War on the Cimarron

by Short, Luke;

  The policeman, a half-breed, dismounted first; and then the lieutenant, who was a pleasant-faced young man in blue uniform with the broad-brimmed black hat of the cavalry, followed.

  Frank strolled out toward them, Otey and Red trailing behind.

  “Lookin’ for feed?” Frank said.

  The young lieutenant colored a little. “Are you Frank Christian?” he asked.

  Frank nodded and came to a halt some six feet from them.

  “Then I’m afraid you’re under arrest,” the lieutenant said firmly.

  Frank frowned, looking over the faces of the bored troopers who had dismounted at an order, and then regarded the lieutenant.

  “Arrest?” Frank echoed blankly. “What for?”

  “Whisky peddling,” the half-breed policeman supplied.

  The lieutenant removed his gauntlet gloves, tucked them in his belt and shoved his black hat back off his perspiring forehead, avoiding Frank’s eye.

  “I haven’t got a drop of whisky on the place,” Frank said slowly. “How could I peddle it?”

  The lieutenant turned to the Cheyenne, who was standing silently by, and beckoned him over.

  “Is this the man?” he asked the Indian, indicating Frank.

  The Cheyenne nodded and began to speak. The lieutenant looked to the half-breed to translate. Presently the Indian policeman said, “He says that’s the man that sold it to him. Yesterday noon, he says. He brought five bottles back to Reno and got drunk on that same whisky.”

  Frank said quickly, “He’s a liar!”

  The lieutenant looked troubled and said to the half-breed, “Where did he buy the whisky?”

  More Indian talk.

  “Off in the timber, he says. He says big cache back there.”

  The lieutenant looked at Frank. “You heard him. Is that right?”

  “I didn’t sell him any whisky and there’s no cache,” Frank said, an edge creeping into his voice.

  The lieutenant sighed. “Well, he was sure drunk last night. He shot up a store in Darlington and he had a couple of other bucks drunk with him. We damn near killed them tryin’ to get them corralled. Then this Indian told us where he bought it.” He paused. “That’s a pretty serious offense, you know.”

  “He’s lyin’,” Frank said.

  “We’ll look for the cache, if you don’t mind,” the lieutenant said firmly. “At least we’ll make him prove that part of the story.”

  The half-breed said something to the Indian, and the Indian nodded and went back to his horse. The lieutenant said, “Better get a horse, Christian.”

  Frank called for Beach Freeman’s horse and mounted, and while half the platoon stayed at the shack the other half fell in behind Frank and the lieutenant. The policeman and the Indian were ahead.

  Something was queer here, Frank thought narrowly. If the Cheyenne hadn’t been so positive in his identification, a man could think that perhaps one of the Circle R hands had been swelling his thirty-a-month wages by a little whisky peddling on the side. But the Cheyenne seemed to think he had his man. Frank waited, wondering.

  They went into the live oaks, turned east, traveled a half mile, still in the timber, and where the ground gave way to a little swale holding a tangle of berry thicket the Indian stopped and pointed.

  The lieutenant dismounted and gave orders to the troopers to beat the thicket. The first trooper there discovered that the thicket was dead stuff piled there to cover some freshly turned earth. In lieu of a shovel the troopers used their hands to scoop out the dirt, and presently they lifted out a sack half full of whisky bottles. The lieutenant grunted, and when his men pulled up three more full sacks he turned to Frank.

  “Well?”

  “Not mine,” Frank said. “The Circle R was here until two days ago.”

  For the last time the lieutenant conversed with the Cheyenne through the interpreter, and then he shook his head soberly and looked at Frank.

  “It won’t do, Christian. You’re the man, and you’re under arrest.”

  Frank shifted his glance to study the Cheyenne, who was watching him with those bland, secretly curious black eyes of his race. Frank pulled his horse around and walked it over beside the Cheyenne’s horse. He spoke in Comanche, which was the Indian trade language of the southwest country.

  “Who paid you to lie?” he asked.

  The Cheyenne started at the sound of the Indian speech. He replied in a sullen voice, using the Comanche speech, “You sold it to me.”

  With the back of his hand Frank clubbed the Cheyenne full in the mouth. It was a hard blow, quick, giving the Cheyenne no time to dodge. It knocked him sideways in his saddle, and before he could catch his balance he slipped and fell heavily to the ground on his side.

  The lieutenant palmed up his gun and pulled his horse over beside Frank’s.

  “That’s enough!” he said sternly. “You’d better come along peaceably.”

  Frank said, “All right,” in a thick and angry voice. Orders were given the troopers to save out two bottles of whisky for evidence and smash the rest, and when that was done they rode back to the shack.

  Red came up to Frank, and Otey followed him. The troopers were scattered loosely about the place, making a break impossible even if Frank had planned it. Frank remained mounted.

  Red said to him, “Bad news?”

  “Somebody’s planted some whisky back in the brush, and they’re taking me in. Otey, you move camp away from the shack and cache some of the corn and grub. Keep the wagon on the move and stay away from the creek and take a look at the place once a day to see what’s going on. Red, take a good look at that Cheyenne.”

  “I have,” Red drawled. “He’s picked up a bloody nose since he rode in here.”

  “Follow us into Reno but keep out of sight,” Frank said. “I want you to find out the name of that Indian and what camp he’s in and anything else about him you can, understand?”

  “You want me to nail up his hide?” Red asked.

  “I’ll do that when I’m out,” Frank said grimly.

  “You ain’t goin’ to get out,” Red said in anger. “They’ll put up a bail you can’t meet and hold you till fall court in Kansas and then freight you up there for trial. I’ve seen it!”

  “I’ll get out,” Frank said. “All I want is for the crew to keep out of trouble until I’m with you again. Remember, that means you, Red.”

  He pulled his horse around before Red could answer and rode over to the lieutenant and said, “I’m ready, Lieutenant.” The order was given to mount, and Frank and the lieutenant led the cavalcade down the slope, Red and Otey looking on helplessly.

  On the silent ride back to Reno Frank considered what had happened. The Cheyenne had been paid to give evidence that Frank was selling whisky to the Indians. Two outfits might have paid him to get Frank out of the way. The Reservation Cattle Company, rather than carry on a feud which was liable to bring the army down on them, might have chosen this easier and more subtle way to defeat him. Or Corb might have done it. It was one of these two.

  The Reservation Cattle Company would have had time to do it after Puckett met with Frank’s refusal, and Corb would not have had time to do it since last night’s brush. On the other hand, Corb had the whisky to plant and the loyalty of an Indian who would lie for him.

  Before they reached Reno Frank had given up trying to guess. At the garrison half the platoon was dismissed, and Frank was escorted through the garrison and across the river to Darlington. The arrest, he concluded, was an agency affair carried out by the reservation authorities, with the army serving as an augmented police force. He was sure of it when he was ushered into a building on Darlington’s main street which was the headquarters of the Indian police. The agent, a Mr. Coe, was summoned and, acting as a judge, held a hurried preliminary hearing, advised by the judge advocate from the garrison, and Frank was held under five thousand dollars’ bond for trial in the next term of court in Kansas.

  He was put into a neat, stron
gly barred cell of steel in the upper story of the building. His jailer clanged the door shut, locked it, hung the lantern on a nail by the corridor window and informed him pleasantly enough that supper was on its way, afterward leaving him alone.

  Frank sank to the cot and put his head in his hands. Red was right. Five thousand dollars’ bail was out of his reach, and the next term of court was in the fall. They had put him safely away and, for their purposes, just as safely as Morg Wheelon had been put away.

  Red Shibe, wise in the ways of this country, did not stir from his position across the street from the police office when he saw the Cheyenne come out of the preliminary hearing, mount his horse and ride off east toward the Cheyenne camp in the twilight. He was an old enough hand to know that the handful of Indians constantly loafing about the stores in Darlington knew his identity and would wrongly interpret his getting his horse and following the Cheyenne out of town. Chances were he would wind up with a broken head and a shot in the back if he was so rash as to try it.

  But there were other ways. He drifted across the street to the Murphy Hotel and took a chair in the darkest part of the porch and waited for the after-supper crowd to come out for their evening cigar and talk. He would have preferred the bar at Reno, but he was barred from that.

  Presently, after darkness had come, the diners filed out, their talk slow and peaceful after the day’s work. They were mostly freighters, a sprinkling of agency employees and an odd traveling man. According to their rather sensible ritual they took chairs on the porch, lighted cigars or pipes and talked over the meager news of the post and agency.

  Sooner or later they were bound to come around to the arrest of Frank Christian for whisky peddling. It didn’t take them long. A man strolled across the dirt street, greeted the porch sitters and announced that Christian had been held in five-thousand-dollar bail.

  “A hell of a note,” one freighter growled. “Mebbe he peddles whisky, I dunno. But I know they ain’t ever arrested the Big Augur around here that peddles it. They jump the little fella and let the big one off.”

  “They’re afraid of him,” someone said cynically. They talked around and around the subject, and someone finally asked the inevitable question: “Who turned him up?”

  “A wild young buck by the name of Grey Horse. He’s Stone Bull’s nevvy, but the chief has kicked him out. He’s camped out with that bunch of horse-stealin’ black sons up on the Salt Fork.”

  That was all Red wanted to know, and he slipped unobtrusively out of his chair and crossed the street. On the far boardwalk he paused long enough to watch the stage from Caldwell roll into town. Without a pause in the fast trot of his three teams the driver tossed a mailbag toward the hotel porch and shouted greetings to the men he knew were there but could not see.

  Red turned on his heel and started downstreet again, and suddenly, from between two store buildings, a voice said, “Red Shibe?”

  It was a woman’s voice, and Red paused, and before he could answer the voice went on. “Don’t look this way. Can you hear me?”

  Red nodded and turned his back to her and looked over the street.

  “Get your horse and ride around to the alley back here. I’ll meet you.”

  Red nodded again and moved off downstreet. He was more puzzled than suspicious. He couldn’t begin to guess who it was and, after a moment’s thought, discounted the possibility that it might be someone sent by Corb. Scott Corb didn’t know a woman with that nice a voice.

  He got his horse, rode down out of the block, turned and put his horse into the dark alley. There was a rider waiting for him behind the store, and without saying anything they rode the length of the alley and out of the business district.

  Finally Red, who could not see the girl, said, “I’d like to know a little more, miss.”

  “I was out at your place yesterday,” the girl said. “I’m Luvie Barnes.”

  This was the girl who had angered Frank so, Red remembered. He kept silent until they were out of the town itself. A quarter mile beyond it they came to a large two-story log house set back from the road, and behind it was a cluster of sheds and barns and corrals. They tied their horses at a tree in front of the house, and Luvie led the way up the porch steps and into the hall.

  Luvie called, “All right, Dad,” and led the way through a door that opened off the hall into the parlor.

  Barnes, in his shirt sleeves, came out of a big chair, and Luvie said in a not-too-enthusiastic voice, “Here he is, Dad.”

  Barnes shook hands with Red, and his broad heavy face was troubled. “You’re Red Shibe, Frank’s rider, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Red said.

  Barnes said, “Sit down,” and Red did, and Luvie came over to sit on the arm of her father’s chair.

  “Tell me about Frank,” Barnes said, hunching forward in his seat.

  “Nothin’ to tell,” Red said, puzzled. “He was framed for whisky peddlin’. He’s been arrested and he’s in jail under bond until the trial, in the fall.”

  “Has Frank got any money?” Barnes asked.

  “Money? You mean bail money? Not that I know of.”

  “I have.”

  Luvie came to her feet, alarm in her face. “Dad! Are you going on Frank Christian’s bail?”

  “That’s it,” Barnes said. “He’s too good a man to stay locked up in jail.”

  “Dad, you’re crazy!” Luvie said hotly. “I’d never have brought Shibe here if I’d known you were going to do that!”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because Corb will find out, and it’ll make trouble for you!”

  Barnes looked at Red. “You can keep your mouth shut, can’t you?”

  Red nodded, and Luvie said, “Why, besides, Frank won’t take it! Not after what he said to me today! Haven’t you any pride, Dad? Can’t you remember what he said about you?”

  “He was right,” Barnes said grimly. “I’m a coward and I’ll admit it. I’m too old and too fat to strap on a gun and comb Corb over. But that’s no sign I don’t like to see somebody do it that can.”

  Luvie stamped her foot. “Don’t you talk that way! You’re risking everything we have to help Frank Christian! It’s not worth it, Dad! He’s not worth it!”

  “Luvie!” Barnes said sharply. He hoisted his big bulk to his feet, and his pale eyes were angry. “I may carry a lot of fat, but I haven’t got much around my heart! I don’t like crooks! I don’t like bullies! They run a hell of a lot of this world, girl, too much of it. But when you see a man who has got the guts to fight them and lick them then it’s your duty to help him. And I’m helpin’ Frank Christian!”

  He stalked over to a cabinet, opened it, reached inside and drew out a heavy canvas sack. Crossing the room, he tossed it into Red’s lap.

  “If Frank trusts you, then I will. That’s two hundred and fifty twenty-dollar gold pieces. Get Frank Christian out of jail.”

  Red looked at the money, scarcely able to believe his eyes, then raised his glance to Barnes.

  “What’s the catch in this?”

  “None,” Barnes said brusquely. “Bail him out of jail. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll be mad enough to swarm all over somebody. That’s all I want.”

  “And next time you’ll be having to get him out of jail for murder!” Luvie said. Barnes ignored her.

  Red came to his feet, hefted the sack, said, “Well, thanks,” and looked at Luvie. “You’ve made a wrong guess about Frank, Miss Barnes. I can’t prove it. I’ll let him do that himself.”

  Luvie’s lip curled in contempt, and Barnes showed Red out. He got his horse and rode back toward town, an excitement pounding through him. He’d let Frank stay in jail tonight and get the sleep he needed, for once he was out of jail there wouldn’t be much time for sleep. Red remembered the ugly expression in Frank’s eyes as he had bid them good-by out at the spread, and he grinned.

  He put up his horse at the livery stable, put the money in his war bag, tramped across to the hotel a
nd stepped past the porch sitters into the lobby.

  There, seated in one of the easy chairs, was Otey. He looked at Red with the old distaste, the old dislike, and then came to his feet as Red walked over to him.

  “What’s up?” Red asked.

  Otey said, “Corb has moved his crew into the place, lock, stock and barrel. They come an hour after Frank left.”

  “Never burnt it, eh?”

  “I tell you they’re in it!” Otey said. “Livin’ there! Settled there!”

  Red shrugged and walked over to the desk and faced the clerk. “I want a corner room on the second floor with two beds in it,” he announced.

  Otey, from behind him, said sourly, “I ain’t stayin’.”

  “You’re stayin’,” Red said.

  Otey’s seamed face got a little more truculent. “I told you I ain’t stayin’. Even if I was, I wouldn’t sleep in the same room with you.”

  Red turned and took Otey’s elbow and walked him out of hearing distance of the clerk. “See that war bag?” he said grimly. “That’s got five thousand in gold in it. Frank’s bail. Maybe you better quit actin’ so cussed and help me guard it till tomorrow.”

  Otey’s eyes opened wide and he nodded slowly. Red got the room, and he and Otey went up to it. Once the door was locked Red pocketed the key, threw the war bag on his bed and sat down to pull his boots off.

  Otey said, “Lemme see that money.” Red invited him to look, and when Otey hefted the sack he looked shrewdly at Red. “Steal it?”

  Red glared at him. “You go to hell,” he said, and on that note they turned their backs to each other and slept.

  Chapter VII

  Frank was just finishing an early breakfast when the jailer climbed the stairs again to let Otey and Red into the corridor, afterward leaving them.

  The moment the jailer was gone Red said savagely, “All right, Frank! This runty foreman of yours is a tinhorn thief!”