Go-Ahead Rider Page 10

  “Good-bye, Mr. Lyons,” he said.

  Lyons did not answer, did not even glance in Anglin’s direction. He jerked open the front door and hurried out, leaving the door to close by itself—or not.

  Beehunter walked into Rider’s office and spoke in Cherokee. Rider stood up from behind his desk and picked up his two Colts. As he was tucking the Colts into his waistband, he shot a glance in George’s direction.

  “Lyons is catching the stage,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Beehunter poured himself a cup of coffee and watched the two others hurry out of the office. He took the coffee cup, walked around behind Rider’s desk, sat down, and propped his feet up on the desktop. He took a long slurp from the cup.

  “Ah,” he said.

  Outside Rider paused.

  “All right, George,” he said. “There’s no hurry. Lyons must be anxious to get out of town. It’s a little early yet for the stage. We’ll come at him from two different directions. Move in calm and easy. I don’t expect any trouble from him, but stay alert just in case. And you don’t do anything—unless you see that I need some help. Got it?”

  “I got it,” said George.

  Lyons was not sitting on the bench near where the stage would stop. He was too nervous for that. His suitcase was on the bench, but he was up and pacing back and forth on the board sidewalk. He saw the stage coming down the street, moving toward where he stood waiting, coming to take him away to safety. He picked up his bag from the bench and pushed his way ahead of the other waiting passengers so he would be the first on board. The stage came closer, and Lyons saw Go-Ahead Rider walking toward him, coming from the south. Rider didn’t appear to be in any particular hurry. He was probably not going to arrest anyone, Lyons thought. He was going to try to pull his bluff again, that’s all. Rider strolled closer, and the stage rolled closer, and Lyons became more nervous. He glanced to his left, and there he saw George Tanner walking toward him from the north. He thought about running. Where to? There was no place to go. He told himself again that it was nothing more than a bluff. He pulled himself up straight to await the stage. The stage lurched to a halt almost in front of Lyons, and Rider stepped up beside him.

  “Going somewhere, Mr. Lyons?” said Rider.

  “None of your damn business,” said Lyons.

  “Oh, yes it is. You’re under arrest.”

  Lyons tried to put on his boldest appearance and manner. The worst thing, he thought, is to appear nervous, to seem guilty.

  “What’s the charge?” he said.

  Rider reached out to pull Lyons’s coat open, to see if he was armed. He didn’t see a weapon, but he felt the weight on the right side of the coat. He reached for the pocket.

  “Back off,” said Lyons.

  “You take it easy, Mr. Lyons,” said George. He was standing right behind the man. Lyons’s big body relaxed. The fight went out of him. His shoulders sagged, and he seemed to lose an inch or two of height.

  “All right,” he said. “What’s the charge?” His voice was not as bold or as belligerent as it had been. Rider reached into the coat pocket and pulled out the Marston .32. He held it up for Lyons, George, and the nearby witnesses to see.

  “How about carrying a concealed weapon for starters?” he said. “Come on. Let’s go to the jailhouse.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” said Judge Boley, “have you reached a verdict?”

  In the jury box, the foreman of the jury stood up and faced the judge.

  “Yes, we have, your honor,” he said.

  The courtroom was silent. Lyons sat beside his attorney, beads of perspiration on his forehead. George Tanner looked at Rider. The sheriff’s jaw was set, and he was staring hard at the foreman of the jury.

  “What is your verdict?” said Boley.

  “Your honor,” said the foreman, “we find the defendant not guilty.”

  Back in his office, Rider tossed Lyons his suitcase. Then he opened a desk drawer and withdrew the pocket pistol he had taken away from Lyons.

  “Unload this thing and pack it in your grip,” he said, “or I’ll arrest you again for carrying a gun in town.”

  He pitched the pistol at Lyons. Lyons caught it, unloaded it, opened his suitcase, and packed the gun away. Then he closed and relatched his bag. He looked up at Rider with a sneer.

  “Lyons,” said Rider, “this thing ain’t over. Ole Mix was a friend of mine. You ain’t getting away with it.”

  “Even if I was to confess that I had something to do with them killings,” said Lyons, “which I ain’t, but if I was, you couldn’t do nothing to me now. You can’t try me twice for the same crime. Ain’t that right?”

  “You never was tried for killing Jess Halfbreed,” said Rider. “I know that you were responsible for the killings.”

  “Go to hell,” said Lyons. He picked up his suitcase and turned to leave the office.

  “You’ll pay, Lyons,” Rider shouted after him.

  Lyons had not been gone a minute when Judge Boley walked into Rider’s office. He pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down facing Rider.

  “There wasn’t a thing I could do, Go-Ahead,” he said. “I hate this as much as you do. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know, Judge,” said Rider. “I’m glad you came by. I’m resigning as sheriff. Right now.”

  Rider unpinned the badge from his vest and dropped it onto the desktop.

  “What the hell for?” said Boley. “Man, we can’t win them all.”

  “Mix was a friend, Judge,” said Rider, “and so was poor ole Jess. We both know that Lyons is guilty as sin. I ain’t letting him get away with what he done. As sheriff, I can’t do nothing. That’s why I’m resigning. George can keep an eye on things until you all decide what you want to do about a replacement for me. You could do a whole lot worse than George. He’s coming along real well.”

  Boley stood up and paced across the floor.

  “I know I can’t stop you,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid. All right? And be careful.”

  When Boley left the office, Rider was not far behind. Outside, he found George.

  “Where’d he go?” he asked.

  “He went to the livery stable,” said George.

  Rider started walking in that direction.

  “Rider,” said George. “Let me go with you.”

  Rider stopped and turned back to face George.

  “We already went over that,” he said. “I need you to stay here. Otherwise I’d be walking out on this office. I can’t do that.”

  The first thing Rider noticed inside the livery was Lyons’s suitcase lying on the floor open and empty. Then he saw Curly walking toward him.

  “Curly,” he said, “tell me about Lyons. Quick.”

  “Well, Rider,” said Curly, “he just rode out of here.”

  “He left on horseback?”

  “That’s right. Bought a horse. That’s why he had to empty his suitcase there. He took a slicker out and made a saddle roll.”

  “Did you see a little pistol?”

  “He had it in the suitcase. Loaded it up and put it in his pocket.”

  “What’s he riding?” asked Rider.

  “Little spotted mare. You’ve seen her.”

  “I know the horse. One more question, Curly. Did you see which way he went when he left out of here?”

  “He went out of here riding south,” said Curly. “I got a question for you. Where’s your badge?”

  But Rider didn’t bother to answer Curly’s question. He was outside in a minute and mounted on the big black from the sheriff’s barn. He would settle with the treasurer later for his use of this Cherokee Nation property.

  So Lyons had headed south. That was what Rider had figured. Lyons would want the quickest way out of the Cherokee Nation, the quickest way out of the jurisdiction of Go-Ahead Rider. He would be headed for Muskogee, just across the line into the Creek Nation. Muskogee was a new town, a town created ove
rnight by the railroad as it had carved its path through the Indian Nations down into Texas. It was full of crooks and murderers, just the kind of place where Lyons would seek safety. Rider headed for Muskogee.

  He was glad he had anticipated all this: a verdict of not guilty and the quick escape of Lyons. He had talked to George before the trial and told him what he would do if things turned out this way. George would go to his house and tell Exie, and George would take care of things at the sheriff’s office. Rider had no idea how long this mission would take. He would not—could not—simply murder Lyons. Even though Lyons was himself a murderer, had murdered two of Rider’s friends, deserved such a fate, Rider was not a man to do that deed. He didn’t know exactly how he would manage it, but somehow he would get Lyons. He would stay close to the man, always be there, await his chance.

  Tom Spike Buck was drunk. Earlier in the day he had been less drunk, and he had known better than to go staggering down the main street of Tahlequah. He had been arrested for drunkenness before, and if he were to be caught, arrested, tried, and found guilty again, the punishment would be severe. Earlier he had known that, but he had kept drinking, and he had reached the point where he no longer knew much of anything. He was broke, and he wanted more whiskey, so he was searching for friends from whom he might get a drink or the money to buy one—or several. He had staggered through most of downtown Tahlequah, bumped into several people, followed a wandering path across the street onto the grounds of the capitol building and collapsed on a bench. He did not pass out, but he lacked both the strength and the sense of balance to go further. He stretched out on the bench and watched the treetops above him swirl around in the sky.

  George Tanner had gone into the capitol building to talk with Judge Boley. He had wanted Boley’s assurance that it was really all right for him to be in charge of the sheriff’s office with Rider gone. Boley had given him that assurance. Not only was it all right, Boley had said, there was no other immediate possibility, and besides that, Rider had spoken very highly of George. George left Boley’s office with mixed feelings. He was a little afraid of the awesome responsibility Rider had handed over to him. At the same time his ego was puffed up considerably by the thought of Go-Ahead Rider giving him high praise. He left the building, intending to go straight to Rider’s house to explain things to Exie. She wouldn’t be worried yet. It was not yet time for Rider to be home. But he had to tell her at some point what was going on, and he wanted to get it over with. He had turned to head up the bluff when he saw Tom Spike Buck on the bench. He changed his direction and walked toward the bench.

  “Tom,” he said.

  “Uh?”

  Tom Spike Buck raised his head a little and squinted at George.

  “Tom, you drunk again?”

  “I just had to stop and rest for while, deputy,” said Buck. “Is it okay? If it ain’t, I’ll go on. Just let me rest here few minutes.”

  George got Buck by one arm and pulled.

  “Come on, Tom,” he said. “Come along with me.”

  Buck allowed himself to be dragged up to a sitting position before he began to protest.

  “Where we going?” he said.

  “We’re going to jail, Tom. You’re drunk.”

  Buck stood up and took a wild swing at George. There was not much power behind the swing, and there was even less accuracy, yet the suddenness and unexpectedness of it caught George off guard, and Buck’s fist caught George’s jaw with a glancing, stinging blow. George drove his right into Buck’s stomach, and Buck doubled over in pain. He sank to his knees, both hands gripping at his midsection, groaning. George felt guilty. He could have controlled Buck with a little manhandling. He knew that. Instead he had hurt him. He had reacted too quickly, and a little bit out of anger. He still had a lot to learn about this job, he thought, and he wished that Rider had been there. God, he thought, I hope he doesn’t start to puke.

  “Get up, Tom,” he said.

  Buck rocked slowly back and forth on his knees, still holding his stomach and groaning.

  “Come on,” said George. “We’re going to jail.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “Well, you just hold it down until we get to a cell. Then I’ll give you a bucket to puke in. Come on.”

  He reached down and took hold of Buck’s arm again. This time Buck allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and he walked unsteadily alongside George until they reached the jail. George led Buck into the nearest cell and dropped him on the cot. Then he went after the bucket. He set the bucket beside the cot.

  “You see that bucket, Tom?” he said. “See it? You get sick, you use that bucket. You hear me? You make a mess on this floor, you’re going to clean it up.”

  He walked out and locked the cell door behind him. Tom Spike Buck seemed to have gone to sleep. George took the keys with him, went on outside, and locked the main door. Then he started toward Rider’s house.

  He found Exie cleaning in her kitchen. She was always working, he thought. He wondered if the woman ever got a moment’s rest other than the time she spent sleeping at night. She was a good woman. She was a good wife to Rider and a good mother to their children. She had been good to George, too. He hoped that she wouldn’t be too worried about what Rider was doing, going off in pursuit of Lyons without the protection and authority of his badge. He tried to think of ways to tell her without making her worry. Could he just tell her that Rider would be gone for a while? She would want to know where he had gone and why.

  ”’ Siyo, Jaji,” she said, giving his first name the Cherokee pronunciation. She put down her cleaning rag and leaned back against the counter she had been scrubbing. “What brings you home early?”

  “I, uh, I’ve got a message for you from Rider,” he said. He felt incredibly nervous all of a sudden. Exie looked at him and waited.

  “Uh, he had to go out of town,” said George.

  “How long?”

  “Well, I’m not sure how long he’ll be gone. It could be a few days, I guess. I, uh, really don’t know for sure.”

  “They let that man Lyons go?” asked Exie.

  Damn, thought George, she’s putting it together all by herself.

  “Yes,” he said, “they did.”

  “And Rider’s going after him, ain’t it?”

  “Yes. He left his badge here. He resigned.”

  “I was ‘fraid he’d do that. I just knew he would if they let that man go.”

  She turned her back to George and resumed scrubbing the counter, but she kept scrubbing the same spot. George stood awkwardly, wondering what to do next. He could come up with no words of comfort or assurance. He couldn’t just stand there all day, but he couldn’t just turn and walk out on her either—not like this.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said feebly. “Rider can take care of himself.”

  Exie turned on him almost accusingly. The quickness of her movement and the stern expression on her face and the hardness in her voice startled him.

  “Go get Beehunter,” she said.

  George stammered. He felt terribly inadequate to the situation. He should be the one to take control, to reassure her, to protect her while Rider was away. She was taking charge, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “I, uh, I don’t know where he lives,” he said, “and I can’t talk Cherokee. I can’t talk to Beehunter.”

  Exie pulled off her apron and tossed it aside onto the table. She swept past George on her way out the door.

  “Come on,” she said. “Go with me.”

  George followed her out the door, and as he did, he smiled to himself in spite of the tense situation. Exie was treating him just as Rider did. And what was more, he was taking it the same way. What else could he do?

  Exie, Beehunter, and Beehunter’s wife carried on a brief and hurried conversation in Cherokee. George stood by wondering why he was even there. He understood a few words, but only a few. He recognized Rider’s name and Lyons’s. And he heard Muskogee mentioned, but
beyond that he was mostly lost. He felt superfluous. Finally, Exie turned to him.

  “Beehunter hasn’t got a gun,” she said, “or a horse.”

  “We’ll go by the office and issue him a gun,” said George. “He can take a horse and saddle from the sheriff’s barn.”

  As soon as he had said that, he wondered about his authority. He could not deputize Beehunter to go out of Tahlequah District, much less clear out of the Cherokee Nation. And if Beehunter was not deputized, did he have the right to, in effect, loan him a horse and gun? Probably not. But these people were the closest thing to family that George had anymore. He loved them like his own family, Rider and Exie and the children. Rider might or might not need help, but Exie definitely needed some sort of solace. Sending Beehunter after Rider would give her that. Right or wrong, George had made his decision.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Rider knew that Lyons could not be far ahead of him. He figured that even Lyons would know better than to race his mount when he had to travel the distance from Tahlequah to Muskogee. Lyons would be in a hurry, but he would have to go easy or the horse would never make it. Rider, on the other hand, could easily afford to take his time. He knew where Lyons was going, and he was in no hurry to catch up with him somewhere along the road. Unless . . . He had a thought. Up ahead was a place where he could cut across, hurry up just a little, and come out on the road ahead of Lyons. At least he thought he could. If it didn’t work, nothing would be lost. If it did, he would have a little more psychological edge on his prey.