Whiskey Kills

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “I don’t like a dead girl and a dead old man killed because of these whiskey runners,” Daniel said.

  “And Harv Noble, he don’t like nothing. So the way I see it, the three of us are like them Three Musketeers.”

  Daniel liked that. Even if he had never read that book.

  “So we should work together?” Daniel asked.

  “I’d like that, my young Comanche friend. Like your letter said. I’ll work my territory, you work yours, and I’ll make sure Marshal Noble knows he has volunteered to join our war party.”

  “I think he already has.”

  “But one of us should get to Dallas, Texas.” For some reason, Gunter was staring hard at Daniel.

  “I couldn’t do that. I’m Comanche. They don’t allow us to go riding into Texas. That should be Marshal Noble.”

  “I’m in Muskogee. Harv’s in Fort Smith. You’re closest.”

  “But I’m Indian.”

  “Get a pass.”

  “You get a pass!”

  “I don’t need no damned pass. I’m an officer of the United States Indian Police. I go where I damned well please, and I surely don’t please to go to Dallas.”

  “We should just write or wire the town marshal in Dallas,” Daniel said.

  “There’s only us Three Musketeers,” Gunter said. “You trust any white man down in Texas? You think a peace officer in Dallas gives a fig what’s going on in Indian Territory? You think the Dallas city marshal is crying that two Creeks and two Comanches got buried?”

  “My lawyer in Wichita Falls said he would ask around, too. Maybe . . .”

  “Piss on that dtyhh, too.”

  “Well, I can’t go.”

  “Then don’t. Maybe Harv knows somebody.”

  “Good.” He had ended that subject. “Here’s a good place to camp.”

  “It’ll do,” Gunter said dryly.

  They unsaddled and grained the horses. Once they had a fire going, and coffee brewing, they squatted near the flames, holding out their hands to pull the warmth closer.

  “Well,” Daniel said a moment later. “We have something to go on. For our investigation, I mean.”

  Gunter was shaking his head before Daniel had finished. “Nope. What you got in your Old Glory tablet is a few pages of some words. What I’ve got is a few ideas. What it all adds up to be is a bunch of nothing. We got nothing, Daniel. Nothing that’ll get anybody arrested, let alone hung. But we got us a place to start.”

  Dallas, Texas. Daniel sighed.

  Chapter Eleven

  As they rode into the agency grounds, a crowd had gathered, and more kept coming, some of them running, talking with excitement. Only it was too early for ration day, and soldiers rarely came to the agency. Unless there had been trouble. Gunter snorted something in Cherokee, but Daniel ignored him, focusing on the multitude. Indian policemen. Including Ben Buffalo Bone and Twice Bent Nose. Seven haggard troopers from Fort Sill, with a young, mustached, cherry-faced lieutenant. Major Becker squatted in the bed of an old buckboard, peering down at something, then shaking his head, pulling up a woolen blanket, and talking to Agent Leviticus Ellenbogen, who stood sweating, wringing his large hands. Teepee That Stands Alone was there, too, with maybe a dozen other Comanches and Kiowas—and several more hurrying that way. Leaning against the wall of the agency headquarters, head bowed, stood a man Daniel never expected to see in Indian Territory.

  Becker stopped talking, Teepee That Stands Alone turned around, arms folded, his face a mask, and the black bluecoats shuffled about uncomfortably as Gunter and Daniel entered the compound. The young officer barked an order, Ben Buffalo Bone started to shout something, but the Indian agent commanded him to be silent, and Vaughan Coyne lifted his head.

  Daniel and Gunter reined in their horses.

  The Wichita Falls attorney stepped forward, speaking urgently: “Daniel, don’t say anything until you and I have had a chance to talk.”

  He looked at the wagon, saw the worn brogans sticking out of the blanket.

  “Bávi!” Ben Buffalo Bone started.

  “Shut up!” the agent yelled at him.

  “Run,” Ben Buffalo Bone said. “It is the bad white man.”

  “They think you killed him,” Twice Bent Nose added in Comanche.

  A murmur followed. A Comanche woman began singing. The afternoon sun broke through gray clouds.

  Daniel shot a quick glance to Hugh Gunter, who slowly swung down from his horse, and said—“Well, let’s take a look-see”—and strode to the wagon. Silently Daniel followed, aware of the stares, the pressing silence that was quickly broken when the young lieutenant told them to stay away. Major Becker, however, countermanded the order, saying: “They can’t hurt this man any more, Mister Newly.” Carefully Becker stepped around the covered corpse, and helped Gunter, then Daniel, up onto the wagon bed. The Army surgeon then knelt, and pulled back the blanket.

  Daniel turned his head in disgust, panic.

  Gunter whistled, and squatted.

  After swallowing down the bile quickly climbing up his throat, Daniel faced the dead man again.

  Blake Browne’s body had swollen like an overripe plum, like it was about to burst open. His eyes were gone. So was his topknot. Two small but ugly wounds looked black against the pale flesh of his bare chest and stomach. Two arrows lay between his side and broken arm, the point missing from one, the other, shaft broken, stained with dark, dried blood.

  Gunter picked up the arrows, and held them out toward Daniel.

  “Comanche?” the Cherokee asked.

  Daniel sank beside him, thankful his knees didn’t buckle. He looked at the broken arrow. “Maybe,” Daniel said. “It’s dogwood.” He examined the feathers, shaking his head. “Hawk feathers.” He pursed his lips.

  The white lieutenant started yelling again. “Everybody on the reservation knows that the hawk is Killstraight’s medicine. That alone should be enough to hang that son-of-a-bitch!”

  “You got plenty of friends,” Gunter whispered to Daniel, and took the arrow away.

  The crowd was talking again, Ben Buffalo Bone translating what had been said, Vaughan Coyne telling Daniel again to remain silent. Then Teepee That Stands Alone’s voice thundered in the guttural language of The People.

  “Listen to the words of Teepee That Stands Alone,” Ben Buffalo said, smiling after the old Kwahadi puhakat fell silent. “The People would never use hawk feathers on an arrow.”

  “It is true,” another voice drawled. Daniel saw Frank Striker, the agency interpreter, sitting on an overturned bucket, whittling.

  Twice Bent Nose’s head bobbed in agreement.

  “Well, he was killed by an Injun,” a black-bearded trooper said. “That’s certain.”

  “Killed and scalped,” another voice chimed in.

  “Shut up!” Major Becker demanded.

  Daniel looked at the arrow again, then lifted his head toward the surgeon. “Did you break the arrow pulling it out?”

  “It was like that when Mister Coyne discovered the body.”

  Daniel looked above the wagon at the pale attorney. “Where did you find him?”

  The young lawyer swallowed. “Between Middle Cache Creek and West Cache Creek. I saw the buzzards.” He lowered his head again. “Thought it was probably just a Texas steer . . .”

  “Busted arrow’s no good,” Major Becker said, “but why leave the other arrow in Browne’s chest?”

  “The People will not use an arrow that has taken the life of a human, even a taibo,” Daniel said.

  Gunter whispered: “You sure no Comanche did this?”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Daniel said. “Except I didn’t do it.”

  “I know that. You ain’t got the look, no matter how mean you want to be, no matter how much you hated this rank sumbitch. What about that big, mean-looking fellow yonder?”

  “Teepee That Stands Alone?”

  “He don’t look happy.”

  “It was his granddaughter
that was killed. Remember? Her father passed out on top of her.”

  “With one of them Coursey and Cox ginger beer bottles,” Gunter said. “He’s got a motive.”

  Daniel shook his head. “Teepee That Stands Alone follows the old traditions of The People.” He pointed at the arrowhead. “That’s metal. He’d never use that. Would only use a stone head. Nor would he use hawk feathers.”

  “What are those two bucks whispering about?” the lieutenant of the Long Knives demanded.

  Hugh Gunter slowly rose, stretching out his tall form, and staring hard with black, bitter eyes at the young officer. “I’m not buck, soldier boy,” he said. “I am Hugh Gunter of the Long Hair Clan. I am an officer with the United States Indian Police, and you will speak to me . . . and Sergeant Killstraight . . . with respect, else I climb down off this wagon and whup you to a frazzle.”

  Lieutenant Newly looked away. Frank Striker laughed and went back to his whittling.

  “I was going to take him back to the hospital,” Becker said, “perform a postmortem examination there. But I want you to see this.” He pulled back the rest of the blanket, revealing Blake Browne’s naked corpse.

  His thigh was slashed, deeply, to the bone, long, ugly.

  “These two are likely the death wounds,” Becker said, pointing at Browne’s chest.

  “What about his eyes?” Daniel asked.

  Becker shook his head. “Ravens, I warrant. Turkey buzzards. Some sort of carrion.”

  “Mein Gott,” Ellenbogen muttered, the first words he had spoken since their arrival.

  “As I was pointing out,” Becker continued. “Two death wounds. The scalping, and this.” He pointed at the slashed thigh. “Mean anything?”

  “It means Indian butchery.” Young Newly had regained his voice, and courage. “Comanche arrow or not, Major, Blake Browne is dead.”

  “Glory to heaven,” one of the troopers said.

  Newly whirled, face flushed, started for the soldier, then spun around, focusing his wrath on Daniel. “We have enough evidence. We should arrest this Indian, hold him in the guardhouse, transport him for trial and execution to Fort Smith. Or Wichita Falls. Killstraight had motive. He had means.”

  “No opportunity, though,” Gunter said. He waved a hand over his nose. “This boy’s mighty ripe.” Looking now at Major Becker. “How long you reckon he’s been dead?”

  With a shrug, Becker answered: “Three days, perhaps four. Hard to tell.”

  “Well, Daniel couldn’t have done it. He’s been riding with me for the past five days. Down south. We’ve been investigating two other dead whiskey runners we found. A couple of Creeks, and they was butchered a hell of a lot more than this old boy. That’s three dead whiskey runners. Now this boy, being white . . .”—pointing at the corpse—“he’s a federal matter, but those Creeks, that’s my matter. Daniel’s been helping me. I expect a passel of Judge Parker’s deputies will be helping, too. We got three murders. Somebody’s killing the whiskey runners on your reservation. That’s my report.”

  As he helped Daniel down off the wagon, Gunter whispered: “Don’t be tormenting over my lying soul, Daniel. Let’s go talk to your dtyhh.”

  * * * * *

  “That’s great news, Daniel,” Vaughan Coyne said, inside the stifling agency. “You have an alibi. You couldn’t have killed Blake Browne.”

  Daniel started to speak, to admit that the Cherokee policeman had lied about being with Daniel all that time, but Gunter grunted. Agent Ellenbogen cleared his throat, decided he had nothing to say, and Daniel said: “Why are you in Indian Territory?”

  “Coming to see you, Daniel,” the lawyer said. “I told you I would investigate Browne, Quantrell, and this Dakota you mentioned.”

  “And?” Daniel asked.

  The lawyer went pale. He sat down. Probably the heat. Fanned himself, shook his head, looked up, speaking slowly, barely audible. “I thought it was just a steer. Those buzzards.”

  Ellenbogen fetched a glass of water, and the lawyer drank. Slowly his face regained its color. He finished the water.

  “Quantrell is no friend of law and order,” Coyne said. “I think he’s involved with this whiskey operation. I think he and Blake Browne are . . .” The paleness returned. “Were,” Coyne corrected, bowing his head. He looked up, his face pleading. “I just can’t get the sight of that man . . . just can’t . . . forget him. It was . . . horrible.”

  They waited.

  “Browne and Carl were partners. I think Carl Quantrell is Dakota.”

  Daniel cursed himself silently. He ought to be writing all this down, but he had stupidly left his Old Glory tablet in the saddlebags.

  “How you come to that?” Gunter asked.

  Coyne said: “He’s from Company D. Out of Wichita Falls. But before that he was assigned for eleven months in Dallas. Dallas is where you said those ginger beer bottles hail from.”

  “Excuse me,” Daniel said, standing. “Mister Ellenbogen, do you have pencil and paper? I’d like to write this down.” He’d never remember all that.

  When he had settled back in his chair, Coyne continued.

  “He and Browne were known associates. They could be spotted together at one of Wichita Falls’s grog shops, and lately Quantrell has been patrolling the Red River area.” He paused. No questions. “Instead of patrolling the river, I think he was guarding it, letting Blake Browne slip across into Indian Territory with whiskey.”

  “Something to consider,” Gunter said without commitment.

  “I think so.” Coyne pushed back his bangs with his left hand, revealing the thin line of a wicked cut, probably from a knife, just below the hairline on the right side of his face. “Quantrell found out I had been asking about him. He gave me this, told me it was a warning, told me I could easily wind up dead.”

  “Why did you not prefer charges against that scoundrel?” Agent Ellenbogen demanded.

  “Swear out a complaint against a Texas Ranger? In Texas? I’ve been practicing law long enough, sir, to know when I have a case and when I have nothing, Mister Ellenbogen. And Quantrell . . . well, sir, he scares the hell out of me. He’s a dangerous and treacherous man. If you come across him, I would not give him a chance. He’ll kill you.”

  That, Daniel believed, was true enough.

  “Is he from Dakota? Is he called Dakota?” Daniel asked.

  “I’m not sure where he comes from, but I was thinking Company D. D for Dakota. Just a code.”

  Daniel started to say something, stopped, wrote.

  “I feel sick,” Coyne said.

  “Better than Blake Browne feels,” said Hugh Gunter.

  Chapter Twelve

  The arrow entered the abdomen, slicing deep, downward, and to the left. Having nicked the splenic artery and pierced the stomach chamber, the arrow would have killed Blake Browne, but it would have been a long, agonizing death. Therefore, the other arrow, higher, glancing off a rib and into a lung, likely proved to be a blessing. It followed the same down, left trajectory, a mortal injury that would have brought death a little more quickly than the gut wound.

  Of course, Major Becker couldn’t tell which arrow struck first. The lung shot might have been the first wound. The shot to the stomach, in fact, might have happened after Blake Browne was dead.

  “They could have even hit him at the same time,” Becker told Daniel. “If there had been two killers.”

  Daniel shook his head. “Both arrows had hawk feathers. I’d say they came from the same quiver.” Again he studied one arrow, the one not broken, crudely made, no Comanche markings, and a wild thought ran through his mind: If it came from any quiver.

  “Well.” Becker sipped his Scotch. “You’d know better than me. I’m not much of a detective.”

  “Nor am I,” Daniel said.

  “Some say I’m not much of a physician.”

  They sat in Becker’s office at Fort Sill, the post hospital surprisingly quiet, the windows open to let in the cooling breeze and let out th
e smell of sickness and medicine. Outside, came the commands of officers and non-commissioned officers, even the popping of the American flag, the jingle of traces, and curses of saddlers over at the corrals.

  “But I missed one thing when I examined the corpse in the wagon,” Major Becker told Daniel after he finished his whiskey. “His skull was crushed. From behind. That would have killed Browne, too, and faster than either of the two arrow shots.”

  “Which killed him?” Daniel asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not.”

  “My guess is that the head injury came from falling off the wagon. That killed him.”

  Daniel wrote that down, thinking. The first arrow struck him, then the second, and he fell off the wagon, striking his head. He sketched the scene, crudely, in his notebook.

  “The killer would have been higher.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Like on a boulder.”

  “A good guess.”

  “Browne was ambushed. From a high place.”

  “Naturally.”

  Daniel closed the writing tablet. Frowning, he tried to picture the country between Middle and West Cache Creeks. Vaughan Coyne had returned to Wichita Falls. Too bad. Daniel would have liked to see exactly where the lawyer had found the dead whiskey runner.

  “But there’s another possibility,” Becker said. “He was knocked off the wagon, and the killer stood over him . . . Browne was likely already dead . . . and shot him twice, scalped him, slashed his thigh.”

  He opened the Old Glory, wrote that down, closed it again.

  More voices, closer, sang out along the parade grounds.

  “You might want to get out of here, Sergeant Killstraight,” Major Becker said. “Lieutenant Newly is officer of the day.”

  * * * * *

  “You are distracted.”

  Daniel quickly looked at Rain Shower, who smiled her shy smile, holding a gourd of water, offering him something to drink, as he sat outside the cabin where he and the horses lived.