CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MATT GAVE LIPPY a few dollars.
Oh, not at first. First, he had Lippy describe the man called Pardee, and then he forked over the money. The description matched the man Matt had seen at the Fairview bank robbery all those years before, but somewhat older.
“And where were they goin’?” Reeves asked.
“They was all goin’ to a place called Copper River.”
Reeves looked at Matt. “That’s a small town in East Texas that outlaws use,” the black marshal said.
“Only I gotta tell ya one more thing,” Lippy said.
“What’s that?” Matt asked.
“That feller Pardee? He may not be goin’ there with ’em.”
“Why not?”
“He was talkin’ to another man, sayin’ he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay with Pale Blue’s bunch.”
“What’d this other man look like?” Matt asked.
Lippy gave Matt a description that fit the third man from the bank robbery.
“Did you hear a name for him?” Matt asked.
“I just heard somebody call him Ed.”
That confirmed for Matt that he was talking about the third man, Ed Corbin.
He gave Lippy another dollar.
“Thanks, Marshal,” Lippy gushed, and ran back into the saloon.
“You didn’t believe all that about a horse, did ya?” Reeves asked. “He’s gonna spend it on whiskey.”
“I don’t care,” Matt said. “He got Pardee’s description right and that other name? Ed? I remember it from the bank that day. Ed’s the other fella that shot me.”
“So whataya wanna do?” Reeves asked.
“Me, I want to go to Copper River,” Matt said. “I don’t expect you to come with me, Bass. We’d have to cross over into Texas—”
“Not that far in,” Reeves said. “It’s right on the border. If Pale Blue’s anywhere near there, it’s worth it to me.”
“But if Pale Blue and his bunch are in Texas, and not in Indian Territory, wouldn’t the judge be satisfied with that? You could tell him you drove him out.”
“And that’s what I’ll tell him if the trail goes cold in Copper River,” Reeves said. “But we ain’t gonna know that till we get there, and we ain’t gonna get there if we stand here jawin’ all day.”
So they rode. . . .
IT TOOK SEVERAL days before they crossed the border into East Texas and made camp a couple of miles outside of Copper River.
As they ate their beans and washed them down with coffee, Matt asked Reeves, “Have you ever been to Copper River before?”
“No,” the black deputy said, “I’ve only heard stories about it being an outlaw stronghold.”
“So how do you think they’ll react to having two marshals ride in?”
“They’ll either gun us down before we dismount,” Reeves said, “or they won’t want to kill two marshals, only to have twenty more show up in retaliation.”
“Interesting,” Matt said. “I vote for the second.”
“You think that’s the way to play it?”
“I just meant I vote against getting gunned down in the street before we even dismount,” Matt said with a grin.
“Well, that gets my vote, too,” Reeves said, shaking his head, “but how do we wanna play this? We could also take off our badges and ride in undercover.”
“We’re not Pinkertons, Bass. We’re deputy marshals,” Matt pointed out.
“So you say ride in and be bold,” Reeves said.
“That sounds like you, doesn’t it?” Matt asked.
“It does,” Reeves said. “What about you? Are you feelin’ up to that?”
“I’m feeling better than I have in years,” Matt said. “I’m going to have the chance to keep my promise to my wife. I’ll take any chance to get that done.”
“Okay, then,” Reeves said. “In the morning we ride in bold as brass, and whatever happens”—he shrugged—“happens.”
“Agreed.”
Matt took the first watch and poured himself some more coffee while Reeves wrapped himself in his blanket and bedroll.
Matt wouldn’t have asked Bass Reeves to risk his life this way, but Reeves was after Pale Blue, so the situation could benefit both of them.
IN THE MORNING they had a quick breakfast of bacon and coffee and got on the trail. The first signpost they came to read COPPER RIVER ONE MILE in black print and, beneath that in red, STAY AWAY!
“Do they really think that’s gonna put folks off more than make them curious?” Bass Reeves asked.
“Who knows?” Matt said. “Right now the sign doesn’t matter one way or the other.”
They rode on. . . .
COPPER RIVER WAS a small group of buildings, many of them boarded up, but obviously operational were a hotel, a saloon, a trading post, and—surprisingly—a church. Another building they passed had a second-floor balcony, and on it were several scantily clad women who simply watched Matt and Reeves ride by.
“They look too tired to wave,” Reeves commented.
“Or they can see our badges,” Matt said.
“Good point.”
The street was empty, and the whores seemed to be the only people who were outside.
They reined in their horses in front of a saloon that had a sign over the door: SALOON. They dismounted and looked around. They checked rooftops, windows, and doorways, but they did not see any rifle barrels pointing at them.
“Are you sure about this town?” Matt asked. “I thought they’d have some shooters on lookout.”
“I told you, I’ve only heard about this place,” Reeves said. “I’ve never been here. Maybe things have changed.”
“I hope we didn’t come here for nothing.”
“Let’s go inside and find out,” Reeves suggested.
They mounted the boardwalk and entered the saloon. It had had batwing doors at some point, but they were long gone. Inside, they found much of the same things they had found in the Territory Saloon in Elk City. There were a diminutive bartender and a few customers in a dark, small interior. No girls, no gambling.
When they went to the bar, the bartender’s eyes went straight to their badges. “You fellas must be crazy,” he said.
“Is the beer that bad?” Reeves asked.
The bartender leaned in and lowered his voice. “Do you know where you are?” he asked.
“We’ve got a pretty good idea,” Matt said.
They became aware of one of the customers heading out the door in a hurry.
“He’s puttin’ out the word you’re here,” the bartender said. “There’s gonna be a dozen guns here in five minutes.”
“That oughta give us time to have a beer,” Reeves said.
“It’s your funeral, friend.” The barkeep straightened up, drew them two beers, and set them down.
Matt and Reeves picked up their beers, turned their backs to the bar, and looked around. There were three men there staring at them. If they were interested in making a move, they were waiting for help to arrive. The marshals turned back to the bartender.
“Pale Blue,” Reeves said.
“Who?”
“Come on!” Reeves snapped. “Everybody knows who he is.”
“The Cherokee,” the bartender said.
“Yeah.”
“What about him?”
“When was the last time he was here?” Reeves asked, rather than “if” he’d ever been there.
“What makes you think he’s been here?”
“Because he’s an outlaw,” Matt said, “and this is Copper River.”
“This used to be Copper River.”
“What’s it called now?” Reeves asked.
“It don’t have no name now,” the bartender said. “We’re just a mud puddle in the road.”
“Well, as far as we’re concerned, it’s still Copper River,” Reeves said. “Now, answer my question, or I’m gonna burn this place to the ground.”
“You wouldn’t,” the man said.
Reeves took a lucifer out of his pocket. “Pale Blue,” he said. “Who’s gonna miss this place if it’s just a mud puddle?”
Chairs scraped along the floor as the other three men in the place stood up. Matt looked over at them, putting his hand on the butt of the gun in his belt. At that point more men poured through the front entrance, and by the time they stopped, there were ten in all, staring at the two marshals standing at the bar.
“Let’s just all take it easy,” Matt said. “Gunning down two marshals is only going to bring you more trouble, and we’re not here for any of you.”
Reeves kept his eyes on the bartender, leaving the other ten men to Matt. He held his thumb to the lucifer.
“Pale Blue,” he said.
“He was here last month,” the bartender said. “Stayed a couple of weeks, then left.”
“What’d he do while he was here?”
“He spent time in here, at the hotel, and in the whorehouse,” the bartender said. “When he was in here, he didn’t talk, only drank.”
“With who?”
“He always sat alone at that back table,” the man said, pointing.
“And who rode in with him?” Matt asked, without taking his eyes off the other ten men.
The bartender shrugged and said, “A bunch of men.”
“Names,” Reeves said.
“I didn’t hear—I heard one fella called Abbott. Another called . . . I think it was Harmon. . . . Well, and then there was Ed.”
Now Matt looked at the bartender. “Did you hear the name Pardee?” he asked. “Jason Pardee?”
“Pardee,” the bartender repeated. “Yeah, I mighta . . .”
“Was he here?”
“No,” the man said, “but they was talkin’ about him. . . .”
Matt turned to face the man, so Reeves turned to watch the others, but still kept the match at the ready. His other hand was on the butt of his pistol.
“What’d they say about him?”
“I think that feller Ed said Pardee went off on his own, but he didn’t wanna go with him. . . . Yeah, that was it. They were ridin’ together but split up.”
“Where’d Pardee go?” Matt asked anxiously.
“I dunno,” the bartender said. “I didn’t hear that. Uh, can you get him to put that match down? This place’d go up like a tinderbox.”
“You can’t tell us where Pale Blue or Pardee went?” Reeves asked.
“I would if I could, Deputy,” the man said. “Believe me.”
Reeves looked at Matt, who nodded, and Reeves lowered the match.
“Of course,” the bartender said, “you could ask Ed.”
“What?” Matt asked. “He’s still here?”
“Probably at the whorehouse,” the bartender said. “He splits his time between here and there.”