“Let me do the talking, Connie.”
She nodded, knowing it would be hard to remain silent if anyone spoke out against her father.
They made their way inside to find the condition of the interior not much better than the exterior. Uncle Lance made his way to the front desk and rang the small bell on the counter. It was several minutes before an old man appeared.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Are you Reginald Belfast?”
The old man shook his head. “He’s my grandson. Do you have business with him?”
“I do.” Uncle Lance smiled. “Is he here today?”
“He is. He ran some blankets up to 203 and should be right back down.” He glanced toward the staircase. “In fact, that’s him now.”
“Thank you.” Uncle Lance turned from the desk and made his way toward the approaching man. Connie followed. “I understand you’re Reginald Belfast.” Uncle Lance extended his hand in welcome. “I’m Lance Kenner. If you have a moment, I would like to speak to you.”
“Sure, mister. What about?” Belfast looked at Connie and smiled.
She returned the smile, hoping it would keep him in good spirits. The whole time, however, she wanted to grab him and demand the truth.
“We can sit over here,” Belfast said, pointing to the lobby, where a dozen or more well-worn chairs awaited. Connie and Lance followed him and took a seat. Belfast pulled up a chair. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I am the brother-in-law of Adam Browning. I’m also his lawyer, and this is his daughter.”
Belfast frowned. “I only told the truth.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you told the police?”
“Mr. Browning came to the hotel every so often. The night Berkshire and Lakewood got shot, he had been out most of the evening. He came back just long enough to get his messages, then told me he had a meeting with Mr. Berkshire and Mr. Lakewood. When he came back that evening, he had blood splattered on his coat and shirt. He said he’d been caught up in a street fight but hadn’t been hurt. I offered to send his clothes to the laundry, and he told me to come up for them shortly.”
“And did you?” Uncle Lance asked.
“I did. I took them to a Chinese laundryman I knew, and he agreed to work on them that night and have them ready by morning. In the morning he brought the clothes clean and pressed, and I personally delivered them to Mr. Browning.”
Connie had to force herself not to blurt out that the man in question wasn’t Mr. Browning.
“Why is it you’ve only recently shared this information with the police?”
“I didn’t hear about the deaths of Mr. Berkshire and Mr. Lakewood right away. See, after Mr. Browning left the hotel, I left as well. We got word that my mother was ill and would probably die—she lives in California. My grandfather arranged for a friend to run the hotel, and he and I left to be with my folks. I didn’t think anything more about Mr. Browning until just a couple of weeks ago, when I saw an article about the police still trying to find who had killed Mr. Berkshire and Mr. Lakewood. The article mentioned that the police were certain that while the killer staged it to look like a murder-suicide, it was clearly murder. That’s when I remembered Mr. Browning and the blood on his suit.”
“Would you recognize this Mr. Browning if you saw him again?”
“Sure would. He stayed with us lots of times. I told the police I could point him out. I’m supposed to go do that this afternoon.”
Uncle Lance looked to Connie and nodded. She pulled the photo of her mother and father from her purse and handed it to Uncle Lance. He glanced at it, then turned it around for Belfast to see. “Have a look at this.”
Belfast took the photo and glanced down. He looked back up at Connie’s uncle. “What about it?”
“Do you recognize the man?”
Belfast looked again, then shook his head. “Never seen him before.”
“Are you sure?”
Belfast nodded and pushed the picture back. “I am. Who is he?”
“That, Mr. Belfast, is Adam Browning—the man you said was staying here at your hotel.”
“No. That’s not him. The Adam Browning I know had a completely different look.”
“Come with us now, then,” Uncle Lance said, getting to his feet. “The man they have in jail is this man. He’s there wrongfully, and I want to see him released as soon as possible.”
“I’ll have to speak to my grandfather and make certain he can spare me, but sure. I don’t want someone in jail on my word who isn’t guilty.” Belfast left them and went to the front desk.
Connie was so excited she could hardly keep from giving a yell. “I’m so happy. Mama will be too. This is such great news.”
“Well, we haven’t gotten him released yet. Hopefully soon.” Uncle Lance handed back the picture.
A half hour later, the trio stood in front of a heavyset man who announced himself to be in charge. He listened to what Uncle Lance had to say and then requested to see the picture. Connie handed it over and waited while the officer reviewed it with a magnifying glass.
“That’s him all right,” the man in charge declared. He had already requested his officer bring Connie’s father to his office. Now they waited. “That’s the man we have in jail. You say this doesn’t even look like him?” he asked Belfast.
“No, sir. Not a bit. The other man was bigger—broader in the shoulders. The hair is all wrong too.”
Finally the officer returned, bringing Connie’s father with him. She wanted to throw herself into her father’s arms but saw that he was in shackles. Poor Papa. It was so uncalled for. He was a man of peace.
“Mr. Belfast, is this your Mr. Browning?”
The younger man got up from his chair and turned to face Connie’s father. “No, sir. That’s the man in the photograph, and like I said, that’s not the Adam Browning who signed the ledger at our hotel.”
“There you have it,” Uncle Lance said, turning to the man in charge. “I demand you release my client.”
Connie ignored the police officer and went to her father. She wrapped her arms around him only to have the officer pull her away.
“You can’t touch the prisoner.”
“But he won’t be a prisoner much longer. You heard Mr. Belfast. My father isn’t the right man.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the heavyset man announced. “Your father isn’t only here on charges of murder. He’s also been arrested for supplying the Indians with whiskey and guns. We have two different men who produced signed receipts and said they personally delivered crates of rifles to your father.”
“I assure you they weren’t signed by me,” Connie’s father declared. “I’ve never seen a single crate at the reservation, much less witnessed their delivery and signed for them.”
“It doesn’t really matter what you claim, Mr. Browning.” The heavyset man rose. “It matters what the evidence says.”
Her father stepped forward, but the guard yanked him back. “Even if you don’t believe me, I can prove my signature. Let there be a comparison.”
“We’ll get around to that soon enough. Take him back to his cell.”
“No!” Connie hadn’t meant to cry out, but now that she had, she wasn’t going to take it back. “You can’t lock him up. He’s innocent.”
“That’s for a jury to decide,” the heavyset man said, waving off the officer.
“Let’s go, Browning.” The policeman pulled on her father’s arm.
“I love you, Papa. We’ll get you set free.”
He smiled. “Your uncle Lance can manage this. I need you to take care of your mother. I imagine she’s frantic.”
Connie didn’t want to worry him. “She misses you, but she’s stronger than any of us give her credit for.”
He chuckled. “You both are.”
“Are you sure this is the right direction?” one of the soldiers asked Tom.
“She said the house was located north of the big bend in the river. W
e’ve come directly north,” Tom replied. “Maybe we should spread out more.”
Isaac pushed his way through the trees and rejoined them. “I haven’t seen anything that looks like foot traffic or crates being dragged.”
“Over here!” another of the soldiers called. “I found a shack.”
The men hurried through the thick vegetation as best they could. Tom prayed that the weapons had finally been located. It would be to everyone’s advantage if they had.
They halted in the trees a few feet away from a clearing. “I never knew this was here,” Isaac said in a hushed whisper.
The clearing was hardly more than twenty feet or so across. To one side, the little shack stood with plenty of prints in the dirt around it to show signs of activity. Tom and the other men advanced cautiously. Just because they didn’t see anyone didn’t mean there wasn’t a guard present.
Clint had worked with the soldiers to see that a detailed count was taken of the Indians each day. This kept them occupied between eleven and noon, giving Tom and the others just an hour or so to seek out the weapons. They’d been looking ever since the army had taken Adam Browning away, and now it looked like they had finally managed to locate the stash. It was a huge relief.
Seeing no one in the area, Tom and one of the soldiers advanced and knocked on the door of the shack. There was no answer. Tom opened the door to find the shack was comprised of one large room, and in the room were stacked crates of what he could only presume were rifles. Hundreds of rifles, and no doubt as much ammunition as was needed for a war.
Tom spied a crate with its lid askew. He walked over and pushed back the lid to reveal the cargo inside. He picked up one of the rifles and held it up to catch the light coming in from the open doorway. How many people might have been killed with this weapon alone?
“They’re here,” the soldier called outside to the others.
Tom replaced the rifle and shook his head. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“At least the hotel clerk was able to state that Papa isn’t the same man who signed the ledger using his name.” They had just finished supper, and Connie was determined to give her mother hope. “He was quite certain about it.”
“Well, of course he was. Your father was never there.”
“Once I can get them to compare the signatures on the receipts to Adam’s as well as the hotel ledger, hopefully they will release him for lack of evidence,” Uncle Lance said.
“It’s all too maddening.” Connie’s mother shook her head.
“Lance will see him vindicated,” Hope assured her sister.
There was a knock at the door, and Seth excused himself to see who it was. Meanwhile, the ever-opinionated Bedelia Clifton spoke up.
“I believe you should tell your story to the newspapers.” For a moment everyone fell silent and looked at the older woman. “It only makes sense,” she continued. “There is a man out there posing as Adam Browning. It’s possible that someone will remember him calling himself by that name, or that someone will have had dealings with him and would be willing to come forward and speak up on the matter.”
“She’s right,” Uncle Lance said. “We could explain the situation and ask if there are any witnesses who might come forward to prove the man they dealt with also wasn’t Adam Browning. I’ll get on that in the morning. Hopefully we’ll have Adam out of jail by the end of the day tomorrow.”
Connie saw the hope in her mother’s eyes.
Please, Father God, please let it be so.
The door to Clint’s office opened, and his father walked in as though he owned the place. He looked at Clint with a scowl. “What kind of mess do you have going on here? There are soldiers everywhere.”
“I presume they’re here because you are. After all, you’re a very important man.” Clint’s sarcasm made his father smile.
“I am, aren’t I?” He laughed. “I was afraid they were here to quell an uprising.”
“Well, I’m sure that might have something to do with it.”
“Your Indians . . . they won’t be discouraged, will they?” His father raised his brow. “Back out on you?”
Clint got to his feet and laughed. “No, sir. Everything is still going as planned.” He came around the desk and embraced his father. “Good to see you again.”
The older man smiled. “I thought I should come pick out the land I intend to buy after your little Indian uprising sees them all dead.”
Chapter 20
Connie sat up with a start and looked at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly six in the morning. She eased back against her pillow, trying to remember what had so shocked her. Then it started to come back to her.
At the police station, her father had said he knew nothing about the shipments of whiskey and rifles coming to the reservation. That he’d never even seen any crates, much less signed for them. But Clint had told her that night by the river that her father was well aware of it. That they had seen the deliveries together.
Clint had lied to her. He’d stressed to her she should say nothing about it. No wonder.
“He wasn’t down at the river spying on the Indians. He was helping them.” Why else would he have been there? It made perfect sense, especially with him not wanting her to speak to her father about it.
Connie jumped up and began to dress. She needed to let Uncle Lance know that Clint was in on all of this. She thought back through everything she had learned since reaching the reservation. They had felt certain that someone on the outside had befriended the Indians and arranged for the uprising. Instead, what if Clint was the one who had arranged it all? He could come and go at will, helping those on the reservation and purchasing goods on the outside. He regularly had meetings in Salem and Portland, supposedly with government officials. It was all so clear. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
Connie hastily pinned up her hair, then hurried downstairs. Nancy’s boarders were just sitting down to breakfast, and little Jack was in his father’s arms at the head of the table.
“Good morning, Connie,” Seth said. “I hope you’re hungry. Your mother and aunt have been helping Nancy cook since dawn. I believe we’re in for a real treat.”
“Where’s Uncle Lance?” She tried not to sound panicked. “I need to speak with him.”
“He’s in the front room, talking to Major Wells.”
“Perfect.” She didn’t wait to see if he might protest her joining them. This was important, and it was all the better that the army major was there.
“Uncle Lance,” she said, coming into the room. “I need to speak to you both.”
The two men looked up from where they stood. Uncle Lance held a newspaper in his hand and quickly folded it as if to hide it from her. She looked at him and then at the major.
“What’s wrong?” Uncle Lance asked.
“I could ask the same thing.” She glanced at Major Wells, who quickly looked away. “Something isn’t right. What is it? Please tell me, and then I’ll tell you what I’ve figured out.”
Uncle Lance hesitated, then unfolded the newspaper. The headline read, Cherokee Encourages Uprising.
Connie took the paper and read. “‘Adam Browning, a half-breed who posed as a white man and once headed up ministerial and school studies at Grand Ronde, has been arrested on charges of inciting an uprising.’” She felt sick. Few people knew of her father’s Cherokee heritage. She looked up at her uncle. “He’s not a half-breed.”
“I know, sweetheart, but it’s not going to matter. It’s going to be impossible to get much support for him. Especially when people are certain he’s stirring up a war.”
Connie glanced over her shoulder. “Does my mother know?”
“No, and we don’t plan to tell her. This would be much too hard on her. You didn’t read the rest of the article, but don’t bother. The journalist found it necessary to point out that your father is married to a white woman—making their marriage illegal in Oregon. They also mention his illegitimate children.”
>
Connie handed back the newspaper and sank into the nearest chair. “This isn’t right. Papa is only a quarter Cherokee, and that’s not illegal for marriage to a white woman. He would have to be half.”
Uncle Lance squatted beside her. “I know. But it’s also very hard to prove the percentage. I’ll do what I can. Now, tell me what you came to say.”
She tried to sort her thoughts into a comprehensible statement. “Something hit me in my sleep. Something that happened at the reservation. I overheard some of the Indian men planning to go down to the river to receive something after midnight. I couldn’t hear all that they said, but I went down to the river that night by myself. I was sneaking along the banks and heard the men talking. A boat had come, and they were unloading something. I moved to get a closer look, and someone grabbed me and pulled me away from the riverbank. It was Clint Singleton. He told me he was trying to figure out who was smuggling guns and whiskey onto the reservation. I asked him if Papa knew about it, and he assured me he did—that he and Papa had observed deliveries before. He also told me to say nothing to him.” She paused only a moment. “Then yesterday at the jail, when they said they had receipts that Papa had signed—”
“Your father said he’d never seen any crates, much less signed for them,” Uncle Lance declared.
“Exactly! Clint said they’d been watching together when other deliveries had come, but Papa said he knew nothing about it. Don’t you see? Clint was lying. That means he must be involved. He comes to Portland and Salem whenever he wants on government business. He could easily have arranged all of this.”
“She’s right.” Uncle Lance got to his feet. “No one outside our family knows Adam better than Clint Singleton. And he knows the reservation and the people there better than anyone save Adam. He also knows that Adam is part Cherokee. One of the few who know that outside of the family.”
Forever by Your Side Page 21
