Эл Дженнингс - Through the Shadows with O'Henry

I wanted to get the Santa Fe. That was the charge in the handbill my father had shown me. I was condemned on that score already. I might as well have the boodle.

We were planning it one night at the ranch house. Harliss had gone to town. It was very late.

"What's that?" Jack started up.

Through the quiet, like heavy drumbeats pounding along the road, came the sound of a single galloping horse. We knew it must be a peeler. Possemen never travel alone.

At the porch he drew up. It was Frank.

I had not seen him since the news of the trial came. The old, bonny gladness was gone from his face.

"They've freed them! You heard it?"

Like a slap in the face, his haggard look struck me. He leaned forward, and lowered his voice.

"Hush," he whispered. "I've got the goods. Get to your horse, quick. The lousy cutthroats have put up a deal. They'll stop at nothing. They've got a posse after you."

Relentless as the Corsican vendettas were these early feuds in the Oklahoma and Indian Territory. In the bad lands of the Southwest the roughest men in the country had their dugouts. They scattered all over the ranges. They killed. Other killers in the jury freed them. The dead man was finished why bother the living about it? The living had taken their chance. That was the Oklahoma logic of justice in the early nineties. The law went with one party or the other. It was a case of grab the John Doe warrants and go after your man.

Houston and Love had doped it up with the marshals. They were out to get us before we had a chance to get them.

"We're going to El Reno," Frank said. "They want blood. Let it be theirs. Change the brand. They've had enough of ours."

I had not expected Frank to start things. He had an easy-going way that was full of disdainful contempt for the quick killers of the Houston and Love type.

"Here's the odds," he explained at last. "They're going to hound us off the earth. The damn' cowards have been on the dodge from us ever since they finished Ed. They've got all the guns in Woodward cocked against us.

"They've gone mad. They've plastered the country with handbills. They've got you down for the stickup of the Santa Fe. They've got a posse running up and down the country on the track of Al Jennings, the train-robber. They'll sock you off at sight!"

He dashed the words out—sharp, vicious. The money in my pocket suddenly weighed heavy as though it were the $600,000 I had dreamed of.

"They're a few days ahead of their guess—it was the M. K. T. I stuck." I wanted him to know. I didn't know how to tell it. I tried to make my voice indifferent and careless.

"Pretty neat, wasn't it?" His tone was as casual as mine. "They never left a footprint after them. Must have been old hands at the game."

"All but me," I answered. "Andy's gang are all vets."

"Damn' humorous you're feeling; damn' funny layout, ain't it?" He gave a whistle of impatience that acted like a spur to his horse. What my father had so readily accepted as true Frank would not even consider.

Even when I told him the whole affair he could scarcely credit it. "You really had nothing to do with it," he said. "You just went along. It was force of circumstances. Just a spectator, that's all. You had no right to take the money."

He did not know that less than a fortnight later he would himself jump into the lead of the biggest stick-up job that had been pulled in the territory for years. His one thought was to get to El Reno for the opening of the Democratic convention, to get Houston and Love before they had a chance to railroad us to the penitentiary or to kill us.

"Once they get us, they'll finish it proper. They'll take a final swipe at the old man and John."

We got to El Reno in the afternoon ; the train was to bring the delegates in at 10 o'clock that night. We kept under cover until it was time to go down to the

station. There were small groups standing around. Everybody in the town knew me. I had been county attorney there for two years.

As we came along a dozen greeted us as friends. They knew why we came. They had seen the handbills. No one made any attempt to gather in the reward.

The train rolled in. Some one brushed past me.

"They've slipped," he said. "Bill Tillman saw you. Tipped them off."

The bourbons, old cowboys, ex-outlaws, nesters and a sprinkling of respectable citizens got off the train. Houston and Love were not among them. Two days later I met Tob Oden, sheriff of Woodward county.

"They've sneaked in," he said. "They're at the session now.

I didn't wait to get Frank.

The town-hall was crowded. An old friend of mine, Leslie Ross, was acting as chairman. I stood in the doorway waiting my chance to saunter in unobserved. A fellow in the middle of the room interrupted the speaker. Somebody else yelled for him to shut up ; a man behind tried to jam him back in his chair there was just enough of a ruckus.

I walked down the aisle, not missing a face. I was so intent I did not notice the breathless quiet that suddenly held the spectators. I glanced to the plat-

form. Ross was standing with his hand upraised, his eyes riveted on me, his face ashen like a man on the verge of collapse. His look held the audience as a ghost might have.

"Gentlemen, a moment, keep your seats." He started walking down the steps and toward the aisle. "Just a moment," he repeated, rushing up to me. "I see a dear friend of mine."

"They're not here, Al," he whispered to me. "I swear to God, they haven't shown a face around. Don't start anything. Calm down."

He was more excited than I. He seemed to think I was ready to shoot up the place. Houston and Love were not there. They had skipped to Guthrie. Frank and I followed them.

We had come to the edge of the city. A man on horseback rode up to us. It was Ed Nicks, United States marshal.

"Don't go in, boys," he said. "They're laying for you. They've got warrants. They'll get you on that frameup. The trap is all set. They know you're coming. Half the men in Guthrie are armed against you. They'll harvest you the moment you set foot inside the town."

I had known Ed Nicks for 10 years. He was on the square.

We didn't get Houston and Love. They got us. They got us to the tune of a life term in prison and 10 years in addition. We'd be there yet if President McKinley had not commuted our sentence. They'd have brought us back on other charges if Theodore Roosevelt had not granted us a full pardon.

Nicks rode with us a mile.

"They've bought up the county, boys," he said. "You haven't a chance. Take your choice the range or the pen."

Fate had more than half a hand in the chance that turned Frank into a train-robber.

Ruffled and angry that our plan had failed, he turned on me when Nicks left. "I don't believe him," he said. "We should have gone on. We did not work it right. I'd like to see their posse.

He did not have long to wait. We stopped off for a bite with Nigger Amos. Amos was a giant with a face as black as pitch and a soul as white as snow. He had married the prettiest little mulatto in the country. Their home was a jaunty yellow cottage that sat in the midst of the cornfields. Amos and Collie were smiles from the heart out.

Whatever he had was ours. Collie was proud of her dishes and her cooking. Amos sat on the porch while she fried chicken and waited on us. We had come in just as the two were about to eat, and there was Amos, big, hard-working farmer, slinking into the background until after the white folk had their dinner.