War on the Cimarron (23 page)

“You sure are,” Frank said softly.

“You can carry that gun or throw it away,” Milabel said. “It don't make no difference. You're goin' to see everything this outfit owns!”

He strode past Frank and into the office. His shell belt and gun were lying under his hat. He picked up his Stetson, paying no attention to the gun, and tramped out the door. Frank followed him over to the long bunkhouse where a couple of men were lounging in the door.

Frank tried to conceal his gun behind Milabel, but thirty yards from the bunkhouse he saw one of the men dodge back into the room, and he knew he was recognized.

Milabel raised his voice. “Barney, put down that gun! That goes for all of you. Jess, roust out the whole crew. The first man that shoots will get shot himself, and that's a promise. Step outside here and line up!”

Slowly the surly crew filed out facing Milabel. They were watching Frank, who had holstered his gun when he heard Milabel's orders. When the crew, twenty-six in all, were formed in a loose half circle around Milabel he said, “Christian here wants to look at your spurs. Stand where you are and keep quiet.”

Frank walked back of the men and went down the line examining each pair of spurs. Some of the men were in sock feet and some were not wearing spurs on their boots. No set of spurs, either in size or the elaboration of the silverwork, resembled the rowel he had in his pocket.

When he was through Milabel said, “All right, Christian. Step in the bunkhouse and keep an eye on the men. Now you boys go back and dump out your war bags in front of your bunks.”

They went back and dumped their war bags, and Frank went down the line. There were extra sets of spurs in some of the war bags, and once Frank knelt by one rider's boots to compare the rowels, but they were not the same.

Finished, Milabel said, “Anywhere else you want to look? Blacksmith shop, wagon shed, any of the buildings?”

“All of them,” Frank said quietly.

Patiently Milabel let him poke anywhere he pleased. He found some discarded and worn-out spurs in the blacksmith shop but still nothing that resembled his rowel. Gus had said the man was still wearing them. Nobody here was wearing the mate, that was certain.

When he was finished he nodded to Milabel. “Thanks. As soon as I take a look at the guard I slipped past I'll be satisfied.”

Milabel called for a horse and rode out with Frank to the rise behind the house where the guard was sitting by his horse. His spurs didn't match either.

Frank swung onto his horse again, and Milabel said, “I am curious, Christian. It ain't any of my business, but do you aim to hog-tie every man in the Nations to find out if he's got the mate to that rowel?”

“If I have to.”

“Word'll get around, and whoever has it will throw it away. Not to mention the fact that the whole damn army will be chasin' you in another day.”

“There's just two outfits that can own it, Milabel,” Frank said curtly. “You are one.”

“Who's the other?”

Frank said thinly, “Never mind.”

“It's Corb's, isn't it?”

Frank didn't say anything.

Milabel swng into the saddle. “There's one sure way to pull you off my neck,” Milabel said. “That's to help you locate that spur. I'll ride to Corb's with you.”

“And throw in with his crew when we get there?” Frank asked dryly. “No, thanks.”

“You got two guns, I got none,” Milabel pointed out. “I may be able to save you some trouble with Corb.”

Frank hesitated a long time, pondering his chances. If Corb's crew was there they wouldn't be as docile as the Circle R crew. They'd fight. Now Corb and Milabel were partners of a sort, and it might be that Milabel could talk Corb into letting Frank look. It wouldn't hurt to try.

“All right,” he said.

They arrived at Corb's place at dust. The house seemed deserted, and Frank cautiously approached the place. They dismounted, and he made Milabel keep between him and the house. Achieving the front door, which was open, they entered and heard the soft snoring of a sleeping man. Frank looked into the front room and saw a man sleeping at the table, his head lying on his folded arms, an overturned bottle of whisky beside him. There was no other sound in the house.

Frank cursed softly, again remembering what Gus had said. Whoever owned the mended spur was wearing it. And Corb's crew was gone. He went over to the sleeping man and knelt beside him. The puncher was not wearing spurs. Frank looked up at Milabel.

“Tough luck,” Milabel said. “You aim to wait till they ride in?”

“That's right. I'll look their stuff over now.”

Frank went upstairs and turned into the first room he came to, the corner room. It held an old iron bed on which was a tangle of dirty blankets. Clothes were strewn over the floor, and on the deerskin rug was a pair of pants. Frank moved them aside with his toe, and under them was a pair of boots. On the floor beside them were spurs.

Frank knelt and picked one up. As he examined the rowel his heart almost missed a beat. The stamping on the big rowel was like the one in his pocket. With trembling fingers he rose and lighted the lamp and set it on the floor. He compared the two rowels carefully. They were identical.

He dropped the one spur and picked up its mate. The rowel on the mate was different!

He turned the spur over and examined the shank. And there, behind the fork, was the welded place where the plain rowel and shank had been joined!

He took the stairs two at a time, ran past Milabel in the hall and into the room where the puncher was sleeping. He kicked the man's chair out from under him, yanked him to his feet and slapped his face viciously. The man roused and tried to shield his face with his arms, and Frank slapped him again. Then he shoved the man to the door, into the hall, and kicked him up the stairs. The puncher, still three-quarters drunk, yelled and cursed and fought. Frank kicked him onto the landing, then picked him up by the scruff of his neck and dragged him into the room and stood him on his feet.

He shoved the pair of spurs in front of his eyes and said, “Who owns these?”

Slowly the puncher's eyes focused. “Them spurs?” he asked thickly.

“Yes.”

“Where'd you find 'em?” the puncher asked.

“Here. In this room.”

“Must be Corb's,” the puncher muttered. “He sleeps here.”

“Where is he?”

“Reno.”

Frank shoved the puncher toward the bed, ran past Milabel, who had come upstairs to watch, and took the stairs in two leaps. And Milabel, excitement in his eyes, was close on his heels.

Luvie had scarcely succeeded in calming her father down after Otey left before there was a loud knock on her room door. She opened to find Edith standing there.

“Luvie, where's your dad?”

“Here,” Lavie said. “Where have you—”

Edith brushed past her and ran over to Barnes. “Come with me, Mr Barnes. We've got to see the colonel, and the soldiers won't let us. They're trying to keep Red off the grounds.”

“But what's happened?”

“Get Major Corning and bring him out to the Darlington road!” Edith said excitedly. “He'll come for you! Please hurry.”

Barnes, bewildered, nevertheless obeyed. He and Edith and Luvie hurried across the parade grounds to the administration building, where the lights were still burning. A sentry posted at the door of Major Corning's office tried to stop them, but Barnes shoved him aside and threw open the door. Major Corning was talking to an officer, and he reared up at sight of them.

Edith brushed past Barnes and hurried to his desk. “Major Corning, come with me at once, please!”

“But why—where—”

“If you want to stop this Indian trouble come with me!”

Major Corning walked from behind his desk and followed Edith out of the room and outside, Luvie and Barnes trailing her. Edith led them around the building and out on the Darlington road. At the edge of the buildings there were two sentries, a lantern between them, standing in the middle of the road. Their rifles were leveled at Red, who stood with his hands on his hips holding the reins of two horses, his own and Edith's.

Major Corning slowed up at sight of him, exasperation showing in his face. He said, “Now what's this?”

“Listen careful,” Red said in a low, angry voice. “I ain't goin' to say it twice. Stone Bull, the old Cheyenne chief, has had the ringleaders of this uprisin' in his lodge since noon. He's been servin' 'em Scott Corb's trade whisky that I stole out of a cache. Edith Fairing and me have been talkin' to them alongside of Stone Bull all afternoon, tryin' to get 'em to change their minds. They were fightin' mad when the whisky began to work, but they're all right now.” He paused.

“They're hog drunk and sleepin'. If you send a detail of soldiers with an ambulance to Stone Bull's lodge, you can freight the whole bunch of 'em over to the guardhouse here, and your rebellion's over.”

“Over?” Corning asked, his voice skeptical. “Do you think the arrest of a few will help us any?”

“Let me finish,” Red said. “Stone Bull says if you send your wisest officer into camp with some soldiers to back him up and tell the Cheyennes and Arapahos that the government is increasing their beef ration and that you're holdin' a special beef issue tomorrow, there won't be any revolt. Them Indians are starvin', Major! Arrest the leaders and feed the rest, and your trouble is over!”

Major Corning was silent a long moment, staring at Red in the lantern light. “If I thought I could believe you I'd—”

“Don't believe me!” Red yelled angrily: “Believe her!” He pointed to Edith. “She's been sittin' in a lodge all day while them drunken Cheyennes threatened her with scalpin' and torture and everything else! She's the one to believe! Ask her!”

Major Corning wheeled to face Edith.

“Do it, Major Corning!” Edith said. “Believe me, I know those people! I know that Stone Bull and the others want peace and that once the ringleaders—Corb's Indians—are arrested the trouble will be over. Arrest those leaders, promise the others food and keep your word! The uprising will be over then!”

Major Corning stared at her tense, beautiful face and then, forgetting all dignity, he wheeled and yelled to the officer watching them from a window of the administration building: “Brett, have assembly sounded! No, wait a minute!” And he turned and ran, major or no major.

And even as he was running there came the sound of gunfire from the sutler's bar.

Chapter XIX

They were in sight of the sentries, soon to be challenged, when Milabel said again to Frank, “Sure you want to do this, Christian? You've got a price on your head, you've escaped, you've—”

Frank said quietly, “Get me past the sentries. I'll worry about the rest of it.”

Milabel grunted. They pulled up at the sentry's challenge, “Who goes there?”

“Chet Milabel, from the Circle R. This is one of my men.”

“All right, Milabel. Leave your horse with the troopers at the corral.”

They passed through the line and rode over to the corral behind the stable, where, in the darkness, they turned their horses over to a trooper who said, “You two didn't get in none too soon.”

They walked through the long driveway of the stable and came out into the wagon yard. This, Frank remembered, was where he got his welcome to Fort Reno. That was from Corb too, he supposed.

Passing the office, they heard a scuffling back in the darkness of the wagon shed. Milabel glanced that way, but Frank stalked on. Suddenly someone yelled, “Frank!”

It was Otey's voice. Frank stopped and turned. Otey called, “Wait a minute!” There was a loud, sickening thud, the sound of thinly padded bone on flesh, followed by the sound of body hitting the ground. A moment later Otey walked out of the darkness. His nose was bloody and there was a cut over his eye and his knuckles were raw, but he seemed oblivious to that. He came up to Frank, looking around him, strapping on his gun belt.

“Great lord, get out of sight!”

Frank said, “Is Corb in the post?”

“You damn fool, there's two-three hundred men here with orders to kill you on sight!”

Frank wheeled and started walking toward the compound gate. Otey ran after him and grabbed him by the arm. “Frank, what is it?” he asked in a calm voice.

“Corb killed Morg, Otey. I found that spur, like Gus said. I found the mate to it and the mended one by Corb's bed out at his place.”

Otey's hand came away from Frank's arm. “He's in the saloon, Frank. Just play it careful, and I'll back you.”

Milabel, at the gate, said, “Here's where I drop out.”

Otey said, “You better stay out too.”

Frank said nothing. He mounted the porch and walked down the long length of it, his goal the saloon. At the window he hauled up and looked inside. The bar was less crowded now, but in the far corner, away from the window and in the angle made by the end of the bar, Corb still sat at his card game, his back to the wall, his face to the window.

Frank sized it up and knew he couldn't get ten feet past the doorsill before he was gunned. He said to Otey, “You cover 'em from the door, Otey.”

He walked down to the end of the window, picked up a chair, raised it over his head and crashed it through the window in one great downraking sweep.

At the same time Otey lunged through the door and yelled: “Don't' nobody move!”

And then Frank stepped through the hole in the window, a gun hanging in his hand, and the room fell silent.

Corb half raised out of his seat at sight of Frank, his eyes wild, then settled slowly back into his chair.

Frank said, “Corb, stand up!” And his voice cut the silence like a whip.

After a long pause Corb came to his feet beside the angle of the bar.