The following year, after Rawlings had recovered from the four wounds he had incurred in the gun battle, he was appointed a deputy United States marshal, operating in the Indian Territory.
It had been a good job. The Territory was filled with outlaws, a few of them protected by renegade Indians, but most of them objected to and disliked by the Indians. The Indians of the eastern Territory were mostly of the Five Civilized Tribes—the Cherokees, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Seminoles. Most of them lived like white men. A good many had education, a good many were veterans of the war, and others had ancestors who had fought with or against Jackson. Zeb Rawlings liked them, and he liked the Osages. He enjoyed his job. A good tracker, and accustomed to long hours in the saddle, he earned the respect even of the outlaws he pursued and brought to justice. It was one of these who gave him the warning. Del Meggeson was a horse-thief, and a good one. He had, in the course of an eventful life, held up a few stages, rustled a few cows, fought Indians, and worked as a teamster on a freight line. He was wanted for a shooting on Cabin Creek, and Zeb Rawlings went in and got him.
Del saw the glint of light on the star, and he went for his gun. Zeb Rawlings held his fire. “No!” He spoke sharply, the command ringing in the hollow by the river. “Del, I’ve got the drop!”
Del Meggeson, no man’s fool, froze his hand where it was. He was fair game, and knew it. He relaxed slowly. “I can’t see you,” he said conversationally, “and I never heard your voice before, but only one man in this part of the country would give me a break like that. You have to be Zeb Rawlings.” “Unbuckle your gun belt, Del, and let it fall.” With extreme care, Meggeson did as advised. He knew he had had the break of a lifetime. “Come up to the fire,” he said. “Coffee’s on, and if you’ve been trailin’ me, you’ve had a long ride.”
Zeb bolstered his gun, and Del saw the gesture and smiled. He liked a nervy man, and he also liked one who gave him the benefit of the doubt. Zeb collected the guns and put them beside him. “All I’ve got to do is frisk you, but I’ll take your word. Are you packing another gun?” Del hesitated, then he chuckled. “You do make it hard on a man, Marshal.” With his thumb and forefinger he drew a derringer from behind his belt and tossed it across the fire.
They had sat over the fire for hours, yarning about the West, exchanging stories of the country. It was over coffee the following morning that Del offered his warning.
“Zeb,” he said suddenly, “I’m going to give you a little tip. Charlie Gant’s in the Territory, and he’s priming Floyd for you.” The story came out on the long ride east into Arkansas. The Gant brothers, after working with various bands of outlaws, had finally made a tie-up with Cad Pickett and his outfit. Charlie was the brains of the outfit, along with Cad and Floyd, but the latter had built himself a name in Texas and in the Nation. Floyd was on several wanted posters and was reputed to have killed eleven men, seven of whom could be identified.
“Floyd’s fast, Zeb. He’s almighty fast, and Charlie, he’s been building Floyd up for a killing. Charlie will never be happy until you’re dead.” “Thanks.”
The showdown came sooner than he expected.
When Zeb Rawlings rode up to the store at Boggy Depot that fine sunny morning, he was not thinking of the Gants. His mission was a simple one—to find and arrest a bad Indian named Sanders who was wanted for murder. Zeb had stopped at Fort Washita and there he was advised that he would find his man at Boggy Depot. An unknown half-breed volunteered the information. The store was a long, low building with a shake roof, and an awning that provided shade from the sun. One man, apparently asleep, dozed in a chair near the door. There were no horses tied at the hitch rail. Pushing open the door, Zeb stepped inside, and the instant he walked in he knew he was in trouble. The storekeeper, a stranger to him, stood behind the counter, his face white and strained.
Zeb’s eyes, turning to the left, saw Floyd Gant standing at the small bar in the corner. One elbow rested on the bar, but the right hand, only inches above the gun butt, held a glass of whiskey. Another man whom Zeb immediately identified as Cad Pickett from pictures he had seen on reward posters, was at the bar with Floyd.
From the far end of the room, near the side door, Charlie Gant spoke out. “We’ve been waiting for you, Rawlings, and we’ve waited long enough.” Zeb did not stop, but walked on over to the bar, ignoring Charlie. “Hello, Floyd,” he said, “I hear you’ve been busy lately.” Floyd Gant was not a tall man, but he was broad and powerful. His chest was deep, and his shoulders were wide and thick. The column of his muscular neck supported a square, blocky head covered with thick black curls. “You huntin’ me?” Floyd asked.
“No. As a matter of fact, I was tipped there was an Indian named Sanders around here. Know him?”
‘Tipped?” Floyd’s eyes searched his.
“Breed over at Fort Washita told me. Sanders is wanted for murder.”
“And you don’t want us?”
“I take the jobs given me,” Zeb replied, “and nobody has given me a warrant on you boys.”
Zeb had stopped in such a position that Charlie dared not shoot into him from behind for fear of hitting Floyd; and if Cad attempted to draw he must risk a point-blank mix-up in which anybody, and probably everybody, would get hurt. It was not a situation any of them relished, but Floyd alone appreciated Zeb’s strategy.
He grinned, showing a set of beautiful strong white teeth. “You were always a smart one, Zeb,” he said. “Never miss a trick, do you?” “Uh-huh … I missed one this time. That tip was too pat. I should have known somebody had baited a trap.”
Floyd’s eyes seemed to shadow. “Now, I wouldn’t say that, Zeb. Almost anybody might miss a trick like that.” He paused. “Even me,” he said. “I might not guess a thing like that.”
Suddenly, Zeb Rawlings realized that what Floyd said was true. He had not known.
Charlie Gant had set this up on his own initiative. Had Cad known? Zeb decided that he had, and that he was nervous now, worried about Floyd’s reaction.
The only man here who knew exactly what he wanted was Charlie Gant; and Charlie, unless he moved, was out of the play. Cad would hesitate to act until Floyd did; and Floyd might not act at all, although he was the dangerous one. “Sounds like a mistake all the way around,” Zeb commented, “a mistake that could buy a lot of grief for all concerned. I think it would be a good idea to forget it, right here and now.”
Charlie Gant laughed. “When we’ve got you boxed? Now isn’t that a pretty foolish notion?”
“Right now,” Zeb said, “nobody is pushing you boys. Nobody has been ordered to pick up any one of you. If anything happens here today every deputy marshal in the Territory will have one purpose—to bring you boys in for a hanging.” “So?” Charlie said. “We’ve been chased before.”
“By Federal marshals? Who don’t have to stop at state lines?” There was no sense in talking to Charlie. Floyd was the key to this situation, and what Floyd decided to do would be done. Zeb’s move was to walk right up to Floyd and face him, and throw their planning out the window. They had a bear by the tail, and Zeb could not let go. If anybody let go, it had to be them. “I’d say, Floyd, that we’re into something here that can get somebody hurt, and without anybody gaining anything from it—except Charlie, who wants me killed. I’d take it as a favor if you boys would just walk out of here and ride off.”
Charlie laughed again.
Floyd was considering it—Zeb knew he was. Floyd tossed off his drink and put the glass down on the bar.
“I think that’s a good idea, Zeb,” he said coolly. “I think it’s a very good idea.”
Charlie’s chair slammed back. “Floyd!” he yelled. “Are you crazy? We’ve got him!
We’ve got him dead to rights!”
“Who wants him?” Floyd asked. “Charlie, the next time you—“ Zeb Rawlings was tight with expectation. He dared not turn his head from watching Cad and Floyd to see what Charlie was up to; but at that instant, at some signal from Charlie, Cad Pickett took a step back and Charlie yelled, “Cad! You declared yourself in!” And Cad Pickett drew. Floyd started to yell, but Zeb Rawlings acted. He grabbed Floyd’s arm and spun him from the bar, sending him toppling into Cad, whose gun went off harmlessly into the ceiling.