Oklahoma Showdown (An Indian Territory Western Book 1) Page 2

  Dace swallowed his bitter resentment. He could clearly see that the future had been firmly fixed by powers beyond his control.

  But George’s attitude was decidedly different.

  The last evening on the ranch, now denuded of cattle, was spent in Dace’s cabin as the two partners drank corn liquor out of tin cups. The law had decreed that they vacate the premises the next morning, and the younger man was all spit and growl.

  “Carpetbaggers run my pa off his place, but nobody’s gonna do the same to me!”

  Dace knew this was more than just an angry man blowing off steam. A genuine revolution had been created by the situation, and he knew there was absolutely no way he could rein in George’s fury.

  “It’s gonna take war, Dace,” George said.

  “You need an army to have a war,” Dace reminded him. “And I ain’t seen too many loose soldiers around here.”

  “There’s plenty of ’em,” George countered. “Ever’ rancher and cowboy who’s been kicked off his place is just waiting for somebody to come along and get ’em all together into an army of sorts.”

  “Sounds more like a gang to me,” Dace said.

  “Call it what you like. It’ll get the job done, and all the squatters’ll be run outta here.”

  “What’re you gonna do?” Dace asked. “Raid the farms like they was enemy forts?”

  “Damn right!” George replied. “We’ll tear up the fences and burn the barns down.”

  “But new towns will be popping up too,” Dace reminded him.

  “We’ll attack them too,” George said. “There’s banks to be robbed—and trains too! And once these squatters have figgered out it’s too dangerous for ’em in Oklahoma, they’ll head back where they come from.”

  Dace kept his young partner’s cup full of the fiery drink and let him explode, hoping that he would give in later on.

  But that was not to be.

  After Dace and George liquidated their meager assets as profitably as possible, the older man mounted his faithful Appaloosa and headed for the brand new town of Guthrie to see what opportunities might be open to a former journeyman cowpuncher.

  George McClary, drunk or sober, was not so accepting of a situation he considered intolerable. As full of fight as an unbroken mustang, he turned his hatred against the newcomers who invaded the range-land. The same swaggering, outspoken side of George which had captured Harriet’s heart now chilled her as she trembled at his unbridled desire to smash the interlopers.

  George didn’t give up his decision that the best way to deal with the situation was to change it. He declared war on both the homesteaders and any lawmen foolish enough to back them up. Harriet begged him to reconsider, but he was adamant.

  George left her and the kids at her father’s farm, then gathered together other local cowboys who shared his sentiments. With the cadre, he began a wave of terror and lawlessness across the new land.

  While George McClary went on a rampage, Dace Halston began his struggle to adapt to the new ways. Most of the jobs he was able to get proved demeaning to a once proud and independent rancher. He swept out saloons, worked as a hired hand in a livery stable, and even served as a guard for a gambler of questionable honesty who ran a chuck-a-luck game from a booth amid the shanties and tents of Guthrie’s first business establishments. But the days of humiliation ended when he landed a job as deputy town marshal and launched himself into a new career as a lawman.

  Dace, of course, knew of George’s activities. The potential occurrence of a clash between them weighed heavily in the back of his mind. It chilled his soul to think of meeting head on with him standing on one side of the law and George McClary on the other.

  Chapter Two

  Bright mid-morning sunlight streamed into the marshal’s office as Dace studied the checkerboard with a nervous frown. He glanced up once at his opponent’s intense face, then made his move.

  “Goddamn it!” Leon Spalding said. “If you’d done what I hoped, I’d cleared you off the board.” He sat inside the cell reaching through the bars to move the playing pieces around on the table in front of Dace.

  Dace grinned. “You wanted me to move that one, didn’t you?” He pointed to a red checker more advanced than the others.

  “Hell, I ain’t telling you,” Spalding said. “I don’t wanna give away my plans.”

  “You mean you planned that mess?” Dace asked with a laugh, pointing at Spalding’s sparse army of markers scattered around the board.

  “Just you keep a-laughing,” Spalding said. He made his move and Dace immediately took two more of his pieces. “Goddamn it!”

  The office door clattered open. Ed Kelly, the town marshal, interrupted the game when he stuck his head into the office. “Court in fifteen minutes, Dace. You gonna need me for anything?”

  “No,” Dace answered. “Only prisoner we got is Leon here.”

  “Well, you two get on down there then,” Kelly said. “I’m going to breakfast. I’m running late this morning.”

  “Sure enough, Ed,” Dace said standing up. “I got you beat anyhow, Leon.”

  “The hell if you do,” Spalding protested.

  “Any damn fool can see your back is to the wall,” Dace insisted.

  “No checker game is over ’til one feller loses all his pieces,” Spalding said. “I ain’t lost all mine, so it’s a draw.”.

  “Draw!”

  “Hell, no, I won!” Dace exclaimed.

  “Goddamn it, Dace, don’t you go claiming no such thing,” Spalding said.

  “You ain’t even got any kings,” Dace pointed out.

  “Don’t mean I couldn’t get any,” Spalding said. “And, by God, the rules say the game ain’t over ’til one side is cleared off the board—it’s a Goddamn draw.”

  “All right,” Dace said relenting. He unlocked the cell door. “But I would’ve won.”

  “I don’t think so,” Spalding said holding out his hands as the handcuffs were snapped on. “I tole you I had a plan. And it was working perfect, believe me.”

  “Aw, hell, Leon,” Dace scoffed. “Well, c’mon, let’s go see what the judge is gonna do to you.”

  The deputy and his manacled prisoner replayed the checker game in animated conversation as they walked down the street. They attracted only minor attention from the passers-by. These people, numerous in the dirt street, were either bustling about on frantic business while deeply involved in settling into the new community; or they were aimless drifters, looking for opportunities—legal and otherwise—to profit themselves in the area.

  The local judge, actually an attorney named Archibald Dunkin, preferred to spend most of his time in his own law practice and dabbling in land deals rather than dispense justice. But he was ready with his court ledgers in order when Dace and Spalding arrived at his office. This was actually a tent that he was forced to use as he waited for his frame structure to be completed.

  “What do we have here, Dace?”

  “Leon Spalding,” Dace answered. “Assault and battery, disturbing the peace, and resisting arrest.” Then the lawman laughed. “And playing terrible checkers.”

  “Now just a minute, Dace!” Spalding protested. “I tole you that game wasn’t over yet.”

  “You can settle that out of court,” Dunkin said cheerfully. “What’s the specifics in this case?”

  “He beat up one of the girls at Minerva’s,” Dace said.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” the judge asked.

  Spalding shrugged. “I don’t know. I was drunk, I reckon.”

  “Well, then, how do you plead to those charges?”

  “Oh, hell,” Spalding said thoughtfully. “I reckon I done ’em.”

  “That’s a ten dollar fine then,” Dunkin said.

  “I ain’t got ten,” Spalding said. “I had ten, but I give half of it to that damn whore.”

  “Then you have five dollars?” Dunkin asked. When he received an affirmative nod from Spalding, he banged his gavel. “
Five dollars or five days.”

  “I’ll pay the money,” Spalding said. He fished around in his pockets and produced a tightly folded piece of paper. He spread it open on Dunkin’s desk revealing several coins. “There’s five dollars cash money there. Can I go now?”

  Dunkin counted out the amount. “Sign the charge sheet first. You, too, Dace. We must keep the paperwork in order.”

  “I cain’t write my name,” Spalding said matter-of-factly.

  “Give us your mark then,” Dunkin said. “We’ll both witness it for you.”

  The two bent over the document in their turn, then Dace turned to his former prisoner. “Want to go back over to the jail and finish that game?”

  “Hell, yes!” Spalding exclaimed.

  “Wait a minute,” Dunkin said. “E. D. Nix wants to see you, Dace. He dropped by earlier and said it was important.”

  “Why didn’t he come by the jail?” Dace asked.

  “I don’t know for sure,” the attorney answered. “Probably was in a hurry. He’s going to be appointed U.S. marshal for the Territory. I think he wants to offer you a job.”

  “You oughta take it, Dace,” Spalding said with a grin. “No more wrestling matches in whorehouses.”

  “You’ll receive a larger salary,” Dunkin said.

  “That clinches it right there,” Dace said. He turned to Spalding. “That checker game is gonna have to wait about an hour or so.”

  “Aw, hell, forget it,” Spalding said. “I got places to go. Maybe we’ll see each other some other time, Dace.” He offered his hand. “Nice knowing you.”

  “Same here,” Dace said, shaking with the released miscreant. “So long.”

  The two parted company and Dace made his way through the unorganized hodgepodge of shacks, new wooden buildings and tents to the wholesale grocery business run by E. D. Nix and his good friend Oscar Halsell. It was evident, as he entered the establishment, something most unusual was afoot.

  Nix, a husky, pleasant appearing Kentuckian, sat at a desk surrounded by a group of tough-looking men. Dace recognized several well-known, experienced frontiersmen and starpackers among the crowd: Bill Tilghman, Chris Madsen, Heck Thomas, and Bat Masterson’s brother Jim.

  All were giving their complete attention to Nix who suddenly stopped when he spotted Dace standing in the back of the crowd.

  “Dace, c’mon up here,” Nix said. “I have a proposition for you and don’t want to waste a lot of time.”

  “Sure, Mr. Nix,” Dace answered. “How’re you doing?” He nodded to the others as he made his way to the desk.

  “I’m fine, thanks, Dace,” Nix said. He indicated the newcomer to the others. “Gentlemen, not all of you know this fellow. His name is Dace Halston. He’s lived in these parts for many years as a rancher and knows this area as well as any man. And he’s proven himself to be a fine law officer here in Guthrie.”

  Dace grinned shyly. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Nix.”

  “He’s also a bit on the modest side,” Nix said. He grinned and winked at Dace. “Dace, as soon as President-elect Cleveland is inaugurated, he’s appointing me the United States marshal for the Oklahoma Territory.”

  “Yeah,” Dace said. “Judge Dunkin said something about that. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” Nix said. “I’m building an organization, Dace, a fighting organization, and I’ll need good men to serve as field deputies. I’m offering you a posting as deputy U.S. marshal. The pay isn’t much, but I guarantee you’ll have the satisfaction of performing a tremendously important service in making this great territory a place where decent people can thrive and prosper without fear of attack by criminals and other riffraff.”

  “Sounds like you’ve taken on a hell of a job, Mr. Nix,” Dace said pointedly.

  Nix laughed. “I certainly have. But both Oklahoma and the Indian Territory have been havens for desperados seeking escape and sanctuary from the law for so long that they are firmly entrenched here. They must be dug out and brought to justice once and for all. It’s not a completely thankless task, Dace, but it is a dangerous one fraught with long hours and physical hardships.”

  “Sounds a hell of a lot like ranching,” Dace said lightly. Several of the men in the room laughed. “So it’ll be nothing new to me. I’ll take it.”

  Nix smiled. “I’m very pleased to hear you say that. Now let me fill you in on my official policies, Dace. I mean to have them followed as closely as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dace said respectfully.

  “First,” Nix said, “I want you to remember you’ll be going up against the meanest, most desperate men in the frontier country. I want you to always keep the safety of yourself and innocent citizens foremost in your mind.”

  “I’ll do that,” Dace said.

  “On the other hand, if any of these fellows—especially ex-cowboys—see the folly or futility of following the owlhoot trail, they should receive special consideration. I want every man in my force to be willing to give any outlaw with a sincere desire to go straight a helping hand and lots of understanding.”

  “Surely, Marshal Nix,” Dace agreed. He thought of George McClary and knew his young friend would never back down from his self-declared war against society.

  Nix continued. “And I want you to be very selective in employing your guns, Dace. Let’s not have any individuals charged with a minor crime gunned down wantonly or forced unnecessarily into situations where there might be gunplay. Protect yourself, like I said before, but I’ll expect mature, intelligent judgment on your part. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dace said. “And I’m ready to do the job.”

  Nix smiled. “Fine. Even if I haven’t officially received my appointment, I am still empowered to swear you in.”

  Dace nodded and raised his right hand.

  ~*~

  Harriet Eldridge McClary put away the last of the supper dishes. She poured herself a cup of coffee and stood by the kitchen counter sipping it. She looked out the window to the south toward Oklahoma, where her husband George was. Although it was late, and both her father and children were in bed, she felt restless, agitated, and unable to go to sleep.

  Harriet still had much of the prettiness that had made her so popular with the young swains at the barn dances and socials in her youth. Her face showed some strain now. She had matured a great deal, but her hair was still deep gold and thick like a teenage girl’s. Her mouth, full and naturally rosy, seemed to show a grimmer set than before. But somehow her beauty was enhanced by aging. In a kinder environment, Harriet McClary would have been the envy of both the women her own age as well as younger ones striving to be belles-of-the-ball.

  She continued to pensively sip her coffee and stare out the kitchen window at the moonlit bleak Kansas landscape that stretched out from the farmhouse into the night.

  This had been her routine for the three months since her husband George left her and the kids at her father’s before galloping off to fight in the war he had decided to wage against the settlers south of the Oklahoma line.

  But this night turned out different.

  A slight movement by the smokehouse caught her attention, and she involuntarily gasped. A few more seconds of staring convinced her that the shadows weren’t playing tricks on her eyes. Without a doubt something—or someone—was moving out there. After a few moments she could discern the dim shape of a man coming toward the house. Despite the bad light, the walk was unmistakable. Her cup clattered to the kitchen counter, and she rushed out the door.

  “George! George!” she cried and rushed into his arms.

  “How’s my darling?” he asked hugging her hard. Then he kissed her in his gentle way before pulling his face away. “Mmm! You still buss good.”

  “So do—you,” she said through her sobs. “Oh, George, why’d you—stay away—so long?”

  “Now I been busy, darling. Don’t you fret none,” George said. “I think we’d best get inside.”

  “I got some hot
coffee on,” Harriet said wiping her eyes. “I make some every night—just in case you might show up.”

  “That’s real nice, darling,” George said smiling. He kissed her again as they went into the warmth of the kitchen. “We ain’t gonna stop here, are we?”

  “What do you mean, George?”

  He grinned. “Let’s get on into the bedroom. I’m needing my woman.”

  She resisted. “Can’t we visit first, George? I haven’t seen you in so long. And you haven’t even asked after the kids.”

  The impatient anger was evident in his voice. “Christ! All right, if we got to make a ceremony out of it.”

  She ignored his ill humor and tried to speak lightly. “Are you back for good, George?” Harriet asked, pouring him a cup of the thick, black coffee. “You aren’t going chasing around there any more, are you?”

  “I got to, honey,” George said taking the coffee. He sipped it and smacked his lips. “First good cup o’ Java I’ve had since I left you off here.”

  “Why don’t you forget those settlers down there, George?” Harriet asked, settling herself in his lap. “They aren’t worth worrying about.”

  “I ain’t just after the settlers,” George said. “I got a score to settle with them businessmen, bankers and railroaders too. They’re the real cause of us losing our ranch.”

  Harriet tried to steer him away from the subject that always made him uncontrollably angry. “It’d be a good time for you to move in here now, George. There’s only some mending and light chores to do since it’s winter. Then this summer you could be a real help to Papa. He’s getting on in years and isn’t as strong as he used to be.”

  “I ain’t no dirt farmer,” George said. “I’m a cattleman, by God. I lived as one and I’ll die as one, or know the reason why.”

  Harriet sighed. “What are you doing down there anyhow? I pray you’re not breaking the law, George.”

  George grinned. “If I ain’t breaking it, then I’m sure bending the hell out of it.”

  “Oh, George! You’re going to get in trouble.”

  “Won’t be the first time,” he said. He held out his cup for a refill.