Oklahoma Way

By Jay Kennedy

If you ask the people that know Jess Robinson, they'll tell you he's a bounty hunter. But to Jess, he's a hunter, and he doesn't ever let his prey get away. For several years, he's been traveling the west, searching for his sister's killer. Finally, he finds his way to the hometown of the man, Lightning Creek. Soon after he arrives, the town council approaches him with a win-win scenario: become town marshal, and they would allow him to take the killer without any fuss. It seems easy enough. But, what he finds is himself right in the middle of a diabolical plot of a powerful cattle baron. And what's worse, the man who he's been chasing this entire time may not be the killer at all! Follow Jess on his adventure of wit, daring, twists, turns, as Jess seeks to become the embodiment of what it means to exact western justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640826502

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Oklahoma Way

Jay Kennedy

Copyright © 2017 Jay Kennedy

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-64082-649-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64082-650-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

The hot sun beamed down and scorched the sands of the desert beneath it. A lizard, sitting on the crest of a rock, stuck out its tongue, as it crawled along the side of its resting place to the bottom, hoping to escape the heat and find nourishment. The sand, scorched by the raging heat, glowed yellow, as the winds and the heat stole whatever small amounts of water that was to be found. The fiery rays of the sun beamed down, its hot air whipping across the back of the neck of the solitary rider. His horse walked slowly, wearily, as the days and weeks of traveling through this godforsaken place had worn him down. The rider, leaning back and taking a deep breath of the hot air, stepped down from the back of his horse to let it rest, hopefully extending the inevitable. He needed to gather his bearings. He reached into his saddlebags and pulled out his expandable looking glass and looked around in all directions. His heart began to sink as it finally dawned on him just how lost in this desolate place he truly was. This trip had started out well, but had quickly fallen apart as his prey, a train robber, had crossed into the desert, a desert he had not traveled in alone much. This train robber was a nobody, but had information on his true target, the notorious fast gunman, Johnny Quickdraw. He had been on the Quick’s trail for years, and he needed this man to help guide him back on the right trail. This did not seem like it would happen now, though, as he was stuck in the middle of hell. His gray shirt looked tan as it was covered with all the dirt and sand of his journey. Sweat stains covered his clothes, as he had not been able to bathe or change clothes for at least a week. He had been in these clothes so long, the smell no longer bothered him. His black jeans also were tan with the same dirt and dust, even the parts covered by his black stovepipe chaps. His gun belt, normally worn tightly around his waist, hung much lower now, as his weariness had prevented him from caring how he wore it at this moment. His whole visage was greatly unimpressive, as his world weariness was as apparent as his dark skin, which had become even more darkened by the sun. His beard had grown to an unkempt level. By all accounts, any passerby would have found him a disappointing sight, not a person you would imagine hunting notorious gunmen.

He took his canteen from his saddle and tried to take a sip, only to be greeted by more despair. Wet sand with small droplets of water was the only thing that touched his dry, cracked lips. Why he had chosen to torture himself by trying to sip, he didn’t know. There had been no water in the canteen fifteen minutes before when he had tried. The weight of all that was occurring, the lack of water, the fact that he was lost, and the knowledge that he was about to die here, finally hit him like a sack of bricks, and a slight case of panic set in. He fell to his knees, and his horse walked up and nudged him. The man petted his horse’s head and pulled out his gun. He cocked back the hammer and then prepared to kill his only companion. A tear managed to fall from his eye as the pain of killing his loyal companion set in. He hated to do this, but he couldn’t abide watching him suffer. He placed the gun to his giant head and closed his eyes.

As he started to pull the trigger, he heard in the near distance what sounded like the clanking of what could be a wagon. He opened his eyes and looked around him. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of a chuck wagon, pulled by two oxen, off to his left. The driver was wearing a white duster and was whistling to the oxen to keep them moving, but his weary eyes couldn’t make out anything else about him, not that he cared at that moment. He wiped his eyes and stood up, waving frantically at the man, hoping that his salvation had finally come.

As he waved at the man, he saw the man notice him. The man stood up in the cab of the wagon, then sat down and guided the wagon in his direction. The man rejoiced on the inside, trying to conserve as much of his voice as he could for when he would speak to this savior. As the man drew closer, the lone rider got a better look at the man. A larger man, he had sunburnt skin and long white hair. He also had a stubble beard that was white as well. As he drew closer to the rider, the man clutched the rifle that rested in his lap. He stopped the wagon right in front of the rider and pointed the rifle in his direction.

You’re a long way from home, ain’t ya, boy?

He looked up at the man, desperately needing a drink. His voice spelled thirst, as he spoke to the man hoarsely.

You’re right. Could you spare a man some water for him and his horse?

The man looked him up and down, then leaned back and let out a cackle.

Got yourself lost out here in the desert, did ya, boy?

The rider smiled, embarrassed. Yeah, sure did. I lost my way. Could you show a man some mercy and point me in the right direction?

The man leaned back and laughed a good laugh. He must have laughed for at least thirty seconds. The rider became slightly annoyed. This man was being very crass, which left an uneasy feeling in the rider’s chest. Finally, the man stopped laughing.

You really are stupid, ain’t ya, boy? Ya got no sense of direction.

Hoping to divert the uneasiness, and move this whole situation along, he went along with the man’s jesting. Yep, you got me pegged. Might I trouble you for some water and direction to set me straight?

The man finally stopped jesting. All right, boy, I’ll accommodate ya.

The rider breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, he was gonna get on the right path. He didn’t like this area. This desert, and the areas around it, were havens for the people of the violent kind. If it wasn’t bands of Indians on the warpaths, it was gangs and bands of Confederates, still sour about the war, going around robbing and pillaging. Then you had the gunrunners, like the Comancheros, who sold guns, liquor, and information to all sides, stoking up violence between the different groups to keep themselves in business. He wasn’t sure who this man was, though he assumed with the chuck wagon that the man was at least an associate of some gunrunner, but at this moment, he didn’t really care. He needed water, and help was here.

The man pulled out a canteen, and handed it to the rider. Help yourself, the man said. He took it, thanked the man, and poured some on his head. He took a swig, swirled it around in his mouth, and spat it out. He took another swig, then poured some on the head of his horse. He took off his hat, poured some water, and let his thirsty companion drink. He smiled as his horse quenched his thirst. This trusty beast had been with him for quite some time, and hopefully would be there long after this unfortunate event. As he thought of this, he heard galloping behind him. He turned around to see a man in a black hat and poncho, with a black bandana around his face, ride up to the wagon. The wagon man saluted him, and gave him a hearty hello. The man removed his bandana, and immediately the rider’s eyes grew wide. It was the robber he had been hunting. The man recognized him as well, and immediately threw back his poncho and brandished his gun. The rider, too tired to respond quickly, did not try to draw his. He raised his left arm, and stepped back. The wagon man was startled.

What’s going on here? You know him? he asked.

This is the bounty hunter I told you about, the one that’s been tailin’ me.

The wagon man looked at the rider. Is that true? You a bounty hunter?

Yes, the rider spoke up solemnly, looking the wagon man in the eye.

The wagon man looked him over. What you lookin’ for him for?

Well, the bounty, for starters, and information.

The wagon man laughed. You’re a smart one, ain’t ya, boy.

Yes, sir. Could either of you point me in the direction of the Oklahoma territory?

The robber became agitated. Oh, let’s just shoot him, Dave.

The wagon man waved him off. Control yourself, son. He turned to the rider. The Oklahoma Territory, you said?

The rider nodded. Specifically, a town called Lightning Creek.

The wagon man looked him over again. He sat quietly for a second. Then, he pointed to the northeast. The territory is that a way, about two hundred miles.

The rider became distraught. Two hundred miles of desert?

The man shook his head. No, no. About sixty miles or so, the desert ends. Plenty of water that way, too. He then cut his eyes at the robber, and back at the rider. You got business in Lightning Creek, do ya?

The rider nodded. Yep. With a gunman. His name is Johnny Simpson. I believe he goes by the name Johnny Quickdraw.

The two men looked at each other, and the wagon man shook his head knowingly. I remember you now, boy. I saw you in El Paso asking around for Johnny.

You saw me in El Paso?

Oh yeah, and I gotta tell you, boy, today is not your lucky day. I just happen to be Dave Simpson, Johnny’s uncle.

The rider tensed up when he heard this. He took another step back very slowly. He took a deep breath, and exhaled, relaxing himself. He felt time slow down, as all his senses seemed to heighten. The wagon man was still talking, but he could no longer hear what he was saying. He saw the man’s hand clench the barrel of his rifle tightly. He cut his glance over to the robber. He had a frantic look on his face. The rider smiled slightly. He was the weaker one. The man looked over at the wagon man, and the rider saw his chance. The wagon man began to raise his rifle, but he would not make it.

Well, boy, I can’t let you leave here—

The man started, but never finished. The rider, in what processed as a blink in the man’s mind, drew his gun and fired. The rider saw the look of surprise on the wagon man’s face as he caught him completely off guard. The round struck the man’s chest, lurching him back. The rider fired a second shot, knocking him off the wagon. He quickly spun, firing twice at the robber. The robber managed to get one shot off, but to no avail, as it flew high over the rider’s head. The robber’s chest and head spurted out blood, as he fell from his horse and collapsed on the ground, dying instantly. The rider turned back to the wagon man. He lay squirming on the ground, blood oozing from the holes in his body. The man turned, and looked at the rider, and drew his six-gun.

D-damn you, boy, he said, as his gun arm dropped, and he died. The rider looked down, a sliver of satisfaction coming over him at that moment. Rot in hell, you racist bastard, he said coldly.

The wind blew across his face, driving coarse sand over his skin, slightly stinging him. He stood there, frozen in thought, his mind overtaken suddenly with grief. His heart became burdened, and sunk in his chest. He began to brood. He looked up in the sky. Was this all that he was good for? Was he only good at killing? It had come naturally to him since before the war, and since the end, no matter how much he had run from it, he couldn’t seem to get away. It was such a sorry state he was in.

Suddenly, he stumbled back, as his body reminded him that he needed water. He looked over at the man’s wagon and started toward it. Almost tripping over himself, he reached the wagon and climbed up in the back. His heart jumped with excitement as he discovered four whole barrels of water all stuffed in the back. They were the most beautiful things he had seen in quite a long time. Why this man needed so much water, he didn’t know, as oxen didn’t need so much water, but no matter. He would benefit from this man’s excessive planning. He rolled one barrel off the wagon, and pried the lid off with his knife. He stuck his whole head inside the barrel. The cool water felt like heaven to him. Its cold touch flowed all over his face, finally quenching the thirst of his dry throat. He threw his head back out of the water, splashing it everywhere. His horse nudged him roughly. All right, all right. He laughed, letting him refresh himself as well. He took off his shirt, and hung it on the wagon. He hugged the neck of his horse, relieved that he had not had to kill his only friend in this desolate place.

He jumped back up in the wagon. Hopefully, the fat man would have some clothes in here that would fit. He didn’t think that he would, but it never hurt to try. He found food and grain for the oxen, a big case of whiskey, a cigar box, but no clothes, sadly. He took one of the cigars, and lit it. He took out a piece of jerky, and took a bite and jumped down from the wagon. As he took a puff of his cigar, and fed his horse some grain, he leaned up against the wagon. As he leaned against it, a panel on the edge gave way under his weight, almost causing him to fall. Stupid man, he thought. You couldn’t even keep up the maintenance of your wagon. He looked closer at where the panel had been and saw a secret compartment. He suddenly realized that that panel was actually a trapdoor, and within the trapdoor were several long crates. He didn’t even have to open them to know what the contents were. He had already realized it when he found the whiskey and the cigars, but now it was solidified in his mind. He was probably running with the Comancheros, a group of Mexican and white gunrunners that were supplying the Comanches all the weapons they needed to fight the US Army and the Texas Rangers. He would have to notify the rangers of his discovery when he arrived at a town, but for now, he was going to borrow this wagon. He replaced the trapdoor, then closed the cloth cover of the wagon. He took a puff of his cigar and reloaded his revolver. He then placed it in his holster and picked up the rifle of the wagon man. The rifle was almost brand-new. It had gold plating, and the man’s name inscribed on the butt. A beautiful weapon made for an unsavory character. Johnny Quickdraw was a butcher and a fiend. He had mercilessly killed men, women, children, animals, anyone or anything that he encountered. The Quick was pure incarnation of evil, and the fact that these idiots would die defending him spoke about their characters as men. He pointed the rifle at the man’s lifeless body, and said, Sic semper tyrannus, the very words spoken by the man who had murdered his personal hero, Abe Lincoln. As the only slave on his plantation that could read, as his master had taught him how to keep books, he had followed Abe Lincoln since he had heard about him. He secretly read the newspapers his master would keep in his study. Every time he saw Lincoln mentioned, the newspaper would slander him as a nigger lover and someone who would fight to end slavery. Whenever he saw this, it made him like this man in a far-off place even more. He had become a huge fan of his, and vowed he would meet him one day to tell him about the hope he had given him. That day never came. That phrase, Latin for thus always with tyrants, had stuck with him since he had heard it. It was a fitting phrase to be uttered here. Johnny Quick and his ilk were tyrants, setting down upon the lives of dozens of people, robbing them of their freedoms, leaving death in their wake. Though those words were spoken through the lips of a coward, they had become part of his mantra: never be a tyrant.

He was torn from his thoughts by the uncomfortable and nervous neighing of his horse. As he came back to reality, he suddenly felt that he was being watched. He heard the galloping of at least a dozen horses. He spun around, ready to fight, but immediately fought that urging. Right in front of him were about twenty Indians, guns and spears in hand, and they did not look too happy. The man sighed. Now he was really in a bad way.

Chapter 2

From the designs of their clothes and the spears, they were Comanches. The rider gritted his teeth as he looked around. This man could be who they were here to see. If so, this scene did look bad. He wasn’t holding many cards in his favor. Hopefully, they wanted to talk, so he could possibly reason with them, and not go straight to a shoot-out. But, even there he was unlucky. His Comanche was shoddy at best. He had never taken much time to learn the lingo, which he hadn’t regretted until just now. He could only hope one of them spoke English well. Either way, one against twenty in the open desert wasn’t good odds, so he lowered his rifle.

Suddenly, the group rode toward him. He pulled the lever of the rifle down to check if there was a round in the chamber. If they chose to fight, he at least wanted to be ready. As they drew closer, the dust that their horses kicked up stung his eyes. The lead warrior’s nose stopped about four inches from his face. He stepped back slowly, his heart skipping a beat. A line of sweat rolled down his head into his left eye, adding to the sting of the dust and closing his eye momentarily. He looked up at the man and mustered up a greeting.

Howdy. Nice party you got here.

The warriors looked around at one another, as he spoke again. How can I help you, gentlemen?

He hoped this false bravado would work. He couldn’t help but at least be nervous at this, but he couldn’t let them know that. At hearing his words, one of the younger braves rode a short distance away and screamed at him in Comanche. He pounded his chest and pointed at the man. I’m sorry, friend, the rider yelled. I don’t understand what you’re saying. He could make out a few words, but not enough to put together what he was conveying.

He is saying that you violated an agreement we had with this dead man here. The man looked at the party. A tough-looking brave with a scar running down his right eye alighted down from his horse and walked up to him. He says you should be killed. The rider looked at the man, surprised. The brave laughed. Your Comanche not so good, huh?

The rider laughed as well. No, not good at all. But your English is good, which suits me fine.

I was forced to learn in white man’s school.

The rider nodded. That’s fine. Now, how can this be resolved, uh, what is your name, friend?

Not friend, and my name is Ahoti.

The man began yelling again, but Ahoti quieted him. Not sure. You dishonored us badly. This man had treaty to travel on Comanche land unharmed.

How do I repay you?

The braves, still mounted on their horses, pulled out their knives. I don’t know, Ahoti said. They say you keep them from having good rifles.

An idea suddenly struck the man. What if I can get you over one hundred rifles?

Where will you get that many rifles? Ahoti asked, looking around and at the wagon.

The man pointed at the wagon. There, with plenty of bullets to keep the white man off your back for many moons.

Ahoti looked at him, then at the braves.

It is not up to us to make this choice. You will meet our chief, Lone Rider, and he will decide what will be done with you. He cocked the lever of his rifle and leveled it at the man. Take off your gun belt.

The man looked around at them. He didn’t like the idea of giving up his gun, especially to savages. If he played his cards right, there was a strong chance he could get out alive. However, in the off chance that things didn’t go as planned, he liked the idea of giving himself a fighting chance to make a run from whatever village they took him to. This wasn’t the time to debate them, though, so he chose once again to cooperate with them. He stripped the belt from his waist, and jumped on his horse. He hoped he had made the right decision. He’d know soon enough.

The group came upon the village very soon after leaving the desert the next day. It had been a mostly silent and somber ride for them. The braves had been content to leave the rider to the torture of his own imaginations. He looked up at the rock formations and noticed braves stationed in different areas. They rode into the mouth of the camp, and the man could tell the whole camp was preparing for war. Some braves were sharpening arrows, others were sharpening knives. Off in the distance, some were practicing their archery, with older braves teaching young boys how to shoot arrows from the ground and from horseback. To his left, sitting in front of a tepee, were four older braves, clearly wise in the ways of war, teaching younger warriors how to clean and handle rifles, preparing them for whatever battle was ahead of them.

They arrived at the center of the camp. Sitting in front of them was a large tepee. A few braves stood around outside. Ahoti alighted down from the back of his horse and went inside the tepee. Several minutes passed, and Ahoti and five chiefs walked out of the tepee. They stepped to the side as a sixth chief, clearly the head honcho, stepped out as well. Ahoti pointed at the rider, and spoke in Comanche. The chief nodded. The man grew nervous again. These weren’t the first Indians he had dealt with. He had been close to the Cheyenne, and to a group of Cherokees that he had met a long time ago, but this was the first tribe he had visited where death was looming over his head. Ahoti walked up to him and motioned for him to step down off the horse. He did as he was told, and walked with Ahoti up to the chief. He looked around. A crowd of Comanche had gathered. Several squaws whispered to one another as they looked on, and several children pointed at him and laughed. He smiled. At least someone would get enjoyment out of his predicament. Ahoti addressed the group in Comanche, then spoke to the man.

Lone Rider, this is our great chieftain, Three Bears.

Three Bears stepped toward him, and extended his hand as if he wanted to shake the man’s hand. Ahoti explained.

Three Bears spent much time around white men when he was young. He loved the idea that men shake hands to greet and signify friendship.

The man nodded, and took the chief’s hand. It’s not every day that you get to shake the hand of a big chief.

The chief spoke up in broken English. It is big thing you ask of me.

The man nodded again. Yes, I know, but seeing that Three Bears is a wise chief, I’m confident that we can work this out.

The chief nodded, and the man continued. Chief, I understand that I killed your supplier of weapons, but I want you to know what happened. He gave me no other choice. I tried to reason with him, but he would have none of it. I killed the man, yes, but I have in my possession the two hundred rifles that he was going to give you, as well as three thousand rounds. Instead of paying outrageous prices to him, you can take these free of charge. I can also get you one thousand US dollars to buy more weapons when you need them. I ask that you accept these gifts as payments for my misdeeds.

With that, he opened the trapdoor and yanked out one of the crates of rifles. He opened it up and handed one of the rifles to the awaiting chief. Three Bears looked over the rifle, cocking the lever and pulling the trigger several times, then he handed to one of the chiefs beside him. The smaller chief looked up at Three Bears and nodded his approval.

What is your name, Lone Rider? the chief asked the man.

Robinson. My name is Jess Robinson.

Three Bears looked over at Ahoti. Ahoti had a surprised look plastered on his face.

Jess looked at them quizzically. What’s the matter? he asked.

You are Jess Robinson? Ahoti questioned.

Yes.

The gunman that killed John the Butcher?

Jess nodded. One and the same.

They looked him up and down. The story told us said that Jess Robinson was a pale face.

Well, ya can’t believe everything ya hear, the man quipped.

Three Bears looked over at Ahoti and spoke to him in Comanche. Ahoti nodded and responded back. They spoke for about thirty seconds to a minute, occasionally looking at Jess. He began to get irritated, though he did his best to conceal it. If