“For all we know,” Thomas said, as though reading his mind, “we could be out of a job ourselves.”
“Have you talked to Nix?”
“Not to speak of,” Thomas replied. “Went by the office the day he took over. We shook hands and danced around the mulberry bush. He told me to sit tight until the meeting tomorrow.”
“That’s it?” Tilghman said. “No clue about what he intends?”
“Whatever it is, he wasn’t talkin’.”
“How’d you size him up?”
Thomas frowned. “Way I figure it, he’s a crossbreed. Half go-get-’em businessman and half politician. Likeable enough, but a quick, no-nonsense way about him.”
“What’s the word around town?” Tilghman asked. “Does he aim to use the marshal’s office as a steppingstone to something bigger?”
“Haven’t heard anything, but it wouldn’t come as no shock. He’s like fleas on a dog with the bigwig Democrats.”
Tilghman knuckled his mustache. “So we’re betwixt and between until tomorrow. Nothing to go on.”
“Looks that way,” Thomas grumped. “Just a cog in the wheel.”
“What about Chris Madsen? Hear anything about him?”
“Yeah, he rode in late this afternoon. Sat where you’re sittin’ and asked the same questions. I had no more answers then than I do now.”
Tilghman caught the concern in his voice. “What will you do if Nix turns us out to pasture?”
Thomas suddenly laughed. “Bill, I’ve been a lawdog most of my life. Never yet had a problem finding another badge.”
“All the same, we started out to catch Doolin. I hate to leave a job undone.”
“You’ve shore swung around, haven’t you?”
“How’s that?”
Thomas grinned. “Hell’s bells, I had to twist your arm to sign you on. Now, you’re worried it won’t last. Go ahead and tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re a bad influence,” Tilghman said with a slow smile. “Knew it the day I met you.”
“Howsomever, we’re alike in one way, my friend.”
“What way is that?”
“We feel naked without a badge—don’t we?”
Their eyes locked in a moment of silent communion. Then, slowly, Tilghman nodded.
* * *
The following morning, at eight o’clock sharp, Thomas, Madsen, and Tilghman trooped into the U.S. marshal’s office. To their amazement, they were the only ones there. None of the other deputies had been summoned.
Evett Nix was a stocky man, on the sundown side of forty. His manner was brusque and businesslike, his eyes penetrating and shrewd. He greeted them with a perfunctory handshake and asked them to be seated. Then, wasting no time, he went straight to the point.
“First things first,” he said. “All the deputies on the roster still have a job. That includes you three.”
A sense of tension seemed to melt from the room. He waited a moment, allowing them to absorb the news, then went on. “Walt Grimes lost his job for two reasons, gentlemen. One, which amounts to bad luck, he was a Republican. And second, which was a matter of poor timing, he failed to bring Bill Doolin to justice.”
Again, he paused, awaiting a reaction. When none of the men spoke, he continued. “One day, I may lose this job because I’m a Democrat. But, gentlemen—” He stopped, looked each of them directly in the eye. “I assure you I will not be turned out because of some half-assed desperado. Bill Doolin will be caught.”
Nix let the words hang in the air. He had been standing during the entire speech, and now he took a seat behind his desk. He steepled his fingers into a church, staring at them.
“Mr. Thomas. Mr. Tilghman. In your opinion, why is Doolin still on the loose?”
Thomas and Tilghman exchanged a look. After a moment, Tilghman took the lead. “You’ll recollect that Jesse James was betrayed and killed, but never caught. That’s because he adopted the tactics of Quantrill, the Civil War guerrilla. Doolin operates the same way.”
“Hit and run,” Thomas added. “Then scatter and go to ground. Like Bill says, he’s real slippery.”
“I agree,” Nix said, surprising them. “So we’re going to increase the heat on Doolin. As of today”—he nodded pointedly to Chris Madsen—“you three are assigned to the Wild Bunch.”
Tilghman looked uncomfortable. “Are we being transferred?”
“No,” Nix said. “You’ll stay in Chandler. Mr. Madsen remains in El Reno. And Mr. Thomas here in Guthrie. But starting now, you forget whiskey smugglers and other small-timers. Your efforts will be solely directed to Bill Doolin.”
“Amen to that,” Thomas said approvingly. “Do we work separately or as a team?”
“Do whatever the situation demands. Just get the job done quickly. Understood?”
Without waiting for a response, he looked at Tilghman. “An unsigned letter arrived the day I took office. Are you familiar with the town of Ingalls?”
“Never been there,” Tilghman said. “It’s about a half day’s ride north of Chandler.”
“According to the letter, Doolin has a hideout somewhere around Ingalls. I want you to scout it out on the quiet. Any questions?”
There were no questions. Nix shook their hands and the three lawmen walked to the door. In the hallway, Tilghman looked first at Madsen and then at Thomas. His expression was quizzical.
“What do you think, Heck?”
“Boys, I think we’ve got ourselves a marshal. Hooray and hallelujah.”
CHAPTER 11
Three days later Tilghman rode into Ingalls. He wore rough range clothing and he was posing as a horse trader. The name he’d adopted was Jack Curry.
Tilghman had given considerable thought to the assignment. He was working on the premise that the information received in the anonymous letter was correct. If so, then Doolin was hiding out in the vicinity of Ingalls, betrayed by someone for reasons as yet unknown. Outlaws were oftentimes brought down by betrayal rather than good detective work.
Still, the letter itself was just a starting point. To pinpoint the location of Doolin’s hideout would require detective work. So Tilghman had decided to operate undercover, adopting a disguise. In small towns, particularly one harboring a
