They conversed a while longer, after which she bustled away to begin her supper preparations. And then, quietly, Lunt arrived. They had left the door open. He stood there, smiling at them, but vaguely, like a man beset with more than his share of troubles. Larry invited him in and uncorked the bottle.
After shutting the door, Lunt carefully locked it. They watched, intrigued, as he moved across to the window, opened it and scanned the back alley.
“Whatsamatter, Marty?” demanded Stretch.
“I figure it’s best we keep this parlay private,” drawled Lunt, as he reclosed the window and ambled to a chair. He accepted the glass offered him by Stretch, raised it and said, “Remember the Alamo.”
“Here’s to Texas,” grinned Stretch.
“Lone Star forever,” grunted Larry.
They began working on the whisky, and Lunt lost no time in getting to the point. “Call me squaw-man if you want,” he growled. “It don’t irk me no more. I used to feel insulted, but, if you could see Rinka—my wife …”
“You’re wed to a Ute woman?” demanded Larry.
“She’s fifteen years younger than me,” said Lunt, “and durn near as beautiful as Sadie Clifford. I’m the Indian Agent for this territory, boys. My cabin is less than a mile from the east border of the reservation.”
“Some job,” mused Larry. “Go-between for the whites and Injuns.”
“Not so rough,” Lunt assured him, “except in times like these.” He lit a cigar, took another pull at his drink. “Got quite a story to tell, if you’ll listen.”
“We’ll listen,” nodded Larry.
“What I mean,” frowned the agent, “I got a good reason for telling you the score. I need help—need it bad. You won’t get paid one plugged cent for what I’m asking you to do.”
“Well ...” shrugged Stretch.
“What’s more,” continued Lunt, “there could be plenty danger for you. By the time you’re through, you could be up to your ears in trouble—gun trouble.”
“Hey now!” Stretch’s eyes lit up.
“Whatever it is,” drawled Larry, “we’ll do it”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Lunt heaved a sigh of relief. “Nobody else I can turn to. What kind of man can handle such a chore? Johnson and McGreeley try hard, but, damn it all, they ain’t detectives. Pinkertons? I don’t think a Pinkerton could handle it. What this situation needs is a couple hombres like you. Trouble-shooters—with brains.”
“Well, now,” frowned Stretch, “I ain’t no greenhorn with a shootin’ iron but, when it comes to brains, ol’ Larry’s your man. Mighty busy ’tween the ears is Larry.”
“Count us in,” said Larry, “what’s the sad word?”
“The Utes are turning mean,” Lunt told him. “Some of ’em are damn near ready to put on the war paint and beat the drums. And the hell of it is I can’t blame ’em. All these years, they’ve stayed on the reservation and kept their noses clean, you know? No war-parties. No thieving from homesteads up by the county line. Little Cloud signed a treaty, and he’s a man of his word.”
“But?” prodded Larry.
“Some sneaking sonofagun,” scowled Lunt, “is doing his damnedest to stir up trouble. It started a couple months back. Ute brave got a forty-five slug in his leg, while he was watering his horse over by the springs. Little while later, another buck got butchered, and they left the knife in him—a white man’s knife. Three Ute women have been attacked—sent naked back to the Ute lodges. The maulers wore masks, but the women are sure they were whites. And now—it gets worse. They’ve lynched a brave—left him strung to a tree for his friends to find.”
Larry finished his drink, poured himself a refill, then rolled and lit a cigarette.
“You got any notion why?” he demanded. “I mean, could it be just a bunch of lame-brained cowpokes that don’t know any better? Or a passel of Injun-haters?”
“I can’t even start to guess,” sighed Lunt. “They might be plain loco, Larry. Only a lunatic would want to start another Indian war hereabouts—or anywhere else. And tracking ’em won’t be easy. It’s a big country. A hundred-and-one ways a killer can cover his back-trail.” He eyed his half-empty glass gloomily, “Time is running out, Larry. I don’t know how long the old chief can keep his young bucks in line. I made him a promise, told him the killers would be run to ground and punished by the other whites. Now, I have to make good on that promise, and I don’t know where to start.”
“Rough,” mused Larry.
“It gets rougher,” said Lunt, between his teeth.
“Like how, for instance?” prodded Stretch.
“Judge Pyle is a mighty influential man,” said Lunt, “with friends all over. He told me something a little while ago—something that scares me to my innards.” He raised his eyes, matched stares with Larry. “The judge will do his damnedest to get help from the government. Not for the Utes. Just for the whites. You know what kind of help he means? The army, Larry. Troopers patrolling Doone County. How d’you suppose Little Cloud will feel, when he finds out the blue-britches are spying on Artega Springs?”
“There’s times,” reflected Larry, “when the U.S. Army is a mighty handy outfit. And there’s times when soldier-boys ain’t nothin’ but a damn-blasted nuisance.”
“It all depends on the boss-officer,” said Lunt. “If he plays it wary, we might avoid trouble. But, if he’s a saber-rattler, some hotheaded Injun-hater, there’s just bound to be a flare-up.”
“You couldn’t talk the judge out of it?” frowned Larry.
“Nobody,” growled Lunt “talks Judge Pyle out of anything, once he sets his mind to it.”
“All right,” said Larry. “The way it stacks up, this territory could be in for a shootin’ war—unless we catch up with the sidewinders that drygulched those Utes. And it better be done fast—before the blue-britches come stumblin’ in.”
“Anything I can do to help,” offered Lunt, “all you have to do is ask. I could guide you clear across the reservation and all the territory surrounding the springs. I could fix it for you to parlay with Little Cloud. I can give you maps of the county and, if you want, you can use my cabin as a kind of field-headquarters.”
“That’ll help,” muttered Larry, “but it’s too bad you can’t give me what I need most.”
“You mean name a couple likely suspects,” guessed Lunt.
“Just a hint would be a starter,” nodded Larry. “Think of all the whites hereabouts, then ask yourself who’d want to faze the Utes—and why?”
“If I could answer that question,” declared the agent, “I wouldn’t be here now—begging for your help.” His face hardened. “I’d go hunting ’em personal—loaded for bear.”
“So we start with nothin’,” mused Stretch.
“What the hell?” shrugged Larry. “We’ve started that way before, and somethin’ always happens.” He showed Lunt a reassuring grin. “Don’t you fret about it, Marty. We’ll start nosin’ around tomorrow. And maybe, in a little while, we’ll be Lone Star lucky.”
“I’m not one for making speeches,” muttered Lunt, as he rose from his chair, “but I’ll say this much. If you can find those drygulchers and bring ’em in—or blow their lousy brains out—every decent man, woman and child in this territory will bless your names. And I ain’t excluding the Utes.”
“One thing you can count on, said Larry. “We’ll sure as hell give it a whirl.”
Lunt made a brief speech of thanks, wrung their hands and bade them farewell. After he had gone, they continued working on the contents of the bottle. For once in his life, Stretch seemed overawed by the magnitude of the task ahead.
“Here we go again, runt,” he muttered. “And, this time, it’s big.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Larry. “Big and important.”
“How d’you like our chances?” demanded Stretch.
“About even,” decided Larry. “We could get to the bottom of it in a hurry, or maybe it’ll take quite a while, or maybe we�
��ll end up buzzard-bait.”
“That’s a fact,” Stretch soberly agreed. “That’s the stone-cold truth.”
~*~
Out at Box B, the defeated Grady and Hodge were subjected to a torrent of abuse from their employer, the hulking Steve Britt.
“I’m givin’ you the same warnin’ Tolin gave his outfit. Go quiet, from now on. Stay outa trouble. It’s gonna take all twelve of us to stop that northbound train and grab that gold shipment. Twelve—savvy? the even dozen—minus none. If two of us are stuck in the county jail, it’s gonna be that much rougher for the rest of us. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Sure, sure,” shrugged Hodge. “You’re the boss.”
“You get to tanglin’ with any towners, ’tween now and the big day,” scowled Britt, “I’ll gun-whip you blind—the both of you!”
Simultaneously, another hapless citizen of Doone County was suffering a tongue-lashing. In the Sentinel office, Milty Ricks watched—aghast—as a stern-faced Asa Baintry slowly and methodically tore his masterpiece to shreds.
“My greatest story!” he moaned. “The fruits of my genius ...”
“And just as useless,” growled Asa, “as if you’d written it in Arabic. You heard what Tub said, so now you know the truth. It was a two-bit street-fight, hardly worth three lines on Page Two. You let yourself get hoodwinked by the fastest-talking liar in Doone County.”
“How was I to know ...?” wailed Milty.
“Check and double-check!” snapped Asa. Rarely did he get so hot under the collar. Now, his collar might have caught fire. “Facts, boy! Always facts—never hearsay. Somebody tells you the temperature is a hundred degrees. Don’t print it—until you’ve looked at a barometer. Somebody says it’s raining in Doone City. Go out and get wet—then believe him.”
Four – The Army vs Larry And Stretch
For five days following their conference with the Indian Agent, the Lone Star Hellions were on the move, covering every corner of sprawling Doone County.
After five days, no clues. Then with Marty Lunt as their guide, the Texans rode into the Artega Springs area, all the way to the reservation, for a powwow with the great chief. Little Cloud proved to be a shrewd-eyed, scruffy, almost nondescript character, but obviously a true leader of his people. He was undersized and of indeterminate years, with a face ruddy and lined, like a withered apple. He wore, at the time of their visit, his favorite headgear—a battered derby two sizes too big for him. It rested on his ears, with a turkey feather jutting from the rear of the hatband. And, though Lunt was more than capable of playing interpreter, there was little need. At some time in his eventful past, the chief had learned sufficient English to make himself understood.
To the Texans, he gravely asserted, “You want keep peace—fine. Little Cloud, too. But, when white men frighten Ute squaw, hang Ute brave to tree, this is bad. This is not peace.”
“How about your young men?” asked Lunt.
“Still mad,” grunted Little Cloud.
“Feelin’ ornery, huh?” mused Larry. “Well, you can’t hardly blame ’em.”
Little Cloud responded with an adjective obviously learned from the riders of cowponies.
“Plumb ornery,” he frowned.
The Texans traded wry grins. Lunt frowned worriedly, and assured the chief, “I’m doing my best to make good on my promise. The guilty white men will be found—and punished.”
“But not yet,” complained Little Cloud.
“My friends ...” Lunt nodded to the Texans, “are great scouts. They have come to help us.”
“Only one way can help,” shrugged Little Cloud. “Find squaw-stealers.” He gestured expressively. “Hang ’em—like they hang Running Wolf.”
“We’ll find ’em,” Larry promised. But, to himself, he was thinking, “How long before we find ’em?”
On the morning of the sixth day, Judge Pyle entered the Sentinel office, nodded brusquely to Asa Baintry and exhibited the telegraph message he had just received.
“Important news, Mr. Baintry,” he announced. “I’ve come direct to you but, of course, I shall also advise Kirby Upshaw. Information of this kind should be circulated as quickly as possible, for the benefit of the entire community.”
“Well, Judge,” smiled Asa, “the Sentinel is always ready to pass on information.”
Pyle advanced to Asa’s desk and offered him the telegram. “Read it. Make notes if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary,” muttered Asa. He scanned the message, nodded thoughtfully, returned it to Pyle. “Much obliged, Judge. The news comes at a good time. We’re about to go to press.”
“You’ll give it suitable space?” prodded Pyle.
“Double column on the front page,” said Asa.
“Thank you.”
The judge departed. Milty eyed his chief impatiently. “Well?”
“Well,” shrugged Asa, “it seems Doone County will be under martial law for a while. Maybe not officially, though the consequences are the same.”
“What’s doin’, Asa?” called Tub.
“Our esteemed Judge Pyle,” drawled Asa, “has used his considerable influence for the good of the community, in this time of tension. Thanks to his official request, a unit of cavalry is on its way up from the south—to camp outside town and—uh—protect us from the Artega Springs nations, in the event of an uprising.”
“Eureka!” whooped Milty. “That’s great news!”
“When does the army arrive?” demanded Tub.
“Some time tomorrow, according to Judge Pyle’s information,” said Asa. “They’ve already entered Utah Territory.”
“Well, damn it all ...” Milty fidgeted impatiently, “don’t we have any additional information—names and figures?”
“It’s the Ninth Cavalry,” shrugged Asa. “The commanding officer is Colonel Mortimer Stone.”
“I’ll get on it right away,” announced Milty. He reseated himself, took up his pen and began scribbling. “An event of such historical importance deserves the full treatment ...”
“Leave it alone,” grunted Asa. “I’ll handle it myself. You stay with the birth notice of the Davidson twins.”
“Plague take the Davidson twins!” fumed Milty. “Who cares a damn about the birth of twins—when the Ninth Cavalry is almost on our doorstep?”
“Who cares?” Asa grinned wryly. “Well, I can think of at least two local citizens who care plenty—meaning Zeke and Hannah Davidson. Go ahead, Milty. Make it a nice, regular birth notice and, for pity’s sake, don’t lose your head. Just the names of the babes and the time of birth—savvy? Never mind about Hannah’s labor-pains and the storm that raged while she lay waiting for Doc Nolan. There wasn’t any storm anyway, and Doc got there in time for the delivery.”
“You’re stifling my creative genius!” moaned Milty.
By sundown of that day, the big news had spread far and wide, and the county’s nervous citizenry, long living in the shadow of possible Indian attack, were congratulating themselves.
“Reckon good ol’ Doone County’s on the map after all!”
“Damn right. Gettin’ to be a right important town, is Doone City. They sent the army to protect us, by golly!”
“Just let them sneakin’ Utes try raidin’ us now. Just let ’em!”
Such was the temper of the ordinary citizens. They weren’t so much concerned with the atrocities committed against the reservation Utes as with the possibility of Ute retaliation and the threat to their own welfare. Larry and Stretch heard the news with mixed feelings. They were taking a brief respite from their scouting expedition, satisfying their thirsts at the Welcome Hand, when the special editions of the Sentinel and Enterprise began circulating. Larry spread a copy of the Sentinel on the bar-top, rolled and lit a cigarette and moodily ordered refills. Stretch peered over his shoulder, and observed, “Ninth Cavalry? Hell.”
“Old Vinegar-Puss Stone,” scowled Larry, “and Boyle, his proddy top-sergeant.”
“A
in’t we ever gonna stay clear of them Texas-haters?” wondered Stretch.
“Like it or not,” sighed Larry, “they’re headed thisaway. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
“That ain’t good,” opined Stretch. “Like Marty says, the old chief won’t much appreciate them blue-britches snoopin’ around Artega Springs.”
“Trouble with Colonel Stone,” mused Larry, “is he’s too damn proddy for his own good. He don’t just hate Texans. He hates damn near everybody that don’t wear a uniform.”
As well as disliking officially-appointed law officers, the Lone Star Hellions maintained a long-standing antipathy for the U.S. Army. It was a natural and, perhaps, logical antipathy, stemming from the fact that, as teenage boys they had fought for the South in the closing stages of the Civil War.
On the other hand, it could be said that Colonel Mortimer Stone and Sergeant Hal Boyle had their reasons for despising Texans. A unit of raggletail Texans had caused Stone some humiliation during the war between the States—involving the temporary capture of a large contingent of the 9th and its subsequent return to the Union lines, minus horses and weapons—and britches. Stone had never forgotten nor forgiven. To him, as to the bullying Sergeant Boyle, ‘Texas’ was a dirty word.
Twice in the past few years, Larry and Stretch had tangled with the 9th. But for their promise to Marty Lunt, they might have quit this territory now. Not because they feared Colonel Stone, Sergeant Boyle or any other man or beast, but merely because they regarded argument and recrimination with those warriors as a somewhat futile endeavour. With men of the colonel’s caliber, no man could win an argument—least of all a Texan.
At dawn of the following day, a reception committee rode out of Doone City to intercept the oncoming cavalry and to nominate a suitable campsite for the county’s official protectors—the area known as Pike Flats, less than a half-mile from the town’s northern outskirts. Southward rode the jubilant Mayor McAdams, the much-relieved Sheriff Johnson, the austere Judge Pyle and the apprehensive Marty Lunt.
The long column of mounted troopers was sighted five miles to the south and contact established. Grim-faced and aloof, Colonel Stone listened to the mayor’s speech of welcome and the Indian Agent’s plea for careful observance of the peace treaty. He was as unyielding as his name, a tall, wiry professional soldier in the advanced fifties with a prominent nose, bushy brows and bristling mustache, and the coldest blue eyes Lunt had ever seen.
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