West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels

  Western Fictioneers Presents

  WEST OF THE BIG RIVER

  Copyright © 2016 Western Fictioneers

  Cover Design L. J. Washburn

  Western Fictioneers logo design by Jennifer Smith-Mayo

  All rights reserved.

  The Lawman copyright © 2013 by James Reasoner

  The Avenging Angel copyright © 2013 by Michael Newton

  The Artist copyright © 2013 by Jackson Lowry

  The Ranger copyright © 2013 by James J. Griffin

  The Forty-Niners copyright © 2013 by Charlie Steel

  The Bandit copyright © 2013 by Jerry Guin

  The Doctor copyright © 2014 by Clay More

  The Sheriff copyright © 2014 by Chuck Tyrell

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  The Lawman

  The Avenging Angel

  The Artist

  The Ranger

  The Forty-niners

  The Bandit

  The Doctor

  The Sheriff

  West of the Big River:

  The Lawman

  A Novel Based on the Life of William Tilghman

  James Reasoner

  For Kit Prate who came up with

  the idea for West of the Big River

  Chapter 1

  Oklahoma Territory, 1893

  The gunshot in the distance made the man hunkered on his heels next to the creek look up. Without him having to think about what he was doing, his right hand moved a little closer to the butt of the Colt .45 holstered on his right hip.

  He stood up, uncoiling smoothly to his full height, and gazed through the cottonwood trees along the banks at the riders coming quickly toward the stream. He counted three of them.

  If they were looking for trouble, three against one odds weren't very good. He didn't believe in jumping to conclusions, though, and he didn't believe in running, either, so instead of jumping on his horse and lighting a shuck out of there, he stayed where he was and waited for the men to come to him.

  Their loud talk and laughter drifted over the prairie to the man beside the creek. Their boisterous attitude hinted that the man who'd fired the single shot had done so in sheer exuberance, rather than for any sinister reason. They might be cowboys just blowing off steam.

  When they were about fifty yards away, they must have noticed the man and his horse for the first time. They slowed their mounts but didn't stop, approaching the creek at a more deliberate, cautious pace.

  They also spread out a little, making it more difficult for a lone man to do battle with them in a gunfight. That meant they weren't babes in the woods, the man mused.

  His left hand was a little wet, so he dried it on his trousers. He wasn't sweating. He had just used that hand to scoop up some creek water and drink it when he heard the shot.

  If any of the men saw the gesture and wanted to take it as an indication that he was nervous, that was fine, he thought. That might make them underestimate him. He was always thinking about things like that, about ways to gain any advantage, no matter how small.

  Such habits were how he had stayed alive this long.

  The riders came to a stop on the other side of the creek, about twenty feet away. They were young, not much out of their teens, but they already had a hard look about them. Their casual demeanor made it plain that while they were interested in the stranger, they weren't afraid of him. He looked to be almost twice as old as them. They had the superiority of youth, as well as numbers.

  The middle one, who had a round, sunburned face, edged his horse a little ahead of the others.

  "Waterin' your horse?" he asked.

  "That's right," the lone man said. "And getting a drink myself, as well as enjoying the shade of these cottonwoods for a few minutes. The sun's a mite warm today."

  "Yeah, it is. Gonna be a hot summer, I bet. That's what the woollyworms tell me, anyway. You got a name, mister?"

  "You can call me Bill."

  "Pleased to meet you, Bill." The spokesman didn't offer his name or those of his companions. "Where are you headed?"

  "A town called Burnt Creek," Bill replied. "You know it?"

  "Heard of it. Don't know that I've ever been there. Fifty or sixty miles west of here, ain't it?"

  "Not quite that far."

  "You got business there?"

  "That's right."

  "And what sort of business would that be?"

  With a faint smile on his lips under the sweeping brown mustache, Bill said dryly, "Mine."

  One of the other men stiffened and leaned forward in the saddle as if he took offense at that answer, but the spokesman lifted a hand in a signal for him to take it easy.

  The spokesman laughed a little and said, "We like to mind our own business, too. All right if we water our horses?"

  Bill waved his left hand toward the creek.

  "Help yourself. It's not my water."

  "Reckon it belongs to Uncle Sam. This is all federal grazin' land through here, I believe. But I don't figure he'll miss a little of it."

  The men dismounted. Bill took note of how they did it one at a time, so that somebody was always watching him. All three men carried handguns, and rifles stuck up from saddle scabbards on two of the horses. They were well-armed and had the look of men who knew how to use the weapons.

  So did Bill. He was tall, with the rangy body of a frontiersman. His hair was brown under a broad-brimmed, cream-colored hat with a round crown. He habitually carried his head cocked just slightly to the left, as if he were watching and listening for anything unusual.

  The .45 on his hip had walnut grips that were worn smooth in places from use. He had a Winchester on his saddle as well. The three men wouldn't have missed seeing these things, and despite their youth they knew to be wary.

  The spokesman continued making small talk as the horses drank, saying, "Where are you from?"

  "I was at Guthrie last," Bill said. "Born in Iowa, though. Grew up in Kansas."

  "We're from Texas."

  The twang in the man's voice had been enough to tell Bill that.

  "Went up the trail with a few herds," the spokesman went on. "Then we decided we'd eaten enough dust and stared at enough cow rear ends to last a lifetime, so we set out to wander around a bit."

  "A footloose life can be a good one," Bill said. "I've always been a bit restless myself. Tried plenty of things, but if they didn't get me out in the country enough, I soon grew tired of them."

  "I understand. What are you doin' these days, if you don't mind me askin'."

  Bill edged aside the lapel of his coat so that the badge pinned to his shirt was revealed.

  One of the other men ripped out a curse and reached for his gun. He stopped short of grabbing it when he saw that Bill's hand was already resting on his Colt.

  "Settle down, Asa," the spokesman quickly told his friend. "We don't want any trouble." He looked at Bill and went on, "Your last name wouldn't be Tilghma
n, would it, amigo?"

  "It would."

  "Well, hell. All this open space out here, and who do we ride up on but a deputy U.S. marshal?"

  "That's the way luck goes sometimes," Bill Tilghman said. "You boys wanted for anything?"

  "Don't answer him, Todd," the one called Asa said quickly. "He's tryin' to trick you."

  "Seems like a pretty straightforward question to me," Tilghman drawled. "The answer's either yes or no."

  "If I say yes," Todd said, "are you gonna try to arrest us?"

  "Depends on whether or not they're federal charges." Tilghman frowned in thought. "Also, I really need to get on to Burnt Creek as soon as I can. I don't really have time to go back to the territorial capital at Guthrie with three prisoners."

  "You sound mighty confident that you'll take us in, mister," Asa snapped.

  "Well, that's my job, arresting criminals and taking them back to be dealt with by the law. If I wasn't confident that I could do the job, I never would've pinned on this badge. It's like when I was hunting buffalo. I knew I was a good shot and could drop one of those beasts from long range. I missed now and then, but not often."

  Todd licked his lips and said, "We're not wanted on any federal charges, Marshal."

  "I hope you're not lying to me," Tilghman said. "If I was to get back to Guthrie after this little chore in Burnt Creek is taken care of and ask around about three young fellows, one named Todd, another named Asa, and the other one . . . well, I don't expect you to tell me, but I could find out easy enough. Anyway, if I was to find out that you were federal fugitives, I wouldn't take it kindly that you lied to me. I'd have to go and look you up and let you know I wasn't happy about it."

  "You won't have any reason to look us up," Todd said. "I swear it." He was pale now, and sweat had broken out on his forehead. Tilghman's unshakable, deadly calm had that effect on men.

  "All right," Tilghman said with a nod. He reached for his horse's dangling reins with his left hand. Turning the animal so that its body was between him and the three men on the other side of the creek, he swung up into the saddle.

  The third man, the one whose name he didn't know, thought about reaching for his revolver. Tilghman saw that in his eyes. But the man hesitated, drew in a deep breath, blew it out, and lifted his hand away from his gun.

  Tilghman nodded again and heeled his horse into motion. The animal's hooves splashed in the water as Tilghman rode across the creek. He angled away from the stream so that he could still see the three men from the corner of his eye.

  They mounted up, pounded across the creek, and rode eastward in a hurry.

  Another faint smile tugged at Tilghman's lips. He didn't like drawing his gun and never did it unless he had no choice. But he would if he had to, and most men on the wrong side of the law here in Oklahoma Territory had heard of him and knew that.

  He had a hunch that he wouldn't get out of Burnt Creek without unleathering that .45.

  Chapter 2

  Evett Nix was the chief United States Marshal for the Oklahoma Territory. With his sober suits, slicked-down hair parted in the middle, and neatly trimmed mustache, he looked more like a businessman than a lawman, which was fitting because that was exactly what he'd been before President Grover Cleveland put him in charge of law and order for the Territory.

  Nix might not have had much experience at being a star packer, but he knew how to judge men's character and how to work effectively with them. He wanted a certain type of individual for his deputies: cool under fire, not inclined to recklessness or grandstanding, intelligent, and good enough with gun, knife, and fist to stay alive in a country full of badmen.

  Bill Tilghman was the perfect example of that type.

  He had been a cowboy and buffalo hunter as a young man, before drifting into law work. Since then he had served as the under-sheriff in Dodge City, working under the famous Bat Masterson, whom Tilghman had known in their buffalo hunting days, then as sheriff and finally as city marshal of that notorious cowtown. At every step along the way, Tilghman had been successful at strengthening the forces of law and order.

  That was why Evett Nix had tapped him as a deputy U.S. marshal. Now Tilghman could use his talents and determination to help bring the law to an entire territory that was rife with lawlessness.

  A couple of days before the encounter with the three young cowboys, Nix had called Tilghman into his office in the federal building in Guthrie, the territorial capital.

  "I'm sending you to a town called Burnt Creek, Bill," Nix said. "You know it?"

  Tilghman nodded.

  "It's out toward the panhandle. A year ago it wasn't much more than just a wide place in the trail. I've heard it's grown a lot since then. One of the cattle trails leading to Colorado goes through there. The herds stop because there's a good place to water them along the creek and it's well-situated for resting the stock for a few days before pushing along with the rest of the drive."

  "That's right," Nix said. "Cattle made it grow, and cattle keeps it alive and prosperous. Some people don't seem to understand that, though."

  Tilghman frowned slightly, adjusted the hat he had hung on a knee when he sat down in front of Nix's desk and crossed his legs, and said, "You'll have to explain that."

  "Rustlers have started working the area. Half a dozen herds have been hit. Seven men are dead, and quite a few have been wounded during the raids. There's talk that the herds may start taking a different trail. That's not all. Travelers have been waylaid and robbed. It's gotten bad enough that a number of citizens have complained to the governor, and he's asked for federal help."

  "That would be me," Tilghman drawled.

  "That would be you," Nix agreed with a smile. "I'd sent Madsen and Thomas with you, but they're both busy with other assignments right now. As soon as they come back in, I'll send them after you to give you a hand, if you need it."

  Tilghman nodded. He would have been happy to have Chris Madsen and Heck Thomas accompany him to Burnt Creek. They were fellow deputy U.S. marshals, and more importantly, they were Tilghman's friends and mighty good men to have at your side in a fight. But if they weren't available right now to help him, then so be it. Tilghman wasn't in the habit of turning down assignments, no matter how tough they might be.

  "I reckon I can handle it," he told Nix. "Is there any law already in Burnt Creek?"

  "Just a city marshal, name of Dave Rainey. I don't know anything about him, but you probably can't count on him for much help. His jurisdiction ends at the edge of town. I doubt if he's good for anything more than arresting drunks. Most city officers aren't." Nix chuckled. "You were an exception, Bill."

  "Well, maybe he can give me some information, anyway. I'll go take a look around. Some of the people who live in the area are bound to know something about that gang of rustlers."

  "It's a matter of getting them to talk to you."

  Tilghman grunted. He knew Nix was right about that. Many of the settlers who lived on outlying farms and ranches provided food, sanctuary, and fresh horses for the badmen who roamed the territory. Some did so because they were related to the outlaws, others because they admired those desperadoes, but most of them cooperated simply because they were scared something bad would happen to them and their families if they didn't. More than one ranch house had been burned out mysteriously in the middle of the night.

  "Anything else?" Tilghman asked.

  "No. I trust you'll figure out the best way to proceed once you're there. You've gone after outlaws like this before. I trust your judgement, Bill."

  Tilghman stood up, holding his hat in his left hand. He extended his right across the desk and shook with the chief marshal. The assignment was a simple one: bring the outlaws plaguing the area around Burnt Creek to justice, whether that meant arresting them . . . or some other disposition.

  Simple to describe, but maybe not so easy to do.

  As he rode toward Burnt Creek now, Tilghman thought about Todd, Asa, and the other young man he had met earl
ier. There was a chance they were part of the gang he was after. He knew that, and yet he had let them go.

  For one thing, they were riding away from Burnt Creek. That meant they must have left the gang, if indeed they'd ever been mixed up with it. For another, although Tilghman would have shot it out with them if he'd had to, the odds would have been against him. He probably would have been wounded, maybe even killed. And the job he'd been sent here to do would be over before it even got started.

  A lawman had to bide his time, strike when the moment was right. Otherwise he'd be risking his life foolishly.

  A thread of smoke climbing into the blue sky ahead of him caught Tilghman's attention. It looked like it was coming from somebody's chimney. Even though he was still quite a distance from the settlement of Burnt Creek, he might stop at the farm or ranch he was approaching and see if he could find out anything useful. The people who lived there probably wouldn't suspect anything if he asked permission to water his horse. While he was there he would ask a few carefully worded questions.

  The house came into view a few minutes later. Like most dwellings out here on these mostly treeless plains it was made from blocks of sod cut into squares and stacked up to form walls. One side had been hollowed out of a rise, and a thatched roof was laid on top of it. Houses like this were always damp, but they were fairly warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and most importantly, they were the best that the settlers could do.

  A corral was built out of posts probably hauled in from the trees along the creek Tilghman had crossed miles back. It held a milk cow and a team of mules that the farmer used for plowing. A vegetable garden was planted near the house. Farther away fields of wheat and corn were visible.

  Living here would be a hardscrabble existence, but a man might make a go of it if he and his family were willing to work diligently enough. There were worse ways to live, thought Tilghman.

  His eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of two saddle horses tied in front of the soddy. Animals like that didn't belong here. The farmer already had visitors.