by Will Cook
Frieda watched him, her expression grave and worried. She was a pretty girl with a small, round face and gentle eyes. “You’ve never talked about her, Papa. I never heard you speak of her. Not once.” She stirred the meat and gravy and spoke without looking at him. “It hurts me to say it, Papa, but I don’t remember her at all.”
He was silent for so long that she looked at him to see what was the matter. Firelight played over the lined planes of his face, and his eyes filled with tears, but they did not fall. “You don’t remember, Frieda, because you never knew her.”
Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times, then she said: “My own mother… ?”
He shook his head slowly, and she said nothing more but waited for him. “She wasn’t your mother,” he said softly. “And I’m not your father. It was almost sixteen years ago when I found you, crying, abandoned on the prairie. You were a tiny thing, in a torn dress, maybe two years old. That was a hard year in Texas for everyone, Frieda. The Kiowas and the renegade Comanches were raiding everywhere. The war was on, and what was left of the settlers and ranchers rode in bunches, hunting them down. We’d been riding three days. Llano Vale, the man I killed today, was leading us. The party split, and, shortly after that, I found you. Everyone thought you were an Indian. You had dark hair, and it was ’long evening time, and your face was so dirty. One man tried to kill you, and I knocked him off his horse, picked you up, and rode back to my place. I’d had enough of it, and I didn’t care what they thought.” He made a motion toward the fire. “Don’t burn the meat, Frieda. I wanted you for my Ilsa. I thought it would make her less unhappy to, have a little girl. When I got home, she was gone. There was a note saying that she would meet Llano Vale in Pecos. But she never got to town. Her horse fell, or she fell. She was dead when searchers found her.” He paused to light the pipe. “Everyone expected me to kill Llano Vale. I suppose most men would have tried, but he was a dangerous man with a reputation for killing, and I packed up and left, taking you with me.”
“Papa, who were my parents?”
“I honestly don’t know, Frieda.”
“Did you ever try to find them?”
“No. But I never heard of anyone asking, either.” He looked at the knees of his overalls. “I’ve done wrong all my life, Frieda. This time I must do right. It won’t make up for anything, but they will catch me and hang me, and I must do the right thing while I can. Llano Vale told me that there is a boy at Camp Verde, in Texas, who lost a sister. She would be about your age, and he says that his sister was lost at the place where I found you, or near there. I’ve been a selfish man, Frieda, with you and with Ilsa. I’m going back, but I want you to take the team and wagon and go on to Camp Verde. Speak to the officer there. Tell him everything. Perhaps some good can come of this.”
“I can’t leave you, Papa.”
“It isn’t really leaving me,” Schneider said. “I’ve stolen from you, Frieda. That’s wrong…. Stay on the east side of the Pecos. Follow the roads. You’ll be all right.” He got the tin box out of the wagon and gave her all the money. “Hide it on you. Don’t get friendly with strangers. There are shells for the shotgun in a box under the seat.”
“Papa, I love you.”
“I know, Frieda. And because I love you, I can do this now.” He sighed and got out the tin plates, and they each took one and began eating.
“I want you to go tonight, Frieda. Drive until you are tired and sleep in the wagon. Don’t sleep on the ground because of the snakes. If it rains, be sure to. . . .”
She put down her plate and hugged him, holding him close. I’ll be all right, Papa. But why must I go tonight?”
“They’re after me by now with a posse,” he said. I’ll stay here by the fire. They’ll find me.” He patted her head. “No one could have loved you more than I have, Frieda. Try to believe that.”
“I do. And I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
After the meal she started to dawdle. She wanted to clean the dishes, to hang back, but he would have none of it. He made her go, because every minute she remained, his resolve weakened. After she pulled out with the wagon, he listened to the sound of it fading, and long afterward he sat by the fire with his pipe and his many regrets and kept feeding wood to it so the posse would have something to guide them.
He had no intention of sleeping, but he fell asleep. When he woke, he found Buck Standish and four other men standing on the other side of the fire. Standish threw some wood on the coals, and, when it caught and threw out light, the badge pinned to his coat glistened.
“If you want to hang me,” George Schneider said, “there are plenty of trees.”
“Now, we don’t do things like that,” Buck Standish said. “I wired the sheriff. He’ll be down on the next train. We’re going to take you back, George.”
“I know, and I’m ready to go.”
One of the men with Standish said: “Where’s Frieda, George?”
“I sent her on. To Camp Verde.”
“With the wagon?” Standish asked. He turned to a man standing behind him. “Skinny, take your horse and catch up with her. See that she gets on a train. Bring the wagon and team back.”
“Hell, that may take two days!”
“You wanted to be deputized so damned bad, now do your job!” Standish looked at Schneider. “It isn’t safe for her to be alone like that. She’ll be a lot safer on the train.”
“There was no time,” Schneider said, and got up, easing the stiffness in his joints. “Do I walk?”
“You can ride double with Tony there,” Standish said, and they put out the fire and mounted up.
The deputy sheriff made a slow but steady ride of it, and they reached town shortly after dawn and rode down the main street to the jail. George Schneider slid off the horse and walked on inside without being told. The cellblocks were in the rear of the stone building, and he went down a short corridor, stepped inside, and closed the door. A moment later Buck Standish came and stood with a ring of keys in his hand. He slid one into the lock and turned it.
“Sure sorry things turned out this way for you, George.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll have to keep you here a while,” Standish said. “I just never knew you to do a violence on a body before. Took us all by surprise, although we figured that Llano Vale had come to do you in. I guess everybody in town knew what he was and what he come for.”
“It wasn’t like that at all,” Schneider said quietly. “Can I sleep now?”
“Sure,” Standish said, and went back to the front office. One of his deputies was still there, and Standish sagged into the swivel chair utterly tired out. “It’s sure hard to figure a man,” he said. “Now you take some people, they go through life without raising their voice, then something sets ’em off, and the first thing you know you have a shooting fight on your hands and have to make an arrest. You want to mind the office a while? I’m going over to the doc’s.”
He left the room and went down the street, passing off questions that came his way. He supposed that everyone knew Schneider was locked up in the jail. The doctor was in, and Standish said: “How’s Vale?”
“Awake, if you want to talk to him.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Well, I picked nineteen pieces of shot out of him. Damned lucky Schneider was using small-sized buck. Double-O would have made a dead man out of Vale.” He nodded toward a closed door. “Don’t stay long and don’t get him excited.”
“Just some questions for the sheriff when he gets here,” Standish said, and went in. Vale was in bed, bandaged heavily around the chest, and from the dullness of his eyes Standish guessed that the doctor had him loaded with pain-killer.
“We brought Schneider back,” Standish said, pulling up a chair. “No trouble. Now I’d like to hear your side of it.”
“What does George say?”
“Well, he ain’t said, not yet anyway. All I’ve been going on is what people in the street
think they saw, but I’ve got four or five stories from that many people. Did you come here to get Schneider?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You’ve done it before,” Standish said. “Thirty years ago you sold your gun to the highest bidder. You was a troubleshooter for the transcontinental railroad, and you shot up the opposition in a couple of range wars. All told, I’d say you’ve killed ten or eleven men. So it ain’t unreasonable to think that you came here to kill Schneider.”
“That’s kind of unfair, pinning an old reputation on a man.”
“We all know Schneider, and, putting two and two together, I figure it’s like I said. You come to town, looking for him, then take up a roost on the hotel porch. George shows up, and you talk. Then suddenly there’s shooting. None of us has ever known George to so much as lose his temper. Now would you tell me the straight of it?”
“What are you going to do with George?”
“Well, it depends,” Standish said. “We don’t like assault with intent in this territory. If that’s what it is, I’d say that George is about to do five or ten years at hard labor.”
Llano Vale thought about this a moment, his wrinkled face puckered in thought. Then he laughed, hurt himself, and quit it quickly.
Standish said: “You think that’s funny, Vale? None of us does. We like George.”
“I was just thinking that a thing can reach out a long way, Deputy. You see, George’s wife once had a real shine on me. She was a pretty thing, fair, blue eyes, like most German girls. Hell, I was a free roller in those days, and, when she smiled at me, I just smiled back. Say, do you smoke? How about a cigar?”
“I don’t think the doc would like it. Go on, tell me the rest of it.”
“Well,” Vale said, “a woman is just a woman to me. Always has been. You may not believe it, but I got a couple of pretty nice-looking widows fighting over me right now.” He sensed Standish’s irritation and got the train back on the track. “George’s wife was looking for some fun her husband didn’t know about, so I bounced her on the bed and in the haystack and every damned place else I could. Like I say, it was fun to me, but she took it serious as hell.”
“Vale, you’re no damned good!”
“Never said I was, so why should you be so disappointed? Anyway, she left George a note, saying she was running off with me. But she took a fall off her horse and killed herself. George swore he’d kill me if he ever laid eyes on me again.” He studied Standish carefully. “Well, I’m an old man now, and I kept remembering what George said, and the more I remembered it, the more I got to disliking it. So I just decided to come here and give George his chance. You know, sort of taking up the loose ends. Hell, I’m seventy-one! How long do you think I got left?”
“What happened at the hotel? Exactly?”
Vale made a wry face. “George and I had our words. He knew why I’d come. But he didn’t want to take it up. And I wouldn’t forget it. Anyway, when he started to get into the wagon, I decided to make him move. As he turned to sit down and pick up the reins, I went for my pistol. But I was sitting, and the hammer caught in my coattail. Besides, I’m a lot slower than I used to be. Hate to admit it, but that damned farmer beat me to the shot. I remember thinking as I went down that I’d bought my last chips and never even got my six-shooter pulled clear of the leather. Ain’t that hell?”
“You drew on George first?”
“Why, hell, you don’t think a peaceful man like George would just gun down a man, do you?”
“I kind of thought it was that way,” Standish said. He got up and put on his hat. “I’ll wire the sheriff and let George out of jail. And, mister, as soon as you can ride, shag out of New Mexico. You show up here again, and there’s going to be a warrant out for you. We don’t need an old trouble-making bastard who never did a good thing in his life.”
He strode to the door, opened it, and went out, closing it not too gently behind him. Then Llano Vale smiled and closed his eyes, and, when the doctor looked in a moment later, he pretended that he was asleep.
Chapter Three
It was by the merest coincidence that the two new officers arrived on the same day. Captain Dan Conrad came from Fort Smith, and Captain Ellis Spawn came overland from the Presidio at San Francisco. Gary was in his office when Conrad arrived. He had the man shown in. They shook hands, and Conrad took a seat. He was tall and slender, and his left sleeve was pinned up from the elbow.
They had never met before, but the Army was not so large that they didn’t know each other by reputation. Gary explained the function of his command to Conrad, and he listened intently and nodded now and then.
“In spite of what I’ve said,” Gary went on, “this is pretty much a field command. It’s my hope to enlarge by two companies in order to accelerate our activity. There will be times when you will find the duty brisk and a good deal of it in the field under anything but the best conditions.”
“Major, for years now I’ve given up hope of . . . well, serving in a fully functional capacity. I intend to give you no cause to complain.”
Gary saw that an orderly squared Conrad away with quarters and gave him a tour of the post. After that, his paperwork occupied him until noon. Then he went to his quarters, had lunch with his wife, and returned to the office around one.
In mid-afternoon, Captain Spawn arrived. He was a rather short, round man wearing glasses, and had a scholarly manner. Again the orderly took care of quarters and tour.
One of the men on guard duty came to Gary’s office with the report that the ambulance and escort had been sighted. He shrugged into his uniform coat, settled his kepi properly, and went out a few minutes later when he heard the sentry passing the detail through the gate. He stood on his porch as they wheeled in, and he could make out the man, stocky, strongly built, with a square face and a well-trimmed dark mustache. He wore a yellow linen duster as did the woman with him. She had a scarf around her head to protect her against the dust.
When the ambulance stopped, the sergeant had already stepped down and was offering the man. a hand. The senator took off his hat and whipped it against the side of the wagon to rid it of dust. Then the woman got down, bending her head forward to watch her step. When she made the ground, her legs were a bit unsteady. She laughed and put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. Then she reached up, took off the scarf, and looked at Gary.
“Jim,” she exclaimed, “I can’t say that you’ve changed so much!”
For a moment he simply stared in awkward surprise. “Janice Tremain!”
“Janice Ivers now, Jim.”
“Of course,” he said, hurrying forward. “My apologies, Senator.”
“I certainly don’t mind at all,” Ivers said with an incredible bass voice. “If it hadn’t been for you, Major, I wouldn’t have a wife or two lovely children.” He stripped off his glove and offered his hand. “May I, sir? I’ve wanted to for a number of years.”
Gary shook hands with him and studied him. He had dark eyes, very commanding; his beard stubble gave his cheeks a blue hue. He was blunt in manner, and he would make enemies. Also he would make friends.
The sergeant was standing by, and Gary said: “Dismiss the detail, Sergeant.” He took Senator Ivers by the arm. “If you’ll come with me to my quarters, my wife is expecting you.” Then he laughed. “In my surprise I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my manners, Senator.”
“If someone would tend to our luggage…,” Ivers began.
“The sergeant is already taking care of it,” Gary said, moving along with them. “General Caswell has told me a good deal about you, Senator, and frankly I never did understand why you chose to champion my cause when we’re doing work that few know about and even less care about.”
As Gary opened the gate, Jane came out, took one look at Janice Ivers, and then ran and threw her arms around her. They went into the house together, babbling as women do simultaneously, yet each understanding the other perfectly.
“I believe,” Iv
ers said pleasantly, “that the next order of womanly business is bathing, talking, and what not. I’ll settle for a drink and a cigar in your study, Major.”
“Your suggestion preceded mine by just about that much,” Gary said, holding thumb and forefinger an inch apart. He poured the senator a drink and gave him one of his better cigars and a light. “I can’t tell you, Senator….”
“I wish you’d call me Jason,” Ivers interrupted.
“Thank you, I will. As I was saying, I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate your support in Washington.” He raised his drink in salute. “I’m not a politician, sir, but I believed that once this whole affair had been placed in military hands, both houses would have quickly forgotten about it, feeling that they’d not only solved the problem but could wash their hands of it.”
Jason Ivers smiled. “I think you have a fair grasp of politics, Jim. Of course, I admit that my interest in this is more personal than someone else’s might be, yet I can’t really believe it is entirely that. Let us say it’s that my knowledge of the whole thing is more complete, because of what my wife has told me. Jim, I’ve been convinced for some time that we’re only doing half a job. Oh, I know the budget hasn’t been anything to crow about, and you need more men, but these things can be corrected.” He smiled through his cigar smoke. “Politics is committee, and committee is seniority. It’s as simple as that. Seniority controls votes, and this is my third term. I’m chairman of the Indian Affairs Committee and co-chairman of the military budget. That doesn’t sound very important to the folks back home, but let me explain it. Assume that you are an elected official from . . . say, Missouri. There are military posts in Missouri. Now I want something, so I talk to you about it to enlist your support. You may be pushing a project of you own and need my support, so we agree to be mutual in this. Or else you have no project and won’t come around. I might suggest that I was also thinking of closing one of the posts in your district. That would hurt. You see the light and support me, and I don’t close anything down.” He laughed quietly. “Everyone wants something, Jim, so it’s give and take all the way. But that’s how the job is done.”
