Probing further, Tilghman discovered that the thieves felt they’d been betrayed. Doolin or the girl could have warned them that lawmen were headed for the Dunn ranch. Yet they were left in the lurch, probably in the hope that they would engage the marshals in a long, time-consuming gun battle. To their way of thinking, Doolin had been willing to sacrifice them in order to cover his own escape. Had they put up a fight, the plan would have worked without a hitch.
Tilghman intended to wait until full sunrise before he started tracking. He checked the horizon, saw that he still had a few minutes, and prodded the men to talk about Cattle Annie. The girl’s real name, they told him, was Annie McDougal. Her partner, known as Little Breeches, was Jennie Midkiff. Word had it that they were runaways, formerly from somewhere in Ohio. They rustled a few cattle, whored for members of the Wild Bunch, and looked upon Doolin as their idol. Their hideout was a mile or so north of where Council Creek fed into the Cimarron.
The Dunn brothers, the thieves hastened to add, were known to everyone on the owlhoot. For a price, they provided Doolin with a refuge from the law. Their regular business was operating in stolen horses and occasionally rustled cattle. The Dunns never tried to gouge, always paying a fair price for good stock. George, who was an artist with a running iron, skillfully altered the brands. Bee was the thinker of the family and attended to business matters. The stolen horses were sold to a network of crooked livestock dealers.
“Here’s the deal,” Tilghman told the thieves when they finished talking. “We’ll tell the judge you boys were a big help with information on the Wild Bunch. I think he’ll agree to probation.”
“Probation?” one of them parrotted with disbelief. “You mean he’ll turn us loose?”
“Yeah, probably, on the condition that you go straight. Steal another horse and you’re on your way to prison.”
Tilghman turned, exchanging an amused look with Thomas, and walked back to the house. He took Madsen aside, quickly explained the situation, and secured agreement to go along with a plan he’d hatched over the past few minutes. Then, while Madsen went to retrieve their horses, he moved back to the Dunns. He addressed his remarks to Bee.
“Those boys,” he said, nodding toward the storm cellar, “are headed for jail in Guthrie. You and your brother are working on borrowed time.”
Dunn was a short man with a potbelly and beady eyes. His brow furrowed with skepticism. “Why aren’t you arrestin’ us too?”
“Simple,” Tilghman informed him. “You gents will keep your mouths buttoned about today. When Doolin asks, you’ll tell him nobody spilled the beans about him being here. Just say we were after horse thieves.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then I’ll personally escort you to federal prison.”
Dunn frowned. “What makes you think Doolin will buy that story?”
“You’ll convince him,” Tilghman said with a hard grin. “That’s what I meant about borrowed time. Either way, if you don’t convince him, you lose. He’ll kill you or I’ll put you in prison.”
“Cold one, aren’t you?” Dunn said. “I’ll bet you piss ice water.”
“Let me down and you’ll find out.”
Some ten minutes later Madsen rode south with the horse thieves. The men were mounted, hands manacled behind their backs, their horses hitched to a rope attached to Madsen’s saddlehorn. The Dunn brothers watched silently from the house.
Tilghman and Thomas rode southeast along Council Creek. The tracks, churned earth of horses at a gallop, were simple to follow. Downstream a ways, Thomas finally broke the silence. His expression was somber.
“Why’d you let the Dunns off the hook?”
“Hedged our bet,” Tilghman said. “We’ve lost nothing in the bargain if we catch Doolin. But if we don’t catch him, then maybe he’ll still believe the Dunns’ place is a safe hideout. Down the road, that might be our ace in the hole.”
“Jesus,” Thomas said in an admiring tone. “You’re a lot more devious than I gave you credit for.”
“Learned it all watching you, Heck.”
“Hell, don’t lay it off on me. Nix is gonna have kittens when he hears about this.”
“Let him,” Tilghman said easily. “Last few months, we’ve got a better handle on Mr. Nix. When the three of us stick together, he folds like a house of cards.”
“By God!” Thomas said with a sudden grin. “Never thought of it that way, but you’re right. We do have his number.”
“Well, look here.” Tilghman reined to a halt, studying the tracks. “Doolin and the girl parted company. She went on downstream, probably headed for her place. He took off on a beeline for the Nations.”
“How do you know him from her?”
“I got their tracks separated out back at Dunn’s corral.”
Thomas decided to keep quiet, and let him sort it out. Tilghman’s experience as an army scout made him the most skilled tracker of all the marshals. His experience as a peace officer had taught him an equally important lesson, perhaps a cardinal rule. He’d learned long ago that a wilderness manhunt requires patience.
For that reason, like any seasoned tracker, he had awaited full sunrise before trying to cut sign. On hard ground the correct sun angle made the difference between seeing a print or missing it entirely. The tracker stationed himself so that the trail would appear directly between his position and the sun. In early morning, with the sun at a low angle, he worked westward of the trail. The easterly sunlight then cast shadows across the hoofprints of a horse.
A tracker seldom saw an entire hoofprint unless the ground was quite soft. On hardened terrain the tracker looked for flat spots, scuff marks, and disturbed vegetation. Of all sign, flat spots were the most revealing. Only hooves or footprints, something usually related
