Tilghman collapsed the telescope. He stood there a moment, all uncertainty now erased. Mary Pierce was acting as a go-between, passing letters back and forth between Doolin and his wife. The girl had clearly returned to Ingalls because a letter she’d been expecting hadn’t arrived. Still more telling was her outpouring of elation at what she’d read in the letter. Added to that was her tearful farewell from the Pierce woman.
To Tilghman, the girl’s obvious joy was the most telling factor. He thought she wouldn’t be returning to Ingalls any time soon, if ever. But he wondered if she might be planning another trip, a longer trip. A reunion.
He followed her back to Lawson.
* * *
There was yet another tearful farewell the following morning. John Ellsworth and his wife stood waving goodbye as their daughter pulled away from the house. Beside her, in a wicker basket padded with blankets, was her baby. All her worldly possessions were loaded in the back of the wagon.
Tilghman trailed her out of town. He expected her to travel east, toward the Nations. But instead, she turned onto the farm road leading north out of Lawson. The Kansas border lay some fifty miles to the north, and in a practical sense, that seemed an even more logical destination. From there, she could catch a train to anywhere.
Toward midmorning Edith Doolin forded the Arkansas River. She continued north across the plains, pausing occasionally to tend to her baby. Tilghman followed a mile behind, using the telescope to keep her in sight. He was forced to admire her spirit, for the trail was rough and no place for a woman to be traveling alone. Her bond with her husband was clearly equal to any hardship.
By noontime she was deep in Osage country. From a knoll, Tilghman watched as she brought the wagon to a halt outside a farmer’s log house. The farmer and his wife, who were both Osage, greeted her as though they were old friends. Thoroughly puzzled, Tilghman watched as they assisted her from the wagon and carried the baby inside. At first, he thought she’d stopped for the night, to rest for the journey ahead. But then, as time passed, he became aware that no one had unhitched her horse from the wagon. He took up a lookout on the knoll.
Hardly an hour later, Edith Doolin emerged from the house. Her bonnet shielded her from the harsh sun, and the Osage man walked beside her, carrying the wicker basket. She climbed into the wagon, taking the basket from the farmer, and gently positioned it beside her on the seat. When she drove out, the farmer stood watching as she forded a creek near the house. She once again set a course almost due north.
Later that afternoon the wagon rolled into Pawhuska. A trading center for Osage farmers, the small village was some twenty miles south of the Kansas border. When the girl halted outside a store, Tilghman felt certain she meant to locate a place to spend the night. After a hard day’s travel, there was little doubt that she and the baby needed a good night’s rest. But as she stepped down from the wagon, a vagrant breeze whipped the bonnet back over her head. Tilghman almost dropped the telescope.
The face in the lens was not Edith Doolin. Angered, cursing himself roundly, Tilghman saw instead the Osage woman, the farmer’s wife. He suddenly realized that he’d been duped by a simple, yet devilishly clever, masquerade. The Osage woman had changed into Edith Doolin’s gingham dress, with the sunbonnet to hide her face, and driven out of the farm. The clincher was the baby basket, which Tilghman knew beyond doubt had been empty at the farm, and was empty now. He’d been gulled into following the wrong woman.
Thinking back, Tilghman ruefully admitted that he had been outfoxed. Doolin had expected his wife to be followed, and he’d devised a plan to throw off pursuit. The only question was how much the Osage farmer and his wife had been paid to take part in the masquerade. Tilghman felt outraged that he’d taken the bait, swallowed it whole. One last look at the Osage woman as she entered the store brought the taste of bile to his throat. He swung into the saddle and rode south.
Shortly after midnight Tilghman burst through the door of the farm house. His pistol cocked, he routed the Osage farmer out of bed and marched him into the main room. He ordered the man to light a lamp, then rammed the snout of the pistol into his belly. The Osage stared at him with a stoic expression.
“Let’s have it,” Tilghman said coldly. “Where’s the Doolin woman?”
“You won’t kill me, white man. Your law forbids it.”
“Don’t push your luck, mister. I want some answers.”
“No,” the Osage said stolidly. “Find your own answers.”
“You sorry bastard,” Tilghman said, his eyes glinting. “You’re helping an outlaw escape.”
The Osage smiled. “Why don’t you arrest me?”
Tilghman knew he’d lost. He wouldn’t kill the man, and he couldn’t stoop to a physical beating in order to extract information. Nor was there anything to be gained in arresting the farmer. Since he was Osage, the courts were reluctant to enforce federal law. The charges would simply be dropped.
The farmer was still smiling when he walked out the door. Tilghman was angry and baffled, and infuriated that he’d been played for a fool. He mounted his horse, reining away from the farm, wondering
