He rode toward Lawson.
CHAPTER 31
Doolin reined to a halt. He sat for a moment, studying the grove of trees ahead. A warm September sun beat down on the prairie, and birds flitted from limb to limb within the trees. He saw no other sign of activity.
The grove was located in southern Kansas. Less than a year ago, while planning a raid, Doolin had scouted it as an emergency hideout. A natural spring, deep within the trees, provided clear water for man or horse. The thick stand of timber provided cover.
Off to one side of the spring there was a lush patch of grass. Doolin dismounted, unsaddling his horse, and carried the saddle to the spring. After watering the horse, he attached hobbles to its forelegs and left it to graze. He opened his bedroll and took out a frayed shirt, a tattered pair of trousers, and a rumpled jacket. From his saddlebags, he collected a worn pair of ankle-high brogans and a battered slouch hat. He began undressing.
The idea was to convert himself into a tramp. He removed his range clothing and boots, wrapping everything into a bundle with his gunbelt. Then he donned the bedraggled outfit, and stuffed his pistol into his waistband, hidden by the threadbare jacket. When he finished, he looked like a shabby, disreputable bum who lived off of handouts. There was no need to dirty his face, or wallow about to give himself a foul body odor. He had just ridden almost seven hundred miles.
The disguise completed, Doolin surveyed his new campsite. The spring was an out of the way spot, and there was little likelihood that his horse or his gear would be discovered by anyone. He made his way through the woods and emerged from the treeline with the sun directly overhead. Some two miles to the east was a town he’d once scouted, among others in the area, as suitable for a bank holdup. But he’d never gotten around to it, and looking back, that seemed a rare stroke of luck. He walked off with a pronounced limp.
The limp was not part of his disguise. Doolin’s foot had never healed properly after he’d been wounded in the running gun battle with a posse. Some eight months had passed, and in that time, the added complication of rheumatism had developed in his foot. He found it painful to walk, every step sending fiery streaks shooting from his foot to his lower leg. The worn brogans he wore today further complicated the problem, but he had no choice in the matter. A tramp could hardly ride into town on a fine-looking horse.
Far ahead, he made out the irregular shape of buildings against the skyline. A small farm town, Burden was located in the southeastern quadrant of Kansas. The state line was some twenty miles to the south, and directly across it, the land of the Osage. As he trudged along on his game foot, Doolin was reminded that the town’s proximity to the border was only one of the reasons he’d chosen it. The larger reason had to do with the matter of transportation. Burden was serviced by the railroad.
Doolin’s plan was at once simple and devious. In the letter to his wife, delivered through Mary Pierce, he had instructed her to meet him in Burden the week of September 4. To throw off pursuit, he had made arrangements through Dick West with the Osage farm couple outside Pawhuska. Once he and Edith were reunited, they would then take passage by train to California, and a new life. Yet, even with the elaborate planning, he had to assume a disguise and proceed with caution. His picture was still plastered on wanted dodgers throughout Oklahoma Territory and the border states.
The thought reminded him that all his grand schemes had gone to hell in a hurry. He marked the Dover train robbery as the turning point, where luck seemingly ran out for the Wild Bunch. Since then, in only two months, federal marshals had killed Jack Blake, Charley Pierce, John Newcomb, and Bill Raidler. With four men dead and the law on their heels, he’d had no choice but to disband the gang. From there it was every man for himself, and the wise ones had departed the territory. What none of them knew was that he had departed it for good. His days on the owlhoot were at an end.
In town, Doolin hobbled along the main street. His money belt, with over three thousand in cash, was cinched beneath his shirt. But he warned himself, as he entered a mercantile, that he had to play the part of a tramp. The storekeeper gave him a leery eye when he came through the door and moved to the aisle with women’s goods. Finally, he found what he wanted, an inexpensive shawl. He walked back to the front counter.
“How much?” he asked.
“Two dollars,” the storekeeper said. “Hard cash.”
Doolin pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. He slowly counted out the correct amount, as though parting with his life’s savings. The storekeeper scooped up the money, fixed him with a curious look.
“What d’you want with a ladies’ shawl?”
“It’s a present,” Doolin said with a diffident smile. “For somebody that done me a favor.”
The storekeeper sniffed. “You ought to spend it on some duds for yourself.”
“Maybe next time. Could you wrap that for me?”
Outside, Doolin continued on his way uptown. A block before the main intersection, he crossed the street and entered the Royal Hotel. Though hardly royal, the place was clean and the rooms were modestly priced. As he approached the desk, the room clerk caught a whiff of his clothes. He nodded politely.
“You have a Mrs. Barry stayin’ here?”
“Why?” the clerk countered, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “What business is it of yours?”
Doolin held up the parcel, wrapped in brown paper
