Poke and his Gang of Outlaws

April 3, 1897.  Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains of Washington .

Pokinow Roberts lay back on his bed roll feeling relaxed and enjoying the crisp mountain air. Life was stirring at times like these, with nothing but new territories coming up.

"Dang Poke, is that a look of happiness on that old sour puss of yore's," Willie teased him, "or you just passing some gas?"

"Just some gas!" Grinned Pokinow, "But thanks fer noticing!" The two friends laughed easily together as they passed the whiskey back and forth.

"Really though Poke, I know just how you feel." Willie took a long pull on the whiskey jug, "I never felt like this when we were on the Mississippi, never this calm. . .it's great having the feeling of nuthin' behind us for the first time in, well, dang, how long is it. . . ." Willie's voice trailed away as he thought back.

"It's more’n a decade for me Willie." Roberts took the jug from Willie and gulped a big, fiery, mouthful. He had a good glow on from the liquor, and that was good enough for now, he liked to pace himself. "Not quite two years with the Syndicate in Colorado, only, say, six months in Wyoming. . . ."

"That was enough. . . ."

". . . .and then the time in the northwest and on the Mississippi."

Willie nodded in agreement, "Always looking over yore shoulder, wondering where the next challenge would come from. I hear you Poke; it's been about six years for me--ever since I hooked up with you!"

"That was the luckiest day of yore life," Roberts chuckled, "you redskinned cur."

"Why do you always insult the color of my skin," Willie wanted to know, "whenever we joke you always call me redskinned. . .I don't call you whiteskinned?"

"That's an interestin' point." Pokinow agreed. He could see that Willie was in a snit, there weren't no telling when he'd get like that, Pokinow knew, but when he did it was usually over something hardly important. "I don't care much if yer want to call me a whiteskinned rascal. It weren't bother me in the least."

"Well, maybe I will."

"Well, maybe yer should."

Willie took a deep draw on the jug, whenever he got drunk he got philosophical, and he was feeling dang near professorial right about now. "I think I will call you a whiteskinned rascal every so often just so you know I haven't fergotten this talk."

"Yer drunk, and rambling on me pard. . .don't start acting like that lamebrain cousin of yours." Pokinow warned, "He's touched in the head."

"Don't go getting on Davey Otter," Willie replied mildly, "He can't help it if my side of the family got all the smarts. Besides," Willie reminded Pokinow, "if it wouldn't have been fer Boucher, Davey wouldn't have been a problem."

Pokinow was glad to be free of that insane Metis. He never could figure out whether Pig Face Boucher got his meanness from his Indian or French blood, or maybe it was equal doses, regardless, the man was a vicious spirit. "I damn near killed Davey the day he showed up with Pig Face in that great hideout of ours, in the Cyprus Hills."

"Well, Davey was with me when I found that spot, years ago, it was stupid of yer to think he'd never come back." His cousin was an embarrassment to Willie, and he was glad to be rid of the both of them. "The shit end of it is that he brought Boucher with him."

"He's so dang thick, he thought we'd be pleased with him," Pokinow agreed, "fer bringing the most wanted man in the territory to our camp."

"We were the most wanted men in the territory," Willie argued. It bothered him that Poke took such a cavalier approach to their fame. He took great pride in it; it was part of who he was and it gnawed at him that Poke could care less. "Even if nobody really knew it was us doing all that robbin' along the border."

"Well, any fool could see that'd change after Pig Face moved back into the area. He had every dang lawman in pissin' distance after him." For all those years they'd raided around the Canadian border from Montana across North Dakota, nary a posse got close to them. They stole mostly in Alberta, because of all the freight that was going through the rail yards in Calgary. Poke made sure they didn't raid too often and seldom in the same area.

Once Pig Face knew where their hide out was, he got in the habit of dropping in whenever the posse's get close, which made Pokinow nervous as hell. "There's little doubt that if'n Davey weren't yer cousin I'd have shot them both, in those first few minutes. . .and the way things turned out I should have."

Willie let the comment go, he knew Poke wouldn't have shot his cousin, but Pig Face was another matter. They should have dealt with him right away, but instead, they ignored him and hoped the vicious bugger would get killed or wander away. Neither happened. Instead, Boucher became so popular with the law that the Pinkertons joined the chase. Between them, the Canadian Mounties, and a couple of U.S. Marshals, the territory became right overcrowded with police.

Pokinow got up and made a pot of coffee. When the coffee was ready, he filled a mug and spooned in a good quantity of sugar and settled back against his saddle. "Willie, this past month I've done a lot of thinking. . .fer all his cowardly ways, Carl Strock can be a benefit to us."

Willie nodded, "I know, he's got that secret about Ryan Dougal."
Roberts shook his head, "Besides that."

"Then how Poke?" Willie was always amazed at some of the things that Poke came up with regarding Carl Strock. Maybe it was Carl's chiseled good looks, or his fine manners and charm, Willie didn't know, but there was something at work that that kept Strock riding with them. Willie took another pull on the jug and admitted to himself that when the big oaf wasn't sulking he was charismatic as hell, with both men and woman seeking his company.

Roberts lit a cigarette, "Remember in New Orleans how Strock always knew where to go, what to say, how to act." Willie nodded, as Pokinow continued, "I hear that Seattle's a cultured town, hell, I guess it's likely a city. Since I was a kid I've never spent mor'n a couple of years in the same place, and I figure Seattle might be just the place for us to put down some roots. Far enough away from the deeds of Pokinow Roberts and Willie Red Crow, fer us to live and prosper." He took off his boots and wiggled his toes, enjoying the cool wind that blew through his socks

"I'm tired of running too Poke," Willie agreed, "but how does Strock figure in and what about Ryan Dougal? What if that China man brings that other cash?"

"Then we take it, o'course!" Pokinow laughed, "We just won't pop Carl right away." He sipped on his sweet coffee, "Listen Willie; among the three of us we got enough cash to buy a real top hotel, and Strock's the best ass kisser I ever saw. Remember the Shamrock Hotel in Shelby? Strock did pretty fair business, enough to keep a man in good style. That's what's needed in that line of work." Pokinow shook out a pebble from one of his boots and then pulled them back on.

A pocket of sap whined from the fire as Willie answered, "Well, why don't you or me do the same thing?"

Roberts chuckled, "No offense pard, but it can't be you. People wouldn't frequent a hotel run by an Indian, regardless how educated yer are."

His friend's expression didn't change, but Willie's eyes did--they got glossy and sad. "What about you? What's stopping you, Poke?"

"Me? Hell, I'm no doorman." Pokinow scoffed, "I don't even like people." His voice got soft and wispy, as if he was answering a question asked, long ago. "I reckon I've killed too many. . . ."

His mood got melancholy as he realized that maybe this was the exact reason he found it easy to kill. But what came first? Killing easily or not liking people? Willie interrupted his reflections.

"Mind if I ask you what I.G. Baker said back at Fort Benton to calm ya down?" Red Crow's words tumbled another realization to Roberts as he puffed on a cigar.

"Remember Tom Horn?"

"Sure I do," Willie nodded, "he was a good man."

"Hell of a good man!" Pokinow agreed. "The three of us rode some trails together, didn't we Willie?"

Willie's voice wafted softly around the clearing, "We sure did Poke. Tom was a good hand to have on yer side in a fight."

Roberts nodded his head approvingly, and then fought to find the right words to express himself. "Tom told I.G.; told ol' Isaac about those dreams I used to have in Wyomin'. Told him how I'd wake up screamin'."

Pokinow fought to get his voice under control, his emotions in total disarray. "I.G. asked me if'n I didn't have 'nough men haunting my dreams, and why I needed to add more."

This is an excerpt from Chapter Five of The Last Best West by Longfellow Deeds. Copyrite © 2002 All rights Reserved. No portion or part maybe reproduced by any physical, mechanical or electronic means. Please contact us at for further information or assistance.

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