Kosoma, Indian Territory, May 1888
Three pair of boots burst through the gallows, toes aimed straight to the ground. The simultaneous snap of necks echoed on the wind like someone had stepped on a thick collection of brittle tree branches. In a quick last breath and the final blink of the eye, three Darby brothers swung from the gallows, two of them wet from the waist down, one staring sideways in a state of shock like he never thought he was going to die. Embarrassment and pride belonged to another world. This one was cold and harsh, awash in black-and-white judgment, law and order, and relief from the violence of angry men—if only for a moment.
Nothing moved beyond the lifeless bodies, not even a crow. Two of the shiny black birds stood atop the pitch of a nearby roof staring down at the crowd, hankering for something to steal. A few clouds lingered overhead, white, puffy, pausing to see if the truth of the human drama would finally be revealed. A baby started to cry in the distance. The piercing, uncomfortable sound of discomfort and need was quickly hushed. The townsfolk who had stood witness to the hanging needed a little time to digest the end of one life and the start of another. Madness and rage had been silenced. Peace and prosperity were at hand in Kosoma—if only for a moment. The baby wailed again, then was shushed by a solid, embarrassed hand clamping over the suckling mouth. New life could never be silenced for long, even in the shade of death, deserved or otherwise.
Murmurs started to grow in unison like an amen at the end of a long prayer. The entire town stood still, too nervous to leave, eyes shaded, directed toward the three dead Darby men, making sure the twitching and struggling was finally done and over with before they felt free to move, to breathe, to say a silent thank-you to the judge who had passed the execution order on the deserving gang of three. Regardless of what they saw, the crowd found it hard to believe that the Darby brothers, Cleatus, Horace, and Rascal—evil bullies, overbearing toughs, and unpredictable gunmen—were really dead, no longer a bother, no longer a threat to their daily comforts. The Darbys’ terror had reigned for too many years to count. No one in Kosoma ever thought this day would truly come.
“Looks like my job here is done, Trusty,” Eastern District of Arkansas Judge Gordon Hadesworth said. The judge held jurisdiction in Indian Territory along with Isaac Parker in the Western District. Hadesworth was a stately-looking gentleman with a well-trimmed goatee, bleached white by age, and wore a fancy dark blue suit that, like all of his suits, had been shipped to him directly from New York City by the tailors of his favor, Brooks Brothers. A lifetime spent poring over law books had left the elderly man stiff, arthritic, and hunched over; straight and upright he would have been as tall as an October cornstalk. A walking cane, carved from oak with a highly polished brass lion’s head that served as the handle, helped keep the judge vertical and moving forward. The educated man’s icy gray eyes stared forward at the gallows and bore no concern for the dead; their souls and their legacy were no longer his worry. The law had executed its judgment and it had been carried out to the fullest extent. Some scoundrels deserved to die because of the foul deeds they had committed. Judge Hadesworth made it clear to anyone within earshot that he was not in the salvation business.
“I suppose you’ll be wantin’ a bite of dinner before we start out toward Muskogee?” Deputy U.S. Marshal Sam Dawson—often referred to as “Trusty,” by judges and outlaws alike—said.
Trusty didn’t much care for the moniker folks called him by, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He couldn’t argue against the reputation that he was reliable and trustworthy. Those were born traits, along with good eyesight when it came to pulling a trigger, and had got him out of more jams and scrapes than he cared to admit. Besides, he’d been called worse things than Trusty by men far more powerful than Judge Hadesworth. There were worse things that he’d had to force himself to live with.
Trusty stood stiff next to the judge, a good three inches taller and straighter in physical form than the jurist. The extra height gave Trusty the advantage of wide sight, allowing him to survey a crowd for any apparent or rising threat. The Darbys had their fair share of supporters in Kosoma. A gang like them had deep roots in the town and in Indian Territory, even though the majority of townsfolk looked to be relieved by their deaths.
The Darbys’ demise had been a long time coming. The blood and carnage they’d left behind in their wake was the stuff made of fireside stories, some true, some not, but real enough and valid enough to give Trusty reason to be suspicious of every man who itched the back of his neck or reached inside of his coat for a toothpick. The last straw had come when the three brothers had killed a beloved storekeeper in cold blood on a sunny day, in the middle of the town square—with no regard to the law or the man’s right to live peacefully. No one claimed to know what had started the ill-fated confrontation, but even the most silent of citizens spoke up and demanded that something finally be done about the Darbys’ lack of respect for life once and for all. Judge Hadesworth’s appearance was called for a day later after a reluctant sheriff overpowered the trio and locked them up. The wounds were still raw, but Trusty hoped that the dangle of toes would put an end to the Darby troubles in Kosoma once and for all.
“Between you and me, Trusty, I’d just as soon get out of this stinking town as quick as possible,” the judge said, lowering his voice so no one could hear, or take offense, to his comment.
Trusty nodded in agreement. The spring day was cool, and he wore a long coat over his utilitarian canvas pants and blue cotton shirt, concealing an 1880 Colt Single-Action, outfitted with custom-carved ivory handle grips that had come as a gift from his captain when he’d separated from the U.S. Army. His military days were well behind him, but he still wore the dark blue felt Cavalry Stetson, only without the customary ropes, braids, and accoutrements that came from being active-duty army. Trusty had missed out on the War Between the States, being a child when that war had been waged. A Winchester ’73 was loosely strapped to his left side, also hidden by the coat but always close to his touch. He was confident that the two weapons, along with his skills with them, could get him and the judge out of any trouble that might show itself.
“Suits me,” he said to Judge Hadesworth. “Let’s wait until the crowd starts moving out before we head to the hotel to get your things.”
“If I never have to come back to Kosoma again it will be too soon,” the judge said. “But something tells me that I will have to return sooner rather than later. It takes weeks to rid myself of the smell.”
Kosoma meant “place of stinking water” in the Choctaw language. There was a myriad of bubbling, steaming springs fingering off the Kiamichi River, and they were all thick with putrid sulfur. Not even the smell of opportunity provided by the railroad, one of the first to get a land grant through Indian Territory more than ten years prior, could vanquish the residue of the springs from the senses or threads of the cleanest man’s clothes. The St. Louis–San Francisco Railroad, referred to as the “Frisco,” had built a rail line, completed in 1887, running from the north to the south, straight through the Choctaw Nation, connecting Fort Smith with Paris, Texas. Kosoma was perfectly located to capitalize on the rail line, smell or no smell, or the fact that it sat in the middle of Choctaw land. The future had been arriving every day with trainloads of Easterners, opportunity hunters, thieves, and speculators all hedging for a spot at the opening of Indian Territory land a year off, now that the Springer Amendment had passed through Congress. New ideas, the promise of change, and redskin conflict hung in the air alongside the pungent air. Most folks who had lived in Kosoma for any length of time were opposed to any kind of change—with the exception of exterminating toughs like the Darby brothers.
Trusty figured he hadn’t been in town long enough to reach the point of immunity to the smell by any of his senses and had no intention of staying any longer than necessary. He was relieved to hear that the judge wanted to leave town immediately. “Not one of the nicer places I’ve ever been either.”
The judge smiled, waiting for Trusty to lead him out of the crowd. “Not from the stories I’ve heard tell. There’s a line of whorehouses and saloons from San Antonio to Abilene that tell of your exploits.”
They had stood far enough from the gallows to make a quick escape if the need arose, but there was still a gathering of people milling about around them. More in front than behind. Main Street and arranged safety were just around the corner in an empty bank vault. Trusty didn’t like that plan, but he was pretty certain that any threat would come from up close, or the rooftops overlooking the execution square. For now, everything was clear, but that didn’t stop him from scanning the crowd like a scout expecting to find an ambush. His army training was never far away.
“You’d think a judge would be immune to embellishments and hearsay,” Trusty said.
“We like rumor and gossip as much as any other man. Besides, you’ve a reputation to uphold. I am only endorsing your résumé and contributing to the myth that you are in the process of building, as well as living vicariously through your exploits. I am a bit jealous.” The judge nudged Trusty with his elbow, then offered a smile to prove he was serious.
Trusty’s face flushed red. There was no question that he had always liked the company of women and had a taste for good whiskey, but there was more to his past adventures than the judge knew or that Trusty wanted to share. He had only loved one woman in all of his life, and that ill-fated love had left him broken and bothered, in need of a salve that could never heal the wound—if he ever found it. He avoided touching that hurt, or thinking about that lost love, as much as possible. “Ain’t nothin’ but tales about me anyways, Judge. The past is the past. I’ve become a reformed man.”
“You mean you’ve found Jesus?”
“Not in any of the places I’ve been lately. ’Course I ain’t been lookin’ much for Him neither. I was still an energetic boy after I left the army, before I took up the law as my calling. Besides, a woman tends to complicate a man’s life, at least this man’s life. I’ve always got some place to go, a judge to protect, a scoundrel to round up; you know, chasin’ trouble is what I like to do best. It’s been my experience that a fine woman likes to settle, live in a nice house, tie a man down, and extend roots into hard ground. I like to ride, see the country, have an adventure or two, while I still can. I’m not the marrying kind, Judge, simple as that.” Trusty tapped the Deputy U.S. Marshal’s badge on his chest with his stubby trigger finger and smiled. “This is all of the commitment I need these days.”
“You just keep thinking that, Trusty, and we’ll all have plenty to talk about for a long time to come. But I’ll offer you some advice if you’ll have it.”
“I’m always open to listening to a man of your stature and education about the nature of life.”
“Well,” Judge Hadesworth said, “look at me standing here next to you without Mrs. Hadesworth in sight. She’s most likely back in Muskogee on another shopping excursion of one kind or another, keeping the fire lit for my return. It’s been that way for nigh on forty-one years. I ride the circuit and she is waiting at home keeping things nice and warm. Distance does a marriage good, Trusty. It always has mine. The return is a sweet and welcoming adventure worth traversing the drudgeries of humanity for. Even at my age, if you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t. But I’ll take your advice under advisement, Judge. Not that I’ll heed to it, mind you. My duties on the trail are longer and less predictable than yours, and I do enjoy a dose of variety in my life.”
“Me too,” the gray-haired man said with a wink and another elbow nudge. “Me too.”
Trusty laughed uncomfortably. “Let’s get your belongin’s from the hotel and dust our way out of here before the sun starts to dive west too fast. I’d like to get to Lost Mountain Pass before night settles in.”
“Expecting trouble, Trusty?” the judge asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m always expectin’ trouble, Judge. ’Specially after a hangin’ as well-deserved as this one. I know a spot on the pass that’s about as safe as I can get us for tonight,” he said, looking past the judge at a flush of movement that had caught his eye.
Two men were pushing through the crowd toward them, one as big as a bull, the other short and bulky as a boxer, reaching inside his duster for something that Trusty could only imagine to be a gun of some kind. “Anybody plottin’ trouble for us will be waiting for us on the road south. I aim to head north, take a night in the pass to wait them out, then circle around south Kosoma from the west, and get you home as soon as possible.”
Judge Hadesworth nodded with approval. “I like how you think, Trusty.” He started to walk toward Main Street, back to the hotel.
The sight of the men heading toward them caused Trusty to plant his feet and extend a hand to impede Judge Hadesworth’s forward motion. “Stop,” Trusty said in a low, “don’t argue with me” command.
The hunched man ceased to move immediately, silencing the click of his cane; even the old man’s breath restrained itself, hidden, pulled inside himself. A serious look fell over both men’s faces. Trusty had been responsible for the judge’s life on more than one occasion—ten, as a matter of count—and the two men were past developing a shorthand and wordless manner in sight of a threat. The judge, always happy and accustomed to being in the lead, submitted to Trusty’s instinct and drew back without question.
Trusty reached inside his coat to grip the Colt. The holster was unhinged and a cartridge sat in the chamber, ready to be called into action with a quick pull of the trigger. One yank and the pistol would be let loose into the world to prove its purpose: protect and kill.
The two unknown men continued their hard walk toward the judge and the deputy in step, on a mission, anger hanging on their faces as apparent as an OPEN sign at a barbershop. The crowd parted, pushed aside by the apparent suggestion of confrontation. Murmurs of acceptance and relief from the hanging quickly turned to fearful chirps, gasps, followed by an uneasy silence. All eyes were on the four men.
Trusty edged around the judge so the adjudicator was shielded from the coming threat as completely as possible, then he reformulated his escape plan. This one called for the swift death of the two approaching men. Wounding them would not do. Any threat to a federal judge’s life had to be dealt with in the most severe terms. Trusty pictured two shots to the heart, if possible. If those shots weren’t clear, then the target would shift to just above the bridge of the nose, square between the eyes—a head shot meant to stop both men in their tracks. Trusty and the judge would flee to safety before both bodies hit the ground. Refuge would then be taken in the bank vault in case there were more than two men—because there were always more than two. Always.
The Colt felt cold and ready as all of the sound drained from Trusty’s ears. No distractions. No focus on anything but the approaching threat. His heart beat as steadily as if he were napping. Sweat retreated and no force of blood rushed through his veins. He was as calm and ready as the judge had been when he’d read the Darby brothers’ verdict. Killing and protecting came as easily to Trusty as it did to the Colt in his grip. The army had given him license to do deeds untoward and inhuman that came natural to him but shouldn’t have. Men that deserved to die did not haunt his dreams.
The boxer and most serious looking of the two men—the one who had reached inside his duster—made eye contact with Trusty, then glanced away and let his hands fall clear, out into the open so it was possible to see that they were empty. That did not give Trusty cause or a reason to relax his stance. Both men were heavily armed with two six-shooters, and probably more by the sound of the iron clank accompanying their strides and the determined look in their eyes. Revenge never wore a mask.
The crowd remained frozen in place. No one said anything out loud, or called the men by name, but there was wonder in the air. Wonder if these men had come to settle a score for the hanging of the Darby gang. Such a thing had been as expected as the sun arching across the perfect blue spring sky.
The other man—the bull—eyed Trusty, too, and kept walking forward, not wavering his route one inch. If the bull kept moving, one or two of the men would have to step out of the way. Trusty was firmly planted, and Judge Hadesworth stood as erect as an ancient oak could, refusing to sway in the wind, leaning forward on the cane instead of backward in retreat. Intimidation was something the judge reacted to. Gordon Hadesworth didn’t have the capability to show fear. That had been lost a long time ago.
The two men veered at the last second, cutting past Trusty and the judge, pushing a bookish-looking man out of the way like angry rats sweeping past a meek mouse. They said nothing, but kept walking, determined in one way or the other to be done with the hanging.
All Trusty could do was watch the men disappear and hope that this would be the last time he ever saw them. “Come on, Judge,” he said. “It’s past time we put this dot on the map behind us.” He didn’t relax his grip on the Colt until the two men had vanished around the corner and the crowd sighed in relief.
Trusty took a last look at the three dead Darby brothers, stiff as planks now, swaying in the wind, starting to attract blowflies. Hangings and their aftermath had always unsettled Trusty, and this one was no exception.
Kosoma, Indian Territory, May 1888
There were two hotels in Kosoma with the promise of a third on the horizon. One, the Margate, was little more than a flophouse across the street from the train depot. The other, the Hobart House Hotel, was a three-story building with a fancy redbrick façade that aspired to be grand, but failed in the attempt from a lack of imagination, materials, or enough investors to see the original vision brought to fruition. The building looked hastily thrown together because it had been. The inside was as bland and disappointing as the outside, offering little in atmosphere or comfort. All of the carpets were drab, the walls bare of original paintings, and the sour eggy smell from the outside had taken up residence inside the fabric of everything that graced the inside of the hotel. It was rare that Trusty spent time on a soft feather bed, but he had come to enjoy his stays in hotels around Indian Territory and out of it. But the beds in the Hobart House Hotel were as hard and bumpy as the jagged rocks in the Osage lands and just as barren. One more reason to get out of town. Sleeping on the ground offered more comfort and relief than the Hobart House mattresses.
The judge’s room was on the first floor. He had opted for a single bed instead of what surely would be a disappointing presidential suite on the third floor at Trusty’s urging. Upper rooms offered fewer escape routes. Judge Hadesworth wasn’t a fussy man, and Trusty was glad about that. He shared the adjoining room, which allowed him access to the judge at all hours of the night; it turned out that was as much a mistake as staying in the Hobart House in the first place. Gordon Hadesworth was a world-class snorer. Mrs. Hadesworth probably looked forward to the nights the judge was out of town. She was probably catching up on sleep instead of the shopping excursion the judge had imagined.
“I’ve already packed most everything,” the judge said. “Why don’t you go on and get the horses ready, and I’ll meet you at the livery.”
“Not going to happen, Judge. I’ll wait.”
Hadesworth took a deep breath, puffed up his chest the best he could, and started to protest, but suddenly retreated with a shake of his head. “Do you ever relax?”
“Of course, I relax. We talked about blowin’ off steam earlier. I’ll get to that when the time is right. But that’s not a concern at the moment. We need to get on the trail. I don’t like the feeling in this town. The voice in the back of my head says I need to get you out of here as soon as possible. Those two toughs made a big show of themselves for a reason. I don’t know what that reason was, or is, but I think if we stick around here long enough, we’ll find out.”
“Those two men in the crowd really set off your alarms, didn’t they? They looked like typical troublemakers to me.”
“They did set me off.”
“You know them?”
“Nope. Never seen either one of them before, but I know their type. They looked like hired men to me.”
“It’s a little brazen for assassins to show themselves in broad daylight, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. But I’d rather overreact than not react at all. You’re not leaving my sight unless you make a demand of it. I’m not going to rest comfortably until I deposit you on your doorstep to Mrs. Hadesworth. Then she can look after your every move, and I’ll go about relaxin’ the best I can. There’s a fine blonde in Muskogee I plan on callin’ on when I get there. Does that strategy suit your myth-making?”
“It does, though I’d require a little more detail.”
“You’ll have to use that imagination of yours while we travel.”
“Well, in that case, I do require use of the toilet.”
“You can have all of the privacy you need. I’ll wait.”
The judge stood at the entrance of the livery, well within Trusty’s sight, regaling a Mexican groomer with a long, drawn-out story while Trusty cinched the saddle on his horse. He rode a roan gelding that he’d never got around to naming. He called the horse Horse, and the easygoing beast didn’t seem to mind the name at all. The two of them had traveled a lot of miles together, knew each other pretty well, but Trusty wasn’t one to hold a high affection for any animal on a long-term basis. There was a job to do and that was that. Attachments were a danger to the job. The escapade with his object of lost love had taught him that. The past held a stink to it that could outlive the current smell in Kosoma.
He kept one ear cocked toward the front of the livery, and looked toward the judge every second or two, like a wary bird, hoping the judge was doing the same thing. But at the moment, almost like every other moment, Gordon Hadesworth didn’t seem ruffled or threatened at all. He acted normal, invincible, unconcerned about any enemies that might be lurking around the corner.
“I was hoping I would find you here.”
The voice was a young female. She startled Trusty. He jumped and reached for his sidearm at the same time. The Winchester had already been packed into the scabbard. Trusty hadn’t heard anyone come up behind him, which concerned him. Letting your guard down for one second on a hanging day could get you and your charge killed, and he knew it.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, do I know you?” he said, letting his hand fall away from the Colt.
She shook her head. “No, sir, you do not.” She looked more like a girl than a woman. Lucky to be twenty years old at best, but probably younger, truth be told. Dressed in a black Bolero coat closed up tight at the neck, and a long skirt, deep black, too, parts of it matte, other parts shiny, sewn in a tight horizontal pattern, along with traveling boots and a fancy black bonnet with dangling chin straps. Her face was hard set and she bore a crow-like nose, eyes the color of granite, and dark brunette hair pulled back and swept up under the bonnet—all of which were stacked up on a skinny, unfulfilled body. There was nothing about the girl that Trusty found attractive at all. She instantly annoyed him, considering her stealthy skills and the darkness she carried with her.
The livery was quiet, not much going on. It was just the two of them inside as far as Trusty knew. A few stalls over, a horse snorted, then took a healthy piss. The judge was fully engaged with the groomer and hadn’t noticed the woman talking to Trusty or didn’t care.
“I understand that you are on your way to Muskogee?” the girl said.
“Yes, ma’am, that would be correct. How did you come upon that knowledge?”
“There are few secrets in this town, though there should be.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” he said. This bit of information confirmed that his plan to exit Kosoma to the north and make his way through Lost Mountain Pass was necessary.
“I would like to secure passage in your company.”
Trusty wiped his hands. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m a Deputy U.S. Marshal, not an escort. You’ll need to make other arrangements. I don’t hire out.”
“Are you not Trusty Dawson?”
He flinched at the nickname. “I am. Sure as it’s daylight, I am.” He thought about telling the woman that his real name was Samuel but let that thought slide away. Something told him not to get too familiar with this one. She looked like she could peck his eyes out.. . .
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