“Afternoon,” he said. “We’ve got a present for you downstairs.”
“A present?” Nix said, staring at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Charley Pierce and Bitter Creek Newcomb. We caught up with them early this morning.”
“Are they alive?”
“Nope,” Tilghman said simply. “Dead as doornails.”
Nix was stunned. “You brought them here?”
“Got them outside in a wagon. Left Heck to guard the remains.”
“Are they … presentable?”
Tilghman smiled. “The townfolks seem to think so. Quite a crowd out there.”
“I—” Nix hesitated, clearly taken aback. “I got a telegram from Madsen just a few minutes ago. He told me about Jack Blake.”
“And the two outside make three. You want to have a look?”
Nix seemed to shrink back in his chair. Then, as though struck by a sudden inspiration, he sat upright. “You know,” he said, nodding rapidly to himself. “We might get some newspaper coverage out of this.”
Tilghman feigned a concerned look. “I’d say the reporters better hurry. What with the warm weather, our boys are startin’ to get a little ripe.”
“Ripe?”
“Not all that good on a sensitive nose. They’d bear looking after by an undertaker.”
Nix blanched. “Perhaps you should take them on to the funeral parlor.”
“What about the reporters?” Tilghman fought back a smile. “Thought you were interested in the newspapers.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right. We need to issue a statement.”
Tilghman led the way. When they emerged from the building, a mob of some five hundred people jammed the street. The press, drawn by the excitement of the crowd, was already hard at work. A camera platform, jerry-rigged with boxes from nearby stores, had been positioned at the rear of the wagon. The outlaws, arms neatly folded across their chests, were being photographed for posterity.
Nix seemed momentarily nonplussed by the enormity of the event. For his part, Tilghman was reminded that people had a ghoulish, altogether morbid fascination with the spectacle of death. He’d witnessed a similar reaction at public hangings, when mobs ganged around to watch a man step off into eternity. There was often a festive air to such occasions.
Tilghman shouldered a path through the crowd. Nix had no choice but to follow along and mount the wagon seat with an assist from Thomas. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he stared down at the dead men and got a whiff of the rank odor. For a moment, his features colored and the taste of bile gagged his throat. But then, ever the politician, he collected himself and looked straight into the camera. The flash pan exploded, capturing his pose as a brave defender of the law.
Hastily avoiding another look onto the wagon bed, Nix climbed down to the street. He was followed by Thomas, who cast a sly wink at Tilghman. A reporter from the Guthrie Statesman appeared from the throng of people massed about the wagon. His eyes were wild with fervor and he held a pencil poised over a notepad. He nodded to Nix.
“A great day for the law, Mr. Nix. Would you care to comment?”
“Indeed I would,” Nix said staunchly. “In the past four days, three of the Wild Bunch have been killed. You may quote me as saying that we now have this murderous gang on the run.”
“Three?” the reporter queried. “I only see two in the wagon.”
“Tulsa Jack Blake was slain in a vicious gun battle four days ago. I might add, that was only one day after the train robbery outside Dover.”
“Who was responsible for tracking down these desperadoes?”
“Who else but the Three Guardsmen? Heck Thomas, Chris Madsen, and Bill Tilghman. The people of Oklahoma Territory owe them a large debt of gratitude.”
“Marshal Thomas. Marshal Tilghman,” the reporter said, pointing at the wagon. “Exactly where were these men killed?”
“Outside the town of Ingalls,” Thomas replied. “We surprised them after a night of revelry at a house of ill repute.”
“That’s really something! A house of ill repute. How did you know they were there?”
Tilghman jumped in to cover the Dunn brothers. “We tracked them there,” he improvised quickly. “Tried to give us the slip in the Nations, but we stuck to their trail. Led straight to the bordello.”
“First rate!” The reporter jotted it all down. “Did they resist arrest?”
“Fired on us,” Thomas said. “After we ordered their surrender. So we cut loose.”
“Cut loose and cut them down. That’s great, just great! Now, what about Bill Doolin? Anything new on him?”
Nix reclaimed the interview. “You may quote me directly,” he said. “Doolin and his Wild Bunch are not long for this world. They will be brought to justice in the most forceful manner.”
Later, after delivering the bodies to the undertaker, Tilghman and Thomas paused outside the funeral parlor. The crowds had drifted away, quickly losing interest after the spate of excitement downtown. Tilghman rubbed his whiskery jaw, silent a moment. Then he chuckled softly.
“Guess the tables were turned on us. Nix got himself plastered all over the newspapers.”
“Who cares?” Thomas said with a broad grin. “Did you see his face when he got a gander at them dead boys? Tell you, Bill, it was worth haulin’ them in here.”
“I suppose so,” Tilghman said agreeably. “Likely as not, he’ll skip supper tonight.”
“Hell, he might not eat for a week!”
“We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, Heck.”
“I’d be lyin’ if I said I was. How about you?”
“Well, for me personally—” Tilghman broke out laughing. “I wouldn’t have missed it for all the tea in China.”
“Goddamn!” Thomas crowed. “Better’n a circus, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was. Even without the elephants.”
* * *
On Saturday, Tilghman took Zoe into Chandler. The town square was crowded with farmers and their families, and cowhands from ranches throughout the county. Saturday was the one day of the week that everyone came to town.
Apart from laying in supplies, the attraction centered on various forms of entertainment. Every Saturday afternoon horse races were held on a flat stretch of prairie
