“You can ask.”
“Well, if you're not going to shoot me, could you at least rough me up a little? I mean, this is the second time for this. It will look bad if it doesn't look like I put up a fight.”
“You're crazy,” Gamble said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. The bottom floor was a dry goods store, but it was empty because the employees were on the sidewalk, watching the rally.
“All right,” Gamble said, switching the gun to his right hand. “Close your eyes.”
Miller did, and Gamble drove his fist into his right cheekbone. The jailer staggered and fell against the stairs, shaking his head. A trickle of blood was running from a nostril.
“Thanks,” Miller said.
“Don't mention it.”
Gamble tucked the .45 into his waistband, buttoned his coat over it, and stepped into the multitude around the recruiting stations on Harrison Avenue. Gamble pressed his way into the crowd while “The Stars and Stripes Forever” blasted from the bandstand, which was covered in red, white, and blue bunting.
The fools don't know what war is about, Gamble told himself while smiling and making small apologies as he threaded his way toward the opposite corner; this generation had never fought a war, so they had no idea, but they'd find out soon enough.
Once clear of the crowd, he hurried, but did not run, down Harrison to First, and then went north on First to Oklahoma Avenue. If there was any commotion behind him, he could not hear it above the sound of the band and the cheering crowd. On Oklahoma, he turned left and within a block was at Farquharson and Morris Hardware, where he went directly to the gun counter.
“What can I show you?” the fat old man behind the counter asked.
“Where's Andrew?”
“At the rally, I imagine.”
“You his father?”
“No, I'm Morris. You a friend of the family?”
“Just of Andrew,” Gamble said. “He showed me a Model 97 Winchester some time back, and I've taken a fancy to it. Would like to take it home with me today.”
The old man turned and studied the rack of long guns.
“It's the one on the end.”
“Oh, yeah,” Morris said. He carefully placed the gun on the counter.
“Box of nitros, too. Double buck.”
Morris turned, took a box of Petersens from the shelf, and placed them next to the shotgun.
“Not those, please,” Gamble said. “I prefer the Robin Hood brand. Had good luck with them last time out.”
“Of course,” Morris said. He replaced the shells.
“Fine,” Gamble said. “Now, I think Andrew was holding a gun for me.”
“Really? He didn't say anything to me about it.”
“It's an old one, a converted .36. Look under the counter, maybe.”
The old man rummaged in the shelves beneath.
“There's only this old piece down here.”
Morris came up from beneath the counter with the Manhattan.
“This can't be it, though, because that's the gun that what's-his-name left here just before the shootout with the bounty hunters,” Morris said.
“That's it,” Gamble said, drawing the pearl-handled Colt from his waistband. “I'm what's-his-name.”
Morris rolled his eyes.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Gamble said, examining the Manhattan. “Hands up higher, that's right. Back up a bit.”
“You're going to end up as dead as Doolin.”
“We all do, someday,” Gamble said.
“Did you ever get any .38 rimfire cartridges in stock?”
“No call for them,” Morris said.
“In that case, this won't do me much good,” Gamble said, putting the Manhattan back on the counter. “Ask Andrew to keep it safe for me. Send it over to the gunsmith and have it chambered for some round you do stockâa .38 Colt center fire, perhaps. I'll be back for it, sooner or later.”
He picked up the shotgun, turned it upside down, and shoved five shells into the magazine. Then he pumped the slide, driving a round into the chamber with the
ch-chink
he remembered from before. Then he cradled the shotgun in the crook of his right arm while he took the pearl-handled Colt, opened the gate, and worked the ejector until all of the cartridges were on the floor.
“Return Miller's gun to him, with my compliments,” Gamble said. “Tell him he put up one helluva fight, and that I was lucky to get away. Got that?”
Then Gamble walked out the door and turned west on Oklahoma Avenue and proceeded at a steady pace, the shotgun under his arm. He was sure that Morris was watching him, and would soon be telephoning the authorities that Gamble was making for the depot. But at First Street, Gamble turned south, and walked unhurriedly down the block, exchanging pleasant greetings with those who passed. He took a right on Harrison, sure that Morris was still watching, and as soon as he cleared the corner, he ducked down the stone steps into the labyrinth of warehouses and stables beneath the streets of Guthrie.
Jacob Gamble found an unused and relatively clean stall in a far corner of the underground livery. He settled in the straw with the shotgun across his lap and waited for nightfall. It was so peaceful in the livery, with the distant and monotonous sound of commerce coming from near the entrance, that he fell asleep. When he awoke, the livery was quiet.
In the tack room, he found a broad piece of leather and fashioned a sling for the Model 97. In a wooden box where the lost-and-found items were thrown he found a battered old Stetson, gray, that fit him reasonable well, and a full-length sheepskin coat.
“It will do,” he said.
Then he put a bit and bridle on a bay dun and led it from its stall. He put a blanket on the horse's back, then followed that with the best saddle he could find. When he was done, he went to the mechanic's toolbox and found a heavy pair of bolt cutters, which he used to severe the chain from which the padlock dangled on the other side of the gate. He swung the gate inward, allowing access to the broad ramp that led to street level. He slung the shotgun across his back, mounted the horse, and rode up the ramp to Second Street.
Guthrie was dark. The dun's hooves clattered on the brick streets as he rode through the center of town. A clock that hung out over the sidewalk from the corner of the Capitol National Bank said it was a few minutes after midnight.
When he reached Noble Avenue, he turned the dun to the east to Indian Territory. It would take him five days, traveling mostly at night, to reach Muskogee.
T
EN
The Muskogee recruiting station was a wooden desk on the street in front of the Mitchell House. On the desk were an open ledger book and an inkstand. Behind the desk was a corporal in a blue wool blouse and trousers of a lighter shade, not so patiently taking information in turn from each of the hundred or so would-be recruits who had queued up in front of the desk.
The hopefuls were a cross section of Indian Territory manhood: cowboys, Indians, gray-headed veterans of the Civil War, blacksmiths, clerks, farmhands, adolescents who had not yet had their first shave, lawyers, accountants, secondary school teachers, and criminals.
Jacob Gamble was standing in the front third of the line, the battered Stetson pulled low, the Model 97 slung over his shoulder. He had reached Muskogee shortly after dawn. On the way into town, he had passed a dairy farmer driving a flatbed wagon filled with cans of milk. As he passed, he saw the old farmer admiring the bay. He stopped, called to the man, and with an economy of words explained he was on his way to join the volunteers to free Cuba and might be interested in selling the horse, saddle and all. He walked the rest of the way to the Mitchell House, two hundred and fifty dollars tucked into his vest.
When it was Gamble's turn to step up to the desk, the young man in blue wool glanced at him through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and put down the pen.
“Sorry,” the corporal said in a vaguely eastern, college-educated accent. “No offense, but you're too old.”
“How old is too old?”
“You have to be in good physical shape,” the clerk said. “And you have only one eye. Next.”
“Now, just hold on,” Gamble said. “I want to kill me some Spaniards. I'll be damned if they're going to sink our battleships and strip-search our women. The papers say this outfit is looking for men who can ride and shoot, true frontiersmen, and that all comers are welcome to apply, as long as they are patriotic.”
The corporal removed his glasses, closed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“There are currently twenty volunteers for every man actually taken as a recruit,” he said. “There are boys of fifteen swearing they are twenty. There are men of sixty swearing they are thirty-five or forty years old. So, just how old are you?”
“Why, I'm thirty-five,” Gamble said.
“Thirty-five. You're sure?”
“My mother never lied to me.”
“You don't look thirty-five.”
“I've lived an outdoor life,” Gamble said. “Folks tell me I look rugged, but not old. Look, I've come all the way from the Choctaw Nation to do my patriotic duty.”
The men behind Gamble began to grumble.
“Come on,” a black cowboy behind Gamble protested. “We've been standing here all morning. We're afraid we're going to miss the war.”
“You've wasted your time,” the corporal said. “You need to find a regular colored regiment.”
“Hold it right there,” the cowboy behind said. “I know this man. He's half Cherokee. I know you're taking Indians, because you've passed three while I've been watching.”
“He's colored,” the corporal said.
“He's Cherokee,” the cowboy said. “He's plenty good enough to ride the river with, so he's plenty good enough to fight for our country. And you let this fellow pass as wellâhell, you can't tell nothin' by looks. He just might be thirty-five.”
“All right,” the corporal said. “Settle down. I'll let the old man pass. But I'm sure he'll flunk the physical.” He picked up the pen and dipped it in the inkwell.
“What's your name?”
“Jacob Dunbar.”
“Age?”
“Told you, thirty-five.”
“Right. Place of birth?”
“Southwest City, Missouri.”
“Current residence and occupation?”
“Durant, Choctaw Nation. Payroll guard.”
“All right,” the clerk said, giving Gamble a tri-folded slip of paper with
Dunbar, J.
written in ink on it. “Take this inside, give it to the person inside wearing a uniform like mine, and wait for your name to be called.”
Gamble took the slip of paper and walked up the steps to the hotel. He handed the paper to another young man, who showed him a seat on a long wooden bench next to a closed office door. He took a seat next to a man in city clothes who was at least twenty years younger and a head taller than Gamble. The man in the suit was nervous, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, glancing anxiously at the door. He rubbed his hand briskly together and looked at Gamble.
“How're you this morning?”
“I'm fair,” Gamble said, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles. “You?”
The man in the suit nodded vigorously.
“Ready to fight.”
“Oh?” Gamble exclaimed. “How many fights have you been in?”
“Plenty,” the first said. “There was this time at the Blue Duck Saloon back home when I took three men on at once. By the time I was done, my knuckles wereâ”
“Hold on,” Gamble said. “You mean, you've been in fistfights.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Ever shoot anybody?”
“No, never had to.”
“Had anybody shoot at you?”
“Never.”
“Imagine those two things happening simultaneously.”
The man in the suit nodded his head.
“You been shot at much?”
“Some,” Gamble said.
“What's it like?”
“It's not so bad. Mostly, you're concentrating on staying alive and getting the other guy, or at least you shouldâif you don't, you're going to lose your nerve and end up dead right quick.”
“I can see that.”
“It helps to breathe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. You should remind yourself to keep breathing. Ever had buck fever? You held your breath, right? That's the natural reaction. But you have to fight the urge, breathe, and think coldly. It works just the same as when you gamble. You have to develop an attitude that is, well, dispassionate. It gets easier with practice.”
The pair of cowboys that were behind Gamble at the desk came in, handed their papers over, and sat down on the bench, their hats in their hands.
The door to the office opened and a young man walked out, his shirt over his arm, his face clouded with disappointment.
“No luck, huh?” the anxious man asked.
“No luck at all,” the dejected man said. “The doc says I'm too fat to ride a horse in the volunteer cavalry.”
“Why, you don't look fat at all.”
“Five pounds over.”
The physician came to the door and called for the next man.
“Here I go,” the anxious man said. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” Gamble said. Then, under his breath: “But probably not the kind of luck you want.”
“Hey, you look familiar,” the black cowboy said to Gamble. “Where're you from?”
“Just about everywhere,” Gamble said. “Missouriâoriginally. You?”
“Lived in the Cherokee Nation all my life,” the man said, extending his hand. “Name's Zeke. My father was from Missouriâa runaway slave. He came here and fell in love with my mother, a Cherokee girl.”
Gamble turned to study his face.
“Your father wasn't from northeastern Missouri, was he?”
“Shelby County.”
“Met a runaway slave there, when I was a boy during the war,” Gamble said. “Seemed like a nice fellow. Had a fine voice. Hid him out in the loft of the barn and brought him some food, and he sang me some songs in return. Was determined to get west, which was oddâit made sense for runaways to go the other way, toward Illinois. But he reckoned true freedom was in the West.”
“What was his name?”
“Don't know,” Gamble said. “But wouldn't that be a strange coincidence, if that man were your father?”
“Mister, that couldn't be,” the black cowboy said. “You're just thirty-fiveâyou wouldn't even have been born yet.”
The cowboys laughed, slapping their knees and throwing their heads back. Gamble allowed himself a smile.
“You got me there.”
The door to the office slammed open and the anxious young man strode out, his face as crimson as if he had been sunburned.
“No luck?” Gamble asked.
“None,” the man said. “I'm four inches too tall to be in the cavalry. He told me I'd have to wait and join an
infantry
regiment. Infantry, can you believe it?”
The cowboys winced.
“All right,” the physician said. “Next.”
Gamble rose.
“See you in Cuba,” he told the cowboys.
He walked into the room and the doctor closed the door behind him. He was a man of about sixty, with gray hair and a paunch that extended from his unbuttoned black vest. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and there was a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Gamble threw the old coat on the examining table and turned toward the doctor, leaning against the table and crossing his arms.
“Hell,” the physician said, fumbling in his vest pocket for his glasses. “I can't even see yet and I can tell you're too damned old for this. What are you, forty-five? Fifty, maybe? And, you only got one eye.”
The man found the glasses and hooked them over his ears.
“What's it going to take?” Gamble asked.
“What do you mean?”
Gamble reached into his pants pocket and brought out a handful of greenbacks.
“What's the going rate?” he asked, then counted out five twenty dollar bills onto the table.
Without comment, the physician puffed on his cigarette.
“You sign that paper, and I'm on my way to the Caribbean, right?”
The man nodded.
“If I sign it.”
Gamble counted out another sixty dollars.
“That's eight months pay for a working man.”
The doctor stared at the money, squinting against the cigarette smoke.
“You must be desperate, to make such a vulgar gesture,” the doctor said, squinting against the cigarette smoke. “What kind of a doctor do you think I am?”
Gamble shrugged.
“Thought you might be a hundred and sixty dollar doctor,” he said, picking up his coat. “Appears I was wrong.”
Gamble picked up the money.
“Hold on.” The physician threw the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with heel. “Make that a year's worth of wages and I'll swear you're not a day over thirty and that you had both your eyes when I examined you.”
Gamble counted out two hundred and forty dollars.
“Welcome to the Rough Riders,” the doctor said.