Chapter XIV: The Day for "Deliveries"

THE TREE-MAN TURNS OFFICER AND SINGLE-HANDED WIPES OUT A BAD GANG

But McDonald was ready now for deliveries of a different sort--deliveries of the purchasers themselves, into the hands of the law. As a preliminary step he swore out warrants for eight men--the chief operators in a very bad community located along a small creek between Guthrie and Kingfisher--about fifteen miles west of the latter. He then went with his warrants to a deputy marshal at Guthrie and invited his co-operation in making the arrests. The Guthrie deputy looked at him with curiosity, wondering perhaps if this circuit-riding Texas person was in his right mind. Clearly the fame of Bill McDonald had not yet penetrated into darkest Oklahoma. Then, when he had looked over Bill Jess's credentials, and perhaps felt his pulse, he said:

"If you can get a company of soldiers to go along I might undertake that job with you. You don't know that Sand Creek crowd--I do. No two men nor ten men could go up against that outfit and get back alive. Bring a company of regulars over here, if you want to undertake that campaign."

McDonald argued, and related what he had done in No-man's Land, but to no purpose. A sudden charge might work, over there, the deputy said, where the gangs were bunched, and were surprised before they were awake enough to fight. But it was different over here. The bad men were scattered a mile or so apart and while you might get the drop on one, there'd be a lot more left to get the drop on you, and you'd be full of lead before sunrise. No-siree, nothing less than soldiers, and plenty of them, would do that job.

McDonald went about the town trying to enlist volunteers. He realized that a scattered gang would require time to corral, and that its members would be likely to be awake and busy, before he got them all in. He did not want a company of soldiers, for such a force would scare the gang and accomplish nothing; but he did want a few quick fearless men for this work. Finally he wired U.S. Marshal Walker at Topeka, Kansas, to come on first train. Walker came, and McDonald explained the situation.

"I've got these men located, and warrants for their arrest," he said, "and now I can't get your deputies or anybody else to give me a hand on the job. It ain't just the sort of a thing I want to do alone, for we ought to get to several of these men's houses simultaneous like, an' I thought you might be able to persuade these boys to come along."

"Certainly," said Walker, "that's all right--they don't know who you are. I'm satisfied from what U.S. Marshal Knight, of Dallas, has written me that you know what you want to do, and how to go at it. I'll get the men together and explain the situation."

They collected about a dozen deputies and posse-men, and Walker explained as agreed. It was no use. The men declared that no small force could go into the Sand Creek neighborhood and come out alive, and nothing short of a squad of trained soldiers would be of any use. McDonald looked them over scornfully. Then he turned to Walker.

"If I had as sorry a lot of men as that," he said, "I'd discharge them on the spot. I'll go out there alone, if I can get a man with nerve enough to drive a hack, and I'll bring back a load of criminals, too."

This was regarded as a bluff. Walker returned to Topeka, and Bill McDonald's fruit-tree expedition began to look like a failure. McDonald, however, was not the sort of a person to whom the words "bluff" and "failure" were likely to apply. He discovered a man presently who agreed to drive a hack, provided he would be asked to do no fighting, and would be allowed to remain out of range.

"If you ever get 'em to the hack and tied, I'll haul 'em," he said, but it was clear that he expected to haul home a dead deputy marshal, instead.

They set out long before daybreak, next morning, with a big three-seater--McDonald with an extra horse--and drove to the home of what was considered the most desperate of the Sand Creek gang--a very hard looking customer who lived with his wife in a dug-out in a small clearing. When they had arrived within about two hundred yards of the place, the driver declared that he was satisfied with his position and did not think it necessary by the terms of his contract to go any closer. It was full early, barely daybreak, and everything was very still. McDonald lost no time, therefore, for a whinny of the horses might rouse the occupants of the dug-out, and with his Winchester cocked stepped across the little clearing and without ceremony pushed open the door. As he did so a woman stepped directly in front of him, calling out a warning to some one behind her. In the dimness of the place McDonald saw a man on a bed in the corner reaching for a gun which lay on the mattress near him. It was no time for manners. With a quick sweep of his gun the officer pushed the woman aside and covered the man on the bed, before he could bring his weapon to bear.

"Drop it," he said. "Drop it or you're a dead man!"

There was no mistaking the sincerity of that order. The mild fruit-tree peddler, was merged completely into the resolute officer with eyes of steel and a crisp voice that uttered words of unmistakable meaning. The gun fell upon the bed. McDonald stepped forward and slipping hand-cuffs on his prisoner, ordered him to start for the hack and to make no suspicious movements. Arriving at the awaiting vehicle he invited him to step in and be shackled.

"First delivery," he said to the astonished driver. "We'll go on now and make the rest."

The next hut was perhaps a mile further along, and the sun was getting up when they arrived. As they approached, they saw the occupant standing in the doorway. He saw them about the same time, and suspected trouble. His horse was hitched to a mesquite tree, and making for it he mounted and fled. McDonald was mounted also and gave chase. The race continued for perhaps half a mile when the officer realized that his man had the better horse and would presently get into the brakes and escape. He dismounted quickly, therefore, and taking careful aim began to shoot at the ground near the flying horse in such a manner that the bullet striking the earth would go singing by, very close to the ears of the fugitive. He had long since discovered that a bullet singing in that way, close to a man's ears has an impressive and convincing sound. A man hearing a bullet sing by like that would be willing to bet any reasonable sum that the next one would hit him, especially when the command, "Halt! or I'll get you, next time," came with it. With the second shot the disturbed rider brought his horse up suddenly, dismounted and made motions of surrender. McDonald signaled him to approach, still keeping him covered. He came up in good order, and was marched toward the hack, the driver of which headed in that direction, now that the danger was over.

It was thought that the sound of the shooting might have aroused the neighborhood by this time, and the thief-hunters worked more cautiously. There was no need, however. Gun-fire was of too frequent occurrence to create alarm in that locality, and the sense of immunity from the law had become too chronic to be lightly disturbed. The desperadoes had been left unmolested so long that they had become established in their security and careless of intrusion. Two men were at breakfast at the next place, and deputy Bill's Winchester covered them before they fairly realized that they had a morning visitor. These two were hand-cuffed together and marched to the hack. The driver by this time had picked up a good deal of courage and remained only a few yards behind. As for the outlaws, they were inclined to be sociable, and with the true Western American spirit discerned a certain humor in the situation.

"Hello, Jim, you been buying fruit trees too?" was the greeting of one of the men already loaded as the hand-cuffed pair came in. "What did you get, peaches or pears?"

"You go to hell, will you? You'll get a tree with a rope on it before you get out of this mess."

"That's all right--you must have bought sour grapes, I reckon, the way you talk."

"No, his got frost-bit. They'll be all right in the spring. My apples got a little case of dry-rot, too. I wonder how Buck Dillon 'll like them blue plums o' his'n."

McDonald, always good-natured with his prisoners, joined in the bantering.

"I'm delivering," he said, "I brought in a nice pair, this time," as he loaded his double capture into the hack. Truly no situation can entirely destroy the breezy Western point of view.

The next house lay across quite a stretch of prairie and the hack and its contents were discovered before the approach was near enough for effective action. McDonald on horseback immediately charged, but the outlaw suspected the nature of his visitor and mounting his horse raced away, emptying his six-shooter at his pursuer. Riding, and shooting backward disturbed his aim and his bullets flew wild. McDonald also began shooting, to bring him to a halt, not to kill. As the outlaw uncased his Winchester, however, the officer decided that it was time to bring matters to a focus. Dropping to the ground he knelt and set some bullets singing close to the ear of the fugitive. At first this only had the effect of making him sink his spurs into the pony, but at the third crack of the gun and just as Deputy Bill was taking careful aim for a shot that would be likely to save the cost of prosecution the rider dropped his gun back into the scabbard, and leaped to the ground.

"Well, you've got me," he called as he came up.

"Hello, Joe, what you been buyin'? Prickly pears I reckon," was the greeting from the hack as he came nearer--the latter half of the remark due to a trickle of blood on the man's ear where the last bullet had sung its warning song a trifle too close.

"Must a struck a stone and glanced a little," commented Bill Jess as he looked at it. "I aim to make 'em miss just about three inches. They sing nicer when they don't really hit. That either glanced off of a stone or else it's mighty sorry shooting. Dad-slap it, that sorter makes me ashamed of myself. Oh, well, get in an' make yourself comfortable. I want to get along."

The boy who had been "born with a gun in his hand" as we say, and could pick cherries with a rifle was humiliated by anything that resembled bad marksmanship. Still, it was good enough under the circumstances, and was justified by the result.

That was a busy day. His favorite hour for working (daybreak) was over, now, but matters were going too well to knock off on that account. There were at least three more of this gang, and he would get as many as he could.

He got them all in fact, and one extra--a bad man who happened to be visiting his brother at a bad time. The houses being a good way apart, and the work being done rapidly and with such system and neatness, the alarm had no time to spread. Deputy Bill knew the exact location of each house and of course used more caution in making the approaches as the day advanced. He stalked his game like the true hunter that he was, creeping up unnoticed until he had it covered, keeping the hack well out of view, though by this time the driver had lost all concern, except that of eagerness to see the fun, and was disappointed as were the captured fruit-tree buyers when kept out of view.

The hack went into Kingfisher next morning with every seat full and the driver sitting on the knees of two prisoners. The Sand Creek gang--one of the toughest gangs in the Territory--in the space of a single day and by a single man had been retired from active business.

From Kingfisher, their captor wired U.S. Marshal Walker at Topeka that he had his men and would proceed with them to Wichita, Kansas, as soon as he had rested a little. Within a few days the men were being distributed to the various points where they were wanted for an assortment of crimes. When McDonald and his driver returned to Guthrie, the men he had invited to assist had a downcast look. They had heard the news of the Sand Creek gang. They had heard also from Mr. Walker. Their excuses were many and various, and to a man they offered to join the next expedition.

"No," said Bill Jess, drily, "you fellows are a little too slow. My deliveries in this section are all made."