“Mornin’, Jim,” Sheriff Grayson Taylor greeted his deputy. “Any trouble with the prisoners?” The sheriff hung his hat on a peg behind the desk, and slipped out of his coat. “It’s gettin’ a mite chilly these last few mornings. Winter’s gonna be here before you know it.” He stepped over by the stove to warm his hands.
“I expect you’re right,” the deputy replied. “We’re gonna need to bust up some more firewood, too.” He poured a cup of coffee from the gray metal pot sitting on top of the stove, and handed it to the sheriff. “No trouble from them two,” he answered Taylor’s question. “They’ve been pretty much quiet all night.”
Taylor nodded and took a tentative sip of the steaming hot coffee. “Damn, that pot’s been settin’ for a while. It’s stronger’n mule piss.”
Jim laughed. “I made it about five o’clock. I reckon it has got a little stronger since then. I guess I’d better make another pot, so we can feed our prisoners some breakfast. It wouldn’t do for word to get out that our prisoners don’t get fresh coffee with their breakfast.”
“I’ll check to see if I’ve got any paper on them two before I go see Judge Harris. You can stop by Farmer’s and tell ’em to send over two plates of food.” He thought twice about it, then said, “Make it three plates. I ain’t had that much to eat myself.” He took his coffee back to his desk and sat down. Taking another sip of the hot liquid, he made a face and cursed, “Damn, that’s rank.” Setting the cup aside, he pulled a drawer open and took out a stack of Wanted bulletins, and started shuffling through them. Selecting a few that he wanted to look at more closely, he got up and climbed the stairs to the upper floor where the cells were located.
“Well, I hope you boys are enjoying our hospitality,” Sheriff Taylor mocked, stepping up close to the bars. “You be sure and let us know if everything ain’t comfy.” His sarcasm was met with silence, which seemed to amuse him. “Now, lemme see,” he went on. “Which one of you is Smith, and which one is Shannon?” There was still no response from the prisoners. “Just one name for both of you—you boys musta come from poor families—couldn’t afford first and last names. Well, don’t matter much. Them three fellers you killed didn’t have no names neither.”
He shuffled through his handful of papers, stopping to study one in particular. Then he nodded his head toward Ike. “I’m gonna call you Ike Brister. This drawing sure looks like you, with that face full of whiskers and that bald dome.” He paused to read the bulletin. “This one’s over a year old. Fits you to a tee, though. Puts you at about the right age, too.” He shook his head in mock celebration. “Damn, this is the first time I’ve ever caught somebody that was on one of these papers. All right, so we got us a Mr. Ike Brister.”
He turned his attention to Matt then. “Now, you . . . I ain’t quite sure. I don’t see nothin’ that fits you.” He looked up from the paper and smiled. “Suppose I just oughta turn you loose?” He frowned and turned his chin toward the ceiling as if concentrating hard. “Nah, I reckon not.” Then, having amused himself sufficiently, he turned deadly serious. “You see, young feller, I don’t stand for nobody coming into my town and shootin’ three men down. I don’t care what they did, murderers or whatnot. I’m the law in this town, and to me, you ain’t no better’n them you killed. I expect we’ll have a hangin’ after Judge Harris rules on you.”
“I’m goin’ now, Sheriff,” the deputy called from the downstairs.
“All right, Jim,” Taylor called back. “Tell Farmer to put extra potatoes on one of them plates.” Aiming his question at Matt then, he continued. “All right, Mr. Shannon, there’s one thing we ain’t settled yet. One of them dead men had a couple of arrows in his back. I know an Injun came into the saloon with you. The bartender told me he made him stand by the door. But when me and my deputies came in, I didn’t see no Injun. It might go easier on you with the judge if you was to tell me where I can find that Injun.”
Matt shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He and Ike had exhausted themselves the night before trying to convince the sheriff that he was letting two murderers escape. They had explained why they had followed Brance Burkett and his men to Springfield, but Taylor was not sympathetic to the degree that he would let them go. Vigilantes were not tolerated in Springfield, Taylor had explained, and they would be tried before a judge like any other bushwhackers.
“If he’s got any notion of springin’ you boys, he’s a dead Injun,” the sheriff said. “Might as well tell me where he’s hidin’.”
“I expect he’s probably halfway back to Indian Territory by now,” Matt replied.
Taylor gazed steadily into Matt’s eyes for a long moment, trying to decide if it was worth questioning him further. “We didn’t find no horses. You boys didn’t walk over here from Oklahoma Territory, did you? I reckon your Injun friend took off with your horses while you set here in jail.”
Matt shrugged again. “Well, he’s an Injun, ain’t he?”
“Suit yourself,” Taylor sighed, and turned to leave. “You boys shoulda stayed in Oklahoma Territory.” He called back over his shoulder as he started down the steps, “I’ll have you some breakfast in a minute or two.”
Matt waited until the sheriff had left the cell block, then he asked softly, “What do you expect happened to Crooked Foot?”
“Most likely gone to the hills,” Ike said with some confidence. “I’m glad he had sense enough to get the horses outta town. Right now, I expect he’s tryin’ to figure out what the hell he’s gonna do.” He walked over to the window and tested the bars. “I know one thing, we’ve gotta get the hell outta here. Them two bastards is layin’ out prairie behind ’em, and we can’t afford to let ’em get too much lead on us.” He tugged at the steel bars. “And these bars are too stout to pull out, even with a horse.” The chances of escape looked pretty slim.
* * *
Evening shadows lengthened as nightfall approached. It had been a long, exasperating day for the two prisoners upstairs over the sheriff’s office. Taylor or one of his deputies had looked in on them from time to time during the day. And the sheriff stopped by one last time before going home for the night, bringing the news that their trial was already scheduled for the following week. “The town council don’t wanna go the expense of feedin’ you boys for long,” he said. “We’ll get her done, so you boys won’t have to wait for your hangin’.”
“Much obliged,” Matt replied facetiously, causing Taylor to chuckle as he descended the stairs.
The cells were soon drowned in darkness, the only light a faint glimmer of moonlight through the window. The prisoners sat on their wooden bunks, deep in their personal thoughts, feeling no need for meaningless conversation. Matt considered the possibility of an early death by hanging. He didn’t fear death, never had, but he did regret never having made it to the Rocky Mountains and the high meadows. He wasted no thoughts on the unfairness of his pending death. He had killed, more than once—some he had felt guilty about, but that was during the war. Maybe he really was an outlaw, for he had taken it upon himself to punish those who had committed murder. He was about to dismiss the subject from his mind when he heard a faint sound. “What?” he said, thinking Ike had whispered something.
Ike didn’t answer, but got up from his bunk and went to the window. “It’s Crooked Foot,” he whispered.
Matt joined Ike at the window. Down behind the building, in the deep shadows, he could just barely make out the form of the Cherokee boy Crooked Foot took a long look at the back of the solidly built building. Then he went to the corner, and took hold of the overlapping siding, testing it to see if he could climb it. He managed to pull himself up about six feet before losing his grip and sliding back to the ground. Determined to climb up to the window, he tried several more times, each try meeting with the same result as before.
“Ain’t no use,” Ike whispered. “You ain’t gonna climb that wall—wouldn’t do you much good if you could. They built these damn bars to stay put.”
Stymied for the moment, but still determined, Crooked Foot studied the back wall of the jail for a few moments more before deciding to retreat. “I’ll be back later,” he promised.
“You’d best watch yourself—they’re lookin’ for you,” Ike cautioned. “We ain’t aimin’ to set around here and let ’em hang us. One of ’em will make a mistake sometime, and we’ll get our chance.” He glanced over at Matt. Both men realized that the chances were pretty slim. He whispered down to Crooked Foot again. “It ain’t healthy for you to hang around here. Somebody’s liable to spot you, and then we’ll all be settin’ in this jail. Me and Matt’ll think of somethin’. Take the horses up that little crick we crossed over south of town. Find you a spot back up that ridge somewhere. If we don’t show up in two days, you hightail it on back home.”
Crooked Foot stood silent in the shadows below for several long seconds, considering Ike’s instructions. Making up his mind then, he said, “I’ll be back.” Then he turned and disappeared into the night.
“I’m afraid that boy is gonna wind up gettin’ hisself shot,” Ike said as he sat down on his bunk again.
* * *
Jim Tarpley got up from the desk, and replaced the whiskey bottle behind the file cabinet in the corner where Sheriff Taylor kept it hidden. As a matter of habit, he checked the front door to make sure it was locked. Then he picked up a lantern and walked up the stairs to make a final check on the prisoners before he turned in for the night.
In their bunks, neither man bothered to sit up when the light of the lantern played across the steel bars of the cell. “Looks like you boys is all set for the night,” Jim remarked. “Keep it real quiet, and I’ll see you get a good breakfast in the mornin’.” His remarks were met with silence. Satisfied that all was well on the second floor, Jim went back down to settle in for the night.
* * *
Something seemed to be hammering away at the deputy’s head, and he awoke with a start. Confused at first, he was not certain if he was still dreaming or not. The room was totally dark, and the hammering began again. He now realized that the noise he heard was someone pounding on the door. His mind cloudy and sleepy, aided in great measure by the generous toddy he had sneaked from the sheriff’s whiskey bottle, he reached for the lantern on the desk. The pounding continued as he fumbled for a match. Once he had some light, he looked at the clock on the wall, thinking he must have overslept.
“What the hell?” he mumbled when he realized that it was only two o’clock in the morning. “Who the hell . . .” he started, then yelled, “All right! Dammit, wait a minute.” He pulled his pants on over his long johns, grumbling to himself, “Some damn drunk lookin’ to sleep it off.”
“Who is it?” The deputy called out at the door, but there was no reply on the other side, only the incessant knocking that was by this time echoing in his skull. He threw the bolt, and opened the door just enough to peer through. He was immediately startled to discover the young Cherokee boy standing there. He did not see the Springfield rifle propped against the wall beside the door.
“You been looking for me?” Crooked Foot asked.
“What?” Jim stammered, his mind still foggy with sleep. It took a few seconds to register that he was gaping at the Indian boy who was responsible for the arrows in one of the dead men. When it finally hit him, he opened the door, and blurted, “I sure am. You done the right thing, givin’ yourself up.”
Crooked Foot stepped inside, grasping the rifle as he did. Jim stepped back to permit the boy entry, only to find himself staring into the barrel of the Springfield. “Damn!” he exclaimed, and took another step backward, “Easy, boy, take it easy with that damn thing!”
“Get the keys,” Crooked Foot ordered.
“Boy, you’re in enough trouble already. The best thing for you is to give me that rifle, and maybe the judge will be easy on you, seein’ as how you’re so young and all.” He held out his hand for the rifle.
Crooked Foot raised the rifle, aiming it at the deputy’s head. “Get the keys,” he repeated.
“All right, all right,” Jim replied at once. “Just take it easy with that rifle.” He wasted no more words on an obviously useless endeavor. The boy had not hesitated to put two arrows in one man’s back. There was no reason to believe he would hesitate to pull the trigger. “I’ll get the keys,” he said, and went to the desk. He was about to pull the desk drawer open when Crooked Foot stopped him.
“No!” The Indian boy commanded, and with the rifle, gestured toward a ring with two large keys, hanging on a nail near the stairs.
“All right!” Jim exclaimed. “I’m goin’. I forgot they was hangin’ on that nail.”
He moved away from the desk at once. Crooked Foot followed him around the desk, stopping to open the drawer. As he had suspected, inside lay one of Mr. Colt’s fine Navy revolvers. Crooked Foot withdrew the pistol and stuck it in his belt. “Light,” he commanded, pointing toward the lantern.
Upstairs in the cell, both men were awake, having heard the noises from below. Half expecting a midnight lynch mob, they stood watching the stairs as the light from the lantern ascended toward them, casting shadows through the bars. In a moment, the head and shoulders of the deputy appeared at the turn of the stairs. He was carrying the lantern, and as he came on up the steps, another figure followed behind him. “Crooked Foot,” Ike and Matt uttered the name almost simultaneously.
No one had to tell the deputy what to do. He dutifully unlocked the cell door and stepped aside while the prisoners filed past him. Fear for his life compelled him to stare wide-eyed at the Springfield rifle still pointing at his head. These were desperate men, who had wantonly gunned down three victims in the saloon before dozens of witnesses. What would one more corpse mean to men like these?
Seeing the fear in the deputy’s eyes, Matt spoke. “We’re not cold-blooded murderers. The only reason we came to Springfield was to rid the world of five men who were murderers. Sometimes things don’t turn out to suit everybody, so step inside the cell. We’ll leave the key downstairs, so the sheriff can let you out in the mornin’. You might as well go on back to sleep. It’ll be a while yet before sunrise.”
Emboldened by the prisoners’ apparent lack of evil intent, Jim was encouraged to remark. “You boys might wanna think about what you’re doin’. Breakin’ outta here only makes it look worse for you, and you know there’ll be a posse comin’ after you at first light. This time, they most likely won’t bother bringin’ you back here. They’ll probably just hang you on the spot.” He paused a moment to complain. “Does that crazy Injun have to keep that rifle pointed at my head? I didn’t give you no trouble.” At this point, he feared the boy might accidentally pull the trigger, and he could imagine what the .58-caliber bullet would do to his head.
Ike couldn’t help but smile, looking at the stoic countenance of the Cherokee boy. “We got no reason to shoot you.”
“Maybe I shoot him anyway,” Crooked Foot growled, threatening, the rifle still aimed at Jim’s forehead. And before anyone could stop him, he pulled the trigger. The deputy’s face froze in horror as the firing pin clicked sharply on the empty chamber. A smile crept slowly across the Cherokee boy’s lips.
Matt shook his head, amazed by Crooked Foot’s brazen bluff with the late Wesley Tyler’s Springfield rifle. “There’s cartridges for it in my saddlebags,” he said.
“Damn!” Jim swore, already certain that he would make no mention of the absence of a cartridge when the sheriff arrived to release him in the morning.
“Let’s go, boys,” Ike said, winking at Matt. “It’s a long piece back home to Oklahoma Territory.”
With no desire to waste more time, the three went down to the office, where they recovered their weapons from a cabinet behind the sheriff’s desk. While Matt looked his Henry rifle over to make sure it was still all right, Crooked Foot asked Ike, “We go back?”
“Nah,” Ike said. “We got two more weasels to run aground, and I’m hopin’ maybe that posse will take off in the opposite direction.”
With weapons secured, the two escapees left the jail, and followed Crooked Foot to a grove of trees where the horses waited. In the darkness of early morning, they galloped out of Springfield, taking the west fork toward Kansas City.