Hart the Regulator 2

by John B. Harvey

  Hart looked at the side of her face, as if for a moment expecting the marks of Fredericks’ hand still to be there, imprinted. Then he moved away and knocked on the door, stepping into the room without waiting for an answer.

  Fredericks was standing behind a long dining table, a cigar in one hand. A white man in a fringed leather jacket and black wool pants was standing close beside him. Opposite them was another Cheyenne, wearing a mixture of white and Indian clothes. Two eagle feathers stuck up at a low angle from the right side of his hair.

  On the table were a bottle of whisky, three glasses and a map. The map had been unrolled and two of the glasses were holding down corners; the man alongside Fredericks was keeping down a third corner.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ asked Fredericks sharply.

  Hart shook his head. ‘I was goin’ to ask you the same.’

  The two men stared at one another for a few seconds and then Hart took a couple of paces towards the table, looking at the map. He saw the area he’d been riding for the past days, the creek, the stage stations, the words in copperplate script – Ceded to the Cherokee Nation. Lower down – Lands set aside for the Cheyenne. Unratified agreement of 18 November 1873.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Fredericks, ‘this is Wes Hart. He’s working for me as regulator. Hart, this is John Probert, he’s an Indian Agent in the Cheyenne Nation. And that’s Bear-Who-Runs, he’s a Cheyenne chief.’

  Hart nodded at both men, taking them in quickly. Probert was in his fifties, close to six foot and starting to get a stoop and a belly at the same time. Gray hair and a gray, almost white, moustache. A Colt Peacemaker with a wooden butt and a short barrel holstered by his right hip.

  The Cheyenne was older, though it was almost impossible to tell how old. His skin was dark, close to black; the veins on his hands stood out like purple-black worms leeched to his skin. He looked at Hart with brown, still eyes, studied him for a few moments and then turned his head away.

  ‘We were discussing grazing rights,’ said Fredericks. ‘It seems the Cheyenne feel they have some claims that aren’t being met.’

  Probert raised a hand above the map and glanced at Hart.

  ‘Pretty straightforward. This parcel of land here ...’ A finger prodded the map. ‘... originally belonged to the Cheyenne by government treaty. In July of sixty-six it was ceded back by the Cheyenne Nation and nothing much has been done with it since. It forms part of what are called the unassigned lands, north and east of Fort Reno. Not many whites have settled the land, mainly ’cause it’s surrounded by Indians and they don’t sleep too safe at nights.’

  He gave a short laugh and grinned over at Bear-Who-Runs, who stared back with the same imperturbable expression.

  ‘But the land’s good for grazing as Fredericks found out. Him and a few others. Thing is,’ he glanced at Fredericks quickly, ‘the more land you use the more beef you can take on, an’ the more beef you take on the more money you get back.’

  Fredericks stubbed out the end of his cigar. ‘All you’re saying is obvious. It’s business, pure and simple.’

  It occurred to Hart that however simple it might be, none of the businessmen he’d come into contact with were what he’d call pure. But he let it slide and said nothing.

  Probert was poking down at the map again. ‘Thing is, the north-west section of what Fredericks is claiming for his land is inside the area still granted to the Cheyenne by treaty.’

  ‘Which the Cheyenne don’t use,’ Fredericks put in hastily, anger beginning to show in his voice.

  ‘Which the Cheyenne don’t use a whole lot, I agree. On account of it bein’ a long way from what’s now their homeland and only used for the odd huntin’ party.’

  ‘Don’t anybody else live on the land?’ asked Hart.

  ‘Sure. Arapaho mostly.’

  ‘And I’ve as much right to it as they have,’ said Fredericks. ‘More.’

  ‘That’s as maybe.’ Probert looked straight at him. ‘But it ain’t the issue.’

  Hart moved round the table and poured himself a shot from the whisky bottle into one of the glasses. When he picked it up, a section of the map sprang into a curve.

  ‘How much you asking?’

  ‘Fifty cents a steer.’

  Hart pursed his lips, nodded slowly, looked at Fredericks,

  ‘I told you, it’s out of the question.’

  Bear-Who-Runs turned from the table and stepped around Hart, heading for the door. Probert and Fredericks looked at one another, the Indian Agent fingering the buckle of his belt.

  ‘Hold on,’ called Fredericks and the Cheyenne chief turned round slowly.

  ‘I’ll make it twenty five.’

  After a slight pause the chief shook his head, looking at Probert as he did so.

  ‘Fifty,’ repeated Probert.

  Fredericks paced away from the table to the far wall and back again, lips moving silently as he did calculations inside his head. Finally he leaned against the table end and planted his fingers down on to it, hands spread wide.

  ‘Forty a head and twenty-five for steers under two.’

  Probert straightened up, glancing at the Cheyenne for his approval. Bear-Who-Runs said nothing; after several seconds he gave the slightest nod of his head.

  Probert let out a low, whistling breath. ‘You got a deal,’ he said to Fredericks.

  Fredericks stood across the table from the Indian Agent and shook his hand. He went to the roll-top desk at the far side of the room and took out several sheets of paper, a glass bottle of ink and a quill pen. Hart reckoned he’d had enough. Without a word he stepped round the Cheyenne and left the room.

  Outside the house, the Indian with the wedge nose stared at him with a lot of hostility, gripping his new rifle as though he’d dearly like to use it. Hart couldn’t quite understand why, unless he knew what was going down inside.

  Peters and Chavez were still roughly where they’d been before, still looking as if they were expecting trouble to break out at any moment. Hart went past them, leading his horse towards the barn.

  Howie was inside, sitting on an upturned oaken bucket and trying to fix a broken bridle.

  ‘What’s goin’ on?’

  Hart shook his head. ‘Nothin’. ’Cept business.’

  When the Cheyenne made to leave some half an hour later, Fredericks and Probert shook hands again outside the door of the house. All smiles. They hadn’t passed out of hailing distance when Hart was inside, facing up to Fredericks across a rolled-up map and a copy of a handwritten contract.

  ‘What gave you the right to barge in here like that?’

  ‘You’d rather do your dirty work without too many folk lookin’ on.’

  Fredericks started chewing the inside of his mouth. ‘Damn it! You were here. You saw what happened. You saw how they pushed me. Way, way over the price I had in mind.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  Hart reached for the nearly empty bottle and poured himself a shot of whisky. He slid the bottle in Fredericks’ direction, but it was ignored.

  ‘Hart, you’re not being paid to interfere with my business, you’re.. .’

  ‘I know, I’m bein’ paid to aim this Colt of mine in whatever direction you want me to point it. But when those Cheyenne wake up to the fact that you’re screwin’ ’em for one hell of a lot, maybe I just ain’t goin’ to be enough to stop ’em wipin’ you out.’

  Fredericks’ cheeks were no longer tinged with red, they were glowing with it. The fingers of his hands were clenched so tight his nails had to be cutting into the skin.

  ‘That was a perfectly honest deal. I...’

  Hart put down the glass with a smack on the hardwood table. There were a whole lot of things about to leap off Hart’s tongue but he choked it back.

  Fredericks’ small mouth was slightly open, his nostrils dilated. The color was draining from his face now, veins showing through his loose skin.

  ‘I’ve met a whole lot of Indian Agents an’ I only ever met one good one an�
�� he was a Quaker. The rest of ’em are in it for what they can get and they don’t give a couple of damns about the Indians they’re supposed to be lookin’ out for. Probert don’t seem no better.

  ‘All that stuff in here was set-up. Lettin’ on that he was forcin’ you into a bargain when you’d already agreed it beforehand. They could have got another ten, maybe fifteen cents a head for grown cattle. Do in other parts. So you slipped Probert a hundred dollars and he agreed to go through that act. Bear-Who-Runs might have been fooled an’ he might not, but I wouldn’t bet on it if I was you. Indians ain’t stupid, you know.’

  Fredericks backed off towards the desk and then turned. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. They don’t think right, they’re like children. Savage children. That’s why I had to do a deal with Probert. Sign a paper with an Indian and inside a month he’s going back on everything he said. You should know that, you were an Indian scout.’

  ‘Only Indians I knew ever went back on their word had damn good reason. They got a brand of honor stronger’n that of most white folk I ever met.’

  Fredericks pushed his hands down on to the table and stared hard at Hart. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means I ain’t met too many men like you, but I seen enough to know what’s chewin’ on your gut. You want to own more than anyone else around; you want to own it and control it. I can read it in what you do an’ what you say.’ Hart stepped over towards the side of the room. ‘One thing no Indian’s got eatin’ away at him an’ that’s greed.’

  Fredericks ground out the end of his cigar and reached for the whisky bottle, pouring himself a strong shot and downing half of it in one. Hart could see him trying to control his reactions and fight down his anger.

  Finally he looked at Hart and spoke. ‘That’s a fancy speech for a gunman, Hart. Fancy words for a hired killer selling his services to the highest bidder.’

  Fredericks thumped the table; his voice rose a couple of octaves, the redness of his cheeks deepening.

  ‘Who in God’s name do you think you are? You won’t see a man with a rope round his neck good and legal, but you’ll shoot him down yourself. You try to tell me how to run my business like you was some kind of saint.’

  The fist struck the table again, jolting one of the glasses over so that it spun round then rolled through a series of arcs.

  ‘That’s a gun you tote in that holster, you know. It ain’t no bible. You’d best remember that. Nothing about you give you any right to push your morals on someone else. Especially not me.’

  Hart’s mouth was set in a tight line, his eyes narrowed; a vein at the left side of his head was beginning to beat. Fredericks stared at him and all of the words that came to him were useless in reply. Maybe what Fredericks said was right; maybe there wasn’t much to choose between them; maybe in their own ways they were equally as rotten. But...

  Fredericks thumbed open a box and picked out a fresh cigar. He struck a match on the table edge and cut off the cigar end with a small knife he kept in his vest pocket.

  ‘Seems to me like we finished our business for now, Hart. You can go.’

  Bonney Fredericks was outside the door when Hart stepped through. She made no pretence to hide the fact that she’d been an interested listener. Her eyes swept over Hart’s body with a sense of power borrowed from her husband. Hart went quickly past her and out of the house.

  Chapter Seven

  The rider sent up clouds of dust into the bright blue of the sky. The sun sparkled off his spurs, the movement of his bridle. When he slewed his mount round in the space between the Fredericks place and the barn, a whole shower of fresh dust rose to cover him.

  The horse reared up on its hind legs and the cowboy dropped from the saddle before it had righted itself again. He whipped off his steep-crowned Texas hat and wafted it through the air.

  Fredericks came towards him from the house, Peters and Howie from the barn. Hart leaned against the corral fence and waited.

  ‘Hot damn! It’s sure good to see you!’

  The cowboy pumped Fredericks’ hand and clapped a dusty hand to his sleeve.

  ‘Hot damn an’ the devil!’

  He was wearing wide batwing chaps, fastened tight behind his dark woolen pants; the rowels on his work spurs spun a little and jingled as he moved; the raised heel of his fancy boot ground the dirt.

  ‘How far you ahead of the herd?’

  ‘Three, maybe four hours.’

  Fredericks’ face broke into a smile and he looked over to his right. ‘Peters! Ride down there with the others. Show them the pasture over east of here.’

  He turned back to the cowboy. ‘It’s not the same place as last fall, but there’s better grass. Even better.’ His smile broadened. ‘First come, first served.’

  ‘That’s damn right!’

  The cowboy gave Fredericks another slap on the arm and swung round to greet Peters with a firm handshake. Then he pulled himself up into his saddle and moved the horse forwards then sideways, laughing at his fancy stepping.

  Wes Hart came slowly over towards the house.

  ‘Merv,’ said Fredericks stepping forward. ‘This here’s Wes Hart. He’s my regulator. Merv Griffiths. His father owns the C Circle down below Austin.’

  Griffiths stopped showing off with his horse and looked down at Hart through the swirling dust. Hart waited until the air had cleared, then nodded curtly. Griffiths just stared. His face was young behind a light brown moustache and a scar over his left cheekbone. His eyes were blue, not the faded blue of Hart’s, but bright, nervy.

  ‘Since when have you needed one of his kind?’ Griffiths asked, leaning sideways in the saddle, half looking at Fredericks while not taking his eyes fully off Hart. All the high humor had left him.

  Fredericks made a calming gesture with his hands. ‘No need to trouble you boys any. But we get rustlers coming round as soon as the herds start moving in for the winter. With Hart here, you’re less likely to lose stock.’

  ‘Thought you had some reg’lar law up here now?’

  ‘There’s a US marshal, but he’s riding a few hundred miles of territory. No way he can handle things himself, not even with deputies. We have to make our own arrangements.’

  Merv Griffiths patted his horse’s flank and straightened up, resettling his Stetson. ‘Just so long as it stays that way an’ he don’t come to interferin’ with us none. My pa sure wouldn’t take to that.’

  Hart came forward fast, right alongside Griffiths. He set his left hand on the leather of his stirrup, keeping the right free. Griffiths had a pistol holstered behind the edge of his chaps.

  ‘We’ll just see what your pa’ll take later on. You tell him I’ll be out to see him soon as he’s settled in. Just a friendly word.’

  Griffiths swung his leg and knocked Hart’s hand away. Hart stepped back and his body began to dip into a crouch; his hand curved above the butt of his Colt; his eyes met those of the cowboy and held.

  ‘You best get home to your daddy, boy, and tell him what Mr. Fredericks an’ I said. Fore you forget it.’

  Griffiths started to move his right arm back, the hand leaving the reins and shifting away from the saddle pommel. But he hadn’t stopped staring into Hart’s eyes and what he saw there stopped him.

  With a holler he rocked his body in the saddle and dug in his spurs; the horse reared quickly and then started off away from the house.

  Hart turned and watched him go, relaxed again, thumbs back inside his belt.

  ‘You didn’t need to needle him that way.’

  Hart turned and as he did realized for the first time that Bonney Fredericks was standing behind her husband, in the doorway.

  ‘Maybe not.’

  But he wasn’t looking at Fredericks. She was wearing a black split riding skirt and a white blouse that was tight at the neck and close to her body. Her hair was pulled back just the way it had been before, only this time there wasn’t any make-up on her mouth.

  She looked
back at Hart, his face and the length of his body.

  Fredericks was saying: ‘No need in getting them all riled up.’

  Hart nodded. ‘I’ll take a ride out there later, like I said. When they’ve got the herd settled down.’

  Fredericks started to argue, but reconsidered. He went over to talk with Peters instead. Hart and Bonney Fredericks looked at one another through the space he had filled just before; then she strode away to the barn to fetch her horse. Hart turned his head slowly and watched her.

  From the hill it was possible to see nearly the whole herd, around eight hundred head Hart figured, stretched out in a wide, wavering line. They’d been traveling for a long time and man and beast were tired through. Only the thought of being so near to the end of the journey gave some of them, like Merv Griffiths, a fresh burst of energy. And tired all the same, as soon as the steers smelt the water of Turkey Creek clearly they’d be hard to hold. Wanting them on the other side of the water anyway, Hart guessed the cowhands would let them run.

  Hart pushed back his Stetson so that it fell behind his head, fastened on the thin cord about his neck. The marks from the ferry rope were still there, the memory of them even clearer. He thought about the two attempts on his life and whether whoever had been responsible had given up or if he would try again. When? How?

  Hart rubbed his hand across his stubbled cheek and shook the thoughts clear. Below him he could see the pattern of the drive as the front animals veered off to the west.

  Two men rode point, one on either side, the steers a dozen or so abreast at the front. Behind them came the swing and flank riders, constantly moving, turning, using their ropes to keep any cattle from straying too far out of the bunch. The chuck wagon was over to the side, the remuda being driven along behind it by a couple of wranglers.

  Hart knew the men riding drag were somewhere at the back of the herd but it was impossible to pick them out through the accumulation of dust that rose up over the rear of the drive like a thick cloud that even the sun couldn’t pierce.

  Two men rode between swing and point on the left and he guessed they were Griffiths and his father, though there was no way of being certain. The mount that one of them was riding, a soft black, looked like the one Merv Griffiths had been showing his paces on earlier. He wondered what words the boy had passed on about himself and what kind of reception he’d get when he went down later.