Chapter 4
Deputy marshals Graham Barrett and Ike Gibbs rode into the little settlement of Crooked Fork late on a Sunday afternoon. Heading straight for the sheriff’s office, they found Bob Rice on duty. Bob had heard of both lawmen, especially Graham Barrett, although there had never been occasion for either of them to have visited his town before. He saw them out front as they were tying their horses at the rail, and knew immediately that they were the marshals sent to escort Ben Cutler to prison. “Damn!” he cursed under his breath as he stared out the window. “Why the hell did they have to show up when Jubal ain’t here?” He walked over and opened the door.
He had heard tales of Graham Barrett that almost placed the lawman in a superhuman category. He was said to have the tracking ability of an Indian and the patience of a coyote on the prowl. Jubal said that he had heard that Barrett had once tracked a group of four train robbers all the way from Wichita, across Nebraska, and halfway to Montana before running them to ground near Fort Laramie. It was said the outlaws chose to make a stand in the Laramie Mountains since the odds were in their favor, four to one. After the gun battle that ensued, Barrett was the only man standing, and he delivered the fugitives tied across their saddles. Upon first meeting the man, it was not difficult to believe the stories.
Bob stepped back as the two deputies entered. Both men were big, but Barrett had to bow his head to keep from knocking his flat crowned hat off when he came in the door. Wearing a black jacket, even on this late summer afternoon, open to reveal a pair of Colt. 44s with the handles facing forward, he studied Bob with eyes that appeared lifeless. “Sheriff Creed?” he inquired quietly.
“Ah, no, sir,” Bob was quick to reply. “The sheriff ain’t here right now, but he ought to be back any minute.” He hoped that was a fact. He preferred to have Jubal inform the two marshals that they had lost the prisoner.
Ike Gibbs remained silent, content to let Barrett do the talking while he stood in the middle of the tiny office and looked around him as if inspecting the room. “Well, it don’t really matter,” Barrett said. “My name’s Barrett.” He nodded in Ike’s direction. “He’s Ike Gibbs.” He reached in his inside coat pocket then and produced a folded document. “I’ve got a paper here that says you’re to transfer a prisoner to us to escort back to Lansing.” He handed Bob the paper.
“Yes, sir,” Bob stammered as he accepted the court order, trying to delay as long as possible. “There’s been a little problem on that.”
Barrett’s bored expression never changed. “What kind of problem?”
“Well,” Bob started to explain, but was saved by the sudden appearance of Jubal in the door. “Here’s the sheriff now. I’ll let him tell it.”
Not any happier to see the two marshals than Bob had been, Jubal, nonetheless, had hurried over to his office when Harry White came into the dining room to inform him that two strangers had pulled up before the jail. His Sunday afternoon ritual of coffee and a slice of cake at the hotel was interrupted without hesitation, because he had a pretty fair idea who the strangers were. Both Thelma and Rosie had hurried to the front window as Jubal went out the door. “I’m Sheriff Creed,” Jubal said upon entering his office.
“Sheriff,” Barrett acknowledged. “We’ll take that prisoner off your hands.” He nodded toward the document Bob Rice was still holding.
Jubal took the paper from Bob and pretended to study it while he formed the words for the explanation for the empty cell in the next room. Finally, he looked up into the expressionless face of the deputy marshal and said, “The prisoner’s gone.” The statement only served to raise an eyebrow on Barrett’s stony countenance, and forced the first sound from his partner.
“Huh,” Ike snorted.
“Whaddaya mean, he’s gone?” Barrett demanded gruffly.
Jubal shrugged helplessly. “He’s gone, escaped. I telegraphed the U.S. Marshal’s office, but you fellers were already on the way.”
Barrett walked over and peered through the door at the empty cell room. “How the hell did he escape?” Jubal explained that Ben had gotten the best of the old man who had carelessly opened his cell to clean it, then made his escape on horseback. Barrett listened to the explanation without interrupting, with only an occasional glance at Ike Gibbs. When Jubal finished, Barrett asked, “Did you go after him?”
“Well, sorta,” Jubal answered, realizing as soon as the words left his mouth what a poor choice they had been.
“Sorta?” Barrett responded, and exchanged bemused glances with Ike.
“I tried to raise a posse to go after him,” Jubal explained, “but nobody volunteered to go.”
“Is he that dangerous?”
“No,” Jubal replied. “See, that’s the problem. Most ever’body in town thinks Ben Cutler ought not have to go to prison for killin’ Eli Gentry, and they were kinda glad he got away.” Jubal went on then to explain Ben’s motive for killing Gentry. “Oh, I went after him by myself, and it was plain he’d started out the road toward Wichita, but I had to give up after about ten miles. He had too big a head start.”
The two marshals listened to Jubal’s story without even a scant show of sympathy—in fact, with little emotion of any kind. When the sheriff had finished, Barrett informed him that Cutler would be brought to justice. “I don’t give a damn about whether Ben Cutler was a sinner or saint. That ain’t for me to decide. I’ve got a court order to bring him in, and I’ll by God do that if I have to chase him to Canada. I ain’t never come back without the man I was sent to get, and Ben Cutler ain’t gonna be the first.”
“I don’t know,” Jubal said, scratching his chin whiskers as he considered the marshal’s boast. “I can’t see you havin’ much of a chance of trackin’ him. On the Wichita road, there ain’t no way of tellin’ which tracks are Ben’s and which ones are somebody else’s. And there ain’t no way of tellin’ where he’s got it in his mind to go.”
“So you’re sayin’ just let him go,” Barrett replied. “Is that it?” He didn’t wait for Jubal to answer. “Well, it don’t work that way with me. The judge sentenced him to ten years, and so he’s gotta do ten years—maybe more now, since he’s decided to run.” He turned to Ike then. “Whaddaya say we get us a good supper and start out early in the mornin’? Is that all right with you?”
“Suits me,” Ike replied, and both men looked at Jubal expectantly.
“Hotel dinin’ room,” he said. “Best in town. They’ll be servin’ in about an hour.”
“Well, Creed was right about the food being good here,” Ike said as Rosie came to the table carrying the coffeepot. He shoved his cup to the edge of the table to make it easier for her.
She filled his cup, then gestured toward Barrett’s, but he waved her off, saying he’d had enough. When she hesitated for a moment beside the table, looking as if she wanted to ask a question, he gazed up at her with dead man’s eyes and waited. “I guess since Ben Cutler got away, there’s nothing you marshals can do but go back to Topeka,” she said.
The corners of Barrett’s mouth twitched slightly when he responded. It was the closest he ever came to a smile, “Now, why do you think that? Don’t you think murderers oughta be caught and punished?”
“Well, yes,” Rosie answered, “most of them, but Ben Cutler isn’t like them. He was only going after the man who killed his family. Eli deserved what he got.”
“Why, then, I reckon we don’t need any judges or courts at all,” Barrett retorted sarcastically. “Just let the people decide when it’s all right to murder somebody.” He waved his hand in a gesture of impatience. “Is this whole town crazy? The feller down at the stable talks the same way you do—hell, just let him go.”
“Ben Cutler’s a good man,” Rosie insisted as she turned to leave.
“I don’t care,” Barrett declared. “The law’s the law.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “Let’s get the hell outta here before the good folk of Crooked Fork decide we need to be executed for doin’ our jobs.” Ike laughed and downed the rest of his coffee. It always amused him to see Barrett get frustrated. It happened so seldom.
Outside on the street, Ike suggested they should walk up the street to French’s Saloon for a drink before turning in for the night. Barrett shrugged. “Why not?”
When they walked into the noisy barroom, the room went suddenly silent, for everyone there knew who they were. Ike laughed and commented, “Makes you feel kinda warm and cozy, don’t it? Maybe we’re on the wrong side of the law.” In the next instant, the saloon returned to its raucous noise and the drinking resumed. The two lawmen made their way through the crowded room to stand at the bar. “Whiskey,” Ike ordered, and watched while the bartender poured.
When he stopped pouring, Ike motioned with his hand until the bartender poured a few drops more to fill the glass to the rim. “Just gonna spill it on the bar,” he groused.
“If I do, I’ll lick it up,” Ike replied, and tossed it down. He set the glass down and motioned for it to be filled again. “I’ll bet you think we oughta let Ben Cutler go free,” he said while watching the bartender again.
“If we’d had a jury trial like they were supposed to do, I guarantee you he’d be free.” He started to fill Barrett’s glass again, but was waved off. Barrett never had more than one drink when he was working.
They remained at the bar for a while, discussing the road ahead of them. Ike nursed his second drink along, sipping instead of belting it down in one shot. Barrett had many years trailing fugitives, and he was thinking this one was like no other before. According to what they had learned, Ben Cutler was not a hardened criminal. To the contrary, he had always been a hardworking, law-abiding citizen. He’d just had a streak of bad luck. Barrett had been truthful when he told Rosie he didn’t care. He was interested only in what his experience had taught him about men caught in similar circumstances. Vocalizing his thoughts, he said, “Cutler doesn’t know where he’s headed. Creed was probably right when he said Cutler headed for Wichita, ’cause that was the easiest road to take. Chances are, right now he don’t know what to do or where to go. If we’re lucky, we might catch up with him around Wichita while he’s tryin’ to decide.”
“Maybe,” Ike said, “but it’s a three- or three-and-a-half-day ride from here to Wichita. You think it’ll take him that long to make up his mind?”
“It might, but even if he doesn’t, we might be able to pick up his trail, anyway. With a face scarred like they say his is, somebody’s bound to remember seein’ him. We’ll catch up with him somewhere along the line. I wouldn’t be surprised if he follows a crowd of other folks and heads up toward the Black Hills. He’s got to find a way to make a livin’, and if he’s as honest as these folks claim, he ain’t likely to take up killin’ and stealin’ as a pastime.” He glanced at a man weaving his way toward them, obviously having had too much to drink. “I’m ready to hit the hay—get an early start in the mornin’. Let’s go before another one of Crooked Fork’s citizens tells us to go back to Topeka.”
They had lingered a moment too long, for the drunk cut them off before they reached the door. Stepping up to block Barrett’s path, he demanded, “Why the hell don’t you sons of bitches go on back to where you came from and keep your nose outta our business?” Without replying, Barrett stepped to the side and started to walk around him. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you,” the drunk slurred, and grabbed Barrett’s arm. The marshal’s reaction was so fast that many in the saloon were not sure what had happened. In one quick move, Barrett drew one of his .44s and slammed the barrel across the side of the drunk’s face, dropping him in a heap on the floor. With no show of emotion, he holstered the weapon and continued toward the door.
Behind him, Ike grinned at the bartender and commented, “Barrett don’t like for nobody to lay their hands on him.” Reading the shock in the bartender’s face, he said, “Maybe you oughta call a marshal. There goes one yonder.” He pointed at Barrett’s broad back, already at the door. He followed his partner then, still laughing at the joke he had made.
In a show of courtesy for the local law, they stopped back at the sheriff’s office before retiring for the night. They found Jubal talking to Bob Rice and an older man whom Barrett presumed was the one who had allowed the prisoner to escape. His guess proved to be true, and it was Grover who identified himself as the culprit even before being asked. “I’m the old fool that let your prisoner get away,” he volunteered.
It struck Barrett that Grover almost seemed to be proud of it. “Is that a fact?” Barrett responded, not really interested. He had already put two and two together and come up with what he was confident was the right answer. “From what I’ve heard since we’ve been in town, that oughta make you a hero.”
Grover could not avoid the grin that appeared on his scruffy face, but quickly tried to remove it. “He got the jump on me. It was my fault, though. I got careless. But it wasn’t Jubal’s or Bob’s fault. I guess I should oughta be more careful.”
Concerned that the marshals might want to charge Grover with aiding and abetting, Jubal jumped in to change the subject. “You boys are welcome to sleep here tonight. There ain’t nobody in the cells, and them bunks are fair to middlin’ comfortable.”
“Thanks just the same, Sheriff,” Barrett replied, “but I expect we’ll bed down with our horses, so we can ride out of here early in the mornin’.”
“It’s a long ride back to Topeka,” Jubal said. “You oughta stay around long enough to have you a big breakfast in the hotel dining room before you start out.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Barrett said, “but we’re headin’ for Wichita, and we need to get an early start.”
Jubal looked surprised. “That man’s long gone,” he said. “There ain’t no way you’ll ever catch up with him.”
“I’ve been told that before,” Barrett replied, “more than once.”
It had been quite some time since Ben Cutler had seen Wichita. The last time had been in 1877 when he had partnered with Sam Ingram to drive a herd of cattle up from Texas. He had kept his promise to Mary Ellen then that it would be his last drive. It was with bitter chagrin that he remembered his search for land he could buy to build their homestead on which his family would be safe from the scattered bands of renegade Indians that still raided in some parts of the territory. Realizing that he was once again heading down that path of sorrow, he immediately tried to bring his mind back to the present.
He could readily see that Wichita was a thriving town, although it had changed since his last visit when it was still referred to as Cowtown. Settlers had moved in and fenced off the prairie and the old Chisholm Trail with barbed wire. A store owner on the edge of town had told him that Wichita’s days as a railhead for cattle were over and most of the drives had shifted west to Dodge City. This was bad news to Ben, for he had toyed with the idea that he might hook up with a trail boss who was heading back to Texas. On the run with no future, he couldn’t think of anything else he could do. Although he planned to watch his money carefully, he knew it would not last indefinitely, and cattle and horses were things he knew very well. So he decided the best thing for him to do was to ride west to Dodge City to see if he could hire on with one of the Texas outfits. At any rate, he had to get out of Kansas.
He skirted Wichita on the south side, aiming to head toward Dodge, assuming it risky to ride into town. The federal marshals were bound to have telegraphed every town around, advising them to be on the lookout for him, so he crossed the river and rode on into the afternoon, until time to start thinking about finding a campsite. I should have camped by the river, he thought as the afternoon waned and he had not come upon a stream of any kind to water his horse. At last, just as he was thinking he was going to have to settle for a dry camp, he spotted a line of trees beyond a low ridge in the prairie. There was water ahead, and a good supply, judging by the size of the trees. The buckskin had just started up the ridge when he heard shots.
Pulling the gelding to a stop, he quickly dismounted, pulled his rifle from the saddle sling, and dropped the reins on the ground. Then he scrambled up to the crest of the ridge to take a look. Below him, at the base of the ridge, a party of four Indians was spread in a half circle before a camp in the trees. Before deciding what he should do, he took a quick moment to look the situation over. Only two of the Indians had guns and they were firing as fast as they could reload their single-shot rifles. Their shots were being answered by one person, but he was armed with a repeating rifle, a Winchester by the sound of it. Ben could not see the man. He could see what looked to be two horses tethered in the trees, but little else. He assumed the person under siege was a white man, and he made up his mind to even the sides in the fight.
Pulling his rifle up beside him, he cocked it and laid the front sight on one of the Indians with a rifle. Squeezing the trigger slowly as he steadied the rifle, he was almost surprised when it fired and knocked the warrior facedown in the grass. The victim’s friends reacted in alarm, but did not realize he had been shot from behind until Ben’s rifle accounted for another fatality. Aware then that they were possibly surrounded, the remaining two fled to their horses and galloped away in the gathering dusk. When Ben was sure they weren’t coming back, he slid back down the slope to his horse. After replacing the two spent cartridges, he climbed aboard and rode over the top of the ridge and halfway down the other side before stopping and calling out, “Hello the camp. Are you all right?” He could see what appeared to be a squat man approaching the edge of the cottonwoods on short, bowed legs. “Can I come in?” Ben yelled.
“Come on in and welcome!” the man answered as he left the shadow of the trees and walked toward the fallen warriors. “Can’t be too sure,” he said, and pulling his pistol, pumped one shot into each corpse. “Now I’m sure,” he concluded, and stood waiting, eyeballing his surprise rescuer as Ben slow-walked the buckskin up to him. The grin on the man’s face froze when Ben was close enough for him to get a good look at his visitor, but it was only for a moment before he recovered. “I was in a bad way there till you come along. Those sneakin’ buzzards surprised me, and I caught a bullet in the shoulder before I even knew they were out there. It’s not a serious wound, but it’s in my blame right shoulder, so I had to shoot my rifle left-handed, and I ain’t much of a shot left-handed.”
Ben hadn’t noticed the wound until he stepped down from the saddle, but there was a round circle of blood on the man’s shoulder and it was about where he would rest the stock of his rifle when firing. Fully aware that the man could not help staring at his disfigured face, even though he was making an obvious effort not to, Ben tried to look as pleasant as he could. “Want me to take a look at that?”
Judging strictly by appearances, Cleve Goganis was not sure that he had not fallen from the frying pan into the fire. For that reason, he still held his pistol in his hand. “I reckon,” he replied, uncertain. “Wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look.”
Ben followed him over to the fire and directed him to sit down. “You can go ahead and holster that weapon,” he remarked as he pulled Cleve’s shirt aside. “If I was thinkin’ on shootin’ you, I’da done it when I first rode up.”
Cleve smiled sheepishly and returned the .44 to his holster. “I plumb forgot I still had it in my hand,” he lied. “I appreciate your help,” he said then, thinking that he had misjudged the man. “My name’s Clever Goganis, but I go by Cleve.”
“Ben Cutler,” Ben answered as he examined Cleve’s wound. “You’re right. It doesn’t look too bad. I could see a little better if I had somethin’ to clean some of that blood outta there.” Cleve supplied a cloth from one of his packs, and Ben wet it in the stream. After cleaning away some of the blood, he saw that the bullet had not gone very deep into the muscle and had lodged there before it hit the bone. “You’re lucky. I can get that out. There wasn’t much of a charge behind that rifle slug.” After heating his skinning knife in the coals to make sure it was clean enough, he probed for the slug. When it was out, he reheated the knife and cauterized the wound.
Cleve sat quietly and expressionless through the entire procedure. When it was over, he nodded thoughtfully and said, “Much obliged.” Taking another look at the menacing face, he hesitated before finally making up his mind. “You’re welcome to camp here with me,” he decided. “The least I can do is offer some coffee and grub for fixin’ my shoulder, not to mention them two Injuns you killed.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Ben said, “but I was wonderin’ if it might be a good idea to move the camp a mile or so up the stream in case your friends come back to get their dead.”
“Well, now, you’re probably right,” Cleve replied. “I doubt there was ever more than the four of ’em, but you can’t never tell.” So Cleve packed up while Ben put out the fire. Then they rode north along the stream for a mile and a half until they found a spot they both agreed upon. “This’ll do,” Cleve said. “If they decide to come back for more, they’ll play hell gettin’ across that open flat before we see ’em.” They unsaddled the horses and built a fire, and in short order there was a pot of coffee working away in the coals and Cleve had a frying pan filled with bacon sizzling over the fire.
Sensing the peaceful disposition of the man with the grotesque scar across his face, Cleve soon ceased to feel intimidated by the solidly built stranger—enough so that he boldly asked, “That’s a right nasty-lookin’ scar across your face. How in hell did that happen?”
“I ran into a fellow with a big knife,” Ben answered, reluctant to go into details.
Cleve was studying him carefully now. “That scar ain’t been there very long,” he said. “It’s still a little pinkish lookin’.”
“A few weeks,” Ben replied, anxious to change the subject. “You said your name was Clever. That’s a pretty unusual name.”
“Yeah,” Cleve drawled, demonstrating boredom with the question, having been asked about the name so often. “My mama named me Clever. I reckon she was hopin’ I would be the smart one in the family, maybe grow into the name, but I never did.” He grunted a chuckle as he recalled, “My pa used to call me Stupid—said I lived up to that name. He was killed in a gunfight when I was fourteen.”
“Is that a fact?” Ben remarked. “Who with?”
“Me,” Cleve replied.
Now it was Ben’s turn to lift an eyebrow in surprise and wonder if he had reason to keep a sharp eye. He took a longer look at Cleve Goganis. A more harmlesslooking man he could not imagine. “You killed your pa in a gunfight?” he had to question.
“I did,” Cleve replied succinctly. “He beat my mother up one too many times. But he was my pa, so I called him out fair and square, although he was a little drunk at the time. Course he was most always drunk, so it was more like natural to him.” Cleve’s eyes seemed to mist a bit as he called to mind that fateful day in his young life. “Me and my squirrel rifle, him and that old Colt Navy revolver he was so proud of. He wanted Mama to count to three, but she wouldn’t do it, said we was both crazy and went in the house. Pa said it had to be fair, so he pulled a squash outta the garden and said when it hit the ground we’d fire. Well, he threw it up, and when it came down, that old pistol of his misfired. I didn’t even pull the trigger—just stood there watching him trying to get that old revolver to fire. When he threw it down and took off running around to the back of the house, I reckon I finally woke up. So I took off after him, wantin’ to take my shot. He was turnin’ the corner of the house, headin’ for the kitchen door, when I pulled the trigger—shot him in the back of the head.” Cleve smiled to himself and slowly shook his head. “That was down in the Nations in Osage country. The Injun police didn’t know what to do about it, but I figured I’d take off before they figured somethin’ out. I been movin’ ever since, and that was thirty years ago.”
Ben was speechless for a few moments following Cleve’s story. “Damn,” was all he could mutter when at last he could comment. After a moment more, he asked, “Where are you headed now?”
“I’m goin’ up into the Black Hills,” Cleve answered. “I’ve been too late for every gold strike in the country, and I reckon I’m too late for this one, too. But I ain’t got nothin’ else to do.”
Ben shared Cleve’s opinion on that. It was much too late to cash in on the rich untapped veins of gold of the early days, by a half dozen years. But there were some individuals, like Cleve, who thought it worthwhile to pan the streams running through the Black Hills in hopes of striking the next big payoff. He shrugged. “Maybe this time you’ll strike it rich.”
“Never can tell,” Cleve commented. “You never said where you’re headin’.”
“Nowhere in particular,” Ben replied. “Just west, I reckon. Thought I’d go to Dodge City.”
Cleve studied Ben for a long moment before he asked, “I couldn’t help noticin’ that ever’thin’ you’ve got is new—new saddle, new boots, new clothes. You’re on the run, ain’tcha?” Ben didn’t answer, but Cleve could see that he had struck a sensitive chord. “The law? You rob a bank or somethin’? Or is it the feller that laid that scar across your face?”
Ben’s hand automatically went up to feel the scar. “The man who did this is dead,” he replied soberly. “And I ain’t never stole anythin’ in my life, if that’s worryin’ you.”
“Now, don’t get riled up.” Cleve was quick in seeking to calm him. “I didn’t go to get you mad. Your word’s good enough for me.” It was obvious to a man of Cleve’s years and experience, however, that the young man was running from something, and he kept at it until Ben finally confided that he wasn’t sure if he was being hunted or not. But the odds were good that the U.S. Marshal Service might be on the watch for him. Before the coffee was all gone, he told him what his crime had been.
“Sweet Jesus,” Cleve uttered when Ben told him of the murder of his wife and son by a deputy sheriff. “I’da done the same thing you did. A man ought not be sent to prison for fightin’ for his family, and that’s a fact.” He said nothing for a few moments while he absorbed the story he had just heard. “Makes it kind of hard to lie low, since that son of a bitch left his mark on you,” he said, gazing openly at the jagged scar across Ben’s face. “Why don’t you come on to the Black Hills with me? There’s enough outlaws and rough-lookin’ fellers up in those hills that one more won’t hardly be noticed.”
Ben laughed. “That may be so, but I don’t know anythin’ more about minin’ for gold than I did about farmin’. I know a little about cattle and horses, but nothin’ about pannin’ for gold. I doubt I’d be much good to you.”
“There ain’t much to learn about it,” Cleve said. “Either you find it or you don’t. I know enough to tell when there’s color or not, so you might as well come on and go with me. I’ve got the tools and we’ll split fifty-fifty on anythin’ we find—which I doubt will be much—but what the hell?”
Ben had to laugh again. He couldn’t help admiring the attitude of the gnomelike little man, in light of the fact that Cleve knew practically nothing about the man he invited to be a partner. He had to confess that the notion of joining Cleve held some attraction for him, especially since he knew the odds of hiring on with a cattle outfit at this end of the trail were very slim. “Are you sure you want me to be your partner?” he asked. “All you really know about me is that I killed a deputy sheriff, and I’m wanted by the U.S. Marshals.”
“I know you’re pretty damn handy with that new Winchester you’re totin’, and I can sure as hell use that. I know you jumped right in when you saw them Injuns comin’ after me. There’s a lot of folks that’da just gone the other way. Besides,” he said with a chuckle, “I ain’t got nothin’ worth killin’ me for right now. I won’t have to worry about you shootin’ me till we strike some color somewhere.”
“Well, I guess we’re goin’ to the Black Hills,” Ben said, and extended his hand. Cleve shook it and the partnership was formed.