He wasn't sure how much they understood in their fear, but one of them slowly nodded.
"Now, where's Sun Woman?" he asked.
The sudden crackle of gunfire from the other building was the only answer he got.
If she wasn't here, she had to be out there.
Glidinghawk bulled through the back door of the cabin and headed for the other building at a dead run. He didn't even notice the pain of his wounded leg until it gave on him. He stumbled, catching his balance, and then before he could run any further, the door of the other building crashed open.
Glidinghawk saw two figures struggling desperately as they half fell through the doorway. They were silhouetted by the leaping flames of the fire underneath the boiler.
The fighting men lost their balance and fell, rolling over and over in the red dust of the hard ground. First Arlie was on top, then Landrum. The firelight cast a harsh red glare over their faces.
Glidinghawk stood several yards away, his gun out but unable to fire. There was too much of a chance of hitting Landrum. A knife flashed in Arlie's hand.
Landrum's booted foot lashed out, connecting with Arlie's wrist with a sharp crack. The knife sailed away into the darkness. But before Landrum could seize the advantage, Arlie brought his knee up in a savage thrust into the Texan's groin. Landrum doubled over in pain.
Arlie rolled away from him, surging onto his feet. He was still wearing the thick buffalo coat, and his hand darted beneath it to come out with another pistol.
"Arlie!" Glidinghawk yelled.
Arlie froze, his gun pointed at Landrum's head. He looked up, across Landrum's body, and saw Glidinghawk. A grin spread across Arlie's beard-stubbled face as he saw the Omaha's gun lined up on him.
"Looks like we got a standoff, Injun," Arlie called. "Reckon you can drop me, all right, but not in time to keep me from blastin' your friend's brains right out'n his head!"
"Forget it, Arlie, it's over," Glidinghawk said. "All your brothers are dead, and the army knows about this place." That was stretching the truth a little, but Arlie wouldn't know that. "You might as well give up. At least you'll still be alive."
"Yeah —until I get hung! No thanks, redskin." Arlie's grin widened. "Reckon instead of shootin' your friend, though —I'll kill you!"
He yanked the muzzle of the gun toward Glidinghawk, crouching as he did so.
A lithe shape in buckskins flew out of the building, darting in front of Arlie just as he jerked the trigger.
"Sun Woman!" Glidinghawk screamed.
The crash of Arlie's gun came plainly to his ears, but he couldn't see the spout of flame from the muzzle. Sun Woman's body blocked that. She spun away, clutching at her middle and staggering.
"Noooo!" Glidinghawk cried as he triggered the gun in his hand.
The bullets smashed into Arlie Moody, driving him backward in a macabre dance of death. Glidinghawk kept pulling the trigger even after Arlie's body had spilled limply to the ground.
Then slowly, Glidinghawk became aware that the hammer was falling on empty chambers. He blinked and lowered the gun.
Landrum Davis pulled himself onto his feet, shaking his head. Still bent over slightly from the pain of Arlie's blow, he went over to the body of the whiskey smuggler and prodded it with a toe.
Arlie was dead, all right, his chest a bloody ruin.
Glidinghawk went to Sun Woman's side and knelt there, gently rolling her onto her back. Her eyes were closed, but they opened as he hovered over her.
"G-Glidinghawk," she whispered.
"Sun Woman," he said, a hard fist clutching his heart and squeezing the soul from him.
"Could not . . . let Arlie . . . hurt Glidinghawk," Sun Woman gasped.
He swallowed. "We were going to leave here together."
"No . . . no place for us to go . . . no place for Sun Woman . . . better . . . this way . . ."
After that, there was no sound for long moment except the crackling of the fire underneath the boiler. Glidinghawk stared dry-eyed at her face as the features smoothed over in death.
He was not a man who cried. Not now.
Perhaps someday.
Landrum's hand fell on Glidinghawk's shoulder. "Don't know who she was, Gerald," he said softly, "but I'm sorry."
"She was a good woman," Glidinghawk said as he straightened. "A better woman than even she knew."
Landrum inclined his head toward the still. "We'd better put out that fire. It's burning a little high."
Glidinghawk turned his bleak eyes toward the building. He shook his head. "No," he said simply.
There was a stack of short lengths of firewood by the door of the building. Glidinghawk went to it and picked up several of the pieces of wood. He tossed them through the doorway, into the blaze underneath the boiler. The flames died down for a moment, then leaped up higher than ever.
Landrum clutched his arm. "Dammit, there's a bunch of barrels of whiskey stored in there. You know what'll happen if that boiler gets too hot?"
Glidinghawk just looked at him, then threw more wood on the fire. He knew, all right, and Landrum realized that he knew.
Slowly, Landrum nodded.
The blaze grew as Glidinghawk gently lifted Sun Woman's body and carried her into the building. He placed her close to the door, stripping off his buckskin shirt and folding it to pillow her head. The heat from the fire beat against his bare skin, but he hardly felt it.
"Come on," Landrum said, his tone urgent. "That boiler can't last much longer."
Glidinghawk nodded and took one last look at Sun Woman's face. She might have almost been sleeping. . . .
They got the squaws and Ma Moody out of the main cabin. Ma's hands were tied, as Glidinghawk had suggested. She had regained consciousness, and she seemed to have lost her fear. Her eyes were empty now, and she was meekly cooperative as Landrum herded her along.
Glidinghawk caught four horses from the corral and let the others run free. He led the horses while Landrum kept Ma and the squaws walking toward the canyon. The buckshot wounds in Glidinghawk's leg were just a dull ache now, a pain he could easily ignore.
The moon was gone now, but the night sky was suddenly lit up. The earth shook, and the blast from the still as the boiler exploded assaulted their ears. That was just the beginning, though.
The stored whiskey went up with a tremendous roar, sending a column of flame high into the air. The other cabin caught fire as well and burned rapidly.
Landrum and the others looked back at the inferno —all but Glidinghawk.
There was nothing there for him to see, no reason for him to turn around.
All he could do now was look forward . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Preston Kirkwood Fox stepped out onto the porch of the Indian agent's office at Fort Supply, Indian Territory. There was a cigar in his mouth and a worried look on his young face. Nearly two weeks had passed since Glidinghawk had disappeared from the stockade. In that time, Fox had not heard a word from either the Omaha or Landrum and Celia.
What the devil had happened to them? Had their mission failed?
Was he the only member of Powell's Army left alive?
There was a warm breeze this morning. It was going to be a lovely late spring day. Fox paid little attention to the beauties of nature. He had been thinking for several days that he was going to have to get in touch with Colonel Amos Powell and request new orders to deal with this situation. Now he had come to a decision.
He was going to the telegraph station at the fort's headquarters and send a carefully coded telegram to Powell.
As Fox started across the parade ground with renewed vigor in his step, Sergeant Bradley Foster came through the door of the sutler's store and hailed him. "Mornin', Mr. Follett," the supply sergeant said as he came down the stairs to fall in step beside Fox. "How are you?"
"Why, I'm fine," Fox replied. Foster had been rather friendly with him ever since Glidinghawk's escape.
"Any word on that buck that ran away?
" Foster asked.
Fox shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I don't think we'll ever see him again, to tell you the truth."
Fox frowned in thought as he walked. Foster had been quite curious about Glidinghawk, and Fox was beginning to wonder why.
Maybe, Fox thought, Foster had had something to do with the Omaha's escape on that stormy night . . .
Several men rode through the fort's gate and trotted their horses over to the commanding officer's office. Fox studied them curiously. They wore the uniforms of officers, two majors and a lieutenant. He didn't recall seeing them around Fort Supply before.
Bradley Foster saw the newcomers, too. "Fresh meat," he said, chuckling. "I'd heard we were going to get some new officers. Well, the noncoms will get them straightened out soon enough."
Fox bit back the sharp retort he wanted to make. Foster's arrogant attitude toward commissioned officers was common among the lower ranks, but that didn't excuse it. Maybe he could find some subtle way to pass along the sergeant's insubordination to Colonel Selmon.
As the new officers swung down from their mounts, one of the majors glanced over at Fox. There was something familiar about him . . .
"Preston!" the major called loudly. "Preston Fox! How are you, old boy?"
Fox suddenly felt as if the bottom of his stomach had dropped out. He recognized the major as one of his classmates from West Point, an insufferably studious type named . . . Hackett, that was it. Not only had he graduated ahead of Fox, but he had had the bad habit of often being right.
Fox tried desperately to regain his wits even as Major Hackett strode forward and grasped his hand, pumping it up and down. Finally, Fox managed to say, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't believe I know you."
"Sure you do," the major insisted. "I'm Curt Hackett. We were at West Point together." He frowned. "What are you doing out of uniform, Lieutenant? Or have you been promoted, too?"
Fox shook his head. "I'm truly sorry, but you're mistaken, Major. My name is Preston Follett. I'm the Indian agent assigned here."
Even to his own ears, the claim rang false. He glanced over and saw Foster studying him intently.
"I'm sorry, Major, but I have to go," Fox said hurriedly. He walked quickly away, his intention to send a telegram to Amos Powell completely forgotten.
Behind him, Major Hackett shrugged. Fox heard him say, "He always was a strange one, that Fox. Well, come on, men, let's report to Colonel Selmon and deliver that dispatch to him."
Fox went back to his office and settled down behind his desk, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to mop the sweat from his face. What devilishly bad luck! Ever since he had gone undercover with Powell's Army, he had worried that someday he would run into someone who would recognize him. Now it had happened.
What would be the result? Foster had been looking awfully suspiciously at him. If the supply sergeant was indeed involved in the case, would this misfortune tip him off that Fox was an investigator?
There was nothing he could do now except wait to see what happened.
He took a small pistol from a drawer in the desk and checked to make sure it was loaded.
Fox didn't have to wait long. A few minutes later, Bradley Foster opened the door of the office and came in. Fox sat up straighter and tried to make his voice strong as he asked, "What can I do for you, Sergeant?"
Foster pulled a chair over, reversed it, and straddled it. He pushed his campaign hat to the back of his head. "Sure was strange the way that new major thought you were somebody else, wasn't it?" he said without preamble.
"He made a mistake," Fox declared. "It happens to everybody. No harm done."
"Maybe not. But it sure starts a fella wonderin'. Now me, I wonder why somebody who's really in the army would pretend that he's not. Seems like a fella who did that would have something to hide." Foster slid his service revolver from its holster and leaned it on the back of the chair, the muzzle negligently turned toward Fox. "How about you, Mr. Follet —or is it Lieutenant Fox? What have you got to hide?"
Fox paled. His own gun was resting in the open drawer, only inches from his fingers, but Foster had the drop on him.
"You must be mad!" Fox exclaimed. "What do you hope to accomplish by this, Foster?"
"I just want to know who you are," Foster said grimly.
'You know quite well, I'm an Indian agent — "
"I don't think so," Foster cut in. "I think you came here looking for whoever's helping smuggle whiskey into the Nations from Texas. Am I right?"
Fox was unable to keep the surprise off his face. Foster had everything figured out. Fox's bluff had not fooled him for an instant.
'You can't get away with this!" Fox blustered. "I'm onto you now, Foster. You might as well surrender. What can you do? You can't just murder me right here in the middle of the fort!" His voice grew stronger as he went on.
"No, but the two of us can take a ride out onto the reservation to see how them poor heathens are doing." Foster grinned, but it was an ugly expression.
"You see, Fox or whatever your name is, I ain't got a whole lot to lose."
"I . . . I . . ."
Foster cocked an eyebrow. "Why don't you take a chance? Live a little longer, maybe something good will happen. Or I can just shoot you right here and try to fight my way out of here. I tell you this much, I ain't goin' to hang, and I ain't goin' to spend the next thirty years in the stockade. I'd rather take a bullet right now."
There was no doubting Foster's sincerity. Sweat rolled down Fox's brow, and his fingers shook as he placed his hands on top of his desk. He started to stand up. "I . . . I suppose we could take that ride," he quavered.
"Good idea," Foster said. He scraped his chair back.
There were heavy footsteps on the porch outside the office. Fox glanced up, and through the window he saw not only Major Hackett but also Colonel Selmon.
And both of them had their pistols in their hands.
Foster's head swiveled, and he saw the same thing Fox did. The sergeant's face twisted in rage and frustration, and he jerked his pistol toward the window.
Fox heard it roar as he dove for the floor behind the desk.
Then he heard the shattering of glass as more gunshots rang out. Foster grunted as lead thudded into his body. He staggered back against the desk, mortally wounded by Selmon and Hackett, his gun slipping from his fingers. He went to his knees, then fell forward.
His head twisted as he hit the floor, and Fox found himself staring into Foster's dead eyes.
Selmon and Hackett crashed in through the door of the office. The colonel bent over Foster's body while Hackett hurried around the desk to help Fox to his feet. "You all right, Preston?" he asked.
"Yes," Fox said. "But please-I'm Preston Follett, understand?"
Hackett shrugged. "Whatever you say, Mr. Follett," he replied in low tones. "I suppose you've got a good reason."
Selmon swung to face Fox. "What happened here?"
Fox gestured at the dead sergeant, thinking frantically as he tried to come up with a believable answer. "He—he tried to rob me. He was running away for some reason — "
"He was running away because he must have figured out somehow that I was going to arrest him," Selmon said heavily. "This is army business, Follett, but I suppose you have a right to know. Major Hackett here just delivered a dispatch from the adjutant general's office advising me that Sergeant Foster here was part of a scheme to smuggle illegal whiskey into Indian Territory."
"The . . . the adjutant general's office?"
"Yes. Colonel Amos Powell, specifically." Selmon grunted. "I'm not sure how he knew about Foster, but the military has a way of finding these things out. From Foster's reaction, I'd say that Colonel Powell's information was correct."
Fox nodded, relief flooding through him. Not only had he been rescued from Foster in the nick of time, but it looked as if Landrum and Celia and Glidinghawk’s were probably all right. They had to be the ones who had supplied the information to Colonel Powell.
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That meant he would be leaving soon. "Preston Follett" would be reassigned to some other agency, thence to disappear. New missions, new cover identities, would be waiting.
The military had a way of finding things out, all right —a weapon known only to a few —Powell's Army.
James Reasoner is the author of Under Outlaw Flags and Cossack Three Ponies, both published by Berkley Books and nominated for the Spur Award. A professional writer for more than half his life, he has written everything from mysteries to science fiction and fantasy. He lives in a small town with his wife, Livia, also known as the novelist L. J. Washburn, and they have two grown daughters.
2 more Powell’s Army novels
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Red River Desperadoes Page 16