“Who you kiddin’?” Brown said with a short laugh. “Once’t you catch Doolin there’ll be another one, and then another one. You’ve got the tin badge disease.”
“Well, lucky for you, it’s not contagious.”
“Bet your life it ain’t! I’ll stick to horses any ole day. You oughta do the same.”
Tilghman couldn’t argue the point. As a practical matter, there was a greater future in horses than in outlaws. But the challenge of capturing Doolin was one he’d been unable to resist. Even with Doolin caught, he wasn’t entirely sure that he would ever quit as a lawman. So he had to consider that Brown was right, after all. Perhaps he had contracted the tin badge disease.
“Hard to quit,” he said now. “Thought I’d put it behind me when we left Kansas. Guess that’s not the case.”
“No guesswork about it,” Brown said gloomily. “You’d lots rather be off chasin’ desperadoes. Don’t see nobody twistin’ your arm.”
“You got me there, Neal.”
“What’s Miss Zoe say about all this? She don’t worry about you gettin’ yourself killed?”
“She never says one way or another. I reckon she figures she got the badge in the bargain.”
“Damn poor bargain.” Brown rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You must’ve sold her a bill of goods.”
“Maybe she’s just not a worrywart … like some people I could name.”
“Think that’s what I am, do you?”
“Never thought otherwise.”
Brown mumbled something under his breath. He let the matter drop, reminded all over again that it was probably a lost cause. They rode in silence toward Council Creek.
* * *
Sunrise found them positioned in the treeline east of the Dunn ranch. Below, apart from some thirty horses in the corral, there was no sign of movement across the compound. Armed with Winchesters, they settled down to wait.
Tilghman had no immediate plan of action. He intended to watch and react as developments unfolded. Should Doolin appear, then he would play the situation as the moment dictated. If Doolin failed to appear, then he would pull back and await another day. Like most manhunts, it was all a roll of the dice.
A short while after sunrise smoke began billowing from the chimney on the house. Some moments later Bee Dunn stepped through the doorway, followed by his brother, George. They paused in the yard, talking briefly, then Bee ambled off toward the dugout storm cellar. George yawned, stretching his arms to loosen his shoulders, and walked to a haystack near the corral. He began forking hay to the horses.
Bee gave three sharp knocks on the door of the storm cellar. Then he pulled the door open, moved inside, and closed it behind him. The walls of the dugout deadened any sound, and there was no way to tell if anyone else was inside. After a few moments, tendrils of smoke drifted from the stovepipe on top of the roof. Someone had clearly stoked the fire in the stove.
Tilghman waited, his gaze fixed on the door. Several minutes passed, and Bee Dunn still hadn’t emerged from the dugout. Across the way, George Dunn finished forking hay to the horses and walked back to the house. A stillness settled over the compound.
Brown jerked his chin at the dugout. “What d’you make of that?”
“Somebody’s in there,” Tilghman said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have knocked, or started a fire.”
“Why would anybody build a fire in the summertime?”
“Way it appears, he just woke somebody up. They’re fixing morning coffee.”
Brown grunted. “You think it’s Doolin?”
“Maybe,” Tilghman said. “Then again, maybe it’s another crew of horse thieves. Hard to tell.”
“So what’s our next move?”
Tilghman considered a moment. Dunn had been inside for some time, and showed no signs of coming out. By now, it was clear that he was talking with someone in the dugout. Whether to wait and see what happened, or force the issue seemed to Tilghman a tossup. He decided to act rather than react.
“Here’s how we work it,” he said. “I want you to stay here and give me cover. I’ll see who’s in that dugout.”
Brown gave him a bewildered look. “You’re gonna go down there?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Gawddamn, Bill, you’re liable to get yourself shot. Wouldn’t it be safer to wait and see who comes out?”
“Not much,” Tilghman said. “I think I’d rather flush them out.”
“Crucified Christ.” Brown’s voice sounded parched. “What’ll I do if something goes wrong?”
“Keep one eye peeled on the house. Anybody comes out with a gun, let loose in a hurry.”
“You want me to kill him?”
“Whatever it takes to stop him. I’m liable to be too busy to handle it myself.”
“Gawdalmighty,” Brown said with a bleak expression. “Knew I wasn’t cut out to be a lawdog.”
Tilghman handed over his Winchester. “That’ll save you from having to reload. Shoots a hair to the right.”
“Sounds like you’re plannin’ on fighting a war.”
“Just figure to have a looksee, Neal.”
“Do me a favor next time.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t ask me along.”
Tilghman moved clear of the treeline. He crossed the open ground on a direct line to the dugout. He pulled his pistol as he halted before the door. For a moment, he waited, listening, but there was no sound from inside. He rapped on the door three times.
A beat of silence slipped past. Then, deadened by the sod wall, a voice called out. “Who’s there?”
“Federal marshal,” Tilghman said. “Come on out, Bee.”
There was no reply for several moments. “Door’s unlatched,” Dunn finally yelled back. “C’mon in.”
Tilghman debated briefly with himself. Then, standing to one side of the door, he flung it open. Sunlight flooded the inside of the dugout, which resembled a barracks. Four double bunks lined either side of the room, with blankets draped over the front for privacy. There was no way to tell if the bunks were occupied, someone hidden behind the draped blankets.
Dunn stood at the far end of the room. Beside him, on a small wood stove, a coffeepot began to belch steam. The dugout was a rainbow of odors, stale sweat mixed with dried earth and the aroma of coffee. Tilghman took one step inside the door,
