Winchester 1887 Read Online Free

civilized word.
    And the ground was too hard to bury the Creeks and come back later with horse and pack mules.
    Sixpersons was ready to call it quits, just leave them there for coyotes and ravens, and forget any reward that might have been posted, when he heard a horse’s whinny.
    He came up with the Winchester, aiming at an opening in the woods a quarter-mile downstream. A dun pony stepped out and into the water, and the shotgun was lowered.
    The rider eased the horse out of the river and up onto the bank, grinning at Jackson Sixpersons. “Howdy,” Deputy Marshal Malcolm Mallory said.
    Sixpersons didn’t answer with word or nod. The fool hadn’t even ridden out of the woods with pistol or rifle ready.
    â€œDead, eh?”
    The Cherokee’s head bobbed, though it was one stupid question.
    You kill ’em?”
    He answered. “No, Wild Bill Hickok shot them.”
    Mallory laughed like a hyena and dismounted, which was one good thing.
    â€œI’ll hold your horse,” Sixpersons told him. “You put the bodies over your saddle.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œHow else are we getting them back to Virgil Flatt’s tumbleweed wagon?”

    Deputy U.S. marshals did not work alone. At least, they weren’t supposed to. It was too dangerous. But sometimes Jackson Sixpersons wondered exactly what U.S. Marshal George J. Crump, appointed and confirmed by the Senate back in April of ’93, was thinking.
    Working with Malcolm Mallory and Virgil Flatt, Sixpersons might as well be working alone.
    It was Flatt’s job to drive the tumbleweed wagon, which was basically a temporary jail on a wagon bed. Iron bars were affixed to the reinforced wooden floor, with a padlocked door swinging out from the rear of the wagon. The roof leaked, and if the prisoners got too rough, they could be chained to the floor. Painted on the side of the wagon was U.S. C OURT .
    Under Judge Parker’s orders, the driver of the wagon was not allowed to carry a gun. So in essence, the party of deputies was limited to two—Jackson Sixpersons and Malcolm Mallory. The way the Cherokee did his math, basically one.
    The sun was setting, but the day had yet to cool by the time Sixpersons and Mallory reached Flatt’s camp. The two deputies had found the dead whiskey runners’ horses and transferred the bodies to those mounts. Ned and Bob were pretty much bloated by the time they reached camp, causing Flatt to curse and moan.
    â€œWe’ll pack them down in charcoal when we reach Doaksville,” Mallory said, the one sensible thing he had spoken all day, maybe all week.
    â€œWho kilt ’em?” Flatt asked.
    Mallory tilted his hat toward Sixpersons, who was rubbing down his horse.
    â€œGot coffee boilin’.” Flatt did something unusual. He filled a tin cup and took it to Sixpersons.
    The Cherokee knew something was wrong. Besides receiving the coffee, he could read it in the tumbleweed wagon driver’s eyes. He accepted the cup, stepped around his horse, and waited.
    â€œTrader come along, headin’ for Texas,” Flatt said.
    Sixpersons waited.
    â€œI give ’im some coffee and a bit of flour.” Flatt’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “He give me a paper. Newspaper, I mean.” He reached into the rear pocket of his duck trousers, pulled out and unfolded a newspaper. “ Democrat , only two weeks old.”
    Sixpersons took the newspaper.
    â€œSecond page. Well . . . it’s . . .” Flatt stepped away.
    Sixpersons opened the newspaper, saw the story just above an advertisement at the bottom of the page for Straubmuller’s Elixir Tree of Life.
    â€œWhat is it?” Mallory asked.
    Sixpersons read.
    Flatt answered. “Ex-marshal, Jimmy Mann. Seems he kilt Danny Waco, the old border ruffian, over in Texas, but he got hisself kilt doin’ it.”

C HAPTER T HREE
    Greenville, Arkansas
    To the teller at the Greenville Independent Bank,