One of the other players, a large, rumpled young man, grinned and said, "Shoot, lady, I appreciate the hell outta the way you look. You can come over here and sit with me if you want. I'll take all the luck I can get."
It was plain from the way his gaze roved over Celia's body that he would take anything else he could get, too. His voice cold, Landrum said, "The lady and I are leaving. Sorry."
"Wait a minute, mister." The big youngster had laid down his cards and started to get to his feet. "I asked her to sit with me. Hadn't you ought to let her answer for herself?"
Another man, who was sitting beside the one who was now facing Landrum across the table, caught at his companion's arm and said in a low voice, "Better let it go, Claude. Arlie ain't gonna like it ifn we get in a shootin' scrape."
"I won't like it either, Moody," the gambler said sharply. "Now sit back down, and let's play some cards."
Reluctantly, the big man called Claude Moody sat down again. He glared after Landrum and Celia as they left the saloon.
"Well, did we plant enough seeds back there?" Celia asked as they crossed the street again, this time heading toward the stage station.
"We'll find out," Landrum said. "You can count on that."
Their bags had been unloaded from the now-departed stage, as Landrum had instructed the driver. They were waiting to be picked up on the porch of the way station. Landrum hefted the two larger bags, while Celia carried the smaller one that contained her cosmetics, a small flask of liquor, and a .38 Colt.
Landrum led her down the street and around a block to the small whitewashed frame house they had rented. It had a run-down fence around a yard full of dead grass. Landrum swung open the gate and stepped back to let Celia precede him.
"Welcome home, my dear," he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ration day at the fort was every Thursday. All the Indians who lived in the area would show up early, gathering in front of the Indian agent's office to wait for the week's worth of supplies they would be given. The provisions were usually barely enough to last a week, but the Indians took them anyway, accepting the meat, flour, beans, and sugar with little grace and no gratitude.
It was hard to be thankful for something that had sapped the fighting spirits of once-mighty tribes.
Like the other Indians, Gerald Glidinghawk arrived at the agent's office when the sun was just peeking over the horizon. The early morning mist had not burned away yet, and it gave the fort an eerie aspect as the wet tendrils floated over the parade ground.
He might arouse suspicion if he wasn't present for ration day, Glidinghawk had decided. Although it was certainly a degrading spectacle, he thought as he looked over the crowd of Indians waiting in front of the small frame building that housed Fox's office.
Follett's office, Glidinghawk corrected himself. All four members of Powell's Army had cover identities on this mission, but Fox was the only one with a phony name. Landrum had already been known in Truscott by his true name, so it had made no sense to come up with a false one for Celia.
And Glidinghawk's actual background fit right in with what they were hoping to accomplish —up to a point—so there had been no point in deceiving anyone about him either.
So far he hadn't run into anyone who would remember him from his days with the Omahas —the time of his abortive attempt to return to the red man's world after having been raised and educated a white. He had gone so far as to marry a half-breed squaw and father a child . . . but those had been futile gestures. He would never fit in there, and he should have seen that immediately, he had thought bitterly later. He had pulled up stakes, as Landrum would have put it —lit a shuck out of there.
But if he did encounter anyone who knew that part of his history, it would help emphasize the character he was trying to establish —a bitter, angry outcast with no morals. The type of man who would do almost anything if the price was right . . .
Glidinghawk sat on the hard ground next to the porch of the office, his back against the foundation of the building. His knees were drawn up, his arms resting loosely on them. He stared straight ahead, his face impassive, as he listened to the chatter of the women and the playful screams of the children. Some of the braves were there, but not all. Those who had squaws sent them to get the rations.
The scuff of feet made Glidinghawk glance up. Standing by the steps leading up to the office's porch were several warriors. One of them was the Kiowa with whom he had fought a few days earlier. The others were probably friends of his, judging from the way they were glaring at Glidinghawk.
A thin smile curved Glidinghawk's lips. "Come back for more, have you?" he asked.
The Kiowa's fingers trembled with anger as he said, "This time it will be to the death, dog."
"I see you brought help with you this time, too."
The Kiowa shook his head. "I need no help to deal with you. These warriors have to witness your humiliation and death."
Glidinghawk shrugged and put a hand on the ground as he started to get up. He hadn't wanted things to get this out of hand.
The Kiowa's hand flashed to his waist and came out with a knife. For an instant, Glidinghawk thought the man was going to slash at him with it, and he steeled himself for the bite of the blade. But instead, the Kiowa flung it down in front of Glidinghawk. The point stuck in the ground, and the hilt quivered from the impact.
His face grim, the Kiowa took another knife from the buckskin pants. He used it to gesture at the first weapon and said, "There. This will be a fair fight."
Glidinghawk looked down at the knife for a moment, aware that silence had fallen over the group of Indians. The women and the children stared, unsure what would happen next. The men watched with great interest. Glidinghawk had no friends here; he was sure of that.
If he was killed, no one would mourn him. No one would sing the death chants for him.
The mission would be over before it hardly began.
But he could not let this challenge go unanswered. He had too much pride for that.
Slowly, he bent over and plucked the knife from the ground.
The Kiowa grinned suddenly, anticipating his victory and Glidinghawk's death. As soon as Glidinghawk had straightened, knife in hand, the Kiowa lunged forward with a harsh cry.
Glidinghawk dodged to the side as the Kiowa cut at him. He threw his knife hand up, and the blades rang together with a clang of steel. Glidinghawk shoved hard, driving the Kiowa's weapon aside for a split second.
He could have used the opportunity to thrust his blade at his opponent's unprotected belly. Instead, Glidinghawk threw a punch with his free hand, driving his fist into the Kiowa's stomach with stunning force. The brave staggered backward from the blow, but as he did so, he chopped down at Glidinghawk's left arm with the knife.
Glidinghawk felt the line of heat and pain that the blade drew down his arm. For a few seconds, it didn't hurt too badly, but then waves of agony rippled through him. Red flames seemed to dance in front of his eyes.
He dove forward, once more knocking the Kiowa's knife to one side. His head slammed into the man's chest. Glidinghawk brought the knife up from down low, slicing at the Kiowa's body. Only a desperate twist by the man enabled him to avoid the full danger of the move. Instead of piercing his chest, the point of the blade merely ripped along the side of his body above the ribs. He yelped in pain, got his hand on Glidinghawk's chest, and shoved hard.
Glidinghawk didn't have his weight balanced, owing to the effort he had put into the thrust at the Kiowa's chest. He took a couple of unsteady steps to the side, managing to catch himself before he fell. There were several feet between the two men now, though. Both men tried to catch their breath.
His gaze flickering past the Kiowa, he saw the circle of Indians watching the fight, saw the keen interest on their faces. They would like to see him defeated, he realized, even gutted on the Kiowa's knife.
That wasn't going to happen. The man simply wasn't as good as he thought he was.
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p; But Glidinghawk suddenly knew how close he had come to letting his rage carry him away. He had almost killed the Kiowa. Only the man's frantic speed in avoiding Glidinghawk's knife had saved his life.
Glidinghawk had killed before, and knew he probably would have to again in the future. That wasn't what gave him pause.
There was no reason to kill the Kiowa. The man was a proud, blind fool, and that was not worth dying —or killing —over.
His lips pulling back from his teeth in a grimace, Glidinghawk suddenly drew back his hand and threw the knife. The Kiowa watched impassive as the blade skewered into the ground between his feet. He knew quite well that it could have landed in his heart just as easily.
"No more," Glidinghawk said hoarsely. "I have no quarrel with you. I will not continue this foolish battle."
The Kiowa's pride would not let him back down. "Pick up the knife again," he grated.
Glidinghawk shook his head and said, "No." He started to turn away.
The Kiowa watched him for a second, then his face contorting in rage at the prospect of being cheated of his revenge, he threw himself forward, knife upraised to drive into the back of the enemy.
Glidinghawk heard him coming. It was no surprise. The Omaha started to whirl around, to try to catch the man's wrist and prevent a killing.
The sudden blast of black powder made women and children scream. The Kiowa's lunge was stopped short. In fact, he bounced back slightly as if he had just run into some sort of invisible wall. The knife slipped from his fingers, and he used his hand instead to touch the hole in his chest. Blood welled out over his fingers.
He pitched forward on his face, dead, all need for vengeance gone.
Glidinghawk jerked around toward the source of the shot. Sergeant Bradley Foster angrily pushed past several jabbering squaws, the pistol in his hand still trailing wispy strands of powdersmoke from its barrel. "Out of the way, dammit!" he snapped.
Glidinghawk drew a deep breath and faced Foster. The Omaha's face was bleak as he said. "I could have stopped him without killing him."
Foster snorted. "Looked to me like he was about carve you up good. Reckon I'm sorry I tried to save your life." The noncom's face was brick-red with anger.
Glidinghawk made a conscious effort to relax. He said, "I appreciate what you did, Sergeant." He lifted his left arm, the sleeve of his buckskins soaked with blood from the gash. "I might not have been able to handle him after all."
From the porch of the Indian agent's office, Preston Fox shouted, "My God! What's happened here?" Obviously, his attention had been drawn by the shot just outside the building.
Foster jammed his pistol back in its holster. "Had to shoot one of the Indians," he told Fox. "There was a fight, and that brave on the ground was about to stab this one in the back." The sergeant nodded to Glidinghawk to indicate who he was talking about.
Fox's eyes met Glidinghawk's for an instant, and the Omaha gave a minuscule nod to confirm Foster's statement. Fox's face was pale as he looked at the motionless form of the dead Kiowa. "I ... I suppose you did what you had to do, Sergeant," he said. "Fill out a report for your commanding officer, and he can pass it on to me."
"Yes, sir," Foster replied, his tone barely civil. He didn't like being talked to that way by a civilian, Glidinghawk could tell.
"And you," Fox's sharp words lashed at Glidinghawk, "you come into my office. I want to have a word with you."
Foster quickly stepped up onto the porch. He lowered his voice, but Glidinghawk could still hear him as he said, "I don't know if that's a good idea, sir. That one seems to be a troublemaker, he does."
Fox gave the sergeant a cold stare. "I thought you were going to give him a lesson in manners."
"Maybe it didn't take," Foster replied between gritted teeth. "Maybe I should try again."
Fox shook his head. "Not this time. I want to talk to him. I'm certain I'll be all right, Sergeant. A fight between savages is one thing. No Indian is going to attempt to attack me with the fort and the troops right here."
Foster looked dubious, but he stepped back and gestured for Glidinghawk to come up onto the porch. Glidinghawk went up the steps with his face emotionless.
The burly supply sergeant prodded a blunt finger into Glidinghawk's chest. "You behave yourself," he said. "If you don't, you'll wind up like your friend there."
Glidinghawk glanced at the dead Kiowa. There were no women hovering over him, so evidently he had no wife, at least not here. Glidinghawk had suspected as much. The man's companions were gathered around his body, all of them sending hate-filled glances Glidinghawk's way.
"He wasn't my friend," Glidinghawk said bluntly. "But I understand what you mean, Sergeant."
"See that you do." Foster barked orders at the Kiowa's friends to get the body out of there, then he turned back to Fox and said, "We can start giving out the rations as soon as you're ready, Mr. Follett."
"Very well. It shouldn't take long to deal with this fellow, and then we'll get on with it."
Fox motioned curtly for Glidinghawk to follow him, then went into the anteroom and on through into the office beyond. He sank wearily into the chair behind his desk as Glidinghawk stood stiffly in front of him.
"Oh, relax, dammit," Fox said as he glanced up at Glidinghawk. "Sit down." His voice was pitched too low to be heard outside the office, and the window behind him was closed.
Glidinghawk pulled a ladder-backed chair up and sat down. He said, "I thought you brought me in here to lay down the law to me."
Fox leaned forward and clasped his hands together. Now that they were alone, his air of self-confidence had faded somewhat. "What happened out there?" he asked.
"What Foster said. The Kiowa picked a fight. I lost my head for a minute and almost killed him myself. But it was over as far as I was concerned. The Kiowa thought differently."
"And Foster had to shoot him?"
Glidinghawk shrugged. "Had to? Maybe not. But there's no doubt the brave was really trying to kill me."
"All right," Fox said with a nod. "Have you come any closer to finding out who the whiskey smugglers are working with here?"
The Omaha shook his head. "We've made it plain that I'm a loner, and a violent one at that. But no one has approached me yet."
"What now?"
Glidinghawk didn't reply for a moment while he thought over Fox's question. They couldn't do anything too blatant, or that would tip their hand.
Finally, he said, "All we can do is continue on the way we're going. But there may be a way to place me even more firmly on the other side."
"How's that?"
"Everyone thinks that I'm in trouble with the Indian agent since you made me come in here. Let's give them even more cause to think so."
"How are we going to do that?"
Glidinghawk suppressed a smile and began to explain. As he did so, Fox's face became more and more disapproving. By the time Glidinghawk was through sketching out the plan, Fox looked downright distressed.
"You're sure about this?" the young man asked.
"I'm sure," Glidinghawk nodded.
"Well . . . all right."
Glidinghawk stood up and went to the door. Fox followed him, raising his voice in an angry warning for Glidinghawk to stay out of trouble. As Fox yanked the door of the building open, he said, "And the next time, you'll wind up in the stockade! I can promise you that, you filthy redskin!"
Sullenly, Glidinghawk pushed past Fox and walked away from the agent's office with a stiff back, anger radiating from him. He could feel eyes watching him, but he didn't look around to see who they belonged to.
Perhaps this next step would bear fruit, Glidinghawk thought. He hoped so.
CHAPTER SIX
Glidinghawk kept to himself the rest of the day. He drew his rations with the other Indians, then found a place behind a storage shed to brood.
Some of the attitude was a pose —but not all of it. This assignment was getting to him. Being around the reservation Indians all the
time was too painful a reminder of his own past.
But his job was to find out who was smuggling whiskey into the Territory, and no matter how long it took to accomplish that end, he would continue with the ruse.
The next morning dawned gray and gloomy, with spring thunderstorms rumbling in the west. Appropriate weather considering his mood, Glidinghawk thought as he tried to stretch some of the stiffness out of his muscles and bones. It wasn't raining yet, but it probably would be before the day was over.
At midmorning, he was slouching past the Indian agent's office, his head down, his eyes on the ground. He heard the door of the office bang open, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Preston Fox hurry across the porch and come down the steps. Fox seemed to be intent on whatever errand he was on. The young man paid no attention as he started across the parade ground toward the headquarters building.
Glidinghawk ran right into him.
The two men bumped hard. Glidinghawk was larger, but Fox was going faster. Both of them were staggered by the collision. Fox lost his balance and went to one knee.
"Damn you, Indian!" he yelped as he leaped back to his feet and started brushing his pants off. "Can't you watch where you're going, you stupid heathen?"
Glidinghawk glanced across the parade ground. There were plenty of Indians around this morning, but more importantly, there were dozens of soldiers to witness the confrontation.
With a surly sneer on his face, Glidinghawk faced Fox and said, "You ran into me, Mr. Indian Agent. It was your fault."
"My fault!" Fox exclaimed. "Why, that's preposterous! You're to blame, redskin, and I demand an apology forthwith."
Careful, Preston, Glidinghawk thought. Don't make it so ridiculous that no one will believe it.
"I will not apologize," the Omaha declared, letting his voice raise slightly. "Another fool made the mistake of thinking me a white man's dog."
Fox grimaced. "I haven't forgotten about that fight mister, or the fact that one of your fellow savages wound up dead. That was your fault, too."
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