Kill the Indian

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Pale Eyes could not or would not understand the ways of The People. They would not sit Yellow Bear down so that he was facing east, to begin the journey to join his ancestors. Back home, along Cache Creek, Yellow Bear’s belongings would be burned. Daniel regretted that they had traveled by train. Else, they could have killed one of Yellow Bear’s best ponies to carry him to The Land Beyond The Sun.

  Besides, what did these Pale Eyes know about mourning?

  The thought stopped Daniel, and he glanced at his hands, his arms. He had forgotten, too. He should draw blood, cut a gash down his forearms. Maybe chop off his hair, or the tip of a finger. Anything to show how much he had loved Yellow Bear. That was how The People mourned. And they would never speak the name of Yellow Bear again.

  Mourning would have to wait.

  Refusing to look at the bed where Yellow Bear had died, or at the gas lamps that had killed him, and maybe would finally kill Quanah Parker, Daniel walked across the room. He stopped at the table. The belongings of both Yellow Bear and Quanah had been moved to the room shared by Isa-tai and Nagwee, but the brass key remained on the table. He picked it up, looked back at the door, and laid it on the table, then moved to the window.

  It remained open, but Daniel pushed it shut. That’s how he had found it. He knelt and studied the reddish print on the glass.

  “What are you doing, kid?”

  When Daniel turned, he saw Captain Lee Hall standing in the doorway, hat in one hand at his side, the other with a thumb hooked in his waistband.

  Daniel closed the window all the way, and stood.

  “It’s a little hot, isn’t it?” Captain Hall said. “Don’t you think you’d better leave that open?”

  “Exactly,” Daniel said, but walked away from the closed window. He stopped beside the table.

  Lee Hall stepped through the doorway. His face had been curious, friendly, but the expression quickly changed. “I asked you a question. What are you doing in here?”

  Daniel’s fingers climbed up his vest, and he tapped the shield badge pinned on the lapel. “I am what they call a Metal Shirt. You, too, were once one.”

  “Meaning a Texas Ranger, that’s right. I told you that already. But you best speak straight to me, Killstraight.”

  Daniel pointed to the lamps. “This was no accident.”

  Lee Hall’s mouth dropped open. He started to say something, shook his head, and leaned against the wall next to the open door. He ran fingers through his red hair, swallowed, and inhaled deeply. After holding the breath, he let it out slowly, and once more shook his head.

  “Son,” he said, sounding much like a School Father who did not wish to scold an ignorant child, “I know this has been a terrible shock. But here’s what happened … Quanah was asleep. Yellow Bear came back. He dressed for bed, went to the lamps, and, tragically, thinking they were coal oil, blew them out. He went to sleep, and the gas killed him. The gas would have killed Quanah, but it looks like Yellow Bear, maybe in his death throes, kicked Quanah out of bed. Quanah must have tried for the door, but couldn’t make it. The fact that his head was close to the crack between the door and floor likely saved him. Maybe. We’ll see.”

  Daniel nodded. Yes, this Texas Ranger was a good detective. Perhaps as good as Hugh Gunter or Deputy US Marshal Harvey P. Noble.

  “So you see,” Captain Hall said, “it was an accident.”

  Now Daniel shook his head. “No accident.” He pointed to the window. “That’s how the window was when we entered the room this morning. Only it was latched shut, too.”

  The former Ranger pulled on his hat. “So?”

  “It was hot. Very hot. The newspaper this morning said the temperature reached one hundred and seven. Hot. It did not cool down much at night. Even the body of the one who is no more”—he wondered if Lee Hall would understand this need not to speak Yellow Bear’s name—“was wet with sweat when we discovered him.”

  “So they got hot.”

  “Hotter upstairs here than downstairs. So hot I woke up in the middle of the night. After three o’clock. My window was open. Everybody’s window was open. Everybody’s but in this room.”

  Outside, a horse whinnied, followed by loud curses, and a whistle. Inside, Isa-tai sang, and Nagwee shook his gourd.

  “I don’t know, Killstraight. Maybe Yellow Bear had so much ice cream last night, he felt cold. He came in, closed the window, blew out the lamps. And died. An accident. Not murder.”

  Only now Lee Hall sounded as if he were trying to convince himself of it.

  “Shortly after I woke,” Daniel said, “I was leaning out the window, trying to cool off, and I heard a door open and close. This door.” He pointed at the broken one the manager of the Pickwick had said he’d have to hire a carpenter to repair.

  “Yellow Bear coming back from his night on the town,” Captain Hall pointed out.

  “According to the cowboy, Briggs,” Daniel countered, “Yellow Bear was back here at midnight.” He pointed at the dresser. “That clock put the time at between three-fifteen and three-thirty.”

  Glancing at the Progressor, Captain Hall pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket. “Then that clock’s …” He didn’t finish. Instead, after looking at his timepiece, he slid the watch back into the pocket. “George Briggs could have been mistaken. Yellow Bear might not have been in his cups, but Briggs most definitely was.”

  That was one point Daniel could not dismiss.

  “And another thing.” Lee Hall had gathered up some steam. He pointed at the brass key. “The door was locked, wasn’t it? That’s why Richard had to kick open the door.”

  Daniel gave him a Comanche stare and let the Tejano Metal Shirt continue.

  “Locked.” Hall nodded. “That means Yellow Bear got here, locked the door, closed the window. Blew out the lamps. And died.”

  Daniel said nothing.

  Captain Hall let out a mirthless chuckle. “I suppose you think the killer came in, locked the door behind him, blew out the lamps, crawled through the window, closed the window behind him, somehow managed to latch it shut, too. And drop, what, twenty, thirty feet, into the alley? Something like that?”

  Shaking his head, Daniel picked up the key, tossed it, caught it, and held it between his fingers.

  “The one who has joined his ancestors would not know what to do with this. Even I do not lock my door. Even Quanah, who lives in the Star House that you and other ranchers had built for him, he does not lock his doors. It is not the way of The People.” He let the key fall back to the table.

  “Then how did the door get locked?”

  Daniel had been thinking about this. After they had found the door locked this morning, Flint had suggested that there would have been another key at the Pickwick Hotel, which managed the rental of the rooms above the Taylor & Barr mercantile. Daniel had stayed in enough hotels to understand that getting a key from behind the registration desk at night was not that difficult. The killer could have stolen the key, unlocked the door, blown out the gas lamps, locked the door behind him, and left the key back in its proper place.

  Or there could have been another key.

  Or …

  “One of us could have put the key on the table when we came into the room this morning? Is that right, Daniel?”

  Charles Flint stepped inside, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. His tone had been far from friendly, but Daniel could not deny that was his thinking.

  “Everybody was in the room,” Daniel said evenly. “Everybody but you, Captain Hall.”

  Hall straightened. “I was in here, too.”

  “Yes, but I had seen the key before. You had remained outside, did not come until the cowboy, Briggs, told you what was going on when he ran to get the doctor.”

  Hall blinked. “I could have stolen the key from the clerk at the Pickwick,” he said. “Nobody really needed that key.” He pointed at the one on the table.

  Daniel smiled. Yes, this taibo was a good detective.

  “Danie
l,” Charles Flint said as he slid the handkerchief into his trousers pocket, “who would have wanted to see Yellow Bear dead?”

  Daniel grimaced. Flint had traveled the white man’s road far too long, had forgotten that The People respected those who had joined their ancestors too much to speak their names among the living.

  “Not him,” Daniel said. He jutted his jaw toward the room across the hall where Nagwee and Isa-tai tried to bring Quanah back from death.

  “Quanah?” Charles Flint stared out the door.

  “Sure.” Lee Hall’s head bobbed in agreement. “Yeah, we treat Quanah like royalty now, but I warrant there are plenty of folks in Fort Worth who’d like to see Quanah dead. Or any Comanch’. Your people made things rough on our settlers for a number of years. And what you did to our women …”

  Charles Flint bristled. “Your people made things rough on us Comanches, too.”

  “I won’t argue that.” Hall sighed. “All right. I still think this was a terrible accident. How do you prove it was murder and attempted murder?”

  To that question, Daniel had no answer. He wasn’t even sure where to begin.

  “Who are your suspects?” Hall continued. “I think you’re wrong about the killer leaving the key here this morning. None of us had reason to kill either Quanah or Yellow Bear.”

  Daniel tried to put this delicately. “There is the matter of The Big Pasture.”

  “Quanah was going to sign the lease agreement, Killstraight,” Hall said. The Tejano did not like the accusation. “The association had no reason …”

  “The agreement was not signed,” Daniel pointed out. “It might not have been signed. Might not be signed. And there is the other one.”

  “Sol Carmody? That rapscallion?” Hall started to shake his head, but stopped. He whispered the name again: “Carmody.”

  “It is not Carmody that Daniel means,” Charles Flint said. “Is it?”

  Silence. Even the singing and rattling of the gourd across the hallway had stopped.

  “He means my father,” Flint said. “Bávi, you are wrong!”

  Maybe. Daniel said nothing, but he intended to ask Nagwee not to leave Quanah alone with Isa-tai.

  Chapter Ten

  He had filled three pages of the Old Glory tablet, but as he reread his notes, Daniel decided what he had written added up to nothing.

  The Progressor said it was 10:18. Yawning, Daniel pushed himself up, and decided to check on Quanah. He opened the door, and stopped.

  The door across the hall was shut. He stepped to it, put his ear against the wood, listening. Nothing from inside, though the sound from Hell’s Half Acre echoed through the open windows.

  “I am stupid,” he said aloud, and returned to his room, grabbed his hat, two pencils, and the writing tablet, and hurried down the hall.

  * * * * *

  “If you do not leave, you will force me to call a constable and have you arrested.”

  The Pickwick Hotel manager’s beady eyes looked past Daniel toward the main door, as if hoping to summon a police officer.

  “My request is not unreasonable,” Daniel said again, not angrily, not pleadingly, but firmly.

  “You will leave here.” The manager wiped his waxed mustache, then ran a hand over his sweating pate. “I will call the police.”

  Daniel could feel the stares of patrons, but would not waver. “There are five rooms at the Taylor and Barr building,” he said for the umpteenth time. Umpteenth. Another fine taibo word. One of the School Mothers at Carlisle had used it often: “Daniel, I’ve told you for the umpteenth time …”

  “Boy …”

  Daniel silenced him with a finger. “Five rooms. Four you let to us. Who was registered to the fifth room? That is all I need to know.”

  “For one thing, boy, it is not the policy of this hotel to give just anyone personal information about our guests.” His tone had turned nasal and nasty. “Carlos, go fetch a copper.”

  Again, Daniel tapped his badge. “I am a peace officer.”

  “Peace officer my ass,” the manager said. “Injun copper. What a joke.” He shook his fist at Daniel’s face. “You get out this moment. This is a respectable hotel.”

  Feeling his face flush, Daniel stepped back. Had School Father Pratt and those other teachers not taught him the white man’s way, he would have struck the manager right then and there. Yet what honor could be found in counting coup on a worthless specimen like this sweating knave who did not even have enough hair to scalp?

  “What’s the problem here, Andy?”

  Daniel sighed, resigned to the fact that he was about to be arrested. That would bring shame to School Father Pratt, to Agent Joshua Biggers, but he knew he had been in the right. All he wanted was an answer to an important question.

  “This red devil’s just being a nuisance, Billy. I’ve asked Carlos to bring in a policeman.”

  Turning just enough to see the newcomer, Daniel recognized him. He wasn’t a peace officer at all, but the newspaper reporter from the Dallas Herald. Kyne. William J. Kyne, who extended his right hand toward Daniel.

  “It’s Killstraight, right?”

  He stared at the hand, but did not accept it, expecting some ruse from this taibo.

  The reporter didn’t seem to be offended. Maybe newspaper reporters were used to such treatment. Instead, the right hand reached for a pencil tucked above his ear, and the left brought up a writing tablet. An Old Glory, with pages filled with indecipherable scratch marks.

  “Billy,” the Pickwick’s manager began, “don’t give this heathen …”

  “Quiet, Andy. Just give me a minute here. What’s troubling you, Killstraight?”

  Daniel remained mute.

  The reporter returned the pencil to his ear, and set the Old Glory tablet on the registration desk. “All right. This ain’t for the record. But I remember you at Norma’s Café this afternoon when we were having dinner. I could tell something troubled you. Something about what happened to Quanah and that other ol’ bird.” He looked at the Pickwick manager. “Yes, sir, I could see why you wouldn’t want to help out this detective, Andy. One guest dead. Another in a coma and likely not long for this world. It would be a shame if the Pickwick Hotel got sued by the Comanche nation. And it sure won’t look good when all those Indian-loving Eastern papers like the Boston Tribune and Harper’s Weekly start running articles about how the Pickwick killed Quanah Parker, chief of the Comanches.”

  “We are not responsible …”

  “You didn’t tell the Comanches that those lamps were gas.”

  “Those rooms are owned by the Taylor and Barr …”

  “But they’re managed by you boys.” Kyne picked up the Old Glory, thumbed to a blank page. “Your mother was raped, killed, scalped, and mutilated by the Comanches, ain’t that right, Andy?”

  “My mother’s alive and well in Mobile, Alabama.”

  “She won’t be in the Dallas Herald. She’ll be a motive that led to the death of Quanah Parker. That’s the story that’ll go out on the wires, that’s the story all those Eastern papers’ll pick up, and by the time you see a retraction, you’ll be out of a job, my friend.”

  Daniel’s head spun. He didn’t know what to make of this conversation at all. The manager swore, and both hands dropped below the counter, returning with a leather-bound book, which he opened. He flipped to a page, turned the book around, and shoved it toward the Herald reporter.

  “There, you son-of-a-bitch. See for yourself. Nobody. Nobody stayed in Room Four last night. Or tonight. Or the night before.”

  Billy Kyne leaned forward. He wet his lips, and turned the book toward Daniel. “Can you read, Killstraight?”

  The date marked under CHECKED IN was yesterday. Rooms 1, 2, 3, and 5 were marked “N. TEXAS STOCK GRW ASSN,” and he could make out the handsome, almost feminine scroll of Lee Hall. No one had registered for Room 4. Daniel flipped back a page, then another. No one had stayed in Room 4 since July 2nd, and that was a man whose name, f
rom what Daniel could make out, was Carmichael and who lived in Chicago.

  “Satisfied?” The manager slammed the register shut, and drew it sharply off the desk, shoving it back onto a shelf underneath.

  “The bed had been slept in,” Daniel said. “The door was open.”

  “Get out of here!” the manager snapped. “Both of you. Especially you, Billy. You’ve worn out your welcome with me, you callous bastard.”

  Billy Kyne grinned. Putting his arm around Daniel’s shoulder, he steered a path through the crowded lobby until they stepped outside onto the Third Street boardwalk.

  “A copper’s coming, lad,” Kyne muttered. “Let’s go back to your room before we both get hauled to the calaboose.”

  * * * * *

  Daniel stopped in front of Room 4, and gripped the knob. He turned it, pushed, and the door opened.

  A match flared, and Billy Kyne stepped inside. He wasn’t in the room long, before he shook it out, tossed the Lucifer into a cuspidor, and walked back into the lighted hallway.

  “I tell you,” Daniel said, reading the doubt in the reporter’s face, “when I woke this morning, the door was open, the bed unmade.”

  “I don’t disbelieve you a moment, Killstraight.” He pointed across the hall. “That your room? Let’s sit in there for a few minutes and figure out where you’re headed.”

  * * * * *

  A carpenter had repaired the door to Room 3, but to Daniel’s surprise it was unlocked, too. Billy Kyne stepped through, and stared at the door.

  “So you say Comanches don’t lock their doors?”

  Daniel nodded. “It is not our way.”

  “That’s interesting,” the reporter said, “but it doesn’t mean much. A fellow, even an Indian, would be a fool to keep his door unlocked in this part of town. It’s called Hell’s Half Acre for a reason, you know.”

  Kyne moved to the wall lamp closest to the door. He turned the knob, bathing the room in yellow light. Daniel moved to the window, and felt some measure of relief.

  If he had imagined the open door and unmade bed, at least he had not dreamed this. He pointed to the smudge, and Billy Kyne joined him.