"The world ain't going to treat nobody fair," Foster said with a shake of his head. "You want something, Indian, you've got to reach out and take it. I'll bet there's things you want, ain't there?"
Grudgingly, Glidinghawk replied, "I want many things. But I have learned to live without them."
Foster jerked a thumb toward the scattering of teepees and lodges. "Eats at a man like you to see this, don't it? You miss the old days."
"All I really know of the times before this is what I have heard the old men speak of." The Omaha's words took on an increasingly bitter tone as he went on, "The Kiowa said I have no soul. Perhaps he was right. I know I have no home."
Foster clapped a hand on Glidinghawk's shoulder. Glidinghawk did not move, although the touch made him want to flinch away. "Hell, could be worse," Foster said. "We could all be dead. At least as long as we're alive, things might get better."
"Maybe," Glidinghawk said noncommittally.
Foster nodded and then admonished sternly, "Now you stay out of trouble, fella. Next time could be a lot worse."
Glidinghawk stared at him without making any reply. After a moment, Foster turned and walked away.
Glidinghawk looked around, saw that he was being ignored again now, by soldiers and Indians alike.
Once more —always —he was alone in the crowd.
* * *
Supply Sergeant Bradley Foster shrugged his shoulders, trying to pull a little more warmth out of the uniform jacket he wore. Summer was still a ways off, and the nights were downright cold here on the High Plains. Stars burned brilliantly overhead, and he could see their twinkling reflections on the surface of the nearby Canadian River.
He had ridden out from Fort Supply after evening mess. No one paid much attention to his comings and goings. Things were fairly relaxed at the fort right now. The savages were behaving themselves in Indian Territory.
Of course, they were also crossing the Red River regularly into Texas to carry out their depredations, but that worry belonged to the Rangers and the troops stationed in the Lone Star State.
And without those raids, Foster thought, the redskins wouldn't have the loot they needed to buy whiskey. He and his partners wouldn't like that at all.
Foster pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a quick nip. Maybe that would warm him up. As he licked his lips, he muttered aloud, "Dammit, Arlie, where are you?"
The meeting had been scheduled to take place at least a half hour earlier, but Arlie Moody hadn't shown up yet. That was like Arlie. He had probably gotten busy swilling rotgut or bedding some fat, greasy squaw and forgotten all about where he was supposed to be.
Foster heard the quiet sound of horses approaching. He tensed in the saddle. The newcomers were probably Moody and some of his brothers, but it didn't pay to take chances. His hand went to the already unsnapped flap of his holster and rested on the butt of his pistol.
Three shapes appeared out of the shadows. In the darkness, their forms seemed at first monstrous and misshapen, but then they resolved themselves into three men on horseback. The burly noncom relaxed as a familiar voice called out softly, "Foster? That you?"
"Over here, Arlie," Foster replied.
Arlie Moody rode up to Foster's side, followed closely by the other two horsemen. Moody jerked his head toward them and said, "I brung Dirk and Ebenezer with me. That all right?"
Foster nodded. "Sure. Howdy, boys."
The two youngest Moody brothers grunted. That was the extent of their greeting. Like the rest of the clan, they were a sullen and surly pair. Talking to any of the Moody family was sort of like poking a possum with a stick, Foster thought. You never knew what they were going to do.
"We'll be ready for another run in about a week," Arlie Moody said. "When you reckon would be a good time to come?"
"There are no patrols scheduled for next Thursday and Friday," Foster replied. "Might be some last-minute changes, but it ain't likely. Nobody'll bother you."
"Better not, or there'll be shootin'," Arlie promised in his gravelly voice. The Texan was tall and broad-shouldered, bulky in a buffalo coat. Foster had seen him in the daylight plenty of times, and Arlie Moody was not a very impressive specimen. Perpetually unshaven, his clothes old and crudely patched, his black Stetson battered, Arlie looked like the hardcase he was.
But he was plenty tough and ruthless, and Foster could admire him for that. The other four Moody brothers were every bit as rugged as Arlie, but he had a certain spark of cunning that they lacked.
"You had any luck findin' somebody to help me out up here?" Arlie asked. "You know I got to leave some o' the boys home to protect Ma and the still. Makes it hard to deliver the stuff once I'm over the line with it."
Foster nodded. "I've got my eye on somebody. He might work out real well for us. He's tough, and he's got no love for either the army or the Indians."
"What's his name?"
Chuckling, Foster replied, "Listen to this — he's called Gerald Glidinghawk."
Arlie sat up straight in the saddle, and one of the other brothers —Ebenezer, Foster thought it was —exclaimed, "A goddamn Injun? What the hell's wrong with you, Foster?"
Arlie turned on him, lifting an arm and whipping it around. His calloused hand cracked across the face of the boy who had spoken.
"Shut your damn mouth!" Arlie growled. "I do the talking for this family." He looked back at Foster. "You trust an Injun, Foster?"
"I don't trust anybody," Foster said bluntly. "Not even you, Arlie. But this Omaha is an interesting character. Raised in a white family, had some schoolin' back East. The other Indians hate him, and he don't like them much better. And of course, the whites don't have any use for him." The sergeant grinned. "But maybe we do."
Arlie still sounded dubious as he replied, "You be sure you're right about this, Foster. We'll be seein' you next week. Maybe you can bring this Glidinghawk buck along."
"We'll see," Foster nodded. He watched the whiskey runners ride away into the night.
He could almost smell the money they were all going to make before this was over.
CHAPTER FOUR
Truscott, Texas, wasn't much to look at, Landrum thought as he peered through the window of the stagecoach. One dusty main street lined with businesses, a few crossroads with residences on them. But it was a growing community, as was evidenced by the impressive brick structure on one corner. It was the biggest building in town, and a sign over its entrance proclaimed it to be the First Bank of Truscott.
And the only bank of Truscott, Landrum mused wryly.
He had been here before, had in fact spent quite a bit of time in Texas just before the mission that had taken Powell's Army to Dodge City. There was a good chance that some of the folks in town would remember him.
He glanced at Celia, sitting beside him on the hard bench seat of the coach. The citizens of Truscott wouldn't remember Celia. She had never set foot here before. Landrum was willing to bet that she would make an impression on the good people of Truscott, though.
Ever since starting this journey, Celia had been forced to fend off the advances of the men traveling with them. She was adept at that, and a few hard glances from Landrum had helped discourage the lustful drummers. Sure they took her for a loose woman — they were supposed to. But that didn't mean she had to sit there and let herself be pawed by every horny salesman in the West.
Celia sighed as the stagecoach came to a stop in front of Truscott's way station. Landrum smiled thinly and asked, "Glad to be here?"
"Of course, darling," she answered.
The endearment was for the benefit of their fellow passengers, Landrum thought. Right now Celia probably wasn't too happy with him, or with Amos Powell for that matter. She was the type of young woman who liked bright lights, good whiskey, laughter, and the faint whispering slap of cards being dealt.
This little settlement in the wilds of north Texas had nothing to offer her.
But Truscott was close to the area known as the Copper Brakes, and according to
Amos, that was where the whiskey runners were thought to have their headquarters. It was up to Landrum and Celia to locate them and put them out of business — without getting killed in the process.
As usual, the drummers left the stage first. Landrum waited for them to disembark, then stepped down and offered his arm to Celia. She took it, coughing delicately as she moved out of the coach. Her gloved hands brushed dust from her traveling outfit.
As she and Landrum started into the station, one of the hostlers spotted the tall Texan and exclaimed, "Why, howdy, Mr. Davis! Didn't expect to see you back."
"I never expected to come back to this damned place," Landrum growled, his voice none too friendly.
The young hostler frowned in surprise. He remembered that Landrum Davis could be fairly sullen when he had been drinking, but overall he had seemed like a friendly-enough fellow during his previous visit to Truscott. With a shrug, the man went about this work. Folks had a right to change, he supposed.
Landrum and Celia went into the building. Landrum saw the stationmaster puttering around behind his ticket window. He went over to the man and said, "Remember me, Erie?"
The balding, middle-aged stationmaster looked up, nodded when he saw who had spoken. "Why, sure, Mr. Davis," he said. "I recollect you bein' here last year, wasn't it? What can I do for you?"
"My . . . wife . . . and I are looking for a place to stay," Landrum said. "Any places in town for rent?"
He put just enough emphasis on the word wife to make it plain that Celia wasn't any such thing.
Celia stepped up closer to Landrum and put her hand on his arm. In a low voice that was still audible to the stationmaster, she said, "Are you sure we have to stay in this awful place, Landrum? Can't we go on down to Fort Worth?"
"Not until we make some more money," Landrum hissed. He turned his attention back to the stationmaster and snapped, "Well? What about it?"
The man nodded. "I think the old Stanley place is for rent. Harv Stanley died a few months ago, and his missus went to live with her sister down in Knox City. You could go talk to Mr. Watts over at the bank. He's handlin' Miz Stanley's affairs."
"Thanks," Landrum said. He turned and walked out of the station, Celia having to hurry slightly to keep up with his long-legged stride. They angled across the street toward the new bank.
Randolph Watts was the president of the First Bank of Truscott, and he was more than happy to sit down with Landrum and Celia and discuss their renting the vacant Stanley house.
"It's just been sitting there since Harv passed on," Watts said from behind the desk in his narrow office. He was a beefy man in his fifties. "There's probably a few things that will need a little fixing up."
"That's no problem," Landrum said.
"As long as the place is nice," Celia added.
"Well, it's plain," Watts said. "Don't know if a lady like you would consider it nice or not, ma'am. But it's got a good sound roof. It'll keep out the spring thunderstorms."
Landrum nodded. "I suppose we'll take it."
"You want to go over and take a look at it first?"
"That won't be necessary." Landrum put a smile on his lean face. "We trust you, Mr. Watts. If you can't trust the town banker, who can you trust?"
Watts grinned and picked up a fat cigar which had gone out in the ashtray on his desk. He stuck the stogie in his mouth and said around it, "I wish everybody felt that way, Mr. Davis. Some folks seem to think that all bankers are dishonest, just because a few of them have been known to abscond with their depositers' savings." He leaned forward and clasped his meaty hands together. "By the way, how'd you like to open an account with us while you're here today?"
Landrum suppressed the chuckle he felt coming in. He had never met Watts until today, but he had run into plenty of old reprobates just like him in the past. Watts was probably honest enough —as long as it suited him.
"I think we'll have to wait on that matter," Landrum said. "Maybe later, if things go well for us."
"All right. I'll have my clerk draw up the papers on the rental of that house."
Ten minutes later, several bills had changed hands and Landrum and Celia had a place to stay. They said their good-byes to Watts and started out of the office, but then Landrum paused in the doorway. Looking back at the banker, he asked, "What's the best place in town to get a drink these days?"
"Only one place," Watts replied. "O'Leary's, just down the street."
"Thanks," Landrum nodded. The thirsty look on his face as he and Celia left the bank was not there for show, or as part of their cover. The trip had been a long and dusty one, and there was nothing he wanted more right now than a beer and a shot of smooth whiskey.
He looked along the street when they emerged from the bank and spotted O'Leary's Shamrock Saloon on the opposite side, several doors down. It was a one-story frame building with the name of the establishment emblazoned on its false front with bright green paint. Landrum remembered it from his prior visit to Truscott. At that time, there had been another saloon in town, a little hole-in-the-wall place called Ike's. He had spent most of his drinking time there, preferring a smaller place where he could concentrate on his liquor and not be bothered.
Ike's was closed now, he saw as he and Celia started toward O'Leary's. Celia asked, "Have you been in this saloon before?"
"A couple of times," Landrum replied. "The old man who owns it has visions of grandeur that are sort of out of place around here. He had a crystal chandelier brought all the way up here from Dallas, and the bar itself came from Denver, if I remember his bragging right."
"All that for a wide place in the road like Truscott?"
Landrum shrugged. "I told you he was strange."
The Shamrock Saloon seemed to be doing a steady business, Landrum saw as he paused in the batwinged entrance. There were several cowboys standing at the bar, and a poker game was going on at one of the tables. Aloysious O'Leary himself was tending bar, a tall, spare man with thick white hair and sweeping white mustaches.
Celia drew some interested looks as she accompanied Landrum up to the bar. As he had suspected, a young woman so lovely was a rarity here on the High Plains. This was a desolate land; beauty didn't last long in these parts.
Landrum rested a palm on the smooth mahogany surface of the bar and said, "I'd like a beer first, then a shot of your best whiskey, Mr. O'Leary."
The Irishman started to nod, then abruptly squinted at Landrum. "Do I know ye, lad?"
"Landrum Davis. I was here in Truscott a while back, came in here a few times for a drink."
"I'm afraid I don't recall the occasions, Mr. Davis. However, I'm glad ye came back. Welcome to the Shamrock Saloon." The old men drew the beer and placed the mug on the bar in front of Landrum, then raised his bushy white brows as he glanced at Celia. "And what can I be gettin' for the young lady now?"
"Whiskey," Celia said bluntly without waiting for Landrum to answer for her. "I'll skip the beer."
O'Leary bent and took a bottle from underneath the bar. "Very well." He splashed liquor in glasses for Landrum and Celia. There was a faintly disapproving look on his lined face.
Celia picked up her glass, took a sip, then closed her eyes in satisfaction for a moment. Then she swallowed the rest of the fiery stuff. If this was an example of O'Leary's finest, she would have hated to taste the rotgut. This whiskey was raw and harsh, but the glow it started in her belly was pleasant enough.
Landrum drank half of his beer first, then downed the whiskey. He shared Celia's assessment of its quality. And chances were, the booze they were trying to track down was even worse. There wasn't a less discriminating drinker in the world than an Indian.
"I see Ike's place is closed up," Landrum said as he sipped what was left of his beer. "He decide to retire?"
"Retired six feet under, he did," O'Leary replied, leaning on the mahogany and wiping it with the ever-present bar rag. "Dropped dead one night. Heart gave out, I hear tell. Some cowhands from down 'round Munday were the onl
y ones in there at the time. They propped 'im up behind the bar with a bottle in his hand and left him there. Gave the next customers quite a start, don't ye know?"
Landrum laughed appreciatively at the story. "So you're the only source of good drinking liquor around here now, is that it? You must be doing good business these days."
"Fair," O'Leary shrugged. "The Shamrock may be the only saloon, but 'tis always a way for a man to find a drink, happen he wants one bad enough."
Landrum nodded sagely and lowered his voice. "Somebody around here running a still, is there?" he asked in conspiratorial tones.
"I wouldn't know, laddybuck. And I don't want to." The saloonkeeper cut his eyes from side to side, as if worried that someone might be listening.
Landrum pushed on rapidly, not wanting to attract too much attention with his questioning. "Well, as long as we've got you around, Mr. O'Leary, I won't worry about being able to get some good whiskey when I want it."
"You and the missus'll be staying awhile, Mr. Davis?"
Landrum glanced at Celia and grinned broadly. "Yes. Miss Burnett and I have rented the Stanley house."
O'Leary blinked. It was unusual for a man to admit so brazenly that he was living in sin with a woman. And from the looks of the lush young redhead, the living might well be sinful indeed.
Landrum drained the last of his beer and placed the empty mug on the bar. He said, "In fact, we'd better go collect our baggage and be getting home. We just came in on the stage, you know."
"Aye," O'Leary nodded. "I saw the two of ye getting off."
Landrum spun a coin onto the bar to pay for the drinks, then took Celia's arm and turned toward the door. As they walked toward the batwings, they had to pass the table where the poker game was in progress. A slick-haired man in a frock coat—obviously a professional gambler—looked up from the cards he was dealing and said to Landrum, "Care to join us for a hand or two, my friend?"
Landrum shook his head. "I don't think so."
"With so lovely a lady at your side, your luck would probably be running high."
Celia smiled at him. "Thank you, sir. I'm glad someone appreciates the way I look." She shot a venomous glance at Landrum.
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