White Lightning

by Lyle Brandt

  Forget it, he decided. Their assignment was to find the man or men responsible for cooking untaxed whiskey and then peddling it illegally to Indians. Lump the crimes together, and a violator might be fined or sentenced to a year in prison for each individual offense. A hundred violations, then, could mean a hundred years in theory, but the courts tended to minimize the penalty or make the sentences concurrent. Add the murder of a marshal, though, and you were looking at a short drop from the gallows.

  If the evidence could make it stick.

  And they had none, thus far, besides the injuries Bill Tanner suffered as he screamed his life away in agony. Slade needed more than Holland Mattson’s theory about amputation of the feet to pin the crime on Cherokees, but if the killers had been white men, he had even less to go on. Tanner’s wire from Stateline to Judge Dennison remained the only clue, and it contained no names, descriptions, or directions to a suspect.

  So they were starting more or less from scratch, and at a disadvantage, too. If Tanner had been killed by moonshiners, it meant the men that Slade and Naylor had to find were on alert. They’d know that Tanner’s death would spark a more intense investigation, and they might well know he’d sent a telegram from Stateline to Judge Dennison. Slade wondered if that wire had triggered nervous men to strike, uncertain whether they had been exposed or not.

  He couldn’t say, but the idea gave him a place to start when they arrived in Stateline. After talking to the local law, they’d need to have a chat with the town’s telegrapher. From his reaction, Slade thought they could tell if someone else had had access to the cryptic message Tanner sent. If so, and if the operator didn’t want to share a name—well, there were ways to loosen up his tongue.

  Before they finished up in Stateline, Slade decided, they would have at least a fair idea of what had happened. If that knowledge led them to the killers, white or red, he would be satisfied. Justice would take its course.

  And Slade would have more time to think about what he should do with the remainder of his life.

  The reservation set aside for Cherokees was one of twelve in Oklahoma Territory, the remainder being set aside for Pawnee, Osage, Ponca, Kickapoo, Creek, Nez Perce, Comanche and Apache, Cheyenne and Arapaho, Chickasaw, and Choctaw. Oklahoma Territory had been formally known as Indian Territory until May of 1890, when Congress changed its name and started letting more white settlers populate the districts’ unassigned lands. Conflict between the races had been unavoidable, but nothing on the scale that some alarmists had predicted from the outset. Still, there was a fine line between nervous tolerance and open war, and it was patrolled by Slade and other deputies, the army standing by to ride if it appeared civilian officers had lost their capability to keep the peace.

  Cherokee land lay northeast of Enid, in the same direction Slade and Naylor had to ride toward Stateline. There was no sign to alert them when they reached the reservation, but his previous excursions had shown Slade the basic landmarks. Shortly after crossing over, Slade told Naylor, “We could meet tribal police at any point from here on in.”

  “We’re there already?” Naylor looked around, not agitated, but on guard.

  “Ten, fifteen minutes in,” Slade said. “That live oak with the lightning scar’s a marker you can guide by.”

  “Oughta be a sign or something,” Naylor said, “so folks can tell.”

  White folks, he meant. Slade said, “The reservation’s neighbors have a pretty fair idea of where it is.”

  “But someone passing through could have a problem. We should ask the judge about—”

  His words dried up, and Slade glanced over to find Naylor staring off to the southeast. Scanning in that direction, out two hundred yards or more, Slade saw three mounted riders watching them, immobile on a ridge top.

  “Here we go,” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Naylor was reaching for his Winchester when Slade said, “Stop it! I already told you they’re police.”

  “How can you tell from this far out? Could be a hunting party or…you know.”

  Hostiles. The younger deputy was nervous now, not sweating yet, but with a tenor to his voice that gave away his strain.

  “First thing, there’s three of them,” Slade said. “If they were hunting, there’d be one—or two, at most, and then spread out—to keep from scaring off the game. If they were hostiles, they’d be off the rez somewhere, not sitting there and hoping for a white man to ride by.”

  “You seem to know ’em pretty well. Let’s hope you’re right, eh?”

  “Just sit easy. Let me do the talking when they get here.”

  “What? They’re coming over?”

  And as if his words evoked the action, Slade saw the three Cherokees start down the near side of the slope, nudging their horses to an easy trot. All three were armed with rifles, though he couldn’t tell what kind from that far out. Most members of the tribal police, some twenty in all, carried pistols as well, while on duty. They would be the Indians whom Berringer trusted the most, which wasn’t saying much. Most of their time was spent arresting drunks and wife beaters, but renegades who fled the reservation were beyond their jurisdiction. If they’d nabbed a white trespasser on the rez, Slade guessed that Berringer would tell them to apologize.

  Which could instill a certain attitude, he thought. Best if they walked on eggshells now and made it clear they’d come to see the man in charge.

  Up close, Slade saw the Cherokees were wearing six-guns and the stamped tin badges he remembered from his last trip to the rez. He saw the riders checking out his badge and Naylor’s, understanding that they’d been outranked, and not much liking it.

  The middle one, a little older than his flankers, wearing braids over a denim shirt and balancing a .50-70 Sharps carbine on his right hip asked, “What brings you marshals here today?”

  Slade caught a blink from Naylor, showing his surprise. He’d probably expected Cherokees to grunt and mutter in a language barely comprehensible.

  “We’ve come to speak with Agent Berringer,” Slade said, “about the whiskey being smuggled to your people.”

  “You wish to arrest the men responsible?” their spokesman asked.

  “That’s right. And there’s the matter of a murdered deputy to talk about, on top of that.”

  “The yellow-haired marshal,” their greeter replied. “We heard that he was killed.”

  “And found not far from here,” Slade answered, pushing just a little.

  “You think Cherokees did this?” the trio’s leader asked, frowning.

  “Or someone wants us to believe that,” Slade replied. “I try to keep an open mind.”

  “You are Marshal Slade, the friend of Little Wolf?”

  “I’m hoping he has more than one,” Slade said. “But, yes. We’ve done some hunting.”

  “Hunting men who kill our people.”

  “Ours, too. What they pay us for.”

  “I will take you to Agent Berringer.” The spokesmen gave some orders to his two companions, speaking Cherokee. They peered at Slade and Naylor for another moment, then rode off to westward. “We are seeking stolen horses,” the remaining Cherokee explained.

  “No luck, so far?” Slade inquired.

  “I think they are no longer on the reservation.” With a sidelong glance at Naylor, he continued. “Sometimes whites come here and steal our animals.”

  Slade half expected Naylor to make some remark and was relieved when he did not. “I’ve known some white men who’d steal anything that wasn’t nailed down tight,” Slade said. “You get a line on any rustlers who’ve been hitting you, get word to me in Enid and I’ll run them down.”

  Addressing Naylor for the first time, their appointed guide said, “Two guns. Are you fast with both?”

  Naylor gave Slade a little frown, then shrugged and said, “I do all right.”

  “I think two guns would pull my pants down. Let us go now.”

  Slade had managed not to laugh and guessed that N
aylor would be wondering if he’d been made a fool of by the Indian. If so, he didn’t make an issue of it, saying to the Cherokee, “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Joe Mockingbird. And yours?”

  “Luke Naylor. Marshal Naylor.”

  “Agent Berringer has hoped someone would come to see him about whiskey. Captain Gallagher is coming, too.”

  “Today?” asked Slade.

  “We don’t know when,” Joe Mockingbird replied.

  “I’d like to ask you something,” Slade pressed on, “without giving offense.”

  “People say that when they intend to be offensive,” said their guide.

  “I’ve known a few like that,” Slade granted. “What I need to know deals with the other marshal’s death. The way he died.”

  “I’ll answer if I can,” said Mockingbird.

  “Okay. When he was found, he had no feet. They’d been cut off, it seems, not eaten by coyotes. That sound familiar to you?”

  Mockingbird considered it, then said, “I think Apaches do that. Maybe the Comanches, too. Not Cherokee.” He glanced at Naylor with a little grin and said, “Unless somebody wants foot stew.”

  “Foot—!” Naylor caught himself, cheeks coloring, and said, “I get it. That’s a real rib tickler, that is.”

  4

  The reservation’s seat of operations was a small town built around the agent’s residence. Its public buildings were a one-room school that doubled as a meeting hall, a church, a stable with a blacksmith’s shop attached, a dry goods store, a barn for grain and cattle, and a stout log jail. Beyond those clustered buildings, clapboard houses had been built with no great thought to streets, as far as Slade could tell. Privies were ranged along the outer limits of the settlement, like pointy-headed sentries, forcing those whose homes stood at the center of the town to run in the event of an emergency.

  Joe Mockingbird led Slade and Naylor to the structure that contained the bureau agent’s home and office, all in one. Somehow, it seemed that word of their arrival had preceded them. Roughly a hundred Cherokees stood watching in the small town square, or from their nearby doorways, as the three horsemen rode in.

  And waiting on the front porch of his quasi-mansion was Frank Berringer.

  He looked like power: stocky, six feet tall, a nearly-square head crowned with ginger curls planted atop broad shoulders with sparse evidence of any neck. His deep-set eyes surveyed the new arrivals from beneath thick eyebrows that were mirrored by his lush mustache. He wore a three-piece suit of charcoal gray, with gleaming spit-shined boots. The gold chain of a pocket watch secured his straining vest.

  “Ah, Marshal Slade,” he said, when they were close enough for conversation. “Still in harness, eh?”

  “Looks like it, Mr. Berringer.”

  “And your companion is…?”

  “Luke Naylor,” Slade replied, then rounded off the introduction. “Luke, Frank Berringer.”

  Luke nodded, kept his mouth shut, sizing up the man.

  Berringer peered at Mockingbird as if the Cherokee had just appeared from nowhere, then said, “We won’t keep you, Joe. There’s work to do, I think.”

  Mockingbird wheeled his animal around and left without a word or backward glance at Slade and Naylor. Other members of their silent audience began dispersing, too, appearing sullen and uncomfortable under scrutiny from Berringer.

  The agent smiled without conviction as he said, “Well, gentlemen, won’t you come in? We should be dining soon. I hope you brought your appetites.”

  “We’ll need to get our horses settled first,” Slade said.

  “Of course. My oversight.” Berringer turned back toward the open doorway of his residence and called out, “Ashwin! Rajani!”

  Two young Cherokees appeared in answer to the summons. Both wore cautious poker faces, standing at a semblance of attention in the presence of three white men, two of them with guns and badges. They could have passed for brothers, separated by a year or two in age.

  Berringer examined them, as if he hoped to find fault with their spotless servant’s garb, then said, “Convey these horses to the stable. Tell Hemadri to take special care of them.”

  The two youths bobbed their heads in unison, came forward, and received the reins from Slade and Naylor. Slade took time to thank the one called Ashwin, who cracked his façade enough to show a measure of surprise at common courtesy.

  “Now, if you’ll follow me,” said Berringer. He turned, preceding them into his home. The place was just as Slade remembered it, spotless, a man’s retreat with no sign of a woman’s touch. “I’m pleased to see you gentlemen, but sorry for the circumstances, naturally.”

  “Bill Tanner spoke to you, I understand,” said Slade.

  “About our difficulties, yes. Kindly accept my most sincere condolences for his untimely end.” Berringer led them to his study, indicating deep chairs with a gesture of his hand. “Something to drink?”

  “What have you got?” asked Naylor, speaking to the agent for the first time.

  “Bourbon, Irish whiskey, cognac, sherry,” Berringer replied.

  “No lack of alcohol,” said Slade.

  Berringer cocked a woolly eyebrow and replied, “Of course, this is my personal supply. And drinking is forbidden to the Indians, not to their…supervisors.”

  Wondering what he had meant to say before he checked himself, Slade said, “It sets an odd example, though.”

  “You think so, Marshal?” Berringer pretended to consider Slade’s idea, then frowned, dismissing it. “I think it best for subjugated people to accept the day-to-day realities of life.”

  “I’ll try that Irish,” Naylor interjected, with a smile.

  “Of course. And Marshal Slade?”

  “Nothing for me right now, thanks.”

  “As you wish.”

  Berringer poured two double shots of Irish whiskey, handed one to Naylor, then sat facing them in yet another padded armchair. Slade watched him sip his drink, then said, “About this liquor problem you’ve been having…”

  “Straight to business. Good. We have, in fact, been plagued of late by smugglers of illicit alcohol. The impact on my charges, as you may imagine, has been detrimental.

  His charges, speaking of the Cherokees as a personal burden of duty.

  “We’re behind the times on what’s been happening,” Slade said. “I understand you’ve had one killing tied to liquor somehow.”

  “That’s correct. A drunken brawl two weeks ago that led to stabbing. A buck called Avinash was killed. I understand his name meant ‘Indestructible.’ Ironic, don’t you think?” Berringer smirked and took another sip of whiskey. “Several others suffered minor injuries during the fracas. We have two in custody for manslaughter.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Naylor inquired.

  “The whiskey smuggling? To my knowledge,” Berringer replied, “about two months. At first, I thought the cases of intoxication we encountered were produced by native beer the tribesmen make from sarsaparilla roots and berries. As it turns out, though, I was mistaken.”

  “And you’ve caught no one bringing in the liquor?” Slade inquired.

  “Not yet,” said Berringer. “After the fatal melee, I interrogated the survivors. Two of them reluctantly admitted that delivery was made by white men, but they either didn’t know or would not share with me the names.”

  “Bill Tanner thought he had a lead in Stateline,” Naylor said.

  “Oh, yes? He must have learned that after he was here,” said Berringer. “At least, he failed to mention it.”

  “We’re interested in the smuggling and mean to stop it if we can,” Slade said. “First thing, of course, we need to find whoever murdered Marshal Tanner and collect them for Judge Dennison.”

  “Priorities, of course,” said Berringer. “Do you suspect my Cherokees?”

  “The only lead we have right now,” Slade answered, “is the damage that he suffered.”

  “There was mutilation,
as I understand it,” said the agent. “Scalping, was it?”

  “And some other things,” Slade said. “I need to ask about the feet.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Someone chopped ’em off,” said Naylor.

  “Oh?”

  “Our undertaker, back in Enid, had the notion that was something Indians might do,” Slade said. “To keep a vengeful spirit from pursuing them?”

  Berringer frowned. “Well, now. It’s nothing that I’ve heard associated with the Cherokee,” he said. “But then, I haven’t made a detailed study of their odd native customs. Here, you realize, we stress the Christian values that have made our country great.”

  As if on cue, an older tribesman dressed in butler’s garb appeared and said, “Dinner is served.”

  • • •

  Berringer’s house had indoor plumbing—no sprints to a privy in the middle of the night for him—so Slade and Naylor washed up in a small room off the kitchen, then proceeded to the dining room. The table there had seating for a dozen people but was set for three. Frank Berringer presided at its head, while Slade sat to his left and Naylor on his right.

  The agent poured wine all around, not asking Slade this time, and sipped his while another Cherokee, this one apparently the waiter, served them large bowls of potato soup. Slade spotted onions in the mix and gave the cook due credit for his effort.

  While they ate the soup, Berringer talked about his trials and tribulations at the agency. “The Cherokee are childlike, for the most part,” he explained, “but even children may turn savage if they’re not restrained, eh, gentlemen?”