me good.”
Drew made a weak effort at a smile.
The old lawman coughed again and wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his hand as though waiting for a reprieve.
“You don’t need to prove anything to me, Al.”
“It ain’t for you,” said the deputy. “It’s for me.”
Ben Goodlow received the telegram from U.S. Marshal Caleb Drew of Fort Smith while he was eating his breakfast. The telegram
stated that a deputy U.S. marshal by the name of Al Freemont would meetthe ranger and his prisoners at Ardmore in the Indian Nations, that it was the extent of what the Federal lawman could offer
in the way of assistance. It was more than Ben Goodlow had expected. He’d take it. He summoned Pete Winter.
“How close are you to being ready, Pete?”
“Well sir, I’m waiting for my order to be filled over at the outpost, and the riding horses to be shod. I’d say within the
next hour or two.”
“I’ll draw some funds for travelling money from the bank for you, son. You meet me at the office when you are prepared to
go.”
By ten that morning, Pete Winter led two riding horses and a pack mule full of supplies up to the Ranger Headquarters and
tied them to the hitch rail.
Stepping inside, he placed a package wrapped in brown paper on the captain’s desk: “Riding clothes for Miss Swensen,” he said.
Ben Goodlow took the package back to the cells and left them with the woman to get dressed in; he brought Johnny Montana forth
to the office while she did so.
While they were waiting for Katie Swensen to change, the captain turned to Pete and said, “Don’t let your guard down out there,
son. There’s a thousand things that could go wrong.”
The young ranger grinned embarrassedly. “I will, Cap’n.”
“Here’s a map of the territory from here to the Nations,” said the older lawman, handing Pete a rolled parchment.
“Thanks, Cap’n,” said Pete, tucking the map into the saddlebags he carried. “I’ve been up that way atime or two before, I’ve marked where I believe water holes to be.”
Katie Swensen made her appearance from the cell area. She was dressed in a dark blue woolen shirt, corduroy pants, and low-heeled
boots.
“Young lady,” said the lawman, “If you promise not to cause this officer a fuss during your journey, I’ll forego the handcuffs
at this time for your comfort.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“You are welcome, but I’m instructing Pete, here, to let you wear iron all the way to the Nations if necessary. He won’t tolerate
any misbehavior on your part, do you understand?”
She nodded her head.
“You wire in when you get there, Pete,” were the last instructions he knew to give.
He watched the trio ride out, taking the north road. Another time, another place, they could have been simply three young
folks riding out for a picnic.
Something uncertain nagged at his gut. He would have felt less troubled had Henry Dollar been the one running the show. But
then, he told himself, his uneasiness was more a personal matter than a practical one: Pete was like his own son.
Chapter Six
Al Freemont had been a day’s ride out of Ft. Smith, had crossed over into the Indian Nations, and had the deep sense that
someone was dogging his trail. He stopped several times and waited, spelling his mount and his sore backside, but no one came
up the trail behind him.
It was a hard business, riding all day; a business better suited for younger men.
The sipping whiskey he nibbled at every few miles seemed to take some of the ache out, but not enough to keep him from being
miserable.
Damned if he knew why he had let Caleb Drew shame him into taking this journey.
Foolish pride,
he told himself.
A man shouldn’t have more pride than he can carry.
He let his mind drift back to other times, earlier times, in order to ignore his present discomfort. He remembered the glory
days when the law was less complicated than it was now.
Drew made a weak effort at a smile.
The old lawman coughed again and wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his hand as though waiting for a reprieve.
“You don’t need to prove anything to me, Al.”
“It ain’t for you,” said the deputy. “It’s for me.”
Ben Goodlow received the telegram from U.S. Marshal Caleb Drew of Fort Smith while he was eating his breakfast. The telegram
stated that a deputy U.S. marshal by the name of Al Freemont would meetthe ranger and his prisoners at Ardmore in the Indian Nations, that it was the extent of what the Federal lawman could offer
in the way of assistance. It was more than Ben Goodlow had expected. He’d take it. He summoned Pete Winter.
“How close are you to being ready, Pete?”
“Well sir, I’m waiting for my order to be filled over at the outpost, and the riding horses to be shod. I’d say within the
next hour or two.”
“I’ll draw some funds for travelling money from the bank for you, son. You meet me at the office when you are prepared to
go.”
By ten that morning, Pete Winter led two riding horses and a pack mule full of supplies up to the Ranger Headquarters and
tied them to the hitch rail.
Stepping inside, he placed a package wrapped in brown paper on the captain’s desk: “Riding clothes for Miss Swensen,” he said.
Ben Goodlow took the package back to the cells and left them with the woman to get dressed in; he brought Johnny Montana forth
to the office while she did so.
While they were waiting for Katie Swensen to change, the captain turned to Pete and said, “Don’t let your guard down out there,
son. There’s a thousand things that could go wrong.”
The young ranger grinned embarrassedly. “I will, Cap’n.”
“Here’s a map of the territory from here to the Nations,” said the older lawman, handing Pete a rolled parchment.
“Thanks, Cap’n,” said Pete, tucking the map into the saddlebags he carried. “I’ve been up that way atime or two before, I’ve marked where I believe water holes to be.”
Katie Swensen made her appearance from the cell area. She was dressed in a dark blue woolen shirt, corduroy pants, and low-heeled
boots.
“Young lady,” said the lawman, “If you promise not to cause this officer a fuss during your journey, I’ll forego the handcuffs
at this time for your comfort.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“You are welcome, but I’m instructing Pete, here, to let you wear iron all the way to the Nations if necessary. He won’t tolerate
any misbehavior on your part, do you understand?”
She nodded her head.
“You wire in when you get there, Pete,” were the last instructions he knew to give.
He watched the trio ride out, taking the north road. Another time, another place, they could have been simply three young
folks riding out for a picnic.
Something uncertain nagged at his gut. He would have felt less troubled had Henry Dollar been the one running the show. But
then, he told himself, his uneasiness was more a personal matter than a practical one: Pete was like his own son.
Chapter Six
Al Freemont had been a day’s ride out of Ft. Smith, had crossed over into the Indian Nations, and had the deep sense that
someone was dogging his trail. He stopped several times and waited, spelling his mount and his sore backside, but no one came
up the trail behind him.
It was a hard business, riding all day; a business better suited for younger men.
The sipping whiskey he nibbled at every few miles seemed to take some of the ache out, but not enough to keep him from being
miserable.
Damned if he knew why he had let Caleb Drew shame him into taking this journey.
Foolish pride,
he told himself.
A man shouldn’t have more pride than he can carry.
He let his mind drift back to other times, earlier times, in order to ignore his present discomfort. He remembered the glory
days when the law was less complicated than it was now.
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