Operative A may decline this assignment. Otherwise she is to represent herself to the owner, Madam Henrietta LaBoeuf, as a lady of good breeding in need of lots of money and considering brief employment as an inmate. She is not, repeat not, to degrade herself or enter into an inmate's life. Just negotiate, seeking to learn how much money can be made fast.
Operative C will be given papers representing that he is a civilian geologist attached to the commission. If he should purchase the services of an inmate, it must be at his own expense. The army will not reimburse him from public funds.
Operative B will function as guide and assistant to Operative C in his geological expeditions. The actual goal of both operatives in this endeavor will be to discover whatever can be learned about possible corruption among commission members and/or the local citizenry. The same injunction against using public funds to purchase the services of an inmate applies as well to Operative B.
Operative D will proceed to Denver and maintain himself as inexpensively as possible while awaiting orders from Operative C. Needless to say, the same prohibitions also apply to his expenses as well.
There it was, cut and dried. Celia looked up from the dispatch as Landrum said, "Well? Do you still want to go through with it? Amos specifically said the choice was up to you."
"I said I'd do it, didn't I?" Celia replied somewhat sharply. "After all, it's not like I really have to . . . to work in that place."
His tone gentle, Glidinghawk said, Landrum and I already have an entrance into the commission, Celia. We can work the case strictly from that angle, if you'd prefer."
"No!" She was angry now. "Don't worry, I can stand to go into a high-class Denver whorehouse. After all, we were all involved in a lot worse places back in Fort Griffin."
Her words were blunt but true. This Henrietta's was probably not nearly as bad as some of the frontier dives they had seen in Texas.
Fox spoke up. "At least the three of you get to do something," he grumbled. "I'm stuck sitting in some run-down boardinghouse with barely enough money to live on. If you ask me, Colonel Powell is asking too much of us. And for God's sake, why didn't he set up a cover identity for me?"
"You're our secret weapon, Preston," Glidinghawk said. His face was serious, but there was a wry tone in his voice.
Evidently Fox didn't appreciate the humor. He continued to complain about the situation until Landrum interrupted by saying, "I'm sure there'll be something for you to do before long, Preston. Until then, just keep quiet, all right?"
Fox grimaced, but he fell silent.
Landrum turned to Celia. "When are you going to Henrietta's?"
"I thought I'd pay a visit to the place tomorrow," she replied.
"Make it tomorrow night," Landrum told her. "Gerald and I have to report to the commission tomorrow, but we should be free by nightfall. I'll make a point of being in Henrietta's myself tomorrow night."
"So you can watch out for me like a mother hen?"
The Texan grinned. "Reckon that's my job, mother hen to the strangest brood of little chicks I ever did see."
Celia had to smile back at him, her earlier resentment slipping away from her. They were a bunch of misfits, she supposed. A college-educated Indian, a former Confederate and Texas Ranger, an impulsive, fresh-faced lieutenant — and a young woman who had been told many times that she was too independent for her own good.
Together, though, they had learned to get results. Surely this time would not be any different.
"Is there any place around here where a young lady could get something to eat?" she asked, just a trace of sarcasm in her voice as she looked at Landrum.
"There's a restaurant in the next block," he told her. "I thought Gerald and I would stroll down there for a bite. Why don't you go first, and we'll come along a couple of minutes later. That way it won't look like we're together."
Celia nodded. "That sounds fine to me."
"And I suppose I'll have to go back to that infernal boardinghouse and subsist on the meager fare they offer," Fox said.
"I think that's what Amos would want," Landrum told him solemnly.
Celia swallowed a laugh. She had had to live on boardinghouse food for several days during their last assignment, and she didn't envy Fox. She was sure he would survive, though.
She asked, "Is there anything else we need to cover?"
Landrum shook his head. "I think that's it for the time being. There's nothing we can decide until we've gotten more familiar with the commission and you've made your trip to Henrietta's. I've got a hunch it won't be long until things are really popping around here, though."
Celia hoped he was right. There were few things worse, in her mind, than being bored.
Well, if things got too uninteresting, she could always look up Major Devlin Henry again. That prospect made her smile.
Before this mission was over, she hoped to know the handsome major a great deal better.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Colorado House was an imposing granite structure which almost looked more like a capitol than the capitol building did. There was a large, flagstone-paved patio in front of the hotel. The open area was surrounded by shrubbery and dotted with ornate iron poles atop which rested kerosene lamps. Several flower beds broke up the patio into smaller sections, and there were wrought iron tables and chairs here and there. In the spring and summer, it would undoubtedly be a lovely place, the kind of spot where lovers would stroll underneath the moonlight.
Now, when the sunshine was weak, the flowers were gone, and the air had a definite chill, most of the charm had deserted it.
Still, the hotel itself, rising three stories, exuded an air of solidity. It looked like the kind of place where a government commission would make its headquarters.
Landrum Davis tugged at the tie around his neck. The damned thing was threatening to cut off his air and choke him to death. He didn't know what was worse, the tie or the scratchy suit he was wearing.
Glancing at the Omaha Indian walking slightly behind him, Landrum growled a curse. Glidinghawk was one lucky son of a bitch. He got to wear his usual buckskins. He was only supposed to be a guide and assistant; he didn't have to look respectable.
Although Glidinghawk said nothing, he was well aware of Landrum's discomfiture, and while his face was typically expressionless, there was a sparkle of laughter in his dark eyes.
"What's so damned funny, redskin?" Landrum asked grouchily. "You look almost as happy as if you were scalping some poor helpless settler."
"I might point out," Glidinghawk replied, the educated tones of Dartmouth evident in his low-pitched voice, "that scalping as a custom originated with the white man. French fur trappers, to be precise. The Indians have always gotten an inordinate amount of blame for starting a practice that is barbaric at best."
"Oh, shut up," Landrum said.
"Injun be heap quiet, boss."
Landrum gritted his teeth and led the way across the patio, up a couple of steps, and through the massive double doors of the hotel's entrance.
Just inside the lobby, a burly man in a long red coat and a cap raised a hand to stop them. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Landrum. "I'm afraid the hotel doesn't allow Indians on the premises."
Landrum glanced coldly at him. "You some kind of doorman?"
"I suppose you could call me that, sir. If you'd care to have your servant wait outside . . . I assume he is your servant — "
"No, he's my long-lost daddy," Landrum snapped. As an angry expression began to form on the doorman's face, Landrum sighed and raised a hand. "I'm sorry, mister. I had no call to jump on you. My name's Landrum Davis, and I'm here to report to the U.S. Army commission as a civilian geologist. This Indian is my assistant, and I really need him to stay with me."
The commission obviously carried a lot of weight around here. The doorman's officious attitude immediately vanished. He said, "In that case, sir, you just go right on up. The commission has the entire third floor booked. They're using the suite
at the head of the stairs as their office." The doorman lowered his voice slightly as he went on, "There'll be sentries up there, and they may not be as tolerant of the Indian as I am."
"I'll set them straight," Landrum assured the man. As he and Glidinghawk started across the lobby, they exchanged a mutual look of disgust.
Landrum could understand a white man's prejudice against Indians. He had felt it himself at times — before meeting Gerald Glidinghawk. Since that time he and the Omaha had become fast friends. Landrum had learned a great deal about Indians, and he realized now that the redskin problem was not one with clear-cut answers.
He also knew about the military, had in fact learned a lot about how it operated since going to work for Amos Powell. And sometimes it was a wonder that the army ever got anything accomplished.
He guessed the real reason he was so touchy this morning was all this pretending to be something he wasn't. That was all part of being an undercover agent, but sometimes it was harder than others.
Like when the role he was playing required him to wear a damned tie!
"I've been meaning to ask you," Glidinghawk said as they started up the broad staircase, "how much do you know about geology anyway?" The Omaha spoke in a low voice that could not have been overheard more than a couple of feet away.
"Not a whole hell of a lot," Landrum replied. "I know a few different kinds of rocks when I see 'em, but that's about it."
Glidinghawk nodded. "It's a good thing I took several courses in the subject back at the university. Perhaps we can fake our way through that part of the assignment."
"Yeah. Lucky."
As the doorman had said, there were sentries posted at the top of the stairs where the third-floor landing opened up. The two young privates stiffened to alertness as Landrum and Glidinghawk approached. One of them said to Landrum, "That's far enough, sir. Please state your business."
"This isn't a fort, son," Landrum told him.
"No, sir, but as long as the commission is staying here, it is a military installation. Now, if you please, tell us why you're here."
Landrum saw the way they tightly gripped the carbines in their hands. There was something bizarre — something wrong — about this whole situation. The tension in the atmosphere was enough to tell him that the commission had had plenty of trouble since arriving in Denver.
Moving slowly so as not to spook the guards, Landrum reached inside his coat and brought out the envelope containing his identification papers and the dummied-up orders that had brought him here.
"My name is Landrum Davis," he said. "I'm a geologist, and I've been hired to work with the commission." He made a show of glancing at the orders. "I'm supposed to report to a Colonel Matthias Porter."
"Yes, sir," the young sentry replied briskly. "What about the Indian, sir?"
"He's my guide and assistant. I'll take the responsibility for him."
"Very good, sir. Could I see those orders?"
Landrum handed over the phony documents. Of course, they were phony only in that they misrepresented him and his mission. They had been prepared by Amos Powell and were authentic in every other way.
"Very good, sir," the sentry repeated, handing back the papers. "If you'll follow me . . ."
Landrum and Glidinghawk fell in behind the private. He led them the few feet to the doors of the suite that the commission was using as its office. A sharp rap on the panel brought a muffled command to come in. The sentry opened one of the doors and stepped back to allow Landrum and Glidinghawk to enter.
Inside the big sitting room of the suite, the normal hotel furnishings had been replaced with desks and tables and straight-backed chairs. There were topographical maps tacked to the walls instead of the scenic chromolithographs that usually decorated such rooms. Several officers were sitting at the desks, paperwork scattered in front of them. At a long table, two men stood poring over an unrolled map. One of them wore the uniform of a full colonel and bore a resemblance to President Grant during his Civil War days; the colonel was taller and brawnier than Grant had ever been, however. The other man was a well-dressed civilian, a silver-haired man with muttonchop whiskers and a full mustache.
The colonel glanced up and, around a big cigar that was also reminiscent of U. S. Grant, grunted, "What can I do for you, mister?" His eyes narrowed as he spotted Glidinghawk behind Landrum.
The Texan extended his hand. Damned if he was going to salute. "I'm Landrum Davis," he said. "I'm supposed to report to Colonel Porter."
"I'm Porter," the officer said, shaking hands briefly. "Let's see your papers."
Landrum passed them across the table to Porter, who scanned them and handed them back. The colonel nodded to the civilian. "This is Mr. Rainsford, the commission's top civilian. You'll be working primarily for him, Davis."
Landrum shook hands with the civilian, who said. "Tom Rainsford, Mr. Davis. You'd be the geologist we've been expecting, am I right?"
"That's right, sir," Landrum replied.
"Who the devil's the Indian?" Colonel Porter asked.
Before Landrum could answer, the Omaha thumped his chest with a closed fist and said gutturally, "Me Glidinghawk. Best damn guide and scout on all of frontier, you betcha."
Landrum bit back a curse and tried not to roll his eyes.
"Keep your mouth shut, redskin," he said. "Your job is to tote my equipment and show me around, not to talk."
Glidinghawk nodded solemnly. Landrum knew damn well the Indian was laughing at him again. One of these days he was going to have boot the Omaha's red ass but good. Who needed an educated Indian with such a perverted sense of humor?
Well, right now he needed Glidinghawk, Landrum thought in answer to his own question.
"Do you know what the purpose of this commission is, Davis," Porter was asking now.
"Well, sir, not really," Landrum replied with a shake of his head. "All I know for sure is that you're interested in getting some geological surveys of certain areas."
Porter nodded. "That's right. And that's all you need to know. Rainsford here is our chief surveyor. I'll turn you over to him." Porter scooped up his hat from the table and settled it on his grizzled head. "I'll be back later, Mr. Rainsford. Why don't you give Davis his orders?"
"Of course, Colonel." As Porter stalked out of the big room, Rainsford turned the map on the table around and moved it closer to Landrum and Glidinghawk. "You see these areas marked in red, Landrum? You don't mind if I call you Landrum, do you?"
"That's fine," Landrum replied. He put a blunt finger on one of the areas marked on the map. "These the places you want me to look over?"
Rainsford nodded. "That's right. We need to know the geological makeup of the areas. We would also like your opinion on how construction would fare in these vicinities."
Landrum looked at him shrewdly. "This wouldn't have anything to do with some new fort the army's thinking of building, would it?"
He had carefully considered the question of whether he should reveal that he knew the purpose of the commission. As many rumors as were floating around Denver, according to Amos Powell, it made sense that he would have at least heard the speculation about a new fort. To plead too much ignorance would be a mistake, Landrum had decided.
Rainsford smiled. "I see you know a bit more than you told the good colonel. It's probably wise that you didn't let on any more than you did with him. He is a bit overly fond of military secrecy." The civilian kept his voice pitched low, so that the other officers in the room wouldn't overhear his words.
Landrum studied the map and the marked areas again. Several of them were close to Denver, while others were as far away as New Mexico and , Wyoming. "I'll start with these nearby," he said, stabbing one of them with a finger, "then work my way out. That way you'll at least have some of my reports quickly."
That decision also meant that he could stay in the Denver area. He wouldn't be doing the investigation any good if he and Glidinghawk were way the hell up and gone in Wyoming.
&n
bsp; "Excellent idea," Rainsford replied. "Can you get started right away?"
"Tomorrow," Landrum replied. "I'll need to pick up some supplies and get outfitted today. But we can set out first thing in the morning."
"Very good." Rainsford came out from behind the table and walked with Landrum and Glidinghawk to the door of the suite. Landrum sensed that the man had something else to say, and when they had reached the hall, Rainsford went on in a quiet voice, "I can't emphasize enough the need for caution, Landrum. Despite what I said earlier about Colonel Porter, there is a legitimate need for secrecy in the commission's activities. That's why you are to report only to the colonel or myself. Don't turn any maps or drawings or reports over to anyone else, understand?"
Landrum nodded. "Of course, Mr. Rainsford."
"What about the Indian? Is he trustworthy?"
Landrum glanced at Glidinghawk's impassive face. In a whisper, he replied, "He's not really bright enough to be a danger to anyone, sir."
Rainsford nodded. "Very good. We're relying on you, Landrum. Don't let us down."
"I won't," the Texan promised.
He shook hands with Rainsford again, then went past the sentries and started down the stairs, Glidinghawk at his heels. When they were out of earshot of the young troopers, the Omaha said, "I suppose I deserved that little comment."
"Damn right you did," Landrum growled. "You've been riding me all morning, you blamed heathen." He tugged at the uncomfortable collar and tie again. "I'll be glad when we can get out of town and dress like normal folks again."
"What's normal?"
"Don't get all philosophic on me, dammit. It sure as hell ain't this."
When they had left the hotel, Glidinghawk asked, "Do you want me to see about getting horses and supplies?"
"I guess so," Landrum answered. "We're going to have to at least look like we're doing our job with the commission. I want to keep these little expeditions as short as possible, though. Celia's liable to need us in town."
Rocky Mountain Showdown Page 3
