Winchester 1887 (8 page)

It figured.

Virgil Flatt was with the big black man, Moses Hunter, keeping an eye on the prisoners in the three tumbleweed wagons back by the creek bed along with two other deputies. Malcolm Mallory had volunteered to ride up onto the hill behind the log cabin and keep an eye on the back door. Boston Graves had found a comfortable position behind a stand of live oaks, and brought out his long Remington Rolling Block rifle with the brass telescopic sight to keep everyone covered. Other deputies found other places, well protected, and cocked their Winchester repeaters, their Sharps carbines, or their Colt revolvers—which left Jackson Sixpersons to walk up to the door and serve the arrest warrants for Chebona Bula and his brother.

It was raining, too.

Sixpersons borrowed Deputy Marshal Tom Truluck's orange slicker and stuck the Winchester '87 underneath it, the stock under his left armpit. He found a good walking stick, gripped it in his left hand, and walked out of the woods, past the well, corral, and barn, faking a limp, coughing every now and then, and making a beeline for the cabin's front door. Smoke wafted from the chimney. Water dripped of the soggy brim of the Cherokee's black hat.

He stopped just in front of the cabin, not even climbing the two steps to get under the porch's awning and out of the rain. Most cabins in Creek country had no steps.

“Hërs'cë!”
he called out, speaking in the Creek language.

“Hello yourself!” came a reply in English from inside, followed by a question in Creek, which, loosely translated, and without the expletives meant
What do you want?

Jackson Sixpersons' answer in Creek, loosely translated and without the profanity, came out as
To get out of the rain.

The man inside laughed.

Fitting, Sixpersons figured.
Chebona Bula
meant “Laughing Boy.”

The door squeaked as it opened only a hair, just wide enough for the barrel of a single-shot rifle to stick out.

“Come ahead, old man,” Chebona Bula said. “But without your stick.”

The wooden branch dropped into the mud, and Sixpersons, crouching, stepped out of the rain. He moved like a cripple. Carrying a Winchester shotgun under his arm certainly helped with that act; it wasn't comfortable at all. He coughed, waiting.

The rifle barrel withdrew from the opening. Footsteps backed away. “Come ahead,” Chebona Bula said.

Jackson Sixpersons walked through the door, water cascading from the slicker and his hat and running through the cracks in the cabin's wooden floor. Most cabins in Creek country had dirt floors, maybe stone. Not wood. Still, the inside felt toasty and the aroma of coffee smelled pleasant.

Chebona Bula had backed all the way to the far wall, training the rifle on Sixpersons, who lifted his left hand, removed the soaking black hat, and hung it on an antler rack beside the door. The fire in the stone fireplace invited him, and he nodded at it. “Mind if I get warm?”

Chebona Bula laughed. “It'll be mighty hot for you real soon.” The Creek smiled as he added, “Jackson Sixpersons.”

Something caught Sixpersons' attention near his feet. Without lowering his head, he quickly studied the floor and looked back up into the Indian's smiling face. “You and your brother killed two men at the Seminole Agency. One was a white man.”

Chebona Bula laughed again.

Sixpersons spoke in Creek. “They have asked me to deliver the arrest warrants to you. And request that you submit to the proper authorities to be delivered to Fort Smith where you will be tried.” Then he switched to English. “And convicted. And hanged. Where's your brother? I have a warrant for him, too.”

Chebona Bula laughed.

Of course, Jackson Sixpersons knew where the Creek's brother was. He had seen the figure through the cracks in the floor's wooden planks. That's why the cabin had steps. A cellar. Or, at least, a hiding place.

“May I remove my slicker?” Sixpersons asked, sliding over to his left just a hair.

“No.” Chebona Bula said in English, and he no longer laughed.

“Very well.” Letting the Winchester slide down his arm and chest, the Cherokee marshal slipped his finger into the trigger guard, and fired the shotgun into the floor.

The man hiding beneath the floor screamed in agony while Sixpersons moved to his right, feeling the blast from Chebona Bula's single-shot rifle as the bullet slammed into the door.

Sixpersons worked the lever, brought the twelve-gauge up, and ducked as Chebona Bula threw the empty rifle at him like a boomerang. It slammed against a closed shutter, and dropped to the floor. The Creek jerked a Bowie knife from a sheath on his left hip, and charged.

Again, the shotgun spoke, and Chebona Bula was catapulted back against the log walls, sliding to the floor, both of his shins a bloody mess.

Almost immediately, Sixpersons fell to the floor, crawling toward the front door as bullets thudded into the cabin's walls. Most of the bullets didn't penetrate, but the deputy marshals with the .50-caliber Sharps managed to blow pretty big holes through the shutters, and those slugs slammed into the wall over Chebona Bula's head.

When the firing ceased, Sixpersons cursed his comrades in Cherokee, and then yelled in English. “Stop shooting, you fools! I have Chebona Bula and his brother!”

 

 

Virgil Flatt managed to patch up Chebona Bula's mangled legs, though Sixpersons figured the left leg would get cut off by some sawbones when the prisoners reached Fort Smith. Chebona Bula's brother, Harjo, had fared a little better, the thick slabs of pine absorbing most of the buckshot before the other pellets tore off his left ear, and split his cheek.

The prisoners whimpered. No longer did either one of them laugh.

“Good job, Jack!” Boston Graves said.

Sixpersons reloaded the Winchester. He despised anyone who called him
Jack
, but he had despised Boston Graves long before that.

Graves continued. “The Seminoles have offered a big reward on those two Creeks. Looks like we'll collect a bonus once we get them to Fort Smith.”

Sixpersons paused, then fed the last shell into the Winchester's chamber. “You're taking them to jail?”

“Might as well. One of the tumbleweed wagon's already full, and those two Creeks you shot up need medical attention. We'll stop at the doctor in Eufaula, let that Indian medicine man patch them up as best as he can, then go on to the jail. I'll give you your share of the reward if you get back.”

If.
Sometimes, Sixpersons thought being an outlaw would be better than being a deputy. An outlaw could kill a man like Boston Graves.

“You want me to stay out here then?” Sixpersons knew the answer. After all, Marshal Crump had said that Graves would be the lead marshal. The Cherokee just wanted to hear Boston Graves say it.

Graves didn't disappoint. “There are plenty of warrants left to be served.”

“Including those naming Link McCoy and Zane Maxwell.”

Graves sniggered. “I don't think you'll see them soon. Else, I'd stay. But you have two more tumbleweed wagons, and a handful of deputies if they do. Good luck, Jack.”

Dust rose from the Llano Estacado into the pale blue sky, getting closer to Millard Mann as he led the lame horse and the pack mule. He had seen the dust for some time—one rider. Heading toward him. Millard kept walking, but had pulled the One of One Thousand from the scabbard, and when the lone rider came into view, he eared back the hammer.

The blue roan whinnied a greeting at the approaching horse, which slowed down. Dust swallowed horse and rider, yet only briefly, as the rider reined up. When the dust passed, the rider's hand rose, and he eased the horse into a slow walk, keeping right hand up in a friendly greeting and to keep his hand away from any weapon.

Millard Mann did not lower the hammer on the. 32-caliber rifle.

“Halloooooo!” the rider called when he was closer, still with his hand up. He wore a linen duster, had high black stovepipe boots, chaps, and a blue shirt. The rider's hat was black; so was his horse, a good Texas pony. Something glimmered on his vest.

Millard relaxed just a hair. “Come ahead! I'm friendly.”

“You're holding a rifle or carbine!”

“I'm also cautious.”

The rider chuckled. “I don't blame you, stranger.” He kicked the horse into a fast walk, still keeping the right hand up.

Millard could see that he wore a holster, which carried a pistol with an ivory-handled butt. The badge on the man's vest was a badge he had seen many times in Texas over the past twenty years.

It was a circled five-point star, cut out of a
cinco
peso, a Mexican five-pesos coin. “Star-in-the-wheel,” folks called it. The badge of a Texas Ranger.

“Name's Alan Clarke,” the rider said. “With Company C.”

“Millard Mann.”

“Mind if I lower my hand?”

In answer, Millard eased down the hammer of the rifle, and brought the Winchester up, resting the barrel on his shoulder.

The Ranger had a thick walrus mustache, and a sunburned face. He pushed back his battered, dust-covered hat and wiped the sweat off his face with the ends of his bandana. “Had some trouble, I see.”

Mann nodded. “Horse went lame yesterday. Threw a shoe.”

“Happens.” Clarke brought out the makings and began rolling a smoke. “Need a hand?”

“McAdam's not far. Blacksmith's in town. I'll be fine. Thanks.”

Alan Clarke offered the sack of Bull Durham to Mann.

“No, thanks.” The sack and the papers disappeared into the Ranger's pocket, replaced by a match, which flared to life after a quick strike on the Colt's handle and lit up the cigarette dangling between Clarke's lips. “Trailing two folks. Figure they're bound for Indian Territory. Traveling in a big wagon. Maybe you've seen them?” The last sentence came out hopefully.

“Murphy wagon?” Millard asked.

“Nah. Don't think so. Seen a few of them freight wagons, but this one's different. Big, though. Carrying quite the load. Pulled by eight oxen.”

“It's four now.” Millard watched the Ranger's eyes brighten. “Lost four in that storm that blowed in the other day, at least one of them dead.”

“You've seen them!”

Millard shook his head. “Just their tracks.” He gestured to his horse. “That's as close as I got.”

Ranger Clarke considered this, but held any questions for the moment—mainly because Millard Mann beat him to the inquiry.

“What's the law want with those two boys?”

“The old man is Lamar Bodeen. There's a whole list of charges against him in my book.” Clarke patted another pocket.

Millard didn't need to see the book. He had heard of it. List of Fugitives from Justice, the little black book was printed by the state about every year—or whenever Austin had enough money—and delivered to its Rangers, listing the criminal's name, descriptions when available, suspected crimes, indictments and convictions.

“I'm after him because he sold some bad whiskey up in Mobeetie.” The Ranger's tone changed. “Three people died, and those weren't easy deaths. One was a twelve-year-old boy.”

Mobeetie had been established up on Sweetwater Creek, originally as a buffalo hunters' camp called Hidetown, back in '74. From those raw beginnings, the place had grown into something fairly substantial, by Panhandle standards, along the Jones and Plummer Trail that ran up to Dodge City, Kansas. The army had established Fort Elliott nearby in '75, and that's when Mobeetie really boomed. There had even been talk of landing a railroad.

But a town's dreams can die quickly. The army closed the post in 1890, the railroad never came, and people began moving out. Even worse, in 1893, Mobeetie held a revival meeting. Three hundred people were saved. Reformed, they closed all the saloons, which caused many other folks to leave town.

“Bodeen—he goes by about a half dozen other names—was coming down the old buffalo hunters trail. Snakehead whiskey. Likely, you know the type.”

Millard nodded. His son wasn't much of a drinker. If James had hooked up with this Bodeen character, he prayed that his son wouldn't try any of that rotgut whiskey the man was obviously hauling. “Those tracks from that wagon were mighty deep.”

The Ranger's head nodded. “Like I said, he's carrying a lot of merchandise. Ain't full, mind you. He'd need a twenty-mule team if that wagon was full. But one barrel's got enough poison. Preying on folks' needs, after they got religion and prohibition.” Ranger Clarke grinned, but without humor. “They probably wish they'd left at least one grog shop opened. But it ain't funny. Not what Bodeen done. Twelve-year-old kid.”

With a sigh, Millard said, “Well, I think you're out of luck.”

Again, Clarke nodded. “They've reached the territories?”

“Probably. They were only a few miles from the state line when I had to turn back.”

“Why were you trailing them? If you don't mind my asking?”

“Looking for someone.” Millard turned, pointing his rifle barrel toward the north and east. “I found the trail on the south bank of the North Fork of the Red. Big storm we got wiped out most of the sign, but that was some rainfall—which we always need in this country—so you can pick up the trail and follow it real easy. At least until the ground dries up. It dries up fast out here.”

“Barrels and barrels of poisoned whiskey. Still should be able to follow it.” Clarke sighed. “Till he crosses that border. Then . . . well . . . I don't know. Best move on. Appreciate your time.”

“Good luck.” Millard didn't mean it. He didn't want the Texas law to catch up with that whiskey runner yet if James was with him, but he wasn't worried. If the Ranger followed the law by the book, he would not cross into Indian Territory in search for Lamar Bodeen, no matter how many people he had killed with his rotgut. Something told Millard that the Ranger had a personal and deadly interest in the whiskey runner . . . but he probably wouldn't go after him alone, not in Indian Territory.

Clarke tossed the cigarette away and kicked his horse into a walk. He had just ridden past the pack mule when Mann called out, “What about the man Bodeen's traveling with?”

“Ain't a man,” Clarke called back without stopping. “It's that old reprobate's daughter.”