Indian Territory 1: Oklahoma Showdown

By Patrick E. Andrews

Dace Halston faced the hardest decision of his life: Honor friendships formed during his ranching days in the Oklahoma Territory or stay true to the code of the lawman he had sworn to uphold when they pinned the tin star to his vest.
Dace chose the latter—and was willing to use both his Colt .45 and Winchester .44 to back his choice.
But Dace’s best friend, married to the only woman he’d ever loved, had taken up with the owlhoot trail when the Territory was opened up for settlement. As full of fight as an untamed mustang, George McClary waged a self-declared war on the newcomers from the East who were turning the lush open rangeland into a checkerboard of fenced off squares.
Dace knew their meeting was inevitable, a meeting of good friends who’d ended up on different sides of the law—a meeting across gun sights that was sure to be one blazing hellfire of an Oklahoma showdown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: May 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311339850

Patrick E. Andrews

Patrick E. Andrews was born in Oklahoma in 1936 into a family of pioneers who participated in its growth from the Indian Territory and Oklahoma Territory to statehood. His father's family were homesteaders and his mother's cattle ranchers. Consequently, he is among the last generation of American writers who had contacts with those people from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Patrick's wife Julie says he both speaks and writes with an Oklahoma accent. He is an ex-paratrooper, having served in the 82nd Airborne Division in the active army and the 12th Special Forces Group in the army reserves. Patrick began his writing career after leaving the army. He and his better half presently reside in southern California. He has a son Bill, who is an ex-paratrooper and a probation officer, and two grandchildren.

Book preview

Dace Halston faced the hardest decision of his life: Honor friendships formed during his ranching days in the Oklahoma Territory or stay true to the code of the lawman he had sworn to uphold when they pinned the tin star to his vest.

Dace chose the latter—and was willing to use both his Colt .45 and Winchester .44 to back his choice.

But Dace’s best friend, married to the only woman he’d ever loved, had taken up with the owlhoot trail when the Territory was opened up for settlement. As full of fight as an untamed mustang, George McClary waged a self-declared war on the newcomers from the East who were turning the lush open rangeland into a checkerboard of fenced off squares.

Dace knew their meeting was inevitable, a meeting of good friends who’d ended up on different sides of the law—a meeting across gun sights that was sure to be one blazing hellfire of an Oklahoma showdown.

OKLAHOMA SHOWDOWN

INDIAN TERRITORY 1

By Patrick E. Andrews

First published by Zebra Books in 1986

Copyright © 1986, 2016 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

First Smashwords Edition: May 2016

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

Our cover features Portrait of a Posse, painted by Don Stivers.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book ~ Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

Dedicated to the memory of my great-grandfather

W. B. KENNEDY

an Oklahoma Pioneer

The following actual historical characters are used in this story:

Bill Doolin

Rosa Dunn

Oscar Halsell

John Hixon

Ed Kelly

Chris Madsen

Jim Masterson

J. K. McGoodwin

E. D. Nix

Bitter Creek Newcomb

Bill Tilghman

Heck Thomas

All other characters portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Prologue

The train passengers stood outside the cars with their hands raised high. Only a scant hour and a half before, they had calmly boarded the Santa Fe’s 2:05 p.m. southbound out of Arkansas City, Kansas, to cross the line into Oklahoma Territory, headed for the brand new boom town of Guthrie.

Now, with masked bandits covering them, the travelers were roughly jostled as wallets, watches and other valuables were wrenched away from them by rough-talking men who smelled of sweat, horses and campfire smoke. One, a bandy-legged, dark-eyed runt named Shorty Eastman, shoved his victim, a much larger man, against the car. Where’s your damned wallet, mister? the short robber demanded.

I don’t—well, sir, it seems I lost it, the passenger stammered.

What’s your line o’ work? Shorty asked.

Well, sir, I’m a drummer by trade—I deal in ladies wear.

A traveling salesman without a wallet? Shorty snorted. You expect me to believe that?

The salesman, his face growing paler with each passing moment, swallowed hard. I—well, I—sir, please, I have a wife and children.

A taller member of the outlaw gang who had been listening quietly a few feet away, ambled up to the duo. Where was you sitting on the train, mister?

I can’t say that I recall offhand, sir. The salesman laughed nervously. I reckon I just didn’t pay much attention.

Well, mister, I’m gonna ask around the other passengers ’til I find one that can remember where you was sitting, the tall man said. Then I’m going in that railroad car and go right to your seat. If I find a wallet anywhere nearby, I’m gonna come back out here and blow your damned head off with my .45.

Oh, God, sir. I was—well, I hid the wallet under the seat cushion—left side, by the window. Third row down. Please, I’m sorry—I have a family—

You keep lying to hard-working train robbers and you ain’t never gonna see that family again, understand?

Yes—you see—

Shut up!

Yes, sir. The salesman, sweat streaming down his face, shook visibly as the bandit shoved the Colt’s cold barrel under his chin.

"One little ol’ squeeze and it’s curtains for you, ain’t it? Ain’t it? Answer me!"

Y-y-yes, sir—please—

The outlaw stepped back and nodded to his shorter companion. Go get the man’s money. Third row down on the left side by the window.

Sure, George, Shorty said. He grinned wickedly at the salesman, then walked down to the steps leading into the car. He returned in moments, holding the billfold high and laughing.

The taller man waved to the other bandits. Ever’body finished? Then let’s clear outta here. He turned to the passengers. Let this be a lesson to you sonsofbitches! Your kind is driving honest cowboys outta work and turning us into outlaws. None o’ this would’a happened to you if you’d stayed the hell outta Oklahoma. This is war, and we intend to win it. You tell any more tenderfoots you meet who’re thinking of moving into this territory that it’s a damn dangerous idea.

The gang moved away from the tracks into a wooded copse where two more men tended to their horses. As they stuffed their loot into empty saddlebags, the shorter bandit looked over to the taller. Would you really have shot that feller if’n he’d kept lying about his wallet?

Prob’ly, the other answered.

You mean you’d just blowed his head off— he snapped his fingers—like that?

Prob’ly, his friend repeated.

Ever killed a man in cold blood like that afore? Shorty Eastman asked. Without so much as giving the matter a second thought?

Nope.

Shorty gave out a short laugh. Well, George McClary, the day’s drawing close when you do.

McClary, his eyes as cold as his voice, nodded. I reckon, he said in agreement.

Chapter One

Dace Halston sat dozing in the Guthrie city marshal’s office with his feet up on the battered desk. His hat was tipped low over his eyes, and he managed to catnap comfortably despite the noise off the street just on the other side of the frame wall.

Because he was the deputy, he handled most of the night work, and, as usual, there had been some real hell-raising in the brand-new saloons and gambling establishments that had popped up among the boom town’s stores and offices.

Dace was finally disturbed by the loud banging made when the door was flung open. A short, paunchy man with an enormous moustache rushed into the office. Hey, he exclaimed. We got troubles over to Minerva’s.

Dace raised the brim of his hat and, making no attempt to hide his irritation, looked with open ill-humor at the man who stood before him. Get the hell outta here, Bigelow.

No, c’mon, Deputy, the law’s being broke, Bigelow said in agitation. There’s trouble over there.

Got to expect trouble in a whorehouse, Dace said. You just throw the man out into the street.

We cain’t throw him out, Bigelow protested. He’s locked hisself in the room with Darlene.

Dace yawned and stretched. Then tell Darlene to get to work and he’ll leave directly.

It ain’t like that, Deputy, Bigelow said. This ain’t no reg’lar customer. He’s been beating on the girl and she’s yelling blue murder in there.

Dace sighed heavily and struggled to his feet. Well—let’s get on over there and see what’s to be done.

Ignoring Bigelow’s urges, Dace ambled slowly down the crowded street toward the edge of town where Minerva Lang ran a two-story bordello. The establishment was a successful operation, catering to the lonely men seeking their fortunes in the new country. The deputy noticed a small crowd had gathered in front of the place. He had to push his way through the onlookers to reach the door.

Minerva herself waited for him in all her obese glory. She wore a gaudy velvet dress, complete with an old-fashioned bustle. Artificial flowers, made from silk, covered the garment. What took you so Goddamned long? she demanded as Dace approached her.

Shut up, Dace said. Where the hell is the trouble? A sudden shriek sounded from above. Dace looked up. Second floor front, right?

Right, Minerva said, waddling after him. I’ll give you ten dollars to shoot that sumbitch.

I ain’t never been so desperate for money that I’d plug somebody for ten dollars, Dace said.

Would you do it for fifteen?

Dace didn’t bother to answer. There was another scream from above, and he noted the frightened faces of the other girls who had cowered together in a protective crowd in the crude parlor. The lawman was aware of the uncertain dangers each of these soiled doves faced as they took legions of strange men into private rooms for sexual gratification.

The stairs creaked under his weight as he made his way to the landing. Dace Halston was a big man, six-feet, two-inches tall, and solid one hundred, ninety-five pounds of muscle and grit. Pale blue eyes made a startling contrast to his thinning, black hair, and his rugged face was deeply lined far beyond his thirty-plus years, making him look meaner than he actually was.

He stopped in front of the door and could hear deep feminine sobbing on the other side. Suddenly the sound of a sharp slap interrupted the sobs, and the weeping exploded into a loud wail.

Hey! Dace shouted. Get the hell out here. I want to talk to you.

Go ’way, Goddamn your eyes! a husky voice yelled back. I ain’t finished with this woman yet.

I say you are, Dace countered. I’m deputy town marshal and I’m ordering you outta there in the name of the law.

The law be damned, the man said. I paid my money and I’m having my fun.

Dace slammed his right foot into the door knob, and the crude portal flew off its hinges leaving a gaping opening. The customer, who seemed about the same height and weight as Dace, stood holding a wide leather belt over the crouching, naked figure of the whore named Darlene. The man snarled at Dace. Don’t you spoil my good time, he threatened. The customer, although wearing his hat and boots, had stripped down to a pair of faded longjohns.

Drop that belt and get your clothes, Dace said.

I done paid for this gal, the customer said.

Minerva will give you your money back, Dace responded.

I don’t want it back.

Dace, who disliked long conversations, decided he had talked enough. Without hesitating, he charged through the opening where the door had been, and slammed a heavy fist into the man’s jaw. The customer spun around under the impact. Surprisingly, not only did he not go down, but he responded with a roundhouse punch that drove Dace into the opposite wall.

You’re riling me, the man snarled.

"I ain’t exactly charmed by your comp’ny," Dace said, rubbing his cheek. He made another charge, this time striking straight into the customer’s chest. Both men bounced onto the bed and rolled into the narrow space between it and the wall. The whore took the opportunity to run from the room still wailing at the top of her voice.

Luckily for Dace, he landed on top, and he celebrated his good fortune by driving several rapid punches into his opponent’s face. The man, more enraged than hurt, responded by grabbing Dace by the hair with one hand and banging his head against the wall with shattering force.

The lawman, nearly stunned, slipped off to one side, giving the man a chance to slip away and gain his feet. He kicked at Dace, but the big man saw it coming and managed to parry the flying foot with a sharp blow from his left hand. Then Dace got to his feet. You’re under arrest.

Arresting me and jailing me is two differ’nt things when you’re dealing with Leon Spalding, the potential prisoner said.

Well, Leon Spalding, it’s all the same when I’m doing the law work, Dace said. He punctuated this statement with several quick punches that bounced off Spalding’s surprised face.

Spalding, more inclined to grapple than punch, locked his hands around Dace’s neck and squeezed hard, hoping for his adversary’s instant unconsciousness.

Dace, feeling his air blocked off, punched desperately at Spalding’s midsection, and the two men whirled as an agitated twosome out the door and back onto the landing. Cursing and pummeling, they crashed into the railing.

The rickety structure gave way, and the combatants fell ten feet to the floor below. Again Dace found himself on top as the force of the landing broke Spalding’s grip on his throat. Dace hit the dazed man hard several times, then pulled him to his feet. One more straight punch propelled Spalding out the front door and across the porch to land in the street. He made an attempt to rise, then sank back to the dirt.

Dace came outside and grabbed his prisoner, hauling him to his feet. Spalding, as he was being dragged