RED RIVER DESPERADOES
JAMES REASONER
Original edition copyright ® November 1988 by Terence Duncan
Ebook edition copyright © May 2012 by James Reasoner
First printing: November 1988 POWELLS ARMY #6: RED RIVER DESPERADOES, ZEBRA BOOKS
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
CHAPTER ONE
Home, Gerald Glidinghawk thought as he gazed at the scattering of teepees around the perimeter of Fort Supply, Indian Territory.
What a goddamned bitter word.
Not his home, of course, but the reservation where he had spent much of his life was similar enough. The resemblance was enough to rouse feelings in him that he tried to keep suppressed most of the time.
The tall, well-knit Omaha Indian strode toward the sutler's store, trying to put the bad memories out of his head. It had been a long time since he had seen his wife and child —too long to be mourning their loss now. They were not dead —not as far as he knew, anyway —but they were as lost to him as if they had been.
Time to put that behind him and concentrate on the job at hand.
"Who the hell's that?" Glidinghawk heard an unshaven corporal asking another soldier as the Omaha walked by them. "Ain't seen him around the fort before."
"Don't know," the corporal's companion replied. "Shoot, the way them redskins come an' go, ain't no way to keep up with them, Kelvin."
The corporal nodded. "Reckon you're right. All the blasted heathens could go somewhere else, as far as I'm concerned. Then maybe white men could make something out of this here Injun Territory."
Glidinghawk stepped up onto the store's porch, unable to shut out the harsh words but attempting to pay as little attention to them as possible. The two soldiers weren't expressing any opinions he hadn't heard plenty of times before.
When he had lived among the white men, there had often been such conversations carried on behind his back. Sometimes the slurs were whispered. Most of the time they were spoken plainly, the speakers caring little that he overhead the insults.
The same thing had been true during his time on the reservation. There he was equally despised for having been raised by a white family. The difference was that on the reservation he had sometimes been forced to fight because of his background. The foolish ones who had pushed him into violence had always regretted it later.
Those days were behind him now. He knew he would not find a home in either world, white or red. The best he could hope for was a family of sorts.
He had found that in Powell's Army, the top-secret undercover unit of civilian investigators who worked for Colonel Amos Powell of the adjutant general's office.
Glidinghawk stepped into the store, inhaling the distinctive mixture of smells that marked such places. Tobacco and coffee and leather and liniment blended together in an aroma that was unmistakable to anyone who had spent much time on the frontier. The place was busy, with several soldiers and a few civilians lined up at the long counter in the rear of the store.
Taking his place at the rear of the line, Glidinghawk waited patiently. He had a few coins in the pocket of his buckskin shirt —damned few, in fact —but enough to buy a pouchful of tobacco for his pipe. As he waited, he became aware that the man in front of him was casting unhappy glances over his shoulder.
The man, a civilian in a brown suit and cream-colored Stetson, frowned narrow-eyed at Glidinghawk for a moment, then looked forward again with a shake of his head. The Omaha heard him mutter, "Disgraceful! These creatures shouldn't be allowed to shop in the same store with white men."
Glidinghawk's mouth tightened, but he made no other response. The young man who was so offended by his presence was slender and well groomed, wearing a neat mustache. There was an air of softness about him suggesting that he had not been in the West for long.
Even though it might be difficult, Glidinghawk was going to ignore him for as long as he possibly could.
The line finally reached the counter, the clerk saying, "Next!" as the young man in the brown suit stepped up.
"I need some tobacco," the young man snapped.
The clerk nodded. "Good thing you got here when you did then, mister. We're just about out. I got one pouch left, but that's all."
The young man frowned and said, "One pouch? That's all? When will you have more?"
"Oh, there should be some coming in with our next shipment of supplies," the clerk answered with a shrug. "That'll be day after tomorrow. Reckon you can make this last that long?" He reached under the counter and lifted a pouch of tobacco into view.
"I guess I'll have to," the young man grumbled.
Glidinghawk had been listening to the conversation with interest. Now he leaned slightly to one side and spoke around the man in front of him. "I wanted some tobacco, too," he said. "Why don't you split what's in the pouch and sell it to both of us?"
Before the clerk could respond, the young man jerked his head around and said, "No! I'll not share anything with the likes of you." He slapped some coins down on the counter. "There! The transaction is completed. Now out of my way, Indian."
Glidinghawk stayed where he was, slightly crowding the man against the counter. "That was rather rude of you, my friend," he grated, his university education easy to hear in his voice, even through his annoyance.
"I don't give a damn. I told you to move."
Glidinghawk locked eyes with the young man. There was a matching stubbornness in their features as they glared at each other. The musty air in the store suddenly took on a feeling of impending violence.
"Look here," the clerk said hastily, bending forward over the counter. "This fella has already paid me for the tobacco, Injun. Ain't nothing either one of us can do about it. Why don't you just mosey on? Nobody wants trouble."
Glidinghawk ignored the clerk. To the young man, he said, "You could sell me some of the tobacco in that pouch yourself. I'll pay you more than it's worth."
The man smiled nastily. "I never saw an Indian with enough money to buy anything. All any of you want is handouts from the government. You'll not get any such from me."
Glidinghawk tensed, his throat tight and hot, the urge to smash the young man's smirking face strong within him. But a hard grip on his arm from behind made him change his mind.
"Forget it, redskin," a voice growled. "You're lookin' at a lot more trouble than you know."
Glidinghawk glanced behind him and saw a burly noncom holding him. There were sergeant's stripes on the sleeves of the blue tunic that was stretched tight across brawny shoulders.
"I don't like being talked to the way this man is doing," Glidinghawk said, realizing the futility of his words even as he spoke them. This sergeant wasn't going to take his side in the dispute, and he knew it.
"Don't matter," the soldier said. "This is the new Indian agent, mister. I reckon he can talk to you any way he likes."
Glidinghawk's eyes narrowed to slits. He turned his head for a moment and regarded the self-satisfied smile on the young man's face.
The sergeant went on, "I'm just tryin' to keep you out of trouble, redskin. Take my advice and get out of here."
Glidinghawk took a deep breath. "I suppose you're right." With a shake of his head, he started toward the door of the store. Behind him, Fort Supply's new Indian agent tossed the pouch of tobacco up in the air and then caught it lightly. Glidinghawk could feel the man's arrogant gaze following him.
He stepped out onto the porch, inhaled deeply again.
There would be a chance later to settle the score with the brash young civilian.
The clatter of stage
coach wheels drew Glidinghawk's attention. He looked again at the sprawling Indian settlement outside the fort. The road cut through it, and along the dusty ruts rolled one of the durable Concord coaches. Even though this was Indian Territory and supposedly unsettled by white men, that was a charade for the most part. Between the soldiers and the army's civilian employees and the ranchers who leased land from the Indians, there were plenty of whites in the Territory. Several stage lines crisscrossed its terrain. This road came into Fort Supply from the north and then continued on south, toward the Red River and Texas.
The stage raised a considerable cloud of dust as it came to a stop in front of the store, which doubled as a stage station. Glidinghawk blinked and moved to the other end of the porch, away from the worst of the eye-stinging stuff. As the breeze shredded the cloud and blew it away, the driver turned around on the box and called to his passengers, "Fort Supply, folks. We'll only be here long enough to change hosses, so don't wander off."
Glidinghawk leaned on the railing at the end of the porch and watched as half a dozen passengers alighted from the coach to stretch their legs. Four of them were obviously drummers of some kind, florid, fleshy-faced men in loud suits. The other two passengers were the ones who drew Glidinghawk's attention.
There was something about the tall, lean man who hopped lithely from the stage that said he was a Texan. From his boots to his dark, flat-crowned hat, he bore the look of a man who was at home on the frontier.
Maybe it was the casualness of the way he wore the big .44 belted around his hips. The pistol's walnut grips were worn smooth with use.
The Texan turned and lifted a hand to assist the final passenger off the stage. As a woman's arm emerged from the shadows of the coach, her fingers taking the Texan's hand, interest quickened in the soldiers who were idly watching. Except for squaws, the sight of women was an unusual one around these parts.
And there was a good chance that Fort Supply had never seen a woman as lovely as the one who stepped off the stage now.
She had thick, lustrous red hair underneath the neat turquoise hat perched on her head. Her stylish traveling outfit was the same shade, and the frilly white blouse she wore under the jacket was cut daringly low, revealing the swell of high, full breasts. As she took the arm of the Texan, he made some low-voiced comment to her that provoked a peal of merry laughter.
The woman glanced around as she and the tall man started up the steps onto the store's porch. She was obviously well aware of the admiring stares she was receiving—and she was not disturbed by them either. As a lady of dubious reputation —which she plainly was —only a few rungs above the station of a soiled dove, she had to be used to the lustful stares of men.
Glidinghawk looked at her, too, letting his eyes rove over the rich curves of her body. As the couple went across the porch, the young Indian agent stepped out the door and moved aside to let them enter. The young man nodded to the lady and touched the brim of his hat.
Then, as he glanced up, he saw the Omaha Indian standing at the end of the porch, watching the redhead with open lust in his eyes.
The Indian agent's mouth twitched angrily. He strode down the porch toward Glidinghawk. "I thought I told you to get back to your teepee, Indian," he barked as he came to a stop in front of the Omaha.
"I'm going," Glidinghawk replied in a surly voice. "What's wrong with watching the stage come in first?"
"What's wrong is the way you were staring at that white lady, you savage! You Indians are going to continue to have trouble. I'm charged with looking out for your interests, so you heed what I'm saying to you."
"Thank you so much," Glidinghawk said acidly. "So kind of the Great White Father to send a man like you to help us."
The agent flushed angrily. After a moment, he visibly controlled his emotions and said, "There's nothing worse than a savage with a little education."
"Unless it's a white man with even less," Glidinghawk shot back.
The noncom who had interceded inside the store had lounged out onto the porch after the Indian agent, and now he came toward the angry pair. "Here, Injun!" he said sharply. "I told you to get out of here and stop causin' trouble."
"I can handle this, Sergeant Foster," the Indian agent snapped. "The sooner these people learn who is in command here, the better things will be."
"I know, sir," the sergeant said smoothly. "But some of them are just too hardheaded to deal with properly. You let me have a talk with this one, sir, and I'll teach him some manners."
Glidinghawk stiffened at the threat. The Indian agent nodded slowly. "Probably a good idea, Sergeant," he said. "I'll leave him to you." Without a backward look, the slender young man stalked off, stepping down off the porch and heading for the fort's headquarters building.
As the noncom turned toward Glidinghawk, the Omaha said in a low voice, "I don't intend to be manhandled, Sergeant. Not without fighting back."
"That's a good way for an Indian to get hung," the sergeant told him. "But relax, mister. I'm not just about to get into a scrape because some pompous ass got his nose out of joint."
Glidinghawk frowned in surprise. "I see we agree on the new Indian agent."
"Damn right." The sergeant gave him a thoughtful stare for a moment, then said, "Just keep out of his way and don't cause trouble around here, mister, or I really will have to put you down."
Glidinghawk nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You do that." The sergeant turned and walked away.
Glidinghawk raised a leg and agilely stepped over the railing around the porch, dropping to the dirt at the side of the building. He walked toward the rear of the store. The sutler had quarters back there, and there was an outhouse behind the building, well away from it, as was the custom. Glidinghawk glanced around, saw no one watching, and headed for the little two-holer.
He had been inside the flimsy structure for about two minutes when the door opened. The tall Texan from the stagecoach stepped in, his nose wrinkling in distaste. He said to the Omaha, who was leaning against the wall, "We've had meetings in some mighty strange places, but damned if this ain't the worst one yet."
Gerald Glidinghawk grinned at Landrum Davis, one of his partners in Powell's Army, and said, "I agree, so let's get it over with. What the hell are we doing in Indian Territory?"
CHAPTER TWO
"How much do you know already?" Landrum asked, still grimacing at the smell in the little shack.
"Not much," Glidinghawk replied. "Powell's telegram told me to come here and wait until you and Celia showed up. He said Fox would already be here and for me to follow his lead." The Omaha chuckled. "That part of it worried me, but it was no trouble. Preston was acting the way he usually does. It was easy enough to argue with him, since that's what he seemed to want."
Landrum echoed Glidinghawk's chuckle. He slipped a leather wallet out of his jacket and removed a folded piece of paper from it. "The dispatch from Amos should explain things," he said. "At least you'll know as much as I do."
Glidinghawk took the paper and smoothed it out, reading the words on it in the dim light coming through the traditional half-moon cutout in the shed's door.
To A, B, C, and D From AP
One of the army's missions is to curtail the illicit whiskey trade. Whiskey is prohibited in unsettled territories, Indian reservations etc. A recent drive to curb the trade in Indian Territory only resulted in the traders establishing themselves in safety somewhere south of the Red River, possibly in what settlers call the Copper Brakes.
The terrain is so vast and rugged that not even intensive army patrolling curbs these whiskey runs. It is a lucrative business; the traders offer small amounts of rotgut whiskey in return for money which the Indians obtain by raiding, robbing, and stealing from the settlers in north Texas. In addition, there are rumors that the whiskey runners trade for squaws, who are treated as chattel.
The business is largely run by rough desperadoes, well versed in knife and gun. They have spies at Fort Supply and t
he army suspects that some crooked Indian agents are involved.
Because of Agent D's familiarity with bureaucracy, he will be sent out to the Indian Nations as an Indian agent attached to Fort Supply. It is suggested that Agent B pose as an outcast of his tribe hostile to both reservation Indians and to white society. As a thoroughly immoral outcast, he should be able to infiltrate the band of traders working within the Nations. Agents A and C will attempt to track down the source of the illicit whiskey production, believed to take place at a headquarters in north Texas.
Glidinghawk looked up from the dispatch sent by Amos Powell and considered the colonel's orders. He smiled slightly, but his eyes were bleak as he said, "This part about being an outcast should be simple to carry off. The reservation Indians and white society are both hostile enough to me."
"You can see why Fox was trying to pick a fight with you," Landrum said. "We don't know who the whiskey traders are working with here at Fort Supply, though, so you might make this feud with the Fox last a while. Let plenty of people see how you don't get along with the new Indian agent."
Glidinghawk nodded. "I had a hunch it must be something like that. I'm beginning to have an idea of how Colonel Powell's mind works."
As was only to be expected, he thought. The four-member team known in certain high-level military circles as Powell's Army had been together for a couple of years now, their missions taking them across the West from Arizona to Montana Territory. Their last assignment, several months earlier, had seen them unraveling a web of corruption in a government commission headquartered in Denver. Since that time, the group had lain low, each one going his separate way until they were needed again.
And now they were needed, obviously.
Glidinghawk had not been surprised to see former First Lieutenant Preston Kirkwood Fox masquerading as an Indian agent. It was the type of cover identity which the young man could maintain fairly easily. Originally the team's liaison officer, Fox had been forced to go undercover after a disastrous mission in Dodge City. He still harbored hopes of someday being returned to active duty, Glidinghawk knew, but for the time being, Fox was at least trying to fit in as a member of the team. So far, his efforts had met with mixed results.
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