Red River Desperadoes

by James Reasoner

  "Can't the army or the Texas Rangers do anything?" Landrum knew the answer to that question even as he asked it. The army was overextended owing to Indian troubles farther west, and the Rangers had historically been too few in number to deal with such problems except on a limited basis. A few years earlier, Landrum had been a Ranger himself, and even though he was convinced they were the best group of fighting men the world had ever seen, there just weren't enough of them.

  Garrick shrugged. "The army and the Rangers try. But the way those braves come down out of the Nations and then run back there when they're through, it's hard to track them down and prove anything."

  Landrum tossed back the drink that O'Leary had poured for him and tried to look resigned. "Well, I guess it's none of my business anyway. There's always going to be trouble out here. Folks know that when they come."

  O'Leary frowned at him. "A bit of a callous attitude, don't ye think?"

  "Life's been hard on all of us, not just those poor settlers," Landrum said coldly.

  Celia hoped none of the others gave much thought to how Landrum's words contrasted with his earlier actions. He had been the first to try to help the Huddlestons and had stayed right with them until Ab Huddleston's death. That behavior didn't jibe very well with the coldhearted image Landrum was now trying to project.

  Instinct sometimes made a man act without thinking. That was what Landrum had done when he'd seen someone in trouble.

  And whether or not that clashed with his cover identity, Celia had to respect him for it.

  It might be best if they left, Celia thought. She said, "Landrum, darling, if you don't mind I'd like to go home. I'm not feeling too well."

  "Of course," he said quickly. "I can understand that. All this was too much for you."

  "Y-Yes," she said picking up on what he wanted from her. "I feel a bit faint."

  He took her arm with a strong hand and turned toward the door, tossing a coin to O'Leary to pay for their drinks. Garrick and the two cowboys seemed sorry to see them, go, but Landrum bid them farewell and steered Celia to the door. She sagged slightly against him, as if overcome with emotion. Actually, that wasn't far from the truth.

  As they went out, Landrum said in a voice loud enough for the men at the bar to hear, "I want to get these pants changed. All that blood! They're probably ruined."

  They turned down the rough sidewalk toward the Stanley house, and Celia hissed, "God, that was awful, Landrum!"

  "It sure as hell was," he agreed quietly. "I found out something during that poker game, though, before that poor bastard and his boy came in."

  "You mean you've turned up a lead to the whiskey runners?"

  "Maybe." Quickly, Landrum filled her in on what he had learned about the mysterious Moody family. When he was done, she agreed that they sounded like the kind of clan that would be involved in something illegal.

  "But how are you going to locate them?" she asked.

  "I'm going to work on O'Leary a little more. He has to have some sort of liquor supply he can buy in an emergency. He has most of his whiskey freighted in, but there are bound to be times when he runs short and can't get any more here for several days."

  "You think he might buy liquor from the Moodys when that happens?"

  "If the Moodys are even involved in the whiskey production," Landrum reminded her. "But I think it's worth investigating."

  "I agree," Celia said, nodding her red head. "We have to do whatever we can to stop them, Landrum. We have to get rid of the reason for those Indian raids, like the one tonight—"

  She broke off, a shiver making her tremble. Landrum felt it through the arm he had around her shoulder.

  "We'll find them," he promised in a soft but dangerous voice. "And we'll stop them."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gerald Glidinghawk was right about the two figures who appeared on the porch of the cabin being female, but he was not prepared for what he found when the wagon rolled to a stop in front of the ramshackle building.

  The older and taller of the two women stared at him with an intense glare in her faded blue eyes. She was thin and spare, and her braided hair was snow white. She wore a drab cotton dress with a crocheted shawl draped around her shoulders.

  One gnarled hand held the barrel of a carbine. The butt of the weapon rested on the planks of the porch, and it was almost unnoticeable as it leaned against the folds of her dress.

  Arlie Moody swung down from his horse and looped the reins over a hitch rail in front of the cabin. "Howdy, Ma," he said.

  "A heathen!" the old woman spat at him. "You brought a godless, bloody-handed heathen to our home, boy! The Good Lord will smite you for that, you no-good stupid bastard."

  "Aw, hell, Ma, Glidinghawk's no heathen. He's workin' for us now, and he's already helped save a load of whiskey from a bunch of skunks who was tryin' to steal it."

  From the back of the wagon, Benton Moody let out a groan. He tried to lift his head as he quavered, "M-Ma? Is that you, Ma . . . ?"

  The old woman's eyes widened, losing some of the fanatical light that burned in them. "Benton?" she asked softy. "Benton, are you all right, boy?"

  "He's been shot," Arlie said heavily. "Come on, Dirk, help me get him inside."

  "Shot!" Ma Moody shrilled. She rushed down the steps from the porch. "Get out of my way!" she snarled at Dirk.

  Glidinghawk glanced over his shoulder as the old woman scrambled spryly into the back of the wagon and took Benton's head in her lap. The Omaha paid little attention to her words as she began to fuss over her wounded son. He was looking at the other woman who still stood on the porch.

  She wore a cotton dress like the old woman, but she would have been more at home in buckskins, Glidinghawk thought. Her skin had a rich red hue, made more pronounced by the glare of the setting sun. Her high cheekbones and her long, lustrous raven hair were proof positive of her heritage.

  She was as lovely a woman as Glidinghawk had seen in a long time.

  She didn't meet his eyes as he gazed at her, and too late, Glidinghawk realized that he was staring. Arlie Moody snapped peevishly, "Dammit, Glidinghawk, quit your gawkin' and get them mules unhitched!"

  Glidinghawk pulled his eyes away from the shy beauty and hopped down from the wagon seat. Arlie was frowning darkly at him, and Glidinghawk wondered if the squaw was his woman. Arlie looked like a man who had just had his toes stepped on.

  Arlie and Dirk finally persuaded their mother to let them unload Benton and carry him into the shack. While they were doing that, Glidinghawk unhitched the mules and led them into a small pole corral a short distance away from the buildings. There was a water trough there, and a little grass for grazing.

  When he returned to the cabin, there was no one outside. However, he could hear the shrill voice of the old woman inside as she harangued her sons. ". . . damned foolishness!" Glidinghawk heard. "Hiring that redskin and then letting your brother get shot like that!"

  Glidinghawk stepped up onto the porch as Arlie protested, "I told you, Ma, we didn't let Benton get shot. How the hell was we supposed to know them cowboys would try to steal the whiskey? 'Sides, if'n Glidinghawk hadn't been there, Benton probably would've got hisself killed for sure, instead of just shot up a little."

  A smile tugged at Glidinghawk's face. There was a whining tone in Arlie's voice, even as he defended their actions. To the rest of the world, he might be a hardened desperado, but facing the wrath of his hag of a mother, the part of him that was still a small boy began struggling to get out.

  The door was open a few inches. Glidinghawk put his hand on it and started to push it back.

  The Indian woman appeared, grasping the edge of the door to stop it and sliding out through the narrow opening. "Not come in now," she said quietly in English. "Not good idea."

  She was either Cheyenne or Sioux —Glidinghawk wasn't sure which. He moved back to let her come onto the porch and pull the door shut behind her.

  "I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to be o
ut here, either," he said. "Arlie didn't seem to like me even looking at you. He's not going to care for us being alone out here."

  She laughed shortly, humorlessly. "Not worry about husband. Sun Woman make him happy, he forget about Indian brave."

  "That's your name? Sun Woman?"

  "That is how I am called."

  Glidinghawk went to the railing around the porch and carefully leaned on it. The structure didn't look as if it would support a great deal of weight. "How's Benton?" he asked.

  "Benton be all right, I think. Need rest most of all."

  Glidinghawk nodded. "I kept a close eye on him during the trip down here from the Nations. He seemed to be doing all right. I think I caught the wound in time to keep it from getting infected."

  "You . . . doctor?" Sun Woman asked hesitantly.

  "No," Glidinghawk replied with a shake of his head. "But I do know a little about medicine, both the white man's kind and the Indian ways of healing."

  She changed the subject by asking, "What Arlie say is true? You work for Moodys?"

  "Yes, I do. I'm going to help them deliver their whiskey up to Indian Territory." He looked at Sun Woman shrewdly. "That's where you're from, isn't it?"

  She looked away. "Sun Woman live here now," she said stubbornly, not wanting to discuss anything that might have come before. She declared, "All Moodys have squaws. Sun Woman is Arlie's squaw."

  "Where are the other women?" Glidinghawk asked. He hadn't seen a sign of anyone else on the place.

  "Some inside," Sun Woman said, nodding toward the door of the shack. "Benton's woman cry over him, make Ma mad. Other squaws work at still."

  "Out there?" Glidinghawk asked, gesturing toward the smaller building.

  "Yes. Whiskey come from there. All work, keep fire going, make sure no problems."

  This whiskey business was a family affair all the way around, Glidinghawk realized.

  He was already thinking about what he could do to break it up. There was nothing he could accomplish by himself. He would only get a bullet for his trouble if he tried. No, he had to get a message giving the place's location to the army somehow, either through Landrum and Celia in Truscott or through Fox back up at Fort Supply. Truscott was quite a bit closer, but there would be no troops there.

  He took a deep breath. "Well, Sun Woman, my name is Glidinghawk. The white man knows me as Gerald Glidinghawk. I was born an Omaha."

  "You sound like white man now," she said coolly.

  "I lived among them for many years and went to their schools," he explained. "But I am an Indian, and I want to be your friend."

  She snorted. "Sun Woman have no friends."

  "That's a shame. A woman like you should have many friends."

  The door of the cabin opened suddenly, and Arlie Moody strode out onto the porch. His eyes flicked from side to side, noting where Glidinghawk and Sun Woman stood, and the Omaha was glad he had kept a respectable distance between himself and the squaw. He thought he could work on her, maybe get her on his side, but he didn't want to move too fast. That would only frighten Sun Woman and probably make Arlie want to put a slug in him.

  "How's your brother?" Glidinghawk asked quickly, to get Arlie's mind off of any suspicions he might have.

  "Reckon he'll be all right," Arlie said. "Ma says he will anyway, and Ma usually gets what she wants."

  "I'm afraid your mother doesn't like me. Perhaps it would be best if I moved on."

  "The hell it would," Arlie grunted. "We needed help to start with, and now with Benton laid up for a while, you're goin' to come in right handy 'round here, mister. Don't you mind Ma's talkin' none. She don't like Injuns, never has since the Comanch' killed our pa. But she won't bother you if you just stay out of her way."

  "Ill try to do that," Glidinghawk said dryly.

  There was a lantern hanging on a peg beside the door. Arlie picked it up, struck a match, and lit it. The shadows of evening had gathered while Glidinghawk and Sun Woman were talking, and now the lantern gave off a welcome circle of light.

  "Come on," Arlie said. "Might as well show you around whilst Ma's fussin' and frettin' over Benton."

  Leaving the Indian woman on the porch, Glidinghawk followed Arlie toward the other building. Arlie went on, "Reckon you met Sun Woman back there. She's my squaw, Glidinghawk, and you'd best remember that."

  "I have no wish to cause trouble."

  "Good," Arlie grunted. "All us boys got squaws from up in Injun Territory. We do a good trade in 'em, and we all like to sample the best 'uns for a while."

  "I understand." Glidinghawk kept his voice calm, hiding the seething rage he felt building up inside.

  This was rapidly becoming more than just another mission to him. He was developing a genuine hatred for Arlie Moody and the other members of his clan. . . .

  The smaller building had no windows. Arlie swung open the door and stepped inside, motioning for Glidinghawk to follow him.

  Inside was one large room. To one side was a huge metal drum with a fire under it. This was the boiler, Glidinghawk knew. Coils of copper tubing led from the top of it, winding around to drip into a heavy barrel like the ones Glidinghawk had helped unload up in Indian Territory. This massive still was the source of the illegal liquor that was flooding into the Nations, and from what Sun Woman had said, Glidinghawk guessed that the still was probably kept going nearly all the time.

  There were two Indian women standing near the fire, keeping an eye on it. They didn't even glance at Arlie and Glidinghawk as the two men came into the room. Evidently they knew their place quite well.

  Neither of these women was as attractive as Sun Woman, but both were fairly young and slim. They would fetch a decent price when the Moody brothers tired of them and decided to sell them as prostitutes or virtual slaves.

  "Ever seen such a still before?" Arlie asked, pride in his voice.

  "I don't believe I've ever seen one quite so large," Glidinghawk answered. "How much whiskey can it turn out?"

  "More'n enough for them red brethren of yours north of the Red River." Arlie laughed shortly. "We supply the whole damn Territory. When Ma first got the idea of buildin' this still, there was several other fellers in the whiskey business up in the Nations. All of 'em have retired permanent-like now."

  Glidinghawk knew what he meant. The Moodys had killed off all the competition. That didn't surprise him. He had never encountered a group that seemed as ruthless as this frontier family.

  Arlie quickly explained the operation of the still, although Glidinghawk was already familiar with the mechanics of the liquor-producing apparatus. He kept quiet while Arlie talked and let his mind wander back to the other cabin.

  With Benton Moody laid up, that left three Moody brothers and the old woman to defend the place. Glidinghawk didn't think the squaws would take a hand in any battle. If the army could raid the place, it would probably all be over quickly.

  Even he and Landrum might be able to take on the Moodys in an emergency, he thought. The odds would not be good, but it could be done. He sensed that Arlie was the most dangerous of the brothers, even though he had not yet met the fourth brother, Claude. Ma Moody was an enigma. She did not look particularly dangerous, but Glidinghawk had an uneasy feeling that he would not want her skulking around behind his back.

  As an afterthought, Arlie introduced the two women working at the still. Glidinghawk snapped his attention back to the present as Arlie said. "This here's Crying Dove and Small Tongue. They b'long to Claude and Dirk. Benton's woman is called Calf Moon. He ain't goin' to be in shape to take care of her for a while; you might get a little lovin' there if you need it."

  Glidinghawk smiled, trying to conceal the distaste he felt for the suggestion. "I'll remember that," he said noncommittally.

  "Just don't forget what I told you 'bout Sun Woman."

  "You have nothing to worry about, Arlie," Glidinghawk assured him. "I know better than to cross you."

  "Good," Arlie grunted. "You hungry?"

&nb
sp; "I could eat," Glidinghawk admitted.

  Arlie jerked his head toward the door. "I'll have Sun Woman rustle us some grub. Come on."

  Again Glidinghawk followed while Arlie carried the lantern. When they reached the porch of the main cabin, Arlie said, 'You best wait out here a minute. I'll make sure Ma's busy with Benton. Wouldn't want her takin' her carbine after you."

  Glidinghawk smiled thinly. "No, indeed."

  Arlie vanished into the house, taking the lantern with him, and Glidinghawk stood on the porch, gazing out at the night. Darkness had fallen completely now, and the stars were brilliant dots high overhead in the clear sky.

  It was going to be a pretty night, Glidinghawk thought.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd stood there before the door opened again and Sun Woman stepped out onto

  the porch. She carried a plate of food in her hands, and the smells drifting from it were enough to remind Glidinghawk that he had not eaten since the middle of the day. A long time, and a long way back up the trail.

  "Here," Sun Woman said flatly. "You eat."

  Glidinghawk took the plate. "Thank you," he said solemnly. "I take it the old lady is still on the warpath, so to speak, when it comes to my presence."

  Sun Woman frowned and shook her head. "You talk strange. Ma very angry, if that is what you ask. Better you stay outside tonight."

  "All right, but it's liable to get a little chilly before morning," Glidinghawk said around a mouthful of stew that tasted as good as it smelled.

  "Sun Woman fix that," she declared. Glidinghawk frowned, unsure what she'd meant, as she disappeared into the house. She came back a moment later and shoved a blanket into his hands. "There!"

  Glidinghawk tried not to feel too disappointed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN