Will Tanner Read online

  Tucker was prone to continue talking nonstop, especially since Will appeared to be interested in what he had to say. He was still talking, even when he was busy with the ramp as he guided the ferry to ground. He paused only a moment to throw a rope to another boy standing there waiting. This one was younger than Jack. “Ain’t just whiskey that slips across at Turtle Creek,” he said. “There’s many an outlaw that takes that trail up into the Nations at that spot. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was where that gang of bank robbers, that Tarbow gang, crossed into Indian Territory before the Rangers could catch ’em.” He dropped the ramp and yelled to the boy, “Go ahead and tie it off, Bobby.”

  Will paused before leading Buster onto the bank. “The Tarbow gang crossed over the river down below Durant.”

  “Is that a fact?” Tucker replied. “I’m just happy they didn’t cross over here. I heard they were a pretty mean bunch. They say ol’ Max Tarbow ain’t got but one good eye—wears a patch like a pirate.”

  “Kinda like that feller you rode across the river yesterday, I reckon,” Will said, wondering if he should enlighten Tucker or just let it ride.

  He saw by the stunned expression on Tucker’s face that the thought hadn’t occurred to him until that moment. His mind was working hard to remember everything about the men, horrified to think he had not even suspected they were part of the Tarbow gang. “But there weren’t but two of them,” he exclaimed, still finding it hard to believe.

  “That was Max and Billy Tarbow that came through here yesterday,” Will said. “They’re all that’s left of the gang.”

  “Good Lord help us all . . .” Tucker drew out, realizing then how close he had come to what might have been a dangerous situation for him and his family. “I never even thought about that one wearin’ a patch over his eye.” Thankful that the danger was past, he tried to recall the pair’s features. “Folks said he looks like a pirate. He looked more like a one-eyed grizzly to me.” Then another thought struck him. “Is that where those two empty saddles came from—two of that Tarbow gang was ridin’ those horses?”

  “That’s a fact,” Will said, wishing now that he had not enlightened him.

  It was too late by then, however, because Tucker’s brain was already thinking about the possibility of exploiting the opportunity. “Mister,” he said, “would you be interested in sellin’ one of those saddles? ’Cause I’d be interested in buyin’ one of ’em, or better ’n that, I’d be interested in buyin’ the horse and saddle.” He hesitated a moment. “Those are the horses Tarbow’s men rode, ain’t they?”

  “Yeah,” Will said. “They belonged to Tarbow’s men.” He couldn’t understand why anyone would want the horse and saddle of a dead outlaw, but he supposed that they would seem a curiosity to some folks, and the Tarbow gang was well known in this part of Texas. His first reaction was to say no, but on second thought, he hesitated. He wouldn’t mind getting rid of one of the horses, since it would be easier to manage just one packhorse. And he felt no obligation to return to Fort Smith with any horses he captured. Thinking about the possibility of his returning, if in fact he was successful in his mission, he realized that he would likely not be paid mileage for his entire trip if he came back with no prisoners. With that in mind, maybe he should take advantage of the spoils of his assignment. Looking into the eager face of Bob Tucker, he said, “All right, we’ll talk about it while my horses are gettin’ watered and rested. I’m gonna eat some breakfast, anyway. I wouldn’t mind droppin’ one of those horses, but I ain’t of a notion to give one away.”

  “Oh, I’ll make you a fair offer,” Tucker replied excitedly, already envisioning folks making special trips to his store to see the horse and saddle of one of the notorious Tarbow gang. “Can you tell me the names of the outlaws who rode ’em?”

  “No, I can’t,” Will said. “I didn’t know their names. I just know they were ridin’ with Tarbow. One of ’em burned his initials in his saddle, T. B. That’s the best I can do for you.”

  “Don’t matter that much,” Tucker said, still keen to make the trade. “Which one’s got the initials on it?”

  “The sorrel,” Will answered.

  “You say you ain’t had your breakfast yet,” Tucker suggested. “Take care of your horses and come on up to the store. My missus can cook you up somethin’ to eat and we’ll work out a deal while you’re eatin’.”

  “That sounds to my likin’,” Will said. He led his horses down the bank a little way and unloaded them. He was hoping that Tucker had a rig for a pack saddle for the one horse he intended to keep, so he could load the horse more efficiently than the arrangement he had fashioned with rope.

  * * *

  After a hot breakfast of coffee, eggs, grits, and sausage, and his horses rested and watered, Will set out again, riding a trail that generally followed the Red River. With a proper rig now for his packhorse, his supplies were packed more efficiently on the red roan. He ended up selling Tucker both of the extra saddles as well as the horse that Tom Blanton had ridden. There was no question that Tucker had certainly gotten the best of the trade, but Will didn’t care. He was free of the bother of the extra horse, and he loaded his packs with most of the .44 cartridges that Tucker had, along with any provisions he thought he could use to sustain him on what might prove to be a long hunt, plus a reasonable amount of cash. So he rode away satisfied with the results of the trade, leaving Tucker to explain to his skeptical wife the sensibleness of acquiring the horse and two saddles they didn’t need. “It’ll bring more customers in to the store,” Will heard Tucker say, pleading his case. He couldn’t hear what the little lady said, because she spoke in a tiny voice, but the tone sounded deadly. Will couldn’t help smiling. He figured that she was probably asking her husband the same question that was in Will’s mind, Where the hell would these customers come from?

  The trail he followed was well defined, and as Tucker had told him, ran close by the Red River, leaving it only when the river took one of its many turns, striking it again when it returned to the trail. Tucker said it was twenty miles to Turtle Creek and Mendoza’s place. That would put him there around midday.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Hey, Mendoza,” Max Tarbow blustered, “have that woman of yourn fix us up some grub. I need to put somethin’ in my belly besides this poison you call whiskey.” He winked at his brother, sitting across the table from him. “Ain’t that what you say, Billy?”

  “Damn right,” Billy replied. “Fix us somethin’ to eat.” Like his brother, he was feeling full of himself again, smug in the celebrity status they enjoyed with the small-time outlaws who frequented Mendoza’s saloon. His mood was further strengthened by the added feeling of safety, now that they had crossed back over into Texas, and that relentless deputy could no longer hunt them down. It was too bad about Becker, Doolin, and Blanton, but the important thing was that he and Max had gotten away safely. He was confident that Max would soon build a new gang of men to follow him, and they would be back in business again.

  “Keep your shirt on,” Mendoza replied. “My woman’s fixing something. She make you a fine dinner. I get you another bottle.” He intended to get as big a portion of that bank money as he could, knowing they were probably still carrying a lot of it. “You smart coming back to Texas, Max. Them Rangers, they think you up in Injun Territory. They don’t look for you no more in this part of Texas. You stay here awhile, rest, eat, drink whiskey.” He gave Max an impish grin. “Maybe you spend some time with Gracie. Make you feel better.”

  “Huh,” Max grunted and cast a critical eye in the direction of the sullen-faced woman sitting alone at the table next to his. Gracie, they called her. That wasn’t her name. She was Mexican, like Mendoza, and his American customers had difficulty pronouncing her real name. “Gracie” was the closest they could come, so that’s what she was called. “As temptin’ as that sounds,” he said, sarcastically, “I ain’t that rutty right now.” He grinned then. “Billy’s the one needin’ some female attention.
He don’t never get enough.”

  Billy’s face lit up at that remark. “That don’t sound like a bad idea at that,” he said to Gracie. “Maybe we oughta go to your cabin after we get us somethin’ to eat. Whaddaya say?” The woman called Gracie gave him an indifferent shrug in response.

  Witnessing her response, Mendoza said, “I think maybe you gonna have to buy Gracie a few drinks first. She looks like she need it.”

  Max grunted again. “Course, you don’t mind sellin’ more of that rotgut, do ya? If she wants a drink, she can have one outta this bottle I already bought.”

  Still with a look of complete disinterest, Gracie got up from her chair, picked up a glass, and poured herself a drink from the bottle on their table. With no word of thanks, she sat down again to drink it. Max glanced at Billy, who was gazing at the sullen woman in undisguised anticipation. “You better eat some grub first, or you ain’t gonna be able to get your money’s worth,” Max advised his younger brother. He turned to Mendoza then. “Tell that woman of yours to shake a leg before we starve to death.”

  In a short time, Maria Mendoza came to the back door of the saloon to tell her husband that the meal was ready. “I put it on the table,” she said. “If they want to eat, they gotta come to the kitchen. I ain’t gonna bring it in here.”

  Overhearing, Max grinned wide and announced gallantly, “She’s got you on a mighty short rope, ain’t she? Well, I sure ain’t gonna let the lady’s food get cold.” He pushed his chair back, causing it to fall over on the floor. Without bothering to pick it up, he strode toward the kitchen door. “Come on, Billy. Let’s eat.”

  Billy got up from his chair, then paused to press two dollars into Gracie’s palm. “I’ll be down to your cabin soon’s I finish eatin’.” He hurried after Max then.

  “It’s gonna cost you more ’n this,” Gracie called after him, also aware that the two Tarbow brothers had hit several banks before fleeing Texas.

  “You fellows go eat,” Mendoza said. “I don’t eat now. I watch the store.”

  Still standing by the door, his wife asked, “Why you don’t eat now? Nobody here to bother the store.”

  “Shut up and go with them,” Mendoza growled. “And shut the door behind you.” He thought it was an opportune time to get a look inside Max and Billy’s saddlebags. So they would not get suspicious, he decided to go out the front door and walk around behind the building to the barn, where they had left their horses. When he got to the door, however, he was stopped by the sight of a lone rider, leading a packhorse, and heading his way. “Shit,” he muttered, irritated at missing his chance to search the saddlebags. He remained in the doorway, peering at the approaching rider, straining to see if it was someone he recognized. As the rider came closer, Mendoza realized he was no one he had ever seen before. He walked out on the porch and waited by the front post.

  As he guided Buster straight to the hitching rail in front of the porch, Will watched Mendoza carefully. He had taken a good look at the layout of the place while he was approaching, the store with the house built on behind; the barn and corral behind that; a couple of small log cabins about twenty yards to the right of the store, close by the creek. He counted a dozen horses in the corral, but there were no horses at the hitching rail as he pulled up before it. Keeping an eye on the man leaning against the post, he stepped down. “Howdy,” he said. “I bet you ain’t got no beer in that store.”

  “Well, you sure enough won that bet,” Mendoza said, naturally suspicious of any stranger. “I ain’t got no way to get beer around here. I got whiskey. You want whiskey?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “I never see you around here before.”

  “I reckon not,” Will said. “What you got inside?”

  “General merchandise. What you lookin’ for?”

  “I might need a couple of things,” Will replied, and stepped up on the porch. “Your name’s Mendoza, ain’t it? I heard you had a store over this way.” He shifted his gaze quickly to the left and right, checking the two windows in the front of the store, but he could not tell if there was anyone standing by them or not. Walking past Mendoza then, he went in the door, his hand resting on the handle of the Colt riding on his hip. The store was empty. He turned around to face Mendoza when he followed him inside.

  “Are you a lawman?” Mendoza asked.

  “Why do you think that?” Will answered.

  “I don’t know. I never see you before. I think maybe you’re a Texas Ranger.”

  “Well, I ain’t,” Will said. He could see that he wasn’t going to get any information out of Mendoza, but he thought he might as well try. “I’m hopin’ to catch up with a couple of fellers that might be lookin’ for some help. I heard they lost some men recently and they might be lookin’ for somebody to replace ’em. They said they were comin’ by your place. You seen ’em?”

  Mendoza shook his head slowly. “No, man, there ain’t been nobody like that around here.” He was certain now that Will was a lawman, and became immediately anxious to get him out of the store before he discovered who was in the kitchen. “I’m sorry, the store is closed now, so maybe you stop by again sometime, okay?” As soon as he said it, there was the sound of a man laughing from the other side of the kitchen door.

  “What’s goin’ on in the back room?” Will asked.

  “Nothing,” Mendoza blurted nervously. “A birthday party, my father’s birthday party,” he said, thinking fast now. “That’s the reason the store is closed today. No one but family.”

  “Oh,” Will replied. “Well, I sure wouldn’t wanna disturb the party. Tell your daddy I said ‘Happy Birthday.’” He turned and walked out of the store. Wasting no time in stepping up into the saddle, he wheeled Buster away from the rail. “See you next time I’m by this way,” he said to Mendoza as he rode away. Pretty sure he knew where Max and Billy were now, he fought the feeling that there was a rifle aimed at a spot between his shoulder blades. In spite of that, he held Buster to a slow lope back down the river trail, so as not to arouse Mendoza’s suspicions. As soon as he was out of sight of the store, he turned the buckskin back on a line to intercept Turtle Creek about a half mile below Mendoza’s store. He crossed over the creek then and rode cautiously up the other side until he could see the store. Pulling his rifle from the saddle sling, he dismounted and tied the horses beside the creek. Then he began to work his way in closer to the store. When he was as close as he thought it safe enough to remain unseen, he knelt in a stand of willows and watched for some sign of the two outlaws.

  He didn’t have to wait long before the back door of the house behind the store opened and two men ran out to the corral. The broad bearlike body of Max Tarbow was readily identified even if he was too far away to make out the eye patch below the brim of his hat. Behind him, the thinner figure of Billy Tarbow was close on his heels. It was time to make a decision, because they each led a horse into the barn, no doubt to saddle up. He figured he was about a hundred yards from the barn. That was well within the can’t-miss range of his Winchester, so he knew that he could end the whole thing right now with two quick shots. Should he attempt to make the arrest? He had labored over the decision ever since following the two fugitives from Indian Territory. The grotesque image of Fletcher Pride hanging from the tree, and the bullet-riddled body of Charlie Tate, came to his mind. It might be the hardest decision he would ever have to make, and he had little time to make it. He hadn’t placed his hand on a Bible and sworn an oath to uphold the laws of the U.S. court system. His commission as a deputy marshal had been an almost casual agreement to arrest and escort prisoners back to Fort Smith for trial. I never swore to bring anybody in for trial, he reminded himself. “But, damn it, that was inferred when I accepted the job,” he scolded himself aloud. “I’ll give ’em a chance.”

  His decision made, he plunged through the willows and ran down along the creek bank, heading for the barn, hoping he would reach it before they had time to saddle up and ride. It might depend on whether or
not they took the time to load the packhorses they arrived with, and as far as he could tell, they were still in the corral. That was no better than a guess, however, because he didn’t know how many horses were typically in Mendoza’s corral. When he reached a point opposite the corner of the corral, he left the creek bank and sprinted across a twenty-yard-wide open area to the side of the barn. With his rifle cocked and ready, he paused there for a few moments to listen. He could hear the excited exchanges between the two outlaw brothers as they frantically hurried to make their escape.

  He moved cautiously around the corner of the barn, making his way toward the door at the front of the building. When he reached the door, which was standing open, he inched up to the crack between the door and the doorpost. It was just wide enough for him to see inside, where the two brothers were hurriedly saddling their horses. “What about the packhorses and all our stuff?” he heard Billy ask. “We ain’t got time for that!” he heard Max answer. Moving slightly, Will was able to get a little better view of the inside of the barn. He was disappointed to discover an open door at the back of the barn. He would have to be ready to act fast, in case they refused to surrender. It was at that moment that the kitchen door to the house opened. A moment later, the stillness was shattered by a piercing scream from Maria Mendoza when she saw the rifleman crouching behind the barn door.

  Will had no time to think. Reacting instinctively, he dropped to one knee as he came out from behind the door, his rifle leveled at Billy, who was closest to the front door. Seeing the rifle aimed at him, Billy reacted immediately, drawing his .44 from his holster and firing a wild shot that ripped a chunk of wood from the door, inches from Will’s head. Before he could fire a second shot, a slug from Will’s Winchester slammed him in the chest, sending him stumbling backward into his horse’s legs. The horse reared up, startled, and jumped back.