Authors: Kerry Newcomb
A second cup clinked as the man seated in the office with her drained his cup. With Gude’s Good Eats all boarded up, there had been few places where T. Alan Booth might take his breakfast. In the company of an old friend seemed a natural choice.
“You were right,” Booth said. “Tullock came here first thing. Reckon he doesn’t appreciate your ‘Yankee’ bias.”
The parson marshal slid his chair back, stood, and started toward the door. He tucked the flap of his frock coat behind the holstered revolver on his right.
“T. Alan, what are you doing?” Carmichael asked.
“Upholding the law,” he replied.
“Look through the window. Take a good look. They’re the law now.”
He hesitated, pondering her words of warning. Booth was not the kind of man to back down from trouble. But he was also a realist. Ordinarily he might have tried to run a bluff on the armed men in the street. But Tullock Roberts had lost a son and was out for revenge and did not care what the cost.
“Only two things in this office can’t be replaced. You…and me.” She rose from her chair and caught him by the arm and shifted her gaze to the door at the rear of the office.
“I’ve a couple of horses out back,” she added, then held up the packet that had so rudely crashed through her window and ruined her morning.
“We can deliver this to Jesse and find out what’s so important that someone had to break my window.” Carmichael was tempted to find out for herself if only she hadn’t been cursed with a pesky sense of honor. However, once she placed the packet in Jesse’s hands, nothing was going to stop her from looking over his shoulder while he read it.
Carmichael reached the back door, eased it open, and saw the alley was clear. Across the alley was a small, rudely constructed barn that needed a coat of paint and some fresh timber to replace patches of rotted siding. She had never gotten around to having the structure repaired. Now it didn’t matter.
“C’mon, T. Alan. Now is
not
a good day to die.” The parson marshal wrestled with his pride. At last common sense prevailed. He followed Carmichael into the alley. By the time they rode out of the barn Tullock had loosed half a dozen men inside the newspaper office and they were having themselves a time, overturning trays of type, hammering the press, smashing furniture, and tossing the last of the paper into the street. The
Chahta Creek Courier
might be out of business but, riding a swift horse into the morning sun, Carmichael Ross was already planning her first edition when the day came to print again.
Cap Featherstone appeared nonplussed by the turn of events as he waited on the top step in front of the Medicine Wagon Saloon. Cap had never looked finer in his brown frock coat and gold brocaded vest, his bandanna made from the same material as his vest. He leaned upon his sword cane and studied a circling hawk over Turtle Mountain. He hummed “Sweet Betsy from Pike” and tapped the side of his boot with the cane. The batwing doors behind him creaked on their hinges as Hud Pardee stepped out onto the boardwalk to join his employer. The gunman was not exactly dressed for the trail in dark woolen trousers and ruffled white shirt. His black sash held his guns within easy reach. Excitement gleamed in his cold blue eyes. Enos Clem was the next to appear. His pasty skin seemed even paler today. The gambler had come to realize he’d bought into a game before checking to see how it was played. However, he recognized in the crafty personage of Cap Featherstone a winning hand. He resolved to play along until the turn of the final card.
“Tullock’s back…and with the men he promised.” Enos Clem called over his shoulder into the saloon as Tullock Roberts paraded his command in front of the marshal’s office and then turned off Main Street and continued along Sixth toward the imposing, solitary structure of the house that Cap built.
Tullock sensed he and his men were being watched from behind windows and closed doors by townsfolk who professed Confederate sympathies. They were unsure of Roberts’s intentions. Not so the father of Samuel Roberts. Tullock knew what needed to be done. And by heaven, he had brought the men to see it through. By the time he reached the Medicine Wagon, a dozen men had filtered out of the saloon and were standing in the middle of Cherokee Street to await the master of Honey Ridge.
“Welcome back, Tullock,” Cap said, beaming expansively. “Your boys look thirsty. Hungry, too. There’s fixings inside. Help yourself.”
“We’ll see how welcome,” Tullock gruffly remarked. A religious man, he had no use for gamblers and saloon doves. However, the aroma of biscuits and bacon wafting through the doorway was beginning to change his opinion of Featherstone. Cap glanced at Hud, nodded, and faced the vengeful father.
“A man in my profession learns to be a shrewd judge of character. I know what’s on your mind,” Cap told the plantation owner. “You’re wondering just what side of the fence I’m on. You wonder whether my lads and I will ride with you.” Cap chuckled, and reached inside his coat and withdrew a saffron-colored hood, a coiled snake stitched above the eyes. “Hell, Mr. Roberts, we’ve been riding with you all along.”
Tullock recognized the hood and relaxed in the saddle. Perhaps he had misjudged Featherstone after all. Suddenly one of the men in the street fidgeted and caught Tullock’s attention. The plantation master did a double take, then frowned in recognition.
“Sawyer…and Buck Langdon…I left you and the other lads at Honey Ridge. What are you doing here?”
Sawyer Truett ran a hand through his oily dark hair, then kicked a dirt clod and scratched at his goatee. It had taken all his courage to come into town and face Tullock Roberts.
“Morning, Mr. Roberts. Me and Buck figured you’d come here first.” Sawyer’s mouth was dry. A trace of white spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. “We wanted you to hear it from us. Chris and Johnny, they got scared and run off. We stayed to set things aright.”
“What the devil are you trying to tell me?” Tullock snapped. “Has something happened to Arbitha?”
“No sir,” Sawyer quickly replied. Buck wagged his head behind the overseer. “Jesse would’ve never done her no harm.”
“Jesse McQueen.” Tullock spoke the name as one might utter a curse. He had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to like the news Sawyer was so reticent to reveal.
“He and Si Reaves paid a visit. They uh…well…got the drop on us and took off with the slaves.” Once he started, Sawyer spoke quickly to get the worst of it over and be done with it.
“Not everyone took off,” Buck Langdon interjected, trying to look on the bright side. “Some of the older coloreds stayed on.”
“The older coloreds,” Tullock grimly repeated.
“Jesse’s probably got them out at Buffalo Creek,” Sawyer said. “Reckon they’re about ready to push north through Buffalo Gap and follow the Kiamichi trail out of the mountains.”
At a signal from Tullock, the men of his command dismounted. Some were assigned to lead the horses to water and hay. The rest crowded through the front of the saloon, where a hot meal and strong drinks were provided on the house. Cap stood aside as the Knights of the Golden Circle jostled past. At last, he and Tullock were face to face once again. Sawyer had remained at Tullock’s side.
“What are your plans, Mr. Roberts?” Cap asked.
“To rest my men and their mounts,” Tullock replied. He wiped a hand over his square jaw and then rubbed the back of his neck. He was tired, but there’d be time to sleep when the job ahead was finished. “We’ll leave in time to bring us to Buffalo Creek by sundown.” He spoke plainly, firmly. Though driven by a thirst for revenge, Tullock resolved to take his time. Jesse’s column of refugees wasn’t going anywhere that Tullock couldn’t overtake them. If Jesse and the loyalists tried to run, Tullock would pick them off, wagon by wagon. If they elected to fight, one good charge and the Knights of the Golden Circle would swarm over McQueen and the fools who had followed him to their own destruction. As far as Tullock was concerned, the outcome was inevitable. The ghost of his son cried out from the grave and would not know peace until the blood of his killer soaked the earth. Tullock was not the kind of father to deny his son.
It was simply a matter of time now. Come sundown. Hurry, sundown.
A
FTER LEARNING FROM CARMICHAEL
Ross of Tullock Roberts’s return to Chahta Creek, Jesse McQueen ordered Theotis and Moses Tellico to guide the column of wagons and carts through Buffalo Gap, taking care to keep any stragglers from ending up in the grass-covered traps the brothers had blasted and dug out of the valley floor.
Mixed-blood Choctaws and freed slaves gathered up what belongings they could carry and started up the valley. Si and Willow Reaves and the field hands from Honey Ridge had walked and ridden into the valley with nothing but the ragged homespun clothes on their backs. Another nineteen mouths to feed had put a severe strain on the food rations. Raven, moved to pity the hungry fugitives yearning to be free, had thrown open her larder and the garden she had tended all summer. Peas were gathered, the sweet corn harvested, the smokehouse stripped clean. With the column under way, Jesse took the time to examine the contents of the packet Carmichael had brought him along with Parson Marshal Booth and the news that Tullock Roberts and the Knights of the Golden Circle were close at hand. Several families had complained that Jesse had delayed departure and invited ruination. Yet such people were reluctant to attempt the journey north on their own despite their outspoken disapproval.
Jesse walked away from the farmhouse and sat on the edge of the oak table where summer dinners had always been held beneath the shading boughs of a red oak. He sat alone, his features rigid, as if etched in stone.
Raven watched him and knew from Jesse’s lack of expression that he was upset. She had seen that same look in her husband, Kit, and in her son, Ben, when times were at their worst and desperate measures were in order. Carmichael started past her, but Raven caught her friend by the arm.
“He will tell you what you need to know,” she said.
The editor nodded, and waited alongside the older woman. T. Alan Booth paced the ground a few yards behind the women. He was like a stallion chafing at the bit. Nothing had turned out the way he figured. He detested the fact that he had been chased from town, but he could tell he was needed here just by looking at the families hoping to reach the Kansas border. These were storekeepers and merchants and farmers, not soldiers or militiamen. Hack Warner could use a gun. And there went Linc Graywater with Mary Lou Gude. The blacksmith was a capable man and would fight if pushed. Gip Whitfield had been one of the Texas Volunteers and was a fair shot. And the Tellicos were noted for their prowess with knife and gun and had never been known to run from a brawl. Seven seasoned veterans…eight if the Choctaw Kid sided with them, which Booth doubted. The rest, especially the freed slaves, even Si Reaves, were lambs to the slaughter for the likes of Tullock Roberts’s night riders unless Captain McQueen had a plan.
Jesse folded the banker’s confession, wrapped it in the oilskin and stood, warring with the desire to ride immediately for Chahta Creek and confront Cap Featherstone. He remembered the map of the surrounding territory in Cap’s office and the peculiar markings, which Jesse now realized denoted the land Featherstone had surreptitiously acquired. Cap’s ambitions had led him to profit on the misery of others and transformed him from Ben McQueen’s trusted friend to his would-be assassin.
The air was thick with the dust of the column as wagons, carts, and horses pulled away from the farmhouse and followed Buffalo Creek up between the forested hills that gradually closed in the deeper the trail wound into the mountains. Jesse hesitated and glanced toward his gray gelding, still tethered to the corral fence. It took all his self-control to keep from leaping astride the gray and galloping off toward town and Cap Featherstone.
But the weight of the medal against his chest turned his thoughts from revenge to the duty and responsibility of the column he intended to lead to safety. Cap Featherstone would have to wait. He walked across the yard to Raven and handed the packet to Carmichael Ross.
“You might want to see this,” he said to Booth, who moved forward to stand alongside the editor already beginning to read Lucius Minley’s incriminating farewell. To Raven he said, “Hack Warner’s left with your wagon. You and Lorelei better hurry along in the buggy. I don’t want you riding through the gap without one of the Tellicos to show you the way.”
“I’m staying here. I won’t be driven from my land by Tullock Roberts or anybody else.”
“Grandmother…do not even start.” He caught her by the arm and walked her back toward the house. The buggy had been brought out of the shed by the barn and left in front of the house. Lorelei already sat on the seat with Hecuba planted firmly on her lap. The goose honked and complained at all the commotion and craned its neck to peer around the buggy’s black canvas siding. Si Reaves walked his mount, allowing three sweet-faced children to sit astride the animal. Willow walked proudly at his side, and the newly freed slaves behind them began to lift their voices in songs of praise and deliverance that Jesse thought were a trifle premature. He wished he felt as confident. Come sunrise, their songs of thanksgiving might turn to mourning. He was going to need all the help he could get.
Raven was no match for her grandson’s strength. She ceased struggling and allowed him to propel her across the yard and right up to the buggy. Without a “by your leave” Jesse lifted Raven in his arms and deposited her alongside Lorelei. He handed the medicine woman the reins and leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“Hmmm. It seems you leave me no choice,” she sighed.
“None at all,” Jesse said. “Don’t stop until you reach the gap. One of the Tellicos will lead you through.” He looked at Lorelei. “See that she keeps out of mischief.”
“I can try,” the young woman replied.
“Fair enough.” Jesse stepped away from the horse as Raven flicked the reins and guided her spirited dun onto the path left by the advancing column. Carmichael and Parson Marshal Booth rode up to the house. The editor leaned down from horseback and returned the packet to Jesse.