The marshals quickly collected their horses. They mounted, Winchesters laid across their saddles, and rode down to the grove. As they approached, the wounded horse kicked one last time and went slack in death. The downed outlaw lay sprawled on his back at the river’s edge, a rosette of blood spread across his shirt. The lawmen reined to a halt, staring down at the body. Thomas finally broke the silence.
“Tulsa Jack Blake,” he said. “You drilled him dead center, Chris.”
Madsen nodded. “Wish to Christ it was Doolin.”
“Look on the bright side,” Thomas said. “None of us got hit, and it’s a puredee wonder. I could’ve sworn we had a mile or so to go when we came over that rise.”
“Luck was with us,” Madsen agreed. “The way we stumbled onto them, they should’ve shot our lights out.”
Tilghman was staring off downstream. “We’ll play hell catching them,” he said, as though thinking aloud. “They’re mounted on fresh horses and ours are pretty well spent. Doolin’s the one that lucked out.”
Thomas looked at him. “Are you sayin’ we break off the chase?”
“Not by a damnsight,” Tilghman said levelly. “But we’ll have to take it slow and easy. Otherwise our horses won’t last.”
Madsen shoved his carbine into the scabbard. “Way I see it,” he said, “they’re slowed down, too. One horse carrying double and another wounded. Maybe we’ve still got a chance.”
“Hope you’re right,” Tilghman said. “We’re long overdue a decent break.”
After watering their horses, they rode out from the grove. Tilghman took the lead, following the tracks along the river bank. He thought their chances were slim, unless Doolin made a mistake. But even that seemed a remote likelihood.
So far the Wild Bunch had gotten all the breaks.
* * *
The trail looped south from the Cimarron. The outlaws were moving at a fast pace, and their course was plain to read. They would skirt Guthrie and make a run for the Nations.
The land was sparsely settled, scattered farms located along creeks. There were no towns on the line of march, and thus no way to telegraph ahead and alert the authorities. Doolin, ever the tactician, had once again selected an escape route that hampered pursuit. Hour by hour, forced to conserve the strength of their horses, the three lawmen fell farther behind.
Toward mid-afternoon Tilghman signaled a halt. Ahead, on the opposite side of a creek, the horse they’d wounded earlier lay dead. Dismounting, he searched the area on foot, and found a grisly trophy. He held up a man’s forefinger crusted with blood.
“We winged somebody,” he called out. “Looks like it was almost shot off and he finished the job with a knife.”
“Better than nothin’,” Thomas said. “Leastways we’ve drawn blood.”
Tilghman pointed to the dead horse. “There’s two of them riding double now. That’ll slow them down.”
“Let’s pick up the pace,” Madsen said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
They rode on at a sedate trot. The trail led straight as a string on an easterly course. Tilghman had no trouble cutting sign, for the gang was still pushing their mounts. Yet two of the horses, the ones carrying double, were lagging behind the others. That meant four of the outlaws were slowly losing ground, and Tilghman was encouraged. He thought perhaps Madsen was right, after all. Maybe their luck had changed.
Late that afternoon the trail led them across a plowed field to a farmhouse. As they rode into the yard, they saw a woman and a small girl crouched over a body on the ground. The body was that of a man in bib overalls, and the woman was wailing hysterically. The girl stood sucking on her thumb, her eyes blank with shock. Flies buzzed around a splotch of blood on the farmer’s overalls.
Thomas managed to separate the woman from her husband. The girl trailed along, eyes still round, as he led the woman into the house. Tilghman and Madsen inspected the body, and saw that the farmer had been shot at point-blank range. Mixed with the blood on his overalls were scorch marks from the muzzle blast of a pistol. They gently hefted the body and carried it to the front porch of the house. Inside, they heard the woman trying to talk between choked sobs.
A short while later Thomas emerged onto the porch. His features were grim. “Got most of the story,” he said. “The gang rode in here and took the only two horses this man had. He went runnin’ out to the barn and tried to stop them. From her description, the one that shot him was Red Buck Waightman.”
“Sonovabitch,” Madsen cursed in a low growl. “I’d like to get him in my sights.”
“Yeah,” Tilghman said, his expression wooden. “Only you’d have to beat me to him.”
Thomas stared down at the farmer. “We’re gonna have to bury him for the woman. She’s out of her mind with grief.”
“What about the gang?” Madsen said. “We’ve still got a couple of hours of daylight left.”
“Lost cause for now.” Tilghman’s toneless voice underscored the words. “They’re all mounted and they’ve got fresh horses. We’d never get close.”
“Bill’s right,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “Sometimes things just don’t work out. Today wasn’t our day.”
They dug a grave beneath a tree near the house. Shortly before sundown, with the farmer wrapped in a blanket, they gathered under the shadows of the tree. The woman sobbed while the girl stood clutching her legs, and Tilghman read a passage from the family Bible. Madsen and Thomas lowered the shrouded body into the hole.
Dusk fell as they began shoveling earth onto Homer Godfrey.
CHAPTER 26
The next morning they followed the trail into the Creek Nation. They felt obligated to continue the manhunt as long as there was sign to follow. All the more so since the outlaws had wantonly
