“Nothing happened, Rider,” said George. “She made me a pallet on the floor, and she slept in her bed. That’s all.”
“George, you can stop defending the lady’s reputation,” said Rider. “It ain’t been attacked. Did I say anything?”
“Well,” said George, “nothing happened.”
Rider was sitting in his characteristic pose, his legs up and his feet crossed on the desktop, and he was filling his pipe. His two Colts lay on the desk in front of him.
“Pour us up some coffee, will you, George?” he said. “We’ve got to go down the street here in a minute and check with ole Beehunter.”
“Beehunter?” said George, as he moved across the room to the coffeepot.
“I’ve got him watching Omer Lyons for us. The man’s fixing to leave town if we let him.”
George put Rider’s cup on the desk beside the Colts. Then he sat on the edge of Rider’s desk, his own cup in his hand. Rider scratched a match on the side of the desk and lit his pipe.
“How do we stop him if he tries to leave?” George asked.
“Arrest him. I’d rather get more evidence on him first, but I checked with the chief and the judge, and we all agreed that it’d be better to arrest him and try to convict him than to just let him ride out of here. So for right now we watch him and we hound him and we hope that he gives himself away somehow.”
“He might get nervous and slip up somewhere,” said George.
“He might.”
Rider’s smoke was beginning to gather in clouds above his head.
“She sure can cook,” said George.
“What?”
“Oh. I was just thinking about Miss Hunt. She’s a real fine cook, too.”
“George,” said Rider, “you better marry that woman before someone else does.”
George’s face turned slightly red, and he could feel the flush. He looked away from Rider.
“Why, I don’t know her well enough for that,” he said. “I just met her–really.”
“She’s cooked you two meals,” said Rider, “and the second one was breakfast. I’d say you got pretty well acquainted in a short time.”
“Rider, damn it,” said George, stalking over to his own desk, “I told you that nothing like that happened over there last night.”
Rider looked up at George with an expression of feigned innocence on his face.
“Like what?” he said. “What’d I say?”
“Well, anyway,” said George, “I think it’s too early for me to speak to her about matrimony. It—it just is.”
Rider finished his coffee and stood up. His pipe was in his mouth. He picked up the two Colts and shoved them into his waistband.
“Most folks would say it’s too early for her to let you spend the night in her house—in a pallet on the floor—but she did. Come on. Let’s go.”
“Where?” said George.
“To see Beehunter.”
“Oh. Okay.”
George took a last gulp of his coffee and followed Rider out the door. In a few minutes they had found Beehunter across the street from the Capital Hotel. He was standing outside, leaning against a storefront. The street was wet and muddy, but the sky was clear.
“’Siyo,” said Beehunter as he saw the two lawmen approaching.
Rider leaned against the storefront beside Beehunter and began a conversation in Cherokee. George felt left out. He tried to listen, to see if he could understand any words, but he couldn’t catch any. Now and then, he glanced across the street at the hotel. Finally Rider said something to Beehunter, and Beehunter nodded, stood up straight, turned, and walked off down the street.
“I told him we’d spell him for a while. Let him get a bite to eat and a catnap. He said Lyons has gone out to eat once, and he’s gone in and out a couple other times. Never stayed out long. He thinks that Lyons knows we’re watching him.”
“Is that good or bad?” asked George.
“I’d just as soon he knew about it,” said Rider. “Make him nervous. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Rider went inside the store and soon reemerged with two straight-back, cane-bottomed chairs. He placed them on the wooden sidewalk, pushing them back against the storefront.
“We might as well be comfortable,” he said, and he took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. George sat down beside him.
Omer Lyons came out of his room and walked to the hotel lobby. He hesitated as he passed by the front desk, as if he wanted to say something to Anglin, then stalked across the lobby to the big window in the front wall.
“Anything I can do for you, Mr. Lyons?” said Anglin.
“No,” said Lyons. He leaned against the wall just to the side of the window and tried to peer outside without being seen. Across the street the two lawmen sat on the sidewalk, watching the front of the hotel. They couldn’t stop him from leaving, he thought. They had no evidence against him. He was a free man. He could come and go as he pleased. But why were they watching him like that? What did they think they were going to do if he headed out of town? Damn them, anyway. Damn them both. He should have had Riley take care of both of them right at the beginning. Then maybe everything would have worked out all right. He would have gotten a big bonus from the railroad company had the vote gone the other way. But now he had to get out of Tahlequah, out of the Cherokee Nation. They didn’t have anything on him, he kept assuring himself, but what if—what if there was something he had overlooked? What could it be? Of course, there was nothing.
Rider was just trying to run a bluff on him. He was sure of that. God damn that Rider. He was just sitting there across the street, calmly puffing on his pipe. Lyons wondered briefly whether or not he could hit Rider and Tanner with pistol shots from where he stood before either one of them could react. It was unlikely, and he dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had occurred to him. But what would he do? Suddenly he turned and walked to the desk. He pulled his wallet out of the inside pocket of his coat and took out some bills.
“Here,” he said. “I’m paying up. I’ll be out of here in the morning.”
He paid Anglin and went back to his room. His suitcase was already packed. He knew that a stagecoach would leave Tahlequah in the morning for Fort Gibson. He would take that. He didn’t know where he would go from there. Arkansas? Texas? He would decide later. The important thing was to just get out, get away to safety. Maybe he would even change his name. He wanted a drink of whiskey real bad, but he had no idea where to go for one. Riley’s stock had been destroyed, and besides he didn’t know if he could trust Anglin with such a request. And it wouldn’t be safe to go out looking for booze. If Rider caught him, that would just give the sheriff a good excuse to arrest him. He would have to wait until he got to someplace where liquor was legal. It was going to be a long wait. A long day and night. He stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Judge Harm Boley was walking down the sidewalk with two strangers. Rider saw them coming. He gave them only a cursory glance, but he noted that the two men with Boley were both well dressed. They were white men, he was pretty sure. Of course, it was sometimes impossible to tell some of the mixed-blood Cherokees from whites just by their appearance, but Rider knew most of the local breeds, particularly the prominent ones, and he had never seen these two men before. Therefore he reasoned that they were white men. Yonegs. When they came closer, Rider stood up. So did George.
“‘Siyo, Judge,” he said.
“Rider,” said Boley, “I have two gentlemen here with me who want to meet you. Gentlemen, this is Sheriff Go-Ahead Rider. And this is his deputy, Mr. George Tanner. Rider, George, this is Harvey Masters, and with him here is Charles Wainwright. They’ve come down from St. Louis to represent the railroad company.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sheriff Rider, Mr. Tanner,” said Wainwright, extending his hand. “We’re here to cooperate with you any way we can. As we’ve already explained to Judge Boley, we hired Mr. Lyons to represent our interests as a lobbyist with your Council. We certainly never intended for his activities to go beyond those legitimately associated with that line of endeavor. We understand that there have been two murders here that seem to be connected to our interests, and we want to assure you that we are not and never have been in the business of murder. If Lyons had anything to do with those crimes, he was acting on his own. As soon as we heard of the possibility of his involvement, we terminated his employment. We’ll stay in town as long as you like and answer any questions you might have concerning Lyons’s brief period of employment with us.”
“I see,” said Rider. “Mr. Wainwright, would you accompany me back to my office? I would like to ask you some questions, and I’d like to be able to sit and make some notes while we talk.”
“Certainly,” said Wainwright.
“Do you want me along?” said Boley.
“No, thank you, Judge,” said Rider. “I don’t believe so.”
“Then I’ll take my leave. See you gentlemen later.”
Boley turned and started down the sidewalk back toward the capitol building. Rider turned to George.
“You stay here and keep watch until Beehunter gets back. Then come on back to the office.” He turned to the other railroad man. “Mister, uh—”
“Masters,” said the man. “Harvey Masters.”
“Yeah,” said Rider. “Mr. Masters, would you mind staying here with George? You can take my seat here. You two can talk. Maybe George will think of something to ask you about that I don’t. Two conversations might be better than one.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Masters.
Inside the Capital Hotel, Lyons had gotten up and left his room again. He paced nervously back into the lobby, and he went back to the window to look out again. Across the street he saw Masters and Wainwright talking to Rider and Tanner, and he saw Wainwright walk away with Rider. He saw Masters sit down beside Tanner. The two of them were watching the front of the hotel. Damn, he thought. They’re selling me down the river. He watched another minute or so, then went back to his room. Once inside, he locked the door. On the table beside the bed was a Marston three-shot .32 pocket pistol. Lyons knew that it was loaded, but he checked the load anyway. He put the pistol back on the table and sat down stiffly on the edge of the bed. God, he wanted a drink of whiskey.
Beehunter had returned to his post by the time Lyons had decided he could stand it no longer. He walked boldly out the front door of the hotel, deliberately avoiding even a glance across the street at Beehunter, and he walked quickly, heading south. Beehunter kept his seat until Lyons was about a block away. Then he stood up and began to follow. Another half block down the street, Lyons crossed over. He had not looked back to see whether or not he was being followed. Beehunter strolled along behind until Lyons went into Al’s Eats. Lyons had settled himself at a table and ordered a meal when Beehunter casually entered the cafe. Lyons tried not to look at him. Beehunter sat at the counter.
“Kawi agwaduli,” he said.
Al knew only enough Cherokee to recognize an order, and he poured Beehunter a cup of coffee. Beehunter drank three cups. Lyons had eaten only about half his meal. He stood up angrily and stalked over to the counter, stopping beside Beehunter.
“Damn you,” he shouted.
Beehunter looked up at Lyons and smiled.
“You’re following me,” said Lyons.
Beehunter gave a shrug.
“Tla yi-go-li-g’,” he said.
“You son of a bitch,” said Lyons.
“Hey,” said Al, from behind the counter, “you going to eat or not?”
“I’m done,” said Lyons.
“Then pay me and get out of here. I don’t put up with no trouble in here.”
Lyons fumbled in his pocket, found some money, and tossed it on the counter. Then he walked out. Beehunter calmly finished his coffee, paid his tab, and got up to follow Lyons. Lyons went back to the hotel, got into his room, and locked himself in once again.
As Lyons had anticipated, he spent a long night. He was up early. He had not undressed to sleep, and he had slept fitfully. His bag was packed, and he knew that he was ready to leave, yet he rechecked all the drawers in the room’s furniture. He looked in the mirror on the wall and slicked back his hair. He checked his pocket watch. It was still early, but maybe the damn stage would be early for a change. Something had to go right, he told himself. He picked up the Marston, rechecked its load, and dropped it into a side pocket of his coat. Then he picked up his suitcase and left the room. He had paid up the day before, so he didn’t have to stop by the desk for anything. The key was on the table in the room. As he headed for the front door, Anglin saw him leaving and looked up from his work.
“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.”