Mr. Mackey stayed at the Camp House, but spent a lot of time in Friday’s saloon nursing a glass of sarsaparilla and listening to gossip. He drilled the vigilantes and made them do a lot of target practice until the town boys learned to shoot pretty good. The church folks liked Mr. Mackey on account of he didn’t smoke or drink and went to the Presbyterian Church. He talked to Mr. Birt until he knew pretty much everything that went on in the county.
It was the time of year, when the Indians came back to their hunting camp. Bessie took food and clothing to the women and children just like always. Folks said she was keeping company with Mr. Mackey because he had ridden out to the Indian camp with her a time or two. There was speculation that she had finally found a man.
Late one night, I woke up to hear pebbles bouncing off my window. “Psst, Tom, Tom. It’s me, Billy.”
“Go away, I want to sleep.”
“The marshal and the vigilantes are going to raid Murphy’s hideout. Come on, let’s go.”
I got dressed in a hurry and went out into the frosty night air. The stars were bright and there was a cold old moon hanging in the sky off to the west. Billy was bundled up in his mackinaw coat and carried his .22 rifle.
“We need a horse,” Billy said.
He wanted a horse more than my company. I didn’t mind and wanted to be in on the arrest, and maybe a big shootout. We went out to the barn and saddled the gelding after giving him a few knocks on the head. I got up behind Billy and we rode through the streets to the town square. Mr. Malone and a dozen vigilantes held their horses and listening to Mr. Mackey. Billy and I hung back in the shadows.
“Murphy and his gang have been bothering the Indian women and are holed up in the swamp abut a mile from the Indian camp. Our plan is to surprise them at daylight and take them alive. I don’t want any shooting,” Mr. Mackey said.
Obediah and Zebediah rode up on two wet mules that looked like they had been ridden hard and forded the river. Obediah had a long muzzle-loading squirrel rifle and Zebediah carried a shotgun.
“How’d you know about this?” I asked them.
“Isaiah overheard the Marshall at the Camp House. We gonna help ketch those men and make ‘em pay for what they done,” Obediah said.
The vigilante committee trotted off toward the Indian camp. Billy, me and the two darkies followed but kept out of sight. At the Indian camp, we hung back in the shadows under the trees, but close enough to see the smoky little fire in front of the chief’s tent. Raven in the Sky materialized out of the smoke, like he was a ghost and not a flesh and blood Indian. Mr. Mackey had everyone the horses and said we should follow the chief. Raven in the Sky pointed down a path leading to the big swamp. We sneaked along until we were just behind Mr. Mackey and the Indian. We walked for near an hour, sometimes in water over our knees until Raven-in-the Sky stopped and sniffed the air. There was a whiff of stale tobacco, sweat and grease, kind of like a saloon. The Indian changed direction and set off through the briars and trees where the walking was even harder. The men made a lot of noise crashing through the brush, even though Mr. Mackey tried to make them stay quiet. The Indian stopped on a spit of higher land near the river a little ways from a rundown log cabin surrounded by vines and dense brush. There was smoke from the chimney, but the cabin was quiet and dark.
When the men got in position Mr. Mackey pounded on the door. “I am a U.S. marshal. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”
Nothin’ happened for about a minute. “You gotta come in and get us,” a voice hollered. “Come out now and we won’t hurt you,” Mr. Mackey said.
“Go to hell.”
Gunfire came from the front door and muzzles flashed from holes in the chinks between logs. Bullets crashed in the brush and buckshot pattered on the ground but no one got hurt. The vigilantes scrambled behind trees and fired back. Billy and me flopped on the ground, with our heads down. Zebediah and Obediah were out in plain sight, but it was so dark you could hardly see their faces.
“Ain’t do no good to shoot, less’n you see something to shoot at,” Zebediah said. After a while the firing died down. “You got another chance to come on out,” Mr. Mackey yelled.
There were more shots from the cabin. “Come on and git us, you damn yellabellies.”
“I got an idea,” Billy whispered. He gave me the .22 rifle, sneaked up behind the stone chimney and stood on Obediah’s shoulders. He climbed, like a cat to the top and put his coat over the top of the chimney. Before long, the men inside coughed and cussed more.
“We give up, don’t shoot.”
The first man out the door was barefoot in long underwear. Four more came out with their hands in the air. The vigilantes lost no time in roping the prisoners together. Mr. Mackey told his men to keep their guns ready, but they were already drinking and bragging, like they had done something dangerous and noble.
The marshal lit a lantern and went inside the cabin all by himself. Billy was still up on the chimney. “One slipped out the back,” he yelled.
Mr. Mackey was blinded by the lantern and the others milled around, like they were plumb befuddled. The escaped man ran down a path towards the river, weaving in and out between the trees and clumps of brush as nimble as a deer. We ran and stumbled and kept getting tangled in vines. He stopped at the river’s edge and fired four or five shots real fast. I figured, then, it had to be Murphy.
We got behind a tree, but bullets zinged pretty close. Zebediah stepped out in the open and cut loose with his shotgun. Buckshot scattered on the water. Murphy stopped firing, stooped down and pushed off in a skiff.
He rowed fast and could escape if he crossed to the other side.
Obediah let out a strangled cry. I ain’t going to let him get away. The son of a bitch killed my brother.”
He raised the squirrel rifle and powder flask over his head and ran, jumping and splashing down the river, creating waves like a steamboat, even when the water got thigh and then waist deep. He ran, until he had to swim, one handed, with the gun and powder held high in his other hand. Obediah was near six feet tall and powerful. The bright early morning sun sparkled on the river like diamonds and the splashing water made a big rainbow around Obediah. It was like he was in a halo of water as he went splashing and jumping down the river. His legs were going up and down so fast, it looked like he was runnin’ on top of the water.
Billy came down the path hollering and running, then went out until he was knee deep, chasing as hard as he could go. Obediah was ahead of us but still behind the skiff, that was fast getting away downriver. My heart was pounding. Everything in me wanted to catch Murphy and put an end to the worry and dread that he would kill me. Billy and I were about wore out. Murphy was almost a quarter mile ahead with Obediah a hundred yards behind the skiff. He was losing ground, until it was just like the hand of God reached down and put a sandbar in the river. One second Murphy was rowing, kicking up a wake and moving fast and then the skiff stopped dead in the water. Murphy pushed with the oar, but the skiff was stuck hard.
Obediah was waist deep, not swimming, but running again, like he was taking giant steps on top of the water and throwing great sparkling splashes. Murphy jumped out of the skiff and ran across the sandbar to the far shore, but Obediah gained a good twenty yards. When he was still a long rifle shot away, Obediah stopped running, sighted along the squirrel rifle and pulled back the hammer. That gun had a hair trigger that took only the slightest touch to set it off. Obediah moved the barrel, following Murphy with the bead sight until Murphy got to the shore. Murphy stopped and sighted his Henry rifle at the Negro. With fifteen shots, Murphy had an advantage, but the Henry wasn’t that accurate at long range. The old squirrel rifle was good out to two hundred yards.
Both of them, the black man and the renegade white raised their guns and took aim. The two shots and two puffs of smoke came right together. Murphy doubled over, fell at the water’s edge, then got half way up and crawled into the brush. Obediah went off running and splashing, holding the empty gun and the powder flask high over his head.
“No, no, don’t kill him,” I yelled. I ran into the river, went under, took in a stomach full of river water and then swam to the other side. When I got there, Obediah sat on top of Murphy, twisting the thong tied to Young Isaiah’s gold tooth. The thong dug into Murphy’s neck like a hanging noose. “White man die, now die, now,” Obediah sobbed.
“No, don’t kill him. Leave him for the marshal and the law,” I said.
Obediah made a terrific jerk on the thong, pulled the tooth free, held it in both hands high over Murphy. He let out a long piercing, hair raising scream that ended with a drawn out sob. Then, Obediah rolled over in the mud and cried like his heart was broke.
“I done shot a white man, dey gonna hang me for sure,” he said.
Murphy was gasped and grabbed at his neck, then held his stomach.
“Kill me now, for God’s sake, I can’t stand the pain,” he sobbed. He clawed the ground like a dying animal and tore at his bloody shirt.
“Shut up, damn you. Hold still so I can see where you got shot,” I said.
The ball went in just above his belly button. “You are gut-shot,” I said.
Obediah’s eyes weren’t focused and his shoulders jerked when I shook him hard. “Get the skiff.”
Murphy hollered and clutched his belly while we rowed back across the river to Mr. Mackey and the vigilantes. Nobody had any sympathy. Mr. Mackey’s men carried him on a stretcher made out of poles and coats to a wagon at the Indian camp.