From all appearances, he had learned well riding with the Daltons. His first move in forming a gang was to appoint Will Dalton as his second in command. Then, according to the grapevine, he had recruited a band of misfits and killers far worse than the Dalton Brothers. Among those he’d enlisted were Red Buck Waightman, Tulsa Jack Blake, Dynamite Dick Clifton, and Cimarron Tom Yantis. Their nicknames, like badges of dishonor, tagged them one and all as renegades. Under Doolin’s leadership, they began terrorizing the territory.
Tilghman, as well as Thomas and the other marshals, was taken by surprise. Doolin moved quickly, forging a gang while on the run, and proved to be far craftier than any of the Daltons. Less than a fortnight after the Coffeyville massacre, he and his gang robbed the Missouri-Pacific express on its passage through Indian Territory. After the holdup, Doolin adopted a new tactic, scattering his band to the winds throughout the Nations. The federal marshals were left with too many trails and too few clues. The chase ended hardly before it had begun.
U.S. Marshal Grimes then adopted a new tactic of his own. He summoned Tilghman and Thomas to Guthrie, and assigned them full-time to the Doolin Gang. By then the newspapers, always alert to a catchy headline, had dubbed this latest band of outlaws the “Wild Bunch.” No sooner were the Daltons wiped out than the Wild Bunch appeared, and Grimes was under immense pressure from the governor to bring them down. Given the circumstances, Tilghman saw no diplomatic way to turn in his badge. The ranch, and Zoe, would have to wait.
With Heck Thomas, he began scouring every known outlaw haunt in the Nations. Then, during the last week in October, the gang struck again. Crossing the border into southwestern Kansas, Doolin and his men robbed the bank in Spearville. The Ford County sheriff pursued the band as they fled southeast and crossed the line into Oklahoma Territory. There his jurisdiction ended and pursuit became a matter for the federal marshals. But the robbers scattered once more, taking refuge in the Nations. Organized pursuit ended at that point.
Tilghman and Thomas, still operating on their own, began searching for leads. Over the years, working as a marshal out of Fort Smith, Thomas had developed informants throughout the Nations. For the most part, they were Indian farmers who believed that lawlessness, whether red or white, ill-served the Five Civilized Tribes. Their information came from a backwoods grapevine that was part fact and part rumor, and often unreliable. Fearing for their lives, few red men told the whole truth where white outlaws were concerned. Even fewer risked being identified as the source.
Late that afternoon a farmer outside Nowata had taken the risk. Unlike most Cherokees, his resentment of white men was not wholesale. Some he trusted and some he didn’t, and Heck Thomas had long ago earned his confidence. The rumor he’d heard placed Tom Yantis at the home of a farmer on Red Rock Creek. Word had it that Yantis paid a steep price for refuge and the farmer’s silence. But only yesterday, at the general store in Nowata, the farmer had displayed newfound wealth. When asked about his sudden prosperity, he’d been unable to resist a brag. He had a generous friend, one of the notorious Wild Bunch. Cimarron Tom Yantis.
Shortly before sundown, Tilghman and Thomas made camp along the creek. Though they both wore mackinaws, the night promised to be cold, and they selected a sheltered spot in a grove of trees. After tethering their horses, Tilghman began dressing a rabbit he’d shot along the trail. Thomas gathered wood, built a fire, and soon had a coffeepot perking. They traveled light, but there was always room for a small pot and a bag of coffee beans in their saddlebags. That was one luxury neither of them were willing to forego on a manhunt.
By dusk, they were seated around the fire with steaming cups of coffee. Their saddles served as comfortable backrests, and they watched as the rabbit roasted on a spit made of green tree limbs. There was now an easy familiarity between them, borne of long days and nights on trail. Neither of them was given to small talk, nor were they bothered by silence. Any conversation generally centered on their work.
“Funny,” Thomas said in a musing tone. “You bust your ass chasing all over creation and getting nowhere. Then you ask a simple question and presto! You’re on the right track.”
Tilghman sipped coffee, warming his hands on the metal cup. “Guess it all depends on who’s being asked the question. Not many Cherokees would give a straight answer.”
“Cherokees, Choctaws, they’re all the same. I must’ve spent a year in the Nations before anybody would talk to me. They just don’t cotton to white men—lawmen especially.”
“How’d you finally get on their good side? The ones that give you leads?”
“Wasn’t easy,” Thomas allowed. “Took time to get ’em to trust me. ’Course, there’s damn few that give a hoot in hell about lawbreakers. Most figure it’s just white man’s business.”
“Understandable,” Tilghman said. “Leastways if you look at it from their standpoint. Whites aren’t known for giving Indians a square deal.”
“Christ, tell me about it! After all these years, there’s still not more than a handful that’ll part with information.”
“Well, we got it today, Heck. I reckon that’s what counts.”
According to their source, the farm they sought was another three or four miles upstream. They planned to camp overnight and be on
