by Jake Logan
Only seconds later, an old Indian appeared from the building. He was wearing a buffalo skull headdress and held an eagle feather fan in one hand.
In Comanche he said, “The Tayovises says you speak our language.”
“Not much of it,” Slocum replied, “but the boy understood what I wanted. I have the daughter of Chief Lame Bear inside, and she has been asking for you.”
The boy came out carrying a buffalo robe. He halted behind the man Slocum believed was Isa Tai, the medicine man of the Comanche tribes.
“Taoyo will help you carry her,” Isa Tai said. “Bring her in and put her inside the circle of light.”
Slocum had a vague recollection of a ceremony the Nocona Comanches practiced called a Healing Inside the Circle of Light. A dance would begin, accompanied by the slow beat of a ceremonial drum.
“We’ll bring her in,” he said, climbing into the back of the wagon. “She’s asleep. She’s been given some medicine to help her with the pain.”
“Tosi Tivo medicine?” Isa Tai asked warily.
“It was all they had. The doctor at the fort gave it to her before I brought her here.”
Isa Tai scowled. “Then the spirit medicine will not work. She will die.”
Slocum knew it was senseless to argue with a man who held a powerful position among the Comanches. “It will only keep her in a deep sleep for a short period of time. When she wakes up, you can begin the ceremony inside the circle of light. She asked me to bring her here.”
“She will die,” Isa Tai said again.
Slocum’s patience was wearing thin. “I hope you are wrong, Isa Tai. The girl was sure you could help her.”
Isa Tai, aware of the other Comanches listening to what was being said, “Bring her in. If she dies, it will be the fault of the Tosi Tivo medicine.”
The faded sign above the small log building read BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS. Slocum went in without knocking.
A gangly man with sandy blond hair and blue eyes looked up from a stack of papers on his desk. “I didn’t hear you knock,” he said.
“That’s because I didn’t,” Slocum answered. “I want to talk to George Tatum.”
“I’m Tatum. What is it you want to talk to me about that’s so goddamn important you can’t knock on my office door like a man’s supposed to?”
Slocum ambled over to the desk. Tatum was tall and whipcord thin. He had a prominent Adam’s apple and narrow, shifty eyes. “Wasn’t no sign on this fuckin’ door sayin’ I was supposed to knock,” he replied.
“It’s common courtesy.”
Slocum rested his hands on his hips. “To tell the truth, Mr. Tatum, I ain’t exactly in a courteous mood. But if knocking is so goddamn important to you, I’ll knock on your desk instead.”
Slocum’s remark took Tatum by surprise. He could see it in his face. “I must say you have an arrogance about you. Forget about the knocking and state your reason for being here.”
“I’m here to find out why the beef you give these Indians has worms in it, and why the flour is moldy.”
“You have been misinformed. Besides, it’s none of your business.”
Slocum leaned over the desk. He lowered his voice to a chilly whisper. “I’m making it my business, Tatum.”
“And what gives you that right?” Tatum said, arching one eyebrow.
“The right of an American citizen to know how a tax-payer’s money is bein’ spent.”
“If you have a complaint, or believe you have one, you can make it through the proper channels.”
“I’m damn sure gonna do just that, Tatum,” Slocum snarled. “I’m acquainted with General Crook. I used to scout for him and Ranald McKenzie. Unless you give me some straight answers, I’ll wire both of them to see if they can explain the rotten meat and bad flour you’re handing out here.”
20
“I didn’t catch your name,” Tatum said. He was more wary than before.
“I didn’t give you one,” Slocum replied. “Not that it matters all that much. I’m John Slocum. I just came from the Comanche sector of this reservation. Can’t say as I ever saw anything so filthy in my life. Reminds me of Andersonville during the war. Those Indians are starving.”
“I give them the rations required by our treaty, Mr. Slocum. I do not set government policy.”
“What you give ’em ain’t fit to eat.”
“Again, the matter is out of my hands. We are supplied by a contractor. We give the Indians what he brings us.”
“Who is this contractor?”
Tatum swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. “His name is Anderson. Bill Anderson.”
“Where does this Anderson live?”
“He runs a general merchandise store in Lawton. I believe he owns grazing permits somewhere in the Osage section of the Territory, where he raises the beef he sells us. But as I said before, this is truly none of your affair. If you believe you have a complaint, file it with the government in Washington. I do not set policy. I merely follow it. Now, if you’ve finished with your groundless accusations, I’m asking you to leave my office. I’m quite busy.”
“I’m finished,” Slocum said. “At least for now.”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. At that very moment, he spotted Sergeant Lee Watson riding across the parade ground with four cavalrymen.
“Sergeant Watson!” he shouted. “I’d like a word with you!”
Watson swung his horse and rode toward Slocum with a questioning look on his face. He halted his bay and gazed down from the saddle.
“Those tracks I showed you down at the cabins where those folks are buried,” Slocum began. “Where did they take you?”
“They was headed east, toward Lawton, like they was when you found ’em. How come you to ask?”
“Because someone said they led west, to Red Oak Canyon, where a group of Comanche hunters were camped.”
Watson nodded. “That’s what one of Anderson’s boys told us a few hours after you left. We was ridin’ along them tracks when a little cowboy named Bob Barlow rode up, sayin’ he’d come across the same tracks, an’ that they doubled back to the west, an’ he’d followed ‘em to Red Oak Canyon where this big bunch of redskins was hid out. We turned around an’ followed Barlow, to make sure he wasn’t seein’ things, an’ sure enough, there they was, this bunch of Comanches led by this real troublesome redskin by the name of Conas. I sent a messenger to Major Thompson, an’ they got ’em surrounded. We rode back here to the fort to get fresh supplies. By the time we got back, the fight was over. Major Thompson said somebody convinced him it was the wrong bunch of redskins.”
“Where can I find this Bob Barlow?”
Watson pointed due west. “Prob’ly at Lawton, or out at the Anderson Ranch on Mill Creek north of town. There’s usually four or five cowhands at the ranch watchin’ over Anderson’s herds. He ain’t real fond of havin’ company out there, so I’d ask in Lawton first so you don’t get shot at.”
“Anderson doesn’t like having visitors?”
Watson spat off the side of his horse. “He’s a mean-natured cuss, if you ask me, but he’s got connections in high places, so he gets the beef contracts for the reservation. Runs a store in Lawton that supplies the other stuff. Flour, dry beans, that sort of thing.”
“The moldy flour.”
Watson hesitated. “You’d better ask the major ’bout that, Mr. Slocum.”
Slocum made a move toward his horse. “I think I’ll just ride over to the Anderson spread and have a look for myself.”
Once more, Sergeant Watson hesitated. “Might be a good idea to keep your eyes open. A few of Anderson’s boys carry guns. I’ve heard tell they ain’t bashful ’bout takin’ a shot at strangers, claimin’ they might be cow thieves. This part of the Territory has got its share of rustlers. Sometimes it’s the Injuns themselves.”
“I’ll be careful,” Slocum said as he hurried off. Just about everything the Sergeant told him about Bill Anderson made him so
und suspicious. It fit the wariness George Tatum had displayed when he gave Slocum little pieces of information about the contracts for food at the reservation.
The land north of Lawton was hilly range country, with a few groves of trees here and there. The Palouse trotted easily over the bunchgrass. The horse was well rested now, and it had been well fed at the livery.
It was getting on toward noon, and as he rode over a rise, a northwesterly breeze brought him a slightly rancid scent, the scent of death.
He halted the stud on a hilltop, trying to trace the smell with his eyes. Off in the distance, he saw a ravine with buzzards circling in the air.
“Wonder what the hell is dead over yonder?” He recalled the remark made by Isa Tai. The boy standing guard outside the shriveled Comanche medicine man’s hut had said that the other three Kwahadie women were dead. Vultures were a signpost that pointed to death. Still, it could have been a deer, or a rabbit, or some other animal.
He headed the Palouse toward the circling vultures with a vague feeling that he was onto something and knots in his stomach. With his heels, he asked the stud for a short lope. All the while, he was giving the surrounding countryside a careful examination. Sergeant Watson’s warnings were ringing in his ears. It would be foolhardy to ride into a trap set by Bill Anderson’s rangehands. Watson had said they were a bit on the trigger-happy side, expecting cattle rustlers.
On the other side of a wooded hilltop he encountered a sight he had not expected. There, in a shallow ravine, hundreds of cowhides lay rotting in the sun. Buzzards fed on the entrails and the bits of skin still attached to the skins.
Slocum sat his horse quietly for a while. He wanted to make sure no one was around before he urged his horse down to the ravine. The stench of decaying flesh was overpowering as he rode down the sloping bank into the dry ravine.
He swung down and ground-hitched the stud. There were odd markings on many of the cowhides piled in the draw. Most of them had different brands cooked into their skin. Hundreds of hides lay in the bottom of the wash, but it seemed no two bore exactly the same brand. Some were Bar B, others Triangle W, and there was an assortment of markings that were harder to identify because of the deterioration of the hides.
“Stolen cattle,” he muttered. Any honest cattleman with grazing permits on government land would put his own brand on his beeves. Otherwise ownership would be in dispute come the roundup.
“Anderson is a goddamn cow rustler,” he added under his breath. As he walked among the skins, buzzards circled overhead and swooped down to feed on the rotting carcasses.
The crack of a distant rifle shot sent him diving for cover behind a tangle of low bushes. The bullet whined overhead, high and wide of its mark.
Slocum had left his rifle booted to his saddle. His only weapons were his Colt .44 and his small-caliber bellygun. He scanned the ridge from which the shot had come from.
Windblown grass, yellowed by the change of seasons, bent in the gusts of air. Slocum couldn’t find a shape among the grasses that didn’t belong.
Suddenly another gunshot crackled from a grove of slender oak trees, and the blossom of a muzzle flash appeared briefly between the tree trunks. A chuck of molten lead thudded into a stack of rotting cowhides not far away.
This cowboy can’t shoot, Slocum thought.
Crouching down and moving slowly to keep from giving his position away, he crept northwest, keeping to the deepest brush with his .44 clutched securely in his fist.
I’ll get behind him, Slocum thought, if he doesn’t run off before I can find him.
A figure with a Winchester rifle held to his shoulder was hunkered down behind a tree overlooking the ravine. He was a short cowboy with a badly stained felt Stetson. Strapped around his waist he carried a pistol in an oiled cartridge belt. A leather thong tied around his leg held the holster in place.
This fool thinks he’s a gunman, Slocum thought as he made a silent approach behind the shooter’s back.
When the range for Slocum’s .44 was just right, he stood up and aimed for a spot between the shooter’s shoulder-blades.
“Don’t move, cowboy. Drop the rifle and stand up real slow, or I’ll blow you to eternity.”
He saw the man stiffen.
“How’d you git behind me?” he asked, looking over his shoulder while clutching the repeating rifle very close to his chest.
“Drop the goddamn rifle,” Slocum snapped. “I’m the one who’s gonna ask the questions. Don’t test me, cowpuncher, or I’ll have to prove to you I can’t miss at this range. Hell, a blind man could kill you from where I’m standing.”
The rifle fell. The cowboy raised his hands.
“Stand up and turn around. If you make a play for that pistol you’re wearing, you die same as if you’d swung the rifle on me.”
The shooter stood up slowly, his arms held high above his head. He was young, probably twenty-five or so, and all the color had drained from his cheeks.
“I reckon you work for Bill Anderson,” Slocum began in a monotone.
The cowboy stared into the muzzle of Slocum’s Colt. “Yessir, I do.”
“How come you took those shots at me?”
“Them was my orders.”
“Most of those cowhides carry different brands. Let me see if I can figure this out without your help. Tell me when I go wrong. Those were stolen beeves, cattle stolen to fill the contract with the Indian reservation over at Fort Sill. You put the hides here while they’re still green, waitin’ for ‘em to dry out enough so’s you can burn ’em.”
“Are you the law?” the young man asked. His lips quivered as he spoke.
“Right now it don’t make any difference who I am. Tell me if I’m right about those cowskins.”
“I ain’t gonna admit to the part about ’em bein’ stole. I’d be askin’ to go to jail.”
“Would you prefer going to an early grave?”
“You wouldn’t just up an’ shoot me.”
“It’d be my word against yours, and you’d be in a six-foot hole.”
“I never stole no cows myself. I’m just a hired hand. We butchers them steers an’ sends the meat over to the fort. Honest, mister, that’s all I know.”
“What about the different brands? I think you’re lying to me, and I’m liable to shoot you dead on account of it unless I hear something I can believe.”
The cowboy swallowed hard. “Maybe a feller could think they was stole on account of them different brands. Me an’ my pardner Barney was wonderin’ about it.”
“You work for Anderson?”
“Yessir. He pays real good.”
“Why did you shoot at me just now?”
“We’s supposed to keep folks away from this here ravine till the hides git dry enough to burn without makin’ too much smoke. A green hide smokes like hell. If’n you didn’t know that much already.”
“Where’s Bill Anderson?”
“I reckon he’s in town, mister. He’ll be with Barlow. Bob Barlow is one bad hombre with a gun. If’n I was you, I’d be real careful ’round him.”
“One more very important question, cowboy. If I don’t get what I think is a truthful answer, I’m gonna have to kill you and swear you went for that pistol.”
“I sure as hell am gonna tell you the truth if I know it,” the cowhand stammered.
“Who’s in on this at Fort Sill? Who knows the beef they get is stolen?”
“I wish you’d ask me some other question. That one’s gonna get me killed if I tell the truth.”
“You’ll be dead either way. If you answer me with the truth, I’ll give you a chance to get on your horse and ride out of this country.”
For a moment, the cowboy was still. “There’s this Indian agent by the name of Tatum. George Tatum. I ain’t exactly sure just how he’s involved. But he knows this ain’t Mr. Anderson’s beef we bring him. I’ve seen Mr. Anderson givin’ him money when he didn’t think nobody was lookin’. Any fool knows it’s supposed to be the ot
her way ’round. When a man sells beef, he gets the money. No reason fer him to be payin’ any to the man he’s sellin’ it to.”
Slocum lowered his pistol a fraction. “Find your horse and clear out of here. If I ever lay eyes on you again, I’m just gonna kill you dead as a fence post without asking any more questions.”
“You won’t never see me again, mister. I’ll promise you that much. This job pays good, but it don’t pay enough to be worth dyin’ for.”
He lowered his hands and took off at a trot, leaving his rifle lying where he dropped it in the grass and fallen leaves.
21
It was a fairly typical ranch for frontier country—a two-room cabin with a dog run, rows of pole corrals, several sheds and barns, a windmill to provide water for its human inhabitants and livestock. Three covered wagons of the Studebaker type were parked in a row behind one of the barns.
That’s where they butcher the meat, Slocum thought, taking a closer look at the largest barn from a tree-lined ridge high above the ranch headquarters.
Off in the distance he could see herds of grazing cattle in flat meadows and on grassy hillsides. He pondered why the law, why Sheriff Wall, hadn’t visited the place since it was only a few miles, maybe thirty or so, from Cache and less than a dozen miles north of Lawton.
Waiting, watching the ranch for signs of activity, Slocum considered what he already knew. Bill Anderson was supplying the reservation with beef and staples ... and the beef was stolen, for he had seen proof of it with the branded cowhides. The cowboy who took a shot at him earlier had all but said that the Indian agent, George Tatum, was in on the crooked deal. Now all Slocum had to do was gather enough proof of what was going on to hand it over to someone at the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
“It ain’t gonna be easy to prove,” he told himself aloud, still watching the ranch. Where dishonest money was involved, someone usually did a hell of a lot of planning in the event something went wrong. The hides were almost enough proof themselves, but Anderson might have already prepared himself with bills of sale from fictitious owners of the cattle.
