by Lou Cameron
Stringer nodded and said, “It could have been worse. The B.I.A. could have given the leftover land to somebody else.”
Bluefeather growled, “They tried to. We took „em to court and won. There’s a lot to be said for sending Indian boys to Carlisle. Red Cloud might have hung on to the Black Hills if he’d sent a few Lakota boys back East to pick up law degrees instead of making faces at you folk. In the end, Washington had to agree that since all us civilized nations were increasing, the tribal councils could hold the extra land in trust to deal out to new families. So that’s what we’ve been doing ever since.”
Stringer nodded and asked, “In the meantime, who gets the money from oil leases on tribal lands held in trust?”
Bluefeather said, “Speaking only for the Osage, since all Cherokee are crooked and all Creek are stupid, such profits go into the Osage treasury to cover the cost of government. Then anything left over is distributed fair and square to each family head.” He chuckled and added, “It’s been rolling in pretty good. At the rate we’re going, even the Creek will be rich without lifting a lazy finger.”
Stringer shot a thoughtful glance at the distant oil derricks, still on Bluefeather’s property, and said, “I can see you must have gotten rich before the oil was discovered, no offense. For didn’t you just say one section was all you were supposed to own, privately, to begin with?”
A couple of kids were coming their way, proudly holding a pail of rock salt between them. Bluefeather told them to set it on the table before he told Stringer, “I’m a good stock man and I was born blessed with a good head for business. Trade between our kind and your own is forbid by statute law lest we take advantage of you. But we’re allowed to do business among ourselves, just like any other civilized folk. Show me how you make ice cream with rock salt.”
Stringer half rose to do so. But as he removed the lid and some of the cracked ice to mix the salt in with it, he just had to say, “In other words, you helped yourself to land titles held by other Osage, right?”
Bluefeather chuckled fondly and said, “Hell, I paid heap big wampum for the range less hardworking stock men were starving on. What’s wrong with that? Didn’t the Great White Pappa order us, at gunpoint, to straighten up and act like the rest of you? Getting rich by screwing others is the American Dream, ain’t it?”
Stringer had to laugh as he put the ice cream maker back together and started cranking. It was hard to interview Indians and make ice cream for them at the same time. So he didn’t try and, in a little while, the contents seemed to be getting thicker and he said so. Bluefeather told Stringer to let him have a turn at the crank. Stringer didn’t argue. It was hot, sweaty work and his host was welcome to the glory. The big Indian began to sweat, too, but cranked even harder as he laughed like a big kid and shouted, “Wa! It feels nice and stiff, now. Get the dishes ready, Honey. Uncle Walter is fixing to dish out some ice cream!”
Stringer didn’t blame Bluefeather for calling that one gal a honey. She had a pretty face and a swell shape to go with it. As the two of them proceeded to serve the ice cream, though, Stringer was still ready to buy her as a niece or whatever until he noticed Bluefeather patting her shapely ass and making her act flustered, albeit not at all annoyed by his familiar teasing. Stringer knew most Indians felt so strongly about incest that they seldom laid hands on anyone they weren’t known to be sleeping with, with the full approval of anyone who might notice. So, right, she was his full blood playpretty and where in thunder was the white wife he was supposed to have?
That was no sort of question one asked a host with his playpretty seated next to him at table, of course. So, as they all ate ice cream Stringer asked Bluefeather, casually, “How did you manage to sign an oil lease with old John D., seeing he’s so pale of face these days?”
Bluefeather laughed, stuffed more ice cream in his hatchet face, and swallowed before he replied, “I told you we knew how to argue with you folk safer than our buffalo-hunting kin. We fight for our rights with lawyers. White lawyers to front for us in court and Indians with law degrees riding herd on the white boys for us. There’s no sense sending a red lawyer in to argue for us in front of blue lipped federal judges who all seem to look like Andrew Jackson’s kids. Chief Ross of the Cherokee found that out the hard way when he argued their case in front of the Supreme Court and they handed him some wooden cigars and told him to go stand in front of a tobacco shop.”
Stringer nodded and said, “I was told as much at the BIA in town. They said you needed a white sponsor to sign legal contracts for you.”
Bluefeather nodded and said, “I got one. My Indian lawyer found me a white lawyer with a poor relation I could marry up with. So that’s what I done. How about a second helping?”
Stringer declined as he shot a look at the Osage gal seated next to Bluefeather almost in his lap. As if he’d read Stringer’s mind, Bluefeather added, “In name only, of course. I’m sort of particular who I go to bed with. I forget the fool white woman’s name. You could look it up if you want to do a story about the shameful way white folk are exploiting us.”
Stringer laughed and said, “I really feel sorry for you. Anyone can see that someone is sure exploiting someone else in these parts. I fear they may have overdone it when they got you boys to settle down and behave like white folk.”
As he was riding back to town Stringer could see the Biblical pillar of fire rising from the old Creek graveyard over the horizon. The rest of the sky was still clear and the sun was straight overhead, now. He slipped off his denim jacket and looped it through the thongs that would be holding the throw rope if he was using this saddle serious. It helped a mite. But the Oklahoma sun still sucked sweat through his hickory shirt as he loped along under it.
From time to time he passed one of Bluefeather’s cows, even though he was well off the Rocking Tipi by now. The brand was easy enough to read, once you knew it was supposed to be a rocking tipi instead of a misshapen X with an inverted arc under it. Stringer assumed this was open range, whether owned by the federal government or tribal council. All range and reservation land was supervised by the Interior Department when you got right down to it. Stringer chuckled as he considered all the land-use loop holes folk of every complexion came up with this far from Washington. He was trying to recall the name of that California cattle baron who’d had himself carried in a row boat in order to be able to swear under oath he’d crossed all that bone-dry grass by boat, seasonal swamps being a heap cheaper to pay yearly grazing fees on. Then he reined in on a rise to contemplate the chongo-horned critter staring up at him, just this side of the tangle wood along the bottom of the draw ahead. He told his old army mount, “That looks like a range queer to me, old gal,” and then, as the brute pawed dust and lowered its head Stringer added, “No doubt about it. He’s surely out to kill me and screw you, or vice versa.”
Range queers were like that. A bull calf left uncut grew up to charge anything afoot and mount any cow in heat. One cut right grew up to take no interest in anything but getting fat. But every now and again they cut a steer wrong and the results were a queer critter with mixed-up instincts. It didn’t really know how to mate with a cow. But it felt it ought to at least try and mate with something, be it a cow, another steer, a pony or, hell, a tumbleweed if only it would hold still.
So as the range queer headed their way, bawling love songs or threats, it was hard to tell, Stringer nodded and spurred his mount toward it, at first, then reined sharp right to cut inside the circle of its charge. As he did so a rifle squibbed in the brush beyond and Stringer yelled, “Aim at him, not us!” as the bullet hummed past too close for comfort.
The unseen rifleman fired again and this time Stringer knew for sure who the intended target was. It was not the demented longhorn. So Stringer drew his six-gun and hung down the far side of his mount, Comanche style, as he rode for the same bush cover.
It almost worked. They were most of the way down the slope when Stringer felt the wet smack of his mount ta
king a rifle round and let go the horn to land running as the old bay dove ass-over-tea-kettle into some sunflower stalks and just lay there.
Another round showered Stringer with chewed-up cottonwood bark as he made the cover of the draw and crouched behind a tree trunk, searching for the source of his discomfort. He could see perhaps five yards into the tangle of twigs and fluttering leaves. He was mad as hell, but he kept his thoughts to himself as he waited and wondered. Sometimes a bushwhacker was dumb enough to move in for a look-see after a man he’d fired on dropped out of sight and lay doggo.
But this, apparently, was not to be such a time. He heard the hoof-beats of a pony departing for other parts in a hurry. He doubted he was listening to the poor brute he’d just been riding. After a time a redbird crapped on his hat from a limb above him. He didn’t comment on that, either. His poor hat was already a mess and everyone knew that when there were two bad apples in the barrel, one might ride off and leave his pard in place to see if they could sucker a greenhorn.
But by the time the whole tangle had come back to life, with birds tweeting and squirrels scampering about as if he was just an old stump, Stringer decided he was likely alone down here after all.
He didn’t take that for granted. He eased to the far side of the draw and had a peek up the barren slope to the south. He saw no ponies tethered there. He still moved in slow and quiet as a Cheyenne stealing horses from a Crow camp until, at last, he’d made sure there’d only been one bushwhacker and that the yellow-bellied son of a bitch had lit out as soon as the fight seemed less than halfway even. Muttering, “Shee-it! He had a rifle against a bitty .38 and he still ran off, the heroic bastard!” as he made his way to where he’d last seen his hired mount. When he found it in the weeds he was saddened to see it was still alive, lying gut-shot amid the sunflowers as it stared up at him like a hurt pup, with trusting eyes.
Stringer soothed, “Easy, Brownie. I’ve always been on your side. You know that, don’t you?”
The shot-up bay seemed to take some comfort from Stringer’s gentle tone. It snorted and lay its head down in the tangled fuzzy stalks. Stringer hunkered down, took hold the bridle with his left hand to hold the big head steady, then placed the muzzle of his six-gun to the depression over the bay’s sad left eye and fired. The hurt brute went stiff all over, and lay still.
Stringer hauled his jacket clear and put it back on. Then he reloaded his sidearm and put it back on its holster, as he muttered, “We’ll both pay for this, old gal. I’m out the deposit I left at your livery, and the son of a bitch who shot you figures to pay in blood if I can prove what I’m starting to suspect.” Then he headed on to town, the hard way.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were pretty good sports about it at the livery, albeit they charged him for the saddle whether they got it back or not when they sent out the buckboard to salvage the hide as well.
After such a hike under a hot sun Stringer needed to wet his whistle before he did anything else. So he headed for the nearest saloon and, as luck would have it, this turned out to be the Pronghorn again.
He didn’t care. He ordered a schooner of draft and carried it back toward the player piano to sit down. The place was almost empty, and nobody had put a coin in the piano. So it was almost ominously quiet when Stringer sat down across a table from Tiger Twain and said, “I’m glad you’re here, Tiger. It saves me traipsing all over town after you on such a warm day.”
Tiger frowned uncertainly and asked, “Why would you be looking for me, MacKail? I got nothing to say to the likes of you.”
Stringer made sure he had the beer schooner handle in his right hand and kept an eye on Tiger as he inhaled some suds. Then he lowered his drink and said, wistfully, “You just don’t like to take chances, do you?”
Tiger muttered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about and, by the way, I’m not armed.”
Stringer rose high enough to see that was true. Then he got up all the way and unbuckled his gun rig. He hung it by the buckle from a nail driven into the wall with hats in mind. Then he smiled wolfishly down at Tiger, saying, “I’m not armed, either, and sure you know what I’m talking about, you sneaky bit of stock-shooting shit.”
Tiger Twain got slowly to his own feet, stepping clear of the table as he softly growled, “I don’t much enjoy being called a shit, little darling.”
The quiet but ominous exchange had not been lost on the few other patrons. So as the barkeep took the one big mirror down from the wall, the Pronghorn commenced to empty, fast.
Tiger Twain told Stringer, “We seem to have the place to ourselves of a sudden. So it won’t shame you if you’d like to swallow some words, or at least explain ’em afore I tear your face off, MacKail.”
Stringer said, “I might have been too hasty in describing you as shit. I’ve yet to be bushwacked by a turd. How do you feel about yellow-bellied mammy jammer?”
Tiger Twain must not have liked it. For he threw a roundhouse right that might have killed Stringer if it had landed. But the somewhat leaner Stringer blocked the sucker punch with his left forearm and counter-punched with a right cross that busted Tiger’s lip, ruined his toothy smile forever, and sent him crashing to the floor, blubbering that he’d been kilt.
Stringer snarled, “Get up and fight, you bastard. I’m not half done with you, yet.”
So, after some consideration, Tiger rolled out of easy kicking range and got back up, with a six-inch boot knife in his hand.
Stringer snatched his unfinished beer from the table he was closer to, tossed the contents in Tiger’s face, and smashed the glass schooner on the corner of the table to face the knife with the wickedly sharp if shorter result.
Then a voice behind him said, mildly but firmly, “That’s enough, MacKail. I’m not going to say that twice.”
Stringer glanced over his shoulder to see U.S. Deputy Bill Tilghman and a meaner-faced back-up in the blue uniform of the Indian Police on duty in the otherwise empty saloon. Neither had drawn his sidearm. But both were heeled with government issue Colt .45s. So Stringer dropped the busted beer schooner and muttered, “Spoilsport. This was just commencing to get interesting.”
Tilghman nodded curtly and said, “We noticed. They just told us at the livery acoss the way that you’d walked into town all dusty and pissed, with the stated intent of killing somebody. I can’t let you do that, old son. This ain’t Dodge in the bad old days and, even when I did pack a badge in Dodge, I thought it my duty to keep things civilized. So I’ll tell you what I think we’d best do.”
Tilghman smiled grimly at Tiger Twain, whose knife had by this time vanished as if by magic, and said, “Mister Twain, we have a vagrancy ordinance in Tulsa and you have neither a job nor the hope in hell of ever getting one in these parts after what you done with high explosives yesterday.”
Tilghman indicated the Indian at his side and added, “This here is Officer Jake Wetumpka of the Creek Nation. He’s going to escort you down to the depot now, and make sure nobody hurts you until the next eastbound pulls in. Be on it when it pulls out. Do we understand each other?”
Tiger wiped the back of a hand across his bleeding mouth and protested, “You can’t run me out of town, damn it! It was MacKail as started it. I ain’t done nothing to deserve such cruel and unusual punishment!”
Tilghman chuckled fondly and said, “Sure you have. A heap of Creek are sore at you as well. They were sort of counting on that oil money that’s still going up in smoke, even as we speak. I’m a peace officer, not a judge. My job is to keep the peace and I don’t see how I’m going to do that as long as you are still in town. So I’m ordering you to leave. It’s as simple as that.”
Tiger protested, “What about MacKail? He’s the one as come in here calling me mean names!” to which the older lawman replied, gently but firmly, “I mean to chide him about his manners as well. Jake, take Mister Twain to the depot and see that he gets off safely, hear?”
The younger lawman grinned ferociously and aske
d, “Do I get to gun him if he won’t get on the train, Bill?”
Tilghman replied, “I feel sure he’ll get on the train. But you just do whatever you have to, old son.”
So Wetumpka frog-marched the battered Tiger out the front door as Tilghman moved to the bar, peered over it, and asked the barkeep to get off the floor and produce a couple of cold beers. When the rattled barkeep had done so, Tilghman moved the schooners and Stringer to the nearest table and said, “Sit down, old son. You and me had best have a talk.”
Once they were both seated, with suds to sip, Tilghman said, “You go off half-cocked like that again, I’ll have to charge you with vagrancy, too, even if you do have visible means of support. Your place of employment ain’t in Oklahoma, if you follow my drift.”
Stringer protested, “That son of a bitch just tried to kill me and he did kill my pony, Bill! You can’t just let him go!”
Tilghman swallowed some beer, lowered his schooner to the table, and replied, “I just did. They told me at the livery about what happened. You was shot at by a person or persons unknown on the way back from the Rocking Tipi. I see now who you suspected done the deed, and I’m glad I caught up with you afore anyone was hurt serious. You don’t have a shred of evidence as would hold up in court and, had you killed him, I don’t see how you’d ever get off on less than manslaughter.”
Stringer protested, “It had to be him. Hardly another soul in town knew I was riding out to Walter Bluefeathers’ and he was the only one who said right out that I stunk. He seems to have thought I had something to do with his getting fired. It seems obvious he had the motive, saw the opportunity, and lay for me out on the range to nail me in private.”
Bill Tilghman inhaled some more suds before he shook his head wearily and said, “You can’t kill a man or even arrest him for a seem, old son. I’ll allow he’s an unpleasant asshole. But how much peace would I be able to keep around here if half the assholes in Tulsa was slaughtered just for being surly? Whether he was the one or not, he’ll be gone any minute and you won’t have to worry about him no more, see?”
