They talked jokingly of the Toller farm and about the crops. And Owen thought back to other days, harsh and brutal, of mass hangings on the courthouse square at Fort Smith, of man hunts and sudden violence. All that was over, they said. Statehood was here. The Jameses and the Doolins had made their infamous history, and all the violence, so they said, was over. As though a vote of Congress would make any difference in the minds of men like Ike and Cal Brunner.
They talked of Elizabeth and the kids. And Owen thought back to a certain day in the Choctaw Nation. He had lain in the snow on that bitter winter day, and the snow was red and his legs were paralyzed with buckshot. And Arch Deland had said, “Don't worry, kid, I'll get you back to Smith all right.” And he did; a nameless outlaw following behind, face down across a pack horse.
Now, as Owen looked at Arch Deland, it was strange that he should think, How much do they want of a man? Arch has done enough! But he guessed that being a lawman was all Arch knew.
At last the talk got around to Owen. “Did you talk to Cushman?” Arch asked.
“Just to ask where I could find you.”
“He didn't mention the Brunner gang?” Owen frowned.
“Why should he have mentioned the Brunners to me?”
Deland shrugged. “It was just a guess. There's a lot of pressure on Cushman to clean the Brunners out of the hills, but I guess Will hasn't got the guts it takes for that kind of business.”
“I don't see that it would take a special kind of guts,” Owen said. “Will doesn't have to go after the gang himself; he could send his deputies after them.”
Deland laughed. “You haven't been to town lately, have you? Will tried that once, and the Brunners whipped them seven ways from Sunday. What deputies didn't get shot up, they quit. All Cushman has to do is say Brunner and he's got a complete turnover in the sheriff's office.”
“You haven't quit,” Owen pointed out. Deland laughed again.
“Maybe I would if Will sent me into the hills. But he won't. At my age he figures all I'm good for is keeping the streets clear of wagons on Saturdays. And maybe he's right.”
“I still don't understand why it should be so tough to clean out a gang of trigger-happy hill boys,” Owen said. “Why doesn't Will get up a citizen posse and go after them? A hundred men, if he has to. The Brunners couldn't fight an action like that.”
Deland smiled thinly. “A good idea, but it won't work. First, Will would be expected to go along with a citizen posse, and that he won't do. And even if he would, it wouldn't work, because the Brunners would scatter the gang from hell to breakfast all over Oklahoma and Arkansas. Those boys may be book-ignorant, but they're as hill-smart as they come.” He shook his head. “A posse wouldn't nave a chance.”
Owen asked the question, although he already knew the answer. “Then whowould have a chance?”
“One or two good men,” Deland said mildly, “dead shots and as hill-smart as the Brunners. They'd have to go in and take the two brothers, and then the gang would fall apart. By the way, has Ben McKeever been out to talk to you?”
In one way or another Arch Deland knew almost everything that happened in this country north of the Canadian, and Owen shouldn't have been surprised. But he was. “What makes you ask that?”
Deland grinned. “Well, Ben owns a lot of timber up in those hills. He'd sure hate for anything to happen that might spoil his chances of getting a railroad through here.”
Owen shook his head. “How could the Brunners hold up a thing as big as a railroad?”
“By scaring the pants off the advance surveyors for the company. And they've already done a pretty good job of that. Those boys have to send reports back to New York, and from those reports the big boys with the money decide where the track goes.”
Slowly the doubts began working in Owen's mind. Maybe McKeever wasn't bluffing, after all. It was a discomfort-1 ing thought, but even if it was true, it would not affect his promise to Elizabeth. Of that he was sure.
As if reading his thoughts, Deland said, “Ben can make it tough on you, Owen.”
Toller nodded. “He's already started.” The deputy did not seem surprised. He grinned quietly, and then punched Owen lightly on the shoulder. “Don't let it worry you; you've got plenty of friends in Reunion. You'll have to ride it out, for Elizabeth's sake.” As though embarrassed by this slight show of affection, Deland turned and gazed at the wagons and animals in the street. “There's a chance,” he said, “that Ben won't be the only one to apply pressure. People are getting worked up about the Brunners; they want something done.” He shot one quick glance at Owen's face. “Don't let them sway you. You've got a wife and family to think about.” With an abrupt nod, the old deputy walked away.
It was long after dark when Owen got back to the farm with the supplies. As he unhitched and stripped the team, Elizabeth came to the barn with a lighted lantern. He saw the worry in her eyes and said, “Sorry I'm late. I got to talking with Arch Deland and forgot the time.”
“Did you see McKeever while you were in town?”
“Why, yes,” Owen said with forced heartiness. “As a matter of fact, I did.” He put his lean, hard arms about his wife and held her against him. “If you're thinking of the Brunners,” he said, “just forget it. Ben didn't even mention them.”
Chapter Three
The tall wooded hills of the old Cherokee Nation stood silent and green in the early morning. The rugged peaks seemed to stretch and expand, growing wilder and more formidable in the brilliant clean light of the new day. Slowly the sound of hoofs faded in and overrode the silence of the hills, and from the south a rider appeared flogging a barrel-chested little bay over an old Indian trace, pounding relentlessly toward the higher ground.
The rider's name was Dunc Lester, and he had come a long way. He had been as far south as the Canadian, had glimpsed the Arkansas border on the east, had spread the word as far north as the Verdigris. A lanky, big-boned boy in his late teens, he wore the clothing of the hill country: big overalls, flannel shirt, and heavy, thick-soled shoes. An ancient Colt's .44, converted to use modern brass-cased ammunition, was strapped around his waist. A twelve-gauge shotgun was slung in a makeshift boot by his left knee.
Indian-like, Dunc rode with blithe disregard for his mount, putting the lathered animal up the hard incline at full gallop. Suddenly, from the great emptiness of the hills, a rifle barked sharply. The slug screamed over Dunc's head and he hauled hard on the reins, bringing the bay to a rearing stop. Quickly he cupped one hand to his mouth and sounded the mournful, sobbing bark of a coyote. Then he kicked the faltering bay and moved on, carefully.
Far above Dunc a man appeared on a limestone outcropping near the crest of the hill. He cradled a repeating Winchester in the crook of his arm and grinned as the rider came toward him.
“Goddamn it, Gabe!” Dunc Lester cried. “What're you tryin' to do, kill me?”
Gabe Tanis, a dish-faced, round-shouldered man in his early forties, shrugged off the boy's anger. “You know what Ike said. Nobody gets through this pass without he gives the signal.”
Dunc appeared disgusted. His family and the Tanises had farmed side by side almost as long as he could remember, and Gabe knew him like a brother. “Damn it, Gabe, have your eyes give out on you? Couldn't you see it was me?”