War on the Cimarron (15 page)

Red saw Frank smile, and he waited for Frank to speak. When Frank did it was in a reasonable tone of voice, with an uncertain something mingled with it. “My crew has done all the work. What do we get?”

“You get a clear title to Morg Wheelon's place with my guarantee behind it that you won't be bothered.”

“And you'll take over the Circle R range?”

“That's about it,” Corb said, watching Frank.

Frank squatted by the fire and idly poked a stick. He said curiously, “That's a nice proposition, Corb. What makes you think I can handle my end of it?”

“I ain't scared about that,” Corb said. “When you busted into my place that night and wrecked it you didn't do any shootin'. You could have, only you didn't. I figured you was scared of the law or the army. But the other night when you picked off one of Corb's hard cases in that stampede I knew you was tough enough. If we work together you got to be tough enough to take care of the skeleton crew Milabel will leave at the Circle R. You can do it.”

Frank stopped poking the fire and slowly raised his head to regard Corb. His face was pale and rigid with anger, and his lips were almost white.

“You damn tinhorn Judas. Get out!”

Corb scowled. “You mean you ain't goin' to—”

“I mean I'm goin' to kill you, Corb,” Frank said, rising. “I should have done it the other night, but you didn't smell as bad as you do now. The next time you see me you better come smokin'!”

Again Corb's mustaches lifted in a faint smile. “You're goin' to be sorry,” he said.

He turned and started to walk away. Otey called, “Your horse is the other way, Corb.”

Corb had a handkerchief in his hand and he was mopping his brow. He seemed not to hear Otey and kept on walking out of the firelight, up the creek.

It was Red, standing well away from the fire, who saw it first. He ran straight for the fire, ramming into Frank and sending him sprawling, and kicked the burning sticks out into the night, wiping out the light as suddenly as thought. And immediately afterward rifles opened up from the ridges on either side of the creek and from down and up stream.

Frank, sizing up the trap, yelled to the crew, “Don't a man shoot a shot! Don't give 'em a target!” He crawled ahead in the darkness, for the slugs were searching out the spot where he had fallen. He brushed a man who was lying on the ground and he whispered, “Red?”

“I'm sorry as hell, Frank!” Red moaned. “I should have known it when he suggested comin' to the wagon. He's had it spotted all day and planted his men here tonight, just in case you turned him down.”

“I'm glad of it,” Frank said grimly. “I know where I stand with that hombre now. Get away in the brush, Red, and hold your fire till they rush us.”

He crawled to the wagon, stood up, reached down a rifle and crawled into the creekside brush. The shots were coming from seven different places, but they were aimless. The dark well of the swale was black as soot. Red's swift move to douse the fire after Corb's handkerchief signal had saved them all from being massacred. Corb's planted crew could shoot all night, and it would only be chance if they hit anyone. The smoldering embers of the fire were scattered all over the small flat, but their dying glow was barely visible.

Frank somberly considered the situation. If Corb was set for a showdown he would try to rush the camp after he realized that his advantage was canceled by darkness. In a hand-to-hand battle both sides would lose men. Corb didn't care, and Frank did. He had brought these peaceful hardworking punchers into trouble, and he was not going to see them butchered by Corb's hired hard cases.

The shooting from the ridges and from up and down stream increased. It wouldn't be long before Corb gave the order to rush. Frank knew he had to get outside Corb's slowly encircling crew, but to move in this crackling brush was to draw fire upon himself. He couldn't crawl out and advertise every move, for it would be sure death. He moved his hand out through the brush and touched wet ground. It was the creek bank.

Suddenly he knew he had it, and he took off his shell belt and gun. Slowly, quietly as he could, he pulled himself to the creek and lowered himself into it. The cold water, only a little deeper than the thickness of his body, took his breath away. He would have to leave his rifle, he knew. He reached out for his shell belt, put his head through it, so that some of his shells would be dry, and let the rush of the water move him slowly downstream. He could see nothing ahead of him, but the current carried him on. He was approaching one of the riflemen who was shooting systematically at the camp. Frank drifted almost under the man's gun and then past him, and the man did not know it.

Well downstream Frank crawled out, his teeth chattering. He heard Corb shout, “Close in!” and he knew that whatever he did would have to be done quickly. There was no time to round up the horses and stampede them through the line of encircling men to break it up. There was only one thing he could do.

He moved quietly toward the rifleman closest him, who was levering and firing his rifle as fast as he could. There was no necessity for stealth, and Frank approached him from behind, made out the dark bulk of his figure and slashed out with his gun barrel. The man went down without a murmur, and Frank took his rifle and shell belt. Then he moved on upstream and took up a new position where he could see the gun flashes of every one of Corb's riders.

He began to shoot in earnest then, throwing five rapid shots at the gun flame of a rifleman up the ridge. When he ceased there was a gap in the ring of rifles. He concentrated next on the rifleman down the ridge. On his second shot he heard a long-drawn scream, and the firing suddenly died. Corb's men had heard it too, and there had been no doubt that it came from one of their own crew. Uneasiness seemed to fill the night, and Corb's men resumed their shooting half-heartedly.

Corb's angry voice yelled: “Close in, I tell you!” and still none of the riflemen moved closer. There was one rifleman left on the west ridge, and he was a long time making up his mind to continue firing. When he did he had moved, for he could understand plainly enough what had happened to the other two men stationed on the same ridge.

Frank was ready for him too. He laid a withering fire on the man, and the rifle was silenced. Now the shooting ceased. Every one of Corb's men had seen the three rifles on the west ridge disappear, and they had an idea what had happened. There had been no shooting from Frank's crew; therefore, either there was someone roaming the darkness who was silencing these men, or else there was a traitor among themselves who had killed his own companions under the cover of general firing.

Corb's voice came again, and it was wild with rage. “Rush them, damn you! There's only five of them!”

Nobody moved closer to the camp, and there was no shooting. Up the creek Corb's raging voice could be heard cursing out one of his men.

And then someone struck a match in the middle of the camp. It caught, and brush started to burn, and suddenly the whole camp was lighted up. Frank held his breath. Had one of Corb's men succeeded in getting some brush together and lighting it to provide light for the killing? The riflemen started shooting again then, but Frank could see nothing to shoot at except the wagon.

And then suddenly, from behind him downstream and from behind the east ridge, a savage firing broke out. And Frank had it then.

Red and the crew had crawled out the gap on the west ridge, leaving one man to light the fire. And now his crew had Corb's killers between themselves and the fire.

A shot ripped the brush behind him, and Frank knew that somebody, Red maybe, had him spotted. As soon as Corb's crew saw what had happened there was a crashing of brush up the creek. A man streaked over the ridge and dived into the willows, thrashed around in the water heading upcreek. There was a savage fire out in the night. One man who had been across the stream raced through camp. There was a shot from the ridge; he tripped, sprawled and was brought up against the wheel of the chuck wagon and lay still.

The tables were reversed now, and Frank rose out of the brush and yelled: “Drive 'em up the creek, Red!”

Swiftly Frank's crew beat up the creek, firing ahead of them. But off on the prairie they heard the thunder of running horses, and Frank knew that Corb had escaped with what remained of his crew.

One by one the crew drifted back to the fire. Joe Vandermeer had been shot through the arm, and his sleeve was soaked with blood. His teeth chattering, Frank bandaged him. Joe grinned up at him, and Frank smiled back, but that grin did something to Frank. It made up his mind for him.

Red drifted back, declaring that he had found four of Corb's crew, all dead, and that Samse had better get the wagon hitched to move before Corb brought back reinforcements. Samse turned away to get the horses when Frank rose and called, “Wait a minute, Samse.”

Samse came back to the fire. The others—Mitch, Otey, Red and Joe—looked at him, come alert by the tone of his voice.

Frank said quietly, “I've been a damn fool for long enough. I ain't goin' to get that lease back for a long time, boys, and when I do it's goin' to be with a fightin' crew. You ain't gunmen and I ain't payin' you gunmen's wages, so I don't aim to hold you any more.” He looked at all of them. “Ride out of here for good and you're welcome to horses and grub, and you can pick up your pay at the Stockman's Bank in Fort Worth. There's no strings hangin' on that offer, and you better take it.”

Samse pulled back his shoulders and looked squarely at Frank. “I've done what I could, Frank, and it ain't much. I hate to do this, but I'm goin' to take up your offer.”

Otey said quietly, “I'll stay.”

Red said, “Me too.”

Joe Vandermeer and Mitch didn't say anything, only looked at Samse and nodded. While Joe and Mitch packed the grub Samse brought in the saddle horses. They shook hands all around, and it was Joe, Samse and Mitch who rode off, heading for Texas and peace.

Frank stirred then and said, “Pull some grub and blankets out of the wagon, Otey. I'm burnin' it.”

It was a dismal moment, and once the brush was stacked under the wagon and lighted Frank didn't even look at it. To him, a trail boss and the owner of the herd, the burning of the wagon was a gesture of bitter defeat. It was like selling his saddle. From now on he was just another rider, soon to be on the grub line.

They pulled away from the fire, silent. And then, from down in the brush near the creek, a faint voice called, “Don't leave me.”

Frank looked at Red, then pulled his horse around, and they went into the brush. They found a man lying there, murmuring something in the darkness. Frank knelt by him and struck a match, and by its flare he saw one of Corb's crew. The man was shot in the side, and his levis and shirt were soaked with blood.

The rider squinted against the match glare and reached out for Frank's hand. “Don't leave me here, Christian. I can't move,” he pled.

“Corb'll be back for you,” Frank said tonelessly.

The man gripped his hand harder. “He's the one that shot me,” he said bitterly. “He'll let me die.”

Otey said, “That satisfies everybody then, I reckon.”

“You ain't goin' to leave me?” the man whined. “Corb'll come back and put a slug through my head. I wouldn't rush the camp, so he shot me in the back.”

The match died, and then there was only the distant light from the wagon. The man had hold of Frank's wrist, his fingers clutching to his last hope.

Frank looked at Red. “Reckon that's true?”

“I reckon,” Red said, “Corb'd do it.”

Otey said bitterly, “Leave him there, Frank. What the hell do you care? Half an hour ago he was tryin' to kill you!”

“Put me on a horse!” the man said desperately. “I got to get out of here!”

Frank said, “Can you catch another horse, Red? It don't look like we could leave him here.”

Minutes later the four of them left the burning wagon and struck out into the night. Frank rode in bleak silence. He had come into this country with a crew, a wagon, a herd, a partner and a shack, expecting to take over a big leased range. There was left to him a scattered herd on range he couldn't claim, a wounded man he couldn't let die and two friends who were siding him in a hopeless fight. And, to cap it, he was a wanted man.

Chapter XIII

Beef issue to the Indians came once a week, and its color and excitement brought out most of the whites from the agency and the garrison. Long before daylight the Indians, thousands strong, moved from their camp a mile east of the agency to the slope by the huge issue corrals across the river and a mile or so from the garrison. Presently the cavalry troop from the garrison rode out and took their position on the slope above the corral, and the issue started.

Because the buffalo were gone and the young bucks had no other way to prove their hunting prowess, they hunted the cattle like buffalo. A steer would be turned out of the corral, and a pair of half-naked Cheyennes on their ponies would take after him. The chase might lead across the river or into the very parade ground of the fort before the Indians succeeded in downing the steer, his meager family ration for the week. Afterward the squaws and the children followed him and butchered the beef where it had been killed. There was always tension on this day, for the Indians wanted and needed more food, and the government would not give it to them.

Milabel, having received that morning the permission he desired from Puckett to offer a reward for Frank Christian, dead or alive, drifted out with the garrison crowd to watch the beef issue on the slope. Above the troopers policing the affair was a line of buckboards and buggies and saddle horses, and Milabel rode along the line as if he were looking for somebody.

When he spied Corb in a buckboard with one of his men Milabel pulled over to him.