Donaldson visibly relaxed. "Hell, Brewster, we just didn't know who you was. A man's got to be careful out here, you know that."
"Sure," the one called Brewster replied easily. "We come to see if you got some more of that whiskey."
"Just unloadin' it now." Donaldson lowered his shotgun and said to Benton and Glidinghawk, "You don't have to worry about these boys. They're regular customers o' mine."
Benton nodded and motioned for Glidinghawk to follow him. The strangers moved aside to let them by as they went back out to the wagon.
Glidinghawk studied the three strangers out of the corner of his eye as he went past them. All three were young and dressed in range clothes, none too clean. And they all wore handguns. The one called Brewster wore two pistols in a fancy rig. Cowhands, more than likely, Glidinghawk decided, who liked to think of themselves as pistoleros. There were cattie spreads here in the Nations, huge ranches leased to white men by the government. The Indians were supposed to get most of that lease money, but it was doubtful that the tribes ever saw more than a small fraction of it.
Brewster and one of the other men trailed along after Benton and Glidinghawk to watch as they climbed into the wagon bed. The other man lounged near the mule team, while Brewster rested his hands on the sideboard of the wagon.
"Don't I know you, feller?" Brewster asked, frowning slightly at Moody.
"Could be," Benton grunted. "I been plenty of places."
"Texas, maybe?"
"I been there." Benton's tone was unfriendly, but Brewster didn't seem to notice.
"We're from Texas," the young cowboy went on, ignoring the hostility. "Rode for a couple of different spreads down there, come up the trail last summer with a herd. Took them all the way to Dodge City, we did. The boys and me decided to take our time 'bout moseyin' back home. Figure we'll get there just about the right time to catch on with another drive this summer."
Benton and Glidinghawk had hold of the second barrel and were starting to move it toward the back of the wagon.
Brewster stepped away from the wagon suddenly, his hands moving to the guns on his hips. The Colts came up in a blur of motion, and the sound of the hammers being eared back was uncommonly loud in the night stillness.
"Y'all just leave that barrel right there," Brewster commanded sharply. "That'll save us havin' to load it up again."
"What the hell?" Benton demanded. "You gone crazy, mister?"
Glidinghawk had frozen as soon as he saw Brewster going for his guns. He glanced at the other man, saw that he had drawn his weapon, too. The two cowboys had the drop on them, all right.
"Nope, we ain't crazy," Brewster said mockingly. "But we know a place we can sell this rotgut and make enough money so that we won't have to eat cow dust all summer long again. We can sit in the shade and pat fancy ladies on the bee-hind. Now you got a choice, fella. You can give up the whiskey peaceful-like, or we can just kill you and take it."
Suddenly, inside the roadhouse, Donaldson's shotgun boomed, followed by three sharp cracks of a handgun. A couple of seconds later, there was a final shot from the pistol.
Brewster's grin widened. "Sounds like Donaldson didn't want to do it peaceful-like. Reckon we might as well shoot you boys, too."
CHAPTER NINE
Glidinghawk moved fast. One hand thumped into Benton Moody's back, shoving the whiskey runner hard to the side. Glidinghawk went the other way, diving over the sideboard of the wagon. He landed hard on the ground, sending stabs of pain through his shoulder, but he ignored them as he rolled and clawed at his gun.
He came up on his knees as he lifted the Colt. A rattle of gunfire came from the other side of the wagon. Glidinghawk saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and jerked his head in that direction as the second cowboy came running around the front of the team.
Flame lanced from the muzzle of the gun in the man's hand. Glidinghawk heard the flat, slapping noise of a slug passing close by his head. He let himself fall over backward as if hit, drawing the gunman closer.
Lying on his back, Glidinghawk raised his pistol and triggered twice.
The gun blasted and bucked against his palm, the roar of the black powder all but deafening him. Through the smoke and shadows, he saw the cowboy stop short, as if he had run into a wall. The man's feet went out from under him and he fell, dropping his gun.
Glidinghawk rolled and came up on his feet again, sure that both of his shots had gone home. The cowboy's legs thrashed for a couple of seconds, then he was still.
Glidinghawk spun, eyes peering intently into the darkness for Benton Moody or the thieving cowhand called Brewster. Silence seemed to have fallen over the roadhouse and the area around it.
A moan came from the ground at the rear of the wagon.
Glidinghawk crouched and slid in that direction. The moonlight cast heavy shadows under the wagon, but the Omaha thought he could see a sprawled shape there. Benton —or the murderous Brewster?
Moving closer, Glidinghawk knelt beside the wounded man. Whoever it was, he wasn't moving much. Glidinghawk put his free hand out and touched the man's shirt. His fingers came away wet and sticky.
A shot rang out from the doorway of the roadhouse, the slug whining off the iron wheel of the wagon close beside Glidinghawk. He whirled away from the wounded man, crawling up toward the mule team. The animals were somewhat skittish from the firing, but they hadn't panicked yet.
"Hold your fire!" Glidinghawk called toward the tavern. "There's no need for us to keep shooting at each other."
"That you, redskin?" Brewster shouted back.
"Yes."
"You don't talk much like an Injun. What do you reckon we ought to do?"
Glidinghawk took a deep breath. "I just started working for these people tonight. I don't want to catch a bullet because of them."
"You're sayin' you'll let me have the whiskey?"
"I can't do that," Glidinghawk said flatly. "But I'll let you ride away from here without any more gunfire."
There was a moment of hesitation while Brewster thought over the offer. "What happened to Gooch?"
"He's the other one who was out here?"
"That's right."
"He came at me firing his gun. I had to kill him."
A humorless chuckle came from the building. "Well hell, that was pretty stupid of him, weren't it? Still, Gooch was my pard, Injun, and I don't reckon I can let you get away with killin' him."
Glidinghawk suddenly heard the crunch of wet sand under boots and realized that Brewster had been stringing him along while the third man slipped out of the roadhouse and tried to get behind him. He whipped around as the man ran to the back of the wagon, firing as fast as he could jerk the trigger.
Glidinghawk dove forward, landing in a puddle. Mud splashed up in his eyes. He blinked rapidly and squeezed off a shot, knowing he had little chance of hitting the man. Within instants, he realized, he was going to be dead.
The heavy boom of a Sharps rumbled through the night like the thunder of the earlier storm. Glidinghawk saw the head of the man who was charging him all but explode from the impact of the heavy ball. The man flopped bonelessly to the ground.
Glidinghawk didn't have time to wonder where the shot had come from. Brewster was boiling out of the roadhouse door, screaming his rage and pumping bullets at the Omaha. Glidinghawk rolled under the wagon and threw a wild shot at him, missing badly.
Brewster planted his feet and stood his ground, angling both pistol barrels toward Glidinghawk, ready to blow him to shreds.
Behind the kill-crazed cowboy, a bloody shape suddenly lurched out of the building, casting a monstrous shadow in the light that spilled through the door. Donaldson had obviously taken a couple of slugs in the body, but somehow he was still alive —and the shotgun was in his hands.
He had fired only one barrel earlier, Glidinghawk realized. The tavernkeeper staggered up behind Brewster, who was oblivious to the new threat. Donaldson rammed the muzzle of the Greener against the cowboy's spin
e and fired.
Brewster's body muffled the blast. He shrieked and arched his back, thrown forward by the load of buckshot ripping a massive hole through him. He was dead when he landed facedown in the mud.
Glidinghawk stayed where he was under the wagon, shudders running through him. He was cold. A couple of feet away, Benton Moody moaned again.
Donaldson sat down heavily, the shotgun slipping from his hands. He stayed there, shirt blood-soaked, swaying slightly.
Glidinghawk heard horses coming up to the road-house. The hoofbeats stopped, and then booted feet approached. Glidinghawk tightened his grip on the Colt, unsure what was going to happen next.
"You might as well come out from under there, Injun," Arlie Moody's rough voice growled. "Looks like it's all over."
Benton Moody had caught a slug in the shoulder, the bullet passing on through. Glidinghawk examined him and decided that the bone was chipped but not shattered. Benton was still going to be laid up for a while, though. But barring infection, he would live.
Glidinghawk poured whiskey from one of the barrels over the wound to disinfect it. Benton screamed and tried to writhe in pain, but Arlie and Dirk Moody held their brother down. Glidinghawk bound up the injury, then gave Benton some of the whiskey to drink. He gulped the fiery liquor gratefully, his eyes gradually glazing over as the pain subsided.
Donaldson was more seriously wounded. He had been shot twice in the body, one bullet low on the right side, the other high on the left. He lay on the bar while Glidinghawk worked over him. The tavernkeeper's breath wheezed and whistled in his throat. The squaw stood beside him and held his big-knuckled left hand. It was probably the most blatant show of affection she had ever demonstrated.
"Never expected that boy to pull a gun on me," Donaldson said, gasping for air. Glidinghawk had warned him to be quiet, but evidently he felt the need to explain what had happened. Arlie and Dirk stood close by, listening.
Donaldson continued, "I still got a shot off first —one barrel, anyway. Didn't . . . didn't hit him, though. He got me in the side, knocked me down. B-Bastard come walkin' over with a big grin on his face . . . Should've put a bullet in my head, but I reckon he went for my heart instead."
Dirk Moody said, "Hell, that was a stupid move. Didn't he know you ain't got a heart, Donaldson?"
"Shut up, Dirk," Arlie growled.
"The bullet hit one of your ribs and deflected off," Glidinghawk said as he cleaned the wounds. "You're a lucky man to come out of this with only a broken rib, some torn-up muscles, and a lot of blood lost."
"Yeah," Donaldson said. "Lucky."
After a moment, he went on, "I laid there, sort of passed out for a few minutes, till I got enough strength back to get outside and blast Brewster."
"I appreciate that," Glidinghawk said. "He would have gone for me."
"Yeah . . . I don't much like havin' an Injun doctorin' me."
"I'll turn the job over to Arlie," Glidinghawk offered.
Arlie held his hands up. "The hell you will. I just shoot 'em, I don't patch 'em up."
"Like that thief outside."
Arlie grinned savagely. "Looked like you needed a mite of help, Glidinghawk."
Finished with Donaldson, the Omaha turned toward Arlie and said flatly, "You followed us. You weren't trusting me with a damned thing."
"Hell, I never even seen you before tonight, boy. You think I'm goin' to let you ride off with four barrels of good rotgut —and my brother?"
"So tonight was a test of sorts," Glidinghawk mused.
"I reckon you could say that."
"And did I pass?"
Arlie grinned again. "You protected my whiskey, killed one of them sidewinders that was tryin' to steal it, and doctored my little brother. Reckon I'm satisfied. But I'll still have my eye on you, mister. You try anything funny and I'll blow you clear to that there happy huntin' ground of yours."
"That's one Indian myth I never believed in," Glidinghawk’s said grimly. "Let's get this man in a bed. With any luck, he'll be all right, too."
The squaw suddenly spoke for the first time. Glidinghawk’s didn't understand her language, but he knew she was thanking him. He smiled slightly and nodded to her.
Arlie and Dirk carried Donaldson to his cot behind the hanging blanket. The squaw went with them. There was a brief murmur of conversation. When they emerged, Arlie said, "We'd best be gettin' the rest of that liquor unloaded. Donaldson's squaw'll run the place till he's back on his feet." He went behind the bar and opened a cigar box he found there, taking out a wad of money. "Here's our pay, just like Donaldson said."
Glidinghawk and Dirk rolled the two remaining barrels of whiskey off the wagon and brought them into the roadhouse. That done, they carried Benton out of the building and placed him in the wagon bed, moving him as gently as possible. The wounded man had consumed enough of the whiskey so that he was only semiconscious now, feeling little if any pain.
"Can you handle a mule team?" Arlie asked Gliding-hawk.
The Omaha nodded.
"Then tie your hoss on the back of the wagon and get them beasts started south." Arlie swung up into his saddle. "We're goin' home."
Glidinghawk had been right. It was a long ride back to Texas.
He dozed on the wagon seat as he drove through the night. It had been a hell of a day. So much had happened—the fight with Fox, the escape from the stockade, the gun battle at the roadhouse. It seemed like too much to have been packed all into one day. But that was the way life was, he reflected. Too much going on or too little.
They kept moving all night, Arlie allowing a brief stop at dawn for coffee, bacon, and biscuits. Then it was back on the trail.
Benton Moody woke up from his whiskey-induced slumber and began whimpering in pain. Arlie called a halt long enough for Dirk to climb into the back of the wagon and tip another bottle to Benton's mouth. He sucked greedily from it and settled down in a few minutes.
Glidinghawk wasn't sure how good an idea it was to keep pouring whiskey into the wounded man, but at least it was keeping him still and quiet, giving the injury a chance to heal. At any rate, it was the best they could do. His medical skills were limited, and he had no supplies to work with.
They reached the Red River a little after midday. The stream was muddy and shallow and narrow in this region, flowing through a broad valley with slopes so gentle it was hard to distinguish where they began. The terrain was flat and desolate, dotted with tumble-weeds and scrub mesquite. There was a little more vegetation as they approached the river. Everything had a rusty tinge to it, owing to the red clay of the ground.
All in all, it was about as unprepossessing a country as Glidinghawk had ever seen. It became even less impressive as they crossed the river and drove deeper into Texas. The ground was rougher. Hills, bluffs, and miniatures canyons appeared. Dwarf cedars maintained a harsh existence on some of the rocky outcrop-pings. This was the area known as the Copper Brakes, Glidinghawk knew, where Amos Powell suspected that the whiskey runners had their headquarters.
It looked as if the colonel was right.
As dusk was dropping, the little group topped a rise and started down into a small valley. The approach was not too rough on this side, but the rest of the valley was surrounded by rugged bluffs that would make entering it difficult. Glidinghawk saw a small cleft in the bluff on the opposite side of the valley. Perhaps there was another exit through that winding gully, but if so, it would be easily defended.
It came as no surprise to him that there was a cabin in the center of the valley, a thin plume of smoke drifting from its chimney. Behind the cabin was another building, a little smaller, with its own chimney. Smoke came from it, too.
Arlie Moody pulled his horse to a stop and pointed with a blunt finger. "There she be," he said to Glidinghawk. "Home."
Glidinghawk watched through the gathering shadows as two figures came onto the porch of the cabin. Both were women —he could tell that from the long skirts they wore — but other than that
he couldn't say anything about them.
Arlie lifted his rifle and waved it above his head.
One of the female figures returned the gesture. "All clear," Arlie grunted. "Let's go, boys."
Glidinghawk flapped the reins and started the mules moving again. As the wagon bounced down the hill, he realized that he had accomplished one more objective. He was willing to bet that the smaller building contained a still where the whiskey was produced.
He wondered in that moment where Landrum and Celia were. They were supposed to be working on the same problem from the other end. Had they had any luck?
No matter, he decided. For now, the outcome of this mission appeared to be up to him.
CHAPTER TEN
"I'm getting bored, Landrum," Celia Louise Burnett said, a dangerous edge in her voice.
Keeping his voice low-pitched, Landrum replied, "You're not the only one, dammit. What do you want me to do —start asking people on the street if they know who's cooking whiskey and then smuggling it into the Indian Territory?"
"Hush," Celia hissed. "You know that's not what I want. I just wish something would happen."
They were walking down the single main street of Truscott, Texas, heading toward O'Leary's Shamrock Saloon. Lanterns were being lit in the buildings they passed as twilight fell over the small settlement.
They had been in Truscott for a week now, and to their chagrin, they were no closer to locating the whiskey runners than when they had arrived. During that time, they had frequented O'Leary's place and kept their eyes and ears open while trying to leave the impression that they were overly fond of their drink and none too scrupulous.
So far, no one seemed to have paid any attention to them.
Landrum was tired of this routine, and he knew Celia was, too. Over the next couple of days, he decided, he would ride out from Truscott into the Brakes and have a look around.
They turned in at O'Leary's and were greeted congenially by the white-haired saloonkeeper as they pushed through the batwings. They had become good customers.
Red River Desperadoes Page 7