The girl hesitated, staring at their badges. Then, hauling the reins about, she gigged her horse. “Don’t nobody follow me!” she yelled. “You’ll git yourself shot.”
She pounded off toward the east. Somewhat stunned, the lawmen were speechless, watching her disappear at a gallop across the plains. Finally, the first to recover, Thomas found his voice.
“What the hell do you make of that?”
“You got me,” Tilghman said. “Did you see the hardware she was packin’?”
“A real spitfire,” Madsen said in wonderment. “Maybe she’s the daughter of some rancher around here.”
“Well, boys,” Thomas allowed, “whoever she was, she’s gone now. Guess we’ll never know.”
Tilghman studied the sky. “Couple of hours till first light. Let’s move out.”
They rode toward Council Creek.
* * *
A shaft of golden sunlight touched the horizon. The lawmen, their horses hidden, were secreted in stands of trees around the Dunn ranch. Sunrise was their prearranged signal, and they started forward.
Tilghman approached from the creek, Winchester in hand, and headed toward the house. Thomas, carrying a shotgun, moved on a direct line to the storm cellar, the sun at his back. To the north, Madsen came down the knoll, with a line of fire to the rear of the house as well as the storm cellar. They moved quickly, every sense alert.
A hand signal between Tilghman and Thomas kicked off the raid. One pounded on the front door of the house and the other rattled the stovepipe on the roof of the storm cellar. In loud voices, they identified themselves as federal marshals and ordered everyone outside. Tilghman waited at the side of the house, his carbine trained on the door. Thomas, standing on top of the storm cellar, covered the entrance with his shotgun.
“Hold your fire!” someone yelled from inside the house. “We’re comin’ out.”
From the storm cellar, as though echoing in a cave, a voice cried out. “For chrissakes, don’t shoot! We’re not gonna fight!”
The door of the house creaked open. Hands raised, two men in filthy long johns and their women in nightdresses stepped outside. At the storm cellar, three men in hastily buttoned pants, their boots forgotten, moved into the daylight. While Tilghman and Thomas kept them covered, Madsen quickly searched the house. Then, crossing the yard, he cautiously inspected the storm cellar. He waved an all clear signal.
The men at the house identified themselves as the Dunn brothers, Bee and George. From the storm cellar, his features wreathed in disgust, Thomas called out, “These boys are a sorry lot of two-bit horse thieves. I arrested one of them before. Know the other two on sight.”
Tilghman interrogated the Dunn brothers. Thomas poked the man he’d arrested in the belly with his shotgun. The man blanched, his knees wobbly, and began answering questions. Some while later, they herded everyone together in the yard of the house. The lawmen walked off a short distance.
“You first,” Thomas said, nodding to Tilghman. “What’d you find out?”
“Nothing much,” Tilghman admitted. “The Dunns say they never saw your horse thieves until last night. Claim they just gave them a place to sleep.”
“One part jibes,” Madsen said. “I took a good look around that storm cellar. There’s eight bunks and a wood stove. Stinks like a wolf den.”
Thomas gave them a dour look. “That knothead I questioned spilled his guts. You remember the girl we ran across last night?”
“Yeah?” Tilghman said. “What about her?”
“She goes by the handle of Cattle Annie. Her and another girl—calls herself Little Breeches—run together. Sounds so dumb it’s got to be true.”
“So?”
“Turns out they’re friends of the Wild Bunch. Cattle Annie damn near killed her horse to beat us here. Guess who she brought a warnin’ to?”
“You serious?” Tilghman said. “Doolin was here?”
Thomas nodded. “Bastard rode out before dawn.”
CHAPTER 19
The lawmen were in a quandary. Doolin’s trail was still fresh, less than two hours old, and they needed to start tracking. Yet they weren’t sure they’d heard the full story. Or the entire truth.
After a hurried conference, they decided to have another talk with the horse thieves. Then, depending on what was learned, they might question the Dunns further. Their thought was that the Dunns, hoping to avoid prison and thereby save their ranch, would admit nothing. The horse thieves, with less to lose, would be more cooperative. They simply wanted to stay out of jail.
The Dunn women were ordered to brew coffee. While they were inside, Madsen kept their husbands under guard in front of the house. Tilghman and Thomas marched the three horse thieves back to the dugout storm cellar. Thomas adopted the role of the tough but sympathetic lawman, explaining that he was merely following orders. The man in charge, he told them, wasn’t satisfied with their story. He then gave the stage to Tilghman.
Tilghman was no slouch as an actor himself. Over the years he had played out the same routine with such consummate performers as Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp. He stuck his thumbs in his gun belt, the Winchester in the crook of his arm, and squinted at the thieves with a fierce glare. His voice was lowered to a harsh rasp.
“Horse stealing,” he said bluntly, “carries a sentence of five to ten years. I figure you boys deserve the maximum.”
The three men looked stricken. Tilghman allowed a moment of silence to underscore the message. Then, his voice cold and threatening, he went on. “This is your last chance,” he said. “Tell me the truth and we might cut a deal. Lie to me and I’ll put you away for ten years. I guaran-goddamn-tee it.”
The thieves tripped over one another to save themselves. As the story unfolded, one then the other rushed to provide missing details. Doolin had ridden in late last night, after visiting his wife in Ingalls. An hour or so later Cattle Annie had rapped on the door of the storm cellar and called
