In Matt Braun’s The Last Stand, the land of the Five Civilized Tribes is stolen from its people by a federal government determined to make Oklahoma the forty-sixth state. Chitto Starr, a full-blood Cherokee, will not go gently into the night. Instead, Chitto ignites an armed rebellion—and brings an honest, determined lawman onto his trail.
For Deputy US Marshal Owen McLain, hunting down Starr and his rebels is the last job he wants—and the one he has to do right, or die. Now the two men are locked in a duel of cunning and violence on a tragic, history-scarred land. And before one of them dies, they must each make a harrowing journey of honor, courage, and war.
Release date:
June 26, 2018
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
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One
A bright October sun flooded the countryside. The air was crisp and clean, and trees fluttered with leaves gone red and gold. High overhead a vee of geese winged their way southward.
The men rode into town late that afternoon. Frank Starr and Tom Tenkiller entered by the farm road from the north. Jim Colbert, Redbird Smith, and Charley Foster appeared on the road south of town. Jack Fox and Henry Brandon rode along a side street from an easterly direction. Their horses were held to a walk.
The town was located in the old Creek Nation. Since statehood, and the influx of whites into Oklahoma, the town's population had swelled to more than a thousand. Hardly a center of commerce, it was nonetheless a thriving hamlet built on the trade of the area's farmers. The community was small but prosperous.
Preston, like most farm towns, was bisected by a main thoroughfare. The business district consisted of several stores, a feed mill, one bank, and a blacksmith who now tinkered on automobiles. There were few peopleabout and little activity on a Monday afternoon. Typically the slowest part of the week, it accounted in part for the seven strangers on horseback. Their business was better conducted without crowds.
"What're you thinkin', Frank?"
Starr grinned. "I think we're gonna make a payday."
"Funny, ain't it?" Tenkiller shook his head. "Damn white people don't never believe anybody would rob their banks."
"Button your lip! Even aniyonega have ears."
Starr quickly scanned the street. He and Tenkiller were full-blood Cherokee, and the scattering of people on the sidewalks stared as they rode past. A couple of Indians, even though they wore white men's clothing and were mounted on good horses, still attracted idle curiosity. But no one appeared to have overheard Tenkiller's remark about banks.
A week past, Starr had assigned Charley Foster to scout the town. Foster, a half-breed who sometimes passed for white, had returned with a crudely sketched map. He reported that the bank was manned only by the president and two tellers. Law enforcement consisted of a town marshal, who operated without regular deputies and rarely patrolled the streets. The townspeople, apart from shopping and the usual errands, were seldom about on weekdays. All in all, Preston looked like easy pickings.
Starr had selected the town for just that reason. He robbed banks for a living, and he practiced prudence over greed. There was less money from a holdup in a small town, but there was far less chance of being caught. For two years, since the fall of 1907, when Oklahoma Territory and Indian Territory were joined in statehood, he had preyed on banks owned by white men. The pay was good, the hours were short, and he likedto think of it as retribution against those who had stolen Indian lands. There was a price on his head, and he was notorious as a gang leader who ran circles around the law. He hadn't yet seen the inside of a jail.
Downstreet, a Ford Model T pulled away from the local hardware store. The car backfired as the driver hooked into second gear and rattled past in a haze of dust. Tenkiller's horse shied away, spooked by the noisy contraption, and he fought to control the reins. Starr cursed roundly under his breath, glaring at the Ford as it rolled north out of town. He loathed the sight of automobiles, all the more so the clattering racket and the oily, foreign smell. He thought of them as a white man's invention, one more intrusion on a once-peaceful land. He sometimes worried that the days of a horseback outlaw were numbered.
The owner of the hardware store, standing in the doorway, watched as Starr and Tenkiller approached. Indians were no novelty in Preston, for members of the Creek tribe still owned nearby parcels of land, and worked as farmers. At first, he gave the riders scant notice, though he was struck by the fact that they were mounted on fine horses, built for endurance and speed. But then, glancing eastward, he saw two riders enter town from a sidestreet, both of them equally well-mounted. One was a half-breed and the other was clearly a full-blood, darker by a shade. A moment later he saw three more riders, full-bloods on good mounts approach from the south along Main Street. He wondered why seven Indians were riding into town at the same time, from different directions. Somehow, it seemed more than coincidence.
The storekeeper moved out of the doorway. He retreated inside, hidden from sight by the dim interior, and peered through the front window. He watched asthe riders converged on the bank, directly across the street, their horses still held to a walk. Outside the bank, two men wheeled to the left and halted before the hitch rack along the sidewalk. Downstreet, the three men approaching from the south stopped in front of a mercantile store. A few doors north of the bank, the last two men reined in on the same side of the street.
There was a military precision to their movements. The riders on either side of the bank dismounted and took positions to cover the street in both directions. Some checked their saddle rigging, others dusted themselves off and, to a man, their eyes checked nearby buildings. One of the men outside the bank paused a moment and subjected the whole of the business district to a slow, careful scrutiny. Then, followed by a second man, he turned and crossed the sidewalk. They sauntered into the bank.
The hardware store owner was rooted a moment in shock. Any lingering doubt was quickly dispelled, and recovering his wits, he bolted for the rear door. In the alley, he turned south, hurrying next door to the barbershop, and burst through the back entrance. He startled the proprietor, who sat sound asleep in the high-backed barber's chair. His voice was strident.
"Wake up, Amos!" he yelled. "Injuns are robbin' the bank."
"Injuns?" the barber echoed dumbly. "Red Injuns?"
"Get the wax out of your ears. What the hell else color would they be? See there!"
The storekeeper pointed out the window. Still groggy, the barber swiveled out of the chair, following the direction of his finger. They stared at the horsemen across the street, and after a few seconds, the barber collected himself. "Injuns, all right," he allowed. "You sure they're robbin' the bank?"
"Goddamn right I'm sure! You think they're makin' a deposit?"
"I didn't say that, Harley."
"Bastards are fixin' to steal our money. You got a gun?"
"I keep a pistol in the drawer. Why?"
"'Cause I want you to watch 'em like a hawk. I'm gonna run down and warn the marshal."
"What if they try to ride off?"
"Hell's bells and little fishes! You cut loose and shoot their asses off, Amos. What d'you think?"
"I think you'd better hurry up and fetch the marshal."
Harley Meecham rushed out the back door. Amos Ledbetter moved past the barber chair and opened a drawer beneath the wall mirror. He took out a Smith & Wesson Double Action revolver that hadn't been fired in ten years, and hastily checked the loads. Then, as he turned toward the window, he had a sobering thought. Those men really were Indians!
He wondered if it was Frank Starr's gang.
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