"That's far enough," Arlie said as Glidinghawk and Foster rode closer. The man was a large, bulky shape in the darkness owing to the buffalo coat he wore. The rain-soaked garment gave off a pungent odor that drifted to Glidinghawk's nose.
The man on the wagon seat said, "I ain't sure 'bout this, Arlie. Don't much like workin' with a redskin."
"Shut up, Benton," Arlie snapped. "I been makin' the decisions for the family for a long time, and I ain't about to turn the job over to you now."
Benton snorted. "You make the decisions, huh? Ill be sure an' tell Ma about that."
Arlie twisted in the saddle. "I told you to shut up! Who you think Ma's goin' to believe, you or me?"
The wagon driver, probably Arlie's brother from the sound of it, subsided, contenting himself with muttering a few surly comments. Arlie turned his attention back to Glidinghawk and Foster.
"Ain't happy about this weather," Arlie growled to Foster. "It sure come a frog-strangler. Damn near washed us away."
"Well, you're here, and that's what matters," Foster replied. "Did you manage to make all the deliveries so far?"
"Sure. Got just a few more stops to make north of here." Arlie reached inside his heavy coat and pulled out a small leather pouch. He tossed it to Foster, who caught it deftly. "There's your cut. Reckon you did your part again. We ain't seen no patrols."
Foster nodded. He didn't open the pouch, but he weighed it for a moment in his hand, then grunted in satisfaction. Inclining his head toward the Omaha, he asked, "You go in' to take Glidinghawk along with you?"
Arlie prodded his horse forward, drawing up close beside Glidinghawk. The Indian kept his face impassive and showed no reaction as the unkempt whiskey runner stared intently at him. Arlie hissed, "Reckon I can trust you, boy?"
Glidinghawk didn't answer for a long moment. Then he said, "I will do what you say, white man —as long as there is something in it for me."
"Glidinghawk won't give you any trouble," Foster assured Arlie. "He just broke out of the stockade at Fort Supply tonight. He's a fugitive, wanted now for escapin' custody as well as for assaultin' an Indian agent. Ain't that right, Glidinghawk?"
The Omaha gave an expressive shrug and remained silent.
Arlie poked the barrel of his rifle toward Glidinghawk for emphasis as he said, "I'll give you a chance, boy, but you cross me and you'll wish you was back in that stockade. Because I'll pure-dee skin ya alive and make sure you're a long time dyin'. Understand?"
"I understand," Glidinghawk said flatly.
"All right," Arlie nodded. "My name's Arlie Moody, and anybody in north Texas or the Nations 'll tell you I'm a ring-tailed bastard with all the bark still on. This here's my brother Benton" —he jerked a thumb at the man on the wagon seat —"and that feller over there is my brother Dirk. They're damn near as tough as me, and there's two more back home just like 'em. You get on the bad side of one Moody, you got to deal with all of us. You remember that."
Dirk Moody spoke for the first time from the back of his horse. "And our ma's probably the roughest of all of us. Ain't that right, Arlie?"
"Could be," Arlie grunted. "Now listen close, Injun. Me and Dirk are headin' back across the river to Texas. You ride along with Benton whilst he drops off them last barrels of whiskey. He'll tell you what to do then. Reckon you can handle that?"
Glidinghawk nodded.
Arlie Moody patted the barrel of his rifle and gave Glidinghawk a long, pointed look. "Be seein' you," he said.
Then he and Dirk spurred their horses into motion, heading them south toward the Red River and Texas beyond.
Glidinghawk glanced at Foster as Benton Moody turned the wagon team and got them into motion. Glidinghawk said, "This is why you shot that Kiowa. You planned this."
"Didn't see any point in lettin' you die when you might be able to help all of us out," Foster admitted. "I was just waitin' for you to get yourself in deep enough. You're on the run now, Glidinghawk. You go along with us, everything will be fine. Cause any trouble and we can turn you back over to the army."
"I know a few things now about you that might prove embarrassing," Glidinghawk pointed out.
Foster shrugged and grinned. "Hell, you're a runaway Injun. I'll just shoot you, if need be. Nobody would ask one question about it, I can promise you that."
Glidinghawk knew the sergeant was right. He allowed a small smile to pass across his face. "I will cooperate," he said. "I'm not a stupid man, Sergeant Foster."
"Never thought you was."
Benton Moody turned around on the wagon seat and yelled, "Hey, Injun! You comin' or not?"
"I'm coming," Glidinghawk called back to him.
Foster raised a hand in farewell as Glidinghawk put his horse into an easy trot. Glidinghawk didn't look back as he rode up next to the wagon with its load of whiskey. He glanced at the barrels in the moonlight, saw that there were four of them. From the looks of the wagon's bed, there was room there for at least half a dozen more. The biggest part of the night's work had already been done.
Sending him along for the remainder of the deliveries was a test for him, he realized. If he went along and helped Benton Moody, the clan of whiskey smugglers would probably add him to their group and use him as a regular guard on these runs.
The wagon wheels made sucking sounds as they rolled through the puddles of mud that dotted the flats. Benton looked up at Glidinghawk and asked, "You got a gun, Injun?"
Glidinghawk shook his head. "I had to leave Fort Supply in a bit of a hurry. There was no time to acquire a weapon."
"What the hell? You some kind of educated Injun?"
Glidinghawk smiled thinly and said, "I went to college at Dartmouth. That's a university back East."
" 'Course it is," Benton snapped. "You think I ain't heard of this here Dartmouth?" Before Glidinghawk could answer that question, Benton twisted on the seat and reached into the back of the wagon. He came up with a coiled shell belt and a Sharps carbine. Extending them to Glidinghawk he said, "Reckon you could use these if you needed to?"
The Omaha took the weapons, slid the Colt from its holster, and spun the cylinder. It was unloaded. He began stuffing cartridges from the belt into it. "I can use them," he said.
"Good. I ain't expectin' any trouble, but you never know what you'll run into up here in the Nations."
That was the truth, Glidinghawk thought. He glanced back over his shoulder. Foster had disappeared in the shadows, no doubt heading back to Fort Supply.
Glidinghawk faced forward. Another step taken, he mused. He was that much closer to the final objective.
That much closer to a showdown.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Benton Moody proved not to be the most talkative companion Glidinghawk had ever had. He drove the wagon in sullen silence.
The clouds continued to break up as the storm moved farther east, until most of the sky above the two men was clear and starry. The silver glow from moon and stars gave the plains an eerie look.
Glidinghawk didn't think a few questions would be out of line. After all, he had a stake in this operation now.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Got to drop this whiskey off," Benton replied. "One barrel's goin' to a bunch of your red brothers that'll meet us. Them others we'll leave at a roadhouse a ways north of here. Feller who owns the place will keep some of it for his customers and pass the rest of it on to some of our other buyers. He gets a cut, too."
Glidinghawk nodded. The more he could learn about the scheme, the better. "And my job is to make sure no one tries to steal the whiskey, is that right?"
"Yep. There's plenty of folks who'd like to get their hands on this here load of corn squeezin's." Benton's voice took on a more aggrieved tone as he went on, "don't know why Arlie decided to leave it up to you to help me this time. He don't usually take any chances with this stuff."
"Like the sergeant says, I'm a fugitive. I can't afford to try a double-cross."
Benton snorted. "Hell, you coul
d bust my skull with that carbine barrel, steal the whiskey, and sell it for enough to get you clear out of the Territory. That's why I'm keepin' my eye on you, boy."
Everything Benton was saying had already occurred to Glidinghawk. He didn't doubt the sincerity of Benton's nervousness. An edgy man could be dangerous —Benton wouldn't need much of an excuse to grab his gun and start blazing away. Glidinghawk knew he would have to be careful.
They rode on for maybe an hour. There were few landmarks here, just gently rolling plains with an occasional small tree. A chilly breeze blew against Glidinghawk's back, making him uncomfortably aware of his still-wet buckskins. He would be lucky if he didn't catch a cold, he thought.
The sudden appearance of several dark figures on horseback up ahead made him forget about such minor worries. He hauled in on the reins as Benton pulled the wagon to a stop. The riders were sitting motionless about fifty yards ahead of them. One of the men suddenly raised his arm above his head and waved it. There was something in his hand.
'That's the signal," Benton said. "Them's the redskins that are supposed to meet us."
Glidinghawk squinted through the darkness. "Is that a war lance he's holding?"
"Yeah." Benton cast a quick grin up at him. "These ain't no reservation Injuns like you, boy. These are the real things, and they like their firewater." He flapped the lines against the backs of the mules and got the wagon moving again.
As Glidinghawk and Benton approached the waiting Indians, the Omaha saw that they rode the squatty little mustangs that could seemingly run forever when they had to. There were five men, all of them carrying lances and wearing feathered headdresses. Cheyenne dog soldiers, maybe. Despite Benton's claim to the contrary, Glidinghawk had a feeling that they had lived on the reservation and might still return there from time to time, when the life of a renegade got too hard.
Benton brought the wagon to a halt again and held up one hand in the universal gesture of peace. He said, "Howdy, boys. Got your hooch for you here."
One of the Cheyenne poked his lance toward Glidinghawk. "Who this redskin, Moody?" he asked in guttural English.
"Just a new helper of ours," Benton explained. "Nobody for you to worry about."
A second Indian sneered at Glidinghawk and said, "Slave of white man."
Glidinghawk shook his head. "I am no slave," he said sharply. He rested his hand on the butt of the Colt.
"Here now!" Benton admonished him. "No fightin' amongst yourselves. We're here to do a job, Glidinghawk, not to get in a ruckus."
Glidinghawk nodded, but he kept his face hard and unfriendly as he watched the dog soldiers.
Benton rolled one of the barrels out of the back of the wagon. One of the Cheyenne was pulling a travois behind his horse, and two more braves quickly loaded the whiskey onto it. The one who had spoken first, who seemed to be their leader, pulled a pouch from the waistband of his buckskin pants. As Arlie Moody had done earlier with Sergeant Foster, the Indian tossed the payment to Benton.
Benton caught the pouch, opened it, and poured coins into his hand. A grin spread across his face. "Thanks, Chief," he said. "Now, you remember what Arlie said about next time. Two barrels for five squaws."
"We remember," the Cheyenne nodded.
A corner of Glidinghawk's mouth twitched. They were not only selling the rotgut for money, no doubt obtained by selling off goods that the Indians stole on their raids, but they were also trading the whiskey for women.
If the squaws were fairly young, there would be a market for them as slaves and prostitutes. Glidinghawk had seen situations like this before, and they had never failed to stir an icy-cold anger inside him.
For all he knew, his wife could be lying down with anybody who had the coins by now. It was not unheard of among the reservation Indians, although the women who sold themselves were always looked down on. Glidinghawk felt a sickening twist in his belly as the thought crossed his mind.
The transaction completed, the Cheyenne turned their horses and rode west, taking the whiskey with them. There was probably a camp of renegades up there in the panhandle somewhere to which they would return. Then there would be plenty of drinking and celebrating and, ultimately, more raids on the white settlements down in Texas.
Benton watched the Indians until they vanished into the shadows, then climbed back onto the wagon. "We'd best get movin'," he said. "It's gettin' late, and ol' Donaldson will be waitin' for us."
Glidinghawk did not ask who Donaldson was, figuring that was the name of the man who ran the road-house Benton had mentioned. He fell in beside the wagon as the vehicle angled northeast.
Glidinghawk studied the stars again and tried to figure out what time it was. It seemed like hours since he and Foster had left Fort Supply, and when he thought about it, he decided that it was still a good while until midnight.
Still, it was a long way back to the Red River. If the Moodys' headquarters was located across the border in Texas, it would be at late the next day at the earliest before they could reach it, maybe longer depending on exactly where it was.
He suddenly spotted a light twinkling far ahead of them. Leveling a finger at the pinprick of illumination, Glidinghawk asked, "Is that where we're headed?"
"That's Donaldson's, all right. He always leaves a light on for us." Benton laughed shortly. "He don't want us missin' him in the dark. 'Thout whiskey, he'd have to close up and go back to workin' for a livin'."
As they drew closer, Glidinghawk saw that the road-house was a low, rambling structure of adobe and rough planks. There was no sign on the building announcing what it was; the people who lived in these parts would know without one. Chances were the man operating the tavern was in the Territory illegally. Even though this was known as Indian Territory, so many whites had moved in that the army made only a token effort to keep them out.
Eventually, Glidinghawk knew, the government would have no choice but to open the entire Territory for settlement by the whites. When that day came, more of the so-called solemn treaties would be discarded, and the Indians would be forced to move on.
The door of the roadhouse opened as Benton drove up in front of it, spilling more light out into the night. A voice called from inside, "That you, Moody?"
"It's me, all right, Donaldson," Benton replied. "Put that greener up 'fore you hurt somebody."
A thick-bodied man of medium height moved into the doorway. He was holding a short-barreled shotgun, and he kept the twin muzzles of the weapon pointing in the general direction of the newcomers as he asked, "Who's that with you?"
"New man that Arlie plans on usin' to help us," Benton said. "He's an Injun name of—"
"My name is not important," Glidinghawk cut in brusquely. There was no point in taking foolish chances. He didn't want to get caught up in this mission and then suddenly have an army patrol show up looking for him. Best to keep his trail hidden as much as possible.
"Yeah," Benton put in. "His name ain't important. What matters is that he's goin' to help us unload this here load of liquor for you, Donaldson."
"Well, get at it, then," the roadhouse owner said. "You're late, and I want to get to bed."
"Come on, Injun. Let's roll them barrels out."
Glidinghawk dismounted while Benton got down from the wagon. Quickly, they wrestled a barrel of rotgut out of the wagon bed and on into the building. Donaldson stepped back out of the doorway to let them through, and Glidinghawk saw in the light from the lantern inside that he was a middle-aged man with a mostly bald pate. A fringe of graying red hair rode above his ears. His face was freckled, and there were large liver spots on the backs of his hands. He held the scatter gun with a casual confidence.
Inside, the roadhouse was one big, low-ceilinged room. A blanket hung from a rope across the back of the room, closing off a small area where Donaldson probably slept. There was a rude bar made from planks laid across empty barrels, a few rough-hewn tables, a scattering of ladder-back chairs. A short, heavyset, round-faced squaw stood behind t
he bar, her features stolid. She paid no attention to Glidinghawk and Benton. She was the only one in the place besides Donaldson.
"Put 'er over there behind the bar," Donaldson told them. He cradled the shotgun in his arms and stood to one side of the door.
Glidinghawk and Benton moved the heavy barrel behind the bar. The squaw still didn't look at them. Benton said to Donaldson, "I reckon you got the money."
"Sure. You boys are the best source of whiskey I've ever had. I ain't goin' to try to cheat you." The man grinned, showing yellowed stumps of teeth. "I'm a mite surprised to see you workin' with an Injun, Benton. You always said you couldn't stand their stink."
"I just do what Arlie tells me to," Benton grunted. "Long as I get my share of the money, I don't give a damn who I work with."
Donaldson glanced at the impassive squaw. "Yeah, and you c'n get used to a stink, if you have to. Ain't that right, woman?"
She nodded slowly, ponderously.
Glidinghawk would be glad when they got out of here. He didn't like this place, didn't like Donaldson.
He and Benton had just started toward the door to get the second barrel when the sudden pound of hoof-beats outside made them stiffen. Donaldson turned quickly toward the door, hefting the shotgun in readiness again. Benton jerked his head at Glidinghawk, indicating that they should separate. They spread out, Glidinghawk going to the right, Benton to the left.
Glidinghawk glanced over his shoulder. The squaw was slowly sinking behind the barrels that formed the bar, in case there was any gunfire.
The hoofbeats came to a stop outside. Glidinghawk heard the jingle of harness, the blowing of horses that had been ridden hard. The walnut grips of the Colt felt reassuring under his fingers.
Three men appeared in the doorway, grins on their faces as they chuckled at something said by one of them. They stopped short when they saw the defensive attitude of the men inside.
"Howdy, Donaldson," the one in the lead said to the tavernkeeper. "Looks like you're expectin' trouble."
Red River Desperadoes Page 6