by Will Cook
“All right,” Speer said.
After they were mounted and had turned out of town, Jason Ivers had nothing to say to Gary. He was angry, and his manner turned sulky, and, even during the rest stops, he clung to a stubborn, hurt silence.
It was dawn of a frosty morning when they came to the reservation buildings and dismounted. Lieutenant Beeman rushed out but caught himself and saluted quickly.
Gary said: “Mister Beeman, I expected to find you in the field, searching out Llano Vale.”
“Ben Stagg has been gone part of yesterday and last night,” Beeman said. “Please come in. It’s damned nippy outside, and there’s a fire and coffee.” He held the door open for them. Conrad dismissed the company and came in a moment later.
Beeman was pouring coffee. “After the shooting I came directly to the reservation to take command. There’s considerable unrest, sir. The Indians are inclined to be nervous, anyway, and they feel that there is a plan afoot to move them or something. It’s hard to make them understand, sir.”
“Yes, I realize your problem,” Gary said.
“Sergeant Geer and the men are about the reservation, sir, trying to do what they can to quiet them.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes as though he were not getting enough sleep. “Frankly, sir, I didn’t know where to turn after Lovering was killed. When Ben Stagg told me he’d go after Vale, I let him, because I knew I couldn’t track down that old mountain cat myself.” He shook his head slowly. “I firmly believe that Vale was paid to kill Lovering. He came to town earlier in the day . . . that much I’ve established. He also stayed at the Drover’s, and….”
“Yes, I talked to the marshal,” Gary said. He turned to Captain Conrad. “I’m sorry, Dan. This is Lieutenant Carl Beeman, who’s been doing Trojan service here. Dan Conrad.”
Beeman came to a heel-snapping attention, saluted, then smiled and shook Conrad’s hand. “I’m glad to see you, sir. I trust you’ve brought a squad. We’re very short here, and ”
“I have a company,” Conrad interrupted. “We’ll relieve you any time, Mister Beeman.”
“Thank God for that! When the Indians get restless, there’s no telling what they’ll do. Yesterday there must have been three hundred gathered in the agency yard. Just standing there, watching, waiting.”
Gary nodded and said: “Carl, I can’t understand your not informing me of these events when they happened.”
Beeman looked as though he had been struck. “Why, Sergeant Geer took my wire to the telegrapher before Lovering could be moved off the street!”
“I never received it,” Gary said, and set his lips. After a moment’s silence he said: “Precisely what was the time, Mister Beeman?”
“At two sixteen by my watch, sir. The day before yesterday.”
“I can’t understand why the signal sergeant would fail to deliver a wire,” Gary said. “I’m sure no one need tell him what a serious matter that would be. And certainly a message of such gravity.. . . “ He shook his head. “No, I think it is impossible that he could fail to deliver the message. So I will assume that the signal sergeant discharged his duties properly, as he has for eighteen years.” He ticked off the point on his finger. “Therefore, he must have given the message to someone.” He made this point two. “And knowing the importance of the message, he would not have given it to anyone except perhaps Lieutenant Flanders.” Point three.
“But, surely, Mister Flanders . . . , “ Beeman began.
“Yes, of course, he would have waked me out of a sound sleep. He has for much less reason.” He stopped a moment. “Point four is that the sergeant would only have released the message to a person he believed more responsible than Mister Flanders. Who on the post would that be, Mister Beeman?” He looked at Beeman, at Dan Conrad, and then turned to Jason Ivers and studied him intently.
For a moment Ivers stood there, then he made a turn toward the door, and stopped. Slowly the breath went out of him, and he turned back, his manner resigned. “I really believed I could get away with it, Jim.” He spread his hands in an appeal for understanding. “What could I do? I talked to you, and you gave me nothing, Jim. It seemed as though all I had done for you didn’t matter at all. My house was being shaken badly, Jim. Lovering and this young lieutenant could rattle the windows in it, could break something.” He shrugged, and put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. “I sent Clive Maybank a wire twenty minutes after I left the table.”
“You told him to have Lovering killed?”
Ivers shook his head. “No, I told him the situation was grave, and that he would have to take care of matters his own way.” He moved his eyes to the coffee pot. “I’d like another cup of that. It’s turned chilly in here.” Conrad got one for him, then Ivers went on. “After talking to you and General Caswell, I sent Maybank another wire. I told him the situation was unchanged. It was too risky to do anything else, Jim. Can’t you see that? I thought Maybank would get Lovering out of town, maybe out of the territory. Not a shooting.”
“You picked up Mister Beeman’s wire?” Gary asked.
Ivers nodded. “It was the damnedest bit of luck. I went to the signal office to wire Maybank. I hadn’t heard from him, and I was a bit concerned. The sergeant was taking down the wire, and I offered to deliver it.” He smiled faintly. “He hesitated . . . I give him credit for that, but I persuaded him.”
He reached into an inner coat pocket and produced the wire. It was wrinkled but clearly legible. Conrad took it and handed it to Gary, who gave it to Beeman to identify.
“That’s my wire, sir, word for word, as I gave it to Sergeant Geer.”
Jim Gary seemed to slump a little. “Senator, I suggest that you resign for reasons of health. Please don’t delay this. I’m not a patient man.”
“Yes . . . I . . . . “ He went over to the window and looked out on the bleak parade ground. Conrad and Beeman stirred slightly and acted as though they didn’t quite know what to do. It was always that way when the mighty fell. Even in their disgrace one felt that they were entitled to a certain respect.
Gary broke the tension when he said: “Carl, do you have anything to eat?”
“I’ll tell the cook to fix….”
“I’ll take care of that,” Conrad said, and went out.
Gary said: “You might as well sit down, Jason. Everything has come to an end. And I don’t feel sorry for you. You knew what you were doing, and what it could cost.” He waited, but Ivers would not look around, and Gary turned to Carl Beeman. “General Caswell talked to me about you, Carl. He is endorsing my recommendation for your promotion. One of these days your wife will be sewing railroad tracks on your shoulder boxes.”
Conrad came back. “Bacon and eggs in about ten minutes. The company is being fed now, sir.”
“Good,” Gary said. “Now Mister Beeman, if you can find a bottle of whisky and some glasses, we’ll all have an eyeopener.”
The peace that had descended over Texas did not lull Guthrie McCabe into a sense of relaxation. So, when he came across the tracks of two men afoot, he studied them carefully, and, without drawing Caswell’s attention to them, he altered their course and followed them. McCabe could read sign as well as any man, and from the irregularity of the tracks he surmised that both men were nearly tuckered out.
Finally Caswell said: “It’s my opinion that one man is big, near two hundred pounds.”
McCabe showed his surprise, and Caswell laughed.
“I’ve fought Indians, too, Guthrie, and my eyes are as good as yours.” He pointed toward the river. “Suppose we try to cut this sign farther on.”
McCabe nodded, and they turned their horses, riding faster now. It bothered him, those moccasin tracks. At first he had thought it was some Kiowa buck that had jumped the reservation, but now he didn’t think so—not this far south.
They had gone perhaps a mile, staying to the ridges, because the land was rolling and they had to keep to the high ground to see, when Caswell reined in and exclaimed; “That was a
shot!”
McCabe was going to argue, but then he heard it. It was the boom of a heavy caliber rifle somewhere to the west. Together they crossed the ridge and a short valley below and climbed to the crown of a low hill where they could look down on the river. Cottonwoods choked the banks, and there was a sandbar spit in the middle of the crossing, just a patch of land and brush with a fallen log and a few trees. And a rifleman.
Tremain Caswell uncased his field glasses and had his look. He could make out the man on the sand spit clearly, then he swung the glasses to the near bank. Another man was down there, behind a skimpy rise of earth.
He handed the glasses to McCabe, saying: “Unless I’m mistaken, that man on the bar is Llano Vale. Ben Stagg’s the one on the near bank.”
While McCabe watched, there was an exchange of shots. He handed back the glasses and said—“Let’s go mix in this.”—and spurred on down the flank to the rise.
Following him, Caswell thought this was mighty foolish, for they were exposing themselves to Vale’s rifle fire should he choose to open up on them. But Vale held off, and McCabe stopped on the riverbank, close enough for both of them to hear him speak. “Hold up there! This is Cap’n McCabe, Texas Rangers! What in thunder’s goin’ on here? Speak up now!”
Without exposing himself in the slightest, Ben Stagg answered: “It ain’t none of your affair, McCabe! I’ve chased him all the way from Fort Reno. He killed a man there. And I’ll bring him back, or bury him by myself!”
McCabe wheeled his horse suddenly and said—“Stay here, General.”—and splashed across to the sand spit. He did not dismount but sat his horse, looking at Llano Vale, who rolled half on his back so he could see McCabe squarely. “Got yourself shot up some, ain’t you?” McCabe said. “What’s this all about, Llano? You kill somebody?”
“Got paid for it, too,” Vale said. He was a worn man, gone as far as he could go with a bullet through the calf of his leg and another in the side.
McCabe said: “Looks like you ain’t goin’ to spend it, Llano.”
“I don’t care. I’ve had my fun. Ain’t cryin’ because it’s goin’ to end here. This is between me and Ben. Always hoped it’d come to that. Never did like him none. Be damned if I trust a man who’s good-natured.” He wiped his gray face with his hand. “Go on, get out of here. This ain’t none of your affair, McCabe.” He tried to laugh. “Man, I give him a run though. Killed the horse right out from under him. Damned near outran him afoot, too.” He waved his hand. “Go on back, McCabe. This is a quarrel that began before you was born. Git now. Let a couple of old he-bears settle it.”
“I’m going to talk to Stagg, get him to put up his gun,” McCabe said, and started back.
“Don’t you do that! Don’t do that, you hear!”
McCabe paid no attention and splashed across the river. He stepped out of the saddle, dropped the reins, then walked over to where Ben Stagg was stretched out.
“He hit bad?” Stagg asked. “He’s been carryin’ one bullet in him all last night. We had a brush before sundown.” He rolled over on his side and patted his pockets. “You ain’t got a chaw on you, have you?”
McCabe dipped into his hip pocket and handed Stagg some cut plug. “I want you to put up your gun, Ben. He’s a done-in man, and he knows it.”
Stagg worked his jaws on the tobacco and spat. “I chased him south clear from the reservation. He managed to catch a freight south of Wichita Falls. There we was, him on one car and me on another, and neither darin’ to poke a head up.” He laughed. “At Abilene he jumped off, stole a horse, and lit out south. I borrowed a horse from the town marshal and lit after him. He waylaid me on the San Saba, but I got in a good shot. We’ve footed it from the Guadalupe to here.”
From the sand spit, Vale yelled: “Stagg, I’m comin’ now!” He lurched into view, stumbled, and fell. He found his feet and splashed into the water, where he fell again. He got up, and Ben Stagg rose up into view. Llano Vale stopped, knee-deep in the water. He slowly raised his rifle, but it was just too heavy for him. The muzzle was down when he pulled the trigger, and he fell forward on it.
Caswell rode forward, got a rope on Llano Vale, and dragged him to the bank. When he rolled the old man over, they all could tell that he was dead. Guthrie McCabe got down and went through his pockets, found twenty dollars and some change.
Ben Stagg studied the dead man, his expression sad. “Twenty dollars,” he said. “I guess that’s all they paid him. There was a time thirty years ago when he got five hundred.”
He turned and walked over to the small rise of ground he had hidden behind and sat down. He hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, his body bent over, and his head way down, as though he scrutinized the ground between his feet.
Softly Tremain Caswell said: “I thought they were enemies.”
McCabe looked at him for a long moment. “General, how could they be when there was only two of ’em left? They just didn’t know how to make up, that’s all.”
Chapter Seven
Before the week was out, Gary met with the sub-chiefs at the agency building. Understanding well the Indian love for pomp and ceremony, he declared an extra beef issue—which was sure to bring them—and had a barbecue that ran well into the night. There was singing and dancing, and seventy gallons of ginger beer, brewed especially for the occasion, were consumed by the Indians.
Then they were ready to talk. Captain Conrad was introduced as being in charge, and, because he had only one arm, Jim Gary thought it might be a good idea if he wrestled one of the stronger braves. He had a deep understanding of their respect for strength, and Conrad, knowing a good deal about Indians, was agreeable to the match. Besides, it would provide entertainment.
A stalwart buck stepped forward and took off his store-bought cotton shirt and flexed his muscles. When he tried to grapple with Conrad, he found himself upset and suddenly was looking at Conrad from a sitting position on the ground. He got up, and they scuffled a bit, and Conrad threw him again. This seemed to satisfy everyone, and the festivities began in earnest.
Senator Jason Ivers did not join in. For five hours he remained inside the agency building with his cigar and bottle and dark thoughts. Finally, after several hours of festivity, Jim Gary came in. Ivers was sitting in the dark, and, when Gary started to light the lamp, Ivers said: “Don’t, Jim. Please don’t.”
“All right,” Gary said, and lit a cigar with the match he held. Then he sat down behind Lovering’s desk. “I don’t like to see you like this, Jason. You’ve got to pull yourself together.”
“Really?” Ivers laughed. “I’ve been thinking about my resigning. No one will believe it. I haven’t had a sick day in twelve years. Besides, that excuse never fooled anyone.”
“No, I don’t suppose it ever did,” Gary said, “but in most cases it’s better than the truth, isn’t it?”
“Someday you may be in this kind of trouble and….”
“I hope not,” Gary interrupted.
Ivers remained silent for a time, “Jim, the thing is done, isn’t it? What’s to be gained by my resignation? Think of the future, man. I could do you a lot of good as a senator.”
Gary’s voice was hard. “For God’s sake, Jason, don’t beg! Do you hear? Get off you god-damned knees!” Then he calmed himself. “Do you think I enjoy this? Or even want it?” He blew out his breath. “What’s the use of talking about it? I suggest you leave for Fort Reno in the morning. I’ll have Mister Beeman go with you. Don’t delay, Jason. I’d send a wire right away.”
“How much time are you going to give me?”
“Twenty-four hours,” Gary said flatly. “That’s enough. More than you gave me or Lovering.”
“I didn’t kill that man.”
“There is moral guilt,” Gary said. “Try to understand it.”
“God, man, I do,” Ivers said. “I just don’t know how to tell Janice.”
Captain Conrad interrupted them. “Excuse me, Major, but Sergeant Geer has just ridden
in with McCabe and General Caswell. They’ve got Ben Stagg and Llano Vale.”
Gary put a match to the lamp and went around lighting the wall lamps, then Geer tramped onto the porch and held the door open while General Caswell came in. The others followed, but Llano Vale’s body was left outside.
“You’re a far piece from where I left you,” Gary said, speaking to Caswell who was backing up to the stove to toast himself. He had a beard stubble, as did McCabe. Ben Stagg went for the coffee pot.
“We took the train north,” Caswell said. “It started here, and Ben wanted to bring him back here.”
Gary looked at Stagg. “Want to tell me about it, Ben?”
“Nope. He got clean to the Guadalupe. He died there. It wasn’t good, because it was for nothin’. All those years gone for nothin’.” He drank his coffee black and scalding. “Twenty dollars, that’s what he got. It wasn’t him I hated, but the ones who give him the twenty dollars.” He turned around and showed them his back, not wanting to talk any more.
Caswell saw Jason Ivers sitting there, and he said: “Senator, what do you think of the reservation?” He waited a polite interval for Ivers to speak, and, when he did not, Caswell asked: “Is something the matter, man?”
“I . . . I’m just very tired,” Ivers answered, and abruptly left the room.
Caswell stared after him. “Now, what the devil’s eating him?”
“Sir,” Gary said, “I’d like to have a talk with you.”
“It can wait. I want some hot food and ten hours’ sleep before I really talk to anyone.” Caswell’s manner was gruff. “Sergeant, tell the mess cook to rustle something up for us.” He moved over and put his hand on Ben Stagg’s shoulder. “It’s all bad business, Ben, this using men… bad business.”
He went out, and Guthrie McCabe eased away from the fire. “You still smoke those good cigars, Jim? Between Ben and me, we’ve used up all my cut plug and….”
“You don’t have to make excuses. Ben, you want one?”
Stagg shook his head, then he turned around and looked at Jim Gary. “I don’t like it none that old Llano could be used and just… just thrown away.”
