Damnation Road by Max McCoy Page B

touched the brim of his hat.
    â€œHappy New Year.”
    Gamble turned the mare, then put his heels to her sides. She shot forward, toward Oklahoma Territory.

N INE
    Temple Houston tipped back the wooden chair and crossed his booted ankles on the top of the wooden desk. Folded and tucked into the pocket of his Prince Albert was the morning’s paper.
    â€œMind if I see that?”
    Jacob Gamble was on the other side of the desk, his feet flat on the floor, his hands bound by a pair of heavy iron cuffs. He was wearing the same clothes, now cleaned and patched, that he had been arrested in—a white shirt with no collar, a black vest, and dark coat. He took the paper, unfolded it, and put it on his side of the desktop. The headline screamed in seven-two-point type across all five columns at the top of the front page:
    OKLAHOMA ANSWERS CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS !
    Then, below:
    Troops Being Organized for 1st Volunteer Cavalry Regiment across Oklahoma and Indian Territories—Recruiting Stations at Guthrie, Fort Sill, Muskogee
    And in much smaller type:
    New Mexico, Texas, Also Helping Recruiting Effort .
    â€œThinking about joining up?” Houston asked.
    â€œWhy not? I fought the Yankees thirty-five years ago,” Gamble said. “Reckon I could bring myself to kill a Spaniard or two.”
    Houston laughed.
    â€œHell, even Fightin’ Joe Wheeler has volunteered for this one, and the old rebel is sixty-two. You’re a young man compared to him.”
    It had been a month after he had related the story of the killing of Lester Burns and being chased along Hell’s Fringe by the German cousins, using up his money and his ammunition in the process. They were in a second-story office down the hall from the federal courtroom in the Herriot Building on the corner of Division and Harrison, where Gamble had been transported by Jailer Joe Miller for an extradition hearing. Miller was waiting outside the closed door while Houston conferred with his client.
    A frenzied version of “Yankee Doodle,” muted by the window glass, was drifting up from the street below, where a war rally was nearing its climax.
    â€œIt’s going to be tough to explain to a territorial jury why you stole a pump-action shotgun from the hardware store and shot it out in the middle of the street instead of surrendering peaceably and going back to Kansas to plead your case,” Houston said.
    â€œYou can try.”
    â€œNot even I am that good.”
    â€œYou think I should waive extradition to Kansas?”
    â€œNo,” Houston said. “You don’t have a single witness to testify on your behalf, and from what you tell me, several who are eager to bear false witness against you. Truth is only useful if you can prove it.”
    â€œThen it’s hard time for me.”
    â€œYes, if Leedy doesn’t stretch your neck first.”
    Temple slid open the middle door of the desk and began idly rummaging through the contents. He examined a few ink-encrusted nibs and a broken pencil, then threw them back.
    â€œWe’ve got to walk into that courtroom in about ten minutes and tell the judge what we’re going to do,” Temple said. “You know, I once represented a horse thief in your position, and he asked me for my best advice. I opened a window and left the room.”
    â€œWe’re on the second floor.”
    â€œYes, that is unfortunate,” Houston said, turning to glance out the window. On the street below, the band had taken up “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” encouraged by a crowd that went from curb to curb.
    â€œI’m afraid letting another prisoner go like that will land me in the federal prison. The courts don’t have as much of a sense of humor as they used to.”
    â€œIt is a graceless age.”
    â€œI can’t encourage you to escape,” Houston said, “but I can point out that you have certain advantages that neither Bill Doolin nor