War on the Cimarron

by Short, Luke;

  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 Cheyen
nes 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.

  “They got him in a stone guardhouse with five sentries around it. Tonight at midnight they’re sneakin’ him out of the garrison and makin’ a dash to Kansas with him.”

  “Kansas?” Luvie asked. “Why?”

  “For trial, I reckon, and to keep him away from the Indians,” Otey said. “They’ll slap a dozen more charges on him now.”

  Luvie turned back to the stove, but not before Red saw that her face was pale and her lips were trembling. She had changed into a light summer dress now and outwardly seemed the most cool and unworried of anyone in the room. Red knew she wasn’t, though.

  Barnes suddenly shoved his plate away from him in disgust. “When I think,” he said bitterly, “that if it wasn’t for me wantin’ to save that herd Frank would be free now, I feel like cuttin’ my throat.”

  Red, gloomily smoking on the other side of the round kitchen table, said nothing. Otey looked bleakly at him, and for once there was no rancor in his glance. Frank’s capture had succeeded in bringing them a tolerance of each other that no good fortune could have affected.

  Luvie, at the stove, suddenly wheeled and said in a low, bitter voice, “Why don’t we do something, then? We sit around here and do nothing!”

  “Do what?” her father asked gloomily.

  “I don’t know!” Luvie cried. “But look at us! Dad, if it hadn’t been for Frank, you’d have lost a herd! Red, if it wasn’t for Frank, you’d still be a saddle bum. Otey, if Frank hadn’t hit you over the head and got you out of the house during the fight, you’d be dead. And so would I.” Her eyes were flashing. “And still we can’t do anything now he’s in trouble.”

  “But you can’t take a man away from the army!” Barnes exclaimed.

  “Why can’t you?” Luvie cried.

  Nobody spoke for a second, and then Red’s eyes came alight for a moment, then died.

  Barnes said patiently, “Talk sense, girl. You just can’t.”

  But Luvie had seen Red’s eyes. Presently Red got up and walked out to the back porch. He sat on the top step, looking off toward the town.

  Luvie came out and sat beside him, not speaking immediately. Then she said, “Red.”

  Red looked at her.

  “I saw your face when I said that.”

  “Said what?”

  “Don’t try to hide it, Red. It gave you an idea, didn’t it?”

  Red nodded slowly. “A loco one.”

  “Tell me,” Luvie said. When Red didn’t speak Luvie put a hand on his arm. “Oh, Red, let me help. Can’t you see I’ve got to!”

  “I reckon I can,” Red said. “You wait here.”

  Red went back into the kitchen, and Luvie heard him speaking to Otey. Otey came out presently, mounted and rode off in the direction of town.

  Red came out and said to Luvie, “Come along.”

  They got their horses and rode in to Darlington and through the town until they came to the shaded street where Edith Fairing lived. As they approached Edith’s house they saw her out in the small corral saddling her horse.

  When she saw them she dropped the bridle and called to Red, “Is it true they’ve caught Frank?”

  Red nodded. Edith looked at him a long moment, then said hello to Luvie. Red folded his arms and leaned on the saddle horn. “You ridin’ out?”

  “I was saddling up to ride over to the Barnes’s to ask if it was true about Frank,” Edith answered, and then she added, “Is there anything I can do, Red?”

  Red didn’t answer directly. He asked, “You figure there’s anything to this talk about an Indian uprising?”

  “I don’t know, Red. Why?”

  Red looked at her gravely. She was wearing a blue divided skirt and red blouse, and Red noticed for the first time that they were Indian colors, worn the way an Indian would wear them. It encouraged him to go on.

  “You reckon anything would happen to a white who rode out to the Cheyenne camp?”

  Edith frowned and looked at Luvie, who shrugged almost imperceptibly.

  “It would depend on who it was,” Edith said.

  “You, for instance.”

  Edith laughed. It was the first time Red had heard her laugh, and he liked it. “Anything happen to me? Red, I was raised with a good many of those Cheyenne and Arapaho bucks. I used to play in their lodges, and when I got tired I would go in and talk to the old warriors about the days when they were moved into the Nations. They were friends with my father, Red. Nothing would happen to me. Why?”

  Red’s hunch was borne out. Again he didn’t answer Edith directly. “Is Stone Bull a good chief, Edith?”

  “The best.”

  Red lapsed into silence, and Edith made an impatient gesture with her hand. “For heaven’s sake, Red! What is it?”

  “Do you reckon Stone Bull would come with you to the Barnes place tonight if you rode out and asked him?”

  “I’m sure he would if I could tell him what it’s all about.”

  “It’s about Frank,” Red said. He grinned suddenly. “I’d go to the chief, only I reckon they’d lift my hair out there.”

  “It won’t make more trouble, will it, Red?” Edith asked.

  “We’ll see what Stone Bull says,” Red answered. He slipped to the ground, took the bridle from the corral pole and finished saddling Edith’s horse while she and Luvie talked.

  When Luvie and Red left Edith on the way back to the Barnes place Red was silent. Luvie tried to pry out of Red what it was all about, but Red only shook his head. “Tonight, when Stone Bull comes, you have a two-gallon bucket of tea ready and just listen,” Red said. He left her at the house and disappeared toward Darlington.

  Both Otey and Red were late for supper, and Barnes was not there at all, for the army was receiving his herd that afternoon and evening and he was busy with the quartermaster. There was an air of suppressed excitement about Red that made Luvie so curious she wanted to shake it out of him, but all she could do was wait.

  A little while after dark, when Red and Otey were sitting impatiently around the kitchen table, a knock came on the back door, and Luvie went to answer it. She held the door wide open, and an Indian stepped into the room, Edith following him.

  He was an old man, heavy but not fat, and at first glance his face seemed fierce and stern. But there was a quiet unsmiling dignity about him that transcended his dirty collar-less shirt and wrinkled pants. Edith introduced him, and he gravely shook hands with Otey and Red. Luvie, Indian fashion, was ignored.

  The three men and Edith sat at the table, and the talk began. Red knew Indian ways well enough to know that half the evening must pass before it would be polite to bring up the main subject of conversation, and he was resigned to it. For more than an hour, while Luvie filled and refilled their cups with tea, Red and Otey and Stone Bull talked and Edith translated. She spoke Cheyenne well, and several times Stone Bull watched her translate and his stern lips almost smiled.

  It was easy for Red to see that the old chief, whose black braids were just beginning to streak with gray, was fond of her. They talked slowly, Red pacing the conversation to the pitch of Indian talk, of cattle and hunting and horses and finally of whisky, which Stone Bull said was going to kill hi
s people.

  It was the time and the place then for Red to bring up his business. Red said to Edith, “Tell him it is not the fault of his people, but of ours. The fault of one man.”

  Stone Bull nodded gravely at that, and Red went on to enumerate the sins of Corb. Among them was his persecution of Frank, the friend of Morg Wheelon, who had been Stone Bull’s friend. Today Corb had betrayed the Indian people and the whites by setting bad Indians on the trail herd. And now it seemed as if all the Indians and all the whites would fight. Stone Bull said the old ones wouldn’t but the young ones wanted to. They were dancing tonight. Perhaps in two or three days, when their blood was hot with the throb of the drums, they would fight. Perhaps not.

  “Ask him if he wants that,” Red said.

  Stone Bull said he didn’t.

  “Ask him if he wants to stop it.” Stone Bull said he did.

  Red leaned forward excitedly and looked at Stone Bull while he talked to Edith, “Tell him careful, Edith.” And he began to really talk.

  At midnight Frank was wakened by the rattle of a heavy key in the lock of his cell. Then the door opened and he was blinded by the light of a lantern.

  “Roll out, Christian,” a quiet voice said. “We’re ridin’.”

  “Where?”

  “Kansas.”

  Frank bent down to get his boots and swung his feet to the floor. So they were taking him to Kansas. He wondered what additional crimes he was charged with, for this afternoon he had heard his guards gossiping about tie coming Indian trouble. Whatever it was, he could not expect leniency from the government, who had first put a reward for him as an escaped whisky peddler, later as a murderer, and now could add the crimes of violence against an officer, horse stealing and inciting the Indians to rebellion, not to mention complicity in the death of seven government wards, the Cheyennes. It was a nice list, he thought grimly.