Story © by Bob Bearden 1998
All Rights Reserved
Page by Jilli

OUTLAW BY THE CREEK

By   B.R.   Bearden   aka   Thon_

The gunshot startled Fletcher.   He was kneeling at the creek to fill his coffee pot when the sound came sharp and clear from the east,   echoing off the valley walls.   He stood and faced towards the rising sun as two more shots sounded.   Close.   Real close.

Fletcher grabbed his pistol belt and strapped it on as he left his campsite to investigate.

The man followed the creek for a couple of hundred yards around a wooded bend, his hand on the maple butt of his colt .45. Rounding the turn, he came upon two men, one kneeling beside the other. The man on the ground was sprawled beside the creek, and Fletcher saw a pistol in the kneeling man's hand. He drew his colt.

"Stand up slow and easy, " Fletcher said. "And leave that pistol on the ground."

The kneeling man placed the gun on the rocky ground and slowly stood. He was barefoot.

"Mister, you got this all kinds of wrong," he said.

"Maybe. All I know is I see a dead man and you with a gun," Fletcher replied. "Turn around."

The man slowly turned. He wore brown pants and a dark green shirt; a lighter green kerchief was tied around his neck. And he wore a star.

"Who are you?" Fletcher asked as he lowered his gun at sight of the Marshall's badge.

The other cleared his throat. "I'm Nat Johnson, deputy US Marshall. This man was my prisoner." He indicated the body with a nod. "Harvey Long."

"Harvey Long? I've heard of him. Killed a couple of people in a stage robbery up near Medicine Lake couple of weeks ago."

The Marshall nodded. "That's him. I was takin' him in to Fort Smith. When I was gettin' some water, he jumped me, tried to take my gun. Had to shoot him."

Fletcher walked over to the body which lay on the rocks a few feet from the stream. It was a bearded man, dressed in blue pants and a dirty white shirt, which now was soaked in red. Well-worn boots were on his feet. Beside him lay a gunbelt. Nearby was a small cook pot. The dead man's eyes stared straight up at the morning sky.

"Alright, Marshall. Guess you can get your pistol." He holstered his. "I'm Fletcher Andrews, by the by."

The lawman retrieved his pistol and gunbelt, strapped on the belt and holstered the gun. He went over to the campsite fifty feet away and sat on the log to pull on his boots. A small fire was burning and a pot sat on it. The Marshall indicated the pot and a couple of tin cups.

"Coffee?"

Fletcher sat by the fire and poured a cup of coffee. He sipped the steaming brew. It was strong, just what he needed. He looked over to the body as the Marshall started packing up his gear. Something nagged his brain, but he couldn't quite catch it.

"You headin' towards Fort Smith?" Marshall Johnson asked as he rolled his bedroll.

"Yea. Got some business there with a horse dealer."

"Horses, huh? You got a ranch?" Nat asked.

"Spread about thirty miles west of here." Fletcher answered as he watched the Marshall. He noted the two bedrolls, spread out about ten feet apart. Fastened to a limb of the log was a pair of shackles, one end open. Two horses were tethered at the edge of the woods. The saddles were on the ground by the bedrolls.

"Buying horses?" Nat asked. He tied the bedroll to one of the saddles, started on the other.

"Gonna buy four or five. Cuttin' horses for roundup." Fletcher thought of the money in his saddle bags and again felt uneasy.

Nat nodded and took the saddle over to the bay and threw it on its back. As the man cinched it up, Fletcher again looked around the campsite, trying to figure out what bothered him. It seemed the Marshall's story fit the scene. He had unshackled the prisoner, maybe to make the coffee, and went to get more water. Long had come up behind him at the creek and was killed in the struggle. Nat came for the other saddle, took it to the horses and busied himself with it, though Fletcher noticed him looking his way every minute or so.

"How much a good cuttin' horse go for these days?" the lawman asked.

"Around fifty dollars, maybe a bit more." Fletch poured another cup. Nat smiled at him.

The Marshall came over to the fire and took the coffee pot and cup. He gestured towards Fletcher's cup. The rancher shook his head. Nat poured the coffee on the fire, then kicked the embers around to scatter it. He took the pot and his cup to the horses and stowed them.

"Don't forget your shackles," Fletcher told him. The lawman looked puzzled a moment, then fumbled in his shirt pocket.

"Damn. Guess I lost the key in all the goings on." He looked around on the ground, then shrugged. "Not important. We got plenty of shackles at Fort Smith. You want to give me a hand with that body?"

Fletcher nodded and followed the Marshall to the corpse. He took the dead man's feet and Nat gripped him under the arms. They lifted him and walked to the horses. Nat stumbled on the rocks and almost dropped the body. Something fell out of the shirt pocket of the dead man and bounced off a rock with a tinkle. It flashed silver in the sunlight before disappearing among the stones that littered the creek bank.

"There went my key," Nat grinned. "Forgot I threw it to him to unfasten hisself this mornin. Won't have to leave my shackles after all."

The men carried the body to the horse and swung it up and over the saddle, so that it hung face down. Nat began tying the corpse onto the horse.

"Why don't you go get your gear together and we can be on our way, Fletcher." He said. "Be safer for you, too, travelin' with a US Marshall."

"Me?"

"Yea, with that horse money," Nat pulled the ropes taut across the dead man.

"Oh yea," Fletcher agreed. He walked back the way he had come, glancing back at the Marshall a couple of time. The man was busy securing the body, but nodded and smiled.

As soon as Fletcher disappeared around the bend, Nat came around the horse and followed, drawing his pistol. He went slowly along the creek edge, leaning out to catch a glimpse of the rancher. The Marshall could see the man's horse tethered a few hundred yards off, but didn't see him. He eased back the hammer on his pistol.

"Don't move!" Fletcher called from the trees to his right. Nat froze in place, but turned his head slowly to the sound of the voice. The rancher was emerging from his hiding place.

"Don't get jumpy, fella," the Marshall said, "I was just checking up on you."

"With your pistol cocked and ready?"

Nat smiled, "Can't be too careful in my line of work. Fer all I knew, you was some friend of Long's."

"How do you know I'm not?" Fletcher challenged. He saw the man hesitate as he thought, then he added,   "Harvey."

The man's eyes narrowed and a wicked smile curled up the corners of his mouth. He spun to the side, his pistol aiming for Fletcher. The two guns fired together, the sound ricocheting off the hills and trees.

Nat staggered back, his eyes wide with shock. He tried to bring his pistol to bear on the rancher. Fletcher's colt boomed again and Nat was knocked off his feet by the impact of the big .45 slug. The man landed hard on the rocky ground, his pistol leaving his grip and bouncing away across the stones. The rancher looked down at him. Both bullets had struck in the upper chest and it was obvious death was only minutes away.

"How the Hell..." the dying man coughed, bloody flecks on his lips.

"I knew you weren't the Marshall."

"But ... I had," Nat coughed again, "the badge."

"You had just removed the gunbelt and badge when I came up, I guess. But, it was those bare feet that tipped me."

The outlaw coughed again, tried to ask something, but failed. He was only moments from death. Fletcher knew the question, though.

"The rocks," he said. The man looked at him in confusion. "It was the rocks. When I came up on you, you were barefoot, but the 'prisoner' had on his boots. This ground is too rough for a man to want to walk barefoot. The man with the boots was the one going for the water and the man without boots was the one doing the sneakin' up. You. When you almost fell as we carried the body, I knew it."