“Liable to be fireworks,” Thomas said grimly. “Yantis has a reputation as a hardcase. I doubt he’ll go peaceable.”
“Let’s hope otherwise,” Tilghman replied. “Dead men don’t tell tales.”
“You talkin’ about Doolin?”
Tilghman nodded. “We need to take Yantis alive. He likely knows where Doolin’s holed up.”
Thomas snorted. “But will the scutter talk, or even surrender? I’d say he’s more likely to fight.”
There was no arguing the point. Despite the efforts of federal marshals, Oklahoma Territory remained a spawning ground for outlaws. The men who rode the owlhoot refused to acknowledge either the rights of the people or the might of the law. Over the line, in Indian Territory, the deadly game of hide-and-seek raged on unabated. The marshals held their own, generally killing more than they captured since the wanted men seldom surrendered without a fight. Yet there were scores of fledgling badmen waiting to fill the boots of every outlaw killed. Across the blackjack-studded hills of the Nations there was no end in sight.
“All the same,” Tilghman said now, “Doolin’s the prize catch. Let’s try to take Yantis alive.”
“No harm in tryin’,” Thomas conceded. “Just don’t get yourself killed in the bargain. Or me either.”
On that note they fell silent. The rabbit, already split down the backbone, was removed from the spit. Fairly tender, dripping with succulent juices, the meat satisfied their hunger. After a final cup of coffee, the fire was built up against the chill night’s wind. Then, their thoughts on tomorrow, they crawled into their bedrolls.
No more was said about Tom Yantis.
* * *
A faint streak of silver touched the eastern sky. The cabin stood in a clearing with a ramshackle shed and a corral off to one side. Beyond, in a large field, withered corn stalks bent beneath the morning frost. A tendril of smoke drifted skyward from the cabin chimney.
The lawmen waited in a stand of trees along the creek. Their horses were securely tied in a similar grove some hundred yards downstream. On foot, they had made their way along the north bank and taken a position opposite the front door of the cabin. They waited now for full dawn.
Tilghman carried a Winchester .44–.40 saddle carbine with a shell in the chamber. Thomas was armed with a 10-gauge double-barrel shotgun loaded with buckshot. Though both men packed pistols, experience dictated that a long-gun served better in the event of trouble. Given a choice, no man resorted to a pistol in a gunfight.
The sky slowly paled into full light. Neither of them spoke, for their plan was already in place. Thomas stepped clear of the trees, his shotgun extended, and advanced toward the cabin. Tilghman skirted the clearing, moving toward the shed, to cover the rear of the cabin. Three horses stood hip-shot in the corral, eyeing him warily as he approached. One of them suddenly snorted, and the other two took alarm. Hooves clattering on the frozen ground, they bolted to the opposite side of the corral.
The noise was like a drumbeat in the still air. From inside the cabin someone yelled, and the sound of feet on plank floors was plainly heard. Tilghman ducked behind the shed, thumbed the hammer on his carbine. Out front, Thomas threw the shotgun to his shoulder.
“Tom Yantis!” he shouted. “Federal marshals. Give yourself up!”
The back door burst open. A man in long johns and mule-eared boots rushed outside. He was carrying a cocked pistol in one hand and his pants in the other. As he turned toward the corral, he spotted Tilghman and abruptly stopped. His eyes were wide with fear.
“Hold it!” Tilghman ordered. “Drop the gun!”
Yantis reacted as though galvanized by the command. He snapped off a shot which thunked into boards of the shed. Thomas stepped around the corner of the house as Tilghman brought his Winchester to bear. The crack of the carbine mingled with the roar of the shotgun.
Struck from the front and the side, Yantis stumbled away in a nerveless dance. His long johns went red with blood and the pistol dropped from his hand. Then, arms flailing, he pitched to the ground.
Thomas advanced slowly, covering the rear door with his shotgun. He saw the Cherokee farmer dart a look through the open door, then slam it shut. Tilghman walked forward and knelt beside the fallen outlaw. He was amazed to find Yantis conscious, still alive.
“Tom,” he said urgently. “Can you hear me?”
“Sonovabitch, you done killed me.”
“Where’s Doolin, Tom? Go out with a clear conscience. Tell me where to find Doolin.”
Yantis smiled. “Go to hell.”
Wet bubbles frothed his mouth with blood. The smile slipped, then vanished, and his eyes went blank. One boot wiggled in a spasm of death.
Thomas came closer. “What’d he say, Bill?”
“Told me to go to hell.”
“Stupid bastard! Dumb as a goddamn rock. They all are!”
“Yeah, but he went out like a man, Heck. Leastways according to his lights.”
“What d’you mean?”
“He died with his boots on.”
Tilghman climbed to his feet. He stared down at the body, thoughtful a moment. Then he turned, headed back toward the creek. His features were solemn.
So much for taking Tom Yantis alive.
CHAPTER 9
The sky was dull as pewter. Tilghman studied the western horizon, where roiling clouds screened a late afternoon sun. There was a crisp smell in the air, and with Christmas only two days away, he wondered when it would snow. He hoped it would hold off until after tonight.
The Methodist Church in Chandler was holding a tree-decorating party. There would be food and fruit punch and carols to launch the Christmas season in proper style. Zoe had invited him to escort her to the party, even though he was a backslider where church was concerned. She jokingly threatened to bring him back into the fold.
Tilghman was still somewhat astounded by his own behavior.
