CHAPTER 35
Tilghman began the manhunt on a central premise. He was convinced Doolin would not take the train from Kansas to Arkansas. For one thing, the Wild Bunch had staged several robberies in the area where Kansas and Arkansas abutted Indian Territory. For another, trains were often crowded, and the risk of being recognized was simply too great. Doolin’s face was widely known from wanted posters and newspapers.
So the greater likelihood was that Doolin would travel by horseback. Tilghman tried to look at it through the other man’s eyes whenever he conducted a lone manhunt. There were several routes by which a man might travel from Burden to the state line of Arkansas. But he thought Doolin would take the shortest route, while at the same time hugging the border of Indian Territory. That way, were he recognized, a short hop took him into the Nations.
One other factor entered into Tilghman’s thinking. From the doctor in Burden, he knew that Doolin was suffering considerable pain from his foot. Should the pain worsen, Doolin might well seek medical attention along the way. That meant entering towns—where there were doctors—and running the risk of being recognized. Whether or not Doolin would stick with his tramp’s disguise was a matter of conjecture. But if he needed a doctor, it made sense that he would look for one in a small town. The chances of being spotted by the law would then be reduced by a large degree.
All these things were weighed in the balance before Tilghman departed Burden. His approach to an investigation was to think it out, rather than conduct a harum-scarum search. Studying a map of Kansas, he found what seemed the perfect route for a man with Doolin’s problems. In the southeastern corner of the state, there was a string of small towns along the border of Indian Territory. The towns would have doctors, with little law enforcement, and great strategic advantage. None of them were more than five miles from refuge in the Nations.
The wild card in all this revolved around Doolin’s ultimate destination. There were two notable bath resorts in Arkansas, Eureka Springs and Hot Springs. Which one Doolin might choose was a matter of pure guesswork. After pondering on it, Tilghman saw that there was no way to pick one over the other. He might have to search both, and hope that Doolin continued to use the same alias. On the other hand, any investigation was equal parts deduction and good detective work, and getting the breaks. This time out, things might fall his way.
For three days Tilghman rode steadily eastward along the border. He stopped in one town after another, pausing only long enough to question the local doctor. Though they were cooperative, none of them had been consulted by a man with a lame foot. On the fourth morning, still confident that he was on the right track, he rode into the town of Chetopa. By now he had covered some eighty miles, and all the towns had begun to look alike. But he was no less determined than when he’d set out from Burden.
Tilghman discovered that there were two doctors in Chetopa. He learned as well that they were father and son, Harold and John Millsap. The younger Millsap, who routinely made house calls across the countryside, was out of town. Dr. Harold Millsap, who no longer made house calls, was in the office. He was a frail man, on the sundown side of sixty, stooped and hard of hearing. He greeted Tilghman with a genial warning.
“You’ll have to speak up. I’m damn near stone deaf. What ails you?”
“Nothing,” Tilghman said loudly, taking a chair beside the physician’s desk. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Questions?” Millsap boomed, shouting in order to hear himself. “What sort of questions?”
Tilghman pulled out his badge. “Federal marshal,” he said. “I’m looking for a fugitive.”
“A what?” Millsap asked sharply. “Consarn it, you’ll have to speak louder.”
“A fugitive,” Tilghman bellowed. “A man with a game left foot. He’s got rheumatism.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? I treated a man like that a couple of days ago.”
Tilghman sat straighter. “Had he been gunshot in the foot?”
“Yeah, a while back,” Millsap acknowledged. “Nothing to be done for that. He’d run out of liniment and wanted more. I gave him another bottle.”
“Did he ask you anything about the mineral baths over in Arkansas?”
“Told him it’s the closest thing to a miracle. I’ve got a touch of arthritis in the spine. Go over there myself once or twice a year.”
“Did you recommend any particular resort?”
“Told him to go where I go. The Davidson Hotel in Eureka Springs. Has the best waters in Arkansas.”
Tilghman allowed himself a smile. “Do you think he’ll follow your advice?”
“Why hell, yes,” Millsap trumpeted. “He’d chew nails if he thought it’d help. He was hurting bad.”
“Thanks.” Tilghman stood. “You’ve put me on the right track, doctor.”
“What’d he do, anyhow? Murder somebody?”
“That and a few other things.”
Millsap cackled. “By golly, I knew it! Told me he’d shot himself in the foot. Didn’t believe him for a minute.”
Tilghman turned at the door. “Was he using the name Tom Wilson?”
“Now that you mention it, he was. Yessir, that was it. Tom Wilson.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Looked more like a cowhand than he did a desperado. Smelled like he’d been on a horse for a while, too.”
“Thanks again.”
Outside, Tilghman felt like clicking his heels. His assessment of Doolin had proved to be on the mark. Avoiding trains, the outlaw had taken a route along the border. Two days ago, almost by happenstance, he’d stopped to see a doctor who had definite opinions about the bath resorts in Arkansas. There was little doubt that Doolin would be found in Eureka Springs.
Tilghman saw no reason to waste time. By switching from horseback to train, he could be in Eureka Springs sometime tomorrow. A half hour later, after a short dickering session, he sold his horse and saddle to
