“I know this place,” Dog Eater said in a guttural voice. “Man’s name is Sam Moore.”
“A white man?” Tilghman asked.
“Umm,” Dog Eater grunted. “Married to Osage woman.”
“Let’s have a look.”
The tracks led straight to the yard of the farmhouse. As they approached, Tilghman saw a stock pen beside the barn, but no sign of a saddlehorse. A man in rough work clothing moved from the barn into bright sunlight and stood waiting. They reined to a halt.
“Mr. Moore,” Tilghman said bluntly, “I’m a U.S. deputy marshal.”
Moore blinked, his features suddenly waxen. The reaction was all the tip-off Tilghman needed. “A man rode in here yesterday,” he went on. “His name is Bill Raidler and he’s wanted for murder. Hiding him makes you an accomplice to murder. You’re under arrest.”
Tilghman was bluffing. But the effect on Moore was immediate, and devastating. To avoid arrest, he agreed to cooperate, and began talking. He was providing Raidler with food and a place to sleep, and a stall for his horse, in exchange for payment. Yet Raidler was a wary man, and he stayed hidden deep in the woods during the day. He came to the house only at sundown, where he took his evening meal and spent the night. By sunrise, he was back in the woods.
Satisfied with the story, Tilghman ordered Moore to the house and told him to bolt the door. Then he and Dog Eater took their horses into the barn, treating them to grain and water. For the rest of the afternoon, hidden in the barn, they took turns peering through a crack in the logs on the west wall. Time weighed heavily, but the sun finally tilted over and began dropping westward. Toward sundown, Tilghman relieved Dog Eater and took his place at the spyhole.
Raidler came out of the woods shortly after dusk. He paused a moment, guardedly inspecting the layout, then headed for the house. From the barn, Tilghman watched until Raidler was closer to the house than to the woods. He wanted his man out in the open, with no place to take cover if a shootout developed. As Raidler neared the house, Tilghman cocked his Winchester, motioning Dog Eater to take a position off to one side. He stepped through the barn door.
“Raidler!” he commanded. “Get your hands up!”
In midstride, Raidler took off running for the house. He jerked his pistol, firing as he sprinted across the yard, and winged a shot toward the barn. Lamplight from the windows silhouetted him against the house, and Tilghman fired. The slug struck Raidler in the side, jarring him to a halt, and he swung around. He raised his pistol.
Tilghman shot him twice in the chest. Raidler collapsed at the knees, dropping his pistol, and pitched to the ground. He groaned, both hands clamped to his chest as Tilghman and Dog Eater hurried across the yard. His breathing was shallow, a trickle of blood leaking out of his mouth.
“Bastard,” he mumbled, staring at Tilghman through a haze. “I think you’ve killt me.”
Tilghman knelt beside him. “Get right with God, Raidler. Go out with a clean slate. Where’s Doolin?”
“Stuff it up…”
His voice trailed off and his body went slack. Tilghman climbed to his feet, lowering the hammer on his carbine. He glanced around at Tom Dog Eater.
“Damn fool had to do it the hard way.”
Dog Eater shrugged. “Only way some men know.”
“Sure as hell seems like it.”
Tilghman walked toward the house.
CHAPTER 29
The last week in August was sultry and humid. Late every afternoon thunderclouds rolled in from the west, threatening rain. But the hot weather held, with no rainfall for the month, and the plains slowly parched under the heat. People watched the thunderheads, fearful of the darkened skies, waiting for a tornado.
The air was stifling in Evett Nix’s office. The windows were open but there was no hint of a breeze. For once, sacrificing dignity to comfort, Nix had discarded his suit jacket. He was in shirtsleeves, seated behind his desk, trying to cool himself with an oval-shaped hand fan. Before him, sweltering in the heat, were Tilghman, Thomas, and Madsen.
The marshals had been summoned to Guthrie only that day. They sat now, watching Nix fan himself, awaiting a tirade. In the month since Bill Raidler’s death, there had been no word of Doolin or the Wild Bunch. Inquiries and investigation had led nowhere, and informants, as though struck dumb, had nothing to report. The lawmen fully expected to be dressed down in scathing terms.
Nix paused with the fan. He wiped a rivulet of sweat off his forehead and again set the fan in motion. Then, to their amazement, he smiled. “Wonders never cease,” he said with curious good humor. “You’ll be interested to know that I have been contacted by the distinguished attorney-at-law, Simon Warner. He’s due here any moment.”
The lawmen exchanged puzzled glances. “Don’t get it,” Thomas finally said. “What’s this got to do with us?”
“Everything,” Nix replied, enjoying himself. “Mr. Warner has formally advised me that he represents Bill Doolin.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. The marshals stared at him like three owls suddenly blinded by a flare of light. Tilghman was the first to recover.
“Doolin’s got a lawyer?” he said, as though the notion defied belief. “What’s his game?”
“I just imagine Mr. Warner has all the particulars. We’ll find out shortly.”
“A deal,” Madsen said in a tone of sudden discovery. “Doolin wants to make a deal of some sort.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Nix acknowledged. “Which is precisely why I asked you gentlemen here today. You have spent how long chasing Doolin?”
“A year next month,” Thomas said. “Seems like a helluva lot longer.”
“No doubt,” Nix agreed. “For that very reason, I felt you gentlemen should hear what Warner has to say for yourselves. I want your counsel before framing a response to whatever Doolin has in mind.”
The lawmen were less surprised than skeptical. Nix was prone to issuing edicts rather
