War on the Cimarron (21 page)

He knew then that this was neither Red nor Otey, but an Indian. When he had been taken deep into the timber the man leading him stopped. Suddenly the bull's-eye lantern flashed on, and before him he saw the captain, his neckerchief gagging his mouth, tied to a tree. At his feet were the two bound and gagged sentries. Tied beside him was the scout, ungagged, but a painted spear, with a horsetail plume at the juncture of shaft and head, was placed against his breast, its haft vanishing behind the light.

Frank's leader stopped him gently, and then there was guttural speech in Cheyenne from behind the light.

The scout, whose forehead was beaded with sweat, grunted and turned his head and said to the captain, “They say they take the white prisoner out to kill him. It is payment for the death of their seven brothers.”

Frank's spine stiffened. He could see the head of the Indian ahead of him black against the circle of light on the two captives. The Indian turned, shook his head in negation, and his hand caught Frank's in a silent handshake. As plainly as it could be told without words, this meant that Frank was their friend and that he was not to believe what the spokesman was saying. Frank held his breath, listening.

The Indian behind the light spoke again, and the scout translated again to the captain: “They say they will kill us someday, but not now.” And the scout added bitterly, in the same tone of voice, “It's that wild bunch of bucks that Corb runs.”

At mention of Corb's name the spear moved and the scout flinched. Then suddenly the light went out, there was a whisper of activity, and Frank was led by the hand out of the stand of timber.

Once outside the trees, he could see the east beginning to gray. Against it he counted the heads of seventeen Indians.

He spoke then in Comanche. “Who are my friends?”

One man answered, “Stone Bull's friends.”

The reins of a horse were put in his hands, and the Indians moved off. Presently he was alone. And as fast as his horse could take him Frank rode away from the timber.

Chapter XVII

Corb could read Indian signs as well as any man in the Nations. When news was brought to him at his place that Frank Christian had been captured, but only after he and his crew had killed seven Cheyennes, Corb's face showed no elation. The good news was more than canceled by the bad. He had miscalculated on several things. He hadn't counted on Christian throwing in with Barnes and, above all, he hadn't counted on Barnes fighting the Indians. The big fat fool, probably egged on by that wild Red Shibe and Christian, had lost his head, and it looked as if the fat was in the fire. And Corb didn't like Indian trouble. It scared him.

He declined to join the card game that night and waited impatiently for his riders to drift in from Reno with their reports. And each man returning from Reno had a story of increasing gravity. The Indians had deserted the post and the agency, and trouble was brewing in their camp. Long after his riders had turned in, Corb sat up waiting for the last of his men, Beach Freeman. Well after midnight he heard Beach's horse cross the corral lot to the horse pasture. Beach was singing drunk, and Corb, playing a nervous game of solitaire on the big table, listened to it and his eyes narrowed.

When Beach came into the house, tramped through the back rooms and stuck his head in the front room to see who was up Corb was smoking a thin cigar, his chair backtilted against the wall and his hands idle.

“Howdy, boss,” Beach said and grinned.

“Come in,” Corb said.

Beach was already swaggering into the room. He threw his hat down on the table and sank into a chair. Corb eyed him with cold distaste.

Beach said, “Looks like they're goin' to nail Frank's hide up for sure.”

Corb didn't say anything.

“They're takin' him to Kansas tomorrow morning.”

Corb said, “What about the Indians?”

Beach grinned. “They're dancin' tonight. You can hear the drums at the post. Everybody's driftin' into the garrison. The whole damn country's scared.”

“And you're not,” Corb said dryly.

“Of what?” Beach sneered. “Them black devils has only got bows and arrows and spears.”

Corb didn't bother to tell him that he himself had picked up a little money by running guns to the Indians until he saw that his shortsighted policy might result in getting himself shot, along with all the other whites. Corb got up, walked around the table and paused in front of Beach.

“Kid, you drink too much,” Corb said. “Better quit it.”

But drunken talk or not, Corb knew truth when he heard it, and Beach's information gave him an uneasy night. By next noon Corb could stand it no longer. He dressed in a fresh black suit and clean shirt and announced to his crew that he was riding into Reno until this Indian scare was over. He'd advise them to do the same. Turn the horses loose and leave the place. And any man caught selling liquor to an Indian had better take the money and get out of the country before he found it out. He ordered the buckboard hitched and drove off toward Reno without another word. Beach Freeman was the first to saddle up and catch up with him. Three others followed, and the rest decided to come later.

The garrison, as Beach had informed him last night, was filling up. All the agency folk from Darlington had moved over to the hotel during the morning, and Corb was hard put to get a room. The saloon was thronged, and off on the flats behind the wagon yard a cluster of tents was going up. The garrison was policed and guarded this morning by sentries, and there was a tension in the air in spite of the holiday spirit.

Corb greeted a few friends, then headed for the barbershop, and Beach, who had seen tagging him around, ducked into the sutler's bar as soon as Corb was gone.

Corb had a long wait for a chair but finally took his turn. His lank pale hair was cut, and then the barber stretched him out for a shave.

He was lathering Corb's face, listening idly to the leisurely chatter of the customers, when an army orderly came in the door.

“Corb here?” he asked.

Corb twisted his head and answered, “Here.”

“Major's compliments, Mr Corb. He wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“I reckon so, sir.”

Corb's face was wiped clean of lather; he rose, put on his loose black tie and went out with the orderly. They crossed the parade ground, and Corb was ushered into the administration office. In the largest corner room Major Corning was pacing the floor in front of his big desk, behind which were the American and several regimental colors. A burly captain looking a little the worse for wear was seated in a chair, but at Corb's entrance he rose too.

The major dismissed the orderly, then said to Corb, “This is Captain McEachern, Corb.”

They didn't shake hands, and Corb only got the briefest nod from the captain.

“Sit down,” Major Corning invited brusquely.

Corb took a chair, and Major Corning sat on the desk. He had a studious face and thin sandy hair, but right now his jaw was set and his pale eyes altogether unpleasant.

“Corb,” he said, “this is once you've gone a little too far. That affair last night cinched it.”

Corb's frown was cautious. He observed the captain glaring at him, and a blind man could see that Major Corning was angry.

“You've got the best of me,” Corb said. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Major Corning's face took on some color. “I expected that,” he snapped. “Captain, tell your story. Then we'll get down to business.”

Captain McEachern told in detail of how his camp had been raided by Indians last night. They had tied him and his sentries and his scout and had taken Frank Christian away from them. They left with the promise that they would kill Christian for his slaughter of the seven bucks during the fight with the trail herders. “When the camp roused at daylight and found me and the horses Christian was gone,” he finished.

Corb didn't speak for a moment, and then he said dryly, “And you think I sent them?”

Major Corning said, “It was you and Milabel who induced the agent to put a price on Christian's head. It was you who tried to corner him at Barnes's place. I don't concern myself much with the rows between you cattlemen, but I do know you and Christian have been feuding ever since he came here. And those Indians mentioned your name.”

Corb said gently, his face cautious, his eyes wary, “It couldn't be done. Not by me.”

Major Corning leaned toward Corb, and his mouth was grim. “Let's be frank, Corb. Or I will. I know you peddle whisky here on the reservation. You peddle it to the Indians, against the law. I've tried more than once to get evidence against you, but I can't do it. Still, I know you're guilty. I also know that you have influence with a certain faction of the Cheyennes and that you claim to be their lease agent for these reservation lands.” He paused to glare at Corb. “When you tell me you haven't enough influence with these Indians to pull off something like last night I say you're a liar!”

Corb's eyes flickered with anger, but his face didn't change. He leaned back in his chair, drew out a cigar, lighted it and threw the match on the floor.

“I'm not admitting anything,” he murmured. “But supposing what you say is true, what do you propose to do?”

“Arrest you.”

“On what grounds?”

“Seizing a prisoner from United States soldiers and killing him.”

Corb smiled under his roan mustache. “I'm no lawyer, Major, but I know if you're going to prove murder you've got to have a body. Have you got one?”

Major Corning said, “No,” reluctantly.

“Witnesses?”

“My interpreter,” Captain McEachern said.

“Did he see me?”

“No. But he heard your Indians mention you.”

“Anybody can mention my name,” Corb said thinly. “If someone wanted to throw the blame on me he'd be mighty sure to mention my name.” He spread his hands. “You haven't got a body, you haven't got a witness, and I'll bet money you haven't questioned a single Indian.”

“We can't, dammit!” the major exploded. “We don't know who they are.”

Corb smiled. “Tour case won't hold water, Major.”

“Then I'll get you for setting those bucks to raiding Hopewell Barnes's trail herd!”

“I don't think you will,” Corb said. “You know and I know that the agency beef ration isn't half enough to feed these Indians. You've winked at their raiding passing herds for years. Punch them this time and you'll have an insurrection of starving Indians.”

Major Corning came off the desk and started to pace the room, glaring at Corb. And Corb, for his part, was smiling, regarding his cigar and rolling it between his fingers.

“The trouble with all this, Major, is that you're bluffing,” he said. “You went about it wrong. If you had anything on me you wouldn't be arguing. And if you go through with my arrest and try me with no evidence you'll get a reprimand.” He glanced evenly at the major, who was eying him in wrath. “And every major wants to be a colonel, doesn't he?”

Corb had the whip hand and he knew it, and he was a man who had got ahead by pressing his advantage. He leaned forward and said evenly, “Do you still say I'm under arrest, Major?”

Captain McEachern and Major Corning looked at each other, and Corb could tell what they were thinking. Time and again they had tried to get evidence of his whisky running and herd raiding and had failed. That left only the seizure of Frank Christian. And McEachern's report in court would be humiliating to the service and would bring a reprimand on the major. They were, in other words, not willing to take the risk.

Corb rose. “I take it I'm not.”

“One last thing, Corb,” Major Corning said in a voice trembling with anger. “I'm commandant of this post. In an emergency I have emergency orders. And in order to hold you here until we get evidence, I'm putting every white on this reservation under protective arrest and confining them to the military reservation. That means you.”

Corb laughed gently. “You couldn't drive me off, Major. Good day.” And he sauntered back to the barbershop in the late afternoon sun. He wished he knew what had happened to Christian, though.

After Stone Bull had left the Barnes place all of them decided that it was no longer safe for Edith to stay alone nights at her place, and Luvie had her stay the night.

Next morning, when Luvie wakened, Edith was gone. So was Red. There wasn't so much as a note to indicate why they had left or for where. Luvie roused Otey and her father, and after a look in the stable Otey came with the information that their horses were gone too.

“But where?” Luvie asked. “They can't go anywhere during this Indian scare!”

A week ago Otey would have bitterly denounced Red for running out on them, but now he held his tongue.

“If Edith's with Red she's safe,” Otey said. “It ain't important. What we got to do is go over to the post and see what's happenin'.”

“All of us,” Barnes said firmly. “If the Indians break out they'll come here first. And I don't intend to have Luvie here. Last night, at Major Corning's insistence, I engaged rooms in the hotel for the lot of us. Now move, Luvie, and get us some breakfast. We're leaving the place right away.”

But after a hurried breakfast Otey leaned back in his chair and stated that he was not leaving. If Stone Bull's ruse worked and Frank was free, he would come here first. If he didn't find anyone, where could he go? Otey was adamant in the face of Luvie's and Barnes's arguments, so they left him and joined the stream of Dailington townspeople who were moving over to the protection of the garrison.

The post was thronged, but Luvie, following Otey's advice, secured a chair on the porch in front of the post store and settled down to a day of waiting and watching. Around noon she was rewarded by seeing Captain McEachern's crestfallen detail return to the post empty handed, and for the first time in twenty-four hours she breathed easily again. She started out to find her father, but in ten steps she saw him leaning against a porch post talking to a group of men. When he saw her he nodded his head and winked solemnly at her, and she knew he had seen too.