Up ahead, in the deepening twilight, he saw the glow of lamps from the Stratton house. The ranch was situated along the banks of Quapaw Creek, with a sprawling log house overlooking the stream. To the rear of the house, there was a log barn with a corral attached to one side. The barn had stalls for ten horses and a milch cow, with cleared ground to the north for further expansion. There was a solid look of permanence about the place.
Outside the house, Tilghman reined his team to a halt. He stepped down, snapping a lead rope onto one horse’s bridle, and left the team tied to a hitch rack. The air was sharp and brittle, and as he walked toward the house, it occurred to him that there was little question of a white Christmas. He crossed the porch and rapped lightly on the door. From inside, he heard the sound of footsteps.
Amos Stratton opened the door. “Good evening, Bill.” He motioned inside. “Come in out of the cold.”
“Evening, Amos.” Tilghman stepped through the door, removing his hat. “Looks like we’ll get snow before long.”
“I would judge tomorrow at the latest.”
Stratton led him into the parlor. By now they were on a first-name basis, though Tilghman was never comfortable in the man’s presence. There was a forced cordiality between them, and he sensed that Stratton somehow disapproved of him. Nothing spoken, but nonetheless there.
A stack of logs blazed in the fireplace. Tilghman shrugged out of his greatcoat and hooked it on a coat-rack beside the door. As he entered the parlor, Stratton waved to a sofa.
“Have a seat,” he said. “Zoe will be along directly. She’s still getting ready.”
“Fire feels good tonight.”
“Yes, you’ll have a cold ride into town.”
Tilghman took a seat on the sofa. Stratton dropped into an easy chair and began loading a pipe. Watching him, Tilghman thought he had the look of a lonely man. Zoe’s mother had died several years ago, and Stratton, who owned a farm in Missouri at the time, had taken it hard. Later, after selling the farm, he’d decided to join the Land Rush and homestead land in Oklahoma Territory. From his manner, he had yet to escape the ghosts of his past.
Stratton struck a match, lighting his pipe. He puffed a wad of smoke and tossed the match into the fireplace. “How’re things?” he said distantly. “Your horses making out all right?”
“Ask me come spring,” Tilghman said. “I’m hoping Steeldust sired some fast-steppers.”
“Never understood what interests you about racehorses.”
“Lots of money to be made with racing. Not bragging, but I did pretty good with that operation over in Guthrie.”
“Saddle stock,” Stratton announced. “There’s always a market for saddle horses. Good business, solid and dependable.”
“That why you got into it?”
“Farmed most of my life and little to show for it. Horses look to me to have a brighter future. Saddle horses, anyhow.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Tilghman agreed. “I see racing as a sideline with big potential. The other part of my breeding is for ranch stock, good cow ponies. That’s steady business.”
A silence fell between them. Stratton stared off into the fire, puffing his pipe. Tilghman got the impression that the other man was trying to pick an argument. But to what purpose, or for what reason, was unclear. At length, Stratton looked around.
“What’s new with the Wild Bunch?”
“Not a whole lot,” Tilghman admitted. “Seems like they’ve gone to ground.”
“You think they’ve quit the territory?”
“Doolin’s not the type to quit and run. Not from what I’ve heard, anyway. I tend to doubt we’ve seen the last of him.”
Stratton grunted. “So why’s he laying low?”
“One guess is as good as another. I reckon only Doolin knows the answer.”
For all their determination, the federal marshals had been singularly unsuccessful in running Doolin to earth. The gangleader and his Wild Bunch seemingly had vanished into thin air. Nearly two months had passed with no robberies, and no reported sightings of Doolin or his men. Nor were the informants of Heck Thomas able to turn up a lead in the Nations. Despite rewards now totaling ten thousand dollars, there was nothing but silence. No one knew anything.
Tilghman suspected that it was somehow tied to the death of Tom Yantis. The killing might well have convinced Doolin and his gang to take a breather. Or for that matter, what with the cold and snow, the Wild Bunch might simply have taken the winter off. They had money in their pockets from the last bank holdup, and they could easily have decided on a holiday. For all anyone knew, they were in New Orleans or St. Louis having the time of their lives. After their money ran out and the manhunt subsided, they could return to work. There was always another train to rob.
In the meantime, Tilghman had kept himself occupied with the ranch and the routine tedium of a lawman. While liquor was legal in the territory, its sale was restricted to white men. Federal law made it a felony to sell alcoholic spirits of any variety to an Indian. The prohibition made for a brisk business in Oklahoma Territory, particularly along the borders of the Creek and Seminole nations. Over the past month Tilghman had arrested eight whiskey peddlers and confiscated their wares. All of them had been treated to a swift trial, and convicted.
Still, Tilghman had little interest in apprehending backwoods whiskey smugglers. He was convinced Doolin would resurface, and he stayed on because he’d given his word to Heck Thomas. Beyond that, he saw a pattern of lawlessness developing in Oklahoma Territory. Before the land runs, Texas ranchers had leased great tracts of grazeland from various tribes. But with settlement,
