War on the Cimarron (19 page)

Gus nodded, his curious gaze on Frank's face. He licked his lips, looked over at Red, who was watching, then looked back at Frank.

“Me and that redhead couldn't sleep last night,” Gus said slowly. “We got to talkin', and he asked some questions.”

Frank frowned and looked over at Red, who was staring intently at Gus.

“You was Morg Wheelon's partner, wasn't you?” Gus said to Frank.

“Yes,” Frank said slowly.

“Anyone told you that when Morg was found he had a busted hand, like he'd been in a fight?”

Frank nodded.

“He was in a fight,” Gus stated. “Out by the corral where they found him.”

“How do you know?” Frank asked swiftly.

Gus smiled faintly. “You want to hear this or don't you?”

“Go on.”

“Morg knocked this ranny down. Knocked him against the poles. This fella's spur caught between them two cedar anchor posts for the gate. It jammed there when he tried to get up. Morg hit him so hard then that the spur broke, and he went rollin' off under a horse. The man ridin' the horse had a shotgun across his lap. This fella grabbed the shotgun and kiled Morg.”

“Who was it?”

Gus shook his head. “Find out. He's had the spur patched and he's wearin' it. And the broke piece is still at the corral unless somebody found it. Find the broke piece, find the patched spur, and if they match you've got your killer.”

“Who was it?” Frank said.

Again Gus shook his head. “It won't work, Frank. If I squeal I'll get a slug.” He paused, regarding Frank thoughtfully. “You was good to me. You fed me and took care of me and give me a horse to ride out on when you could have shot me. I've told you as much as I can. You figure out the rest of it.” He grinned suddenly and held out a boot. “Take a look at my spurs first. I don't hone for a shot in the back.” Frank looked at his spur, and then Gus pulled his horse around and Frank looked at the other. Then Gus touched his hat to Luvie and rode away from the fire in a southerly direction.

Frank started after him, but Red put a hand on his arm. “He won't tell, Frank. It's his neck if he does.”

“But how'd he happen to see it?” Frank asked vehemently. “He was there. Who was he workin' for? Corb?”

Red shook his head slowly. “Corb and Milabel. He's took turns workin' for them both. He told me last night.”

Frank stared at Red and then slowly relaxed. He had to be content with this one clue, but it was better than none. He shrugged Red's hand off and went out to get his horse. But he did not follow Gus. He headed for the cattle that were being pushed into the big herd preparatory to moving.

The drive that night was a job. Thirsty cattle, with the hope of water ahead, will drive easily at night; but these cattle had been loafed up from Texas, putting on weight each day, and their habits were uneasy and stubborn now, and it took the crew a long time to get them under way back to the Chisholm.

Afterward it was easier. Frank rode point, sometimes with Otey and sometimes with Red, and he could hear snatches of songs the riders were singing at their positions in the swing. In the drag was the chuck wagon, in which Luvie was riding.

The only danger until daylight lay in the possibility of an attack from Corb's white crew, and there was little to fear from that. Corb was too smart to play it that way. And as the tension slacked off Frank cast about for a key to Gus's riddle. Tomorrow, with Barnes's cattle safe, he could go back to the burned shack and find the broken spur point. Red and Otey were free, and if need be they would rope and hog-tie every man at the post and the agency until they found the man. After that—well—Frank wouldn't name it in his own mind.

An hour before dawn Frank realized that they would not complete the drive during darkness. The new grass was still attractive enough to the cattle that they broke away to feed, and the discipline of the crew, short tempered by this time, had them restive and nervous.

When dawn broke and Frank, still riding point, located himself he knew they were far enough away from the agency that they were still in danger. He rose in his stirrups to signal the swing rider to push them harder, and when he turned round again there were riders pulling out of a dip in the land ahead. His heart sank, and he peered through the faint dawn light, and when he had identified them as Indians he wheeled his horse and rode back to Red.

Red had seen them too, and he regarded Frank gloomily.

“I'll pull them over and make medicine with 'em,” Frank said quickly. “Whatever happens, don't let 'em split the herd, and keep it movin'. Pass the word back!”

And he set his horse into a gallop and rode up to point position.

The Cheyennes, in a motley array of buckskin and calico shirts with tails flying, must have numbered twenty. They were carrying old muskets, spears, bows and arrows and an occasional repeating rifle, although firearms were barred to them by army decree. They drew up in a line across the path of the cattle and held up their hands, palms out, in a gesture to halt.

Frank dropped back to the lead steer and put his horse against him, gently turning him to one side. As soon as the Cheyennes were certain that he wasn't turning the cattle to mill them, but only to pass their line, they started yelling. Frank quickly pulled away from the lead steer, letting him keep his course, and slanted off for the closest Indian yelling. and the Indians' curiosity pulled them aside. The ruse worked easily, for the Cheyennes were torn between stopping the herd and talking to Frank. To make them more uncertain Frank began to gesture as he approached.

He picked out their leader and rode up to him, and out of the corner of his eye he noted that the first dozen steers had merely walked around the Indian ponies and dropped back to their course. Red had signaled Otey, the swing rider across the herd, to move up, so that he was almost opposite Frank now. Any attempt to split the herd, which was increasing every second in width, would be met by Otey's gun.

Frank turned to the Indian and said in Comanche, “Out of the way!” in a harsh voice.

“Stop the cattle!” the Cheyenne said angrily. “We need meat!”

“Not this meat,” Frank answered.

The Indian saw that he had lost the advantage in allowing the lead steers to pass him, and he turned and yelled something at the farthest buck. Frank saw the Indian pull his pony around to head off the leaders, and he knew that he would have to act now.

With the back of his hand he lashed the Indian across the mouth.

“Out of the way!” he yelled.

The whole thing exploded then. The Indians yelled, and one of them let a gun off. Frank roweled his horse into the nearest Indian, palming his gun up and slashing down at his head. The Indian ducked and took it on the shoulder, and far behind Frank heard Red shooting into the air to stampede the cattle. Frank, using his gun like a club, fell into the pack of Indians, slashing his way through them. The range was too close for the Indians to use their rifles, and jammed as they were, on frightened plunging hones, their spears and bows were useless.

The slow thunder of running cattle started then, and Frank knew that the herd could never be split now. One Indian leaped on his back, winding an arm around his neck, and Frank raised his gun blindly by his ear and shot. The Indian's hold relaxed, and there ahead of his, his face contorted in fury, was a buck with his spear raised. Frank yanked his horse into a rear and shot point-blank at the Cheyenne, and he went out of the saddle.

The fringe of the herd was pouring into them now, adding to the panic of the screaming horses and the milling Cheyennes. Ahead of him another buck had fitted an arrow to his bow and was sitting a rearing horse, knees clamped, as he aimed at Frank. The bow twanged and Frank felt a whisper past his ear, and then he shot and the Indian was driven off his pony to be trampled on by three panicked steers.

Frank was clear of them now and, leaning low over his horse's neck, he roweled him into the open and raced alongside the running steers. There was a scattering of shots, and a steer beside him stumbled and went down. Frank looked back over his shoulder. The Indians were fighting savagely to get their horses out of the way of the onstreaming steers, and beyond them Red and two riders, both guns blazing, were riding them down. Only half the Indians seemed to be mounted now, and the free horses were adding to the confusion.

Frank settled down to fast riding now. Up ahead and across the herd, Otey was riding. Frank's horse stretched into a long gallop over the level plain, creeping up on the leaders. Otey, catching sight of Frank when he pulled abreast him across the herd, yelled something, but Frank motioned him on. As soon as Frank outdistanced the leader he swung over toward Otey, and they were riding side by side.

“Ride for the issue corral and get the gates open!” Frank yelled. “I'll try to turn them!”

Otey nodded and whipped up his horse, and Frank dropped back beside the lead steers. He had changed places with Otey now, taking the right side of the herd. Back of him the ominous steady thunder of the stampeding cattle was like a sword over his head. One slip of his horse and he was under these thousand hooves which would cut him to ribbons. The dust the herd was raising blotted out sight behind, so that Frank could only guess at the outcome of the fight. But he knew that the cattle would follow each other blindly and that they would all follow the leaders. Barnes's herd had not been split.

They were off the flat now, on the long downslope toward the north fork. Off to the left was Darlington, and Frank could see Otey streaking across the flat below and disappearing down the riverbank. On the opposite slope, far up to the left, the issue corrals were visible.

Frank had to turn the leaders soon, and he glanced down at the lead steer. He was running with a glassy-eyed panic, lost to anything except fright. Frank stayed by him until they hit the river. As luck would have it, it was a low bank, and the steers poured over it and into the great sandy bed of the river. The sand slowed them down a little but not much. Frantically Frank reloaded his gun and held it in his left hand, waiting his chance.

The opposite bank was steeper, and the lead steer slowed down as he climbed it, the others behind him lunging into the pull too. Frank gauged his chance carefully.

When the lead steer reached the very top of the bank, at his slowest speed, Frank fired his gun almost in the steer's face. The steer pulled away from the noise, running again, but this time slanting in the direction of the corrals. The others followed blindly.

Frank could see the corrals up ahead. Otey was opening the six gates that swung inward into the big corrals. Frank gauged the direction of the steer's travel, saw that it was not yet right and fired his gun again. And again the lead steer swung to the left and the others followed.

Satisfied, Frank holstered his gun and reined away, for he would have to get out of the way of the herd in their mad rush and ride out before he was seen. His horse rammed into something, and Frank lifted his glance from the lead steer. The other steers had caught up with the leader and were running abreast of him in a long line.

Frank poured leather into his horse, but the horse was too tired to bring up any extra speed. For ten bleak seconds Frank tried to push him ahead and away from the herd, but the horse couldn't do it. They were close to the yawning gates of the corral now, and Frank knew it was useless. His only hope was to streak for the other side of the corral and climb out that way.

The herd swept into the six gates of the corral like a tidal wave, and Otey, high on the stout gatepost in the middle of them, yelled something at Frank as he was swept through too. But Frank only saw his mouth work; the thunder of the herd drowned out all speech.

Frank roweled his horse, heading for the far fence, but the horse did not respond. Swiftly the cattle pulled ahead and closed the way in front of him, and then they met the far fence and swerved, milling around in a circle and stopping Frank's headway.

He was in the center of that circle on a spent horse. He was imprisoned, his horse moving with the tide of the cattle as they milled around the corral. The nearest fence was two hundred feet from him, and his horse was helpless to move in the mass of milling cattle.

Frank fought the horse, trying to pull him toward the fence, and then pity conquered. The horse had done his best and he could do no more. Cursing savagely, Frank pulled his hat low over his face and patiently tried to work his horse toward the fence. He had got a dozen yards when the head of the first trooper appeared over the top posts of the corral. The trooper yelled and pointed, and other troopers joined him.

Frank hid his face, trying to act like a puncher who now wanted to break up the milling. He heard shouts, and Otey's cracked voice was raised in anger. When he looked up again he saw the top rail of the corral lined with troopers, and they had their rifles trained on him.

Then the voice of their officer rose above the cattle bawling. “All right, Christian. We've got you trapped! Throw your gun over!”

And Frank had no choice.

Chapter XVI

By noon the word was already around that seven Cheyennes had been killed by trail drivers. The streets of Darlington and the post emptied of Indians as if by magic, and the more timid folk in Darlington, reading the signs, locked their houses and moved across the river to the protection of the garrison. There was much curiosity as to what was going on at the Indian camp downriver, but no white man dared investigate.

Luvie and Red, barred from Fort Reno, went back to the Barnes place with the crew while Otey and Barnes went before the commandant. They were closeted with him all morning while Red paced the yard of Barnes's place and smoked incessantly.

In early afternoon, when Barnes and Otey rode into the place, Red could tell by their grim faces that the session hadn't been a pleasant one. They all filed into the kitchen where Luvie had something to eat for them, and while Barnes ate Otey told the story.