Ingalls was about what Tilghman had expected. The main street was less than a quarter mile long, with frame structures wedged together in a small business district. There were the usual shops and stores, with a saloon situated across from a two-story hotel. At the far end of the street, a livery stable was separated from the other buildings. Houses were randomly scattered across the land surrounding the business district. From all appearances, the population was less than four hundred people.
Tilghman tried to think like the man he hunted. From Doolin’s standpoint, there was a certain warped logic in choosing Ingalls as a hideout. The town was located close to the Kansas border, and Doolin could easily stop off there after raids across the state line. Moreover, Guthrie was only a half day’s ride to the west; no one would expect the Wild Bunch leader to hole up so near the territorial capital. With the rest of the gang scattered throughout the Nations, Ingalls was the last place anyone would look for Doolin. In many ways, it was a perfect hideout.
Tilghman reined to a halt outside the saloon. A recent snowfall had melted off, and the street was thick with mud. As he stepped down from the saddle, he was aware of the scrutiny of people along the boardwalks. Word spread quickly in a small town, and he warned himself not to overplay his hand. One misstep, particularly among people friendly to Doolin, and he would be pegged as a lawman. He took his time, acting the casual traveler, and loosened the cinch to give his horse a breather. Then, stamping mud from his boots, he entered the saloon.
The interior was bathed in sunlight from the front windows. Along one wall was the bar, and tables and chairs were arranged along the opposite wall. Halfway down the bar, in the middle of the room, a large potbellied stove glowed with heat. A lone customer stood with one foot hooked over the brass rail, staring into a whiskey glass. The barkeep, sporting a handlebar mustache, was wiping down the counter. His expression was neutral.
“Help you?”
“Gimme a beer,” Tilghman said. “Little early for the hard stuff.”
“Says you,” the customer retorted in a slurred voice. “Ain’t never no bad time for a drink.”
“No offense, mister. Just makin’ conversation.”
Tilghman removed his mackinaw and draped it over the counter. The bartender filled a schooner from the tap, then walked back and placed it in front of Tilghman. Leaning closer, he cut his eyes at the other customer. He spoke in a muffled voice.
“Don’t pay him no mind. He’s got a snootful.”
“Likes his liquor, does he?”
“Every town’s got a barfly. He’s ours.”
“Know what you mean,” Tilghman said. “In my business, I see lots of towns. They’re all the same.”
“What line you in?”
“Horse trader.” Tilghman stuck out his hand. “Name’s Jack Curry.”
“Joe Harmon.” The barkeep accepted his handshake. “You from hereabouts?”
“Here, there, and everywhere. I buy stock for the army.”
“Army payin’ good these days?”
“Top dollar.” Tilghman sipped beer, wiped foam off his mustache. “Government buys the best for its soldier boys.”
Harmon nodded. “That what brings you to Ingalls?”
“Heard there were some good size ranches around these parts. Thought I’d have a looksee.”
“Yeah, there’s some with horses.”
“Anybody special?” Tilghman inquired. “I’m lookin’ for top-notch stock.”
Harmon considered a moment. “You might try the Dunn brothers. Got a spread out on Council Creek.”
“Yeah, you do that,” the barfly crowed, chortling a drunken laugh. “Careful of their visitor, though. He don’t cotton to strangers.”
“What visitor’s that?”
“Why, the big man hisself—”
“Close your trap!” Harmon thundered. “Or somebody’ll close it for you.”
“Hell, Joe, I ain’t tellin’ tales outta school. Everybody in town knows.”
“You heard me, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. Button your lip!”
“Aww, for chrissakes.”
The man wobbled away with his whiskey glass, dropping into a chair at one of the tables. Harmon stared at him angrily, then let out a long sigh. He shook his head, glancing at Tilghman.
“Pay him no mind. Just a drunk runnin’ off at the mouth.”
“None of my business,” Tilghman said pleasantly. “Sounded like hot air to me.”
“Bastard’s full of it, all right.”
“Let’s get back to horses. You were tellin’ me about—what’d you say—the Dunn brothers?”
Harmon appeared troubled. He wrestled with it a moment, then shrugged. “Bee and George, they’re brothers. Always got horses for sale. Ask for either one.”
Tilghman got directions while he finished his beer. After paying for the drink, he gathered his mackinaw and headed for the door. The barkeep’s display of temper convinced him that he’d struck a nerve. Even more so from the barfly’s slip of the tongue. The Dunn brothers were hiding someone.
Outside, Tilghman surveyed the street. Across the way he saw a barber shop, and decided to probe a bit further. A few minutes later he was seated in the barber’s chair, once again relating his business as a horse trader. The barber was a loquacious man who admired the sound of his own voice. His shop, just as Tilghman had suspected, was a clearing house for the town’s gossip.
“Yessir,” the barber said, snipping away with his scissors. “The Dunn boys pride themselves on their horses. You ought to do right well.”
“Guess they made the run like everybody else?”
“Ummm.” The scissors stopped, and the barber’s voice dropped to a confidential tone. “Don’t tell ’em I told you, but they were Sooners. Got themselves the best piece of land on Council Creek.”
“Mum’s the word with me,” Tilghman promised. “Curious you mention it, though. I heard something over in the saloon that’s hard to believe.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“Well, there was this drunk—”
“Lon Anderson, a first-rate boozehound!”
“Never caught his name,” Tilghman went on. “Anyway, he says the Dunns are hidin’ that outlaw, Bill Doolin. Damn hard to believe.”
The barber glanced around the empty shop, as though he might be overheard. “Not exactly a secret,” he said softly. “Everyone in town has known about it
