“Of course it is,” the smoking Choctaw half-breed said.
“Halito,
Bodeen.
Chish nato?”
Millard Mann breathed out a sigh of new life. While a couple outlaws were shaking their heads at or cussing out the man called John Smith, Millard nodded at the smoking Indian. “Hello yourself, Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee.” He waved at the Indian. “Been a long time. And”âhe couldn't help but grin and shake his head in wondered amazement at his good fortune before answering the Indian's questionâ“I'm doing mighty fine.”
Now.
It was a puzzlement. Holding the reins to his paint horse in his left hand and the Winchester shotgun in his right, a kneeling Jackson Sixpersons studied the signs. The tracks of the massive freight wagon led right into the roaring, flooding waters of the Red River.
Yet the oxen had not pulled the wagon into the river. Several men had pushed the wagon into the Red and the current had pummeled what had been left of Wildcat Lamar Bodeen's whiskey hauler. The remains must be resting on the bottom or smashed along the banks farther downstream.
Several men had come across where the wagon had been parked, approaching on foot. Later, horses had joined them, and they had ridden not along the riverbank, heading for one of the ferries downstream to go into Texas, but north and east. The oxen had been scattered by a rider on a good cow pony.
Well, for one, they didn't want or need the wagon. But they wanted the three people with the wagon. Also, they weren't going to Texas, but staying in the Nations.
Chickasaws? No. Those Indians had turned back earlier. The riders had come in from the east, but they weren't Choctaws. At least, most of them weren't. Sixpersons had known Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee long enough to recognize the half-breed's moccasin prints. He'd also spotted the markings of the shoe on his pony's left forefoot. He had made a note of that track when the cigarette-addicted Indian had told him about the whiskey runner Bodeen.
Counting the rider who had held off the Chickasaws when Bodeen had been killed, Sixpersons knew he was chasing eleven. Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee? There was no telling which hand the Choctaw breed would play. He might help out Sixpersons; he might kill him. The three from the wagon? He didn't know them or anything about them, other than he could arrest them for running contraband spirits into Indian Territory. The others? Well, he had a good inkling those would be Link McCoy, Zane Maxwell, Tulip Bells and whatever other gunmen they had recruited.
Sixpersons studied the twelve-gauge. He would need a whole lot more firepower to tackle that gang, and he had more than a fair idea that those marshals he had asked to rendezvous with him at Fort Washita were probably still in Arkansas.
Sixpersons started to stand then heard the twin clicks of a double-barrel shotgun being cocked behind him.
Orr, Chickasaw Nation
There wasn't much to the town (
settlement
might have been a better word) of Orrâyetâbut it had what the McCoy-Maxwell Gang needed. It was so new, not enough years had passed to fade the whitewash on the frame buildings. It had boasted a post office since '92, and although probably fewer than two hundred people called Orr home, it brought in farmers, Indians, and traders for business. After all, in that part of the Indian Nations, cities and stores could be hard rides apart from one another.
Orr dreamed of having a famous city square like Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory, or Fort Worth, Texas, but the merchants had yet to buy into the city founder's fancy, evidenced by the dominant feature of vacant lots. A few single-story buildings had been erected, and business boomed in two buildings cattycorner from one another. Both general stores boomed because anything could be purchased at either of the mercantiles.
Like raw ethyl alcohol.
Like sugar.
Like plugs of tobacco.
Like red pepper, gunpowder, and strychnine.
“What's the poison fer?” asked the mustached clerk in sleeve garters and an Irish cap.
“What else?” Millard Mann answered. “Wolves and coyot's.”
The clerk nodded. “What else you need?”
“Five pounds of bacon,” Millard answered. “Sack of flour. Sack of corn meal. Tub of lard. Some of those cans of peaches and tomatoes, about ten each. Let's say a half-dollar's worth of those penny candies you got in that jar. And three or four cans of that.” He pointed to the shelves behind the clerk's head.
The clerk had written it all down on his order form, then licked his pencil, made a few additional notes, and nodded as he stuck the pencil above his right ear. “Take me a while to get it all fer you.”
“No rush. Let me have one of those plugs of tobacco, and me and my pard 'll wait on the bench. Just holler when it's all ready.” Turning, Millard nodded at the mustached villain called Red, picked up the tobacco the clerk slid in front of him, and walked out onto the boardwalk in front of the store. He sat on a crate that served as a bench, leaned against the rough frame wall, and opened the tobacco.
“I heard what all you told that fella.” Red leaned on the wooden column that held up the awning and stared hard at Millard.
“Wasn't a secret.” Millard bit into the tobacco, tore off a chunk, and pitched it to the gunman, who caught it, studied it, smelled it, and finally decided it wasn't poisoned.
He bit off a fair-sized wad and began softening it with his molars. “That coffee and such. Maxwell didn't tell you to order that.”
“You don't drink coffee?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Tell Maxwell. Tell McCoy. Tell anybody.” Millard paused to let a couple Indian women carrying paper-wrapped packages to pass, worked the tobacco some more. It had to be the lowest grade he had ever tried to chew. “Two strangers come into this store, buy nothing but what anybody in these parts knows is usually bought to make forty-rod whiskey, and what do you think that clerk's going to do? He's going to alert the town law, if a place this size has a lawâ”
“It ain't.” Red grinned. “That's how come Maxwell picked it.”
“But Tishomingo's not far from here, and that clerk would be letting the United States Indian Police know his suspicions. Or some federal deputy. Ordering coffee and that other stuff makes the clerk thinks he's outfitting a couple new settlers to the territory, ones who have a coyote and wolf problem and like to chew a lot of tobacco.” Millard spit perfectly between Red's boots.
“Well . . .”
Thinking, Millard knew, was not Red's strongest suit.
“Well . . .”
“Well,” Millard said, “I told McCoy that if he wanted not to attract suspicion, he shouldn't buy everything in one store.”
He had told McCoy no such thing, and actually, the gang leader was across the town squareâempty except for a well and some hitching postsâbuying a few other items, including kegs to put the poisoned whiskey in, kettles to help brew the concoction, and, if he had more brains than Red, flour, bacon, coffee, and tobacco to throw off any suspicion. Maxwell was over at the livery off the town square, buying two wagons, one to pick up the supplies McCoy was ordering and one to haul the strychnine and alcohol and other items to wherever it was that they planned to brew the liquor.
Millard looked across the street. He couldn't see McCoy inside still dickering with a clerk, but he could see Tulip Bells, Jared Whitney, and Steve Locksburgh positioned at various points in case something went wrong and gunplay erupted in the small but busy town of Orr. Bells waited closest to the livery. Undoubtedly, he'd be driving one of the wagons. The man called John Smith had stayed outside of town in an arroyo with the half-breed Choctaw, keeping a watch on Robin Gillett and James.
Millard scratched the palm of his right hand with the barrel of his holstered Colt. The outlaws had let him keep his sidearm, knowing it would look strange for a man in that part of the world to ride into town “undressed,” as the saying went. Of course, they had unloaded the converted Colt before shoving it back into his holster, and the only cartridges in his shell belt were empty casings for the Colt and his Winchester repeater. They had let him keep the rifle in his scabbard on the saddle. Likewise, they'd unloaded it as well.
He took off his battered hat to fan himself in the heat of the day and smiled pleasantly as farmers and farmers' wives walked about town. He wondered what Libbie and his youngest children would be doing.
Things had happened quickly after Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee had told McCoy and the ruffians that Millard was indeed Wildcat Bodeen. They had unhitched the team of oxen, and Red had driven them off toward the west, and while the cowboy-turned-renegade was doing that chore, the rest of them, including Millard, his son, and Robin, had shoved the heavy wagon into the Red River.
The current had taken the big wagon almost instantly, and it had capsized in a white foam and disappeared in the mad torrent.
As soon as Red returned, they had left, Millard riding his liver chestnut between McCoy and Locksburgh. John Smith had ridden double with Robin, and James had been forced to ride with Tulip Bells, but only until they had reached the first farmhouse a few miles northeast of the river.
The McCoy-Maxwell Gang had stolen two mountsâan old mule and a gray horse blind in one eyeâbut the animals were game enough to carry Robin and James. The owners of the animals hadn't been home, so no one had been killed. Millard's luck still held.
The stolen animals had been left in a gulley a few miles south of Orr, and James and Robin had been forced to ride double again until they reached the arroyo where they had been left under guard. Millard didn't think any harm would come to them. At least, not until he had brewed the poison whiskey.
He spit again.
Tulip Bells mounted his horse and eased the animal to the livery. A few minutes later, he had tethered his mount behind a farm wagon and was driving the team of big mules pulling it toward the general store across the street. Ten minutes after that, Zane Maxwell exited the livery in a covered wagon, his bay mare tied behind it, and made for Millard and Red.
The wagon stopped, and Maxwell dismounted without a word after setting the brake. He gathered the reins to his horse, checked the cinch before swinging into the saddle, and rode away. South. Toward the arroyo where they would rendezvous later to pick up the others.
The clerk stuck his head out of the door, left open to allow a breeze on the stifling afternoon. “Your stuff's read, mistah.”
Millard spit and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Let's get moving, Red. I've a hankering to get back to our spread and eat some fresh biscuits.” He smiled at the clerk, who turned and disappeared inside the store.
Red just blinked in confusion, but followed.
“We can help you with that,” the clerk said as Millard handed Red the flour and cornmeal.
“No. We like to do our own work, sir.” Millard watched Red carry the heavy load toward the waiting wagon.
Red stopped at the door, waiting.
“What's the final damage?” Millard asked.
The clerk told him.
Millard suggested a few dollars less.
The clerk grunted.
Red moved onto the boardwalk and carried the flour and cornmeal to the wagon.
“Tell you what,” Millard said softly, “how about a box of .32-20 Winchester?”
Frowning the clerk dropped behind the counter to fish out the box of cartridges, and Millard fished out the gold coins McCoy had given him.
That had troubled Red, too, but Maxwell had told his gang member that he didn't trust Red with money, that Red wouldn't know if the store clerk was cheating him, that Red might even try to cheat Maxwell.
Red was back, heading toward the counter, when the clerk came up and slapped a box of cartridges on the counter, but Millard positioned himself in front of Red, blocking his view. He found the boxes of poison and sugar, and loaded those onto Red's big arms, and as the man snorted and carried that load to the wagon, Millard turned back to pay the clerk.
Quickly, he opened the box of Winchester rounds, emptied a handful into his hand, and dropped those into the pocket of his pants. Red was coming back inside, so Millard pushed the box behind the counter.
The clerk stared and tried not to curse Millard for his clumsiness.
“Sorry,” Millard said, gathering his change and pushing the greenbacks and coin into his pocket.
The clerk disappeared behind the counter to pick up the scattered rounds, and Millard helped Red with some of the merchandise.
Outside, Millard watched Tulip Bells drive the wagon full of kegs, kettles, and other items around the corner.
McCoy rode straight toward Red and Millard. He stopped at the rear of the wagon, struck a match on the horn of his saddle, and fired up a black cigar. “Five miles south of Fort Washita along Caddo,” he said just loud enough for Millard and Red to hear, “there's a dugout. That's where you'll find us. Get there as quick as you can and don't let anyone follow you.” He puffed on the cigar and pointed it at Millard. “If he gives you any trouble, Red, kill him.” An icy, unfriendly grin then spread across McCoy's face. “But he won't give you any trouble. Because he knows, if he does, those two children . . . will be dead before he is.”