Until Darkness Disappears (A Saga of Texas)

by Will Cook

  TO BEAT THE BANDITS

  Manners knew that the raid had been a decoy, suspected it before he ever left the ranger camp, yet he had to play the game and hope he could turn it into his favor. The men he had left behind would put up a strong fight, and they might hold the bandits at bay until he could charge from the rear.

  Never before had he been given the opportunity to conduct a military maneuver against the Mexican raiders. The rangers were always outnumbered in a headlong fight. Most of the time the bandits had disappeared by the time the law arrived on the scene. This time, he believed, it would be another story. He skirted the town with his men, riding across country, cutting three fences and fording two creeks to do it, and, as he neared the ranger camp, he heard the rattle of gunfire and the sharp chatter of a machine gun.

  Other books by Will Cook:

  UNTIL DAY BREAKS

  THE DEVIL’S ROUNDUP

  ELIZABETH, BY NAME

  SABRINA KANE

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2001 by David Cook

  An earlier version of A Saga of Texas appeared variously in installments. Copyright © 1959 by The Curtis Publishing Company.

  Copyright © 1960 by Will Cook. Copyright © 1961 by Will Cook.

  Copyright © renewed 1987, 1988, 1989 by Theola G. Lewis.

  Copyright © 2001 by David Cook for restored material.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477836552

  ISBN-10: 1477836551

  Resting here until day breaks and

  shadows fall and darkness disappears.

  –from the gravestone of Quanah Parker

  This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.

  Contents

  PART ONE: 1880

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  PART TWO: 1905

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  PART ONE

  1880

  Chapter One

  For two days Lieutenant Beeman and his detail remained in the field. They called on a rancher named Gunderson who had beef for sale, made the arrangements, and went on to another place owned by a man named Stivers. The news of Skinner’s defeat seemed to have traveled fast, and by the second day Beeman was being welcomed as a Messiah. By the time he turned back toward the reservation he felt certain that the Skinner trouble was pretty much over.

  They were well south of headquarters, and Beeman decided to stretch the ride out so that they arrived quite late. He expected the offices to be dark, but as they rode across the parade ground, he found the place bustling with activity. Two squads of Indian police were being formed, and rifles were being issued. He swung down, told Huckmyer to dismiss the detail, and went on into Lovering’s office.

  The agent was dressed as though he had been summoned from bed. The top of his nightshirt was stuffed into his pants, and he kept tugging at his suspenders as he dashed about giving orders. Then he saw Beeman coming down the hall, and Lovering’s face was a sunburst of relief.

  He took hold of Beeman by both arms. “Thank God, you’ve come back!”

  “What’s going on here, Mister Lovering?”

  “All hell’s broken loose,” Lovering said. He propelled Beeman into his office and closed the door. A woman sat in a chair, her head down, hair falling forward to hide her face. Two Indian policemen were guarding her, and Lovering waved them out.

  He kicked the door shut and went back to his desk for a cigar that he lighted swiftly and drew on with furious puffs. Beeman looked at the woman and asked: “Is she a prisoner?”

  “Of course, she is! What the hell do you think?” He curbed his temper and drew on his cigar. “Skinner is dead. I expect his cowboys to ride onto the reservation any minute.”

  “Let’s try and get this straight,” Beeman said, forcing himself not to hurry it. He thought of what Major Jim Gary would do. Be calm. Take one thing at a time. Be cool-headed. Get the facts straight.

  He walked over and lifted the woman’s head so he could look at her face. After studying her a moment, he said: “She’s not Indian. Mister Lovering, call your policemen in here and have them fill your tub so she can take a bath. Send a man to the commissary stores for some kind of a clean dress. Get a ribbon for her hair. Women like something pretty.”

  Lovering’s jaw dropped. “Have you lost your mind? With Skinner’s men on the way… ?”

  “You’re wasting time,” Beeman said calmly, and polished his glasses.

  With a sigh of resignation, Lovering flung open the door and gave the orders. Then he went over and sat on the edge of his desk. Pails of water were brought in and carried to his room at the back. The woman was taken there, and the door was closed. Another policeman came with a light blue dress and a ribbon. Lovering took them to the back room, rapped at the door, and thrust them through the crack that appeared when the door was opened slightly.

  When he came back, Beeman said: “Now, suppose you tell me what you know of this?”

  “Skinner came back on the reservation,” Lovering said. “He was alone. It isn’t all clear to me, but he got into a quarrel with her man and killed him. Then she took a piece of firewood and beat Skinner’s brains out. Hell of a ruckus! Finally the police came and brought her here. Skinner and her man are both over at the doctor’s house covered with a blanket.”

  “And just how do you figure the word got back to Skinner’s men?”

  Lovering flung his hands wide. “How in hell do I know? I’ve never understood this damned word-of-mouth telegraph they have out here, but news travels fast. That I do know.”

  “All right, we won’t worry about that for the time being,” Beeman said.

  “Won’t worry? You may not worry, but I’m sure . . . .”

  “Mister Lovering, try to be calm,” Beeman said, surprised that this suggestion had a soothing effect upon himself. He went to the door of the room at the back and tapped. “Please don’t dawdle in there,” he suggested.

  He came back and found Lovering, standing there and gnawing on his cigar. “Damn it, anyway!” Beeman remarked. “There’s always trouble when a white woman lives with an Indian. God-damned cowboys, always raising hell. They see a woman, and they’ve got to use their peckers.”

  He turned his head when the door to his room opened, and the woman stepped out. The blue dress was a decent fit, and she had the ribbon tied around her hair that fell damply to her shoulders. Her moccasins padded softly as she step
ped across the room.

  Almost gallantly Beeman said: “Would you please sit down?” He scratched his beard stubble and smiled. “You must pardon my appearance, but I’ve been two days in the field and just returned. May I have your name, please?” He took out a small notebook and a stub of a pencil.

  “I’m called Fawn Eye,” the woman said.

  Beeman toed a chair around and sat down facing her. “It’s obvious to me that you’re not Indian. I’d like your Christian name.”

  She looked at him steadily. She was in her early twenties, and her hair was a tawny brown, naturally wavy, that immediately denied her having any Indian blood. Her eyes were blue. Beeman thought she had a good face—a troubled, worn face, but good. The finger of sorrow had written lines in it, but like all truths they created no ugliness.

  “Emily Brail. What are you going to do to me now?”

  “Why, first, I think we ought to learn what happened.” The front door opened, interrupting Beeman. He looked up as Ben Stagg stepped inside. The old man took in the situation at a glance and moved to a chair and sat down.

  Lovering said: “Where’s Bert Danniel, Stagg?”

  “Couldn’t find him,” the old man said. “Word was that he lit out to Skinner’s place right after the trouble.” He saw Beeman frown and added: “Danniel’s the sub-agent. This whole thing happened in his bailiwick, ’most half a day’s ride from here.”

  “I see,” Beeman said, and turned his attention to the woman. “You were going to tell me what happened.”

  “Was I?” She fell silent for a moment, then shrugged. “What does it matter now? Everything’s lost.”

  “I’m afraid that, in spite of that, we’re going to have to get to the truth of it,” Beeman said. Just then the sergeant of Indian police came in.

  “We ready to go now,” he said, speaking to Lovering.

  “Where is he going?” Beeman asked.

  “Why to meet Skinner’s men!” Lovering snapped. “What did you think?”

  For a moment Beeman stood up with his eyes closed, as though he were engaged in mortal struggle with his temper. Then he said: “In the name of heaven, Lovering, must we resort to shooting? Will you please return your police to barracks and have them rack their arms? My God, man, confront those cowboys with rifles, and you’ll have a bloody war on your hands. Is that what you want? Do you want to include in your report that you lost complete control of the situation?” He slapped his forehead. “Mister Lovering, if you please, go back to bed if you can’t do anything else.” He looked at the Indian sergeant. “Leave. Dismiss your men.”

  Lovering said: “Go on, Sergeant. It’s his responsibility, thank God.”

  After the sergeant left, Beeman turned again to the woman. “You were going to tell me what happened,” he said once more.

  “Skinner came to our camp.”

  “He’d been there before?”

  She nodded, and Beeman, without thinking, plunged on. “Your man was away?”

  “He was there.”

  “Well, certainly the man wouldn’t… ?” He stopped, and his face colored as he groped for words. “Surely the man . . . ?”

  “Fifty cents is a lot of money to an Indian,” Emily Brail said.

  Beeman waved his hand helplessly and went on. “Was there a quarrel between Skinner and your man?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t want Skinner to come back. The last time, when the Army officer hit him and ran him off, he looked at me afterward, and I. decided I didn’t want to see Skinner again or any of the cowboys.”

  “Any of the cowboys?” Beeman said. “Good Lord, Lovering, what are you running here?”

  Ben Stagg slid his easy voice into it. “Don’t talk so green, Lootenant. This has been goin’ on for a long time. She didn’t start it, and she won’t be the end of it. As long as there’s bucks in need of tobacco, there’ll be women on the blankets with the cowboys.” He held up his hand when Beeman opened his mouth to speak. “Boy, she never had any choice. He bought her or stole her in the first place. She’s his property under Indian law to do with as he wants. She’d mind him, or he’d beat her half to death. Likely he’s done it a few times already.” He whittled off a chew of tobacco and popped it into his mouth. “Stick with the killin’.”

  “That does seem like sound advice,” Beeman admitted. “Who started the trouble?” he asked the woman.

  “Pierced Hand ordered Skinner away from the camp,” Emily Brail said. “He struck Pierced Hand, knocked him down. Then Skinner jumped on him with his knife in his hand. I grabbed a piece of wood and hit Skinner, but it was too late. Pierced Hand was dead.”

  “That’s about how we put it together,” Stagg said. “I got there soon after. She was singin’ the death song. Two policemen with me brought her here after we looked for Danniel and couldn’t find him.”

  “He’s finished with the government,” Lovering said. “The man’s picked his side, and he’ll have to make the best of it.” He looked at Emily Brail. “What are you going to do with her, Mister Beeman?”

  “Send her back to Camp Verde. What else can I do?”

  Ben Stagg said: “Her kids, too?”

  It was a thought that had not occurred to Beeman. “Do you have children?”

  Emily Brail nodded. “Two.”

  “Two that lived,” Stagg said softly. “Notice her hands, Lootenant. She’s got three fingers missin’. Each one means a death in the family. My guess is it’d be her kids. Now she’ll go and cut off another finger for her husband. The women do that, you know . . . cut off their own fingers. You ride around the reservation and you’ll see old women with no fingers on either hand. They can’t work or hardly care for themselves, and nobody wants ’em. They grub for scraps like a dog, and they sit wrapped in the dreams of the past and wait to die, hopin’ someone will bury ’em.”

  “She’ll take the children with her,” Beeman said. “Stagg, take two Indian policemen along with you. I’ll have a report to send along to Major Gary.” He held up his hand. “Now, before you tell me the reasons why I shouldn’t do this, let me remind you that this girl has endured enough, and it’s time for her to live quietly on the post, until she can think this out for herself. I’m sure Major Gary would agree with me.”

  “He would all right,” Stagg said. He got up. “You want me to start in the mornin’?”

  “Yes. Lovering, I think we can keep Miss Brail in this building tonight. The normal guard will suffice.” He stretched and rubbed the tight muscles in the small of his back. “I think I’ll take a bath, shave, and get something to eat.”

  Emily Brail said: “How can I go to Camp Verde and live with white people?”

  Beeman gave it some thought, then he said: “Well, I suppose it would be fair of me to ask how you could once have lived with the Indians?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “And I really think you have none now,” Beeman said. “You may want to postpone the date of making the choice, but it will eventually have to be made. I have only tried to help you.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you for letting me take a bath. And it’s a very pretty dress.”

  Beeman went to his quarters and shaved while water was heating. He took a bath, dressed in clean clothes from the skin out, and went to the mess hall where the cooks labored over a late meal. The troopers were just finishing, and Beeman went in and sat down next to Huckmyer. The sergeant started to get up, but Beeman put out his hand and pressed him back.

  “A word, Sergeant. Quite likely the cowboys will show up. Agent Lovering thinks so. I think we’re going to have to give it to them again.”

  “You want me to station the men around the parade ground?”

  “No, I think we’ll have to be more cagey than that.” Beeman thought a moment. “The cowboys are a bold lot. They’ll come right on into the headquarters building and try to run over Lovering. Very well, we’ll let them come in. When they go inside, I want their horses quietly led away. I’ll be inside with Lovering. We
’ll try to keep them busy for a few minutes. Then Geer can quietly bring the detail in through the front and seal off their retreat. No side arms, Sergeant. Just a chunk of lead in a leather glove.”

  “Leave all the details to me, sir.”

  “Fine,” Beeman said. “The men won’t mind this extra duty after making an all-day march of it, will they?”

  Huckmyer grinned. “Sir, I guess they’d jump out of their graves if you yelled attention.”

  “It’s . . . good to have that confidence,” Beeman said, deeply touched.

  “Well, sir, I’ll tell you how it is with officers. Any enlisted man can get along without ’em, but since we got ’em and always will have ’em, we kind of like to think we’ve got the right to decide who’s the good ones and who’s the bad ones. And it’s strictly up to the officer as to which he’ll be.” He seemed to hesitate. “Mind if I just talk out, sir?”

  “You go right ahead.”

  “Well, none of us thought you’d come to a tiddly shit, sir, meanin’ no disrespect. Fact of it was, you’d kind of dogged it until Major Gary took command, and, when you took over the company, we figured we was in for it. But every man’s happy to be dead wrong, and you ask ’em, and they’ll tell you.” He got up and clapped on his forager cap. “I’ve said too much.”

  “You’re a good man, Huckmyer,” Beeman said, “and I’ve yet to see the time when what you had to say wasn’t worth listening to.”

  This pleased the sergeant. He grinned, made a wry face, then hurriedly left the mess hall. The cook came out with Beeman’s plate, and he began eating.

  Lovering came in, his manner highly excited. “For God’s sake, you’re sitting here, feeding your face, and the cowboys are. . . .”

  “Mister Lovering, getting excited isn’t going to change anything.” He took the man by the arm and urged him to sit down. “Let’s look at it this way. The cowboys are going to be all lathered up and excited, aren’t they? So why should we be? Wouldn’t it be better if we were calm and logical?”

  “Friend, you can’t be calm and logical with cowboys.”