Dig Your Own Grave Page 5
“I’ll be needin’ some flour, some coffee, some bacon, a little salt, and some .44 cartridges,” Will said. “I could use a little grain for my horses, if you’ve got any.”
“Sounds like you’re running short of about everything,” Kirby said. “Come on inside and I’ll fix you up.” Will followed him inside, where Kirby’s wife, Eunice, was busy counting the money in the cash drawer. “You can hold up a minute on that, honey,” Kirby said. “We’ve got one more customer.”
Eunice paused to give Will a smile. “Good, we can sure use the business.” She gathered the items from the shelves when Will called them out, while her husband cut a slab of side meat and weighed it. When the bill was totaled, Will paid it and, with Kirby’s help, loaded everything on his packhorse.
“’Preciate the business,” Kirby said when Will stepped up into the saddle. “I’d say I hope you’ll come to visit us more often, but that would likely mean we’d be having some outlaw trouble.”
“Reckon so,” Will said, “but not this time. I’m just passin’ through.” He gave Buster a light nudge with his heels. His horses had already done a day’s work, so he rode up the river only far enough to be well away from the town before he picked a spot to camp. It was only after he had taken care of his horses and built a fire to fry some supper that he allowed himself to think again about the conditions under which he had left Bennett House. Sitting there by his fire, eating a supper of nothing more than fried bacon and coffee, he had to question his recent decisions. Before the day he asked Sophie to marry him, he didn’t seem to have so many worrisome thoughts running around in his head. He had assured her that he was ready to settle down on his ranch in Texas, but was he really? He couldn’t say that he enjoyed the life of a U.S. Deputy Marshal, no one in their right mind could. It was a hell of a rough life and one with a decidedly short life expectancy. It wasn’t much of a guarantee to offer Sophie. He could understand her insistence that he should turn in his badge, but marshaling was a calling that just happened to some men, often when they didn’t expect it. It happened that way for him. A lawman was the last thing he wanted to be when Fletcher Pride made the decision for him. He thought of Pride now and again, and found it ironic that he had been killed on the first job they had worked together. At the time, it should have warned him of the hazards of dealing with the most vicious of outlaws. Instead, it created a calling for him to stop those who preyed upon honest people and murdered good people like Fletcher Pride. He thought then of Sophie’s mother and her relationship with Fletcher and realized that he really couldn’t blame her for her attitude about her daughter marrying a deputy marshal.
Returning his thoughts to Sophie, he had to admit that he was sure that he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. But for right now at least, he had a responsibility to do the job he had signed on for. He expected her to understand that. “And right now, I’ve gotta shut my mind down and go to sleep,” he suddenly announced to Buster, “else I ain’t gonna be good for anything.”
Chapter 4
He awoke to a light rain that created a low mist to hang over the river under heavy dark clouds. It did little to help his mood as he saddled his horses and started out along the riverbank, looking for a good place to cross. He might have considered crossing the river the night before, but he liked the grassy bank on this side. It offered better grazing for his horses. He had expected the rain to start sometime in the early hours of the morning, so he figured he’d be wet in the morning, anyway. Crossing the river wouldn’t make much difference then, and he could at least go to sleep that night while he was dry.
Once across the river, he left the Illinois and headed in what he figured to be a more northwest direction, hoping to strike the Neosho River after about twenty-five miles or so. If he did, he’d know he was heading in the right direction. The rain let up after a couple of hours and by the time he reached the Neosho, the sun began to peek through the scattered clouds. With the sun to go by, he was able to confirm that he was generally on the right course. He stopped by the river to give his horses a good rest and eat his breakfast, with still two full days’ ride to reach the Kansas border.
* * *
With horses rested and ready to go, Ansel Beaudry led his gang of ruthless gunmen into the thriving new settlement of Bartles Town on the Caney River. It was early yet and the town was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes. The gang casually rode past the rooming house and the post office, heading directly toward the two-story building that housed the general store, with a residence on the second floor. “The owner lives upstairs over the store,” Tom Daly said when he rode up beside Ansel. “Feller by the name of Jacob Bartles built it,” Tom continued. “Started out with nothin’ but a tradin’ post on Turkey Creek. Now he’s got a nice little town growin’ up here.”
“Looks that way, all right,” Ansel said. “Has he got a sheriff?”
“Nope,” Tom answered. “Least there wasn’t one last time I rode through here, but that was almost a year ago.”
“Well, it looks like there ain’t much happenin’ here this mornin’,” Ansel commented, then looked up and down the street for a diner. “I’m partial to havin’ a good breakfast before we load up on supplies, but I don’t see anyplace to get one.”
“Roomin’ house yonder,” Tom said, and pointed to the two-story house they had just passed. “We can get us some breakfast there. I’ve et there. It’s more like a diner with rooms to rent than a regular boardin’house, and the food’s good. Least it was when I et there.”
“That sounds to my likin’,” Ansel said, and turned his horse in that direction. When they pulled up to a hitching rail beside the house, he cautioned his men. “You boys mind your manners. We’re just lookin’ for some breakfast. This ain’t no saloon and I don’t want to get the folks all riled up before we’re ready to take care of our business.”
“Lord a-mercy, Kitty, look who’s comin’ here,” Bertha Ballard exclaimed to her thirteen-year-old daughter when she glanced out the window and saw the group of riders and packhorses pulling up to the hitching rail. “You’d best put on a fresh pot of coffee. If they’re all lookin’ to eat breakfast, you might have to run to the smokehouse and slice off some more of that ham. They might want more’n bacon.” Caught in the process of cleaning up the long table, she turned around hurriedly then to finish collecting the remaining dirty plates. Luckily, it was late enough, so most of her boarders had already had their breakfast and were gone. By the time she had carried the dirty dishes to the kitchen and stuck a few more pieces of firewood in her stove, she heard them come in the door. “Grab that rag,” she blurted to Kitty while she picked up another, and they hurried out to meet their customers.
“For goodness’ sake,” Bertha greeted the impressive-looking figure that Ansel Beaudry presented, with only a fleeting glance at the entourage behind him. “We wasn’t expectin’ a party of customers this mornin’, were we, Kitty?”
“Good mornin’, madam,” Ansel responded. “I must apologize for not bein’ able to give you advance warning, but we weren’t sure we’d be passin’ this way. My men and I are hungry, but if we’re too late, we can certainly move on.” He favored her with a warm smile. “I have to say, though, if I’d known such a charmin’ lady was in charge of this dinin’ room, we would have made it a point to get here earlier.” In spite of herself, Bertha felt a blush threatening, forgetting the damp rag she held in her hand. Bo Hagen looked at Luther Curry and winked.
“Why, no such a thing,” Bertha was quick to respond. “We’ll be happy to fix you and your friends some breakfast. My daughter’s already put on a fresh pot of coffee for you, we’ve got plenty of eggs, and either ham or bacon; whichever you want.” She glanced at Kitty, who was busy wiping off the table. “And if you’ve got time, I can put some more biscuits in the oven. You gentlemen set yourselves down.” She paused a moment when she took a longer look at Tom Daly. “I believe you’ve been in here before.”
“Yes,
ma’am, I have,” Tom replied. “’Bout a year ago.”
“Well, we’re glad to have you back,” she said cheerfully. “We must have pleased you.”
They filed in then and took a seat around the table, Ansel at the head, as befitted his importance. Kitty disappeared into the kitchen to return shortly with a stack of clean dishes. Not as charmed as her mother, she eyed the group of men as she dealt the plates, and decided they were a pretty rough-looking lot. What, she wondered, is their business in BartlesTown? When she became aware that they were eyeing her as well, she was prompted to ask, “What are you men doin’ in Bartles Town? Are you just passin’ through?”
“That’s a fact, sweetheart,” Whip Dawson answered her with a wide grin while he blatantly looked her up and down. “Just passin’ through.”
Concerned that the men might become too bold with the young girl, Ansel quickly interrupted. “That’s right, young lady, we’re on our way to Oklahoma City. I’m a federal judge and these rugged men are an escort for my protection.” He was not at all opposed to his gang raising a little hell, but he preferred they wait until after they had acquired all the supplies they needed.
When Bertha heard his reply to Kitty’s question, she could not help being impressed. “Well, we’re proud to have you stop here for breakfast, Your Honor. We’ll sure try to fix you a good meal.”
“I would have bet on it,” Ansel responded. “And I know my escort will appreciate it. They’re a mangy-lookin’ lot, but they have to be. There are some dangerous outlaws ridin’ these parts.”
“I know that’s the gospel truth,” Bertha said. “We’ll have you some breakfast in a jiffy. I’ll get a new batch of biscuits in the oven and Kitty’ll start fryin’ up some eggs and bacon.” She left them to wait for coffee and went into the kitchen to mix up the biscuits. “We’ll bring you some coffee as soon as it’s done,” she called back over her shoulder.
When she returned to the kitchen, she found her daughter waiting to comment. “They’re about as mean-lookin’ a bunch of men as I’ve ever seen.”
“I wouldn’t worry none,” her mother assured. “The judge looks like he doesn’t have any trouble handlin’ them. Besides, one of ’em has already eaten with us, and he didn’t cause any trouble.”
“Yes, sir, Judge Beaudry,” Luther Curry quipped, “we’ll have Your Honor some coffee right away.” His comment caused the others to chuckle.
“I hope you ain’t a hangin’ judge like that feller over in Fort Smith,” Whip japed, causing a second round of laughter.
Ansel laughed with them, but cautioned again, “Don’t do nothin’ to get these women upset. I wanna keep everything nice and peaceful till we’ve got what we came for.”
They did as he instructed and after a substantial breakfast, they prepared to leave. Ansel told them to go on outside and mount up, while he remained to settle up with Bertha. “I hope your breakfast was satisfactory,” she said when he turned his attention back to her.
“I would say it certainly was, madam, more than that, and I’d like to compliment you on fixin’ such a magnificent meal on such short notice. I apologize again for poppin’ in on you so unexpectedly. I do believe those were the best biscuits I’ve ever eaten. I’ll bet you have a secret recipe.” When he saw her blush, he continued, “What would be the chance of getting you to bake up another batch of those biscuits to take with us?” Her wide smile and eyes glowing with pride told him she was more than willing. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you mix up another batch, then figure up what I owe you for everything? I’ve got to get some supplies at the general store. Maybe by the time I’m done, you’ll have the biscuits baked, and I’ll come back and settle up with you.”
“I’ll try to have ’em done by the time you’re ready to go,” Bertha replied, still basking in the light of his compliments.
“Don’t hurry your recipe,” he said as he went to the door. “If we get back too soon, I’ll gladly wait for your biscuits.” Outside, he climbed up into his saddle and turned his horse toward the general store. “Come on, boys. We’ve wasted enough time here already. We’ve got to take care of business now.”
* * *
Ned Carter had his back toward the door while he straightened up some items on the shelves behind the counter. When he heard them come in the door, he turned to greet them, alarmed at once by the look of them. Moments later, however, he was somewhat relieved when Ansel pushed past the others and strode forth, businesslike and friendly. “Good day, my good man,” Ansel said. “We’re gonna need a fair amount of supplies. Are you here by yourself?”
“Right now, I am,” Ned answered. “My wife and my son help in the store. They’re upstairs. I can call my boy down to help you carry your goods out.” Judging by the looks of the men with him, Ned couldn’t help wondering why they couldn’t do the loading.
“No need to do that,” Ansel quickly responded. “My men will take care of it. Now, let’s see if you’ve got everything we need.” He proceeded to call out items as they came to mind while his eyes roamed the shelves. Ned, in a panic to keep up with the list, found himself racing from the shelves to the counter, hustling in between to jot down the items on a piece of paper. Led by Bo Hagen, the outlaws immediately started to carry the supplies out and load them on the packhorses. In a short time, half of Ned’s shelves were emptied. Ansel summed it up by asking, “Do you have any more .44 cartridges than those that were on the shelf?”
“No, sir, You’ve cleaned me out,” Ned answered while he frantically raced to sum up his bill. “Does that about do it?”
“Now, let’s see,” Ansel mused. “Let me have that sack there.” He pointed to a canvas sack on the end of the counter. “I’m gonna need one more thing.” He pushed his coat aside and drew the Colt .44 he carried. “I’m gonna need the cash outta that drawer yonder.”
“Oh my Lord,” Ned uttered. The fear that had steadily increased during the unusual transaction suddenly became a fact. It was a holdup, and a massive one. “You low-down dirty . . .” he started, then thought better of it. “For God’s sake, mister, you’ve done cleaned me out. Don’t take what little bit of money I’ve got in the cash drawer.”
At that moment, they heard a door close upstairs. In a hurry now, Ansel ordered, “Get that damn drawer open and dump it in that sack, or you’re a dead man.” He cocked his pistol and leveled it at Ned’s head. Fearing for his life, Ned did as he was told. Ansel took the sack and started to back away toward the door when he was suddenly distracted by Ned’s son, who came down the stairs at that moment. The boy stopped halfway down, and seeing what was happening, turned to run back upstairs, only to fall forward on the steps when a bullet from Whip Dawson’s .44 slammed him in the back.
“Tommy!” Ned screamed and ran to his son.
“Let’s get the hell outta here!” Ansel yelled, and they all ran to the horses. Spurring their horses to a gallop, the outlaws charged out the end of the street, their guns blazing at any innocent soul who happened to step out of a door to see what was going on. In a matter of seconds, they were out of range of anyone who had run for their weapons. Since the horses were rested and fresh, they held them to a fast lope for a couple of miles before easing up on them, confident there would be no posse after them. They would rest the horses at Bird Creek, about twenty miles away, according to Tom Daly.
* * *
After holding his horses to a steady pace for two full days, Will reached the Verdigris River at a point he figured had to be about twenty-five or thirty miles south of Coffeyville, Kansas. It was his intention to follow the river to that town, hoping he could get some information regarding the actions of the Kansas deputies. Dan Stone’s telegram had instructed him not to cross over into Kansas. How, he wondered, could he possibly be useful to the Kansas deputies if he didn’t go to Kansas to find them? It wouldn’t be the first time he had crossed out of his jurisdiction, and likely not the last. Hopefully, he could connect with the Kansas lawmen and determine what he could d
o to help out. As he rode farther along, the trail following the river became wider and obviously more traveled, with signs of wagon tracks as well as horses. He figured he couldn’t be more than ten miles south of the Kansas line when he saw two riders descending from a low ridge and riding to intercept him.
Until he knew their intent, he decided to take precautions, so he drew the Winchester from his saddle sling and let it rest across his thighs. When they were within about forty yards, he pulled up and waited for them to approach. When they closed to about fifteen yards, he held his rifle in one hand with the butt resting on his leg and the barrel straight up. They had the look of farmers or ranchers, but he could never be sure. “Howdy,” he said. “What can I do for you boys?”
“This here is our rangeland,” one of them spoke. “We was wonderin’ where you might be goin’. Don’t see many strangers travelin’ this road.” A rail-thin man with red hair and a mustache to match, he pulled his horse up almost nose to nose with Buster.
Will looked at him, then his companion, who was also a redhead, maybe a little younger than the other one. There was such a definite resemblance that Will was sure they were brothers. He pulled his vest aside to show his star. “I’m U.S. Deputy Marshal Will Tanner,” he said. “Who might you two boys be?”
“Well, I’ll be go to hell, Johnny . . .” one of them exclaimed, obviously the younger of the two. “I didn’t think they could send somebody that quick.”
“Hush, Dave,” his brother admonished. “He ain’t here ’cause of us. We didn’t send the telegram till yesterday.” To Will, he said, “I’m Johnny Whitsel. This is my brother Dave.”
“Did you wire Fort Smith for some help?” Will asked. “What kinda help are you lookin’ for?”
“I’m sorry, Deputy,” Johnny apologized, then backed up his horse a few paces. “We thought you mighta been with them fellers who killed one of our cows.”