Whiskey Kills

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Shot.” Daniel wrote this down. “Two men?”

  “Two horses,” Gunter said. “Shod horses. That’s another reason me and Harv ain’t ready to arrest you yet for murder. You Comanch’ still favor unshod ponies.”

  “But he was hacked up a mite,” Noble said. “Now, I’ve seen a bunch of butchery in the Nations, but this cutting a gash in a dead man’s thigh, that’s new to me.”

  “It’s Indian . . . ,” Coyne said. “Mutilation.” He dropped his head. “I learned that. They . . . well . . .”

  Daniel smiled. “Indians mutilate their enemies,” he said. “Make it hard for them in the next life.” He blinked, curious. Certainly Noble knew that about what the Pale Eyes would call “Indian depredations” but what The People, and other Indians, considered natural.

  After biting off a mouthful of tobacco and working the quid into his right cheek, Harvey P. Noble found his own pencil and notebook. “Let’s compare what we’ve all learnt,” he said. “See what we got.”

  Coyne started, explaining that he had gone to Teepee City, but had learned nothing about a man named Dakota, Blake Browne, or Carl Quantrell.

  “Quantrell, eh?” Noble said.

  “Yes. The way Daniel and I think, Quantrell is this Dakota. He damned near tried to scalp me.” He pointed at the cut above his eye. “And he almost killed Daniel in Dallas.”

  Noble spit, looked at Daniel. “That right?”

  Daniel explained all that had happened in Dallas, and about Fenn O’Malley winning Coursey & Cox Bottling Works in a dice game. Remembering, he spun and faced the lawyer. “You better watch yourself, Mister Coyne. Quantrell found that note you left for me. It just came back to me. After those ruffians had beaten me up. He found the note. Cursed your name. He’ll probably come after you.”

  Coyne pulled back his coat to reveal a small revolver in a shoulder harness. “I’m new here, but I’m learning,” he said with a greenhorn’s grin. “I’m ready for Carl Quantrell.”

  “Quantrell’s tough,” Noble warned.

  A short silence followed.

  “So,” Gunter said, “you think that Ranger and O’Malley are in this together?”

  “I do,” Daniel said. “It makes sense. Rangers and the soldiers are looking for whiskey runners, but, the truth is, Quantrell and O’Malley are running the whiskey. Nácutsi’s helping them.”

  Noble nodded, considering, let out a long breath, and shook his head. “Still need more evidence before I can get an arrest warrant naming ’em.”

  “What was O’Malley doing in Dallas,” Gunter asked, “when he won that ginger beer place?”

  Daniel frowned. He felt stupid again. “I . . . didn’t ask. Didn’t think of it.”

  Noble spit. “Might not matter. The building burned down. Dallas ain’t no jumping-off spot for whiskey runners in the Nations. Hell, he was whoring or visiting his ma or gambling. He was there.”

  “And now he’s gone,” Coyne said. “Deserted.”

  “Good riddance,” Noble said. “All right.” He flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “Here’s what I learned. Ain’t none of them ginger beer bottles been seen lately in Wichita Falls. So that ain’t the place they’re operating out of. But I did telegraph me a lawman in Dallas, and he done some detective work, found out that six dozen crates of bottles from Coursey and Cox was shipped by the Fort Worth and Denver Railway to Wichita Falls.”

  Daniel blinked. His mouth fell open.

  “But . . .” Coyne sounded equally as stunned. “You said there were no bottles like those in town.”

  “That’s right. Freighted off somewhere after they reached Wichita Falls. Couldn’t find where, though. The man that picked up them crates at the depot signed his name as Theodore Smith.”

  “I’ll look into it when I get back to town,” Coyne said.

  “You do that,” Noble said.

  “I don’t know that name, though,” the lawyer added.

  Daniel stared at the name he had written on the paper. “Ted Smith.” It hit him like a mule’s kick. “Uvalde Ted Smith.”

  Coyne’s fingers snapped. “But of course. Blake Browne’s partner. Smart thinking, Daniel.”

  Daniel’s shoulders sagged. He wasn’t much of a detective. Muttering a curse, he thumbed back two pages in his Echo tablet.

  “What is it?” Gunter asked.

  “It’s something Nácutsi said yesterday. He said he wouldn’t rot in a jail like Toyarocho. Said he was too important.”

  “Who the hell’s Toyarocho?” Noble asked.

  “He’s the one who killed his daughter. He’s the first one I found with that ceramic stoneware bottle.” He cursed again, kicking at the dirt in front of him. “He was in the Wichita Falls jail. I should have thought to question him.”

  “Well, you sure ain’t going back to Wichita Falls till we get this mess cleared up,” Noble said.

  “I’ll question him,” Coyne said. “What should I ask?”

  “He speaks almost no English,” Daniel said.

  “I’ll find an interpreter. What else? I’ll keep looking for Uvalde Ted Smith, too, but it’s not likely we’ll find him. Apparently you scared him out of the country, Daniel.”

  Gunter and Noble laughed.

  “We need to move fast,” Noble said. “Before our killer strikes again and murders another whiskey runner. He’s already killed four men.”

  Suddenly Daniel closed his notebook. “No,” he said softly. “He hasn’t.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What do you mean?” Gunter asked.

  To Daniel, it was clear. Well, clearer. He took a drink from his canteen.

  “Blake Browne and that other fellow,” Daniel began. He couldn’t remember the name of the second dead Pale Eyes whiskey runner, not without looking at his notes. “They were killed, scalped, their thighs slashed.”

  “Yeah,” Gunter said.

  “But those two Creeks you found . . . ,” Daniel began, looking at the Cherokee, who, grinning, tipped back his tall hat.

  “Strung up,” Gunter said. “Shot full of arrows. Whipped. Left to rot.”

  “I don’t get it,” Coyne said.

  Harvey Noble spit again. “I do. That’s smart detecting, Daniel. Should have seen it myself. We got two killers out there. One killed them Creeks, strung them up, left ’em as a warning, but didn’t do nothing to their legs. The other killer bushwhacked and cut up Browne and Benson, and slashed their thighs. Nothing similar about them two deals,” Noble went on, shifting the tobacco to his other cheek. “Yep, it’s two different people. Might have two different reasons.”

  “But there is one thing similar,” Gunter said. “The gent who sent those Creeks to hell, he left behind a Comanche whip. Ain’t that right, Daniel? And the one who killed those two ol’ white boys. One was filled with arrows with hawk feathers. The other had an Old Glory pencil tablet soaking up his blood. Whoever is killing them runners, Daniel, they surely don’t like you. They seem to want you to hang.”

  * * * * *

  Every time he saw a turkey buzzard, his stomach practically turned over, fearing he’d find another dead whiskey runner, but the next few days proved relatively quiet after he returned to the agency.

  On this afternoon, Twice Bent Nose had tracked Daniel down at the teepee of Nácutsi, where he was searching for some clue, something that would shackle him to those whiskey runners. He knew Nácutsi was scouting for a 7th Cavalry patrol. Daniel had hoped he’d find something here, but, no, Nácutsi was too smart for that.

  “What is it?” Daniel asked Twice Bent Nose.

  “Agent Elbow,” the old warrior said. “Say come.”

  With a sigh, Daniel kicked over a rack of drying meat, mounted the buckskin, and rode for the agency.

  * * * * *

  Arms tucked behind his back, Leviticus Ellenbogen paced in front of the agency headquarters, hair matted on his sweaty forehead, brooding, not even noticing that Daniel and Twice Bent Nose had arrived. Sensing the agent�
��s temperament, Twice Bent Nose stayed just long enough to water his horse. By the time Daniel had unsaddled the buckskin, Twice Bent Nose was trotting toward the trees lining Cache Creek’s banks.

  “You wanted to see me?” Daniel said, and Agent Ellenbogen stopped, looked up, tried to find the right words. He found nothing, so pulled his hands from behind his back. One held a rolled-up newspaper, which he shoved in front of Daniel.

  “This came,” Ellenbogen said at last. “For you. Read it.”

  Carefully Daniel unrolled the paper.

  “Read it!” Ellenbogen bellowed.

  He pushed back his hat, walked to a lean-to, the angry agent just a few steps behind him, sat down, and studied The National Temperance Leader, trying to find the article the agent wanted him to read. That was easy enough. The headline screamed a war cry next to the advertising rates, a column titled “National Reports of Demon Rum,” a poem, some quotes from Shakespeare, and a list of Dallas County places to worship.

  WHISKEY KILLS!

  Sorrowful account

  of a Comanche warrior.

  His sad story.

  A daughter dead.

  A race dying.

  Killed by Liquor Most Foul.

  One Indian’s Fight

  To Rid His Land

  OF DEMON RUM!

  Daniel Killstraight,

  a true soldier of the Lord,

  a great peace officer.

  Our New Voice For Temperance!

  Whiskey runners found dead.

  GOD’S JUSTICE

  --

  COMANCHE

  JUSTICE

  A Most Moving Testament.

  “Shit,” Daniel said where he sat underneath the lean-to. Slowly he raised his eyes, found Agent Ellenbogen looming above him.

  “Read the whole thing, Sergeant Killstraight. It continues on Page Three. The publisher’s editorial is on the second page. You might want to read that one, too, but first, the story about you and Teepee That Stands Alone.”

  Daniel felt his stomach turning over again, and there were no buzzards in sight.

  * * * * *

  He is not the typical guest you’ll find at The Hotel Texas in Fort Worth. Slowly, uncertainly this impressive, silent, red-skinned man—more than six feet in height, by my estimate—settles into a rattan rocker in a room that looks as if it has not been occupied for days, even though this is where the Comanche medicine man who is called Teepee That Stands Alone has been staying while negotiating with Texas cattle barons about grazing rights on their reservation in the Indian Territory.

  He has removed a magnificent war bonnet of dozens of eagle feathers, revealing his shiny, silver hair that has been trimmed short for an Indian man. The braids should be long, but instead are ragged, roughly cut, although slowly growing back in uneven strands. He smells of grease, of wood smoke, and wears only the traditional clothing of the Comanche. Yes, dear reader, he is an Indian. Noble red man to some. Brutal savage to others. He is dressed in britches of some animal skin and a fine leather shirt painted black and white. His moccasins are unadorned. A breastplate, white bones and dark leather, complements his attire.

  I am told by an interpreter that he is of the Kwahadi, the last band of the wild, free-roving, hard-fighting Indians that only surrendered to the white supremacy a short decade ago. Ten, twelve, or thirteen years is not a long time, but in that short period the Comanches have been victimized and brutalized.

  Yes, I hear those bellicose protests of the hardy frontiersmen and women who settled in Indian Country across Texas, across Kansas, through Colorado, and the eastern ranges of New Mexico Territory. They can remember when they were victimized and brutalized by these Comanche savages. But the Comanches are at peace with the white men now. Comanches no longer commit depredations. No, they are now victims of evil depredations—perpetrated by white men.

  These peaceful Indians are being victimized by the white race’s intoxicating, soul-destroying liquors. John Barleycorn. Demon rum. Whiskey, foul, terrible, ardent and ILLEGAL! spirits.

  Teepee That Stands Alone knows this too well, and, thanks to our mutual friend, a young Comanche policeman named Daniel Killstraight, this grand medicine man—a healer, a leader, an advisor—is willing to share his hardships and terrible, heartbreaking story with our national audience.

  Toward the close of last winter, Teepee That Stands Alone laughed as all proud grandfathers laugh. Joy and pride filled his heart, and he sang the songs of his people, told the stories grandfathers tell, enjoyed the company of his granddaughter. Her name was Sehebi among the Comanches. It is translated, Sergeant Killstraight tells me, as Willow. A beautiful name. A beautiful girl.

  She was four years old. She had all her life in front of her. Yet this innocent life was taken, taken savagely, without mercy, for whiskey has no mercy.

  Her father, the son of Teepee That Stands Alone, returned to his lodge, drunk on whiskey that he had bought from some mysterious drummer with no soul, no mercy, no innocence, just savageness. Intoxicated, her father passed out, and fell on top of his young, sleeping daughter. Brace yourself, dear reader. Hold on to your loved one’s arm for support. Close your eyes. Blink away tears, but, please, you must read on. You must read past this. You must fight the pain that Teepee That Stands Alone has fought.

  Poor Willow’s life was snuffed out. She suffocated underneath the weight of her drunken father, an Indian recently convicted of manslaughter, who, rather than face a lengthy prison sentence in Huntsville, only yesterday was found hanging by the neck in a dungeon at Wichita Falls.

  * * * * *

  Daniel stopped, stunned. “Toyarocho,” he said. “Is he dead?”

  “Took the coward’s way,” Agent Ellenbogen said. “I’m not crying over his soul. I’m waiting, Sergeant Killstraight. Read it. All of it.”

  He shook his head. Vaughan Coyne said he’d try to question him, find out where Toyarocho had gotten the liquor. Vaughan Coyne. Daniel mouthed the name. He said it aloud, testing it, wondering.

  “Read it, Sergeant. Now!”

  He picked up the paper, picturing Toyarocho hanging by the neck, wondering what he had used for a rope. He remembered watching his childhood friend, Jimmy Comes Last, hang at Fort Smith for two murders he had committed in the Nations, remembered thinking: How does one travel to The Land Beyond The Sun with a neck so crooked?

  “I’m waiting,” the agent said.

  Daniel found his place, and read on.

  * * * * *

  So be it.

  Yet the father of sweet Willow is not alone to blame for her terrible, terrible death.

  Sergeant Daniel Killstraight knows this. They are opposites, Killstraight and Teepee That Stands Alone. The sergeant is young, more boy than man, dressed partly in the manner of our white race, dressed partly as a Comanche brave. He speaks English, but speaks Comanche, too, despite our race’s best efforts to remove his given language from his mouth. He is unassuming, handsome in an Indian sort of way, with a barrel chest and long hair, shorter and more rotund than the Comanche medicine man. Teepee That Stands Alone is an old man. He is entirely Indian, utterly impressive, a man that commands respect no matter the race. He refuses to wear or touch anything that the white race has created. If he does such a thing, I am told, his power will turn into dust and blow away.

  “It does not matter,” Teepee That Stands Alone says. “I am dead already. My heart is dead. I will soon travel to The Land Beyond The Sun.”

  Others in Indian Territory, on the Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache Reservation, have also gone to The Land Beyond The Sun. One is an old Comanche man, a leader named Seven Beavers who was killed by drinking poisoned whiskey. He died a horrible death, coughing up blood. The whiskey was so wretched, it also murdered a kitten that had lapped up the liquid death that claimed its master.

  Whiskey has no mercy. It kills a four-year-old Comanche girl. It kills an ancient warrior and chief more than seventy years old. Killed by a bottle made by a brewery and bottling fac
tory on the banks of the Trinity River in Dallas. Coursey & Cox Bottling Works, once known for its foul ginger beer, is no more. The business went bankrupt, the building burned to the ground, but the bottles still transport death. Instead of ginger beer, these bottles now contain whiskey—and some of that whiskey is poison.

  Of course, all whiskey is poison. But some is more lethal than others. Whiskey kills, but now the Comanches are striking back.

  A notorious whiskey runner named Blake Browne was found murdered on the reservation. The evidence points to some unknown Comanche as his killer. Two foul, evil peddlers from the Creek Nation were also killed after trying to sell their illegal concoction to the Comanches. And yet another, it has been recently reported, was found dead, his cargo of illegal, deadly liquor burned beside his body. Killed, they were—murder, some might claim—as a warning to all those who attempt to transport death to these poor people.

  This avenger remains at large. Some might think the killer is Teepee That Stands Alone, for he certainly has a reason, a reason that any white jury would find it impossible to convict. Some have blamed Sergeant Daniel Killstraight. Yet he is a protector of his people, and, if this is his handiwork, many would call it just.

  The crimes—if you call these crimes—remain under investigation, but the real crime is what the white man’s whiskey is doing to these Indians. They have no stamina against our liquor. They have no buffalo, and little pride. They are wards of our federal government, yet our wise leaders in Washington ignore their pleas, ignore our pleas.

  Sergeant Killstraight believes that the man responsible for this latest assault on these now peaceful Indians is a whiskey runner known only as Dakota. He has vowed to find this man, and bring him to justice. And what help has he gotten from our civilized laws?

  In Dallas, this noble, lionhearted, and UNARMED! peace officer was beaten ruthlessly by a gang of white thugs. One of these men is a notorious, cowardly member of the Texas Rangers, a blight on that grand organization’s record, a hardened, callous man named Carl Quantrell who rides for Company D, a frequenter of saloons. Quantrell remains at large, as does this phantom called Dakota, unless they are one and the same.