“And if Nix don’t like it, to hell with him!”
Thomas issued a stern warning to the farmer about the wages of crime. Then, pressing the advantage, he converted him into an informant. The woman, still watchful, uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the white man’s god. Ten minutes later, as darkness fell, the marshals walked off to gather their horses.
They left Houston Wallace to bury the fallen outlaws.
CHAPTER 17
Word preceded them by telegraph on the shootout. Three days later, when they rode into Guthrie, their names were the talk of the territory. People stopped to cheer them on the street outside the Herriott Building.
Upstairs, they found Evett Nix in a wildly euphoric mood. Newspapers throughout the territory lauded the marshal and his deputies, where only a week before they had been vilified. There was particular praise on the death of Will Dalton, generally accepted as second-in-command of the Wild Bunch. The Guthrie Statesman recommended the same fate for every member of the gang.
Nix hurriedly arranged a press conference. His stated purpose was to provide the newspaper with a first-hand account from the men who had brought down a notorious outlaw. Unstated, though clearly understood, was an attempt to gain political mileage for himself from the exploits of Thomas, Tilghman, and Madsen. The reporter from the Statesman, usually one of their harshest critics, was today their enthusiastic supporter. All the more so since the interview represented a scoop on other newspapers.
“Tell me this,” he said, pencil poised over his notepad. “Which one of you actually killed Will Dalton?”
Thomas and Madsen looked at Tilghman. After a moment, he offered a casual shrug. “What with all the shooting, things were pretty confused. Just say we all had a hand in it.”
The reporter scribbled furiously. “The last of the Dalton brothers. The outlaw family that spawned Bill Doolin and the Wild Bunch. Killed by—” He paused, momentarily stumped. “I need a name for you three. Something with a ring to it.”
“Excellent idea,” Nix prompted him. “They’re our top three deputies, guardians of law and order.”
“That’s it!” the reporter said, wide-eyed with a sudden fit of inspiration. “The Three Guardsmen! France had the Three Musketeers. We have the Three Guardsmen.”
Nix beamed. “A fitting analogy. For a fact, they do guard Oklahoma Territory.”
“The public will love it.” The reporter appeared overjoyed with himself. “Now, let me ask you gentlemen—” he stopped, looking from man to man. “Having rid the territory of Dalton, what are your plans for Doolin and the rest of the Wild Bunch?”
“You can quote me directly,” Nix said, desperate to insert his own name into the interview. “We are hot on the trail of Bill Doolin and his gang. Results will be forthcoming shortly.”
“That’s the headline! Three Guardsmen Hot On The Trail! What a story!”
On that high note, Nix tactfully ended the interview. Grinning broadly, he ushered the reporter to the door and saw him off with a warm handshake. Then, turning back into the room, his grin melted away. He took a seat behind his desk.
“Reporters,” he said with mild disgust. “One day your friend, the next your nemesis.”
Thomas snorted. “We’ll play hell livin’ down that tag he hung on us. The Three Guardsmen! Jesus Christ.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Madsen said jokingly. “Tomorrow it will be old news.”
“Speaking of which,” Nix interjected, “I still wish you’d arrested that farmer. I just can’t believe he knew nothing of Doolin’s whereabouts.”
“Done told you,” Thomas said crossly. “I grilled him six ways to Sunday. He would’ve spilled it if he knew.”
“Nonetheless, what Chris said is true. We need a new headline for tomorrow. One with Doolin’s name in it.”
“Fat chance,” Tilghman remarked. “We’re not even close to being hot on the trail. Maybe you should’ve told that reporter the truth. There is no trail.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Nix said. “What about that ranch outside Ingalls? Where Doolin holed up before?”
“The Dunn brothers,” Tilghman noted. “What about them?”
“I think we should raid the place. Who knows, Doolin could be there right now. At the very least, we might uncover a lead through the Dunns.”
“Bad move,” Tilghman said. “Doolin’s nowhere near Ingalls or that ranch.”
“Oh?” Nix sounded dubious. “What makes you so certain?”
“By now, Doolin knows we know he married that girl. He’ll steer clear of her—and the Dunn ranch—until he’s ready to move her somewhere else.”
“You believe Doolin will move his wife?”
“Has to,” Tilghman affirmed. “Otherwise they’ll never be together.”
Nix considered a moment. “Then perhaps we should put surveillance on his wife.”
“Town that small, Doolin would get wind of it. His wife and the Dunn ranch are our only solid leads. Touch either one and we tip our hand to Doolin.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Wait and see,” Tilghman said. “Somebody in Ingalls—the preacher, the doctor, maybe the girl’s dad—will let us know when Doolin shows up again. Until then, we sit tight.”
“Sit tight?” Nix repeated testily. “Are you saying we do nothing?”
“We wait for Doolin to make a mistake. Often as not, that’s what ends a manhunt—the other fellow gets careless.”
“Bill’s got a point,” Madsen broke in. “Any move on the girl, or the Dunns, would cause Doolin to back off. We just have to wait it out.”
“All right,” Nix said reluctantly. “But let’s have it understood, I won’t wait too long. I want results.”
“So do we,” Thomas told him. “Don’t you worry, we’ll keep our ears open.”
Their meeting ended on that note. Nix wasn’t pleased, but he saw little choice in the matter. A good leader, he reminded himself, listened to the advice of his men. Yet he was uncomfortable with the outcome.
He needed Bill Doolin. Dead.
* * *
Tilghman rode straight through to Chandler. He arrived late that night, weary from ten hard days in the saddle. Too tired to eat, he had a cup of coffee with Neal Brown, relating only the bare details of the manhunt. Then, unable to resist sleep any longer, he went to bed.
The next morning, feeling rested, he was
