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  He spurred the black and turned off the road. The ground was rocky and uneven underneath a thick and lush growth of tall grass. He had to be careful. He couldn’t rush the horse as much as he would have liked. And part of his new path would be through brush and woods. He set a steady pace and let the black have his head. When they reached the woods, he slowed the horse again. There was a narrow, winding path that Rider knew of, and he picked his way through the woods on that.

  Finally, they emerged from the woods into another nearly level field. Just across the field was the road. If Rider had calculated right, Lyons would come along the road soon. He rode on down to the road and stopped. He was sitting at a spot where the road just came around a curve and up a steep hill. Lyons would come on him suddenly and all at once. He sat in the saddle and waited.

  Back at his office, George unlocked the gun cabinet and pulled out a drawer. He gestured toward the drawer, indicating to Beehunter that he should help himself. Beehunter reached for a Smith and Wesson .44 American. George handed him a box of .44 cartridges. Then Beehunter reached for a Warner single-shot carbine. Well, thought George, who would have taken a Winchester, everyone has his own preference. George handed Beehunter a box of cartridges for the Warner. They left the office and walked to the sheriff’s barn, where Beehunter selected a small roan, saddled it, and mounted up. He waved at George, then rode out of town going south.

  Lyons was pushing his mount a little too hard. He knew it, and he resolved that he would slow the pace when he got a few more miles away from Tahlequah. He felt good that he had come out of the trial so clean, but he was still afraid of Go-Ahead Rider. The road ahead was steep, and he kicked the horse in the sides to hurry it on up and over the rise.

  “Get up,” he said. “Come on.”

  He reached the top of the rise, and there was Rider, sitting in the saddle on his black, off to Lyons’s right, not twenty feet away. Lyons yelled out in his surprise and jerked back on the reins. His horse reared up on its hind legs and squealed in surprised fright. Lyons fought it until it stood still and calm again—almost. He looked hard at Rider.

  “What are you doing here?’ he said. Rider didn’t answer. “Damn you, the trial’s over. You have to let me go.”

  “Go on,” said Rider. “I ain’t stopping you.”

  “You got no right to bother me anymore,” said Lyons.

  “I’m just sitting here.”

  “Damn you to hell,” shouted Lyons, and he gave his horse a vicious kick and a lash with the reins. Rider sat still beside the road and watched Lyons race on toward Muskogee. He smiled to himself, and when Lyons had ridden out of sight, he moved out onto the road and followed him at a leisurely pace.

  Chapter Twelve

  At quitting time that evening, Tom Spike Buck was still asleep. George locked up the office and walked up to Rider’s house. Tootie and Buster came running out to meet him. He dropped down on one knee to give the children a hug.

  “Jaji. Jaji,” they were saying.

  With one arm around each child and with their tiny arms reaching around his own neck, George felt tears well up in his eyes. He wondered why. He did love these kids of Rider’s, but why the tears today? Because their daddy was off somewhere and could be in danger? Maybe. Because George felt as if he should be with Rider, as if he were somehow betraying these children and their mother by letting Rider face his danger alone? Well, not alone. Beehunter had gone after him. Still, that might be part of it. But there was something else, too. George had been thinking about marriage. He was anticipating his own family. He wasn’t really thinking specifically about a family, but he was thinking about Lee Hunt, and if he followed up on his thoughts and if she accepted him, a family would surely follow. Perhaps all of these thoughts together had caused this emotional reaction in George. He pressed the two children tightly to him.

  “Hi, kids,” he said. “Is your mother in the house?”

  “Yes,” said Tootie.

  “She’s cooking,” said Buster. “We were waiting for you.”

  “Let’s go in the house,” said George.

  The meal was on the table just a few minutes after George and the children went in, and they all sat down to eat. Mealtime at Rider’s house was usually quiet. They didn’t talk. They ate. The talking came after the meal was done. But this night things seemed particularly quiet, unnaturally quiet. Rider’s chair was empty, and everyone at the table was very much conscious of that unhappy fact.

  When the meal was finished, George tried to help Exie with the dishes. He had never done that before. Normally after a meal George and Rider went out on the dog run and sat and talked and drank coffee, and Rider smoked his pipe. George wasn’t sure why he felt obligated to try to help Exie with the dishes on this particular occasion, but it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t allow it. She told him that she didn’t want him in her kitchen. He looked around for other chores to do, things that Rider might have done had he been home. But things were pretty well in order. After all, Rider hadn’t been gone one night yet. Finally Exie took pity on George’s predicament.

  “George,” she said, “you’re doing enough by being at the office. Rider needs that. Stop worrying about me. Why don’t you go on down and visit your girl? Huh? Go on. We’re okay here.”

  George started walking to Lee Hunt’s house. Exie had called Lee his girl. He had never put it that way before, and he kind of liked the sound. “My girl,” he said out loud. “My girl.” He wondered if he would have the nerve to ask Lee to marry him. Was it too early? He knew already that he wanted her, but he didn’t know how she would react to such a proposal. He didn’t want to spoil what he already had by being too bold. Well, he thought, he would wait and see how the conversation went. If it seemed right, he would ask her—maybe.

  He walked past the jail, and everything was dark and quiet. He wondered if Tom Spike Buck had yet come out of his drunken stupor. He walked on. When he came to the street that Lee lived on, he turned to walk up to her house. Then he stopped. There in front of her house, a buggy was parked. She had visitors. Or a visitor. He stood a moment, staring at the buggy, fighting off an impulse to sneak up to the house and try to spy out who was there. Then he turned, dejected, and started walking back, retracing his steps. He didn’t want to go back to Rider’s house—not so soon. He stopped at the jail and unlocked the front door. Inside the office, he lit the lamp. Then he walked with it down the hall to the cell where he had left Tom Spike Buck. Buck saw the light and slowly raised himself up to a sitting position on the cot.

  “Hello, Tom,” said George. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m real sick,” said Buck.

  “You want something to eat?”

  “No. I can’t eat. I’m too sick.”

  “How about some coffee?”

  “You ... got anything else?”

  “You know better than that, Tom. It’s coffee or nothing. You want it?”

  Buck’s face twisted in a painful grimace, and he rubbed it with both hands.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice a whine. “I guess so.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” said George, and he went back to the office to put on the coffee. While he waited for it to boil, he sat behind Rider’s desk. His thoughts drifted from Rider to Lee. What was Rider doing? Had he caught up with Lyons? If he had, what then? And what about Beehunter? Where was he? He hoped that Rider could manage to do whatever it was he intended to do without getting himself into trouble. Would Rider simply murder Lyons? George didn’t think so, yet he knew that Rider was determined that Lyons would not get away with what he had done, with what they knew he had done even though they had not been able to prove anything. But what about the belief that a man is innocent until he is proven guilty? Did they really know that Lyons was responsible for the deaths of Mix Hail and Jesse Halfbreed? If they couldn’t prove it, how could they say they knew it?

  He wished that he could discuss this problem with Lee. Lee. Who was at her house? What were they
discussing? George wondered if it was a man visiting Lee. Did he have a rival? And what if that man was having the same thoughts about her that George was having? And if so, what if he asked the question first? Would she accept? Then George had another and even more disquieting thought. He wondered if the man at Lee Hunt’s house would spend the night there as he had done. If so, would it be on a pallet on the floor?

  The coffee should be ready, he thought, consciously working to push the other, less pleasant thoughts from his mind. He got up to check it. It was ready, and he got a cup for himself and one for Tom Spike Buck. He carried the coffee and the lamp down the hall to the cell, handed Buck his cup through the bars, and pulled a three-legged stool up beside the cell to sit on.

  “Where’d you buy your booze, Tom?” he said. “We busted Riley’s supply all up.”

  “Oh,” said Buck, “there’s other places. I don’t know where. There’s lot of places.”

  He sipped at the hot coffee and made faces as he swallowed. He looked as if drinking the coffee would make him sick. George was glad he had put the bucket in the cell. He sipped his coffee and watched Buck. He wondered about this man. What had made him this way? Him and others like him. Jesse Halfbreed. George had not known Jesse, not really, but Rider had said that Jesse was a friend of his. There was a tendency to dismiss men like Jesse and Tom as worthless drunks and forget about them, but George wondered. They were men, after all, he thought.

  “So you busted all Riley’s stuff?” said Buck.

  “That’s right.”

  “You killed him, too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said George, “I did. But not because of the liquor.”

  “You killed him because he killed Jess and Mix for that Omer, ain’t it?”

  George was about to take a sip of coffee. He stopped still. He looked over the cup at Tom Spike Buck. His mouth hung open as if it wanted to form words, but no words came. Not for a long and quiet moment. Then George reached down and put his cup on the floor. He stood up and walked to the bars.

  “Tom,” he said, his voice quiet, “what did you say?”

  “I said you killed Riley.”

  “You said more than that. You said why.”

  “Oh,” said Buck. He took a loud slurp from his coffee cup. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Why?” said George. “Why did I kill Riley? Tell me again.”

  “I thought it was ’cause he killed Jess—and Mix.”

  “For someone else?”

  “Yeah. For that Omer Lyons who worked for the railroad.”

  George took a couple of deep breaths. He felt stunned. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

  “Wait a minute, Tom,” he said. “Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  He rushed back to the office and got the keys he had dropped on Rider’s desk. Then he went back to the cell and unlocked the door. He took the lamp and his cup.

  “Come on, Tom,” he said. “Let’s go to the office where we can talk better. Come on.”

  Buck got to his feet. He was still unsteady.

  “You all right?” said George. “You need to bring that bucket?”

  God, he hoped that the man didn’t puke in the office.

  “Naw,” said Buck. “I’m all right. I’m just sick is all.”

  George led Buck into the office and gave him a chair to sit in. Then he sat down behind Rider’s desk.

  “More coffee?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  He got up and refilled the cup. Then he resumed his seat, Rider’s chair.

  “Tom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tom, we arrested Bean Riley on suspicion of murder—the murders of Mix Hail and Jess Halfbreed. We had good evidence against him. If he had stood trial he would have been convicted, and he would have been hanged. We knew that he killed them both. Are you listening to me?”

  Buck nodded his head slowly.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “All right,” said George. “We knew he had killed those two men. That’s why we arrested him. Then he escaped from jail and we went after him. I killed him because he was about to kill me. He didn’t give me any choice. That’s the only reason I killed him. Do you understand that?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure,” said Buck. Again he nodded his head. George thought that it was an exaggerated nod, and that together with the tone of Buck’s voice made George read Buck’s answer, “Okay, if that’s your story, I won’t argue with it.”

  “Damn it, Tom,” George said. “We wanted the trial. We wanted to get more information out of Riley. I didn’t want to kill him.”

  Buck rolled his yellow eyes up and looked at George for the first time. He nodded again.

  “Now,” said George, “you said that Riley killed Mix Hail and Jess Halfbreed. Did you know he did that?”

  “Yeah,” said Buck. “I knew.”

  “You said he did it for Lyons. Did you know that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is very important, Tom,” said George. “Tell me how you knew.”

  “Ah,” said Tom. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “Tell me, Tom.”

  “I’m sick. This coffee is making me sick.”

  George had a quick thought. It was probably illegal and maybe even immoral, but he didn’t have Rider to advise him. He was on his own, and he was in charge. The stakes were high.

  “What do you need, Tom?” he said. “You need some whiskey? You have any money?”

  “No,” said Tom, his head hanging.

  “I don’t have any whiskey. I don’t even know where to get it. Not after we broke all of Riley’s stuff. But I’ve got some money, Tom. Here. Take it.”

  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a few coins. He didn’t know just what the price of illegal whiskey was, but he was sure he’d given Buck enough.

  “Here,” he said. “It’s yours.”

  Tom Spike Buck had a suspicious look on his face, but he held out his hands and took the money. Then he closed his fist tight. He put down the coffee cup. He started to stand up, but George interrupted him.

  “You’re stuck here in jail, though, Tom,” he said, “and I’m the only one who can let you out. Rider’s not here. Just me. I’m the only one.”

  Buck sagged back in the chair. He had money in his hands, but he was a prisoner. He wanted whiskey real bad. His head was hurting. He was sick.

  “How did you know, Tom?” said George. “How did you know that Riley killed those men for Lyons? Did Lyons pay him? Tell me. I’m the only one holding you here.”

  “I worked for Riley,” said Buck. “He paid me to shoot at Jess that time. That time you and Rider brought us to jail. He paid me to do that. He said it was a joke. Then I seen Mix. I seen the body in the springhouse with all the whiskey, and Bean caught me in there. But he gave me some whiskey, and he said it was all right because the railroad men were paying him. He got me to help him move Mix out on the road. Then he wanted me to help him kill Jess, but Jess was my friend. He said Lyons would pay a lot of money. I took some of his whiskey and I went off and hid. I didn’t want to do it. That’s how I know.”

  George heaved a deep sigh and leaned back in Rider’s chair. He sat quietly for a moment, letting this new information soak in. Then he stood up quickly and walked around the desk.

  “You can go, Tom,” he said. “Go on home. You’re free.”

  “When’s my court day?” said Buck.

  “No court day. No charges. You haven’t even been in jail. Just get on out of here.”

  Tom Spike Buck stood up slowly. He didn’t know whether or not to believe this new deputy. He eased himself toward the door.

  “I can go?” he said.

  “Yes,” said George.

  “I don’t got to come back to court?”

  “Not this time.”

  Buck turned and hurried out the door. Right or wrong, thought George, I got it. I got what we wanted, what we needed. Damn. I wish I could talk to Rider right no
w. But he knew he couldn’t. He was stuck in Tahlequah, and he really had no idea where Rider would be by this time. Rider had thought that Lyons would head for Muskogee, but the man could have changed directions. There was no telling for sure. He’d just have to wait for Rider to get back and hope for the best. He forced himself to sit down at his own desk and make some notes based on what Tom Spike Buck had told him, then he turned off the lamp, locked the building, and left. He left, but he didn’t walk back toward Rider’s house. He walked back toward Lee’s house. The buggy was gone. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned to go home to Rider’s. It was too late to call on Lee. He would see her tomorrow, he hoped. Tomorrow would be a busy day. Or maybe not. Maybe it would be a frustrating day. Maybe he would spend the day sitting around wondering what he could do with this new information. What would Rider do in this situation? What would Rider do?

  He went to sleep that night with questions tormenting his mind. Where was Rider? What would Rider do if he were here? What should I do? Who was at Lee’s house tonight? In his fitful sleep, the questions became images that caused him to toss uneasily in his bed. He saw Rider step up behind Omer Lyons and pull out his two big Colts. Saw him point both big guns at Lyons’s back and slowly, deliberately pull the triggers. Saw the bullets tear into Lyons’s back, and saw Lyons fall forward, screaming as he landed on his face in the dirt. Then he saw a fancy buggy pulled by a fine white horse pull up in front of Lee Hunt’s house, and a handsome, well-dressed man get out. The man walked confidently, arrogantly up to her front door and rapped on it with the head of a walking stick. Lee opened the door and threw herself into the man’s arms. They kissed passionately. Outside he saw a posse of heavily armed lawmen surround Rider. Then Rider was inside a courtroom, and the judge was shouting, “Guilty. Guilty,” and pounding his gavel, and out in the courtroom among the crowd of spectators, he saw Exie and Tootie and Buster, and on the other side of the room Lee and the handsome stranger. And he saw Tom Spike Buck, reeling drunkenly and laughing, and he knew that Buck had got that way on the money he had given him.