Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal Page 8

  “You got any last words, Crow Dog?” Marshal Sarber asked.

  “I come here to die. I didn’t come here to make a speech.”

  Crow Dog looked at Sarber, then out at the crowd, which consisted of men, women, and children, white, black, and Indian. He looked at John Henry again, then smiled.

  “I’ll just bet you wish you was standin’ up here so’s you could pull the lever, don’t you, John Henry?”

  “You put yourself there, Hector, when you killed that driver and his shotgun guard.”

  “I suppose I did, but it seemed the thing to do at the time. Da gi yo ‘we ga. Ko ‘hi i ga-ge ‘ga,” Crow Dog said. “I am tired. Today I am going home.”

  “Donada ‘govi—good-bye,” John Henry replied.

  “Say, didn’t you say you was going to hang me?” Crow Dog asked Sarber.

  “That’s what I intend to do,” Marshal Sarber replied.

  “Then what the hell are you waiting around for? You don’t want to disappoint all these people now, do you? They came to see a good show, and I’m the star. So let’s quit all this foolin’ around and get it done.”

  Sarber looked over at the hangman and nodded. The hangman pulled the lever and Crow Dog’s neck jerked to one side as he fell down to the end of the rope.

  Then, by an eerie coincidence, just as the trapdoor opened under Crow Dog’s feet, a tremendous clap of thunder shook the earth, completely drowning out the thudding sound of the opening trap. The black cloud that had been hanging above the fort, not large enough to blot out the sun, had managed to shoot down a bolt of lightning. The lightning struck Crow Dog as he fell, causing sparks to fly from his body.

  Many among those who had gathered to watch the hanging now called out in shock and fear, the children cried, and some of the women swooned.

  Hector Crow Dog’s body hung at the end of the rope, still smoking from the lightning bolt.

  “I’ll be damned,” John Henry said. “The old medicine man was right after all. Hector Crow Dog was killed by the lightning bolt before he reached the end of the drop.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Judge Isaac Charles Parker was thirty-five-years old when he took the bench in the federal court in Fort Smith, making him the youngest federal judge in America. Despite the heat of the day, he was wearing a suit, vest, and tie. Dark-haired, and with a dark and well-trimmed Vandyke beard, he sat behind the bench without robes because this was a hearing, and not a trial. There was no jury present.

  “Your Honor,” Howard Gibson said as he addressed the court. Gibson was the federal prosecutor in the United States Court for the Western District of Arkansas. “The United States Government, by these presents, makes the case that John Henry Sixkiller has exceeded his authority in apprehending two white men, Darrell and Abraham Karnes. That is a felony violation, and, in the course of this felony violation, John Henry Sixkiller did shoot, and kill, both men. In that they were killed during the commission of a felony, a case could also be made for first-degree murder.”

  “Are you asking that Mr. Sixkiller be tried for first-degree murder?” Judge Parker asked.

  “No, Your Honor,” Gibson replied. “At the most, I would ask for unlawful manslaughter. However, I am willing to withhold even that charge if the defendant would agree to plea to the unlawful exceeding of his authority.”

  “Are you willing to make that plea, Mr. Sixkiller?” Judge Parker asked.

  “I am not, Your Honor, for such a plea would necessitate my removal as a policeman in the Cherokee Nation,” John Henry replied.

  “Very well, Mr. Gibson, you may make your case.”

  “Your Honor, if I may?” Marshal Dennis said, interrupting the hearing.

  “Yes, Sheriff, what is it?”

  “I have spoken with Marshal Sarber. I made a proposal to him that he agrees with. And with your cooperation, it could take care of the situation that we dealing with now.”

  “And what is that proposal?”

  “I propose, Your Honor, that you swear in John Henry Sixkiller as a U.S. Marshal. That way he will be able to deal with criminals, whether they be Indian or white.”

  “Would you be willing to serve as a U.S. Marshal in my court?” Judge Parker asked John Henry.

  “Yes, Your Honor, I would consider it a great honor to serve as a U.S. Marshal in your court,” John Henry replied.

  “That won’t do any good, Your Honor,” Gibson interrupted. “We are dealing with a case that happened two weeks ago.”

  “Suppose we make Mr. Sixkiller’s appointment retroactive?” Judge Parker suggested.

  “Retroactive?”

  “Yes. We could appoint him as a U.S. Marshal effective one month ago. That way, his tracking, apprehending, and shooting in the act of apprehending, would no longer be an issue.”

  Gibson nodded, then smiled. “Your Honor, in that case, the prosecution will drop all charges.”

  “John Henry Sixkiller, raise your right hand, please.”

  John Henry did as requested.

  “Repeat after me: I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of United States Marshal, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.”

  John Henry repeated the oath.

  “Marshal Sarber, do you have a badge for our newest marshal?”

  “I do, Your Honor.”

  “Pin it on him. Marshal Sixkiller, you are now an officer of the United States Court for the Western District of Arkansas. Don’t do anything to embarrass us.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor, Marshal Dennis, and Marshal Sarber. I will do all I can to see that none of you regret this appointment,” John Henry said.

  Later that day, Marshal Sarber and all the deputy marshals celebrated John Henry’s appointment.

  “You are one of us now,” Sarber said. “You have a federal commission, which means you aren’t limited to the Indian Territory. You can go anywhere in the country and make arrests.”

  “That’s good to know,” John Henry said.

  “But because you are appointed by the U.S. Court for the Western District of Arkansas, you will bring your prisoners to Fort Smith,” Sarber added.

  “I understand.”

  “By the way, you do know what they say about Fort Smith, don’t you?” Jim Messler, one of the deputy marshals, asked.

  “No, what do they say?”

  “There is no Sunday west of St. Louis, and no God west of Fort Smith.”

  Coffeeville, Kansas

  When Vernon Simmons, Pete Fuller, Kit Darrow, and Injun Joe Pipestem rode into town, few of the townspeople paid any attention to them. They rode right down through the middle of the street, a habit that was developed over the years they had spent on the outlaw trail. By keeping to the middle of the street, it lessened the chances of someone suddenly appearing from behind a building to ambush them. All four men were wanted, not only in Kansas, but in Missouri and Arkansas as well.

  They rode in between the First National Bank and Derris Drugstore to reach the alley behind the bank. There, they tied their horses to a fence that bordered the backyard of Ely Bowman’s house.

  Vernon Simmons, who was at one time a deputy sheriff in Coffeeville, and the acknowledged leader of the outfit, disguised himself with a false mustache and goatee. Accompanied by Fuller, Darrow, and Pipestem, he entered the First National Bank.

  The bank teller looked up from behind his cage as they came in and, recognizing them, knew at once that this was trouble. He tried to cover it with a nonchalant attitude.

  “Hello, Vernon. What can I do for you?”

  Fuller laughed. “I told you that disguise wouldn’t do you no good,” he said.

  Simmons pulled the mustache and goatee beard off, then dropped them into a wastebasket.

  “I reckon you know what you can do for us, Harrigan,” Simmons said. Simmons and the others pulled their pistols from their holsters and pointed them toward the teller and the cashier. />
  “Is this a robbery?” Harrigan asked.

  Simmons smiled. “Well, now, you got that right the first time. Yeah, this is a robbery. Empty those bank drawers and put the money in this bag.”

  Harrigan began very deliberately taking the money out of the drawer and putting it in separate stacks on the counter in front of him.

  “Hurry it up,” Simmons ordered.

  “I can’t be too fast. I have to count it.”

  “Count it? What the hell do you have to count it for?” an exasperated Simmons asked.

  “Don’t you want to know how much you are getting?”

  “I’ll count it later. Just drop the money down in the sack like I told you.”

  “Simmons, someone is coming,” Darrow said.

  “Who?”

  “Looks like it might be Deputy Kelly.”

  “That’s the son of a bitch that took my place. Step out front there and throw a shot at ’im.”

  Darrow stepped out front and shot at Deputy Kelly. Kelly went down.

  “I got ’im!” Darrow said.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Simmons shouted, tossing the bag of money to Darrow as the four men dashed out the back door of the bank. As they were untying their horses, two men appeared, having come from the space between the bank and the drugstore.

  Simmons and the other three bank robbers turned their guns on the two men and shot them down.

  “What the hell? Neither of them was armed,” Darrow said.

  “Then it was their dumb mistake for running back here,” Simmons said.

  At that moment, Luke Baldwin came out of the back door of Isham’s Hardware Store. Injun Joe shot him, and he fell dying in the alley. Mounting, the four men rode at a gallop down the alley where they killed two more of Coffeeville’s citizens. Leaving the alley they came out into the middle of the street, where Charles Brown fell.

  By now the shooting had alerted everyone in town, and at least a dozen men were on the street firing at the bank robbers. Darrow was hit and he fell from his horse, still clutching the bag of money.

  “Our money!” Simmons said. He started to dismount to recover it, but the shooting grew even more intense.

  “Vernon! Leave it! We got to get out of here!” Fuller shouted.

  Simmons hesitated only a moment, then he remounted and the three men galloped out of town. Behind them they left seven dead, and the sack of money they had taken from the bank. That very day word was sent, by telegram, to Judge Parker in Fort Smith, Arkansas, advising him of what the newspapers would call: CARNAGE IN COFFEEVILLE.

  It didn’t take John Henry long to get his first assignment. On the very day he was sworn in as a U.S. Marshal, he was sent out to bring in . . . dead or alive . . . Vernon Simmons, Pete Fuller, and Injun Joe Pipestem.

  “Yeah, I know exactly where they are,” Sheriff Miller said when John Henry went to Coffeeville to start his hunt for them. “They hang out around Bird Creek down in The Nations. They know as long as they stay down there, that there ain’t nothin’ I can do about ’em, ’cause they are out of my jurisdiction. You bein’ a U.S. Marshal though, means you can go down there. Do you know the Bird Creek area?”

  “Yes,” John Henry replied. He knew Bird Creek like he knew the back of his hand. He had fished and hunted there from the time he was a boy.

  In Bird Creek, John Henry went to speak to Red Moon, who was mayor of the town. “The two men with Pipestem are white men. You have no authority over them,” Red Moon said, when he learned that John Henry was looking for the people who had murdered Harold and Mary Two Hills.

  “I have this authority,” John Henry said, showing Red Moon the badge he had recently acquired.

  “You are a U.S. Marshal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I see that you are given much power with that badge. I will make no trouble for you as you look for them. It is my wish that you can find these men, for they are evil, and have killed Indians as well as whites.”

  “You can help me,” John Henry said.

  “What can I do?”

  “Let it be known that I am looking for them. Let it be said that when I find them, I will take them back so that Judge Parker can hang them. If enough people know this, soon the men I am looking for will know it as well, and I will not have to find them, because they will come looking for me.”

  “Yes,” Red Moon said. “That is a good plan.”

  By John Henry’s second night out, he knew that his plan had worked because there were three men trailing him. He knew, also, that they would not confront him directly, but would make their move tonight when he camped out.

  That night, he drank his coffee and ate a piece of jerky. Then he laid out his bedroll. He put the piece of canvas down, then the blanket, then the saddle, trailing the stirrups down along the blanket. Finally, he covered the saddle with another blanket and put his hat at the head.

  When John Henry was through, he moved about twenty yards away, slipped down into a little depression, and looked back upon his handiwork. The fire was burning low, the area smelled of coffee, and his horse stood quietly in the dark. His hat on the bedroll covered what appeared to be the head, while the saddle gave the blanket the dimensions of a sleeping man. Satisfied with the illusion he had created, John Henry settled back to wait.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You know the son of a bitch is goin’ to have to bed down somewhere, and when he does, we’ve got him,” Simmons said. “All we have to do is locate his camp, sneak up on him in the night, and shoot the son of a bitch while he’s sleepin’.”

  “Yeah,” Fuller agreed. “Let’s do it and be done with it.”

  It was Injun Joe who discovered the campfire first. He found it, not by sight, but by smell. “I smell smoke,” he said, pointing. “There’s a campfire on the other side of the water.”

  The three men crossed the creek, moving as slowly and as quietly as they could. Then Fuller stopped. “Would you look at that? Why the hell would he build a fire like that? It’s almost like he is wanting us to find him.”

  “No, it’s ’cause he’s lookin’ for us, and didn’t figure on us lookin’ for him,” Simmons replied, laughing out loud. “We done it, boys! We’ve got ’im!”

  “He’s a cocky son of a bitch, ain’t he?” Fuller said. “I mean, buildin’ a fire like he don’t have no fear of nothin’ in the world.”

  “Yeah, well, why don’t we just see how cocky the son of a bitch can be with a couple of bullets in his gut?” Simmons suggested.

  The three men dismounted and tied off their horses, then they crossed the creek on foot.

  “You two stay back here,” Fuller whispered.

  “Why?”

  “He belongs to me.”

  “Be careful,” Pipestem said. “That is John Henry Sixkiller.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I know John Henry Sixkiller. He will be a hard man to kill.”

  “How hard can it be? He’s asleep now.”

  “It is said that when he sleeps, he can still see,” Injun Joe said. “Many have tried to kill him, but all have failed.”

  “No offense, Injun Joe, but you’re talkin’ about Injuns that have tried to kill him, and Injuns like to do things that’s honorable. Now me, I don’t give a damn about bein’ honorable. I just want the son of a bitch dead, and it won’t bother me none at all to shoot the bastard while he’s asleep.”

  “Yeah, well quit gabbin’ about it and do it,” Simmons said. “As long as the son of a bitch is dead, I don’t care how you kill him.”

  Simmons and Injun Joe waited down by the river as Pete started toward the campfire, a small, dim blaze that was now some fifty yards away. They watched until Pete was completely swallowed up by darkness.

  It had been a long, tiring trail. As a result John Henry, who was tired, dozed off several times during the night. But even while he was asleep, he was alert, and when, while approaching the campsite, Pete’s foot dislodged a pebble, John
Henry was instantly awake. By the light of the moon, John Henry saw someone approaching the “sleeping” saddle.

  John Henry raised his gun and watched and waited.

  The night intruder pulled his pistol out and pointed it toward the bedroll. He took careful aim, then fired twice. The muzzle flash of his pistol lit up the night, the booming sound of the shots echoed back from this hills.

  “Vernon! Vernon, I got him!” Fuller shouted.

  “Sorry. friend, but you missed,” John Henry called out from the dark.

  “What the hell?” Fuller shouted, spinning around and blazing away in the direction of the sound of John Henry’s voice.

  John Henry returned fire, using the flame pattern of Fuller’s muzzle-blast as his target. John Henry fired only once, but that was all he needed. Fuller dropped his gun, then crumpled.

  “Pete! Pete!” Vernon called from the darkness. “What’s happenin’, Pete?”

  “Fuller’s not going to answer you, Simmons,” John Henry said. “I just killed him. I think you and Injun Joe Pipestem had better come on in and give yourselves up.”

  “Like hell we will!” Simmons called back from the darkness.

  John Henry heard, but could not see, the two men running over rocky ground. He knew when they hit the creek because he heard water splashing. He looked toward the sound, trying to see them, and though he couldn’t see them, he could see the little fluorescent feathers of white water kicked up by their feet as they splashed across the shallow stream. John Henry fired a couple of times in the general direction of the white splashes, but the two were too far away and it was too dark for him to have a real target.

  Once Simmons and Injun Joe reached the other side of the creek, the white splashes disappeared, and John Henry could no longer see them. He could hear them though, through the scrape of iron horseshoes on hard rock as they rode away.