“Judas Priest!” Thomas muttered. “It’s open season on outlaws.”
“I don’t like it,” Tilghman said quietly. “That makes us judge, jury, and executioner—hired guns.”
“Think about it, Bill.” Thomas looked dour. “None of the bastards ever surrender peaceable. They always put up a fight.”
“Heck’s right there,” Madsen added. “They’re like a pack of rabid dogs. I say better them than us.”
Tilghman still appeared doubtful. Before it could go any further, Nix took the lead. “Orders are orders, and we have ours. I want you gentlemen to locate Will Dalton.”
The three lawmen stared at him without expression. Though couched in subtle terms, there was no ambiguity in his directive. Nor was he allowing them a choice.
Will Dalton was to be found and killed.
* * *
Four days were required to locate the farm of Houston Wallace. By horseback, it took three days for the lawmen to reach the heart of Chickasaw country. Another day was spent in clandestine meetings between Heck Thomas and informants he had developed over the years. Finally, by early afternoon on the fourth day, they had a solid lead. The farm was situated south of Ardmore, on Elk Creek.
The need to move quickly was all too apparent. The Chickasaws, like tribesmen throughout the Nations, were openly defiant of federal marshals. Word would spread rapidly that they were in the area, clearly there in search of white outlaws. Will Dalton and his men, if they were hiding on the Wallace farm, would be warned no later than tomorrow. There could be no delay in staging the raid.
Tilghman was elected to scout the farm. Based on their information, the Wallace place was a mile or so west off the wagon road leading south from Ardmore. He left Madsen and Thomas with their horses in a grove of trees not far from the road. A rutted trail bordered the creek, and he cautiously made his way upstream. Late that afternoon, rounding a gentle curve in the stream, he suddenly stopped and ghosted into the woods. He had found their quarry.
The farmhouse was a crude log affair, on the north bank of the creek. A buck deer hung from the limb of a tree, and an Indian woman was busy skinning the carcass. Four men were seated outside the house, basking in the late afternoon sunshine. A jug of whiskey passed from man to man, and their laughter carried across the clearing. From wanted dodgers, Tilghman recognized one of the men as Will Dalton. There was a family resemblance between two of the men, probably Houston and Jim Wallace. The fourth man he took to be Tim Knight.
An hour later, downstream again, he briefed Madsen and Thomas. Sundown was close at hand, and from Tilghman’s description, the gang was lazing around, swigging whiskey, waiting on a supper of venison steaks. Tilghman sketched a map in the dirt, and from the layout, there was no way to circle the house without being spotted. After weighing tactics, they decided to advance on line through the woods and take positions east of the house. That would allow them to cover the corral, which was off to the rear of the house, in case any of the outlaws made a break for their horses. Thomas was elected to issue a single warning, demanding surrender. Anyone who resisted was fair game.
By dusk, they were positioned in the treeline beside the clearing. There was still adequate light to see and sight, and each of them carried a Winchester carbine. Tilghman was nearest the creek with Thomas off to his right, and Madsen several paces farther north. To their front, the three outlaws and Houston Wallace were still seated outside the house. A lamp glowed inside, and through a window, they could see the woman working over a wood cookstove. Thomas raised his voice in sharp command.
“Federal marshals! Surrender or be killed!”
Dalton scrambled off the ground, clawing at his holster. Knight and Jim Wallace were only a beat behind, their pistols clearing leather. The lawmen’s carbines, like rolling thunder, cracked in swift unison. Knight and Wallace went down as though struck by the fist of God. Dalton stumbled sideways, still trying to raise his pistol, and Tilghman shot him again. Driven backward, he sagged to the ground.
Houston Wallace, a farmer with no wish to die, stood with his hands overhead. He stared down at the body of his brother as if unable to comprehend the terrible suddenness of death. The lawmen moved out of the treeline, their carbines held at the ready, and crossed the clearing. Wallace’s wife, hovering inside the doorway, watched them with a hand pressed to her mouth. She fully expected them to kill her husband.
Tilghman kept Wallace covered while Madsen and Thomas checked the bodies. A quick search of the house turned up two burlap bags, stuffed with the loot from the Longview bank robbery. Then, in an unusually kind voice, Thomas subjected the farmer to a skilled interrogation. Wallace told him everything.
Will Dalton, as they’d suspected, had used the farm as a hideout. The story of his split with Doolin, brought out under close questioning, revealed that he had quit the Wild Bunch several months ago. Afterward, he’d returned to the farm and eventually formed his own gang with Jim Wallace and the Knight brothers, who frequented the Chickasaw Nation. The time since had been spent in planning the Longview holdup.
The woman, still convinced they would kill him, watched fearfully as Madsen stood guard over her husband. Tilghman and Thomas walked off a short distance, to confer in private. Thomas glanced back at the farmer, who now seemed unable to look at the bodies. He wagged his head.
“Hard thing,” he murmured. “Seeing your brother shot down like that.”
“Always knew it,” Tilghman said with a slow grin. “You’re just an ole softy at heart.”
Thomas was embarrassed. “Hell, Bill, you know what’ll happen if we take him back. Gawddamn Nix will have him hung for accomplice to murder.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“Three dead men will get Nix
