Glidinghawk waved an arm at Fox. "Just leave me alone."
"I will not!" Fox's voice was shrill and carrying. "I warned you just yesterday to stay out of trouble." He reached to grab Glidinghawk's arm. "Come along with me! We'll see the commanding officer and have you tossed in the stockade! Maybe that will teach you a lesson."
Glidinghawk stiffened as Fox grasped his arm. "Let me go," he warned in a dangerous voice. "I will not be caged like an animal."
"That's what you are!" Fox tugged on him. "Come along!"
With a guttural, wordless shout, Glidinghawk tore his arm out of Fox's fingers. Before Fox could stop him, Glidinghawk pivoted and brought his fist around in a short, powerful blow. The Omaha's knuckles smacked into Fox's jaw, driving him backward.
Fox lost his balance and sat down hard in the dirt.
One of the nearby soldiers, who had been watching during the exchange of angry words, now yelled "Hey!" and started forward to help Fox.
Fox threw his hand out to stop the man. "No!" he called. "I'll handle this!"
The young man came to his feet, his eyes slightly glassy. He faced Glidinghawk with a furious look on his face. "You've made a big mistake, redskin," he grated. "I'm going to give you the thrashing of your life!"
Another trooper, gauging the relative sizes of Fox and Glidinghawk, started to say, "Sir, wait — " but it was too late. Fox lunged at the Omaha, throwing a wild, looping punch.
Glidinghawk could have avoided the blow completely, but as he dodged aside he moved slowly enough to let Fox's fist clip him on the side of the head. They had to make this look real — otherwise it would do no good.
Fox hadn't liked the idea very much, but Gliding-hawk had to give him credit —at least he was trying to go through with it.
Glidinghawk slammed a hard, knobby fist into his belly.
Air gusted out of Fox. His face turned pale, but he had the presence of mind to keep up the act. He drove another punch at Glidinghawk's face. Glidinghawk took this one full on the cheek, knowing it didn't have enough power behind it to seriously damage him.
He blocked Fox's next punch, grabbed his arm, and pulled him close to grapple with him. Locked together, the two men swayed in the effort to topple each other.
His mouth close to Fox's ear, Glidinghawk hissed, "You're doing fine, Preston!"
Fox just grunted in pain and genuine anger. Glidinghawk ducked his head and butted it against Fox so that no one would see the grin that flickered across his features.
They fell heavily, Glidinghawk landing on top. He brought his knee up, being careful to hit Fox on the thigh rather than in the groin. To the crowd of shouting men who were watching the fight, though, it would look like an honest miss.
Glidinghawk was aware of the soldiers. They had formed a tight circle around him and Fox. The Indians were watching, too, but they were staying farther back. Glidinghawk wasn't sure who the soldiers were rooting for. Fox was an arrogant prig in real life —at least some of the time —and he had adopted that same personality in his cover identity.
Although they would deny it, some of the troopers were probably hoping that Glidinghawk would beat the hell out of the new Indian agent.
Fox summoned his strength and heaved his body up, throwing Glidinghawk off him. He tried to make use of the momentary advantage as Glidinghawk rolled to one side in the dirt, but the Omaha recovered too quickly. As Fox leaped at him, Glidinghawk managed to lift his moccasined feet.
Fox's stomach hit Glidinghawk's feet, and he suddenly found himself cartwheeling and flying through the air over the Omaha. He yelled in fear, a shrieking sound abruptly cut off as he crashed to the ground on his back.
Glidinghawk rolled over and sprang to his feet, ready to continue the fight if need be. He saw immediately that it wouldn't be necessary. Fox was sprawled in the dirt, gasping for air and moaning.
Shocked silence fell over the crowd. Then, cutting through the quiet, came the sound of a pistol being cocked.
The noncoms and enlisted men suddenly snapped to attention as Colonel Lawrence Selmon came striding through the crowd. The colonel had his pistol out and leveled at Glidinghawk.
"Take that Indian into custody!" Selmon snapped.
A couple of sergeants sprang forward to follow the order. They grasped Glidinghawk's arms tightly and held him motionless. Selmon stalked up to him with a fierce glare.
"You'll regret this incident, Indian," the colonel said. "Some time in the stockade will teach you a little humility."
A sergeant spoke up, and Glidinghawk saw that it was Bradley Foster. "Beggin' the colonel's pardon, sir, but it looked to me like Mr. Follet started this little ruckus himself."
Selmon shook his head. "That doesn't matter, Sergeant. We will not have savages assaulting white men, regardless of the cause. Take him away," he added to the men holding Glidinghawk.
Glidinghawk allowed them to jerk him into motion, but before he went, he spat contemptuously in the dirt at Selmon's feet. He just had time to see the brick-red flush of anger on the commanding officer's face before he was being hustled toward the squat, rock building that served as the fort's stockade.
The plan appeared to have worked. The whole fort would know now what a renegade he was. The only question was whether or not it had worked too well.
He couldn't do Powell's Army a damned bit of good as long as he was locked up.
* * *
There wasn't a muscle in his body that didn't hurt, Preston Fox thought as he sat in Colonel Selmon's office a little later. The officer was glaring across the desk at him, and that didn't help Fox's feelings much either.
"I don't know what you were thinking about out there, Mr. Follett," Selmon snapped as he rustled some papers together. "How do you think it looks for an Indian agent —an employee of the federal government —to be brawling like a common enlisted man with one of those savages?"
Tightly, Fox answered, "The buck was impertinent to me, sir, not to mention threatening. I didn't feel that it would be wise to back down. That might have established a bad precedent and led to more trouble in the future."
"Well," Selmon grunted, "you sure didn't put the fear of God into anybody by getting the stuffing beaten out of you." The colonel shook his head. "I know how frustrating it can be trying to deal with these people, Follett. It's hard enough just getting along with Washington. But you've got to learn how to handle yourself better."
"Yes, sir" Fox said, nodding his head and keeping his features carefully expressionless.
Inside, he was seething.
It was bad enough that Glidinghawk had been so rough with him, but now he was having to endure this dressing-down by Colonel Selmon as well. When the Omaha had first outlined his plan, Fox had thought they would each throw a few punches and miss most of the time. He hadn't realized what a brutal charade it would be.
Why, he could have actually been hurt!
Taking chances was just part of being an undercover agent, he supposed. It did seem like the danger should have come from the enemy, however, not one's partner.
Selmon took out a cigar and lit it. Fox noticed that the colonel didn't offer him one of the stogies. Blowing smoke toward the ceiling, Selmon said, "You're not under my direct command, Follett, but I strongly suggest that you pay more attention in the future to doing your job. You're not going to change these Indians overnight, and you're sure as hell not going to make them respect you by wrestling around in the dirt with them. Do I make myself clear?"
Fox swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. "Yes, sir. Perfectly clear."
"Good. Now, we'll keep this Glidinghawk fellow in the stockade for a few days. By the time he comes out, he won't be interested in causing any more trouble for you. There's nothing an Indian hates worse than being cooped up."
Fox nodded. "Very good, sir."
"All right, you can go. But remember what I told you."
Fox stood up, his cheeks burning with resentment at the tone in the colonel's voice. Glidinghawk had
really placed him in a bad position, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
There was a fresh rumble of thunder as Fox left the headquarters building. He glanced at the western sky and saw the black clouds scudding through it. Lightning flickered here and there in the thick dark mass. Although the storm was moving quickly, the winds that gave it its impetus had not yet reached the fort.
Here where Fox stood, there was only the faintest of breezes, barely strong enough to sway the flag that hung limply from the pole on the parade ground. The air was heavy, somehow electric.
Something was going to happen.
Fox gave a slight shudder, placed his hat on his head, and started back to his office.
* * *
The rain started about the middle of the afternoon. Glidinghawk heard it pounding on the roof of the stockade and wished he was outside so that he could let the torrent wash down over him.
Maybe it would remove some of the stink that seemed to have permeated his entire being.
He sat on the packed earth of the floor with his back against the hard rock wall. The cell he was in had one small, high window, barred of course, and there was another tiny window in the heavy wooden door that led out. The cell was six feet by eight feet —not very big to start with, and it seemed to grow smaller as the day went on.
The light coming through the window diminished as the storm moved in with its thick gray clouds. Gliding-hawk heard the far-off rumble of thunder, and then the rain began a few minutes later. The thunder became louder, some of the booming claps shaking the ground underneath him.
He breathed shallowly, quickly. God, he hated being locked up!
No one had come to see him since he had been thrown in here. He had no idea how long he would be left here. They would have to feed him sometime, but they would probably wait until evening mess.
No one had been seriously hurt in the scuffle with Fox. Glidinghawk couldn't believe that the colonel would order him locked up for more than a day or two. Just long enough to teach the heathen a lesson. That was the way Selmon would think.
On the other hand, the colonel might have decided to make an example of him, a warning to the other Indians to stay in line. He might be left in here for weeks, perhaps as long as a month.
And where would that leave the assignment? In that case, Fox would be left hanging, free to operate as he saw fit.
That was a frightening possibility.
The cell became almost completely dark as the hours wore on toward evening. Night fell early, and still Glidinghawk was left sitting there alone, unfed. He dozed. There was nothing else to do.
A footstep outside the cell made his head jerk up. He blinked rapidly, trying to force himself back to alertness. A key scraped in the lock of the door, and Glidinghawk winced as it swung open and the light from a lantern spilled into the room.
A dark, bulky figure loomed behind the lantern. Over the sound of the rain, Glidinghawk heard a familiar voice say, "Well, redskin, you about ready to get out of here?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Glidinghawk tensed as he squinted past the light at Sergeant Bradley Foster. The burly noncom seemed to be alone, and he had no weapon in his other hand. The lantern was all he was carrying.
When the Omaha made no reply, Foster said impatiently, "I asked you a question, Glidinghawk. You may not know it, but I'm here to help you."
Slowly, Glidinghawk said, "I have seen how the white man helps the Indians."
"Dammit, I ain't here to argue with you. Now, the guards are taking a break out of the rain for a smoke and a drink, courtesy of yours truly, but they ain't going to take forever to do it. If you want out, you come with me now."
Glidinghawk came to his feet, moving somewhat stiffly from sitting motionless for so long. He stepped closer to Foster and peered into the man's face.
"Why are you doing this for me?" he asked.
"Because I figure you and me can help each other out. If you ain't interested, you can sit here in this hole and rot for all I care."
Glidinghawk shook his head. If this was what he suspected it was, he didn't want to appear too eager. "I will be out soon. They wouldn't lock me up for long just because I got into a fight."
"A fight with an Indian agent," Foster reminded him. "And the way I hear it, Selmon intends to keep you in here for at least a month. That what you want, dammit?" The sergeant's tone was becoming more impatient by the second.
Glidinghawk took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "I couldn't stand that."
"Didn't figure you could. Come on."
Following closely behind Foster, Glidinghawk went down the narrow corridor leading past the several cells in the stockade building. Another heavy door with iron straps barred the far end of the corridor. Beyond it was freedom.
Foster pushed it open and paused long enough to peer out into the rainy night. He had already extinguished the lantern. Glidinghawk could barely see him as he jerked his head and hissed, "Come on!"
Quickly, the two men emerged from the building. Instantly, Glidinghawk's buckskins were soaked. Rainwater streamed through his hair and dripped into his eyes. He stayed close behind Foster, not wanting to get separated from the sergeant who had freed him.
The thunder and lightning had moved on for the most part, although there was an occasional flicker and rumble from far away. The storm had left behind plenty of rain, however. It was a downpour, a physical obstacle through which Foster and Glidinghawk had to push their way.
More shapes loomed up out of the darkness. Glidinghawk heard the nervous whickers and recognized them as horses. They were tied to one of the hitch racks in front of the now-closed sutler's store. Foster yanked the reins loose and put his mouth close to Glidinghawk’s ear. "I'll lead them out of the fort," he said. "We'll mount up then."
Glidinghawk nodded. He put a hand on the flank of one of the animals and let it remain there to keep himself oriented. Within moments, he and Foster had slipped through one of the gates and were outside the fort.
They had not been challenged by sentries, and Glidinghawk wondered if Foster had paid these guards off, too. That was possible, but it was also possible that the sentries had simply missed them in this rain. Foster could have been counting on that.
When they were several yards away from the fort, Foster called softly, "All right. Mount up."
Glidinghawk reached up, found the pommel of the military saddle, and hauled himself aboard the horse. It danced skittishly to the side, but Glidinghawk kept a firm hand on the reins and calmed it.
"Stay close," Foster advised him. Glidinghawk had been doing just that. He urged the horse into motion alongside Foster's mount.
As they rode through the night, Glidinghawk considered the events that had occurred. He felt certain that Foster had something to do with the whiskey smuggling. He couldn't think of any other reason for the sergeant to help him escape from the stockade. Foster wasn't doing it out of any love for Indians, Glidinghawk thought. He had never demonstrated any great affection for the inhabitants of the reservations.
Likewise, Foster didn't seem to have much respect for the army in general. He was just the type of man who would be involved in a scheme to smuggle liquor into a prohibited territory.
From the beginning, Glidinghawk's troublesome behavior had been calculated to attract the attention of just such a man. If the ruse had been successful, the whiskey runners might think he was a man who would come in handy for their plans.
He and Foster rode for what seemed hours through the rain. The downpour slacked off after a while, dwindling to a steady drizzle rather than a torrent. Glidinghawk could see a little better now, and he realized that Foster wore an oilskin slicker.
The sergeant had not seen fit to provide him with one, Glidinghawk mused. He was as wet and miserable as a soaked rat. Grimly, he wondered if Colonel Amos Powell and his missions were worth all this trouble.
He knew the answer to that, though. Glidinghawk was no judge of how important it was to k
eep whiskey out of the Indian Nations. Such considerations were not really his business.
Doing a job —and doing it well —that was what mattered to him. He had drifted aimlessly for years. Now Powell —and Landrum and Celia and, yes, even Fox —they were his anchors.
Which was a damned appropriate thought, he realized with a bleak smile, considering the fact that the storm had turned every low place in the ground into a lake.
The rain softened to a mist and finally stopped altogether. Glidinghawk estimated that at least an hour had passed since they had slipped away from the fort. He had no idea where they were or even what direction they had been riding. But as the clouds began to shred and blow away overhead, Glidinghawk caught a glimpse of the stars. Judging from the pinpoints of light, he thought that they had probably been heading southwest, deeper into the Nations.
A quarter-moon appeared, casting a silver glow over the puddles. Glidinghawk saw Foster hold up a hand in a signal to stop. The noncom said, "Hold it. We'd best be careful now."
They went forward at a slow walk on the horses. Glidinghawk thought he spotted something up ahead, and as they approached, the dim shape turned into something recognizable —a wagon pulled by a team of mules. One man was waiting on the seat, and two more sat close by on horseback.
All of them had rifles in their hands. Glidinghawk saw moonlight glinting off the barrels.
"It's me, Arlie," Foster called softly.
One of the men on horseback lifted his rifle and replied, "Who's that with you?"
"The fella I told you about. Glidinghawk."
"Come ahead" the stranger grunted.
Foster's horse stepped closer to the wagon. Glidinghawk rode closely behind him. Peering through the shadows, he could see the barrels in the back of the wagon.
Whiskey barrels, Glidinghawk thought.
The first objective of the mission had been accomplished.
Now came the hard part.
Glidinghawk could see how the man called Arlie kept his rifle barrel angled toward him. Evidently the man was plenty suspicious. Not surprising, considering his line of work.
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