War on the Cimarron (22 page)

She forgot about eating and took up her vigil again. One part of Red's plan had worked; would the other part work too?

In early afternoon she saw Scott Corb, dressed in a neat black suit and shined boots, climb the porch steps. At his heels was a fresh-faced and arrogant young man wearing shiny new boots and a new dust-colored Stetson. The expression on his face made Luvie want to laugh. He looked as if he were inordinately proud of his new outfit and at the same time as if his boots were so new that they hurt him to walk. But what was most incongruous of all was that he should be with Corb. There were others with Corb, still-faced, hard-eyed and dirty men, and this raw young man looked like a sheep among wolves.

Barnes had seen Corb come too, and now he sagged into a chair beside Luvie. They knew what to look for and kept their attention on the doors of the administration building across the parade ground. It was a matter of only a few minutes before an orderly left the administration offices and walked purposefully toward the hotel, threading through the crowd. He went into the barbershop and in a minute came out again. Scott Corb was with him, and they went directly to the administration building.

Barnes looked at Luvie, a grim smile on his face. “It looks like business,” he grunted. “Now you get something to eat.”

“But I want to wait and see what happens to him!” Luvie said.

“Go get something to eat at the restaurant. I'll watch. Now run along.”

It took Luvie an impatient half-hour to get a place in the crowded restaurant. Even when she was served she found that her excitement had evaporated her hunger, but she struggled bravely with unwanted food.

When she finally finished and returned to her father she took one look at his crestfallen face and said, “Dad, what happened?”

“Corb's free,” Barnes said gloomily. He looked up at her, his face puzzled. “Somethin' went wrong, Luvie. He walked out of there alone and went into the barbershop whistlin'.”

Luvie sank into a chair, staring at him. “And Frank?”

“He must be loose,” Barnes reasoned. “How come the detail came in empty handed? And how come Corb was called to the major's office?” He shook his head and sighed. “He's just too damn big to knock over, girl. That's all.” He looked obliquely at her. “If you was a boy instead of a girl, I'd ask you to come along with me.”

“Where?”

“To the bar. I'm goin' to try and get the taste of that out of my mouth.” He got up and left.

Luvie settled back in her chair to await darkness and word from Otey, struggling against the disappointment she felt. If Corb had been arrested and held by the army, then there would have been some chance for Frank. He could return and clear his name of all these fantastic charges. But now it seemed hopeless. What was to stop Frank from talking with Otey and deciding that this country was too hot for him and heading back for Texas? What was keeping him here? Nothing, now.

She started conversation with an agency woman beside her so she wouldn't think of these things. In a few moments the word passed through the crowd that all persons were forbidden to leave the military reservations. It was confirmed when the guard was doubled on all four sides of the grounds. Rumor had it that the Indians were certain to attack now and that the garrison was really in a state of siege. Orders were posted on the post-office bulletin board that one mess hall was being set aside for civilian use, and this bore out the rumor. Out on the parade grounds, where it was relatively quiet, it was easy to hear the sound of the distant Indian drums, and opinion was that the Cheyennes were now inducing the more peaceful Arapahos to join the coming insurrection.

Just before dark a scouting detail rode up the slope from Darlington, herding a handful of whites who had elected to risk the Indian attack. Their orders had been to round up all the whites in Darlington and force them to accept army protection. And among those whites was Otey, his face angry and his jaw set.

Luvie ran out toward the stables and met him coming out.

“What about Frank?” she asked.

“Didn't come,” Otey growled. “Probably waitin' until dark. And them damn yellowlegs wouldn't let me stay at the house.” He glared at her. “Whose neck am I riskin', anyhow?”

“They won't let anybody go out of the garrison grounds either,” Luvie said.

“They'll play hell keepin' me here,” Otey said. “Wait till it gets dark. I'm goin' to meet Frank, and the whole army can't stop me!”

Barnes called them all to supper then, and while Otey ate Luvie told him of what had happened today. It was almost certain that Frank was free. But Corb hadn't been held by the army. He was here at the post now, confined like all the others by the army edict.

Otey said little, and when he finished eating he excused himself and left. Luvie, half sick with worry and sunk in the deepest gloom, went up to her room and lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. If only she could turn back the calendar to that afternoon when Corb induced her to betray Frank. All this was her fault, and she had only herself to thank. But what hurt most, what she would never forget, was the quiet steady way Frank Christian had told her that he never wanted to see her again. There was no use fooling herself; she hadn't been woman enough to recognize a real man when she saw him, and now she had lost him.

She was roused from her thoughts by a knock on the door, and Otey stepped in. Without a word he crossed over to a chair and sat down.

“No luck, Otey?”

“They got all the horse corrals guarded and wouldn't give me my horse. When I tried to break through the line of sentries I got throwed back twice.”

Luvie didn't say anything. If Frank returned to the house tonight he would think they all had forsaken him. Why wouldn't he ride out for Texas? Luvie looked over at Otey, at his bitter face and his expression of wounded pride. She laughed ruefully, and Otey grinned faintly.

Barnes came in then. His face was purple with anger, and he slammed his hat down on the bed. When he caught sight of Otey he said, “Otey, give me your gun.”

“What for?” Otey asked.

“Corb has got a rider down there that I'm goin' to fill so full of lead he couldn't float on hard butter.”

Luvie came over to him. “Why, Dad! I've never seen you this way. What is it?”

“I've taken enough rawhidin'! He's a fresh kid and drunk. He started rawhidin' me about killin' those Indians. Said if it wasn't for us and for Frank there wouldn't be an Indian scare. Corb shut him up, but he's still talkin' pretty wide about Frank.”

Luvie nodded. “I saw him. But he's only a boy. You couldn't fight him.”

Otey's attention sharpened. “What did he look like?”

“He's got a face that makes you itch to slug it. Young, thin, light hair, green eyes, spoiled mouth.”

Otey came slowly to his feet. “You hear anybody name him?”

“Corb called him Beach.”

“Ah,” Otey said. He started for the door.

Barnes said. “Where you goin'?”

“To pay a call,” Otey said. “You stay here.”

He went downstairs to the porch and walked along it till he came to the big window of the sutler's bar. The place was thronged, but, looking through the window, he could see Corb and four of his men at the corner table playing poker. And at the bar, back turned to it and elbows on it, watching the game, was Beach Freeman, a glass in his hand. So Beach hadn't gone back to Texas, Otey thought sourly. And he knew he had the answer to something that had been troubling him a long time. How had Corb known that a note from Luvie would toll Frank into Barnes's place for that bushwhack, unless somebody had told him? That somebody was Beach, who had heard enough and seen enough around the chuck wagon to put two and two together. Otey felt a hot wrath crawling inside him, but it wasn't so hot that he lost his head.

He slipped back into the darkness, walked down the long porch, through the gate into the wagon compound, where a lantern was hanging over the feed-office door, and into the stable. He took the stable lantern off its nail and climbed into the hayloft. There, as was almost always the case in any public stable loft, were a half-dozen men asleep. They were the riffraff, the drunks and the men down on their luck.

Otey looked them over, and when he came to one bleary and unshaven sleeper he stirred him with his toe. The man roused, and Otey said, “You want to earn five dollars?”

“Sure.”

“Come along.”

Outside the stable door Otey smelled the sour smell of long-drunk whisky on the man's breath, and he knew he had chosen wisely. He gave the man a five-dollar gold piece, and the man looked at it and said, “What do I do?”

“Go in the sutler's bar and drink it up,” Otey said. “First, though, do you know Beach Freeman?”

“No.”

“Ask the bartender. He'll point him out. Tell Beach that the hostler says that if he don't pay his feed bill tonight he's goin' to turn his horse loose. You got it?”

The man repeated it after him and then left in a hurry for the bar. Otey knew that Beach didn't owe a feed bill. But the threat of having his horse turned loose, even if by mistake, would bring him out. And the messenger, with drinking money in his fist, couldn't be pried away from the bar.

Otey drifted over to the shadow of the wagon shed and waited. It was five minutes before he heard a man swing into the compound gate. Beach swaggered into the circle of lantern light, his face belligerent, his eyes on the feed-office door.

From the corner of the office Otey drawled, “Hello, Beach.”

Beach hauled up and stared into the darkness. When Otey stepped into the light, his gun leveled at Beach, there was a moment of utter silence. Beach licked his lips, and slowly his hands raised over his head.

“Step over, Beach,” Otey drawled. “I never liked your face, and I reckon it's about time I made it over.”

And Beach came, his mouth dry and his throat tight, into the darkness.

Chapter XVIII

Milabel took his siesta on the couch in his office every afternoon during hot weather. It was a custom he had picked up from the
pelados
in south Texas and one which nothing short of a trail drive could interrupt, not even an Indian scare. His crew, full strength, had elected to wait out the Indian scare at the ranch, confident of their numbers, and Milabel had sided with them. Even in case of trouble he favored taking a chance and saving the company property. This afternoon he lay at full length on the couch, a
Stockman's Gazette
over his face to shut out the sunlight. He was just on the drowsy borderland of sleep when he felt the couch sag abruptly. It took some seconds for his sleepy brain to telegraph the news to his hands that someone just sat down on the couch near his feet.

He opened his eyes, raised his hands to the
Gazette
, lifted it and saw Frank Christian sitting by his knees. What yanked him awake was the black barrel of the Colt .45 which he was looking into.

Milabel frowned. “You again. I thought you was in jail.” There was not fear in his voice, only disgust and amazement.

Frank didn't smile. In fact, his face looked as if he never intended to smile again. His checks were haggard, and his eyes were deep sunk, sultry, the color of roiled smoke. There was a grimness in his unsmiling mouth, an alertness in his movements and manner that told Milabel he was looking at trouble.

Frank tossed something on Milabel's chest and said, “That yours?” watching him carefully.

Milabel leisurely picked up the object and looked at it. It was a silver spur rowel as large as a dollar, with wickedly sharp points and some fine hammered-work design. The fork and part of the shank were attached to the rowel, but just beyond the fork the shank had been broken off. Milabel looked up and said, “No. It ain't mine.”

Frank stood up and said, “Get on your feet!”

His voice had iron in it, and Milabel obeyed with alacrity.

“Turn around.”

Milabel did, and Frank knelt to look at his spurs. They were plain, with a gooseneck shank and small blunt rowel.

“Got any other spurs?” Frank asked.

Milabel turned around. “No.”

“Where do you sleep?”

Milabel nodded toward the door into an adjoining room. “Why?”

“Get in there and pull all your stuff out and throw it on the floor. Go on.”

Frank prodded him into the bedroom. Angrily Milabel dumped the contents of drawers in a pile on the floor. Then his clothes followed, until every single thing he owned lay stacked in the middle of the floor. His broad face was beet red when he had finished. Frank said, “That all?”

“Listen, Christian. I ain't got but one pair of spurs. What in hell are you after?”

“You don't know?”

“I don't know nothin'!” Milabel said angrily. “I don't know how you got past my guards! Now that you're here I don't know what you're after!”

Frank looked at him steadily. “I'm after Morg Wheelon's killer, Milabel. That spur rowel was lost the night Morg was gunned. The man who lost it killed Morg, and he's still wearin' the patched spur.”

Milabel's broad face was grim looking. He looked steadily at Frank and said, “You know that for sure?”

“I got it from a man who saw the fight.”

Milabel nodded. “And you're here to see if I'm wearin' the patched spur, or any of my men, eh?”

“That's right.”

Milabel said harshly, “Christian, you and me have tangled plenty, and we'll tangle again, I reckon. But you ain't learned yet that even if I run a tough outfit here I run a straight one. You found us in Wheelon's place because we wanted his range and we moved onto it after he was killed. But that's a hell of a lot different than killin' a man in cold blood. I wouldn't kill a man like that and I'd see any man in my crew hung that did it. And I'm goin' to prove it to you.”