“Helluva note,” Thomas muttered, staring down at the jumbled hoofprints. “Had good intentions, but they sure left a pretty mess. How’re we gonna find the trail?”
Tilghman studied the terrain a moment. On the opposite side of the bridge were rolling hills, studded with trees. To their immediate east, bordering the river, the land was flatter, less wooded. He shaded his eyes against the sun.
“You and Chris stay here,” he said. “I want to have a look at that flat ground.”
“Figure they’re headed for the Nations?”
“So far they’ve run true to form. I’ll just have a look-see.”
Ten minutes later Tilghman cut sign a hundred yards downstream. By the tracks, he knew there were eight riders moving at a fast clip. The trail generally followed the river, and the direction was due east. He estimated that the gang was now some seven hours ahead.
Turning in the saddle, he motioned Madsen and Thomas forward. When they joined him, he pointed out the tracks. “Sign’s easy to follow,” he said. “Trouble is, they’re too far ahead.”
“Have to stop somewheres,” Thomas said. “They’d kill their horses tryin’ to make a direct run for the Nations.”
“Who knows?” Madsen ventured. “Maybe they’ve split up and Doolin headed for Dunn’s place. Think it’s worth a try?”
“Tend to doubt it,” Tilghman told him. “Doolin’s likely to stay clear of there after pullin’ a job. I’d say he’s headed for the Nations.”
Madsen shifted in his saddle. “So what do we do now? Got any ideas?”
“If I was them,” Tilghman said, “I’d swing south of Guthrie. The land’s less settled down that way.”
“Yeah, but where?” Thomas said with a quizzical frown. “You’re talkin’ about a lot of land.”
“Heck, you were right about them having to rest their horses. You know where the river makes a wide horseshoe bend, about halfway between here and Guthrie?”
“Sure do,” Thomas said, nodding. “There’s a good ford there, too.”
“That’s what, maybe fifteen miles?” Tilghman remarked. “Hard as they’re pushing their horses, that’d be a good rest stop. Ford the river there and that puts them south of Guthrie.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“We cut overland and catch them at the ford. I figure they’d rest up for four, maybe five hours.”
“Sounds good to me,” Thomas said. “How about you, Chris?”
Madsen shrugged. “One guess is as good as another. Let’s go find out.”
They crossed the river over the railroad bridge. Then, with the sun in their faces, they turned cross-country toward the distant ford. They held their horses to a steady trot.
* * *
A hot noonday sun scorched the land. The lawmen topped a low knoll on the south side of the Cimarron. Their horses were lathered with sweat, their shirts soaked. Before them, the river arced in a broad horseshoe bend.
Tilghman suddenly yanked back on the reins, brought his horse to a dust-smothered halt. Thomas and Madsen were only a beat behind, but still too late. Below, on the south side of the ford, they spotted men and horses in a grove of trees. Even as they reined to a stop, they saw that the men were in the midst of saddling their horses.
A shout of alarm went up from the trees. One of the outlaws pulled his pistol and winged three shots toward the knoll. The distance was perhaps fifty yards and the shots went wild. The other men, fighting to control their horses, scurried for cover behind the trees. The marshals bailed out of their saddles, grabbing Winchesters as they stepped down. They swatted their horses on the rump, turning them to the back side of the knoll.
The dull boom of rifles sounded from the distant trees. Slugs kicked up dirt along the crest of the knoll, forcing the lawmen onto the reverse slope. They went belly down on the ground and snaked their way back to the crest. Warily, after removing their hats, they edged their Winchesters over the top of the knoll. Madsen saw one of the outlaws still struggling with a spooked horse along the border of the treeline. He sighted quickly, allowing for the downward angle, and fired. The man staggered sideways, then dropped on the river bank.
Tilghman and Thomas waited for targets of opportunity. Whenever a gang member eased from behind a tree to fire, they peppered him with lead. Madsen joined them, turning his fire on the grove, and they hammered out a volley of shots. Bark flew off trees and slugs zinged through the woods, but none of the outlaws were hit. The return fire, with the odds now seven to three, kept the lawmen ducking as bullets raked the knoll. For every man they fired on, other men fired on them, and the snarl of slugs was constant. Their accuracy was thrown off as they were forced to sight and fire in an instant.
Yet they held the high ground. Despite the odds, it slowly became apparent that the lawmen had the advantage. Doolin was a shrewd tactician, and he gradually realized that his position was untenable. To charge the marshals over the open ground would have been tantamount to suicide. But as the gun battle raged, it was clear that his men would be picked off one at a time. Though they were behind trees, they had to expose themselves to get off a shot. The marshals, with only their heads exposed, offered much smaller targets. Time worked in their favor.
A shouted command brought all gunfire from the trees to an abrupt stop. Then, in the next instant, men were darting through the grove toward their horses. The marshals suddenly realized that the gang had been ordered to break off the fight and fall back in retreat. Without thought, they assumed solid kneeling positions on the knoll and began firing at the outlaws. A horse went down, thrashing and kicking, as they levered a barrage of shots.
