Damnation Road by Max McCoy

old piece down here.”
    Morris came up from beneath the counter with the Manhattan.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œThat’s it,” Gamble said, drawing the pearl-handled Colt from his waistband. “I’m what’s-his-name.”
    Morris rolled his eyes.
    â€œKeep your hands where I can see them,” Gamble said, examining the Manhattan. “Hands up higher, that’s right. Back up a bit.”
    â€œYou’re going to end up as dead as Doolin.”
    â€œWe all do, someday,” Gamble said.
    â€œDid you ever get any .38 rimfire cartridges in stock?”
    â€œNo call for them,” Morris said.
    â€œIn 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 stock—a .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.
    â€œReturn 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.
    â€œIt 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