After some moments of conversation, Stratton excused himself and strolled off into the crowd with his daughter. Tilghman considered the brief interlude all too short, and reluctantly turned away. As he fell in beside Keokuk, he found Heck Thomas approaching them. He introduced Keokuk, who seemed drawn now by the savory aroma of the roasting beef. Announcing that he was hungry, the chief walked off toward the fire spits.
Thomas smiled. “Looks like you made yourself a friend, there.”
“Good one, too,” Tilghman acknowledged. “Him and his men have been a big help in getting the ranch started.”
“Sounds like you’ve got things well in hand.”
“No complaints so far. What brings you to Chandler, Heck?”
“Same old thing,” Thomas said. “Trailin’ the Dalton boys.”
“Thought you would’ve caught them by now.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Thomas appeared somber. He went on to relate that the Dalton Gang had robbed two trains within the last month. One was on the Santa Fe line, and the other was an express car on the Katy line. In the latter holdup, the express car guard resisted and had been killed. After each robbery, the gang had vanished into the Nations.
“Got a tip,” Thomas concluded. “Word’s around that some of the gang was sighted north of here.”
“In Oklahoma Territory?” Tilghman said quizzically. “Why wouldn’t they stay holed up in the Nations?”
“Damn good question.” Thomas frowned, clearly troubled. “These boys are runnin’ us ragged, Bill. We’re always a day late and a dollar short.”
“I remember the feeling, Heck.”
“Last week Jim Masterson signed on as a marshal. But hell, he’s only one man, and we’re still spread thin. We need somebody that knows the ropes.”
Tilghman stared at him. “Why do I get the notion you’re here to see me?”
“Saw through it, huh?” Thomas shrugged, lifting his hands. “You’re too good a lawman to sit this one out, Bill. Forget duty and obligation and all that. I came here personal to ask your help.”
Tilghman was silent for a long moment. He still felt a strong reluctance to again become involved in law work. Yet he found it difficult to refuse a personal appeal from a man he respected. One who had now become his friend.
“Let’s say I signed on,” he said. “You understand it wouldn’t be permanent?”
“Any way you want it,” Thomas quickly agreed. “Just stick with me till we clean out this bunch.”
“I’ll need a week to get things squared away at the ranch. Then we’ll call it official.”
“Goddamn, I knew you wouldn’t turn me down! We’re gonna nail those bastards, Bill. Mark my word!”
“So far as I’m concerned, the sooner the better.”
Tilghman’s attention was distracted. Through the crowd, he saw Amos Stratton and his daughter watching couples swirl around the earthen dance floor. He nodded to Thomas, leading the way, and cleared a path through the spectators. Halting beside the Strattons, he tipped his hat to the girl.
“Miss Stratton,” he said, smiling. “I’d count it an honor if you’d like to dance.”
Amos Stratton gave him a sour look. But the girl graced him with a radiant smile and accepted his hand. He led her onto the dance floor, holding her at a respectful distance, and caught the beat of the music. They glided off into the throng of dancers.
Heck Thomas watched them with a broad smile. His toe tapped in time to the music and he mentally patted himself on the back. By his reckoning, the ride to Chandler had been worth every mile.
He’d landed his man.
CHAPTER 8
Trees along Red Rock Creek clattered in a bright and nimble wind. The tawny grasslands bordering the stream were littered with drifts of scarlet and gold. There was a frosty nip in the air, and at night, streamers of ice had begun to form along the banks. To those who could read the sign, it was a portent of a long winter.
Early in November Tilghman and Thomas forded Red Rock Creek. They were south of Nowata, a backcountry crossroads located deep in the Cherokee Nation. Their trail had led from Oklahoma Territory to the Kansas border, and then into the hinterlands of Indian Territory. They were tracking Tom Yantis, a member of the Wild Bunch.
In late September, Tilghman had taken the oath in Guthrie and pinned on the badge of a deputy U.S. marshal. He’d done so with lingering reservations, partly due to his reluctance to be away from the ranch. A new aspect, and perhaps a larger part, was his reluctance to be away from Zoe Stratton. After the election day celebration in Chandler, they had begun keeping company on an informal basis. Nothing serious but nonetheless a budding relationship, one he intended to pursue.
Then, hardly a week after he’d been sworn in, the Dalton Gang had staged a daring raid. Bob Dalton and his band of renegades had attempted to rob two banks simultaneously in Coffeyville, Kansas. Their plan went awry from the beginning, and armed townspeople blocked any hope of escape. When the gunfire ended eight men—four citizens and four bandits—lay dead in the street. Three of the Dalton brothers, Bob, Emmett, and Grat, were among the dead.
The Dalton Gang had been wiped out on the streets of Coffeyville. Only two of the outlaws had escaped, a blooded killer named Bill Doolin and the last of the brothers, Will Dalton. For a week or so, federal marshals thought their major problem had been eliminated. Tilghman had signed on to help rid the territory of the Daltons, and for all practical purposes, the Dalton Gang had ceased to exist. His thoughts turned to the ranch, and Zoe, and he began planning a tactful way to resign his commission. Once again, thanks to the citizens of Coffeyville, he could put aside the badge.
But then, as though risen from the ashes, Bill Doolin took up the mantle. Within a week of the Coffeyville massacre he had formed a gang
