The Burning Range, page 17
“Damn it, what did Judge Parker say?” Drake asked, pouring coffee into Jolly’s cup.
“He’s heard of the Fat Man, said he was the . . . what the hell did he say? Oh, yeah, I remember, said he was ‘an international criminal of the worst sort, a man who should have been hanged years ago.’ Then he told me to put my foot on the Katy Flyer, then try and find you. Failing that, I was to enlist the help of the nearest city lawmen to assist me in the apprehension of the Fat Man.”
Jolly spat into the fire. “City lawmen, my ass. Bunch of whore-humpin’ pansies.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it, Marshal,” Drake said.
He told Jolly about Nancy and how she, Helen Lee, and Rockefeller were now in the Fat Man’s hands.
“If I go anywhere near their wagons, Harvey Thornton will kill Nancy,” Drake said. “He said he’d skin her alive.”
Jolly nodded. “And he will. Me an’ Harv go back a long ways, and when he says he’ll do a thing, he generally means it.”
“Have you tried to arrest him before?” Drake asked.
“Hell no. Back in the old days we ran together, Harv and me and the Younger boys. Robbed a few banks together, a train here and there, but then I decided to get out of the business.”
“And become a lawman.”
“Nah, I wanted a pillow under my head o’ nights, so I married a widder woman with a simple son, and for a while, we prospered in the dry goods trade. Then she took up with a corsets drummer behind my back. When I found out, I got so damn mad I put a bullet in the drummer—his name was Maxwell T. Dinwiddie—and damn near killed the little son of a bitch.”
Jolly used his pinkie finger to knock ash off his cigar. “Well, the wife left me after that and I drifted into the Indian Territory. Killed a man in fair fight in Stillwater and another in an unfair fight in Oklahoma City and got arrested. But Judge Parker offered me a choice—a badge or George Maledon’s noose. I took the badge.”
“I can’t let you go after the Fat Man, Marshal,” Drake said.
Jolly’s eyes hardened. “Don’t tell Washita Jolly what he can’t do, boy.”
“Thornton will kill Nancy as soon as he sees you coming.”
“Then he won’t see me coming until it’s too late.”
“I’m riding with you, Marshal.”
“Suit yourself. Glad to have you along.” Suddenly Jolly didn’t look like a lawman; he looked like the hardfaced outlaw who once rode with the Youngers. “But if it comes down to it, I’ll step over your sweetheart’s skun body to get to the Fat Man. Understand?”
“Yeah, Marshal, I guess I do.”
“Good. I like to make myself understood,” Jolly said.
Chapter 53
“Damn rain,” Jolly grumbled. “I hate riding in the rain—another reason I quit the banking and railroad business. Seemed always to be raining when I was on the scout.”
“You’re the lawman,” Drake said. “How do we play this?”
“Carefully. Despite what you think, I’m not keen to ride into Harv Thornton’s gun.”
“Give me a clue, Marshal.”
“All right, then we dog his back trail and wait for an opportunity.”
“What kind of opportunity?”
“Hell, Wayfarer, I don’t know. But I’ll know it when I see it.” Jolly glanced at the surly sky. “Damn rain.”
“I don’t want Nancy harmed.”
“How many times are you going to tell me that?”
“Until you get it stuck in your thick head, Marshal.”
Jolly smiled. “Wayfarer, you’re surely a tribulation to me. I’ve killed men for talking to me the way you do.”
“And I’ll kill any man who harms Nancy. Makes us even, doesn’t it?”
The lawman’s eyes iced over. “Go right on pushing it, boy. See what happens one of these times.”
“I won’t push it, Marshal. Just keep it in mind.”
“You really love her, huh?”
“Yes, I really do.”
“I’ve never loved a woman that much.”
“Then you missed out on something wonderful.”
“Damn it, boy, you sound like a woman your own self. Men don’t say that word, ‘wonderful.’”
“This one does, but it’s real recent.”
Jolly shook his head. “Wayfarer, you’re a strange ranny.”
They rode past Winding Stair Mountain, its crest and slopes and deep ravines covered with oak, hickory, and pine forests. The land smelled clean, of rain and the scouring wind, and the breath of trees.
An hour later Drake, riding point, found the freight wagon abandoned in the middle of a creek, its rear axle splintered.
Jolly rode beside the wagon and lifted the canvas. “What the hell does he have in there? A house?”
“Yeah,” Drake said, “a portable cabin for the Fat Man. All it’s doing is slowing them down, so they didn’t make any attempt to repair the axle.”
He looked at Jolly, a realization dawning on him. “The Fat Man is stuck in his armored wagon. I figure there’s only four of his men left and it would take a dozen to lift him out of there.”
“How heavy is that wagon thing?”
“I don’t know, but it’s heavy, steel plates all over it.”
“And he’s still got the Kiamichi River to cross,” Jolly said. “It’s low at this time of year, but all this damned rain may have it swollen and showing white water.”
“You’re seeing an opportunity, Marshal?”
“If they’re busy getting an armored wagon across a swollen river, they may not guard their prisoners so close.”
Drake weighed their chances in his mind, balancing the benefits against the risks. Finally he said, “It sounds like the best chance we’ll have.”
“Maybe, but I’m a careful man, Wayfarer. Only if it looks real good will we risk it.”
“You thinking about the prisoners or Thornton?” Drake said.
“Thornton,” Jolly said without even a moment’s hesitation. “He’s too good with a gun to ignore, so it all depends on him—where he’s at and what he’s doing.”
“Maybe I can take him,” Drake said.
“Wayfarer, put that damned thought out of your head. You wouldn’t even come close.”
“And you, Marshal?”
“I got two speeds on the draw, slow and slower.”
“Does Thornton know that?”
“Damn right he does.”
Drake and Jolly camped that night in Devils Hollow, a treed, bowl-shaped depression that hid the light of their fire.
They were on the trail again just after dawn, following the track of the armored wagon south across rolling hill country.
The rain had stopped, but the sky was gray mixed with a few lighter clouds, the color of old bone. Thunder cracked to the north, back in the direction of the Winding Stair, and lightning flickered, close enough to shimmer along the gaunt angles of Drake’s face.
“I reckon the river’s about three miles ahead of us,” Jolly said. He slid a Winchester out of the boot under his knee. “Ride heads up and eyes sharp, Wayfarer. Be prepared.”
But nothing Drake did could adequately prepare him for the grotesque horror that lay in front of him and an entity so vile that he could only gape at its existence and wonder how God could create a creature so monstrous.
Chapter 54
About a half mile north of the river, Drake and Jolly found the spot where the armored wagon had stopped, presumably while Thornton looked for a suitable place to cross.
The tracks then led north for a hundred yards before swinging into a natural break in the trees where they headed toward the river again.
Both banks of the Kiamichi were heavily wooded, offering plenty of cover, and both riders were able to stay mounted as they approached the water.
To Drake’s disappointment, the river was not swollen to any extent. The point where the wagon had crossed was marked by a wide sandbank, a narrow, sluggish stream flowing along each side of it. There was no white water.
Both men dismounted on the far bank and went the rest of the way on foot, before going to cover among the hickories and oaks.
What Drake saw on the opposite bank stunned him, and even Jolly looked like a man experiencing a sight he’d never expected to witness.
The surviving oxen had been unhitched, and the entire left side of the wagon and been swung downward, forming a ramp.
Thornton and a couple of his men stood near the bottom of the ramp, rifles across their chests. The gunmen grinned as they watched the two women carry buckets of water from the river.
Nancy and Helen Lee threw the water into the wagon, then walked back to the river to refill them while Rockefeller scrubbed the inside with a straw broom.
“What the hell is that stench?” Jolly whispered, his nose wrinkled.
“That’s the stink of the Fat Man,” Drake said. “Nancy calls it the smell of evil.”
Jolly shook his head. “That’s not what I would call it.” He elbowed Drake, his jaw slack. “Look, over there by the cottonwood. Hell, would you look at that ...”
It had once been human, the massive, naked creature propped up against a cottonwood. There was nothing of the masculine form left, only a vast mountain of fat supported by what were once legs but were now pillars of sagging, filthy flesh. The belly hung over the thighs like a sack of grain, so pendulous it almost scraped the ground. Hair, long, black, and matted spread over round, monstrous shoulders, and the untrimmed fingernails of both hands had become clawed, black talons.
Drake, repulsed by the sight, yet fascinated, wondered how the Fat Man had transformed himself from human to monster. He had seen no sign of food in the man’s cabin, nor had he ever seen his guards feed him.
The Fat Man was sick, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and that could be the only explanation.
Beside him stood the Chinese girl, small, slender, and frail, her head bowed, taking no interest in anything around her.
A reinforced iron cot with a filthy mattress had been carried away from the wagon and abandoned near the tree line.
As Drake watched, Thornton took a full bucket from Helen Lee’s hands. He stood in front of the Fat Man and tossed the cold river water over him.
Thornton grinned, reached under his slicker, and produced a horse brush. He shook the Chinese girl, then handed her the brush, making scrubbing motions, pointing to the Fat Man.
Without even glancing at Thornton, the girl began to scrub the man’s chest. The Fat Man roared and tried to swing at the girl’s head.
Thornton thought this highly amusing, and Drake heard him laugh out loud and holler, “I always wanted to scrub your dirty hide, Fat Man!”
Drake was puzzled. Thornton had always treated the Fat Man with deference. What had happened? Why was he suddenly abusing him that way, with a cruelty he obviously relished?
It was something to do with the defeat at Green Meadow, he was certain. But what?
Beside Drake, Jolly was grinning. “Hell, Wayfarer,” he said, “I can end this right here and the hell with the judge.”
He brought his rifle to his shoulder.
“No!” Drake said. “The Fat Man can’t be kill—”
The rifle blasted.
Instantly the Chinese girl cried out and fell, sudden blood blossoming on the back of her head.
“Damn it, she moved,” Jolly said.
Then, more attuned to approaching danger than Drake, he said, “Quick, Wayfarer, into the trees. Don’t let Harv see you.”
Drake caught the lawman’s drift at once, and melted back into the hickories.
Thornton dusted the trees with his rifle, aiming in the direction of the smoke drift.
“Drake, you son of a bitch, now your ladylove gets skun,” he yelled.
Before Drake even thought of replying, Jolly yelled, “It’s me, Harv. Washita Jolly, as ever was.”
A long pause as Thornton considered that, then, “Show yourself.”
From his hiding place in the brush, Drake saw Jolly step out of the trees, his rifle ready across his chest.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Thornton asked. He walked to the edge of the riverbank. “Is that little shit Chauncey Drake with you?”
“Who’s he?”
“A one-handed man, acts real uppity.”
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, Harv. I only want the Fat Man. Judge Parker has a notion to hang him.”
Thornton grinned. “You’ll need a ship’s cable for the drop, Washita.”
“If that’s what it takes, Harv.”
“Well, you can’t have him. And don’t try to shoot him again. You’re lucky you hit the girl.” Thornton grinned. “You never could shoot worth a damn, Washita.”
“Why not give him to me, Harv? He means nothing to you, and he’s done.”
“Maybe so. But he’s got a safe full of money in this here wagon, and I mean to get the combination from him.”
“Hell, Harv, just blow the damn thing and give me the Fat Man.”
“The safe’s too big. If I use all the dynamite it would take, the money and other stuff inside will be blown to kingdom come.”
“I see your problem, Harv.”
“Yeah, and now you’re a problem, Washita.”
“You mean to shoot it out with me, Harv?”
“If I have to. But for old time’s sake, you can turn around and go back to Fort Smith.”
“Can we bargain, Harv?”
“For what?”
“Don’t turn me away empty-handed, Harv. Give me the three people you’re holding hostage and I’ll head back to Fort Smith.”
Thornton grinned. “Not a chance, Washita. I’m keeping the women for myself, and the man is worth money, billions he says.”
“Then we have nothing else to say to each other.”
“You summed it up, Washita. Now light a shuck. Come around again, and I’ll kill one of the women. Or you.”
“I’m leaving. I’ll see you again, Harv.”
“Hey, and if you meet that one-handed man, tell him I’m keeping his woman. She wants me more than him anyhow.”
“I’ll tell him if I see him, Harv.”
Jolly turned and walked back into the trees, looking straight ahead, being careful to ignore Drake.
But Drake stayed where he was.
He wasn’t through here yet, not by a long shot.
Chapter 55
After the Chinese girl was shot, Nancy ran to her. She knelt beside her and cradled the girl’s head in her lap.
Thornton now stepped beside them and poked at the girl with the muzzle of his rifle.
Drake couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but it seemed to indicate that the Chinese girl was dead.
His guess was confirmed when Nancy gently laid the girl’s head on the ground and got to her feet.
Thornton’s third man appeared from the trees, carrying a load of firewood and kindling, and the big gunman beckoned him over. He said something to the man and watched while he piled the wood under the wagon.
Thornton bent, inspected the wood, and grinned, seemingly satisfied with what he saw. The rain had stopped and the wood would stay tinder dry.
He grinned, slapped the man on the back, then said a few more words to him. The gunman nodded, then walked up the ramp into the wagon. He reappeared carrying a can with a wire handle and spout, and he had coiled ropes around his shoulder.
The man jumped off the side of the ramp and left the coal oil beside the wood. He handed a rope to Thornton and the other gunmen, then waved Rockefeller over.
At first Rockefeller refused to take a rope, but a rifle butt driven between his shoulder blades soon convinced him otherwise.
Four loops were placed over the Fat Man’s head and under his armpits, two on each side of him. Thornton and the other men took up the slack, then hauled on the ropes.
At first the Fat Man did not move.
Then he suddenly came to life, cursing at the top of his voice as he tried to get out of the loops.
Thornton and the others jerked on the ropes. Drake could make out Rockefeller’s features, frozen into an expression of horror.
The Fat Man toddled forward a few steps, his huge rolls of fat jiggling, then crashed facedown on the ground.
Drake heard Thornton yell, “Pull the fat bastard!”
The gunman and the other three retreated to the ramp, hauling on the Fat Man. The gross body inched forward across the muddy ground. After another fifteen minutes of struggle, the Fat Man, scratched and bloody, was finally dragged onto the ramp.
At an order from Thornton, the four men dropped the ropes and rested, hands on their hips, breathing hard.
He yelled something to the women and Helen Lee brought a canteen. Thornton took a drink and passed it to the others.
The Fat Man was lying on his back, a naked mass of flesh, fish belly white except where rocks and tree roots had left gouges on his skin.
Thornton’s back was to Drake, but he thought he was saying something to the Fat Man, who kept shaking his head.
Now the gunman looked at the others and gave an order. A man moved beside Thornton so that there were two men on each side of the ramp.
“Lift!” Thornton yelled.
But four men could not lift the steel-armored door high enough to get it closed. By mutual consent they stepped back and let the ramp thud back onto the ground and the Fat Man, screaming, rolled off onto his gargantuan belly.
Again the ropes were used to drag the Fat Man back onto the ramp. But this time Thornton ordered Rockefeller and the others inside the wagon and all four men pulled from there.
The great body barely moved.
Thornton yelled a command and Nancy got the coal oil can. The gunmen and Rockefeller stopped hauling while she poured oil onto the ramp.
At another word from Thornton the girl stopped, and the men began pulling again.
This time the Fat Man slid more easily and, an inch at a time, he was hauled up the ramp and flopped like a stranded whale into the wagon.
