Winchester 1887 Read online

  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.”

  Denison

  “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.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kiowa-Comanche-Apache Reservation, summer 1895

  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.

  Camp Creek, Indian Territory

  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 satis
faction 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.