Red River Desperadoes

by James Reasoner

  Even with the blanket, Glidinghawk got cold before morning. He slept on the porch, huddled against the wall of the cabin. His slumber was restless, not only because of the uncomfortable bed but because he didn't want Ma Moody sneaking up on him in the night with a butcher knife.

  When the sun was turning the sky pink over the bluffs to the east, Glidinghawk stood up and stretched, trying to get the stiffness out of his muscles. There was a well off to one side of the main cabin; he headed for it, intending to wash his face and wake himself up better.

  The well was surrounded by a low stone wall. A simple windlass arrangement was built over it on a wooden frame. The bucket attached to the rope was sitting on the stone wall.

  Just as Glidinghawk reached the well, the back door of the cabin opened and Sun Woman emerged. She walked toward him carrying a large pan in her hands. Her eyes were downcast, as usual, and she didn't look at him as she came up to the well.

  "Good morning," Glidinghawk said softly.

  Sun Woman made no reply.

  "Come to fetch water?" the Omaha asked, rather stupidly, he thought.

  "Sun Woman make coffee, get meal ready," she said. She stood still, obviously waiting for him to get out of her way.

  Glidinghawk reached out and took the pan from her before she could protest. He set it on the wall, then grasped the rope and let the bucket down into the well. It was a deep hole, he discovered as he waited for the telltale sound of the bucket hitting the water. When it finally came, he let it fill and then began hauling it back up.

  When the nearly full bucket reached the top of the well, Glidinghawk leaned over to grasp its handle and lifted it to pour the rather murky liquid into the pan. He poured out most of the water, leaving a little in the bottom of the bucket. Then he raised it higher and doused his own head. The water was cold, and the sudden shock of it sent a shiver down his spine.

  He dropped the bucket down the well again. Another bucketful would fill Sun Woman's pan, he thought.

  "You not have to help," she said as he let the rope slide through his palms. "This job squaw's work."

  "I don't mind," he said quietly. "I'm glad to help."

  He filled his bucket, pulled it back up, and dumped it into the pan. As he had estimated, that filled the vessel. He placed the bucket back on the wall and then reached out to lift the pan.

  Sun Woman reached for it at the same time, and their hands touched.

  Glidinghawk left his fingers where they were.

  Sun Woman glanced toward the main cabin, then toward the building where the still was located, but she didn't move her hands either. Slowly, her gaze came back to Glidinghawk's face.

  "You should not stay here," she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "You good man. Sun Woman can tell. These people bad. They hurt you, sooner or later."

  "Have they hurt you, Sun Woman?" Glidinghawk's pulse began to speed up as he felt the smooth, warm touch of her fingertips.

  She shook her head. "No one hurt Sun Woman," she said fervently. "No one."

  Her words were determined, but Glidinghawk thought he saw uncertainty in her eyes. She had been hurt in the past, he suspected, and considering the type of man Arlie Moody was, she was probably still being hurt.

  "How in the world did you wind up down here?" he asked, letting his fingers press a little harder against her hands.

  Her gaze dropped again. There was shame in her voice as she said, "Sun Woman's husband drank too much of the white man's firewater, died of the sickness it brought. All of Sun Woman's family dead, nowhere to go, no one to hunt for her food. Chief says tribe cannot help, that Sun Woman must leave. Chief gives squaws to Arlie so Arlie gives chief more whiskey." Her slender shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. "Sun Woman must leave. Nothing else to do."

  Glidinghawk grimaced. It was not that unusual a story. There had been a time when every warrior in a tribe would have died rather than let one of the women be forced into such a squalid existence. But those days were dying, killed by the inexorable advance of white civilization across the country.

  "This is no way to live," Glidinghawk told Sun Woman. "You are the one who should leave this place."

  "Where would Sun Woman go?" she asked bluntly. "Who take care of her?"

  Those were questions he couldn't answer.

  Given the chance, though, he might be able to help her find the answers for herself.

  The creaking of the hinges on the cabin door made Sun Woman jerk back away from him. Some of the water in the pan sloshed over onto Glidinghawk's fingers as he let it go. He looked at the cabin.

  Dirk Moody stepped outside, stumbling slightly as he stretched and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He turned his head toward the well, then started in that direction.

  Sun Woman brushed past him, carrying the pan of water. She did not look at him. Dirk frowned slightly at her back, then continued on to the well.

  "Mornin', Injun," he said, leaning on the stone wall. "Haul me up some water." The tone of command in his voice was blatant.

  "My name is Glidinghawk" the Omaha said stiffly. He longed to pick up the bucket and smash it over Dirk's head.

  "Hell, I know that. You're still an Injun, ain't you?"

  Glidinghawk said nothing.

  "You goin' to get that water for me?" Dirk asked truculently. "Or am I goin' to have to teach you a lesson?"

  His face stony, Glidinghawk reached out and picked up the bucket, then began letting it down the well.

  As he lowered the bucket, Dirk asked him, "What were you doin' out here with Arlie's squaw?"

  "She came to get water," Glidinghawk said simply. "I helped her."

  "Why'n the hell would you want to do that?" Dirk sounded genuinely puzzled.

  "I was here getting water for myself. It was no problem to do it for her as well." Glidinghawk heard the bucket reach the water at the bottom of the well. He pulled up slightly on the rope to tip the bucket and let it begin to fill.

  "Yeah, but if a squaw don't have to do her work, after a while she starts gettin' lazy. Then you got to whomp 'em around some to put the fear o' God back in 'em."

  "The fear of your violence, you mean," Glidinghawk said coldly.

  Dirk grinned hugely. "Redskin, to them squaws, a white man is God. You might ought to remember that."

  Glidinghawk hauled the bucket up in silence, then set it on the wall and turned away.

  Dirk called after him, "Best stay away from Arlie's woman. He don't like folks messin' with what's his."

  "Ill remember that," Glidinghawk said without looking around.

  He walked back to the cabin and circled around it, stepping up onto the porch again. As he did so, the front door opened and Ma Moody emerged quickly. There was a shotgun in her hands.

  Glidinghawk stopped short, about eight feet from her. Her eyes locked on his face, wide and staring and, at that moment, absolutely insane.

  The barrels of the shotgun jerked up toward him.

  Glidinghawk's reflexes took over. With an involuntary shout, he threw himself to the side, diving over the porch railing. The shotgun blasted deafeningly, and he heard the buckshot whistling past him. None of the pellets seemed to hit him, though —at least he didn't think so in the split second before he slammed heavily and painfully into the ground.

  He scrambled to the side, unsure whether the old woman had fired both barrels or only one. As Glidinghawk glanced over his shoulder at her, he saw that she was tracking him with the gun and that he was not going to be able to get out of range in time.

  There was a flicker of movement in the doorway behind Ma Moody, and Arlie was suddenly there, reaching over her shoulder to grasp the barrels of the shotgun. He wrenched upward as she touched off the second shell. The weapon thundered again, but this load of shot pelted into the flimsy roof overhanging the porch. Splinters showered down around Arlie and his crazed mother.

  "Ma!" he yelled as he twisted the shotgun out of her grasp. "What the blue blazes are you doin', Ma?"
/>
  The old woman lunged with surprising speed toward him, reaching out for the butt of the pistol hanging on his hip. "It's a redskin!" she screeched. 'They've come back for the rest of your pa!"

  "No, Ma!" Arlie told her urgently. "That's Glidinghawk. He works for us. He's a good Injun, Ma."

  From his sprawled position on the ground, Glidinghawk watched in morbid fascination as Arlie held on to his mother and kept her from getting her clawlike fingers on any other weapons. He continued talking, assuring her that Glidinghawk was friendly and no threat. The old woman kept casting wild-eyed glances at the Omaha, but slowly she calmed down and finally let Arlie slip his arm around her shoulders and turn her toward the doorway.

  "Sun Woman!" he called sharply.

  The Indian woman appeared at the door, and Arlie turned his mother over to her. Sun Woman gently steered Ma Moody into the cabin.

  Arlie came down the porch steps, still carrying the shotgun. Glidinghawk had gotten to his feet by now and was brushing some of the clinging red dust from his buckskins.

  "Reckon Ma must've spotted you through the window and forgot you wasn't a heathen savage," Arlie said. "She probably figgered you was one of the Comanch', come back to finish the job on Pa."

  "Finish the job?" Glidinghawk asked dubiously.

  Arlie shrugged his shoulders. "They carved him up pretty good. They must've hacked off a few parts here and there and carried 'em off, 'cause Ma never found all of him. She was by herself, you know. Me 'n' the boys was all off somewheres when the Injuns came. Ma hid under the cabin until they was through with Pa and had rid off. She dug the grave by herself and put him in it." Slowly, Arlie shook his head. "She ain't never been right since then. Might've been better if the redskins had found her, or if they'd burned down the cabin right over her. Would've spared her some pain."

  Glidinghawk took a deep breath. He had not been expecting such a story, but the incident that Arlie described was not that unusual on the frontier. There had been instances of incredible violence and brutality on both sides out here. The right and wrong of a thing was hardly an issue anymore — survival was what counted.

  "Anyway, I'm sorry Ma let loose at you with that greener," Arlie went on. "That's why I said you'd best keep an eye out and try to steer clear of her."

  "I'll be more careful from now on" Glidinghawk promised him.

  Arlie's voice hardened. "Dirk says you was out at the well with Sun Woman when he got up. Thought I told you about that last night, Glidinghawk."

  "All I did was haul up some water for her," Glidinghawk said wearily. "It was no trouble."

  "Dirk thought the two of you was talkin' quite a bit."

  Glidinghawk shrugged. "I was just trying to be friendly."

  "Well, you can just forget that," Arlie told him icily. "That squaw don't need no friends, especially not some young redskinned buck like you, mister."

  For a moment, Glidinghawk's carefully maintained control almost slipped away. He thought fondly of what it would feel like to smash his fist into Arlie's ugly face. But then he said, "I have told you that I will not bother your woman. What else do you want from me?"

  "That's all," Arlie said. "That, and do what I tell you when it comes to brewin' and deliverin' that whiskey to the Nations." He jerked his head toward the cabin. "Come on, no hard feelin's. Let's go get us some breakfast."

  That sounded better to Glidinghawk than he had expected it to. He fell in beside Arlie Moody and walked toward the cabin, already smelling the intermingled aroma of biscuits, bacon, and coffee that drifted from the shack.

  "Any of that buckshot hit you?" Arlie asked.

  Glidinghawk shook his head. "I was lucky. She would have hit me with the second barrel if you hadn't stopped her. I appreciate that."

  Arlie waved a hand said, "Hell, no thanks necessary. Like I told you, we need you 'round here right now."

  "How is your brother Benton this morning?"

  "Reckon he's doin' as well as could be expected. He was a mite restless durin' the night, but if we don't run out of whiskey, he'll get the rest he needs. And we ain't likely to be runnin' out!" Arlie laughed.

  When they reached the cabin, Arlie told Glidinghawk to wait on the porch for a moment. He disappeared inside, then came back shortly to say, "Ma's layin' down in her room. Reckon it'd be safe enough for you to come in and eat. I don't think she can get her hands on anything to kill you with, even if she does see you."

  Glidinghawk didn't feel too reassured by Arlie's words, but he let himself be ushered into the cabin. The smell of breakfast was just too tempting to resist. He remembered that Sun Woman had said she prepared the meals.

  He expected the food to be good, and he was right. The bacon was crisp and flavorful, the biscuits light and fluffy. And the coffee, while strong, had a surprisingly good taste.

  Glidinghawk sat at a long, roughly hewn table with Arlie, Dirk, and Claude. This was the first time he had met the fourth Moody brother, who had evidently come in late during the night. He was a good match for his brothers, big and brawny, with dark hair and a heavy beard stubble. The family resemblance between all of them was strong.

  The Omaha was a bit surprised that they allowed him to eat at the same table with them, but evidently Arlie had laid down the law to Dirk and Claude. Glidinghawk was not to be bothered as long as he stayed in line.

  He saw one of the squaws who had been minding the still the night before, and a second one whom he didn't recognize. Claude's woman, no doubt. They served the food, bringing it on big platters from the kitchen where Sun Woman prepared it.

  When the meal was over, Arlie scraped his chair back and stood up. "Come on, Glidinghawk," he said, reaching for his hat and taking a Winchester from a rack near the door.

  "Where are we going?" Glidinghawk asked.

  "You'll be standin' guard some of the time. Figgered you should get the lay of the land."

  That made sense. Glidinghawk followed the oldest brother out of the cabin. Arlie nodded toward the corral. "Saddle us up a couple of horses," he said.

  Glidinghawk complied, and a few minutes later, the two men rode away from the cabin, heading south. They crossed the rocky flats between the cabin and the bluffs that surrounded it on three sides. Glidinghawk realized that their destination was the narrow canyon cut into the bluff to the south.

  "The back door?" he asked, nodding toward the canyon.

  "Or the front, dependin' on where you're comin' from," Arlie replied. "The town of Truscott is down that way a few miles. Ever" so often we get folks ridin' out from there. You'll be keepin' an eye on the canyon part of the time, and your job is to watch for anybody who don't belong, who don't have a good reason for bein' out here in the Brakes."

  "And if I see someone like that, what do I do?"

  Arlie cast a disgusted look over at Glidinghawk as he rode along. "What do you do?" he exclaimed. "Well, what the hell do you think you're supposed to do?" He snorted. "You kill the sons of bitches, that's what you do!"

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The morning after the scalped man had come stumbling into the Shamrock Saloon, Landrum Davis headed back to O'Leary's. He had a pounding headache, partly from the liquor he had consumed the night before, partly because he hadn't slept well.

  Bloody visions had kept haunting his dreams.

  Finally, after the third or fourth time he had jerked upright in bed, eyes wide and staring, Landrum had given up. He got up, brewed coffee, and sat at the kitchen table sipping it until Celia came in an hour or so after dawn.

  She was yawning, and her red hair was tousled. Landrum thought she was downright beautiful. "Sleep well?" he asked.

  "Not particularly," Celia answered with a shake of her head. "I kept dreaming about that poor man."

  "Same here."

  Celia lifted the coffeepot from the cast iron stove and poured herself a cup. She was wearing a cotton robe, belted tightly around her trim waist. As she carried the coffee to the table and sat down across from Landrum, she said
, "I would have thought it wouldn't bother you. You must have seen things that bad and worse a lot of times during the War."

  "And afterward, too," Landrum agreed. "When I was with the Rangers, we came on several Indian massacres that were plenty bad. In those days, though, at least we could tell ourselves that the Indians were fighting for what they considered their land, no matter how savagely they did it. Now they're raiding just so that they can get drunk later. It makes a difference."

  Celia nodded. "I can see how it would." A shiver ran through her. "What are we going to do now?"

  "I'm going to go see O'Leary," Landrum said, standing up and reaching for his hat. "Maybe he can give me a lead on the Moodys."

  "What about breakfast?"

  Landrum rubbed a hand over his complaining belly. "I don't think I want any," he said. "Not this morning."

  Maybe he was just getting old, he thought a few minutes later as he walked down the street. He had never been bothered by a queasy stomach when he was younger, no matter what kind of rotgut and bad food he put in there. And he refused even to consider the possibility that it was the nightmares which had upset him.

  He was passing by the First Bank of Truscott when the door of the establishment opened and Randolph Watts stepped out. The banker smiled pleasantly and said, "Good morning, Mr. Davis. How are you enjoying your stay in our fair town?"

  Landrum put the best smile he could muster on his face, even though it wasn't much. "Just fine," he said. "It's a right friendly place."

  "Small towns usually are," Watts declared proudly.

  He was hatless and evidently had just stepped out of the bank for a short constitutional to start the day. He hooked his thumbs in his vest and continued, "I don't mind telling you, I've lived in big cities like Dallas and San Antone, and I wouldn't stay anywhere now but Truscott. No, sir, I sure wouldn't."

  The banker was quite adamant, a little too adamant the way Landrum saw it. Truscott was all right, he supposed, but it was hardly the paradise on earth that Watts made it sound like. The surrounding land was rugged and desolate in most directions, even though there were some good ranches in the vicinity, especially to the south and east.