Red River Revenge (Remington Book 1) (2 page)

“He couldn’t talk her into it,” Barnstall said. “Besides, I sent Deputy Beck down there to take her statement. I didn’t tell him to bring her back up here. Now that I’ve heard her story, I’m leaving that up to you, Ned.”

“If I can find her, I’ll bring her back,” Ned said, "even if I have to walk every damned step of the way carrying her over my shoulder.”

“Now that’s the Ned Remington I appointed as my Chief Deputy Sheriff,” Barnstall beamed.

“Does the pretty young lady have a name, or am I going into this thing totally blind?” Remington asked.

The judge picked up one of his notes and read from it. “Her Christian name’s Lina, Lina Miller, and she’s hiding out in a place called Tishomingo.”

“Tishomingo? Where in the hell is that?” Remington got up and walked over to the maps on the wall.

“North of the Texas border,” the judge said.

Remington glanced at both maps, then traced his finger across the one of the Indian Nations. “Here it is. Tishomingo is just north of the Red River, not too far from the Texas border. That’s a far piece from Osage, Arkansas.”

“It’s a good stretch of the legs,” Barnstall agreed.

Remington turned and looked at the judge. “Why would a nineteen-year-old girl ride that far to hide out? There are dozens of places near Osage where she could have concealed herself.”

“According to Tom Beck, the poor child’s an orphan.” Sam Barnstall glanced down at the notes he’d made on the foolscap. “Lina is staying with another uncle in Tishomingo, a Charlie Killbuck. Her ma passed away when she was twelve and she’s pretty bitter about her father’s death from what Tom says. She wants scalps.”

“And she plans to take the scalps herself?”

“She’s stubborn enough to try it, according to Beck.”

“An eye for an eye. It’s her Indian blood.” Remington shook his head. “She’d never stand a chance up against those two hardened bastards.”

“I know. And the problem is that Paco Gaton and his partner saw her after the killings. She ran away and hid, but she knows they saw her real good and they’re hunting hard for her.”

Remington let out a low whistle.

“Anything else I should know?” he sighed.

“I want those three men brought in alive,” Barnstall said with determination. “I don’t care how badly beaten up they are, I just want to see them stand before my bench and receive the maximum punishment for their crimes.”

“O.K. Now, where do I look for Gaton and the other two jaspers?”'

“Friends of the Millers tracked the herd to the Red River Station, just over the border.”

Remington turned to the map, found Tishomingo again, then traced a path down to the Texas border. “Right smack dab on the Chisholm Trail.”

“You might want to look around Fort Worth, too, Ned. My guess is that Van Hook is selling beef down there after altering the brands.”

“Probably.”

“You break this case and I think that will put a pretty big ring out of business,” Barnstall said with a big sigh.

“Ring?”

“It looks that way. We’ve got rustling complaints from all over Arkansas and Missouri. And I plan to put a stop to it.”

Ned Remington strolled over and picked up the warrants from the desk, folded them in half. “It looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

There was a light tapping on the door.

“Come in, Lucius,” Judge Barnstall said without hesitation.

The door opened and Lucius Robson, a lean, young man in his late teens, entered the room. He carried a few loose papers in his hand. “Here’s the warrant for Peter Van Hook,” the clerk said as he walked across the small room and delivered the documents to Barnstall.

“Thank you, Lucius,” the judge said. “That’s all for now. You can go home now.”

A grin spread across Robson’s face. He nodded, then turned and walked out of the room, closed the door behind him.

Barnstall glanced over the documents, handed one copy of the warrant to Remington, kept the other for himself. “That’s all you need.”

“I’ll leave before dawn tomorrow,” Remington said. “I’ll get some miles behind me before it gets too damned hot out there.”

“Good idea. Who’re you going to take with you?”

“I’ll take Tom Beck with me since he’s familiar with the case. Frank Shaw, too, if he’ll come.”

“The court will cover their expenses,” the judge said. And then he looked up at Ned with those piercing blue eyes. “Good luck and God speed.”

N
ed Remington came
up over the small rise and hauled back on the reins when he saw the sparsely- settled valley that stretched out ahead of him. The Missouri trotter stopped short, its black, sweat- sleeked hide glistening in the sunlight. The horse cocked its ears and waited patiently as the deputy marshal scanned the land.

Ned had expected the town of Tishomingo to be bigger, more populated. He had expected to see dozens of tipis clustered around a communal fire pit, and Indian ponies huddled together in a pole corral. Instead, small, earth-colored, adobe huts dotted the land. Not more than twenty huts, he thought, all widely scattered. And all across the valley, small flocks of sheep grazed in lush, green pastures. He could see some people moving about, but from that distance they looked like little brown ants. Field workers, horsemen who seemed in no hurry, and the shepherds who tended their flocks.

Way off to his left, the Red River shimmered in the afternoon sunlight like a diamond ribbon as it wound its way through thick stands of trees. The buildings that were clustered near the river were partially hidden from view by the trees.

“Not much of a town, is it?” Remington said to the other two deputies as they rode up beside him and tugged on their reins. The trio of lawmen had been on the hot, dusty trail for a week now and the horses were beginning to show their weariness. All three animals carried heavy saddlebags.

“Tishomingo is only a small, peaceful, Indian village,” Tom Beck said. “That’s why Lina Miller wanted to come down here and hide out at her uncle’s place. She has enough Cherokee blood in her to blend in with the others of the village.”

Tom Beck, like the half-breed girl they were looking for, was half Cherokee, on his mother’s side. His father was Scotch-Irish, but he had inherited the black hair and dark brown eyes of his mother’s heritage. Tom was twenty-eight, five years younger than Remington. At five foot seven, he was also five inches shorter than his friend. When he was young, his parents had lived with his mother’s tribe and because he had learned much from his wise Cherokee grandfather, Beck was the best tracker Remington had ever met.

“Is that the Red River over there?” Frank Shaw asked as he pointed off to the left. He tugged his sweat-stained hat down far enough for the wide brim to shield his sensitive blue eyes from the overhead sun. Although he was older than the other two men, he showed no sign of tiring from the long trip.

“Yes,” said Beck. “You can just barely see the riverfront buildings where the white men live. That’s a busy little harbor with all the ships that come and go. At least it was when I rode through here a year ago.”

“How do the whites and the Indians get along?” Remington asked.

“They don’t mix with each other except to do business,” Beck said.

“What business?” Shaw asked, still staring off toward the glistening river.

“The white fellows buy wool and meat from the Cherokees and ship it downstream, where it’s sold for a profit. In turn, the Indians buy trade goods and supplies from the riverfront merchants. They get along.” Remington felt the hot sun on his back where it burned through the dark fabric of his heavy green shirt. His buckskin jacket rode atop his bedroll behind the saddle, held in place by leather thongs, and he was tempted to remove his shirt and stuff it back there, too. He tugged at the damp kerchief around his neck and felt little relief from the air that cooled only the small portion of his neck that was exposed.

“Now, Judge Barnstall said that friends of the Millers had tracked the herd of stolen cattle to the Red River Station,” he said. “That must be right across the river, then.”

“Well, actually, it was Lina Miller’s uncle, Charlie Killbuck, who tracked the cattle,” Beck said. “That’s what Lina told me. Charlie Killbuck is the one she’s supposed to be staying with here. She was planning to leave the day after I talked to her in Osage, Arkansas, to come down here.”

“Then we’re not really sure she’s here in Tishomingo,” Remington said, thinking aloud.

“Oh, she’s here,” Beck laughed. “That gal’s got spunk and if she says she’s gonna do something, she’s gonna do it. And nobody’s going to get in her way.”

“Barnstall said she was determined,” Ned said with a smile.

“Stubborn as a jackass would be a better way to put it.” Beck shook his head. “I tried my damnedest to get her to go back to Galena with me so she’d have some protection, but she’d have no part of it. She said she wouldn’t quit until she held the bloody scalps of those murdering bastards in her hands. Those were her words, not mine.”

“Well, I promised Barnstall I’d bring her back to testify, even if I had to carry her on my shoulders,” Ned said.

“It may take all three of us to tote her back there,” Beck said.

Remington smiled again and wiped the sweat from his brow. “So the Red River Station is just across the river from here.”

“No. No, it isn’t,” Tom Beck said.

“But I thought...”

“No,” said Beck again. “This is just the upper part of the Red. The Station is across the main body of the Red, way south of here, just across the border of Texas. We’ll cross the river here and then there’s a good stretch of land to cover before we get to the main part of the Red where we’ll have to cross it again. A day’s ride, at least. Maybe two.”

“Damn,” Remington said. “Well, that’s what we’ll have to do, then. We’ve got to find those rustled cattle if we can. The judge needs the evidence to nail this case down tight.”

“Well, it’s for sure those beeves still exist out there somewhere,” Shaw said.

“What do you mean, Frank?” A puzzled look came over Remington’s face as he looked over at the older deputy.

“I mean the thieves wouldn’t be dumb enough to slaughter three hundred head of cattle in this kind of weather,” Shaw said as he flapped his open shirt collar back and forth. “The meat would rot before they could sell it all. No, those bastards’ll peddle the cattle on the hoof.”

“I know. Well, let’s find the girl and get out of here.” Remington pulled himself up tall in the saddle, adjusted his hat. He looked out across the peaceful valley and then glanced at Tom Beck. “You got any idea where this Charlie Killbuck lives?”

Beck’s horse became restless and took a couple of sidesteps. Beck tightened the reins and reached over and patted the strawberry roan on the neck. “Hold on, Captain,” he said. “No, I don’t know where he lives. Lina told me that he raises sheep here in Tishomingo. That’s all I know.”

“Hell, everybody raises sheep in Tishomingo, from what I see,” Ned said.

“Killbuck won’t be hard to find,” Tom said with a grin. “The people are friendly here. Someone will point us in the right direction.”

Remington snapped the reins, pulled them to the right and followed the wagon-rutted road that cut through the Indian village. The other two deputies rode right behind him. The trio stopped at the first adobe hut they came to.

The elderly Cherokee man in front of the adobe stood perfectly still, as he had done for several minutes as he watched the deputies ride up. He leaned against the long stick in his hand, using it for support. The flesh of his wrinkled, bronzed chest and arms looked as tough as tanned leather. He wore a breech-clout, and around his neck, colorful beads.

“Hello,” Remington said to the man. He tipped his hat. “Do you speak English?”

The old man nodded once.

“We’re looking for Charlie Killbuck. Can you tell us where he lives?” Ned asked politely.

The Indian looked over each man in turn, then stared at the shiny marshal’s badge that Remington wore on his shirt.

“No,” he said. His voice was low and feeble and sounded like he had a dozen pebbles lodged in his throat.

Remington was surprised by the old man’s answer. Figuring that the Indian didn’t understand him, he tried again, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Charlie Killbuck. A Cherokee like you. Lives here in Tishomingo. Where is his adobe?”

The old man shook his head, his lips pinched together.

Remington turned to Tom Beck. “I don’t think he understands me,” he said. “Can you talk to him?”

Beck moved his horse closer to the man and spoke Cherokee words that Ned didn’t understand.

The old Indian listened, then turned and stared up at Remington with eyes that were as cold and hard as two nuggets of black coal.

“I do not know the man you ask for,” he said in stilted English. He turned and hobbled away, using the stick as a cane. He entered the dark adobe hut and pulled a buffalo hide across the adobe entrance.

“What was that all about?” Ned asked.

Tom Beck shrugged his shoulders. “I guess he doesn’t know Charlie Killbuck.”

“Or he won’t tell us if he does,” Ned said. “I thought you said the Cherokees were friendly.”

“They are. We’ll try someone else.”

“Are you sure Lina Miller said she was coming to Tishomingo?”

“Yeah, maybe you misunderstood her, Tom,” Frank Shaw offered. “Maybe Charlie Killbuck doesn’t live here.”

“No, dammit,” Beck said. “Lina said Tishomingo and when I told her I’d been here before, she described the valley to me. This is the place. I think that old man’s spent too many days in the sun. I think his brains have shriveled up with age.” He reined his horse to the left. “Come on, let’s find someone else.” Beck led the way this time. He didn’t bother to stop and call out to the shepherd boy who was in the midst of a small flock of sheep out in the field, and too far away to hear him. Instead, they rode some distance to the next adobe where two Cherokee women were busy at the outdoor fire ring near their hut.

Both women wore buckskin dresses that were decorated with colorful beadwork. The one who stirred the contents of the big black kettle was older and heavier then the pretty, young girl who knelt by a flat rock and kneaded a lump of thick dough. The two women had long black hair. The older woman’s hair hung loose about her flat, puffy face. The girl wore her hair in a long braid that fell to the middle of her back. She also wore a bright red ribbon at the top of her braid, as if to hold it in place.

Remington figured them to be mother and daughter. He knew both women had been watching them.

When the lawmen stopped nearby, the women turned away and went back to their chores.

Tom Beck called out a greeting in Cherokee.

The older woman stopped stirring and looked up at Beck, the ladle poised in her hand. The younger girl rested her sticky hands on the dough and turned her head toward them.

“No English,” the older woman replied, even though Beck had spoken to them in their native tongue.

Beck continued to speak in the guttural Cherokee language, explaining that they were looking for a man called Charlie Killbuck and that they had come to help the girl who was with him, Lina Miller.

“No,” the older woman said curtly. She turned away and began to stir the pot again. The younger girl hesitated only a minute before she, too, turned her head and went back to her kneading.

“We aren’t going to get anywhere with them,” Beck said. “Let’s go.”

“Something funny’s going on here,” Remington said.

“What do you mean?” Beck snapped. “Just because the old man’s too old to think straight, and the two women don’t want to talk to strangers? I don’t see anything funny about that.”

Remington, sensing Tom’s frustration, let it go. Tom got moody sometimes and Ned didn’t want to deal with that right now.

They stopped at the next adobe, but they couldn’t find anyone there. When they left there, Ned spotted an Indian on horseback on the road ahead of them. “Let’s catch up to that fellow,” he said. “Maybe he’ll be kind enough to take us to Killbuck’s place.”

The deputies urged their horses to a faster pace. When they were closer to the lone, bronze-skinned rider, Tom Beck called out to him, both in English and Cherokee. The Indian, who rode bareback on the pony, looked back over his shoulder, then stopped his animal and waited until the marshals caught up with him.

Remington and Frank Shaw held back a few feet and let Beck do the talking. Remington saw that the Cherokee boy was young, maybe twenty, maybe only eighteen. He wore moccasins and a breechclout, and tucked into his breechclout was a scabbard, which held a knife. He had no other weapons.

Beck spoke to the lad in Cherokee and the only words Remington understood were “Charlie Killbuck.” The boy shook his head and replied in his native tongue. Beck questioned him further, mentioning the name Lina. Again the boy shook his head and replied in Cherokee. Beck wouldn’t let up and within minutes, the two were involved in a heated argument.

Not understanding a word of it, Remington looked over at Frank Shaw and shrugged his shoulders. Shaw smiled and shook his head.

Beck pointed to his own deputy’s badge as he spoke, then made a wide sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating the entire valley of Tishomingo.

“Killbuck, yes,” the Indian lad said with a nod, and then he shook his head vigorously and rattled off more guttural words. He tapped the handle of his sheathed knife with two fingers, then doubled up his fist and pounded on his bare chest as if he were plunging a knife into his heart.

A few more heated words were exchanged in Cherokee and then Beck said, “Go on. Go on,” and waved the boy on.

“What’s the problem?” Remington asked. “Is Killbuck here?”

Beck sighed deeply and watched the boy ride away. “Killbuck lives here in the valley, but that’s all I could get out of the boy. I don’t know if Killbuck and the girl are here now or not.”

“Well, we’ll just keep looking until we find them,” Remington said.

“It’s not going to be that simple,” Beck said with a scowl. “It seems like Paco Gaton and his friend Haskins rode through here four or five days ago looking for Killbuck and Lina Miller.”

“That’s not good,” Remington said.

“Fortunately, Charlie Killbuck and the girl weren’t here at the time. And when Killbuck got here and found out about the Mexican and the mean-looking white man who were looking for him, he told his people not to give out any information about him or the girl to any strangers who passed through. That’s why we’ve gotten the cold shoulder from these people.”