Winding Stair (9781101559239) (18 page)

“We haven't got Milk Eye,” Burris Garret said.

“I've got to try it anyway. Don't noise around what I'm up to. I'll ride up here to Checotah and take a KATY train and catch up with you later in Fort Smith.”

He reined his horse away from us, glancing back toward the two prisoners.

“Take them two on in. And for God's sake, watch 'em close because if they do anything foolish, the Creek will cut 'em in half with that shotgun, and we don't make any profit on dead prisoners.”

We watched him as he kicked his horse along the railroad tracks, riding awkwardly as though his legs were too short for his feet to seat in the stirrups.

The day was turning muggy and hot, and a short time after we left the railroad embankment, Burris Garret and I shed our jackets. The Creek policeman kept his army coat on, but Garret and I were sweating our shirts damp.

At one point, we paused under some large sycamore trees to rest the horses and have some water, and I heard Nason Grube and Skitty Cornkiller break their silence with a few words in Creek.

“What are they saying?” I asked Moma July.

“The colored man, he says, ‘What they gone do with us Mr. Cornkiller?' ”

“Yeah, and what did Cornkiller say?”

“Cornkiller says, ‘They gone try and hang us, old man.' ”

D
uring our ride to Fort Smith, Burris Garret talked with the two prisoners as though we were all farmers going to market our hogs. Nason Grube responded at once, smiling and flicking his long pink tongue across his lips, and after a while Skitty Cornkiller was talking, too, with all the casualness of any good citizen not remotely concerned with being accused of capital crimes. They spoke of crops and horses and the weather and how The Nations had changed for the worse since the railroads had started building through the country.

Moma July never joined in any of this. He rode or sat at the campfire with hooded eyes, watching, holding that vicious short gun across his lap. Oscar Schiller had been right. He was anxious for an excuse to use it.

It was incomprehensible that these two prisoners, wearing our steel bracelets and suspected of rape, could speak so easily in our presence. And it was equally unfathomable that Burris Garret could be so amiable with two people into whose faces he had only a few hours before thrust a cocked .45.

I came to know a great deal about the black marshal on that trip. He was a truly gentle man, and a gentleman besides. When he was in school, he told me, he had become interested in Creek law, but had finally given it up. He reckoned that soon The Nations would become a part of some United States territory and anything he might know about Creek law would be of little use in white man's court. He was a great deal like Joe Mountain, speaking of white man's government, white man's greed, white man's encroachment on Indian country, doing it without any embarrassment or excuse.

“Of course, white men haven't got a corner on that market,” he said. “Only thing is, they're better at it.”

His straightforwardness and honesty were rare.

On the second night, Garret and I were drinking coffee while Joe Mountain and the Creek policeman slept, soon to be wakened for their turn at standing guard. Neither of our prisoners had given any indication they might try to escape, but Garret insisted on two being awake to watch them at all times. Of course, when we camped, we chained them to a tree. We had been amused at Moma July's snoring, and spoke of how the racket scared the night birds away. Then Garret turned serious, staring into the fire and sipping his coffee from the collapsible tin cup he always carried.

“I'll be glad when it comes,” he said. “Making The Nations a territory. Since the war, people like me, black people who came here slaves and were freed, or the ones born here since, we've all been part of some tribe. I'm supposed to be a Creek. But hell, anybody can look at me and tell I'm no Creek.” He laughed, his hat tilted back and the firelight showing on his high forehead. “Most of us don't really feel like we belong to The Nations, even though we belong to the land. I think we'd be better off if this was all a territory. I'd feel better about it anyway.”

But later, lying with my legs apart still from the saddle soreness, I watched the brilliant sky with its pinpoint of July stars, and I wondered. Here was a black man, legally a red one, anxious to go from the society that had nurtured him. I could understand why he'd feel he didn't belong in the red culture, but I wasn't sure he'd find it any different when he became a part of the white one. There was an uncertainty in the man standing now with one foot in either, not satisfied with his lot among the Creeks and unsure of his future with the whites.

It was early morning when we came to the Arkansas River ferry. Halfway across the river, we could smell the fresh bread just coming from the ovens in the town's bakeries. Along the Fort Smith shore there were a number of people who somehow knew of our coming. It was a large group, mostly men and boys, and at first I was apprehensive. But they caused no trouble, wanting only to have a look at our prisoners. They gave way before Joe Mountain and Moma July, leading our handcuffed pair off the slip and along the street. Burris Garret and I followed with the horses.

“That's two of the sons a bitches,” someone shouted. But other than that, the crowd was silent. For a moment I recalled what Judge Parker had said about quick justice and mobs.

Once we had our prisoners turned over to the deputies at the federal jail, Burris Garret and Moma July said good-bye. They were going directly back to the Creek Nation.

“That Milk Eye man can't hide out forever,” Garret said. “Take care of that nose.”

Moma July shook hands solemnly without speaking. I hated to see them go. Joe Mountain said he was going to the Choctaw Strip, a small slice of land on the Fort Smith side of the river just south of the federal compound on Belle Point and the site of the original fort. It was now a collection of ramshackle shanties.

“You need me, you send any of these Indians who hang around, Eben Pay.” His grin widened. “They'll know where to find me.” I had the suspicion that although he still harbored a lingering animosity against the Choctaws, he didn't let that get in the way of socializing with some of their women.

 

 

I went directly to Evans's office, hoping to catch him after his regular morning session with his assistants. There was a strong temptation to go up to the women's section of the jail, but I wanted some time before seeing Jennie Thrasher. Evans's morning meeting was apparently a busy one. He didn't come for two hours. In that time, I occupied myself with a flyswatter and read the various Fort Smith newspapers always scattered about the prosecutor's office. One story explained why local citizens had met us at the ferry slip. An account of the Creek Nation arrest was printed, with all the details, and for the first time Rufus Deer was named as a suspect in the Winding Stair Massacre.

When Evans came in, face flushed with the heat, I waved one of the newspapers before him.

“Look at this,” I said. “Where'd they get all this?”

He threw a stack of papers onto the desk and slipped off his coat. His shirt was drenched with sweat.

“Well, I see you're back, and still with that sweet disposition,” he said. He stared at my face over his pince-nez. “And I see all my informants were correct. Your nose is crooked as a dog's hind leg. How is it?”

“It's just fine, thank you,” I said, still holding out the newspaper. “How did they get this?”

“It's all true, isn't it?”

“For once, yes. Of course, there are the usual misspellings of names.” The newspapers persisted in naming me Eban.

“Oscar Schiller gave it all to the telegraph operator in Checotah the day you caught them,” Evans said.

“For God's sake, didn't he know that was like coming right in with it to these newspaper offices? All these telegraphers are stringers.”

“Oscar Schiller generally knows exactly what he's doing, wouldn't you say?”

“This is all over The Nations by now, just like it's all over Fort Smith. If Milk Eye didn't know before that we were after him, he sure as hell does now.”

Evans sat down and flamed up one of his fat cigars, and when he looked at me I saw he was slipping into his professorial role.

“Milk Eye has undoubtedly known all along,” he said. “Now everyone else has the same advantage.” He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and finally pulled forth a yellow telegraph paper and tossed it to me. It was a dispatch from Okmulgee, capital of the Creek Nation, signed by Governor Legus Perryman. It offered a $500 reward for the capture and conviction of one Rufus Deer, citizen of the Creek Nation. “You see, that's something that never would have happened if Schiller hadn't spread the word. With that reward out, there are a lot of people who might be tempted to help us a little.”

“I can see the other side of it, too,” I said. “A reward can make money for Deputy Marshal Oscar Schiller.”

“That, too,” he said, squinting at me through the smoke and holding both arms out to the side to catch some of the air circulated by the large ceiling fan. “But if it helps bring the son of a bitch in, more power to him.”

I tossed the wire back onto the desk.

“All right, I can accept that, but not with very much grace.”

He was twisting his head from side to side, staring at my nose, taking it in from all angles. In that massive beard, I suspected there was a smile.

“You know, I think that nose looks better on you now.”

“If Joe Mountain hadn't pulled me out of that place, it would look a great deal worse.”

“Yes, I know all about it. Everybody in town knows about it. How you took on the whole Frisco railroad and how Oscar Schiller sent the Osage down to . . . well, let us say, to assist you.”

“After I'd sobered up, I was grateful for it, but I don't take that with very good grace, either.”

“You're a hardheaded man, Eben,” Evans said. “Now, tell me your program.”

I stood there gaping at him for a moment. It was difficult to believe that Evans was giving me any leeway. “I suppose we need to get a hearing set up with the commissioner, and get these two new ones over there, along with . . .”

He waited, but I wasn't ready to say it. Finally he nodded, and I was glad he was no longer smiling.

“Yes. Along with the colored boy and the Thrasher girl. You'll need to show them the horses first, over in the federal stable. If they identify those, that would be enough for the commissioner to bind them over for the grand jury. So no need for showing them the prisoners until the hearing. If they recognize the horses.”

From Evans's knowledge of the details, I knew the wire Oscar Schiller had sent from Checotah had been to the prosecutor's office.

“I'll handle the presentation of the government's case. Let me know when the details are taken care of.” He was going through one of his drawers and finally pulled forth a thick, folded paper and a badge. He laid them before me on the desk. “I almost forgot this. It came over from the marshal's office yesterday.”

The badge was a six-pointed star imprinted with the words
United States Deputy Marshal
and it seemed to weigh two pounds. The paper was a document prepared in the marshal's office and signed by Judge Parker making me a temporary special deputy assigned to the prosecutor's office in the case of the Winding Stair killings. I was completely dumbfounded.

“Now, this doesn't mean you're to hang a lot of iron on your belt and start running around The Nations arresting people,” Evans said. “We'd have a hell of a time explaining to your father if you went and got your ears shot off. But with that, you can do a great deal more around here, with authority that is more than word of mouth. It'll take some load off me and the deputies.”

Evans rose from his chair and lifted his right-hand shoulder high.

“Raise your hand. Do you, Eben Pay, swear and affirm that you will, to the best of your ability, perform the duties of special United States deputy marshal for the government and for this court, taking no fees other than those due you, so help you God?”

“I do,” I said, feeling foolish.

“Sign the last page and leave it here,” he said, and sat back down, yanking his chair close under the desk. He began to leaf through the stacks of papers lying there.

“So for now, go on, and let me know what you're doing from time to time. I've got my own work to do.”

“I really don't understand this,” I said.

Once more he peered over his pince-nez, a little impatiently.

“Oscar Schiller recommended it, and I approved,” he said. “Now go, Eben.”

That son of a bitch Schiller, I thought, but with the badge in my hand, I was in no mood for sour grapes. It was just a chunk of metal and a scrap of paper, I said to myself, yet there was about it an exhilaration beyond anything I'd yet known. It was better even than having the people of this court save me from my drunken brawls. I could only hope that someday I'd feel as good about passing my bar examinations. Outside Evans's office, I pinned on the star but got no farther than the compound before taking it off and slipping it into my pocket. It made me feel as conspicuous as a naked man.

Commissioner Mitchell said he could take our hearing in two days, on Monday, though it would mean setting aside less serious cases. He asked me how soon Evans was going to the grand jury with the case and I told him we hoped to have all the members of the gang in custody before we presented it. He then congratulated me on becoming a special deputy and once more I was reminded that in Fort Smith the Parker court had few secrets.