Winchester 1887 (21 page)

He did not lower the Winchester '87, but kept the barrel pointed at the ground as he slowly rose, releasing the reins to the piebald, and carefully turning around to face the man with the shotgun.

Actually, there were two men.

The short, stocky one wore nondescript clothing, had a nondescript face, cavalry gauntlets on both hands, and a pair of Colt revolvers holstered on his hips. The one on his left had the butt facing forward. Sixpersons, however, would not call the Greener shotgun nondescript, not with those sawed-off barrels aimed at his gut. The white man held the double-barrel at his waist, his face grim, his fingers ready.

Beside him, holding the reins to two horses, stood a tall man with a black hat, blue shirt, linen duster, black stovepipe boots, gray pants, adobe-colored chaps, and a silver badge. The badge was a five-point star cut out of a coin. A Texas Ranger. His face had been relentlessly beaten by the sun, and while his mustache seemed permanent, the beard covering the rest of his face appeared a more recent growth. An ivory-handled Schofield revolver was holstered on his right hip.

With his left hand, Sixpersons pulled back the vest to reveal the badge on his shirt.

“Indian police?” the Ranger asked.

“And a deputy U.S. marshal,” Sixpersons answered.

“Charley,” the Ranger said, and the double-barrel Greener's hammers were softly lowered.

The Ranger did not introduce himself, but led a big black horse and a smaller dun toward Sixpersons, who picked up the reins to his paint horse, but kept an eye on Charley with the Greener.

“Looking for Bodeen,” the Ranger said. “The whiskey runner.”

Sixpersons pointed the barrel of his shotgun at the tracks. “His wagon went into the Red.”

Charley with the Greener snorted and spit tobacco juice into one of the footprints. “He wouldn't be fool enough to cross here.”

“Bodeen has crossed another river,” Sixpersons said.

The Ranger straightened, his eyebrows knotted, and his fists clenched. “What do you mean?”

“Bodeen's dead.”

For the longest while, the only sound came from the river, the wind, and the chirping birds. At last, the Ranger released his fists and sucked in a deep breath. He exhaled, and stared hard at Sixpersons. “You kill him?”

The old Cherokee shook his head. “Killed himself.”

That caused the Ranger to stagger back. He wet his lips, rubbed his bearded chin, and asked, “Why?”

Sixpersons shrugged.

“Why?” the Ranger asked again.

“If I had to guess, I'd guess that he had a belly full of his poison. Decided to take the coward's way out.”

Charley with the Greener snorted. “He wouldn't drink that stuff.”

“Don't think it was his own idea,” Sixpersons said.

“Whose?” the Ranger asked.

“Chickasaws.” Sixpersons tilted his head north. “Happened about two days' ride that way. That's where I found his body. Whiskey barrels were destroyed. The wagon came this way.” He pointed to the river. “Till some others caught up with them here.”

“You sure it was Bodeen?” the Ranger asked.

“Crazy-looking white man. One eye missing, like it had been plucked out years ago. Wore buckskins.”

The Ranger said nothing, but his face revealed that, indeed, the dead man had been the whiskey runner. “I wanted to kill him,” he said finally.

Sixpersons nodded. He had figured that much. Texas Rangers typically did not cross the Red River and leave their jurisdiction unless they felt like it.

“He killed my kid,” the Ranger said. “Killed some other white men. I wanted to kill him.”

“He killed plenty of Indians, too,” Sixpersons said, but the Ranger did not appear to hear.

Charley with the Greener sighed and shoved the shotgun into the scabbard of his horse, the puny dun. “Reckon I don't get no money. Figger to ride down to Spanish Fort and get good and drunk.”

Sixpersons thought about letting the man ride off, but as soon as Charley had swung into the saddle, the old Cherokee cursed his luck and said reluctantly, “How much was the Ranger offering you?”

That got the attention of both men.

“Enough,” Charley said.

Enough could have been five dollars, Sixpersons guessed, for a man like Charley with the Greener.

Again, Sixpersons pointed his shotgun barrel at the tracks. “I'm after these men.”

The Ranger blinked, but otherwise showed nothing.

Charley with the Greener spit tobacco juice and shook his head. “What's that worth? Two bucks for an arrest. Split between the three of us. Think I'd rather get drunk in Spanish Fort.”

“I figure the rewards for the McCoy-Maxwell Gang will tally a bit more than two dollars,” Sixpersons said.

Without a word, the Ranger mounted the big black, pulled down the brim of his hat, and locked his gaze onto Jackson Sixpersons. “What about Bodeen's kid?”

Sixpersons shrugged. “Likely rode off with the rest of the gang.” He pointed northeast.

“I don't care about a reward,” the Ranger said. “You two can split that up. I'll just kill Bodeen's spawn.”

Remembering what Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee had told him back in the cabin at Limestone Gap in the Choctaw Nation, Sixpersons wet his lips. “That kid's a girl. No more than sixteen years old.”

“She's a whiskey runner and killer, just like her old man. I couldn't kill Bodeen. But I will kill that kid. An eye for an eye.” The Ranger spurred the big black and rode out, leaning low in the saddle, trying to pick up the tracks.

Charley with the Greener grinned and followed, and Jackson Sixpersons mounted his piebald, all the while wishing that he had kept his big mouth shut.

It was beginning to smell like whiskey.

Following his father's orders, James Mann stepped out of the dugout to gather more firewood. It was a relief to step out of the sweltering hole in the ground and feel a light breeze, if blistering sun, on his skin. Behind him limped Robin Gillett, and the two made for the pile of wood under the careful eye of the gunman called Steve Locksburgh.

They said nothing, just walked past the half-breed who sat cross-legged and rolled a cigarette while coughing savagely.

When each had an armload of wood, they went back, sweating profusely, and ducked to get back into the dugout, followed by Locksburgh.

Millard stooped in front of the fireplace, stirring the contents in a blackened caldron. He stepped back, motioned for James to dump his load on the fire, and directed the girl to drop her wood beside the fireplace. James blinked sweat from his eyes and quickly backed away from the scorching fire. He looked at his father, whose clothes were so wet with sweat they stuck to his skin.

“Reminds me of when I was younger than you kids,” Millard said with a grin, “and Pa would be boiling goober peas. Hot work. Hot work.” He winked at the gunman. “But worth the sweat. Same as this.”

“I ain't drinkin' yer rotgut,” the gunman said, fanning himself with his hat.

“Not if you want to live,” Millard said with another wink. “At least, not this batch, but I'll make some special for all y'all.” He went back to stirring the pot.

As the new wood flamed to life, the heat intensified. James had to guess that it must have been at least one hundred and twenty-five degrees in there. And about to get hotter.

Two minutes later, Steve Locksburgh said he had had enough and hurried outside into the ninety-degree day to cool off.

As soon as the gunman had left, the smile vanished from Millard's face, and he left the stick in the caldron, grabbed a canteen of water, and stepped back against the wall. “You kids all right?” he asked, wiping his mouth with his wet sleeve.

James wiped the sweat from his face, and nodded. Robin did the same.

“Just hang on. We'll get out of this . . . somehow.” Millard tossed the canteen to Robin, who took several long gulps.

She pitched it to James, who really wanted to just empty the contents on his baked head, but he knew better. Ma and Pa had always drilled into him that water was precious, not to be wasted. He took two short drinks, and screwed the cap back onto the canteen to reduce any further temptation.

“How . . . ?” James had to swallow, summon up strength just to talk. “Where'd you learn to make whiskey?”

His father grinned. “Kids, I'm what you call winging it.”

“But everything you said back at the river crossing . . .” Robin said.

“Well, first”—Millard wiped away more sweat—“you learn a few things when you work with mostly Irish railroad workers. And”—he cleared his throat—“I've known quite a few men handy with a still in my day.”

James blinked, not just sweat, but surprise. He had always thought of his father as the taciturn, hardworking man with no sense of humor, one who'd never even lived, just worked. Recently, he had found out that his father—his very own pa—had been a lawman, could shoot almost as good as Uncle Jimmy could, had done his share of raising Cain, and knew a lot more than how to survey or grade a railroad line.

James hooked a thumb toward the open door. “That Indian out there. The half-breed . . . you knew him?”

Millard gave a short nod. “Lucky for us.” He motioned for the canteen, which James picked up and tossed to his father. Once Millard had taken two more sips, he said, “Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee. Choctaw father. White mother. All Indian. Jimmy worked with him some in the Nations. I knew him years back in Texas.”

“He's a lawman?” Robin asked.

Millard set the canteen on the ground. “Not hardly. Mostly he's what we called an informant.”

“You mean . . . you pay him for information?” James asked.

“That's right.”

“So why did he lie, tell those men out there that you are Wildcat Lamar?”

“For money,” his father replied. “Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee doesn't do anything free. We get out of here alive, he'll be well-rewarded.”

“And if we don't?” Robin asked.

James waited, wondering how his father would answer.

Millard shook his head. “We'll get out.”

“But if we don't?” the girl insisted.

“Then Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee will be well-paid by Zane Maxwell or Link McCoy. He plays both hands.” Millard's head nodded as if in satisfaction or appreciation. “Like I said, Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee doesn't do anything for free.”

“Will he help us?” James said. “When we escape?”

Again, his father surprised him with honesty. “Only if the percentages favor us.”

As far as James could tell, they would not.

The doorway darkened, and Millard put on his grin again, fanning himself while one man, then another, came into the dugout. Almost instantly, both men began fanning themselves with hats.

“How's it coming?” Zane Maxwell asked.

“Getting there,” Millard answered.

“How much longer?” Link McCoy asked.

“Well, usually, I age my whiskey ten weeks.”

“You have two days,” McCoy said flatly.

“Two days'll work, too. Just have to keep the brew hot longer. You fetched the rattlesnake heads? Need six per keg, and you bought six kegs.”

“Smith and Red are out hunting now,” Maxwell said.

Millard's head bobbed. “Good. Good.”

“Is it poisoned?” McCoy stared at one of the kegs for a long time, then looked at the cauldron filled with bubbling brew.

“Strychnine I add last,” Millard said, pointing to the containers of poison. “You want to taste?”

The killer answered with a grin. “I bought some rye.”

“Good for you. But I'm glad you brung up the poison, because that leads to another important question.”

“Which is?” Maxwell inquired.

“How dead do you want them?”

The outlaws eyed one another then looked back at James's father, their faces stunned.

“I like to kill my people slow,” Millard said. “Make them suffer.”

James stared at his father in utter wonderment. His pa seemed to be a natural thespian, taking on the role of Wildcat Lamar Bodeen the way one of the Booth brothers might have tackled Hamlet or Macbeth.

“How long till you want them dead?” Millard snapped his finger, which caused Robin to jump as if she'd been struck. “Quick. Take a sip and keel over deader than a doornail? Make them cough up blood and die in agony a week later? I got to know those things, boys. To figure out the proportions and all that. This is science. Pure science. Ask anyone in Indian Territory, and they'll tell you that Wildcat Bodeen is a regular scientist, an apothecary.”

Seeing the look on the men's faces, Millard laughed, walked over to one of the boxes, and pulled out the small bottle of strychnine, holding it up. A skull and crossbones appeared on the label. He slipped his pinky finger into the lanyard and pulled out the cork. James could not take his eyes of the tiny bottle, maybe holding one-eighth of an ounce of the pale grains. The poison had been manufactured by a chemist in Baltimore.

“You two boys know nothing about strychnine, do you? Well, here's the way it works. Not much color to it, as you can see, but it tastes bitter as gall. The sugar and the pepper and all that tobacco will disguise that bitterness when folks is drinking their liquor. First they'll get sick to their stomach, puke their guts out, but nobody will think nothing of it because that's what drunks do when they've gotten themselves liquored up. They'll wish they was dead. That's also what drunks do when they've had that much whiskey.

“Just when they think they can't get no sicker, the convulsions will start up then get longer. And longer. Then they'll be frothing at the mouth like one of them hydrophoby dogs. That's how it'll go. Worser and worser, until their guts start with spasms that'll double them over. They'll beg for death, and it'll come. Not soon enough. But it'll come. They won't be able to breathe. And they'll get lucky because the spasms will knock them out. And when they wake up, they'll be in hell.”

He shook his head in delight. “That's what you want to know, ain't it? What you want to hear?”

Maxwell did not answer, but stared hard at his partner, which led James to believe it was McCoy's show. Well, it was the
McCoy
-Maxwell Gang.

McCoy stopped fanning himself and put on his hat. “Not instant death. But quick.”

“Hour? Week? Month?” Millard fired off the questions like rifle shots.

“Six hours.”

To James's surprise, McCoy's words came out like a tremble.

“No more . . . than . . . say . . . eight. . . . No less . . . than . . .”—he swallowed—“um . . . four. No, six. No less than six. No more . . . than eight.”

Millard grinned. “Troubles you, don't it?” He followed that with a slap of his knee and a belly laugh. “You like to kill quick. That's why you cut down that old Winchester shotgun of yours. Kill quick. This ain't your game, is it?”

“Just do your job. Or I'll kill you quick.” McCoy stormed outside to breathe in fresh air, to get away from the stink.

Maxwell stayed inside for another minute, still fanning himself, and finally put his hat on. “You sure this'll work?”

“On my end, absolutely. I don't know nothing about what you're planning, but this whiskey, it'll kill . . . in six to eight hours. That much I can promise you. All the rest? Well, that's up to you and him.” Millard pointed at the open doorway through which McCoy had exited. “Will that plan work?”

“It'll work,” Maxwell said. “We can guarantee you that.”

Even James could detect the false bravado in the killer's voice. Their plan wasn't a bank robbery, a stagecoach holdup, or some train job. The McCoy-Maxwell Gang was branching off into a new territory.

“Reckon you'll see,” Millard said.

Maxwell had turned to climb out of the dugout, but he stopped, turned, and stared hard at Millard. “You'll see, too, Bodeen. Because you'll be with us.”