Crossing The Dead Line

By Douglas Cobb

If you liked the book and the movie True Grit, you'll LOVE this Western/historical fiction novel based on the real-life exploits of Deputy U.S. Marshal Bass Reeves. Bass Reeves was one of the first African American lawmen West of the Mississippi. During his long career serving under the court of the "Hanging Judge" Isaac C. Parker, Reeves arrested more than 3,000 men and killed 14.
Deputy U.S. Marshal Bass Reeves was born a slave, and after an altercation with his "owner" over a card game in Paris, Texas, he lit out for the Indian Territory in what is today Oklahoma. After the Emancipation Proclamation became the law of the land, he moved to Arkansas, and his skill and accuracy with firearms eventually earned his job as one of 200 new deputy marshals whose job it was to patrol over 800 miles of territory and attempt to bring peace to the West. Check out Crossing The Dead Line today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Cobb
• Release date: Nov 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301882939

Douglas Cobb

Douglas Cobb serves as the managing partner of the Finishing Fund, a partnership of kingdom investors who are accelerating the completion of the Great Commission. The Fund’s mission is to see “every nation” engaged with the gospel by the end of 2022.Doug and his wife Gena are members of Southeast Christian Church in Louisville, where he teaches the Word by Word Sunday School class and serves as an elder. Gena is a Bible Study Fellowship teaching leader.Doug is a life-long entrepreneur. He's served as CEO of Appriss, Greater Louisville Inc., and The Cobb Group; as a Managing Director with Chrysalis Ventures; and as a director for a variety of companies. He is a three-time Inc. 500 CEO and a three-time Kentucky Entrepreneur of the Year.Doug holds a B.A. from Williams College, magna cum laude, and an M.S. in Accounting from the New York University Graduate School of Business Administration.Doug and Gena have been married for 40 years and have three children and two grandsons.

Book preview

Chapter One

1875: Crawford County, AR.

Bass Reeves, the man on the large red stallion named Blaze after the white blaze on its forehead, nudged his horse gently and they trotted up to meet a very familiar figure riding on horseback towards Bass’ farm, U.S. Marshal James F. Fagan. It was still early in the morning, and wisps of fog clung tenaciously to the lower parts of Reeves’ farm.

What’s got you to come all the way out here from Fort Smith this foggy mornin’, Jim? Bass asked. Is it my Jennie’s delicious cookin’? She’s a mighty fine cook, but I daresay you can find a fillin’ enough breakfast without travelin’ this far to get it.

Yeah, I suppose so, Bass, Jim Fagan replied, but not one that’s any grander or that’d stick to my ribs any better.

Smoke coming from the chimney of the eight-room house Bass Reeves had built by hand for his wife and ten children, five boys and five girls, wafted the enticing scents of breakfast to the two men. His wife’s name was Nellie Jennie, but she usually went by just Jennie. Reeves and Fagan could smell bacon frying, and eggs, and the aroma of biscuits was like a Siren call to their rumbling stomachs.

Well, come on in, then; what’s one more mouth to feed—the more the merrier. But, still, I don’t think that the prospect of breakfast is the only thing that brought you to Van Buren today. Fess up; tell me the real reason for your visit. Is it that you have another job scoutin’ for me to do, is that it? The extra money sure would be appreciated.

After breakfast, Bass, if you don’t mind. I do have some business to discuss with you, but I’d rather tell you with some grub in me first, if it’s all the same to you.

The two men went into Reeves’ house and stood awkwardly around the kitchen table. They removed their hats, and Bass said to his wife: You remember Marshal Jim Fagan, don’t you, Jennie? He dropped by to talk about some business, and I invited him to breakfast with us.

Talk? Nellie said. She wore a blue-and-white gingham dress. "It looks more like he’s here to eat. No offense, Marshal. The good Lord’s blessed us with an overabundance, so pull up a chair and dig in! There’s plenty to go around."

Thanks, Ma’am. Sorry to barge in unannounced on you, Fagan apologized.

The two men then took seats at the already crowded breakfast table. Jane asked one of her sons, Bennie, to say the Grace before the meal, which he did, despite seeming a little embarrassed to be doing it in front of company.

God is great, God is good, thank you God for this food. Amen, he concluded, with everyone then saying amen, after him.

Reeves and Fagan were a study in contrasts. Bass Reeves had been a slave, but had been made free by Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. He’d lived for a time in the Indian Territory, learning the languages of several tribes there, after high-tailing it out of Texas. He had used his massive fists to pummel his owner following a dispute over a card game. The Indian Territory, one of the last refuges for people trying to escape the law, seemed the best place to hole up for awhile. Other than his fleeing his past owner to escape to a new life and freedom, Reeves was known to be a very honorable and trustworthy man, and he was fluent in several Indian tongues he’d picked up while living in the Indian Territory.

Physically imposing, Bass stood six foot two inches tall. He was a crack shot with both pistols and his Winchester carbine rifle, and liked to carry his Colt .45s butt-first in his holsters. This made is easier for Reeves to cross-draw his Colts, and he considered this method to be the fastest way for someone to draw on an opponent. Besides his imposing height (he was a good three inches taller than Fagan) and his frame of 180 pounds of lean muscle, perhaps Bass’s most noticeable feature was his large, bushy black mustache.

U.S. Marshal James F. Fagan was a tough but kind man, unless you got on his wrong side. Shorter and weighing less than Reeves, at around 165 pounds, he was nevertheless an excellent fighter and a very good shot, as well. He had a full beard and mustache, much like President Ulysses S. Grant. Grant had appointed him, Judge Isaac C. Parker, and the judge’s Prosecuting Attorney W.H.H. Clayton to help bring justice to the Wild West and make it a bit less wild and more civilized.

After the meal, punctuated by lively banter between Reeves’ children, curiosity got the better of Bass and he asked Jim once again what the business was that had sent him riding out to his farm.

I was going to tell you alone, but this concerns you, too, Ma’am, Fagan said, addressing Bass’ wife, "and really your entire family. You see, I’m on a mission to hire two hundred new Deputy U.S. Marshals, Bass, and I and Judge Isaac C. Parker want you to be one of the two hundred. You know the Indian and Oklahoma Territory as well as a cook knows her kitchen, and you can communicate with the Indians in their own languages. What I’m sayin’, Bass, is if you want it, you can have one of the new jobs."

Oh, c’mon, Jim, Bass replied, You really want me? I’d be likely the first black lawman ever in this area. You think people would show me the respect of the office, or just take one look at the color of my skin and either laugh in my face or cuss me when they see me?

There’re a lot of changes in the air, Bass, and people, in general, in this state have already gone through more changes than they ever thought they would in their entire lives, Fagan said. They’ll accept you, especially when they see that you’re helpin’ get rid of the outlaws that descend down on us from the Indian and Oklahoma Territories.

Maybe so, Jim, but the goin’ won’t be smooth, at least not ‘til folks get used to the idea of a black man bein’ a lawman. But, aside from that, I think you’re holdin’ back on me, Jim. What else does the job entail, and what’s the pay like?

Well, I’m not gonna lie to you, Bass, you bein’ what I consider to be a friend, and not after I’ve sat down to such a great breakfast, for sure. There are plenty of dangers, like the possibility of bein’ ambushed by the very outlaws you’re searching for, and shot, or getting’ strung up by them. They’ve done it to lawmen before, and with you, and the other black men we’re intendin’ on hiring, some of the outlaws will want to get you just because you ain’t…’cause you ain’t got the same color of skin as they do.

I would show them the same treatment as anyone else who I’d catch breakin’ the law. The Civil War’s over, whether some want to live in the past or not. They’d either get arrested and cuffed, or if they tried to go for their guns, they’d get dead., Reeves said.

"You’ve go a decent idea of what it’d be like, bein’ a U.S. Deputy Marshal, already, of course, ‘cause of your years spent scouting for us and translating the Indians’ languages. You’ve helped save lives and reduce misunderstandings considerably. But, you know, the saying’s true: ‘No Sunday West of St. Louis, No God West of Ft. Smith.’’

Travel eighty miles away from Ft. Smith, headed West or towards the Oklahoma and Indian Territories, U.S. Marshal James F. Fagan continued, and you hit an invisible line, one you can’t see but that the outlaws are very well aware of. It’s got a name, the ‘dead line,’ and if you cross over it, you become fair game.

You tryin’ to scare me away from acceptin’ the job now, Jim? You think I’m not up to doin’ it? Is that what you’re sayin’?

No. I just want you to know what you’re in for. You’ve got definite skills with guns, and that will be one factor that might keep you alive long enough to become successful. How many Turkey Shoots is it that you’ve been banned from enterin’ now, Bass? Six, or is it seven, maybe?

I lost count, and I don’t bother tryin’ to keep a record of such things, Bass answered. It’s been more ’en five, and I guess less than a dozen, not that it really matters.

"That’s mighty fine shootin’, but the turkeys don’t shoot back at you, of course. I’ve seen you draw, though, when you’ve acted as a scout, and you are one of the fastest I ever did see, Bass.

You asked me about the pay, Fagan went on. You ain’t gonna become a rich man actin’ as a Deputy U.S. Marshal, but the pay’s not that bad, neither. And, though you have to ride a round-trip circuit of over eight hundred miles, and you’d be away from your family for months—that’s why I felt it was important to include your wife in on this, so all of you will know both the pros and cons of takin’ on this duty and also wearin’ the badge of a lawman—you do a good job, and bring in the outlaws you get sent out after, then you can earn several hundred dollars when you return.

What’s it profit a man to gain the world but lose his soul? Jane interjected to her husband. What’s a few hundred dollars if it costs you your soul, or your life? And, what’re we supposed to do, with you gone for months at a time? It’s a chore and a half to keep the farm goin’ even when you’re here every day.

My wife’s right, Jim, Bass said, as usual. But, our children are getting’ older, and bigger, Jane, and they’re pullin’ their weight and doin’ chores and, well, what’s a few months when the money I’d earn is more than I’d be able to make in over a year if I stayed? Raising and selling horses like we do earns us more money than our crops and livestock do, but still, all of it together wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans compared to what I could earn as a Deputy U.S. Marshal. When you need my decision, Jim?

I hate to be pushy, Fagan said, but, now. If you’d like the job, I’d want you to ride back with me to Ft. Smith, so’s you can get sworn in as soon as possible and get your first arrest warrants from Judge Parker. I’ve got a lot more people to visit, and minds to convince, so I really need your answer now.

It’s an opportunity I can’t let slide by. It’s risky, and I appreciate that you told us about the risks; but, then again, what in life ain’t risky? I’ll take the job.

Just like that, with one momentous decision, the lives of Bass Reeves and his family changed forever. He’d agreed to become one of the two hundred new U.S. Deputy Marshals. What have I gotten myself into? he thought to himself more than once on the ride back to Ft. Smith. He’d have many other occasions in the coming years throughout his career of over thirty years as a lawman to think the same thing.

Chapter Two

Sept. 3, 1875: Fort Smith

"Bass, Fagan said as they hitched up there horses outside of the Fort Smith Courthouse, This is your lucky day."

I reckon it is, and I’m goin’ to do my best, Jim. I’m a little worried about meetin’ Judge Parker, though. What kind of man is he? He easy to get along with?

Oh, he’s okay when you get to know him. But, he’s already gettin’ a reputation as bein’ tough on criminals, especially murderers. He ain’t like the corrupt son of a bitch that came before him, Judge William Story; no, not like him at all.

I’ve heard he’s determined to be tough on crime and send a message to outlaws that their days of killin’ folks without any worry of gettin’ their necks stretched are over. More than a few men since he came to town in May must be sweatin’ bullets and quakin’ in their boots.

Yes, Fagan answered, and that’s really why I said that today’s your lucky day, ‘cause six men are scheduled to swing today. You’ll get the chance to see what will happen to some of the worst outlaws you catch. One thing’s for sure—the six that’ll be hung today won’t be terrorizin’ people and killin’ anyone else.

It just don’t seem possible, six at one time, Reeves said.

The gallows have been specially designed to hang twelve men at once, if Parker ever desires to do so. Eight were supposed to be hung today, but it’s been brought down to six.

Why’s that?

One was shot tryin’ to escape, and the other’s sentence got commuted to life in prison, ‘cause of his young age. Still, it should be quite a show. It’s goin’ to be a grisly spectacle, but there’s sure to be a crowd, and maybe it’ll make people think twice ’fore they get it into their heads to murder someone.

****

Five thousand gathered to watch the six outlaws led to the gallows. Entertainment was often hard to find, and people flocked to it wherever they found it, no matter how macabre. Some people brought their entire families in wagons and had blankets and picnic baskets with them. Preachers holding Bibles shouted God’s Holy Words and urged any sinners there to repent while they could.

Judge Isaac C Parker, one yelled to the crowds, who seemed largely to be trying to ignore him, sentenced the six men today to be hung by their necks until they’re ‘dead, dead, dead!’ But, there’ll be a much more terrible fate that awaits them afterwards, when they’re cast into the pits of Hell! If you don’t want to join them, friends, repent now, while it’s not too late to save your immortal souls!

You’re the one who needs to ‘repent,’ Preacher! a man said, and punched the preacher’s jaw, sending him staggering backwards.

I’ve got no quarrel with you, friend, the preacher said, holding his hands in front of him, palms towards the man who’d assaulted him, who was apparently drunk. The drunken man held a half-full bottle of whiskey in his left hand, which he then swung at the preacher’s head, who ducked just in time to avoid being struck by it.

Getting my wife with child, and at least four other men’s wives! And you stand here, talkin’ about everybody else’s sins but your own!

He reached for his holsters, but Fagan hurriedly restrained and handcuffed him before the drunk could draw his pistols.

That’s enough, Sexton! Fagan said to the drunken man, who suddenly looked abashed and ashamed at having broadcast his wife’s infidelity to the world. C’mon, Reeves, help me get this guy to the jail, where he can cool off for awhile and get sobered up.

Bass and Fagan were on either side of Sexton, who had suddenly gone limp, not wanting to be taken to jail. He didn’t so much resist, as drag his feet on the ground, as he was forcibly escorted to the jail, which was conveniently located underneath the courthouse.

That blowhard had it comin’ to him! Sexton protested. "You can’t do this to me! I’m the one who was wronged; you know that, Fagan! If anything, that preacher, Grant O’Keefe, should be the one you put in jail, not