The only reason I ended up with an amnesty from President Ulysses S. Grant was that two white marshals from Little Rock let a whiskeyseller get away. The whiskeyseller was one of Belle Blue’s sons, Zacharias Blue, or Zack for short. Zack was young and reckless and sold whiskey openly at times when he should have been amusing himself by whoring or fishing. Zack’s whiskey was not the pure stuff Belle Blue concocted; the two marshals came to know about him because a man had gone blind, from drinking Zack’s whiskey.
The fellow, whose name was Johnson, disliked being blinded by the liquor so much that he took recourse to the law. The marshals sent to arrest Zack were named Lee Chaney and Cephus Washburn. They were dispatched from Little Rock instead of Fort Smith because Judge Ike Parker’s wife had died suddenly of a tumour, and the Judge had closed the court for a month, to wrestle with his grief.
If Judge Parker had been running his court at the time, I doubt the trouble in Dog Town would ever have happened. Ike Parker would have had better judgment than to send two men who couldn’t shoot, and who could barely ride, to Dog Town to arrest one whiskeyseller.
I guess the judge in Little Rock thought any fool could arrest an Indian or a whiskeyseller. It was a mistake quite a few judges make, in my experience.
Marshal Chaney and Marshal Washburn rode right past Zack Blue, when they rode into Dog Town. Zack put his hat over his eyes and pretended to snooze as soon as he saw the marshals coming, and the marshals bought the bluff. Zack waited until they were well past him, and then slipped off into the hills.
There was a fine meadow about a mile north of Dog Town, popular with people who liked to race horses. I was there with a dozen or so militia men, matching some two-year-old horses run against each other. We were not racing serious, just running little hundred-yard matches, when the two marshals rode up.
There had been no disturbances recently, and I had about forgotten that I was a candidate for arrest, when Marshal Lee Chaney discourteously rode up to me while I was adjusting a stirrup and shoved a six-shooter rudely into my ribs.
“By God, if you’re Zeke Proctor, I’m taking you to Fort Smith,” Lee said.
“Oh—I ain’t Zeke,” I replied. “Zeke’s my younger brother. That’s him on that sorrel filly.”
The man on the sorrel filly was actually Looney. He was ten years younger than me, and looked nothing like me at all. You would think even the dumbest lawman would see through such a trick, but it convinced Marshal Chaney.
He took the six-shooter out of my ribs, and as soon as he did, I whistled up the militia. In less than a minute, the two marshals were in the middle of twelve Cherokee militiamen, all armed and competent.
“Whoa now, boys—this is a damn crowd,” Marshal Chaney observed, as the horsemen crowded around him.
“A peaceful crowd, except when some fellow pulls a gun for no reason,” I told him. “I’m Zeke Proctor, and this is the Keetoowah Militia. If I were you, I would state your business, and leave.”
Marshal Chaney had managed to get it set in his head that John Looney was me, for no better reason than I had just told him so. He was attempting to puzzle out who was who, but evidently could not think clearly while in the midst of a bunch of mounted horses.
“No, that one on the sorrel is Zeke,” he told his companion, Cephus Washburn.
“No, it ain’t, Lee—this one is Zeke,” Marshal Washburn said, pointing a bony finger at me.
“It don’t matter anyways, because we didn’t come to get Zeke Proctor,” Marshal Washburn added. “We come to get Zacharias Blue. He’s the one selling the whiskey that blinds folks.”
My militia boys kept quiet—real quiet. Twelve Cherokees being quiet at the same time amounts to a passel of quiet; it’s like that quiet at night that seems louder than noise. I believe it unnerved the marshals more than if we’d all gabbed at once.
“Whichever he is, Zeke’s wanted, too,” Marshal Chaney declared. “He’s wanted for that shooting in the courthouse. Judge Parker mentioned him to me himself.”
Marshal Cephus Washburn knew he had serious trouble on his hands if he didn’t behave, a fact his partner had yet to figure out.
“Lee, I ain’t worried about no old disputes,” he asserted. “Just put up your weapon, and let these boys get back to racing their horses.”
“We’re just testing our colts,” I said. I was trying to be sensible, and so was Marshal Washburn. I was hoping the matter could end without gunplay, and it might have, if Marshal Chaney had a better holster. Once he took his pistol out of my ribs, he tried several times to shove it back in its holster, but the holster was tight and the gun wouldn’t go in, which fact meant the marshal still had his pistol in his hand. It was a hefty pistol, and a small holster. I suppose the marshal had been in a hurry when he left and had gotten his guns and holsters mixed up.
I soon regretted that I had ever mentioned John Looney. Confusion leads to wildness, and Marshal Chaney was bad confused. He looked at me, and he looked at John, and his eyes got wilder every time he switched from one of us to the other.
“Hell, one of them’s Zeke, let’s take ’em both in. The jury can sort it out!” he said.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me, sir,” I said. “This is the Keetoowah Militia surrounding you. We can police this part of the country without your help. We’d all be better pleased if you’d put away that gun and leave.”
“That’s fine, but we’ll have the whiskeyseller if you’ll point him out to us,” Marshal Cephus Washburn said. “We’ve ridden a long way, and have our expenses to consider.”
We weren’t going to tell them Zack Blue had just scampered into the timber. Marshal Washburn’s horse had nearly stepped on the boy as the two men were riding into town. It would have made them look more foolish.
And they were foolish. But it would be wiser to let the Judge tell them that—they weren’t holding no gun on the Judge.
“You’re welcome to the whiskeysellers, if you come up on them, but I’d approach them careful, if I were you,” I said. “There’s six or eight of them, and they ain’t low on bullets.”
Of course, it was a leg pull; there weren’t any eight whiskeysellers in the whole Territory. If there had been, I’d have likely been drunk all the time. There was just Zack Blue and his mother Belle, and Old Mandy
The leg pull didn’t matter. Neither did my effort to be sensible, or Marshal Washburn’s, either. The other marshal, Lee Chaney, was fast coming to a boil. I saw it, and so did Marshal Washburn. I waved for the boys to move back. I thought maybe if we gave the man air, he’d calm down.
“Whoa, Lee . . . best not be reckless,” Marshal Washburn said, just before Marshal Chaney hit the boil point and started shooting. I was three feet away, but with no weapon on me. I had been running my colt, and had wanted to dispense with the weight.
“Throw me a gun!” I yelled, expecting to be shot before a weapon arrived.
But Marshal Washburn made a lunge for his partner—trying, I suspect, to get him under control before they both got mowed down by the Keetoowah Militia. It was the sensible thing to try, but it failed due to the crowded conditions. Lee Chaney’s first shot hit his partner in the left kneecap, rendering him a cripple for life. That kneecap exploded like a crabapple would explode if you shot it with a buffalo gun. Marshal Washburn turned white from surprise.
“Goddamn, Lee!” he yelled, and then his horse reared from nervousness, and he went off the back of his saddle.
Arch Scraper was nearest to me, and had the composure to hand me a pistol.
“Marshal, stop!” I commanded. “You just shot your own man!”
I doubt it registered with Lee Chaney, though. He was in such a state of wild confusion that he was determined to shoot somebody.
I saw him swing the pistol toward John Looney, whom I had foolishly said was me. The boys were packed together so tight, they could barely pull their guns.
“Hold off!” I yelled, as loud as I could.
Lee Chaney shot one shot a
t John, but all he hit was the sky. His eyes was like a crazed cow’s. If I had a crowbar, I might have stopped him with it—that, or a sledgehammer, but I didn’t have a crowbar or a sledgehammer. John Looney wasn’t much more than twenty feet from Marshal Chaney. Even a man who had gone cow-crazy might hit his target, if given enough opportunities.
“Marshal, don’t shoot no more—I’m Zeke!” I protested, but it still didn’t register. Lee Chaney took aim at John Looney again, at which point I shot him dead.
It was a poor end to a pleasant day. I had only wanted to run some two-year-old colts on a grassy meadow with good footing. That was all the militiamen had wanted, too—a little horseracing, and maybe a swallow or two of liquor.
But now we had one dead marshal, and another wounded so painfully that he could scarce draw a breath without moaning.
“I wish one of those whiskeysellers you were sent to catch would show up,” I told Marshal Washburn. “Whiskey’s about all there is around here that would be likely to ease your pain.”
Marshal Washburn looked weak and white. No doubt, he was thinking what a long, painful journey it would be back to Arkansas. I wasn’t a doc, and I didn’t know much about kneecaps, but a brief look at his wound convinced me that Marshal Washburn would be walking on crutches for a good, long time.
Although I enjoy my whiskey, the events of the day made me take against the whiskeysellers. There was trouble again in the Going Snake District, all because Zack Blue was too lazy to make whiskey healthful enough that it wouldn’t turn a man blind. If I could have caught young Zack while I was in my rage, I would have given him a licking he would be a long time forgetting.
The deed was done, though, and the horseracing was over. What I couldn’t figure was why the white law couldn’t produce even two marshals who knew how to behave. Marshal Chaney had no reason to be poking a gun in my ribs, even if he did think I needed arresting.
“Lee was hotheaded,” Marshal Washburn admitted. “Many’s the time I’ve asked him not to be so quick to draw his gun. Once you point a gun at a man, there’s apt to be shooting happen.”
“I expect we’d have got through it without gunplay if he’d had a bigger holster,” I said. “He couldn’t get his pistol put away, so he fiddled around and shot you in the knee.”
“Yes, the dern fool,” Marshal Cephus Washburn said.
14
I THOUGHT ABOUT THE MATTER CONSIDERABLE, AND DECIDED TO take the dead marshal and the wounded one back to Arkansas myself. I knew Becca would be dead set against it, so I didn’t go home to argue the matter. I sent John Looney to explain; loaded the corpse on one horse; and with the help of Belle Blue, borrowed a small wagon to cart Marshal Washburn. I didn’t think the man would survive a horseback trip to Fort Smith, much less Little Rock. Every time the horse’s hoof hit the ground, that shattered kneecap would pain him. Taking a dead body all the way to Little Rock would have been a damn nuisance, since Fort Smith had a fine cemetery anyway, and was a sight closer besides.
Marshal Washburn seemed a frank man, so I put a frank question to him that night, when we camped.
“According to this dead fellow, I’m still a wanted man,” I said. “Do you think they’ll lock me up and hang me, when I show up in Fort Smith with you and the corpse?”
“Not over this,” the marshal said. “That damn hotheaded Lee Chaney caused this. It’s a terrible aggravation, but I will not tolerate them hanging you for it. You were only looking to your stirrup, and Lee poked you with his gun.”
“I thank you for your honesty,” I said. “I hope Judge Parker respects your opinion.”
“The Judge lost his missus. He’s in a sad state,” the Marshal informed me.
“I have heard they were a respected couple,” I told him.
We heard a pack of coyotes yipping, whenever the conversation lagged.
“Did Marshal Chaney have a wife?” I inquired.
“Yes—a fine one,” Marshal Washburn told me. “I’ll be surprised if I don’t marry her, now that Lee’s gone.
“I’m a widower myself,” he added. “It’s too dern lonesome at night, when you’re a widower.”
“Agreed,” I said. “I’ve been a married man myself, since I was a youth.”
It was grey in the morning, and grey when we came to the Arkansas River. A man named Lonnie Vont, whom I knew slightly, ferried us over to the Fort Smith side. Lonnie was known to be a gossip; I suppose it’s boresome, pulling the same boat over the same water, day after day.
“Who’s in the wagon sheet?” he asked. We had wrapped Marshal Chaney up as neatly as we could.
“That dern Lee, the hothead,” Marshal Washburn replied.
“Oh—I expect Zeke shot him?” Lonnie said. “Zeke’s shot a passel of folks, I hear.”
Idle remarks like that one had always irked me. I walked over and picked up Lonnie—he wasn’t large—and heaved him out of his ferry.
He bobbed up after a moment, looking surprised. Marshal Wash-burn, though in pain, laughed out loud. He enjoyed the sight of Lonnie Vont flying out of his own ferryboat.
We were about halfway across the river, when Lonnie made his vexing remark. It was still a good distance to the Arkansas shore, and the water was choppy and cool.
“Reckon he can swim it?” Marshal Washburn asked. He craned his neck for a look at Lonnie, who was already a good fifty yards behind us.
“I hope not,” I said. “I hope the river washes the goddamn rattle-mouth clean out to sea.”
“Out to sea?” the Marshal asked. “Does the old Arkansas go that far?”
“It goes to the big Miss, and the big Miss goes that far,” I informed him. “It’s because fools like him start yarning about killings in the District that causes men like yourself to get their knee bones exploded.”
The next minute, I was sorry that I had used the word “exploded.” The marshal might have forgotten his wound for a while, in his amusement at the plight of our gabby ferryman. No sooner had I said the word than he began to look peaked again—peaked, and scared.
“If that’s what it looks like, I guess I’ll be a long time on a crutch,” he said. Marshal Washburn didn’t speak another word on the rest of the crossing, and quickly lost interest in whether Lonnie Vont sank or swam.
When I docked the ferry and drove the wagon onto land, Lonnie was still visible, though he had drifted a far ways downstream. His head, on that big water, looked as tiny as the head of a turtle.
I decided I didn’t dislike him enough to want him washed out to sea, but I meant what I said to the marshal. Every Cherokee killing got talked about by the whites until it wasn’t just one killing, anymore. Pretty soon, it turned into six or eight, ten or twenty. Then some judge felt he had to call out the marshals; then the Indians outshot the marshals, unless the marshals broke into fighting among themselves before they located the Indians they were supposed to arrest. That had happened twice recently. Marshal Maples shot Marshal Massey; Marshal Chaney shot Marshal Washburn—and in between those fatal encounters came Ned’s battle. I still have no accurate sense of how many marshals Ned killed, but I believe it was at least four. Tacking that four onto Massey and Chaney made six marshals dead or wounded, all because some white judge listened to wild talk.
I got a little worried about Lonnie, at that point. His head had disappeared. I thought maybe I had drowned the fool, which was more than I had intended. But it was too late, by this time, to go dive for him. If he was drowned, he was drowned.
Then, to my relief, I saw him wading ashore about 150 yards downstream. He was making slow progress, too—it looked like he had found a nice gummy patch of Arkansas mud to wade through. Four people were waiting for the ferry. If Lonnie didn’t speed to shore, he would soon be losing business.
I hoped it would teach him a lesson, but I doubt it. Rattlemouths have a hard time changing their ways.
15
IN THE STREET NEAR THE COURTHOUSE, I MET THE TALL, SKINNY fellow who had tried to be a bailiff the d
ay the courthouse in Tahlequah got shot up—the day of my trial. I had forgotten his name, if I ever knew it, but I was glad to see him.
“Uh-oh,” he said, when he saw we had a body wrapped in a wagon sheet.
“Uh-oh is right, and this other marshal’s shot in the knee,” I informed the man. “First, I need the doctor—and then, I need the Judge.”
“I think this one’s dead, too,” the tall, skinny man said, peering into the wagon. “We’re using up a passel of marshals, over there in Indian Territory.”
Unbeknownst to me, the marshal had passed out again. I knew he wasn’t dead; I could see his chest moving when he breathed. Evidently, the young bailiff was nearsighted. I wasn’t disposed to be testy with him, having recalled that this bailiff had shot T. Spade Beck, a fellow who wanted to kill me in the worst way. I was unarmed at the time of the killing, too. The least I owed the youngster was a little patience.
“I guess I can take this marshal to the doc for you,” the bailiff volunteered.
“I’d be obliged if you would. What about the Judge?” I asked.
He pointed up the hill, to where a man in a dark coat was chopping wood with an axe.
“There’s the Judge,” he said.
“If he’s a judge, why is he chopping wood, this time of day?” I inquired, though it was not my business, really.
“I can’t speak for Judge Parker, and I would be a fool to try,” the bailiff told me. “I guess he figures he might need the firewood.”
He kindly took the wagon from me, and found a doctor for Marshal Washburn. Later, I heard that the marshal had to be hauled all the way to Little Rock at government expense. I think the same doctor that made Moses Squirrel a new jaw tried to make the marshal a new kneecap, only it didn’t work. I happened to encounter Marshal Wash-burn some years later, and he was still using a crutch.