“We cleared better than ten thousand dollars for the day!”
CHAPTER 4
Late Monday morning Tilghman and Sutton finished the accounting. Sutton was the bookkeeper of the partnership, and by his calculation they had netted closer to twelve thousand dollars. Their jubilance had abated none at all, and even more, they were of one mind. The Turf Exchange was indeed a license to print money.
Tilghman began laying out plans for the next race. He wanted to build bleachers on the south side of the track, in front of the finish line. People would pay top dollar for seats with a view, and the admission charge would further increase profits. As well, he wanted to install vendors’ booths around the track, where spectators could purchase drafts of keg beer to quell their thirst. The money to be made, in his view, was there for the taking. Several thousand people could drink a lot of beer.
“Mr. Tilghman?”
A young boy stood in the doorway. Tilghman moved to the betting window at the counter. “I’m Tilghman,” he said. “What can I do for you, sonny?”
The boy stepped into the room. “Marshal Grimes wants to see you over at his office. He told me to fetch you.”
“I don’t suppose he told you what it’s about?”
“No sir, he didn’t. Just said to bring you along.”
Sutton turned from the ledger on his desk. “We haven’t got any business with a federal marshal. Last I heard, it’s no crime to take bets.”
“We’ll find out quick enough.” Tilghman nodded to the youngster. “What’s your name, sprout?”
“Tommy Brewster,” the boy replied with a gap-toothed grin. “I run messages for folks over at the territory capitol.”
“Well, lead the way, Mr. Brewster. I’m right behind you.”
Tilghman followed the boy out the door. On the way across town, he reviewed what he’d heard of the newly appointed U.S. Marshal. Formerly from Nebraska, Grimes had made the land rush and claimed a homestead near the townsite of Kingfisher. Word had it that he had served two terms as a sheriff in Nebraska and had an enviable record for his hardline attitude toward outlaws. The way the grapevine told it, he’d sent a good many bad men to the gallows. President Harrison, at Governor Steele’s urging, had appointed him United States Marshal only last week.
Until a capitol building was constructed, all territorial and federal offices were housed in the Herriott Building, located at the corner of Division and Harrison. Tilghman followed the boy to the second floor, still new with the smell of fresh lumber. There the boy left him at a door with a newly painted placard denoting UNITED STATES MARSHAL, OKLAHOMA TERRITORY. He rapped on the door.
“Door’s open,” a voice called out. “C’mon in.”
Tilghman entered a room that had the look of a monk’s cell. There was one desk, a battered veteran of better days, and three wooden chairs. A file cabinet flanked the desk, and a Winchester rifle was propped in one corner. A man he took to be Grimes was seated behind the desk, and a man unknown to him occupied one of the chairs. Chris Madsen, a deputy marshal he’d met around town, moved forward to greet him.
Short and barrel-chested, Madsen’s name was known across the frontier. A soldier of fortune, Danish by birth, he had fought under Emperor Louis Napoleon in the Franco-Prussian War and later served in the French Foreign Legion. Emigrating to America in 1876, he had joined the army and distinguished himself in the wars with the Plains Tribes. Last year, he’d resigned from the army and accepted appointment as a deputy marshal working Indian Territory. His reputation was hard but fair, and deadly with a gun.
“Bill,” Madsen said amiably, “good to see you. I’d like you to meet our federal marshal, Walt Grimes.”
“Mr. Tilghman.” Grimes rose, offering his hand across the desk. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Mutual,” Tilghman said. “Congratulations on your appointment.”
“Consolation might be more in order. Seems I’ve walked into a hornet’s nest.”
“How’s that?”
“The Dalton boys,” Grimes said tersely. “They’re shooting up the territory.”
“Who are the Dalton boys?”
“Hell, I jumped the gun. Before we get to that, I want you to meet one of our deputies. This here’s Heck Thomas.”
The man in the chair stood and shook Tilghman’s hand. He was a lean six-footer, with steel-gray eyes and hard features. A slight smile touched one corner of his mouth.
“Bill Tilghman,” he said. “Late of Dodge City and thereabouts. Your reputation travels.”
“Not near as far as yours,” Tilghman replied. “Pleased to meet you.”
Tilghman’s remark was hardly an overstatement. Heck Thomas was a renowned mankiller, one of the foremost lawmen in the West. A Georgian, he had served as a policeman in Atlanta before migrating to Texas. There, he had operated as a private detective prior to appointment as a deputy U.S. marshal. Later, he’d served under Judge Isaac Parker, the hanging judge, headquartered at Fort Smith but trailing outlaws who sought refuge in Indian Territory. He was reputed to have killed six men.
“Have a seat,” Grimes said. “Let me tell you about the Daltons.”
Tilghman reluctantly took a chair. He sensed that this was something more than a social visit. Thomas resumed his seat and Madsen moved to a window, staring outside. Grimes waved his hand as though batting at flies.
“There’s four Daltons, all brothers. Crazy bastards decided to turn desperado, the whole bunch.”
Grimes went on with a thumbnail sketch of an entire family turned outlaw. Former cowhands, three of the brothers had at one time served as deputy U.S. marshals. But Bob Dalton was fired for taking bribes, and the other two, Emmett and Grat, resigned amidst rumors that they were rustling cattle on the side. Afterward, fancying himself another Jesse James, Bob formed a gang that included Emmett, Grat, and the fourth brother, Will, along with a pack of some eight cutthroats. The outlaw band, like other predatory gangs, operated out of Indian Territory.
“Helluva note,” Grimes concluded. “I’m one week on the job and they’ve robbed two trains. Hit the Santa Fe up
