The remaining days of June and most of the month of July were spent in the saddle as Tanner Bland made his journey across the country. With no knowledge of the land he crossed, and with limited contact with anyone along the way, he had only the sun to guide him. He figured that if he simply held the big gray gelding to a steady western course, he would eventually hit Kansas. He had very little hope of finding Jeb Hawkins, even if he found Kansas, but he remembered that Jeb had often spoken of his home in Mound City. His ultimate intention was to ride on farther west, into Montana Territory, as Jeb had suggested. But he decided he might as well see if he could find Jeb on the way.
It was a long journey, with few stops, although he had found it necessary to spend a couple of extra days by a river in Kentucky because the gray was beginning to show signs of weariness. Although the horse was big and strong, it was still trying to survive on grass when it had been accustomed to periodic portions of oats.
There were long days in the saddle, passing through the hills of West Virginia and Kentucky, skirting mountains and crossing countless rivers. Some of the rivers he identified, the Ohio, and the Mississippi, because he found it necessary to part with some of the small amount of money his father gave him to be ferried across. Being a sizable man, and well armed, he was not subject to many questions from the strangers he met.
By this time horse and rider were becoming well acquainted with each other’s moods and habits. Tanner decided it was going to be a workable partnership, so he thought it time he gave the gray a proper name. For lack of a better idea, he called the horse Ashes, since its color reminded him of the gray-white ashes of a campfire. “Ashes,” he said aloud, trying it on for sound. “Ashes,” he repeated. “Suit you?” The big horse jerked his head up and down and snorted. “Good. I thought it would.”
Since he figured to keep the horse for a long time, there was one other chore that he deemed necessary, one that the gray might not appreciate. He took the bayonet he had retained when he discarded his Enfield rifle and placed it in the coals of his campfire. While he waited for the bayonet to turn cherry red, he made sure Ashes’ reins were tied securely to a tree. When the bayonet was glowing hot, he wrapped one corner of his blanket around the shank and withdrew it from the fire. Taking but a moment to study the US brand on Ashes’ flank, he decided there was only one way to alter it. The gelding was not at all pleased with the alteration, and would have bolted, leaving its master on foot, if Tanner had not hobbled it. Working as quickly as he could, he burned over the Union army brand, turning the US into 08. He speculated on the possibility of adding a 1 in front, but the gray was not willing to tolerate further abuse, so Tanner settled for the two-digit brand. When the branding was completed, he slapped a handful of wet mud on it, hoping to ease Ashes’ discomfort.
Under way again, the big gray kept a cautious eye on its master for the next day or so. But after a while, the sting of the new tattoo was forgotten, and horse and rider became partners again.
Tanner was well adjusted to living off the land, eating what food was provided in the form of game. His nights, lonely and painful at first, became less and less contaminated with poisonous thoughts of Trenton and Ellie. By the time he struck the Marais des Cygnes River, he was able to sleep at night, free of troubling dreams of her and what might have been.
He knew when he struck the river that he had been in Missouri for at least five or six days, but he had no idea how far he was from Kansas. Jeb had told him that Mound City was not far over the Missouri border. Tanner had no notion if he was north or south of the town. For no good reason, other than a whim, he decided to follow the river’s northwest course, since it seemed to be the right general direction.
After riding a mile or so along the river, he encountered a young boy of twelve or thirteen fishing from the bank. In answer to Tanner’s question, the lad informed him that it was the Marais des Cygnes River, and if he followed it for another twelve miles, he would come to a little settlement called Trading Post. “Then you’ll be in Kansas,” the boy said.
Tanner thanked him and continued on. “Helluva name for a river,” he muttered to Ashes as he left the boy staring after him. Once he reached Trading Post the following day, he was given directions to Mound City.
Spotting the stable as he rode into town, he guided Ashes toward it. The owner, a wiry little man with a bald pate and a full set of whiskers, laid his tools aside to greet the stranger. “Evenin’,” he said, getting up from the feed box he was building. “The name’s Porter. I own the place.”
“Evenin’,” Tanner returned. “I’d like to leave my horse for the night and get a double portion of oats.” It had been a while since the gray had eaten anything but grass, so he thought the horse would appreciate it. He dismounted and led Ashes into the stable, where he started to remove the saddle.
“Cavalry saddle,” Porter commented. “Been seein’ a few of them since the end of the war.”
“I reckon,” Tanner replied, hesitating before pulling the saddle from Ashes’ back.
“You musta been in the Confederate army,” Porter said.
The comment caused Tanner’s eyebrows to rise, and he turned to look at the man. “How do you know that?”
“That aught-eight brand,” Porter said confidently.
“Jeb Hawkins come back from the war a week or so ago, and his horse had the same brand. He said the Confederates didn’t put a regular brand on their horses. They just numbered ’em.” Then he paused to scratch his head, as he thought about what he had just said. “How come your horse has got the same number as his?”
Tanner turned his head back to his horse to keep the stable owner from seeing the grin on his face. “That’s because he was in a different company than I was. He had number eight in his company. I had number eight in mine. I’ll bet he didn’t have the same color horse as mine, did he?”
“No. That’s right, he didn’t. His was a sorrel.”
“There, you see, he had the number eight sorrel. I had the number eight gray.” Tanner’s explanation appeared to satisfactorily explain the puzzle for Porter. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Jeb, would you? I know him.”
“Sure, I know where he is,” Porter replied. “Where he’s been most of the time since he come back—in jail.”
Even knowing Jeb for no longer than he had, Tanner could not honestly say he was surprised to find that his friend had already gotten himself in some kind of trouble. “What did he do to get thrown in jail?” he asked.
Porter did not give Tanner an answer right away. Instead, he studied the broad-shouldered young stranger for a few moments as if deciding whether or not he should trust him. Finally he made his decision. “You say you served with Jeb in the Confederate army?”
“That’s a fact.”
“Well, it’s obvious to me that you ain’t been around these parts before, so I’m gonna tell you the way things are. You’re in Linn County, son. There’s been a helluva lot of blood shed in this county between Free-Soilers and pro-slavers. It started a long time before the war, and it ain’t cooled down now that the war’s over. Jeb’s daddy was shot down dead in a barroom fight between three pro-slavers and a couple of Free-Soilers. ’Course old man Hawkins didn’t have any slaves, but he believed in the right of the state to decide whether we was gonna be a slave state or not. I doubt if young Jeb cared one way or the other, but them killin’ his pap sure as hell put him on the side of the Confederacy.” He paused to relight his corncob pipe before continuing.
“I’m tellin’ you all this so’s you’ll know to watch what you say around here. I supported the Confederacy, just like Jeb’s pa, so I don’t want you to get to talkin’ to the wrong people in town. You come ridin’ in here on a Union horse with the brand worked over…” He paused and winked an eye at Tanner. “I ain’t as dumb as I look. Some folks around here might ask you some questions about that. One of ’em is most likely gonna be Jeff Yates. He’s the sheriff, and he rode with the Kansas Jayhawkers, so he ain’t got no love for you Southern boys.”
“Ain’t you folks heard? The war’s over.”
“That may be, but there’s still some bad blood around here. I’m just tellin’ you how things are. Just figured you’d want to know.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Porter,” Tanner said. “I’ll try to stay outta trouble. You never told me what they’ve got Jeb in jail for.”
“Disorderly conduct, disturbin’ the peace, resistin’ arrest, assaultin’ a peace officer, and I think they’re considerin’ chargin’ him with stealin’ that horse.”
“Damn!” Tanner grunted. “How long is he in jail for?”
“For as long as they want to keep him, I reckon,” Porter said with a shrug. “Or if they charge him as a horse thief, till they hang him.”
Tanner thought Porter’s words over for a long minute before inquiring, “Where’s the jail?” It was time to hear what had happened from Jeb’s mouth.
“Down at the end of this street,” Porter said, nodding his head to emphasize. “It ain’t much more than a shack, a little two-room log cabin. You’ll see it. They’re talkin’ about building a new jail outta stone, but all we’ve got now is a shack.”
“Much obliged,” Tanner said, tightening the cinch under Ashes’ belly again. “I think I’ll go see Jeb. I’ll be back to leave my horse.” He turned to leave, but Porter stopped him before he got to the door.
“I ain’t got any idea if you’re interested or not, but Jeb’s horse is in the corral out back. And that fancy saddle is in the tack room. I’m supposed to keep an eye on ’em, but like I told the sheriff, ain’t nobody here when I go home to supper.” He turned then and walked toward the back of the stable before Tanner could thank him again. “You watch yourself, young feller,” he called back as he disappeared from view.
It was a lot to think about. Jeb had made casual reference to the divided passions over the war in his county, but in mentioning his father’s death, he had simply stated that it was in a saloon fight. Keeping Porter’s advice in mind, especially his comments on the 08 brand, Tanner rode down to the end of the street to the jail. As the owner of the stable had said, the jail was little more than a log cabin with a sign over the door that read SHERIFF. There were no horses tied out front, and when he pulled up at the steps, he saw that there was a padlock on the door.
Tanner dismounted and looped Ashes’ reins over the hitching post. There was a window on the side of the cabin, so he walked around the building to look inside. Peering through the iron bars, he saw a small room with a desk and a single chair, evidently the sheriff’s office. At the rear of the room, there was a closed door that apparently led to the cells. Moving to the rear of the building, he found a second window, this one smaller and a few feet higher than the one on the side.
Looking around for something to stand on, he could find nothing in the way of a bucket, a box, or even a log. So he went back for Ashes. Looking up and down the street, he saw no one but a couple of men passing the time of day in front of a saloon about fifty yards away. They seemed to pay him no mind, so he climbed in the saddle and rode around to the rear of the jail. Seated in the saddle, he could easily see in the tiny window. “Jeb?” he called, even though he could not see anyone in the room. “Are you in there?”
“Tanner! Is that you?” The reply came from directly below the window.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Tanner answered. “Where the hell are you?”
“I’m right here,” Jeb said and stood up on the bunk that was right under the window. The bed was close against the wall, which was the reason Tanner had not seen it from outside. Jeb’s smiling face appeared up next to the bars. “I swear, I never thought I’d see you again,” he gushed, obviously delighted. “What the hell are you doin’ here? Did you get run outta Virginia?” He chuckled in response to his gibe.
“I came lookin’ for you,” Tanner said. “I was hopin’ I’d catch up with you before you set off for the goldfields in Montana.” He laughed then. “Looks like there was no need to hurry. What the hell did you do to get thrown in jail?”
“Got drunk. That was what I suppose started it all. But, hell, Tanner, I wasn’t lookin’ for no trouble. Matter of fact, I was feelin’ like I was everybody’s friend until that son of a bitch behind the bar said somethin’ about my pa. Said I was fixin’ to end up like he did, or somethin’ like that. I don’t remember exactly what he said. I was drunk. Anyway, Jeff Yates, he’s the sheriff, he said I broke a whiskey bottle over the bartender’s head. I reckon I did. I don’t remember. Yates sneaked up behind me and hit me up side of the head with a gun butt, and dragged my ass in here. That’s how I got here.” He ended his story with a wide grin. “Ain’t that a fine way to treat a hero home from the war?”
Tanner shook his head in mock dismay, then turned dead serious. “Jeb, that fellow, Porter, over at the stables, told me they were tryin’ to charge you as a horse thief because of that sorrel you borrowed from the Union army.”
“I heard about that. Hell, I told ’em I bought that horse at an army auction. Same as you,” he added, “if they ask you.”
“It didn’t do you much good,” Tanner said.
Jeb laughed. “Nah, I reckon it didn’t, did it?” Then he abruptly changed the subject. “But I still don’t understand what you’re doin’ here. I thought you was goin’ home to get hitched. What happened? Did you bring her with you, or did she meet another feller?”
“Yeah, my brother,” Tanner replied. Jeb’s question had been asked as a joke. When he realized that his friend was serious, he sputtered over an apology. Tanner shrugged it off, saying they all thought he was dead. He went on to tell Jeb the story of his homecoming.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jeb muttered slowly when Tanner finished. “There’s a bright side to it, though,” he said cheerfully. “Now we can go to Montana, and find us a fortune—get us enough money to buy a couple of high-class wives. Hell, we might turn Mormon and have a couple of wives apiece.”
“There’s not but one small detail that needs to be worked out,” Tanner reminded him. “You’re in jail.”
“Ah, hell,” Jeb snorted. “They ain’t gonna keep me here long. It’d cost too much to feed me. I probably woulda done been out if it was anybody but me. Ol’ Jeff Yates don’t like me much. He didn’t like my old man, so I reckon it was natural he wanted to throw me in jail for a spell. That horse-stealin’ talk is just that—talk, trying to throw a scare into me.”
“Maybe so. I hope you’re right. That fellow, Porter, thought they might be serious about it. I’ll go back and see if I can sleep in the stable for a couple of days till they let you outta here. Maybe I can find the sheriff and get some idea from him. Is he ever in the office?”
“Not much of the time,” Jeb said. “He’s got a farm, like ever’body else around this town. So he just padlocks the door and drops by whenever he feels like it. The good part of it is I don’t have to see his ugly face but now and then. Annie Whatley from over to the saloon brings me two meals a day, so I ain’t been sufferin’ none.” He favored Tanner with a wry smile then. “Besides, I knew you’d come rescue me.”
Tanner left with the hope that he might find out more regarding the length of Jeb’s stay in the crude jail. Jeb advised him to steer clear of Jeff Yates. He further advised him not to let on that he was Jeb’s friend. Tanner figured the best place to get information was the saloon, so after making arrangements with Mr. Porter to sleep in the stall with Ashes, he walked down the street to the Statesman.
The evening crowd of patrons had already begun to gather in the dimly lit saloon. When Tanner opened the door, he paused in the entrance to take a look around the room before stepping inside. Off to one side, and a few paces from the door, there was a table with a sign requesting that saloon patrons leave all weapons there. A few men stood at the bar, exchanging conversation over their beer mugs. It was not a large room, but big enough to crowd in four tables beyond the bar. On this evening, only the table in the back corner seemed to be occupied, but there was a group of seven men gathered around it, having borrowed chairs from the vacant tables. Tanner figured that the table no doubt represented the saloon’s regulars.
He paused at the weapons table to leave his Spencer carbine before proceeding to the bar. His appearance caused a brief lull in the din of conversation in the noisy room as most everyone eyed the stranger. After only a moment, however, the talk resumed its prior level.
“Howdy, mister,” the bartender, a stocky man sporting a handlebar mustache and wearing a bandanna around his head, greeted him. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have two shots of your best whiskey,” Tanner replied and grinned to himself when he realized the bandanna was, in fact, a bandage. It had been a long time since he had taken a drink, and he figured it would probably be a long time before he had another. So he figured he might as well have the best.
The bartender looked him over while he poured from a bottle taken from beneath the counter. “Ain’t seen you in here before,” he said. “Just get into town?”
“Yep,” Tanner replied as he paid for his drinks. “I’m just passin’ through.” He tossed the first drink down, grimacing as the fiery liquid scorched his throat. Then he placed the empty shot glass back on the bar, nodded to the bartender, picked it up again when it was refilled, and carried it over to the empty table next to the one in the corner. He pulled up one of the few empty chairs and sat down facing the occupied table.
His plan was to strike up a conversation with one of the locals and possibly guide it toward the prisoner in the jail. He cautioned himself to avoid being too obvious in seeking information. As it turned out, he found out what he wanted to know without having to question anyone. Jeb became the general topic of conversation at the crowded table when another man joined the group.
Pulling up a chair, the newcomer squeezed in between two at the table. From the round of greetings the man received, Tanner gathered that he had been away from town for a while. After acknowledging the greetings, he leveled a question at a heavyset man with a dark beard and eyes buried deep beneath a brooding forehead. “So, Jeff, I hear you got ol’ Zack Hawkins’ boy locked up in the jail.”
“That’s a fact,” the heavyset man replied.
“I expect there’s folks around here that was hopin’ he wouldn’t make it back from the war.” He shook his head as if puzzled. “I swear, I don’t know why that boy would wanna come back to Mound City.”
“Probably just to spite us,” another man interjected.
The heavyset man snorted in disgust. “Well, it didn’t do him a helluva lot of good, did it? Just to come back here to get hisself hung.”
“What did he do to get himself hung?” the newcomer asked.
“Stole a horse is what they were talkin’ about,” one at the table commented. “Ain’t that right, Sheriff?”
“We’re done talkin’ about it,” the sheriff informed them. “Judge Harris is fixin’ to rule on it tomorrow, and I expect we’ll have a hangin’ the next day after that.”
Seated at the next table, Tanner slowly sipped his drink. He had heard all he needed to hear. The sheriff sounded pretty confident about what the judge’s ruling would be. They were going to railroad Jeb. It wasn’t a prosecution of a crime. It was simple extermination that the good folk of Mound City had in mind. Tanner had heard stories, some from Jeb, about the Kansas-Missouri border wars between the Free-Soilers and the pro-slavers that led up to the war just ended. According to Jeb, there were plenty of folks in Mound City who held Southern sympathies. Sitting in this saloon now, Tanner wondered where those people were, and if they were apt to come out in support of one who’d fought for the Confederacy. The sheriff certainly was confident that Jeb’s trial was merely a formality before the hanging.
It was pretty clear what he had to do. Tossing back the last few drops of the strong whiskey, he placed the empty glass on the table, and stood up. When he did, he found the sheriff’s gaze focused upon him. Tanner looked at the fleshy brute of a man for a few long seconds before turning and slowly walking toward the door. Behind him, he heard the scraping sound of the sheriff’s chair being pushed back from the table. He continued to walk toward the table where the weapons were deposited.
“Hold on there a minute, mister,” Jeff Yates called out, his voice brusque and commanding.
Tanner casually reached down and picked up his rifle before turning slowly to face the sheriff. Yates halted a couple of steps from him and looked him up and down before speaking again. “I’m the sheriff in this town, and I like to know what business strangers like you have in Mound City.”
“I don’t have any business in Mound City,” Tanner said. “I’m just passin’ through. I ain’t broke any laws, have I?”
“Why, none that you’ve been caught at yet,” Yates replied with a smirk. “We’ve been seein’a fair number of drifters comin’ through here since the war, and that ain’t what the folks here wanna see.” He gave Tanner another hard look. “You fight in the war?”
“Maybe,” Tanner replied.
“If I was to guess, I’d say it wasn’t on the Union side,” Yates said. When Tanner answered with only a smile, the sheriff snorted. “I thought so.” He nodded toward the rifle in Tanner’s hand. “I don’t believe you Rebs were issued Spencer carbines. I might have to order you to hand that over. That’s government property.”
The last thing Tanner wanted was a confrontation with the sheriff, but he had had enough of the surly lawman’s attitude. “I took this rifle off a dead man. The next man that gets it is gonna have to take it the same way.”
The noisy barroom suddenly got quiet, with no sound except the scraping of chairs on the plank floor as the patrons pushed back from the table. Yates was stopped momentarily, not expecting the defiance he encountered. His eyes locked on Tanner’s, measuring the depth of the stranger’s resolve. Something he saw there told him that there was cold steel behind the gaze. “Mister,” he warned, “you’re fixin’ to make the biggest mistake of your life.” His hand dropped to rest on the handle of his pistol. “Now, hand that rifle to me butt first.”
Tanner brought the Spencer up chest high and cocked it, loading a round in the chamber. He suspected that the sheriff not only wanted the rifle, but also meant to throw him in jail with Jeb. A smattering of hushed comments filled the room behind the sheriff as his friends watched the confrontation. They went silent again when Tanner leveled the rifle at Yates. “Sheriff,” he said, his voice soft and deadly, “I ain’t broke no laws in your town, but if your hand comes up with that pistol in it, you’re a dead man.”
Yates was stopped cold for a few moments, unsure of himself and uncertain if the brash young man actually had the nerve to follow through with his threat. His hand lingered on the handle of his revolver, but he hesitated to grip it. “Are you that big a fool?” he finally snarled. “Threatenin’ a lawman?” Tanner made no reply, simply staring coldly into the sheriff’s eyes. “Look around you,” Yates said. “You’re outnumbered about seven to one. You pull that trigger and there’ll be half a dozen on you before you can cock that rifle again.”
“I reckon there’d be only two dead then,” Tanner replied. “But one of ’em’s gonna be you. So it’s your call. I walk outta here and no harm done. Or you and I can catch the evenin’ train to hell together.”
“I’ve got him covered, Jeff,” the bartender sang out and pulled a double-barreled shotgun from under the counter.
This was not good news to Tanner. He hadn’t figured the bartender to get involved in the standoff. He wondered why the man hadn’t shot first and talked later, but his unblinking gaze never left Yates’ face. “My finger’s gettin’ awfully damn itchy,” he said. “If that shotgun goes off, you’re a dead man. Tell him to put the gun away, and I’ll not waste any time ridin’ outta your friendly little town.”
One could almost hear the crackle of tension in the room as the standoff continued. Yates glanced at the weapons on the table behind Tanner, wishing at this point that he had never insisted on the ordinance that caused them to be there. The bartender was holding a gun on the stranger, and was sure to get him. But Yates was staring at the barrel of Tanner’s rifle, and he didn’t know if Tanner would automatically squeeze the trigger if the bartender fired. He wasn’t ready to take the risk.
“Put it away, Lonnie,” the sheriff finally said. When the bartender lowered the shotgun, Yates turned back to Tanner. “All right, I’m gonna let you go, so these innocent bystanders don’t get hurt. But I want you outta my town, and I don’t mean maybe. I ain’t likely to be in such a good mood next time I see you.”
Not influenced by the sheriff’s attempt to save face, Tanner said, “Reach across with your left hand and lift that pistol outta the holster real slow. Do it, dammit!” he roared when Yates hesitated. “All right, drop it on the floor and kick it over here.” Becoming more and more flushed by the moment, the sheriff did as he was told. Tanner stooped to pick up the weapon, being careful to keep the rifle trained on the sheriff.
Backing slowly toward the door, Tanner watched the crowd of uneasy citizens of Mound City carefully, lest anyone try to make a run for the weapons table. None was heroic to the extent of testing the tall stranger. Tanner opened the door and paused in the doorway for a moment. Then he suddenly stepped outside, slammed the door, and jammed the sheriff’s pistol barrel through the door handle, wedging it against the doorframe. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it might delay the pursuit enough to let him get a head start. Running as fast as he could, he darted between the saloon and the dry goods store. Turning the corner, he sprinted along behind the buildings, heading for the stable.
John Porter was startled when Tanner suddenly appeared at the back of the stable at a dead run. “What tha—” was all he managed to get out as Tanner rushed by him, going straight to the tack room where his saddle was stored. In a moment, he reappeared with the saddle on his shoulder, heading for the corral.
“I reckon I won’t be stayin’ the night after all,” Tanner blurted as he passed the astonished stable owner. “How much do I owe you?” he called over his shoulder as he cornered his horse against the rail.
“Nothin’,” Porter replied while Tanner slipped the bit in Ashes’ mouth and pulled the bridle on. “You done paid me for the oats.” He stood gaping as Tanner threw the saddle on the big gray horse. “You sure seem to be in one helluva hurry. Is somebody after you?”
Busy with the girth strap, Tanner answered without pausing, “I don’t know, but I expect it’s a possibility.” He figured that the first thing that happened when he slammed the saloon door was a rush for the table and the weapons. Then he was counting on the pistol holding for a little while, and when it was finally dislodged and they could open the door, they wouldn’t know for sure which way he had run. Of the men at the table with Yates, he wondered how many, if any, would come after him with the sheriff. No matter, he decided as he stepped up in the saddle. One or a hundred, I’d best get the hell outta here. He turned to tell Porter to open the gate, but the stable owner was already ahead of him. Tanner nodded his thanks as he passed through. Once clear of the gate, he called on the gray for speed, leaving the little town at a gallop.
In the clear so far, he thought, looking back over his shoulder for signs of pursuit. The big gray’s hooves pounded the hard clay as he drove for a bend in the road that would take him out of sight of the buildings. Lying low on Ashes’ neck, he waited for the snap of bullets to overtake him, but there was none, and soon he gained the shield of a grove of hardwoods at a curve in the road. Riding on, he eased up on the gray a bit as he quickly looked about him for the best place to leave the road. Knowing he didn’t have much time to decide, he took the easiest route of escape. Pulling hard on the reins, he swung the gray to his left, jumped a shallow ditch, and followed a faint drainage trail down through a stand of hickories and oaks. Weaving between dark trunks, he made his way through the trees until coming to a creek bordered by chokecherry thickets and buckthorn.
Behind him he heard the sound of several horses on the road he had just left. He pulled the gray up to listen. He could not see the road, but from the sound, he knew that they had continued on, evidently failing to see where he had plunged into the trees. This, he decided, was as good a place as any to wait out the remaining daylight. The sheriff had to figure that he had fled the town, anxious to put Mound City far behind him. So Tanner reasoned that the lawman would not think to search for him close to town. The problem to be solved now was how to get Jeb out of jail. He looked up at the late-afternoon sun. “Well, I’ve got plenty of time to figure out how I’m gonna do it,” he said.
While he pictured the tiny jail in his mind, and tried to think of his best chance of breaking Jeb out, he took a look around the woods he had picked as his hiding place. Leaving Ashes to graze by the creek, he pushed through a thicket on the other side to discover a cleared field of perhaps five or six acres. At the far end of the field, a small farmhouse sat between two sizable oak trees. Tanner stood in the cover of the thicket for a while, watching to see if there was any activity around the house. Seeing none, he felt reasonably safe in assuming there would be no one venturing across the field in his direction. He returned to the creek to wait out the daylight.
A little before dusk, he heard the sheriff’s posse returning to town. Sitting up to become more alert, he listened hard to make sure the sound of hoofbeats on the road continued on past. He settled back and waited. Finally, darkness settled in around the chokecherry bushes, and Tanner determined it was time to act. The fact that he was about to embark on his first ever act that was against the law never entered his mind. As far as he was concerned, he was planning to free a comrade in arms from an enemy prison. It was a matter of right or wrong, and he couldn’t leave Jeb there to be hung.
“Your supper’s a mite cold,” Jeff Yates said as he pushed the door open with his foot. Entering the cell room carrying a plate of food, he pretended to be apologetic. Jeb knew the sheriff was merely entertaining himself. “I weren’t here to unlock the door for Annie, so she had to leave it on the stoop. She put a cloth over it, but the flies got to it anyway. I sure feel bad about that, but I had to chase one of your Reb friends outta town.” He slid the plate under the bars, knocking a biscuit off on the floor. “A little dirt won’t hurt’cha,” he said, tapping the biscuit under the bars with the toe of his boot.
Jeb held his tongue, determined not to let the sheriff get his goat. He picked up the plate and shooed a couple of flies from the cold bacon before stuffing a slice into his mouth. “Why, Sheriff, I’m just about overcome with gratitude. I wouldn’t have expected you back at all tonight, after such a hard day of settin’ on your ass in the saddle.”
Yates didn’t reply right away, staring at Jeb with a sly smirk on his face. Then after a moment or two, he said, “You’ve always had a sassy mouth on you, ain’t you?” The smirk slowly transformed into a wide smile. “We’ll see how sassy you can talk day after tomorrow when I hang your sorry ass.”
“Ha,” Jeb snorted. “Hang me for what? Disturbin’ the peace?”
“Horse thievin’,” Yates replied.
“Horse thievin’!” Jeb exclaimed. “I ain’t stole no horse.” Then his eyes opened wide and a broad smile formed on his face.
Puzzled by Jeb’s sudden transformation, as if he had just heard good news, Yates stared dumbly at his prisoner for a few moments. Then, realizing that Jeb was looking at something behind him, he turned to find himself staring into the muzzle of a Spencer rifle. His hand immediately fell to rest on the handle of his pistol. “It would be a mistake,” he was calmly warned.
“Howdy, partner,” Jeb gleefully greeted Tanner. “I reckon it must be time for me to get outta here—and just when I was beginning to feel right at home.”
“I knew you wasn’t just passin’ through.” Yates spat out the words with a scowl. “By God, you’re gonna end up at the bottom of a rope for this.”
“Maybe,” Tanner replied, reaching over to relieve the sheriff of his pistol for the second time in one day. “I expect you’d best take that key ring off your belt, too.” With a look that would scorch a frightened man, the sheriff complied, taking the ring off and tossing it on the floor. “Pick it up,” Tanner commanded.
“You pick it up,” Yates shot back. “You gonna shoot me if I don’t?” He sneered. “I don’t think you got the guts to shoot me.”
Without hesitating, Tanner lowered the muzzle of the rifle and squeezed the trigger, putting a bullet through Yates’ boot. “Jesus!” the sheriff screamed in shocked disbelief. “You shot me, you son of a bitch!” He hopped backward on his good foot, staring wide-eyed at the black hole in his boot.
“I know,” Tanner replied softly. “If you don’t pick up those keys and unlock that cell, I’m gonna shoot the other foot.” He aimed the rifle at the sheriff’s foot.
“Hold on, dammit!” Yates howled. The shock of Tanner’s first shot had a numbing effect on the wounded man. Now blood began oozing through the hole in his boot, accompanied by a throbbing pain. “Wait a minute!” he pleaded again. “I’m gettin’ ’em.” Unable to maintain his balance on one foot, he dropped to the floor, and crawled over to retrieve the keys. On hands and knees, he moved to the cell door and began to fumble with the lock.
When the door was unlocked, Jeb pushed it open and held it wide. “Come on in, Sheriff,” he gestured grandly.
When Yates balked at entering the jail cell, Tanner administered a heavy boot to his backside, providing the proper motivation. “We ain’t got all night,” he complained. “Come on, Jeb. We’d best get on over the border to Missouri.”
Jeb stepped out of the cell, slammed the door shut, and locked it. Then he tossed the keys through the open door to the office. “They’re right there, whenever you’re ready to get out,” he said. “And you can have the rest of my supper. It’s right there on the floor where you left it. I don’t expect anybody will be comin’ around to bother you tonight. That tick on the bunk could use a little more straw, but I managed to sleep on it.”
Yates grew bolder with confidence that Tanner had no intention of killing him, and his temper began to boil. “You two are gonna be hangin’ from the same tree,” he threatened. “I’ll be outta here in no time, and I’ll be comin’ after you.”
“It’ll be a waste of time, Sheriff,” Tanner informed him. “We’ll be in Missouri before mornin’, and you’ve got no jurisdiction there.”
His anger sufficiently riled at this point, Yates snarled, “You think that’ll stop me? I’ll run you bastards down. You ain’t gettin’ away with this.” Then he started to yell. “Help! Help! Somebody help!”
Tanner said nothing as he solemnly gazed at the wounded lawman. After a moment, he raised his rifle again, and sighting through the bars, shot the sheriff in the other foot. Yates’ yells for help turned at once into howls of pain, and he sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, holding his throbbing feet in his hands.
Outside, Jeb discovered his horse saddled and waiting beside Tanner’s. When Tanner told him that the owner of the stable had saddled the horse himself, Jeb laughed and remarked, “Damn, you’ve been right busy, ain’t you? You sure as hell ruined a good pair of boots back there, though.” He stepped up in the saddle. “I knew there musta been a reason my pa thought John Porter was a good man.” Reining the sorrel’s head around, he said, “If we’re gonna cross the Missouri border before mornin’, we’d best get goin’.”
“What the hell do you wanna go to Missouri for?” Tanner stopped him. “Hell, I wanna see Montana.”
“You said in there—” Jeb began, but broke off. “Oh, you just said that for Yates’ ears, so’s he’ll head in the wrong direction.”
Tanner shrugged, not really convinced. “If he’s dumb enough,” he said.
Jeb threw back his head and chuckled. “He’s dumb enough. I reckon they’ll be callin’ him Ol’ Leadfoot now.” The thought caused him to chuckle once more. “Let’s go to Montana!” Then he pulled his horse up short, as if just remembering something. “There’s one more thing I’ve gotta do before we leave.” With no explanation beyond that, he kicked the sorrel into a gallop, heading for the back of the building, leaving Tanner no choice but to follow.
The two fugitives raced along behind the buildings until Jeb pulled his horse to a sliding stop behind the saloon. Leaping from the saddle, he burst through the kitchen door to totally stun a Chinese cook and a flabbergasted Annie Whatley. Sweeping Annie off her feet, he planted a kiss on her mouth, holding it so long that the poor girl gasped for breath when finally released.
With her feet on the floor again, she staggered back a couple of steps before gaining her balance. “You crazy son of a bitch,” she blurted.
“I know,” Jeb hurriedly replied. “I said I was gonna marry you when I got outta jail, but I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.” As suddenly as he had arrived, he was out the back door again and in the saddle.
As baffled as Annie and the cook, Tanner hesitated a moment when the woman appeared on the back step and shouted at Jeb’s back, “You crazy son of a bitch, I’ve already got a husband!” She looked then at Tanner.
Wasting no time to attempt to explain his friend’s actions, Tanner tipped his hat, said, “Good evenin’ to you, ma’am,” and galloped away after Jeb.
They left Mound City behind, Jeb leading the way. Before striking out toward the northwest, however, Jeb had to make one more stop. After galloping out of town, they doubled back south of the town, where Jeb led them up through hills thick with sugar maples to an abandoned shack nestled close beside a busy stream.
“Home, sweet home,” Jeb announced in answer to Tanner’s puzzled expression when they pulled up before the shack. “This is where my pap and me was livin’ before they shot him.” He quickly dismounted. “I gotta get my things,” he explained.
Tanner dismounted and followed him inside, looking around at the dusky interior of the shack. It struck him as little wonder that Jeb had chosen to ride off to join the army. There was nothing left to suggest that anyone had ever lived there—only a table, a couple of chairs, and a small potbellied stove. While Tanner watched, Jeb rolled up a blanket that had been spread for a bed, grabbed a haversack containing some extra clothes and his razor, then turned to face Tanner.
“One more thing,” he said, “and then we’d best get outta here. If Ol’ Leadfoot gets out, this’ll be the first place he’ll look.” That said, he lifted his foot and kicked the little stove over on its side. Then he immediately removed several stones from the base the stove had rested upon, revealing a heavy canvas sack. He took a quick look inside to make sure of the contents before giving Tanner a wide grin. “I wasn’t about to leave without this,” he said. “This’ll take us to Montana.” He went on to explain how the gold coins happened to be there. “A few years back, my pap rode with a gang that held up a Yankee paymaster’s wagon. This sack of coins was hid under the wagon seat. Pap couldn’t spend it without everybody around here knowing where it came from.” He grinned broadly again. “So I reckon the Union army is payin’ our way to Montana.” Stepping up in the saddle, he cocked his head at Tanner and winked. “I told you back in Virginia I had somethin’ hid back for a grubstake. I bet you thought I was lying.”
“It crossed my mind,” Tanner replied.