Outlaw Read online

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  Brance could feel one of his headaches coming on. They were occurring more frequently over the last two years, and they seemed to be triggered most often by extreme anger or frustration. They started with a dull ache, followed within a few hours by a steady pounding in his head that seemed to beat in time with his heartbeat. Sometimes that was as far as they progressed, subsiding gradually over a long period of time. But other times they continued to increase in intensity until he was almost blinded by the stabbing pain that threatened to crush his skull. It was during these episodes that his men had learned to stay out of his way, for in this state, he was likely to kill anyone who irritated him. He never told anyone of the excruciating pain he suffered. There was no doubt when he was in one of his spells, however. You could see it in his eyes. His men attributed it to a natural rage inside him that simply took control. “He’s filled with the devil’s bile,” Eli explained to one of the men when out of Brance’s hearing.

  Eli had been with Brance since the beginning of the war. He had witnessed many of the violent rages that came over the cruel gang leader. The two had ridden with a group of Arkansas State Troopers that seized Fort Smith in April of 1861. When Union forces recaptured the fort in September 1863, the troop was split up. Most of the men joined up with Confederate troops. Brance and Eli decided it more to their advantage to range free in the Ozarks, taking what they wanted from the defenseless farms. Nate and Church had cast their lots with the two bushwhackers in the beginning. The other men came along over the years. In the summer of 1864, they were joined by the two Tyler brothers from Kentucky—two outlaws that could more than match Brance in evil intent. Since the end of the war, and the return of the menfolk to defend their homesteads, Burkett and his band of bushwhackers had found the pickings not so easy. Still, there were plenty of opportunities for ruthless men to take advantage of isolated farms. Like Brance, Eli was not at all pleased with the unfortunate encounter with the lone rifleman. A big part of the gang’s success had been their number—a number that was now cut in half.

  Chapter 7

  Matt assumed he was approaching Fort Smith when he came upon a cleared field down near the river’s edge. The occasional field he had seen up until that time had seemed long abandoned. This one had recently been plowed. He walked his horses around the hedgerow at the southern end close to the water. It had been a hard day’s ride, and he stopped to water his tired animals. The bay was surviving very well on a diet primarily composed of grass, but Blue was showing signs of fatigue. “Spoiled,” Matt stated as he rubbed the big stallion’s neck. “You’re just gonna have to get used to it, boy. Oats aren’t always that easy to come by.”

  Back in the saddle, he continued along the river trail. In less than an hour’s ride, he came upon a gathering of buildings that were the outskirts of the town of Fort Smith. Beyond this cluster of buildings, he could see the walls of the fort itself. The sight of the military post caused him to pause and reconsider. He had no desire to come into contact with Union soldiers, even though he figured there was little chance there would be any interest in him at this distant outpost. He would have bypassed Fort Smith altogether had it not been for his need to resupply himself with basic essentials before venturing into Indian Territory. And Fort Smith was the last opportunity for that. Hell, he thought, I’ll go on into town. There ain’t much chance anybody will pay me any mind.

  Will Andrews looked up from the sack of flour he was sifting through when a shadow fell across him. The tall figure blocking his light from the doorway paused a moment to survey the room before stepping inside. “Afternoon,” Matt offered in greeting.

  “Afternoon,” Will returned, squinting in an effort to recognize the visitor to his store. “What can I do for you?”

  Matt looked around the room at the empty shelves. “I was hoping to buy some coffee and maybe some bacon or side meat. I’ve been eatin’ a helluva lot of wild game lately, and a taste of salt pork would be welcome.” When the storekeeper continued to gaze at him without answering, Matt continued. “I could use some forty-four cartridges.”

  Will appeared dumbfounded for a moment before replying. “Mister, where the hell have you been for the last four years?” He made a sweeping gesture toward his empty shelves. “I ain’t had spit to sell since the damn Yankee army took over.”

  Matt shook his head thoughtfully, realizing then how naive his requests had been. “I’m not from around here. I was just hopin’ you might have some supplies.” He turned, preparing to take his leave.

  “Hold on a minute, mister,” Will said, his tone softening a little. “Times have been so hard around here that I reckon I forgot common courtesy.” He got up from his stool and extended his hand. “Will Andrews is the name. I’ve got some green coffee beans I can let you have, and some of this flour if you want it. Don’t have no pork at all. About the only meat I see lately comes in the flour sacks.” He nodded toward a can on the floor beside the flour sack where he had been depositing the weevils he had been sifting from the flour.

  “I reckon I could use the coffee,” Matt replied, shaking Will’s hand. “You know where I can get some oats for my horses?”

  “You can try Sam Pickens down at the end of the street. He owns the stables and does some blacksmithin’. He might have some.” While he talked, Will pulled the top off of a barrel, and scooped out some coffee beans. He paused to glance at Matt, waiting for his nod. Matt nodded when the sack was three quarters full, and Will tied it off and plopped it on his scale. “‘Pears like you’ve been travelin’ for a spell. Where’d you ride in from?”

  “Back east,” Matt replied. It was apparent that the storekeeper wanted to make conversation, but Matt figured the less talk, the better. He promptly changed the subject. “I’ve got a sizable stack of deer hides I’d like to trade somewhere.”

  Will shook his head slowly. “I don’t know any folks around here that would have much use for deer hides.”

  “Well, much obliged,” Matt said as he paid for his coffee, and turned to leave. Will walked out the door with him.

  “You headed over to the fort?” Will asked.

  “What?” Matt answered after abruptly pausing in the doorway. Realizing that Will was waiting for his answer, he blurted, “Ah, no, I reckon not.” The cause for his momentary distraction was the display of notices tacked on the door. Down near the bottom was a Wanted poster for one Matt Slaughter, wanted for murder in Virginia. It featured a drawing of his likeness. He glanced at Will’s face. The storekeeper paid no mind to the notices, continuing his conversation.

  “Well, if you’re lookin’ for a place to settle down, there’s plenty of good land around here, and cheap as you’ll ever find it.”

  “I reckon I’ll just be passin’ through,” Matt said, and packed his coffee sack away on his horse.

  Will stepped back to allow room for Matt to turn his horse. “Well, stop in to see me again if you get back this way, Mister . . .” He paused. “I never did get your name.”

  “Shannon,” Matt replied. “The name’s Shannon.”

  “Well, good luck to you, young feller.” He stood watching Matt as he rode down to the end of the dusty street toward the blacksmith. Seemed like a nice enough young man, Will thought. Then he went back into the store, still oblivious to the wanted poster on his door.

  Sam Pickens took a moment to wipe the grease from his hands before propping the wheel against the bed of the wagon box that awaited it. A short, stocky man, he displayed a generous grin for the stranger standing in the open doorway. “Can I help ya?”

  “I could use some oats for my horses if you’ve got any,” Matt replied. “They been feedin’ on nothin’ but grass for a spell.”

  “Sure, I got oats,” Sam said, obviously disappointed that the stranger was not seeking anything beyond horse feed. “I can give you a good price for shoeing them horses.”

  “Just had it done a few days back,” Matt replied.

  Sam nodded slowly. “You i
n town for a while? I can board them animals for four bits a day, includin’ a ration of oats.” When Matt hesitated to answer right away, Sam went on. “We got us a dandy hotel in town now—fixed it up proper since the Yankees like to burnt it to the ground—got a saloon downstairs.”

  It was tempting. It had been a while since he had slept in a bed, or had a drink of liquor. He didn’t miss sleeping in a bed that much, but a drink of liquor might hit the spot. There was still enough money to splurge a little on self-indulgence. Still, there was the thought of that Wanted poster. He thought about the sketch of his face on the paper. It didn’t look much like him, in his opinion. Will Andrews had not made the connection. After debating the issue for a few moments, he decided that he could risk a visit to a saloon. “Money’s a little in short supply right now,” he finally stated. “I’ll leave my horses with you overnight, but I don’t reckon I’ll stay in the hotel.”

  “For a quarter a night, you can sleep in the stable with your horses,” Sam was quick to suggest. “There’s already another feller sleepin’ here.”

  “You want fifty cents for a horse, but only a quarter for me?” Matt asked, somewhat amused.

  “I don’t have to feed you no oats,” Sam replied, causing Matt to smile.

  * * *

  “What’s your pleasure, mister?”

  “Got anything that won’t kill a man?” Matt replied to the bartender.

  The bartender, a beefy Irishman with whiskey-flushed cheeks, responded with a wide grin. “Hell, I’ve got some premium corn liquor, just come down from St. Louis. You’re in luck, young feller, it’s the first we’ve had that ain’t homegrown for quite a spell.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Matt replied, and put his money on the bar while the bartender poured his drink. “Might as well make it a double if it’s as good as you say.”

  “Smooth as silk,” the bartender said, and slid the glass over toward Matt.

  It was early in the evening, and there were no other patrons in the saloon except for a five-handed poker game at a table in the back corner of the room. Matt took a sip of his whiskey and blinked back the burn as the fiery liquid scorched his throat. Damn, he thought, it’s been a while. He walked back to the poker table to watch while he sipped his drink. “Evenin’,” he said. “Mind if I watch a few hands?”

  They turned to look him over for a second, then quickly turned their attention back to the game—all but one. He had the look of a gambler, in his frock-tailed black coat and his string tie, with eyes deep set behind heavy brows. He took a bit longer to look the stranger over before responding to Matt’s question. “Not if you don’t stand too close—I like plenty of elbow room when I’m playin’ cards.” Matt nodded. The gambler continued to look him over for a few moments more. “Maybe you’d like to sit in for a few hands.”

  “Thanks just the same,” Matt replied. “I’ll just finish my drink and be on my way.” String Tie gazed at him for a moment longer, then dismissed him from his mind, returning his concentration to the game at hand.

  It had been a long time between drinks for Matt, and, with his empty stomach, he could feel the effects of the alcohol almost immediately. There was a definite tingling in his brain as the strong elixir rushed through his bloodstream. I couldn’t take much of this, he thought. I’d soon be on my ass. He tried to concentrate on the card game, and determine who was winning and who was taking a beating.

  After watching for only a few minutes, it was obvious that four of the players seemed to know each other. The fifth, a big man with a bald head and a full, bushy gray beard, dressed in animal skins, was apparently a stranger to the others—and also apparently the biggest loser. There was a sizable pile of money on the table, most of it before String Tie. The longer Matt watched, the more convinced he was that the stranger was in the process of being fleeced by the other four. String Tie was extremely deft when it came to handling the cards, and even with the alcohol buzz in Matt’s brain, he was certain he saw a card come off the bottom of the deck when the man dealt. He also noticed that a couple of the other men busily engaged the stranger in animated conversation during every deal, keeping his glass full from a bottle on the table. The poor bastard, Matt thought, like a lamb to the slaughter.

  The longer Matt looked at the bushy-faced loser, the more the man seemed familiar to him, as if he had seen him before somewhere. It’s probably the whiskey, he thought. Whiskey makes your mind think all kinds of things. With that thought in mind, he decided it was time for him to get back to the stable. He didn’t care to watch any more of the blatant fleecing of the burly stranger, anyway. He turned to leave when String Tie stopped him.

  “What’s your hurry, mister? You sure you don’t wanna sit in a few hands?” He fashioned a wide smile for Matt’s benefit. “I’m sure the boys here don’t mind another player.” His three conspirators grinned and nodded their approval, playing their parts. The bald, bushy-faced man simply stared blankly at the shot glass in his hand.

  Matt couldn’t suppress a wry smile at the thought of the invitation. The small amount of money left before the big man was sign enough that a new sucker would soon be needed. The four scavengers watched him like a pack of hungry wolves, staring at a calf. “I reckon not,” he said. “I don’t have money to spare.”

  “That’s a mighty fancy-lookin’ rifle you’re holdin’ onto there,” String Tie said. “I’d be willin’ to lend you a stake on that rifle.”

  Matt suddenly lost his patience with the blatant attempt to fleece yet another stranger. He knew he’d best just turn and walk away, but he was beginning to feel sorry for their victim, who appeared to be stunned at the moment by an overconsumption of alcohol. “I expect if I was to play poker, I’d prefer to take my chances with somebody who didn’t deal from the top and bottom of the deck.”

  String Tie blinked hard, taken aback by the comment. He quickly recovered, however, and the thin smile returned to his face when he replied. “That’s kinda hard talk, mister—kinda insultin’ to me and my friends here.”

  At that point, the big bushy-faced man seemed to come out of his stupor. “You and your friends has been mighty damn lucky all right,” he blurted. “Too damn lucky, if you ask me.” He pushed his chair back from the table.

  Anticipating the storm that was about to strike the saloon, String Tie took off his hat and began to rake all the money into it. “Just hold it right there,” the game’s victim warned, and got to his feet. “I knew you bastards was cheatin’ me.” His shoulders were as wide as an oxbow, but he was more than a little unsteady, a result of the quantity of whiskey he had consumed. His uncertain appearance caused one of String Tie’s partners to make a faulty judgment. A sizable man himself, he kicked his chair back as he rose to his feet, and without warning, delivered a haymaker to the side of the victim’s face. The blow resulted in little more than causing the bearded brute’s head to turn slightly, and his eyes blinked several times as if just awakening. His assailant seemed momentarily stunned, staring at his fist as if checking a weapon to see if it was loaded. When he glanced up again, it was just in time to get a close look at the knuckles of the massive fist that flattened him.

  Apparently having learned nothing after seeing his partner slide across the floor on his back, the man on the other side of Bushy Face took a swing at him. His results were similar to those of his partner, and he wobbled drunkenly before crumpling to the floor with a dislocated jaw. Seeing the folly in facing the enraged giant head-on, String Tie grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table and positioned himself behind his adversary while Bushy Face was occupied with the others. He was about to deliver a blow to the back of the brute’s skull when the butt of Matt’s rifle flattened his nose and sent him staggering against the bar. His hat dropped to the floor, spilling money in the process.

  The rapid series of events, taking place within a few moments’ time, left the last one of the card players with a decision, which he made without hesitation. Out the door he went, as fast as his legs could ca
rry him. Taking advantage of the distraction caused by his partner’s sudden sprint for the door, String Tie reached inside his coat and drew his revolver.

  “I wouldn’t,” Matt warned the gambler, and leveled his rifle at him.

  “You son of a bitch,” String Tie hissed, but thought better of making a move.

  “I expect it would be best if you and your friends dragged your cheatin’ asses outta here,” Matt suggested. Seeing the wisdom in the stranger’s suggestion, the three struggled to their feet, realizing that they had been beaten. “Leave it,” Matt warned when String Tie made a move to pick up the money. “You can have your hat. Leave the rest.”

  String Tie scowled like a cur dog. “That money belongs to me,” he complained, his words garbled by the blood flowing from his broken nose.

  “Not anymore,” Matt replied without emotion. “Now, get goin’.”

  During this brief exchange, Bushy Face stared at the young stranger who had stepped in to help him. His face expressionless behind the full growth of whiskers, and with dull eyes, he watched the retreat of the remaining three of his adversaries. Matt glanced at him in time to see a spark of action in his eyes. A moment later, the big man made a sudden move toward him. Startled, Matt crouched, reacting as fast as he could to defend himself as Bushy Face threw a massive punch toward his head.