Winchester 1887 (9 page)

“The fella you want,” the gravely voiced, pockmarked man whispered as he lighted another cigarette, “is Bodeen. Wildcat Bodeen.” He shook out his match, and drew deeply on the smoke, then blew a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling already cloudy with smoke.

“Bodeen.” Link McCoy tested the name.

“Uh-huh. One of his names anyhow.” Still holding the cigarette, the man reached for his tumbler, downed a shot, refilled the glass, and returned the smoke to his thin lips.

The saloon was dark, and they sat alone in a corner. Most of the patrons hovered about the bar, which was nothing more than a plank nailed to two empty whiskey kegs. Two men were in the corner near McCoy and the smoking man, but McCoy didn't think they would hear anything. One had passed out fifteen minutes earlier. The other had gotten his head pounded with the butt of a Colt by a man drinking at the bar.

All that sat on the table were the man's sack of Bull Durham and papers, two glasses, the bottle of rye whiskey—Old Overholt—and McCoy's pistol-grip Winchester '87 shotgun.

The rye was the man's idea, but since McCoy didn't know or trust him the shotgun was his own. The smoking, pockmarked man didn't even appear to notice the ten-gauge. He had black hair, black eyes, and looked part Indian. Probably a breed. Rail thin, with slender fingers, and a scar across his left hand. He wore a homespun shirt, a faded blue bandana, flat-brimmed straw hat, store-bought boots about ten thousand years old, and duck trousers. The only weapon appeared to be a sheathed knife on his left hip. McCoy didn't yet know the man's name. He had been recommended by a mutual associate named Carter. McCoy did not trust him either. His fingers dribbled easily on the table just inches from the big Winchester.

The smoking man spoke again. “I'd expect you could find him north of the Red already. He ain't likely comin' back to Texas no time soon.”

“How come?” McCoy had to wait until the man smoked and drank some more.

“His whiskey ain't . . .” The man's grin revealed tobacco-stained teeth, which did not surprise McCoy one whit. He could feel tar beginning to stain his own teeth just from sitting in that saloon on the wrong side of the railroad tracks.

“Well, it ain't tasty, that's for certain. Been known, in fact, to kill some folks. It ain't Old Overholt.” The man downed another rye and flicked what little was left of his cigarette to the floor, not even bothering to crush it with his boot.

“Poison?”

The pockmarked man grinned even wider. “That's why the rangers want him. Or at least one Ranger. Real bad.”

McCoy smiled back. The Bodeen fellow was just what they needed. “And you can take me to him.”

“For a price, sure. Me and Bodeen know each other right well. But that price . . . it don't include the Old Overholt you're gonna have to provide.” The man was already rolling another smoke. “'Cause I sure ain't drinkin' Bodeen's liquor.”

It just seems weird,
James Mann thought,
the way Wildcat Lamar and his son Robin travel.

Traveling in such a big wagon, he figured the Lamars would have wanted to stay on main trails. Not that the roads were all that good, but certainly it made sense to follow the Camp Supply–Fort Sill or Camp Supply–Fort Reno roads. But Wildcat Lamar seemed to prefer following arroyos or deer trails—almost as if the mere thought of meeting up with some stranger on the road scared the old man.

Maybe James just felt impatient. He wanted to get to Fort Smith in a hurry, but they were stuck on some reservation, traveling about as fast as a man could go on a thirty-year-old blind, lame mule. Besides, the work proved hard. Tending to the oxen, hitching up those mules, eating dust, hunting for food or something to burn so they could cook any game they managed to find.

The summer heat had turned fierce, and since that tornado and brutal thunderstorm, he had not felt a drop of rain or even seen many clouds. Sand blasted his face, stung his eyes, and coated his lips and tongue. He had advanced to the point where he could work that black-snake whip without tearing off much of his own flesh, and the calluses on his hand had hardened so that he no longer had to pop the blisters on his fingers and palms. Yet every time he figured he'd just call it quits, bid the Lamar family good-bye, and make out for Arkansas by himself, the old man would say something to change his thinking—as if Wildcat Lamar could read James Mann's mind.

“You're a pretty good hand, kid,” Lamar said that morning after a breakfast of hardtack soaked in coffee. “Might make a teamster after all.”

James grinned without much humor and sipped the bitter black brew. “Thanks, but I have another occupation in mind, sir.”

That got the old man to laugh hard and then slap his knee. “Hard work don't suit you, kid?”

Beside him, Robin Lamar stared at his own coffee, refusing to look up or offer any comment.

“I don't mind hard work. My pa—” James stopped, thinking sadly about his family, and knew he'd have to fight another urge. One that told him he should turn west, return to Texas, go home. To his surprise, that homesickness passed almost instantly, and he went on. “Pa worked for the railroad. On the line so much, I had to do most of the work at home. My brother and sister were too young to help Ma too much. So I worked hard.”

Well, maybe not this hard.
Back around McAdam, Texas, he had never hitched oxen, driven the beasts, and popped a whip with such regularity. He had never gone to bed so tired. Or awakened with every muscle screaming and burning.

Suddenly, he realized something else. Not only had his hands hardened, so had his muscles. His worn clothes fit a little tighter now, and at least a week or more had passed since his muscles had burned with such fierce pain. His boots no longer hurt, even though he had worn his socks till they were basically filthy pieces of thread.

“Sounds like you had a nice family, eh?”

James turned. Robin stared at him with soulful eyes.

“Well . . .” He didn't know how to answer. “Sure. I mean . . .” He understood. His life had been pretty good, better than most on the harsh frontier.

“Had me a nice family oncet,” Wildcat said, and his voice, one eye, and face darkened. “Injuns ended that. Dirty, thievin', ugly, woman-killin' injuns. I hate 'em. Hate 'em all.”

“I'm sorry.” James was looking at Robin, who had again lowered his head, but not before James saw the tears welling in the boy's eyes.

“No need to be,” Wildcat said, his mood abruptly changing, his spirits lifting. “Happens. Folks die.”

James looked down himself and wiped his eyes, remembering his two late uncles.

Wildcat quickly changed the subject with a belly laugh followed by a burp. “So, James, you don't wanna be a teamster or haul freight or skin mules or whip oxen. What is it you've a mind to do oncet we gets you settled in Fort Smith?”

James steeled himself, made sure the tears had not broken loose, raised his head, and took a sip of coffee to steady his nerves and calm his voice. “I will ride for Judge Parker's court.” He had not said that he
hoped to
or
would apply
for the job. He'd said he
would ride
for the court. He had to. No matter what it took. “I'll be a deputy marshal.”

Robin's head shot up. His mouth dropped. The boy had not bothered to wipe the tears from his face, for muddy trails had been left on his dirty cheeks. “A marshal!”

The old man laughed so hard, he cut loose with a fart, didn't bother to excuse himself, and tossed the coffee into the wreck pan. “A deputy lawdog? Well, that's somethin' to shoot for.” He winked. “Or shoot at.” Knees popped as he rose to his feet. “Make sure you scour the cups and pot with sand, boys. We's burnin' daylight.” He kicked out the fire, snorted, spit, and walked to the team of oxen, but the laughter had died in his voice and in his eyes. He began cursing bitterly under his breath as he prepared for the day's journey.

James emptied the dregs onto the smoldering remnants of the fire and then he turned to see Robin Lamar staring at him.

“Marshal?” the boy said, although his voice had turned so high, he practically sounded like a girl.

“It's something I have to do.”

“Why?”

Luckily, James didn't have to answer, to form those words, to tell someone—a stranger, for all intents and purposes—about his uncle, the late Deputy U.S. Marshal Jimmy Mann. Or to tell Robin why he carried that Winchester '86. Wildcat Lamar began cursing the two of them, screaming at them that they had to move, that time was a-wasting, and that they had an appointment in two days with some big customers.

It had taken Millard Mann weeks to find the trail of oxen and the big wagon, and he'd figured he would be on to that scoundrel and James in a day or two after making a good trade in McAdam, though his current ride, a chestnut gelding, had cost him the pack mule and his lame horse. He had decided the pack mule just slowed him down anyway.

However, as the blistering sun began to fade and sink in the west, Millard wondered if he would be alive in a day or two. Or in a half hour.

For hours, he had seen the dust trailing him. At first, he'd thought nothing of it, deciding that the wind had stirred it up, what with the weather so dry and miserable. That feeling had passed quickly. Dust didn't blow so steadily and in such a direct line paralleling his trail. Men on horseback were causing the dust.

He rode on until he found a spot where the creek he was riding along hadn't dried into oblivion. Shade trees—well, shade scrub—and a pool of water that looked halfway clean and thoroughly inviting offered a respite. Only a fool would pass up water and a good place to camp. Besides, if he died in the next hour or so, it seemed as good a place as any.

And that flat piece of driftwood he spotted might just save his hide.

He went about his chores, filling his canteens and letting his horse drink. He unsaddled the gelding and picketed the horse in a shady spot, hobbling it for added security before he moved about setting up camp, stopping briefly to pick up the driftwood, blowing the sand and grit free, and returning to find a good spot for it on his saddle. He nodded in satisfaction before continuing his work.

If the riders came in from the west, the sinking sun behind them, this side of the creek bed might do the trick. He left his Winchester '73 leaning against the bank, hidden behind some scrub that might some day grow into an oak. He checked again. The dust had stopped.

The horse snorted, wanting to be grained. Millard moved to his saddlebags, put some grain in the feedbag, and walked back to the liver chestnut, configuring the bag so the horse could eat and rubbing the horse's side with his gloved hands.

After wetting his lips, he soon had a fire going from the scrub and driftwood along the mostly dried creek. Once he had his coffeepot filled with water and grounds and resting atop the small fire, he unbuckled his shell belt, wrapped the belt around the holster, and laid it on the bedroll. Back by the saddlebags, he fidgeted with his gloves, trying to calm his nerves while looking off to the west where he had last spied the dust.

Waiting.

But not for long.

Three riders appeared, and Millard breathed in deeply, exhaled, and looked for more. Nothing. There were just three—what he'd been expecting based on the amount of dust he had spied.

In a saddlebag, he found what he wanted, unwrapped some salt pork, dropped a piece in the small cast iron skillet, and returned to the fire, dropping both gloves on the ground. After a moment, he rose, pretending that he had just spotted the strangers. He shielded the sun with his hands, and stared long and hard, hoping to find that the riders were Indians.

They weren't.

Indians he could expect. Even welcome. Most of them, even the Cheyennes and Arapahos were a friendly bunch, generally looking for some food or maybe some illegal whiskey. They would come to trade.

But white men . . . ?

His prayer asked that the riders be led by that Texas Ranger. What had been that man's name? Clarke. That was it. Alan Clarke. Or had it been Adam? Millard couldn't remember and didn't care.

From the lawman's appearance and tone, Millard had sensed that the Ranger wanted Lamar Bodeen, killer and whiskey-runner for something other than justice. His eyes had burned with hatred. Ranger Clarke had a personal score to settle with that felon.

It would not have surprised Millard to see the Ranger trailing Bodeen's trail or his own.

No matter. By the time the three men were fifty yards from the camp, Millard knew they weren't Rangers, and the one riding in the center was not Mr. Clarke.

He had to chuckle without much humor as he remembered the saying
There's no law, and no God, in this part of the territory.

“Wait here.” Winchester shotgun in his right hand, Jackson Sixpersons swung down from his horse and handed the reins to Deputy Marshal Malcolm Mallory.

Setting the brake on the tumbleweed wagon, Virgil Flatt blew his nose with one of the tied ends of his bandana. Neither argued with the old Cherokee's orders. Neither tried to talk him out of walking to the log cabin down below.

Sixpersons hadn't expected them to. The fact, however, that neither volunteered to wait in the woods behind them, came as a mild surprise. He pulled his hat on a little tighter before unfastening one of the saddlebags. His left hand disappeared into the leather bag and came out with a long pouch. Liquid sloshed from inside the bottle inside the pouch. Keeping the shotgun in his right hand pointed at the cabin, Sixpersons walked down the path, past the well and the rawhide corral that was falling apart, and stopped before stepping onto the rotting porch. The place hadn't been lived in—permanently—for years, but smoke rose from the chimney. Even outside, Jackson Sixpersons could smell and taste pungent tobacco smoke.

He did not announce himself. Did not knock. Just waited in the hot sun.

“You alone?” a hoarse voice called from inside.

“You know I'm not,” Sixpersons answered.

From inside came a slight chuckling. “Yeah, you are.”

Jackson Sixpersons had to smile. “I reckon you're right.” He tried to pick out the most solid of the rotting wood and eased his way onto the porch without breaking any planks—or his leg or neck—and pushed the creaking door open with the barrel of the twelve-gauge. Slowly, he stepped into the one-room cabin, not stepping into the shadows, but staying in the slip of sunlight.

Any furniture had been taken with whoever had once lived there. He could see the small fire, the occasional orange glow of a cigarette, and the figure of a man sitting on the hearth. Now that he was inside, other odors assaulted his senses.

Dust. Dead rats. The musky smell of a skunk. Or maybe that was just Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee. For the four years Sixpersons had known him, the half-breed Choctaw had smelled of nothing except Bull Durham and sweat.

“You sent for me,” Sixpersons said.

The shadow rose. The orange glow disappeared, followed by the sound of a butt hitting the floor. Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee never crushed out a smoke with his foot, never used an ashtray. He'd probably burn to death in a fire one night. No, he would meet his end from a bullet. In fact, he should already be dead.

The breed glided across the room, but stopped before the sunlight hit him. Still, he stood close enough for the Cherokee lawman to see him.

The ragged clothing. Sweat dripping down his face. The straw hat, the sheathed Bowie on his hip, the cigarette paper, the sack of Bull Durham. He was already rolling another smoke. Jackson Sixpersons could even see the scar on Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee's left hand.

“I hear,” the man said in a tobacco-strained voice, “you want the McCoy-Maxwell Gang.”

Sixpersons head shook. “I want nothing. The law wants them.”

“I can get 'em for you.”

“Last I heard, they were in Texas.”

The Choctaw licked the paper, sealed the cigarette, and put the smoke between his razor-thin lips. A match flared, and Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee brought the Lucifer to the cigarette, which flared to life. He took a long drag, held it in, blew out a stream of blue smoke, and then pointed a thin finger at the shotgun in the Cherokee's hands. “The younger one, the meanest, smooth-talkin' one”—the cigarette returned to the man's lips, but he kept talking—“his scattergun's fancier than yourn. Mean lookin'. Blow a man's head off.”

“Maybe yours.”

The half-breed Choctaw smiled. “Maybe so.”

“If I don't do it first.”

Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee laughed. “You ain't done it in four years.”

“We Cherokees are a patient people.”

The half-breed took another drag on the cigarette, held it, exhaled. “Link McCoy.”

Sixpersons said nothing.

“Made me a proposition in Denison.”

“That's Texas. Not my department.”

The thin man grinned again and removed his cigarette. “But he wants back in the Nations.”

Again, Sixpersons kept quiet.

“Asked me to find Lamar Bodeen for 'im.”

“Don't know him.”

“Whiskey runner. Bad whiskey. Last I heard, the Rangers want him bad in Texas. Made a bunch of folks sick in some Podunk town in the Panhandle. Killed a few. Including one Ranger's kid.”

“Like I said, that's not my department.”

“Is if Bodeen's in the territory.”

“Bodeen, maybe. Not McCoy.”

The breed laughed, smoked again, and pointed the cigarette under Sixpersons' nose. “Thought you said you got no interest in Link McCoy. Or Zane Maxwell.”

Flattening his lips, the Cherokee waited.

“McCoy asked around down Denison way. He wants to partner up with a big-time whiskey runner, and he ain't after no small-time Choc or Creek. Even a Cherokee. He don't want none of the big boys, but a small-time man with a lot of whiskey and no morals. I figured that described Lamar Bodeen to a T.”

When Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee took another drag, Sixpersons said, “You telling me that McCoy, Maxwell, Tulip Bells and whoever is left are turning to running liquor in the Nations?”

“You don't pay me to make no guesses, Jackson. Just for information.”

Sixpersons brought the pouch up and waved his hand so that the liquor in the bottle inside the pouch sloshed.

“Old Overholt?” Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee asked.

The Cherokee's head shook.

“You know that's my brand,” the breed complained.

“Rye's not allowed in the Nations,” Sixpersons said. “You get what I can confiscate.”

The man's scarred hand came up and took the pouch. “Runnin' liquor is a felony, Mister Marshal, or so I hear tell.”

“That's a down payment. Now you pay me.”

The cigarette flashed through the light and doorway and disappeared in the afternoon. Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee's right hand disappeared into the deep mule-ear pockets of his duck pants, and came out holding something that glittered in the sunlight.

Jackson Sixpersons could hear the ticking of the watch. The breed let the watch dangle in the light from his right hand.

It was gold. Sixpersons could tell that much as the watch spun on its chain, back and forth. After a moment, the Choctaw half-breed jerked the watch to his hand, put his thumb on the key, and the watch opened. Sixpersons couldn't read the manufacturer's name on the dial, but he could hear the music. The lid snapped shut. Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee held the watch in his hand, and Sixpersons saw the engraved initials on the hunter's case.
MRC

“Familiar?” Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee asked.

“Is it a Waltham?” Sixpersons asked.

“I wouldn't know. I can't read. Or tell the white man's time from a white man's toy.”

Sixpersons knew. Only one watch like that could be found in Indian Territory, and it had been stolen by the McCoy-Maxwell Gang from a teller named Mike Crawford at a bank in Greenville, Arkansas.

Suddenly, Jackson Sixpersons felt something he rarely felt.

Sweat.

Not from nerves. Not even from the heat. From excitement.

“Whiskey,” he said.

“Not just any whiskey. Bad whiskey. That's what Link McCoy wanted. And I told him I could take him to Lamar Bodeen.”

“Bodeen.” Jackson Sixpersons wanted more than the whiskey runner's name.

“One of his names. Wildcat Bodeen. Wildcat Lamar. B. C. Bodeen. Bill Lamar. Whiskey Bill. Rotgut Wildcat. For about sixteen months, he's been bringin' whiskey from No Man's Land and across the Panhandle, fillin' the railroaders and cowboys bellies with rotgut, then driftin' into Indian Territory. He don't get up into Creek or Cherokee country. Stays south. The wild savages to the west of us. Then Chickasaw and Choctaw lands. Heads down to Texarkana. But, since he's riled the Rangers, I don't reckon he'll do that no more. Appears to me he wants to make one last score then get out of the business.”

“They just made a score. More than seventeen hundred bucks from a bank in Greenville. That should last them.”

The half-breed's head shook. “What I hear tell, they didn't get near that much. Maybe four hundred. So Link McCoy wants a whiskey runner. And Bodeen's just the kind of man Link McCoy needs.”

“For what?”

Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee busied himself removing the bottle from the pouch. He held it in the light, but his tobacco-stained teeth disappeared in a frown.

“You been samplin'?”

“I don't touch the stuff. Anymore.”

“Somebody did.”

“The man I confiscated it from.”

His teeth reappeared, but only to pull out the cork, which he spit into a hole in the floor, and drank long and greedily. Half the bottle was empty when he lowered it and coughed violently. He blew his nose and shook his head. “Who'd you say you taken this rotgut from?”

Sixpersons had been waiting for that. “Bodeen.”

The bottle dropped to Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee's side, and his face seemed to pale, but only briefly. He cursed, took another pull, wiped his nose with the sleeve of his homespun shirt, and cursed Jackson Sixpersons in Choctaw, Cherokee, English, French, and Spanish. “Funny, for a thievin' Cherokee.”

“What does Link McCoy want with a wagon full of whiskey?”

Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee's head shook. “Don't know. He don't tell me much. Not yet.”

“When are they to meet?”

Again, the breed shook his head. “We ain't talked terms.”

“Name them.” Jackson Sixpersons had heard and seen enough.

“Three horses. One a stud. Fifty dollars. I keep the watch. You keep the rewards. I just tell you where and when. You don't know me. I don't know you. You take the horses and the money to my wife. And if I get killed, you still pay your debt.”

“You know I will.”

“Yeah, but I want to hear it.”

“You just did.”

“If you get killed, I still get paid.”

“I'll tell my wife. That I lost a bet.”

“I trust her more 'n I trust the likes of you. ” Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee held up the bottle. “And a bottle of rye, but not this slop. Old Overholt. No, two bottles.”

Jackson Sixpersons agreed and asked the question again. “When will Bodeen and McCoy meet?”

The half-breed grinned. “Don't know. But the way McCoy tapped his fingers on the table, it appeared he was anxious and eager to get things movin' along right soon.”

“Where?”

Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee drained the bottle, dropped it through the floor, and began rolling another cigarette. “Like I says, I got to find Bodeen first.”

“Be careful, Newton.”

Another match flared, and the cigarette flared to life. He shook out the match, stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and smiled. “You, too, Jack.”

“Don't call me Jack. You sure you can find Bodeen?”

“Sure. Providin' he ain't riled the Comanches or Kiowas with his poison and gotten his hair lifted. Or his kid's.”

“Kid?”

Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee took another drag, exhaled, and let out a smoker's heavy cough. “Girl. Fifteen. Sixteen. Some such. The old man tries to pass the petticoat off as a boy, but only an idiot would think that lass be a he.”

After making camp, Wildcat Lamar strode off afoot to the north, leaving the two boys on their own.

“What in blazes are you doing?” Robin Lamar roared.

“I have to go!” James Mann sang out, desperately trying to unbutton his britches. “I've been holding it so long, my kidneys are about to rupture!” Relief—from his bladder and from the fact that he had not wet his pants—came instantly as he sprayed the bush with urine. Too much coffee that morning, he decided, and the old man had been pushing him, Robin, and the oxen hard all day. James finished relieving himself, buttoned up his pants, wiped his hands on the sand, and turned to Robin Lamar.

But Wildcat's son had gone. Practically tripped, it appeared, to get away from James. He scratched his head, then chuckled, thinking that the boy must have thought that he might have peed on him.
Crazy.

By the time Lamar came back to camp, the oxen were unhitched and camp was being set up, but he flew into a fit, cursing, yelling, kicking out the campfire, knocking over the tripod that held a kettle full of rabbit stew, and screaming at his son that he knew better. Then he pointed a thick finger at James. “Get that team hitched, boy! Now. Comp'ny 's comin' and . . .” The rest of the orders were lost in a cacophony of curses and gestures.

They had just finished breaking camp, the team hitched, though ornery at feeling the leather of harness again.

The whole blasted family, father and son, were mad as a couple of mercury-addled hatters.

It all made about as much sense as sticking to game trails or blazing their own paths in that wild country. Company was coming. So why get ready to break camp? It would be dark before long. Sundown was coming at a high lope, so how much farther could they travel without a road to follow?

On the other hand . . . James began to calm down. If they left camp tonight, they might reach Fort Smith sooner. He stepped around the rear of the wagon, which had been opened by the old man.

Wildcat stepped to the end and tossed James the Winchester '86. “Keep it handy, boy.”

James dropped the rifle in the sand. The old fool had thrown it hard.

Another litany of curses came out of Wildcat Lamar's mouth. “Ain't you got any sense, boy?”

James picked up the rifle, blew the sand off the receiver and lever, and checked the barrel to make sure it wasn't clogged. It looked clean.

“What are you talking about?” It might have been the first time James had ever raised his voice against Robin's pa, but frustration was building, and he felt a headache coming on. Fast.

“You can shoot that big gun, can't you, kid?”

“Sure.” James hesitated. Well, he thought he could. Yeah, he knew how to work a rifle. Uncle Jimmy had helped teach him. “Yeah,” he said with a little extra confidence.
I can shoot a gun,
he told himself.
Even this rifle.

A large barrel rolled out of the wagon.

James stopped it from rolling over him, and read the stamp branded into the oak. MALASES. He sniggered.

“What's so blasted funny, boy?” Wildcat was in poor humor.

James used the barrel of the rifle to tap the word. “
Molasses
is misspelled.”

“Like 'em dirty bucks know how to read.” The old man hopped from the high wagon, his knees popping. He grunted and pushed himself up. “Robin!” he thundered. “Where be ya?”

“Here,” the boy said without much enthusiasm, and stepped around the side of the wagon.

His eyes met James's, and quickly the kid looked away, staring at his feet, practically blushing.

“Ever'thing loaded up, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Blacksnake whip in the box?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brake ain't set, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fetch yer shotgun.”

The kid looked up and wet his lips.

“Do it!” Wildcat accented the order with more profanity.

“Yes, sir.” Robin climbed into the back of the wagon, disappearing behind other barrels and boxes.

James looked at Wildcat Lamar, who was wiping his sweaty palms on his britches and wetting his own lips.

After a few moments of nervousness, he found a twist of tobacco in his pouch and tore off a mouthful. “Oughten to be here by now.” He tried to spit, but couldn't. He wiped his brow again, his mouth working furiously against the hard-cured tobacco

“Who is coming? Who is company?” James lowered the barrel and ran his left hand through his sweaty hair. He looked across the prairie, but saw only the endless expanse of Indian Territory—a few broken hills, grass, and dips of arroyos. Only a few trees seemed to appear way off in the distance. A man could see clear to Kansas off to the north, maybe even Nebraska or the Dakotas. But no one. No body. Not even a horse, rabbit ,or tarantula.

“Shut up. I smell 'em. Smell 'em lyin', thievin', con-nivin' savages. Ro-bin!”

“Here I am.” The boy jumped from the wagon, wielding the shotgun.

“Get into the box. Down low. Keep down. Not a word, kid. Don't hardly breathe. Hide till we needs you. You savvy?”

The kid's head bobbed, and then he was running to the front of the freight wagon, climbing up on the front wheel, lowering the shotgun into the driver's box, and then climbing over and disappearing inside the box.

Finally, Wildcat Lamar spit brown juice into the dust. James stepped closer, and the old man sucked in a deep breath, held it, let it out, and nodded to the north.

“Knowed it. Smelt 'em, I did. Here they come. Rifle handy, boy. Rifle handy.”

James Mann saw a dozen or more men on horses, mostly paints, but a few roans and one bay. They had appeared as if from magic, climbing out of one of the arroyos. They rode free, easily, long hair hanging in braids, decorated with feathers, although the leader had a buffalo horn headdress. Behind the riders, walked two or three women followed by a dog.

James Mann let out a soft curse. Then he let the. 50-caliber Winchester fall into the dirt. “Indians,” he said, before his voice box just quit working.