The dugout bordered a creek that fed into the Canadian. A battered wooden door was framed as an entrance, and smoke drifted from a stovepipe protruding through the roof. Off to one side was a log corral, with two horses standing hip-shot in the sunlight. There was no sound, no one in sight.
Tilghman and Thomas had elected to raid the dugout themselves. So far as they were concerned, the other marshals were fully capable of handling the rest of the gang. But the informant had reported that Dick West and Red Buck Waightman could be found at an abandoned dugout burrowed from the side of a hill. They hadn’t forgotten the farmer gunned down by Waightman some three months ago. Nor had they forgotten burying the farmer while his grief-stricken wife and little girl looked on. Waightman was theirs, and West was icing on the cake.
The congregation of outlaws around Eufaula was to them a matter of blind luck. According to the informant, who had finally let greed overshadow prudence, West and Waightman had used the dugout off and on for over a year. Clifton, whose Creek girlfriend lived in town, was a frequent visitor as well. Jennings and his men were apparently regular guests at the farms of two white men married to Creek sisters. By whatever quirk of fate, the demise of the Wild Bunch had brought them all together. Their mistake, the blind luck, was that they’d opted to stick with hideouts around Eufaula. Old habits had played into the hands of the law.
Thomas hadn’t taken his eyes off the door of the dugout. “What d’you think?” he said in a graveled whisper. “Do we call ’em out or do we wait?”
“We wait,” Tilghman replied. “They can’t stay in there forever. Let’s catch ’em in the open.”
Looking back, they would remember the words as somehow foreordained. The door opened and Red Buck Waightman stepped from the dugout, followed by West. They were freshly shaved, their hair slicked down, apparently set for a night in Eufaula. Waightman still in the lead, they turned toward the corral.
“Federal marshals!” Tilghman yelled. “Don’t move!”
Waightman whirled, pulling his pistol, and fired. West crouched and ran, dodging back toward the dugout, snapping off a hurried shot. The slugs whistled through the trees an instant before the lawmen opened fire with their carbines. Thomas levered two rounds and Waightman fell spread-eagled, his shirt splotched with blood. Tilghman let off only one shot, dusting West front to back, and the outlaw dropped just as he reached the door. His right leg kicked in a spasm of death.
The lawmen walked forward, their carbines at the ready. They inspected the bodies, satisfying themselves that both men were dead. At length, Thomas looked around, his eyes still cold with anger. A hard smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“Scratch Red Buck Waightman off the rolls. Sorry bastard won’t kill any more farmers.”
“No, he won’t,” Tilghman observed. “We’ve done a good day’s work here.”
“Still got one to go. The he-dog himself.”
“Heck, I just suspect we’ll get our chance.”
They both wondered where they might next meet Bill Doolin.
CHAPTER 43
The washed blue of the plains sky grew smoky along about dusk. A stiff breeze fell off, but there was a lingering nip in the sharp, crisp air. The lawmen rode into the ranch as twilight slowly gave way to dark. Neal Brown helped them unsaddle their horses.
Tilghman had convinced Thomas that they should make another scout around Lawson. Two days past, at a prearranged site on the Canadian, they had rendezvoused with Bussy and the other marshals. The time and place of the meeting had been part of their overall plan for the raids. Any of the gang who had slipped through the net would be pursued from there.
Yet, after everyone arrived at the rendezvous, pursuit proved to be unnecessary. The last three members of the Wild Bunch had been killed, and the Jennings gang had been taken alive. Wagons confiscated at the farms providing refuge had been loaded with the dead and the wounded. Bussy and Ledbetter, both senior marshals, had escorted the wagons on to Guthrie.
Thomas and Tilghman had then turned their attention to the unresolved matter of Bill Doolin. From the Canadian, they had angled northwest through the Creek Nation, headed for the ranch. News of the raids rushed ahead of them, spreading along the grapevine from town to town. Tilghman became increasingly concerned, for newspapers were certain to headline the violent end of the Wild Bunch. He was worried that Doolin would take it as an omen and run.
Their two days on the trail had cost them precious time. Tonight, walking toward the house, Thomas was no less concerned that they might be too late. For all they knew, Doolin might already have heard the news, and made arrangements to flee the territory with his family. But they were weary from the grueling manhunt, and they both felt it would be a mistake to push on without rest. They needed a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, as well as fresh mounts. They agreed to leave at dawn.
Brown got busy in the kitchen. While they washed and shaved, he fired up the cookstove and began slinging together a meal. By the time they were finished, he had the table laid out with charred beefsteak, fried potatoes, and warmed-over biscuits. They wolfed it down while he peppered them with questions, whooping loudly about the last of the Wild Bunch. When their plates were clean, he served them large wedges of Dutch apple pie. Their bellies full, they lingered over a final cup of coffee.
Finally, thinking about sleep, they rose from the table. As they walked from the kitchen, they heard hoofbeats, the sound of a horse being ridden hard. Tilghman moved through the parlor to the door, and saw a man dismount outside. His features were revealed in a spill of lamplight as he stepped onto the porch. Tilghman realized it was the young
