Landrum Davis, former Confederate soldier, former Texas Ranger, was the nominal leader of the group, simply because he was the oldest and most experienced in the ways of the frontier. He and Glidinghawk got along well most of the time, and the Omaha had to admit that Landrum was the closest thing he had to a friend now.
The final member of the group had disembarked from the stage a little earlier with Landrum. Celia Louise Burnett was the daughter of an army officer who had been killed in an Indian raid, along with Celia's mother. Celia had grown up in a succession of forts and been educated back East in an exclusive finishing school. All of them worried about Celia, from Colonel Powell on down. But the beautiful young redhead had proven to be a capable agent, even though she was a bit quick to give in to the temptations of life's wilder side. Glidinghawk admired her, as he did Landrum Davis. The jury was still out on Preston Fox, but Glidinghawk was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt most of the time.
Glidinghawk handed the dispatch back to Landrum, who stored it away again. "Where are you and Celia headed?"
"Truscott, Texas," Landrum replied. "Not much of a town, but Amos thinks the whiskey traders are probably cooking the stuff between there and the Red River. We're going to try to root them out if they are."
Glidinghawk nodded. "Not an easy job. That's rough country there, south of the Red."
Landrum shrugged. "We've got it to do. The hard job seems to be yours this time around, no matter what you say. Those whiskey runners find out you're working for the army, they'll cut your throat right quick —if you're lucky."
The Omaha grimaced. "I'll manage. If something goes wrong . . . well, it won't be any great loss."
Glidinghawk started for the door, but Landrum reached out to stop him with a firm grip on his arm. With a frown of concern on his face, the Texan said, "What's wrong, Gerald? You look as grim as I've seen you lately."
Glidinghawk shook his head, unsure how to answer Landrum's question. He wasn't sure he even knew himself what was bothering him.
No, that wasn't true. He did know. But would Landrum—would any white man —truly understand?
"I look out from this fort and I see people who were once my own," Glidinghawk said slowly. "I may have never lived with these tribes, but I know them. And I see how far they have fallen. They beg for food and shelter now, and that is all they know."
"You're talking about the ones who choose to live around the forts," Landrum pointed out. "There are still plenty out here in the Nations who are doing well for themselves. The ones over east of here they call the Civilized Tribes. They've got laws and governments of their own. The Cheyenne and the Arapaho and the others in this part of the Territory, well, a lot of them are still out there living like they used to."
"Yes. Indeed they are. Raiding and stealing and making sure that eventually the white man will have no choice but to wipe them out. It's a war the Indians can't win, Landrum. All they can do is fight to the end."
Landrum Davis shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you, Gerald. The world may not be the way we'd want it to be, but we got to do the best we can with the hand we're dealt."
Glidinghawk nodded curtly. "Don't worry about me, Landrum. I'll do my job."
"I know you will." Landrum wrinkled his nose again. "Now let's get the hell out of here. That coach will be pulling out soon. If you need to get in touch with us, you'll probably have to go through Fox."
Glidinghawk inclined his head in understanding.
Landrum went first, calling back softly to Glidinghawk that no one was around. The Omaha slipped out, too, and slouched up to the street in front of the sutler's. He paused long enough to see Landrum and Celia climbing aboard the stagecoach once again. Neither of them even glanced in his direction, which was the way it was supposed to be.
He wondered when he would see them again.
Or if he would see them again. This job was going to be dangerous, as all their assignments were. The men who trafficked in illegal whiskey wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who interfered with their plans.
The jehu climbed on to the stage, cracked his whip, and yelled hoarsely at his new team. The animals strained against the lines, and the stage lurched into motion.
Glidinghawk stood beside the building and watched until it was dwindled into the distance, finally becoming a small black dot that disappeared into the haze of dust.
* * *
Preston Kirkwood Fox was still angry as he waited in the small anteroom outside the office of Fort Supply's commanding officer. Glidinghawk had certainly been obnoxious. Fox had counted on that reaction from the Omaha when he began his disparaging remarks in the sutler's store. Glidinghawk was intelligent, Fox had to give him that much. He had picked up on the ruse immediately.
But he had seemed to put a little more feeling than was necessary into his act.
That was typical of Glidinghawk, though, Fox thought. Despite his background in the white man's world, Glidinghawk's soul was that of a red man. Brooding hostility came naturally to him.
The corporal who served as the commanding officer's clerk said, "You can go in now." There was a decided lack of respect in the man's voice that rankled Fox.
The corporal had no way of knowing that the man he was talking to was still an officer at heart. To him Fox was just another bureaucrat from Washington, someone to be tolerated but not admired.
Carrying himself militarily erect, Fox stepped into the colonel's office. Laurence Selmon was a career officer, short and thick bodied with graying rust colored hair. He had a habit of chewing his thick mustache, as he was now as he studied the paperwork spread out on his desk.
"What can I do for you, Follet?" he asked without looking up.
Fox waited for an invitation to sit down in the visitor's chair in front of the desk, but none was forthcoming. Standing there awkwardly, he suppressed his anger at the way he had been treated here at Fort Supply.
The officers and men here knew him only as Preston Follet, a young Indian agent on his first assignment for the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
"I just had a run-in with one of the bucks here at the fort," Fox said. "An Omaha from the looks of him."
"What happened?" Selmon asked, showing a little more interest now.
"The savage threatened me," Fox declared. That was stretching the truth some. "All I did was state my opinion that Indians should not shop at the same stores as white men, and the lout took offense."
Selmon heaved a sigh. "Did the brave attack you?"
"If he had he would have regretted it," Fox said confidently. "No. One of your men happened to be there and he stepped in to put a stop to it before things went too far. Sergeant Foster, I believe it was."
Fox knew quite well the noncommissioned supply officer had been Bradley Foster. He had studied the duty roster of the troops assigned before even arriving at the fort. Preparation was an important part of the job. He had never been able to get that through to Landrum and the others, who sometimes went off on the wildest tangents.
Then, remembering some of the things he himself had done in Montana and the Colorado Territories, Fox abandoned that line of thought for the moment.
Colonel Selmon was nodding. "Foster is a good man," he said. "I'm glad things did not get worse."
"The sergeant offered to have a talk with the Indian and straighten him out. I hope he won't cause any more trouble."
Selmon shook his head and said, "Foster's got enough sense not to kill the buck. He'll just rough him up a bit, teach him a lesson." The colonel squinted shrewdly at Fox and went on, "That doesn't bother you, one of my men getting tough with an Indian?"
"Why should it?" Fox asked.
"It is your job to look out for the savages," Selmon pointed out.
"That doesn't mean I have to adore the bloody heathens. No, Colonel, I'm an administrator. I try to make things run smoothly. That doesn't mean I have to coddle the Indians." Fox sniffed. "I think we treat them rather well, considering the way they've held up
the nation's rightful expansion across the West."
Selmon leaned back in his chair and chuckled. "That's a lot more practical attitude than we've seen from some of the do-gooders and sky pilots who come out here to help the so-called noble red men."
Fox smiled thinly. "I'm a practical man."
"And an ambitious one, I'd wager. You know how to get ahead in life, don't you, Follet?" It was a statement, not a question.
"I like to think so," Fox answered smugly.
"I'll keep that in mind," Selmon said with a sage nod. "It's hard enough for civilians and the military to get along. A good attitude makes it a lot easier." Briskly, the colonel straightened some of his papers. "Now, is that why you came to see me, Follet —to tell me about your problem with that brave?"
"Well, you are the commanding officer of the fort, Colonel. I felt you should know about it."
"Do you know the Indian's name?"
Fox shook his head. "No, but like I said, I think he's an Omaha. And he's new here. I saw him riding in on one of those crowbait ponies earlier today."
"I'll talk to Foster," Selmon decided, "tell him to keep an eye on the buck. We don't want any troublemakers around here."
Fox felt a surge of satisfaction. "Very good. Thank you, sir." Without thinking, he almost came to attention and saluted, catching himself just in time to stop the gesture.
He said his farewells and left the office, pleased with himself. He had planted the idea with Selmon that he was an ambitious sort, willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted —even cooperating with illegal whiskey traders.
He had no reason to suspect that the colonel was part of the ring . . . but Selmon might be involved. Fox would wait and see if someone approached him with a shady deal.
And he had established Glidinghawk as a troublemaker. That could help the Omaha accomplish his mission.
Or get him killed.
CHAPTER THREE
Glidinghawk knew there were some things that could not be rushed. He avoided Fox for the next couple of days, not wanting to overdo his pose as an angry outcast. It seemed certain from Amos Powell's dispatch that the whiskey runners had confederates here at Fort Supply, but there was no way of knowing who they were.
They would have to come to him —and he would have to be ready.
There was not much to do around the post. Glidinghawk found a spot behind the mess hall where he could roll his blankets at night. During the day he sat in the shade, a sullen look on his face, and watched the activity at the fort. Some of the soldiers cast suspicious glances at him, as if they thought he might be a spy for a band of renegades, but Glidinghawk ignored them.
The Indians themselves were cool toward him. The few times he spoke to any of them, they answered his questions curtly and then moved on, obviously having heard that he had been raised by a white family and educated back East. It was plain that they despised him.
Blanket Indians, Glidinghawk thought. They've given up their way of life to settle for white men's leavings, yet they look down on me.
Pride was a powerful thing. And that was about all some of these Indians had left.
He was half dozing, his back leaned up against the trunk of a small tree, when he heard an angry snort. Glidinghawk glanced up through slitted eyes and saw a Kiowa brave standing over him, arms folded, face set in lines of disgust.
"White man's dog!" the Kiowa snapped.
Glidinghawk stayed where he was, but something about his indolent pose changed, became somehow more alert. "You speak to me?" he said.
"I see no other white man's dog around here," the Kiowa replied haughtily. "I look around and I see warriors. I see my people. There is only one I see who has no soul."
Glidinghawk's mouth curved in a humorless smile. "I see you've heard of me."
The Kiowa made a hawking sound in his throat and spat, the gob of spittle landing close to Glidinghawk's outstretched foot. Several drops splattered on to his moccasin. Having expressed himself, the Kiowa turned on his heel and began to stalk away.
Glidinghawk closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath, suppressing the true anger he felt and considering the situation in light of the mission he was on. This was just the sort of opportunity he needed. There were plenty of people around, some of whom had probably heard the Kiowa's insulting words.
Then he let the genuine anger flow back into him, using it to propel him as he came to his feet and launched himself into a dive at the Kiowa.
Glidinghawk slammed into the man, tackling him around the waist. Both of them fell, sprawling heavily to the ground. The Kiowa let out a howl of rage and twisted around, driving an elbow at Glidinghawk's face. Glidinghawk jerked his head to the side so that the blow missed, then rolled and came lithely up on his feet.
"I am no man's dog!" he told the other man. "There is only one cur here, Kiowa!"
The warrior came up off the ground with a snarl, throwing himself with outstretched arms at Glidinghawk. Glidinghawk slapped the reaching hands aside and darted out of the way. The Kiowa took a couple of stumbling steps before he could catch his balance and right himself.
Glidinghawk's laugh rang across the parade ground of the fort. "You've been too long away from the battle," he mocked. "You fight like a woman."
The Kiowa shook his head and growled. His hand groped at his waist, and Glidinghawk realized the man was reaching for a weapon that was no longer there. The knife or tomahawk he had carried was now gone, traded for the security of an existence on the fringes of the white man's world.
"I will kill you," the Kiowa grated. "I will tear your miserable white man's heart out!"
"I'm waiting," Glidinghawk said calmly.
The man lunged forward again, and this time Glidinghawk didn't quite get out of his way. The Kiowa had moved a little faster than he had expected. His fingers grasped Glidinghawk's buckskin shirt and yanked, throwing the Omaha off balance. The Kiowa's hard fist thudded into Glidinghawk's belly, knocking the air out of his lungs.
Glidinghawk blocked the Kiowa's next blow, letting the man's fist slide along his left arm until he could pivot and trap the man's wrist in a viselike grip. Glidinghawk bent at the waist, using the Kiowa's own strength and momentum against him, tossing the warrior right over his back. The Kiowa smashed into the hard ground and let out a groan, but before it was hardly past his lips, Glidinghawk was on him, wrestling with him. They rolled about, raising a cloud of dust, each man striving desperately for the hold that would give him victory.
Vaguely, Glidinghawk heard the whoops and cries of the crowd that had gathered around them. Indians of many different tribes scurried up to watch the fight. A few years earlier, these warriors had been allies and enemies, depending on which band they rode with.
Now they were spectators.
Glidinghawk began to wonder if he had misjudged the Kiowa. The man was strong and wiry and fought with a consuming anger. He had obviously not been a reservation Indian for very long.
After several minutes of wrestling around in the dirt, however, Glidinghawk found himself with a secure hold around the Kiowa's neck. He had his arms under the Kiowa's arms, the hands locked at the back of the other man's neck. Enough pressure in this hold would crack the Kiowa's spine.
Glidinghawk didn't want to kill him. Holding tightly enough to keep his opponent immobilized, Glidinghawk climbed to his feet, bring the Kiowa with him. "Call me a dog, will you?" Glidinghawk said through gritted teeth, aware of the silence that fallen over the ring of onlookers. They sensed that at any moment they could be witnessing a man's death.
"Hold on there!" a harsh voice called. The circle of Indians around Glidinghawk and the Kiowa began to part rapidly.
Glidinghawk hesitated, his face still contorted in fury. He glanced over and saw the burly, blue-uniformed figure striding through the crowd. It was the same sergeant who had stepped in during the encounter with Fox. Foster, that was his name, Glidinghawk remembered. A supply sergeant.
Foster stopped in f
ront of Glidinghawk and the Kiowa and put his hands on his hips. He shook his head and said, "I see you just can't seem to get along with folks, mister."
Glidinghawk increased the pressure on his captive's neck, canting his head forward. The Kiowa made a strangled sound of pain low in his throat. "He insulted me" Glidinghawk said to Foster.
The sergeant's right hand moved, coming up with the service revolver from his holster. His speed was surprising in a man so big. Drawing the hammer of the Colt back to full cock, he lined the barrel on Glidinghawk's forehead and said, "I don't care how much of a son of a bitch he is, let him go."
Foster's voice was flat and cold, and Glidinghawk could see the menace in his eyes. The noncom wouldn't hesitate to shoot him, and given the current state of affairs in Indian Territory, he probably wouldn't come in for much trouble from his superiors for the killing.
Glidinghawk waited for a moment, pushing the situation as far as he could. Then he unlaced his fingers and released the Kiowa, shoving him away with a grunt and an arrogant sneer.
"I do not kill women," he said curtly, "and this one is little better."
The Kiowa cast another hate-filled glance at him, then walked away unsteadily, rubbing his aching neck. The crowd began to disperse, realizing that the momentary respite from boredom was over.
Foster uncocked his gun and slid it back into its holster, snapping the flap down over it. "I'm glad you came to your senses," he said to Glidinghawk. "I hate to kill a man on as pretty a day as this."
Glidinghawk grunted and started to turn away.
Foster reached out to stop him. Holding Glidinghawk's arm with sausage like fingers, he said, "You're one tough bastard, aren't you?"
Glidinghawk shrugged out of the sergeant's grip. "I wish only to be treated fairly. To be left alone."
Red River Desperadoes Page 2
