Red River Desperadoes

by James Reasoner

  O'Leary was pouring their drinks before they reached the bar. Landrum picked up the whiskey and downed it gratefully, letting his eyes wander to the mirror behind the bar so that he could study the Shamrock's occupants.

  The place was fairly busy tonight. Being the only place in town to drink, O'Leary's did a steady business. There were at least half a dozen cowboys from the nearby ranches, a couple of townsmen, and the gambler, whose name was Garrick.

  Landrum had gotten to know the man fairly well and had even shared a few hands of poker with him. As they played, he saw why Garrick was content to stay in Truscott, even though the pickings had to be pretty slim around here for a professional gambler. Simply put, he wasn't very good at it. But he was friendly enough, and careful about his cheating. He never tried anything when he was dealing to Landrum, and he made a point of never nicking anyone for very much.

  Tonight, Garrick hailed Landrum from his usual table and said, "Join us in a game of chance, Mr. Davis?" There were two cowhands sitting at the table with Garrick. The gambler idly shuffled the deck of cards in his slender hands.

  Landrum glanced at Celia. "Go ahead," she shrugged. She sipped from the glass of whiskey in her hand. "I'll stay here and talk to Mr. O'Leary."

  Landrum nodded and went over to the table, pulling back a chair and sitting down as he greeted the other players.

  Celia finished her drink and pushed the empty glass across the bar to O'Leary. "Another, darlin'?" he asked her.

  "Another," Celia agreed. She tried to keep the morose tones out of her voice but wasn't very successful.

  O'Leary splashed liquor into the glass and looked shrewdly at Celia. "Somethin's troubling ye, lass. Is there anything I can do?"

  "Oh, no, I'm fine," Celia insisted. She drank a little more.

  Taking a deep breath, she became aware that O'Leary was glancing down at the thrust of her breasts in the low-cut gown. The old goat, she thought. But at least he was a fairly nice old goat.

  "Garrick was askin' me earlier why you don't ever join their games. The lad seems to admire you."

  Celia shook her head. "Poker's not really my game. I like playing occasionally, but I prefer faro."

  "Like to buck the tiger, eh? Well, I'm afraid ye'll not find many faro players around here. These local lads are a simple sort. They like their poker and beer, but their tastes are not what you'd call sophisticated."

  Celia stared at the glittering array of bottles on the back bar, barely listening to the old man. Her mind had drifted back a couple of years to Fort Griffin, Texas, far south of here, where Powell's Army had been assigned to their first mission. The denizens of the area known as the Flats —a rabbit's warren of bordellos and gambling houses —had not been sophisticated either. And yet among them she had met the man called Blackjack. He had taught her a great deal about life —and love. She had lost her innocence with him, given it up freely.

  And then he had been horribly murdered.

  A shiver ran through her as the memories replayed themselves in her mind. After that mission, it had been a long time before she had allowed herself to feel anything deeply for a man. Then, on the way to Denver for their most recent assignment, she had met Major Devlin Henry

  Devlin had still been alive when Powell's Army left Denver, their mission brought o a successful conclusion with his assistance. But he had gone his way and Celia had gone hers. She could have resigned from the team, she knew; she was a civilian, after all, and Amos Powell had no real hold on her. She had decided against it, though, decided to remain a part of the group. She was not ready to settle down.

  But that didn't mean she couldn't regret the decision from time to time—like now. The domestic life could not have been any more boring than the week they had spent in Truscott.

  Over at the table, Landrum was having mixed luck. He was winning a little more than he was losing, and he was content with that for the moment. The two cowhands were strangers, and he learned from casual conversation with them that they worked on a spread northwest of Truscott, on the edge of the Copper Brakes.

  "Pretty lonely country out there, I imagine," Landrum commented idly as he studied his cards.

  "Damn right," one of the men agreed. "You can ride all day and not see another soul."

  "Anybody live out there in the Brakes?"

  "A few old hermits," the other cowboy answered. "And a few idiots who try to farm or ranch on that damned clay. It won't raise a crop, and there ain't enough graze for more than a couple of head in ten miles. The spread we ride for is about like the end of the world, mister. Nothin' between there and the Red River."

  "What about the Moodys?" the first cowboy asked. "You forgettin' about them?"

  "Hah! Reckon they're hermits and idiots. Never seen an unfriendlier bunch, or a crazier one."

  "I wouldn't let any of them hear you say that," Gar-rick warned solemnly. "You know how violent the whole lot of them can be."

  "Moody . . ." Landrum mused. "Wasn't that the name of the fellow who nearly caused a fight the day Miss Burnett and I arrived?"

  Garrick nodded. "I believe you're right. That was Claude Moody. He's got three brothers, all of them just as touchy. One of them was with him that day, but I don't remember which one."

  "Their ma's the craziest one of the bunch," one of the cowhands said. "Only seen her once, when they all come to town for supplies. She was quotin' the Bible one minute, then cussin' a blue streak and takin' a quirt after them boys the next. I ain't surprised they're all teched in the head, bein' raised by that she-wolf."

  The other puncher grunted and said, "Are we here to play cards or talk about them damned Moodys?"

  "I'm playing cards," Landrum said with a grin, laying down his hand. The others looked at it, sighed, and threw in their cards as he raked the pot over in front of him.

  The wheels of his brain were clicking over rapidly. He had been playing cards, and drinking, and engaging in idle conversations like this one for a damned week now, with a single lack of success. Now all of his instincts were telling him that he had finally stumbled over something. The Moody family certainly sounded like the type who would be involved with something like whiskey smuggling.

  And if they lived far out in the Brakes, as the cowboys had indicated, they would be in a good spot to produce the stuff that was being run over the border into Indian Territory.

  Of course, the Moodys might be completely harmless. He had absolutely no evidence to support the theory that had suggested itself to him.

  But there was nothing disproving it either.

  While Landrum was shuffling the cards, one of the cowboys leaned back in his chair and began to roll a quirly. As he lit it, he said, "Speakin' of the Moodys, I've heard tell that all them boys have squaws." Disapproval was evident in his voice.

  "Hell, what's wrong with that?" the other puncher spoke up. "A woman's a woman, the way I see it. Anyway, that might explain why they ain't afraid of the raidin' parties that come down from the Nations."

  Landrum started to deal. "Is there much Indian trouble around here these days?" he asked, willing to push the conversation a little farther since someone else had brought up the subject again.

  "Things have been quiet for the last couple of weeks," Garrick answered. "But before that, raids were pretty common. Small bands would come down from the reservations on the other side of the Red River and rustle cattle, steal horses, things like that. They even pulled some holdups and stole money."

  Landrum frowned. "Indians stealing money? That doesn't sound right."

  "Maybe not," Garrick shrugged. "But it's true."

  "We've had to run them red devils off from the ranch a couple of times," one of the men added. "Even then, they made off with some beeves." The puncher shook his head. "It's a downright shame, the way them savages sit up there on the reservation, pretendin' to be so civilized, and all the time they're plannin' their raids down here."

  "When did all this trouble start?" Landrum asked.

  "Been g
oin' on for months now."

  In other words, ever since the whiskey traffic into the Nations had picked up, Landrum thought. It was all tying in.

  He played a couple more hands, losing them both, and then decided to call it a night. He wanted to get back to Celia and tell her what he had discovered. If she agreed with him that the Moodys sounded like good suspects, he would have a starting place for the rest of their investigation.

  "I believe I'll say good night, gentlemen," he said, gathering up his winnings. They totaled a little less than ten dollars, he saw. Still, that was better than losing ten bucks.

  "Say, mister," one of the cowboys said in a low voice as Landrum started to stand up. "I know that lady over at the bar is with you, but did I hear you call her *Miss Burnett?"

  "That's right," Landrum replied. "She's my friend, but we're not married."

  "In that case, you reckon she'd object to havin' a dance with me? I can get old O'Leary to unlimber his fiddle and play a tune or two."

  Landrum paused, unsure how to answer, not wanting to answer for Celia. Truscott was notably low on women, especially single women. There was one whorehouse, if a shanty shared by two soiled doves could be called such. Every time he and Celia came into the Shamrock, the men there eyed her with undisguised lust, and this evening had been no different. That was one reason he had been able to win at cards —the cowboys were too busy stealing glances at Celia to properly study their hands.

  Finally, he said, "I can't speak for the lady. You'll have to ask her yourself, friend."

  The cowboy stood up, as did his companion. Both young men suddenly looked nervous. The second one said, "If you're askin' her to dance, so am I."

  "Hell, I thought of it first."

  "Don't give a damn. I'm askin' her."

  A grin twitched the corners of Landrum's mouth. He was sure Celia would adore having two such gallant, dashing young men at odds over her, he thought sarcastically. Just as sure as he was that the two cowhands had had at least one bath each during the last year.

  Bumping shoulders in their haste to get to the bar first, the two punchers came up to Celia and at the same time said, "Ma'am?"

  She turned, saw them standing there in filthy range clothes, looked past them, and saw that sly look on Landrum's face. Damn him, she thought tiredly. What had he gotten her into now?

  "Ma'am, I'd be right pleased if you'd do me the honor of dancin' with me," one of the cowboys said hurriedly, running the words together in his haste to get the question out before his friend could ask her the same thing.

  The other one slapped him on the shoulder with the battered Stetson he held in his hands. "Durn it, I was goin' to ask her first!" he protested. "It was my idea!"

  Again, Celia glanced at Landrum. He had stopped smiling now, she saw, and as their eyes met, he gave her a minuscule nod. For some reason, he wanted her to go along with their requests and give them a dance.

  Carefully composing her face into a pleasant expression, she said, "Now, boys, there's no need to fight. I'll be happy to dance with both of you."

  For a moment, they didn't seem to comprehend that she had accepted, then both of them exclaimed together, "Me first!"

  Celia held up her hands. "No arguing, I said. A gentleman always leaves such choices to the lady in question." Arbitrarily, she extended a hand to the puncher on her right. "And I choose you."

  The cowboy's face lit up as he took her hand in his grimy, calloused fingers. His partner looked distinctly displeased.

  Celia's choice looked at O'Leary and said excitedly, "Break out that fiddle of yours, mister. Play us a jig."

  "All right," O'Leary nodded, reaching under the mahogany and coming up with an instrument whose wood was polished to a sheen that matched that of the bar. He had a bow with it, and he quickly plucked out a few notes, tuning the fiddle as he did so.

  Then he launched into a merry tune, and before Celia knew what was happening, the cowboy had his arms around her and they were whirling around the small open space between the bar and the tables.

  The other customers began to clap their hands, keeping time with the fiddle and getting into the spirit of things. Even the second cowboy got over his anger and started to clap. Celia caught a glimpse of Landrum joining in, an open grin on his face now.

  They had been dancing for a couple of minutes when the batwings banged open. O'Leary stopped his playing abruptly, and sobs of pain filled in the sudden silence. Two men staggered into the saloon, one of them supporting the other.

  The second man had no face.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On second shocked glance, the injured man did have a face. It was just the features were obscured by the torrent of blood that had cascaded down over them. His entire head was a crimson ruin.

  He had been scalped —and he was still alive.

  "Help us!" the youth holding him up shrieked. "Pa's hurt! Help him!" The boy was perhaps seventeen, and his own shirt was soaked with blood. It was impossible to tell if he was wounded or if the gore had come from his father's hideous injury.

  Suddenly, the young man began to sag, obviously drained. Landrum was the only one in the saloon with the presence of mind to react in time. He sprang forward, his steely grip fastening on the boy's arm and holding him up. Together, he and the boy lowered the older man to the floor.

  Landrum looked up at O'Leary. "Is there a doctor around here?" he rapped.

  The Irishman shook his head. "Hughie the barber is as close as we've got to a doctor." O'Leary glanced at one of the cowhands. "Ted! Go fetch him!"

  The puncher nodded and left the saloon at a run.

  Celia was staring in horrified fascination at the wounded man. She had seen violent death many times, but this was one of the worst things she had ever witnessed. The scalped man was breathing hoarsely and raggedly. His eyes were closed, and his fingers twitched uncontrollably as he lay on the sawdust-covered floor. Landrum had sunk down beside him and had the man's head supported on his leg, ignoring the blood that was soaking his pants.

  Garrick and O'Leary joined him, kneeling on either side of the wounded man. Garrick put his hands on the shoulders of the boy, who was on his knees, heaving deep breaths into tortured lungs. "Are you all right, son?" Garrick asked. "Are you wounded, too?"

  The boy shook his head. "No-no . . . I'm all right. It's Pa. . . . The damned Injuns come raidin' the farm, tried to run off our cows. . . . Pa started shootin' at 'em" —he buried his face in his hands and let out a huge sob —"an' then they shot him and did that to him! took his hair, goddamn them!"

  Celia shuddered. She realized that the cowboy still had his arm around her and that she was leaning against his dirt-encrusted vest. At the moment, she didn't care. After seeing what had come stumbling into the saloon, she was just glad to have another human being close by to hold her.

  "They rode off when they was through with him," the boy went on when his sobs had subsided. "I wanted to fight them, but Pa was still . . . was still awake somehow. He told me to let 'em go, that he didn't want me gettin' killed. I picked him up and started toward town with him. The redskins took all our horses, too."

  "That's the Huddleston boy," the cowboy holding Celia told her in a low voice. "Him and his daddy have a farm a couple miles east of here."

  "Just them?" Celia asked. "No women?"

  The cowboy shook his head. "No women, thank the Lord." His youthful face was grim as he went on, "Looks like the Injun trouble is startin' up again, right enough."

  That was an understatement, Celia thought, shuddering again.

  A few minutes later, the cowboy who had been sent to get the barber burst through the batwings, a portly figure following closely behind him. "What the hell happened?" the stout man asked.

  "Ab Huddleston got himself scalped by a bunch of heathens," O'Leary replied. "Do what ye can for him, Hughie"

  The barber nodded and stripped off his coat, tossing it on the bar. He began to roll up his sleeves as he knelt beside the wounded man. "
Hot water and whiskey," he snapped. "And plenty of cloths, as clean as you can find them."

  The cowboy holding Celia gently turned her toward the bar, so that she wouldn't see what was happening as Hughie began his work. Celia didn't resist. Watching was the last thing she wanted to do.

  "I could use a drink," she said softly.

  "You and me both," the cowboy agreed. He leaned over the bar and reached under it to pull out a bottle. "Don't reckon O'Leary will mind folks helpin' themselves, under the circumstances."

  The second cowboy, who had been vying for Celia's attention, joined them and said, "Pour me a slug of that, too." He slapped a coin on the bar to cover the drinks.

  Celia took the glass offered her and sipped the liquor, taking comfort from the embers it kindled in her belly. She kept her eyes on the mahogany. She could avoid the sight of what had happened, she realized, but she couldn't shut out the sobs of the boy or the desperate gasping breaths of the father.

  Everyone in the saloon heard the death rattle.

  Celia closed her eyes and leaned against the bar, her fingers tightening on the glass in her hand. "I'm sorry," she heard Hughie the barber murmur. "There just wasn't a damned thing I could do to save him. He'd lost too much blood."

  "Aye," O'Leary said.

  "You did your best," Garrick added. "Come on, boys, let's get him down to the undertakers."

  Hughie said, "Vern, you come with me. Ain't anything you can do for your pa now."

  Celia looked up and saw the image in the mirror as O'Leary pressed a full bottle into Hughie's hand. "The boy needs sleep," the saloonkeeper said softly. "Use as much of this as you have to."

  Hughie nodded, then with his arm around the youth's shoulders to help hold him up, he left the Shamrock.

  Landrum came up to the bar a moment later, looking down at the massive bloodstain on his pants and shaking his head. "Awful business," he said. His face was bleak.

  "Aye, that it is," O'Leary agreed as he went behind the bar again.

  "Is this the kind of thing that's been happening around here?"

  Garrick joined the little group and answered Landrum's question. "It's usually not this bad, but this isn't the first time the Indians have killed on one of theit-raids. There have probably been half a dozen instances of folks fighting back and getting a bullet or an arrow for their trouble. This is the first scalping that I know of, though."