Hart the Regulator 2 Page 11

  He held the rifle in his right hand, resting it across Clay’s neck and firing twice. The shots went harmlessly over the Indians’ heads but diverted those nearest to him; three of them wheeled towards him. Hart ducked low and pushed the barrel of the rifle under the horse’s neck, leaning alongside and presenting as little target as possible. He kept Clay between himself and the Cheyenne, dropping one of them with a snap shot which caught him high in the chest and sent him spinning from his pony’s back.

  The other Indians were peeling away to the left side of the house. Hart began to haul in on the reins, freeing his left boot from the stirrup. As the door came close he jumped and ran, keeping his balance. The door was thrown open and Hart ducked inside, hearing it slammed to behind him.

  They looked at him: man and wife, one son. Hart’s eyes searched for the second. He was stretched out on the floor close by the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shut. His hands were strangely white against the dark material of his shirt; the skin of his face gray. A red wound gaped in the lower part of his stomach. Over his heart someone had set the family bible,

  ‘Here they come!’

  The man called the warning and pushed the long barrel of the Sharps through the glassless window.

  Hart hurried across to the other window, the boy making way for him. He waited until the Cheyenne were well within range and began firing rapidly, accurately. Three braves fell before any of the Indians were inside fifty yards of the house. The Sharps dealt with another.

  The leading Cheyenne threw up his arm, holding his war club aloft and shouting at the others to turn away. Hart sighted the Henry and shot the Indian through the centre of the forehead: one second the face was there, painted with white and yellow stripes, mouth open, the next it had all but disappeared in a welter of blood and flying bone.

  An arrow thudded into the tightly packed sods close by the window; a few more shots came from the retreating braves.

  Two riderless ponies stood close together, blankets draped across their backs, rawhide reins hanging to the ground. Apart from the Indian Hart had just shot, three other braves lay on the ground in front of the house.

  ‘D’you think they’ll come back?’

  Hart looked round. The father was standing up, reloading the Sharps. ‘Depends,’ he answered, looking back through the open window. ‘How mad they are. How drunk they are.’

  Hart looked at the family. The father stood close by the other window, leaning on his Sharps. A bloody streak ran along the top of his balding head; more blood darkened his left sleeve, seeping through his shirt and the heavy wool of his coat. His thin body seemed tired, almost fragile – close to breaking.

  His wife was sitting down, bending forward over the table, head towards her hands. Her hair had come unfastened and sprawled, long and graying, all about her face. The veins on her arms were more pronounced than before, like thin, dark snakes wound about her skin.

  The surviving son was around fifteen. An arrow had caught him in the shoulder and his father had leaped to pull it out. Now the wound needed dressing and every fresh movement caused the blood to run freely. He looked back at Hart with a show of braveness, but there was no mistaking the fear which lay close behind.

  The woman lifted up her head and used both hands to move her hair back. She opened her mouth in a wordless sigh.

  ‘We was down to the last of our shells,’ said the man. ‘If you hadn’t happened by we should never have held out.’

  ‘I saw the little girl,’ said Hart.

  The man’s face clouded. ‘Before that last raid…we sent her out. Told her to run an’ keep runnin’. We didn’t want them savages to get her.’

  He closed his eyes at the thought, wracked by the images it threw up.

  The woman raised both arms. ‘My God, I pray it’s over!’

  ‘Amen, mother.’ The man came towards her. ‘Amen to that.’

  The sound of pony hoofs punctuated the end of his sentence.

  Hart knelt down beside the window frame and checked the load on the Henry. ‘When that Sharps runs out, I’ll pass across my rifle an’ use the Colt.’

  They were coming in fast, split into two groups, half a dozen in each. Most of them fired from horseback as they rode, though at that range and speed only luck was going to count. Hart leveled the Henry and waited. Beside him the boy stared through the window, an old pistol unsteady in his hand; he had three shells left.

  Just as the Cheyenne came within striking distance something blurred at the edge of Hart’s vision. Something moving into it from the left. The boy had spotted her first.

  ‘Amy!’ he shouted. ‘It’s Amy!’

  He jumped up and stared at the running, stumbling figure of the little girl as she careered along in the path of the oncoming Indians.

  A bullet hammered into his chest, shattering several ribs, breaking the breast bone apart. His body was rocked backwards by the impact and as he went back his legs began to give way beneath him. The pistol fell from his hand and struck the floor. The boy’s eyes were closing as he sank down to his knees; his hands pulled at his shirt and were already sticky with blood.

  ‘Joseph!’ The mother’s wail of anguish cleaved the room.

  Hart fired the rifle twice, aiming into the centre of the right-hand group, then shouted at the father, who was on his way to the door.

  ‘Stay here!’

  He pushed the Henry into the man’s hands and dashed outside. Amy was still coming towards the house and when she saw Hart come out she hesitated, stopped. Two braves were bearing down fast upon her. More were swerving round from the other side.

  Hart ducked and went for his Colt. An arrow sped over him with a clear thrum and Hart thumbed back the hammer and fired. The Cheyenne toppled from the back of his piebald pony and bounced on the hard ground. The second brave reached a wiry arm down towards the terrified girl. Hart shot and missed. The hand grasped her dress, hauling her up. Hart held his breath and fired again: so little margin for error.

  The slug drove into the Indian’s neck immediately below the jaw line at the left side, bursting it wide. Amy fell past the pony’s legs.

  Hart could hear the sound of his rifle being fired from the house. Cheyenne galloped around him. He bent down and picked up the girl, holding her under his left arm, hard against his side.

  He started to run for the door and realized that he was being chased. Turned and saw the flash of the ax blade as it swung across the morning sun. He thrust up his right hand fast, fingers circling the Indian’s wrist, holding then pulling. The Cheyenne hurtled from his pony’s back and Hart dropped the child, grappling with the brave as they fell to the ground and rolled over and over. The war axe was still in the Cheyenne’s hand. Hart kicked up and sank his boot into the brave’s stomach. As the Indian went backwards Hart sprang, head driving low into his belly. The ax flew wide.

  Hart punched at the Cheyenne’s face and felt his knuckles strike bone. He stood clear and reached down inside his shirt. Recovering, the brave saw the glint of the knife blade and tried to leap for Hart’s arm.

  Hart saw him coming and sidestepped, elbow anchored against his hip, blade upwards, forearm outstretched. The point forced its way between the Indian’s ribs, the weight of his diving body pushing down on the blade so that it sank in almost to the hilt.

  Hart grasped his shoulder and held fast, twisting the knife. The Cheyenne’s tongue, purple and twisted, lanced out of his mouth; Hart was showered in vomited blood. He pulled the blade clear and threw the Indian aside.

  The Henry was still being fired from the house; the remainder of the attackers were falling back. The little girl was a few yards from where Hart had dropped her. He picked her up again and hurried into the house.

  Mother and child clung to one another in fervent joy and terror. The head of one son lay close by the feet of the other. Hart and the father looked at one another and there was nothing to say – nothing that would stand saying.

  Less than an hour later
, Hart was on his way. Two mounds of freshly dug earth stood up from the land beside the sod house and, beside them, a tall, bent man leaned heavily on the long handle of his spade.

  Fort Reno stood on the bank of the North Fork of the Canadian River on the eastern edge of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Reservation. Like most military installations of any significance it was more than a basic structure with a surrounding stockade. A number of buildings were gathered together in no particular design – barracks and officers’ quarters, a trader’s store, guardhouse, bathhouse, mess hall. The frame buildings were reinforced against the possibility of attack and some had internal stockades around them – notably the store. Close by the officers’ quarters was the office of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Agency.

  Hart was challenged by two troopers as he came close to the army buildings, but apart from that entry and exit seemed easy. A number of places had sprung up around the perimeter of the Fort itself, mostly hoping to make profit from the soldiers. There were more civilians in sight than military, and the army’s presence seemed only token. To have placed itself in the law-enforcing role that Fredericks apparently wanted would have been impossible as things stood. Bringing in more men would mean that the government would be seen to renounce its agreement with the Indian tribes. It would also mark a move on the path to giving the Territory statehood.

  But an ambitious man might think little of trying to move governments, to raise armies – by whatever means.

  Hart tied his horse to the hitching rail outside the Indian Agency, watched by a suspicious Arapaho squatting against the wall. Dusk made everything indistinct. A lantern hung from a hook above the agent’s desk. Papers littered it. The agent himself sat back, chair resting on its hind legs, one boot on the edge of the desk.

  Probert glanced up when Hart came in, tiredness creasing his face. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘You know about an Indian attack on some sodbusters north of here – towards the Fredericks spread?’

  Probert closed his eyes for an instant, pinching the skin at the top of his nose between finger and thumb. Then he threw a pen down on to the table and looked at the ink spattered pages. ‘I didn’t hear no answer. Just another damned question.’

  Hart stuck his thumbs down into his gun belt. ‘That’s right. An’ you’ll hear it again. What about this raid?’

  Probert pursed his lips together and let out a slow whistle. He grimaced as he moved his leg away from the desk and lowered the front legs of the chair to the floor. A draft made the flame in the lantern flicker up the sides of the glass.

  ‘When I saw you at Fredericks’ place I tagged you for a nosy bastard an’ it looks like I was right. What are these damn sodbusters to you?’

  ‘I saw ’em when they had two boys alive. That was before they got attacked by a bunch of Cheyenne.’

  ‘You sure they was Cheyenne?’

  ‘I know a Cheyenne when I see one. ’Specially when they’re wavin’ new Winchesters.’

  The agent’s chair squeaked sharply. He stared at Hart but said nothing.

  ‘You know any reason why they might be rampagin’ round like that?’

  Probert drummed his fingers silently on his thigh, thinking. ‘Could be. Trail herd came up through here the last day or so. Lazy J. They didn’t take to payin’ the Cheyenne no grazin’ rights, agreed or not. Wouldn’t give ’em nothing. Not a steer, not a sack of flour, not a bag of sugar. When the Cheyenne argued, the Lazy J started pullin’ guns. Couple of ’em got shot.’

  Thoughts chased angrily round Hart’s brain. ‘Pity you weren’t around to do their bargainin’ for ’em.’

  ‘I was fifty miles west of here.’

  ‘I bet you were.’

  Probert shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘What the hell d’you mean by that?’

  ‘What d’you think I mean? I reckon you knew what was ’goin’ to happen an’ you kept well clear just so’s it could blow up the way it did. I reckon Fredericks has been prayin’ for this to happen an’ he didn’t want you stoppin’ it. You’re greedy, Probert, greedy as he is. You double-cross these Indians behind their back making deals with Fredericks about grazin’ rights. You let trouble break out when you could stop it. And ...’ Hart stared at the agent hard and long. ‘And that ain’t all.’

  The kerosene lamp bubbled; at the top of the glass smoke had blacked it in thick streaks. It wasn’t quite clear in his mind, not yet, but almost. He went and stood alongside the agent’s desk.

  ‘How long they been gettin’ guns? New guns?’

  Probert didn’t want to answer. He pushed at the pile of papers on his desk, cleared his throat into the back of his hand, pushed a hand through one side of his thinning hair. Looked again at the dark forming outside the window. When he looked back at Hart, the same pair of faded blue eyes were still staring at him, fixing him.

  ‘You know the trouble with this job?’

  Hart didn’t budge; didn’t answer. Probert slid both hands under the sheaves of papers and lifted them into the air, letting them slide and fall and float back down to the desk top and floor.

  ‘Every damn thing you do, everything you want, there’s someone back east who says you’ve got to fill in some fuckin’ form in triplicate. Time you’ve mailed it off an’ some fool committee of retired senators and army majors has jawed about it, it’s too damn late.

  ‘Government’s stuck the tribes on this land and thinks it can forget about ’em. Give ’em as little as possible and maybe they’ll act nice and peaceful till they fade away. Well, the Indian ain’t like that, an’ nor is the white man. While there’s land here he’s goin’ to ride in an’ take it. Why shouldn’t he? He’s done it every other damn place on the frontier. We’ve done it.’

  Hart looked at the tired eyes in the aging face. ‘Okay, so you’ve got a tough job. A shitty job. Maybe one that can’t be done. Now give me an answer.’

  Probert let the chair down with a bang and stood up. His belly pushed against the material of his shirt. On his belt the marks showed clear where the buckle had been set before the thanklessness of the job had weighted him down.

  He went by the window and looked out; he could see Hart’s reflection in the glass, watching him.

  ‘Began in the summer. Not too obvious at first. Rifle here, six-gun there. But Indians are like kids with new toys. They can’t keep something like that to themselves, out of sight.’

  He pivoted round. ‘Last month or so supplies’ve been stepping up. Whisky too. Braves’ve been riding off the reservation, runnin’ off cattle, stock. Maybe raiding settlers – I ain’t sure.’

  ‘The army know?’

  Probert shrugged. ‘Things aren’t out of hand. Not yet. They don’t want to bring a new troop in here unless there’s no other way for it.’

  ‘But if they do?’

  Probert fixed a button on his shirt. ‘Could mean they write off the treaty with the Cheyenne. Once that happens the whole territory’s up for grabs.’

  Hart took a pace towards him. ‘How long have you known it’s Fredericks?’

  Probert glanced at him quickly, head angled to one side. ‘Do I know that?’

  ‘Less’n you’re a fool.’

  ‘So maybe I’m a fool. I know one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m past fifty and I ain’t goin’ to get another job.’

  The blue eyes narrowed. ‘I knew an old man could’ve given you ten years or more. Indians skewered him to a chair like he was so much meat. He ain’t workin’ neither.’

  Probert walked heavily back behind his desk and sat down. ‘You got proof about Fredericks?’

  At the door Hart turned: ‘No. But maybe I don’t need it.’

  Long after the door had shut behind Hart, Pete Probert sat staring at the jumble of papers that surrounded him, seeing nothing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The dog ran at the dapple-gray mare, barking noisily. A dozen feet off it stopped and braced its forelegs, leaning back on its
haunches. Ears back, it growled and rolled its head from side to side. Hart looked at the brown and white mongrel and wondered what was making it mad; if it was incensed enough to make a leap at Clay.

  But as the horse came up to it, the growling ceased and in its place the dog gave a high whining sound, long nose lifted into the air.

  Hart rode past the animal and on into the stage station. Bigger than Buffalo Springs, Baker’s boasted a dozen houses, mostly sod construction. The stage building was made of split logs chinked in with a mixture of sand, mud and lime. It stood, square and solid, in the centre of the station.

  Hart headed towards it, noting the half-breed leaning back against a place with a doorway and no door; a grizzled man in a torn plaid coat who stood opposite fixing the harness of an old wagon. When he glanced behind the mongrel was still following him.

  There were three other horses tied up outside the stage company building and Hart’s eyes drifted along the brands, checking for Lazy J or any C Circle who might still be around. There were none.

  He could see the heads of seven or eight more horses in the corral past the building.

  Hart looped Clay’s reins round the rail and walked inside. A one-armed man sat on a high stool behind a bar to the right; he looked up and nodded hello as Hart came through the doorway. Three men were sitting round a table midway along to the left. A three-parts empty bottle stood between them, together with three glasses. All the men turned to stare at Hart as he went to the bar.

  They saw the flat-crowned hat angled slightly on his head, a leather vest over his dark wool shirt; most of all they saw the pearl-handled Colt .45 tied down in the holster at his right thigh.

  ‘Beer.’

  The voice was clear and flat. As the one-armed man got down from his stool the other three looked away. It didn’t do to show too much interest in someone who wore a gun like that. Especially not in Indian Territory.

  The glass of beer was poured out with little apparent difficulty and slid across the bar. Hart took it and drained half at a swallow. Two more gulps accounted for the rest.