in spite of his suspicions. In the end it was for nothing. She threw him out and had another man living with her within the month. Her children never spoke to him again. Later he had learned that there had been a whole string of men that he knew nothing about. He had wasted ten years trying to satisfy a woman who would never be happy. Was John Black in the same situation with Bonny? Could he ever make her happy? Lovell hoped so. Perhaps Black could change his ways with her. Maybe she was worth the effort, if Black wasn't too blind to see it.

  And then there was Sadie. She was a good woman in her own way. Lovell never had to worry about her with other men. Yet, she didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't fill his needs. He walked away from her for less reason than Bonny had left John Black. He couldn't get past the feeling that she wanted a life with him for what financial security and social status he could provide but very little else. There was no passion and there never would be. Was he unreasonably selfish to expect that? He didn't believe so. Without caring for a woman he was better off alone. He would only hurt her in the long run and he didn't want a relationship with any woman if it led to more pain. He was done with that kind of life.

  His thoughts drifted to his first wife, Clara. If he'd known then what he knew now. If he hadn't been so absorbed with building the ranch and had treated her like he'd treated Betsy, would she have been happy? He'd lost his family in his blindness. At the time he thought he was doing the right thing but now he could see that he had taken her for granted, much as Sadie treated him. If only she had told him of her unhappiness, he would have changed. He would have sold the ranch, done anything to have satisfied her and saved the marriage. But she never gave him that chance. She just left, like Bonny had left John. Who was to say that John Black didn't deserve another chance?

  Lovell adjusted himself in the saddle and tried to clear his mind. "Women," he said to himself. "Is there anything a man can do to make them happy?" He smiled. "You ought to be about through feeling sorry for yourself, you damned fool. Better get your mind on your business or you'll be warming a casket."

  At least he was shed of Bonny Black, he told himself. He had heard her crack about not recognizing a good thing when he saw it. He knew she was talking about herself and having a relationship with him. He knew that she was interested in him. But was she just grasping at straws in her desperation? She barely knew him; she certainly didn't know his flaws. He was impatient with children and judgmental. He made a fair living for a single man but would struggle to maintain a family, especially for a woman who had lived a life of relative luxury. How could she decide so quickly? What could he offer her that John Black couldn't surpass? Getting involved with a spoiled married woman was the last thing he needed. He wasn't good enough for her in the first place. Going down that road would only lead to more heartache for both of them. Whether she worked it out with Black or not, he certainly wasn't her solution…and if Black couldn't make her happy with what he had to offer, how in the hell could he?

  Chapter 8

  Black Fork was a community built around circumvention of the law. Although it was illegal to sell whisky to the Indians, profiteers took full advantage of the thriving underground whisky trade and the profit it represented. Situated in the Choctaw Nation just across the border from Arkansas the settlement had the appearance of a place that could be abandoned on a moment's notice with no reluctance. It was relatively easy for whisky traders to pass through the Black Fork Mountains from Arkansas into the Nations with little interference. Four clapboard shanties and a horse corral comprised the entire settlement. Federal marshals had raided the place once and found nothing. From that time on the place was left to its own resources. An uneasy truce existed between its traders, whores and Parker's jurisdiction. Marshals concentrated on catching traders in the act of selling whisky to the tribes and allowed Black Fork to exist as neutral territory. At least they knew where the trade centered rather than having it scattered throughout the Nations.

  Tom Duncan was the unofficial mayor of Black Fork. He had done time for bunco shakedowns, land swindles and petty thievery in his younger days but old age and wisdom had convinced him that he would never be able to pull off a big score. He settled for the surer, steadier profits of running a couple of whores and dealing in the whisky trade. Another few years in the big house would probably ruin his health and be the same as a death sentence for him. He enjoyed his whores and his whisky. If he played his cards right he could live out his life in relative luxury compared to a prison cell. He cooperated with the marshals when he could, as long as it didn't interfere with the activities of his friends, themselves petty crooks living on the edge of financial survival. Robbers and bad men like Trace Nodine were avoided, not because Duncan didn't enjoy their company, rather because they represented too great a risk of drawing down the full wrath of Parker's marshals.

  Duncan was a small, dirty fellow, weighing barely a hundred pounds, who always wore a shirt that looked like it had been put on new and worn until it was rags, with no further consideration. He had a white scruffy beard, unkept hair and less than twelve teeth left in his head. He lived in an unventilated dirt floor shanty with a lean-to in the back for the whores to entertain customers. His whores were as disgusting as he was and of similar appearance. Delta was a nasty-mouthed old hag barely five feet tall and was as close to a wife as he had ever had. Gracie was twenty years younger with a twisted leg and fallen stomach. As bad as Gracie was she was preferable to Delta, if you could get by her body order, tubercular cough and grimy face. The three of them spent most of the day drinking rotgut and fishing in the river. There was always an abundance of cursing and disagreement among them taking place in the shanty. The few customers they did have were generally regulars who used the place to get drunk and "discharge their male constrictions." Tom always maintained that neither of the women was too bad if a fellow was drunk enough and didn't have a good memory. Besides, at two bits they were a bargain for a man in bad need of a woman, if only for five minutes or so. Hell, it was better than a hand job, if only a little—at least to Tom's line of reasoning. Oddly enough, that was usually his only sales pitch after he had gotten his customer drunk enough even to consider them.

  Lovell stepped down from his gelding and tied him to the hitch rail in front of Duncan's shanty. Duncan stepped to the door and smiled. He liked Lovell even if he was a marshal. Lovell had always given him the benefit of the doubt and always kept his word. Even to an old crook like Duncan another man's word meant something, even if his own didn't.

  "How ya doing, Lovell?" he greeted. "Where the hell have you been for so long?"

  Lovell looked down at him and smiled. "Don't get down in this country too much, Tom. I spend most of my time on the Red."

  Duncan shook hands and motioned toward the doorway. "Come in. Have a drink. The girls will be glad to see ya."

  Lovell studied the other buildings. Two appeared abandoned. "Where's everybody at?"

  "Mitchell still lives over there. Gibb and Miller took off but they'll be back if the Injuns don't get them. Old man Hatcher died last winter. By the time we found him, the rats and varmints had pretty much cleaned him up."

  "Didn't he smell some?"

  "Naw, it was cold and, hell, who notices a little stink around here? Naw, Gracie went over to see about him around Christmas. We buried what was left of him out back of his shack. Come in. Have a drink."

  Lovell followed him into the shanty. Delta was passed out on some hides piled in the corner. "Where's Gracie?"

  "Down at the river trying to catch us s
ome dinner. Delta ain't feeling too good today. Must a been something she ate, I'm a guessing." He poured a whisky into a clay cup from a crock covered with burlap.

  Lovell looked at it suspiciously. "What's in that stuff?"

  "A little gunpowder and some chewing tobacco for kick, red ochre for color, a dash of strychnine and corn moonshine."

  Lovell sniffed the contents. "Strychnine is poison, Tom."

  "A little won't hurt a fellow."

  Lovell took a sip. "Damn, this stuff is terrible. You ain't drinking this regular?"

  Tom motioned toward Delta. "She does. It don't hurt her none."

  Lovell studied Delta. Her legs were spread apart, her mouth wide open, her snoring heavy and her neck crooked at an odd angle against the wall corner. "She looks like hell."

  Tom grinned. "Don't she, though. She's bad enough off a fellow could probably get hisself a free piece without her even knowing it."

  Lovell slid the cup back towards Tom. "I'll pass…on both."

  Tom downed the cup's contents and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Suit youself. What can I do fer ya?"

  "I hear you got horses coming in."

  "Not me. Mitchell is supposed to be getting in some government rejects in a day or so."

  "Who's buying?"

  "Donaldson Freight. They use them for those lard wagons they're running out of their rendering plant. They don't care much for good stock. There ain't enough profit in the trade fer that."

  "Where is Mitchell getting them?"

  "Some feller from Little Rock has about forty head. Bought them at a surplus auction. Sells and delivers them cash on the barrelhead to whoever has the money."

  "Mitchell's got that kind of money?"

  "Mitchell is as tight as a tick. He's probably got enough buried around that shack to buy a hundred of them if he wanted to."

  Lovell held up his hand and went to his horse to fetch a half-pint of Bourbon from his saddlebags. He returned and held it out for Duncan to recognize it as good store-bought whisky. "Try some of this, Tom."

  Duncan nodded and licked his lips as he pushed the clay cup forward. "Don't mind if'n I do. Thank ye kindly, Marshal."

  Lovell poured a shot and watched Duncan down it in one gulp.

  Duncan smacked his lips loudly and smiled. "Now that hits the spot. You're a gentleman, Marshal."

  "I hear that Trace Nodine has himself a girlfriend in these parts," Lovell said.

  Duncan nodded and pushed the cup forward for another round. "A little Cherokee gal. Lives about ten miles down the Poteau River in one of Nodine's hideouts. She's built good enough but she's wild as hell. Watch out fer that knife she carries. She'll cut your gizzard if she gits mad enough—and damn near anything gits her mad enough."

  "Her name?"

  "I can't tell you that. Most folks call her Lucky Lucy but that ain't her real name."

  "You seen Nodine lately in these parts?"

  "Nodine don't come around. There's too high a price on his head. She'll come in if they are short of supplies but that bunch pretty much sticks to themselves."

  Lovell poured him another shot. "Seen anyone else interesting lately?"

  "Chauncy Lightfoot and Indian Joe rode through yesterday. They were here for about an hour and rode on north. Ben Griers was here a week ago. Stopped to visit Gracie for an hour then rode out. The rest have been locals and Indians."

  Lovell poured another.

  Tom nodded and smiled. "You going to be spending any time around here, Marshal?"

  Lovell shook his head and went to the door. "I doubt it. I need to be on my way. I appreciate the information. You can have what's left in the bottle."

  "I'm a thanking ya. I'll put this to good use."

  "I figured. I guess I'll mosey over and talk to Mitchell."

  "Don't be a stranger," Duncan said as Lovell stepped through the door. "Did you hear all of that?" he asked Delta as she sat up."

  "Yeah," she answered coldly. "You want me to go to Lucy and warn her?"

  "No," Duncan said before taking a large swig of the Bourbon. "I don't want any part of this. She can take care of herself."

  "Any part of what?" she asked.

  "There's something going on with Michell's horse deal and it involves Trace Nodine. If Don Lovell has his smeller out, I don't want him to think for a moment that I've got any connections with Nodine. He's a bad hombre and we don't owe him or his Cherokee whore a damn thing."

  * * * *

  Too-Tall Mitchell was a heavyset thug with a bushy black beard, heavy eyebrows and a large Cossack nose riddled with black nose hair. He habitually wore a filthy leather apron and a leather visor cap, and he and carried a two-pound meat cleaver, along with a rusty percussion North revolver stuck in his belt. He spent much of his day butchering and skinning cattle, hogs and chickens when he wasn't drinking. He had little conversation or civility for anyone, much less a deputy U. S. marshal. When he recognized Lovell stepping into the shade of his three-sided shed, he adopted a disgusted expression and menacingly buried the cleaver into the butchering table in front of him. "What the hell do you want?"

  "I hear you got some horses coming in," Lovell said as he stopped by a brace pole along the front of the building.

  "What of it? They ain't stolen."

  "Didn't say they were."

  Mitchell sighed heavily. "Then what of it? How did you get wind of it?"

  "I've been investigating Trace Nodine. I need to know of any connection."

  "I don't run with him and you know it."

  Lovell leaned against the post. "Word is that Nodine's planning a raid on those horses and they'll be running with them toward the south. I thought you might know if such a plan is likely."

  "Nodine won't mess with me. He's smarter than that. There's no money in it for the risks he has to take."

  "What's the story on those horses?"

  "Ain't no story to it. I'm buying some surplus Army stock and reselling it to Jack Donaldson. Any stock that Donaldson don't want I'll sell to the highest bidder. Sometimes fellows ride in here on lame stock and I can turn a dollar or two trading horses. It's legit. Trace Nodine ain't gonna mess with a few spavin broke, worn out Army mounts. There ain't enough money in it for the likes of him."

  Lovell nodded agreement. It didn't make sense. "When are the horses due?"

  "Could be a day, could be a week. Whenever. It's a loose deal, at best."

  Lovell shook his head and walked back into the street. "What in the hell am I doing here?" he asked himself. "What kind of wild goose chase did Pete Syle send me on?" This wasn't anything that would interest Nodine. Such horses weren't even good enough to be used as relay mounts after a raid.

  He went to his gelding and prepared to ride. As he mounted he decided that he'd check out Lucky Lucy's place and see what was going on down there. If there wasn't anything suspicious he'd head back to Banford's and wait for Pete Syle's instructions.

  As he rode out of town, Chauncy Lightfoot and Gracie stepped from behind Tom Duncan's shanty. Lightfoot handed Gracie a quarter and went to the trees for his horse. Indian Joe was sleeping under a scrub oak with a jug of Tom's concoction next to him.

  "You sober enough to ride?" Chauncy asked.

  Joe shook his head without opening his eyes and brushed a fly from his mouth. "I guess so. What the hell do you want?"

  "You'd never guess who's nosing around. It's old Lovell. I think he's riding up to Lucy's to see if he can find Trace Nodine or get himself a piece of Cherokee ass."

  "So what?"

  "This is our chance to get even with that bastard, that's what."

  "You ain't planning on killing him. I don't want no part of killing no federal marshal."

  "Naw, we'll just rough him up a bit. Put the sneak on him tonight and work him over."

  Joe sighed and gathered himself from under the tree. "I hope you know what the hell you're doing. Lovell is nobody to mess with. He'll put a bullet in us for sure if we foul up."

  "
What the hell is the matter with you? You're getting to be like an old woman," Chauncy said as he adjusted his fly buttons and scratched his crotch.

  "Been to see Gracie?" Joe smirked as he watched Chauncy scratching.

  Chauncy self-consciously drew back his hand. "Hell, no. How hard up do you think I am?"

  Joe shook his head and tightened the cinch on his saddle.

  Chapter 9

  She stepped down the back door landing and made her way casually toward the well several yards from the house. She drew a bucket full of water and removed her blouse exposing the full, even breasts of a young woman. She was short and square set but a physical beauty just the same. Her black locks of hair reached to the small of her back. She poured a ration of water into a pan and began wetting herself down before drawing some lye soap and lathering her underarms and breasts.

  Lovell lowered his spyglass and leaned back against the elm tree at the top of the ridge from where he could watch the entire homestead. The clapboard house was probably a single room with front porch and back step entries. The barn, some forty yards to the side was no more than twenty by twenty feet square with a narrow stable lean-to attached to simple split rail corrals. A single horse stood in the corral and there was no sign of other stock. Her bathing in the open indicated that she was probably alone since Nodine seldom was. She was too attractive to be a gang slut and was more likely Nodine's woman alone.

  After a while she looked about and dropped her skirt to finish bathing. Lovell raised his glass in spite of some qualms of guilt and took another look. She had a well-rounded bottom, a fine arched back and a slightly protruding tummy. Her breasts were full enough that they stroked against her chest as she washed her feet and calves. She was a beautiful almond color throughout, typical of Cherokee complexion.