For the past few days, Tilghman had dwelled at length on having been spotted in Burden. The obvious answer was Edith Doolin, who knew him on sight. But that set him to thinking about pictures of himself and other marshals that had appeared in newspapers. The more he wondered, the more it made sense that Doolin knew him on sight as well. So he’d decided to give himself whatever edge was possible when they finally met. He would assume the guise of a preacher.
From the store, with his bundle of clothes, Tilghman proceeded to the train station. A passenger train, headed eastbound, was scheduled into Chetopa in two hours. After purchasing a ticket, he composed a telegram, worded in cryptic language, to Evett Nix. The wire stated that business affairs required his presence in Eureka Springs, and he asked for an immediate reply regarding his last telegraph message. Less than an hour later, he was handed an equally cryptic telegram from Nix. The package, Nix informed him, had arrived as scheduled, and had been delivered to Lawson.
The meaning was clear. Edith Doolin had arrived by train in Perry, and Heck Thomas had trailed her to her parents’ home in Lawson. Upon reading it, Tilghman suddenly realized that all the pieces had fallen into place. Eureka Springs was some fifty miles east of the border with the Cherokee Nation. From there, Doolin planned to take the healing waters and bide his time. Then, after a suitable interval, he would again spirit his wife and child out of Oklahoma Territory. All of which dovetailed with what Tilghman had suspected from the beginning. Doolin never intended to return to the territory, or the Wild Bunch.
Tilghman boarded the train shortly after one o’clock. He placed his bundle in the overhead rack, took a seat, and stared out the window. He was reminded of the adage that time and tide waits on no man.
He thought Bill Doolin had lived on borrowed time long enough. The tide finally had ebbed.
* * *
Eureka Springs was the oldest bath resort in Arkansas. Located in the Ozark Hills, the town was a place of twisting streets and houses that clung precariously to steep slopes. People came from across the country to luxuriate in the steaming sulfur waters.
Tilghman stepped off the train early the next morning. The porter had pressed his new suit and blacked his boots, and the white dog-collar of a minister encircled his neck. He carried his range clothes and gunbelt in a warbag, and his pistol was stuffed in the waistband of his trousers. He looked like a preacher in search of miracle waters.
The Davidson Hotel was located along the town’s main street. A short walk from the train depot, the hotel was situated beneath rugged hills dotted with the yawning mouths of large caves. On the street, men tipped their hats and ladies nodded pleasantly as Tilghman strolled uptown. He played the role, smiling with benign good cheer, thinking that Zoe would be amused. At last, in a manner of speaking, he’d got religion.
Entering the hotel, Tilghman walked straight to the registration desk. The lobby was crowded and he scanned faces from beneath his broad-brimmed black hat. There was always the risk that he would stumble across Doolin and be spotted, despite his disguise. Still, the parson’s outfit seemed to hold people’s attention, and the risk was unavoidable. He had to verify that Doolin was staying at the hotel.
“Good morning, Reverend,” the desk clerk greeted him. “May I help you?”
“You’re too kind,” Tilghman said unctuously. “I’m looking for one of my parishioners, Thomas Wilson. I believe he’s a guest at the hotel.”
“Yes, of course, I know Mr. Wilson. He stopped by only a few minutes ago to mail a letter. He was on his way to the bath house.”
“How would I find the bath house?”
“See that hallway, Reverend?” the clerk said, pointing across the lobby. “At the end, turn right and go down the stairs. You can’t miss it.”
Tilghman checked his warbag with the bell captain. Down the hallway, he found stairs that descended to what had once been a natural cavern. At the lower level, he tugged his hat low and entered the door of the bath house. There was a lounge out front, with an attendant serving coffee, and a counter where guests were given towels and locker keys. Beyond was an entrance to the dressing room and the baths.
Several men waited their turn at the counter. Others were seated around the lounge, conversing over their morning coffee. Across the room, Doolin was seated in a club chair, reading a newspaper. Attired in a suit and tie that appeared to be newly purchased, he looked much like the other hotel guests. A cup of coffee was on a table beside his chair, and he kept glancing over the top of his newspaper. He was apparently waiting for the line to thin out at the counter.
Head lowered, Tilghman moved toward the men waiting for towels. As he approached the end of the line, he saw Doolin glance at him, then return to the newspaper. He continued on, aware that Doolin had been distracted by the minister’s outfit rather than inspecting his face. Quickly, before he was noticed again, he closed the distance to Doolin’s chair. He halted a step away, drawing his pistol.
“Doolin!” he ordered sharply. “Stand up and keep your hands in sight. You’re under arrest.”
A flicker of recognition crossed Doolin’s features. He stared over the newspaper, his mouth set in a tight smile. “Where’d you get the preacher’s duds?”
“You heard me,” Tilghman said. “On your feet.”
Doolin rose from his chair. He flung the newspaper forward with his left hand and his right hand flashed inside his suit jacket. On the verge of firing, something
