Authors: Lyle Brandt
He thought of Faith no more than half a dozen times during his ride, wondering if her attitude that morning indicated any kind of thaw in their relationship. There was no reason to believe so, but he guessed that hope would linger till she finally sold up and left the territory, headed back wherever she was bound. Slade had no reason to expect that she would take him back, no prospect that she would forget—much less forgive. He hadn’t prayed in years and reckoned it would be the ultimate hypocrisy to start up now, begging a favor for himself.
And all distractions were forgotten in an instant when he saw the riders ranged in front of him. Four Cherokees, with sunlight glinting on the metal badges that they wore.
The tribal officers waited for Slade, not riding out to meet him. All of them were armed, but none had guns in hand, which Slade took as a hopeful sign. He told them he had business with their BIA administrator and they fell in line around him for the ride back to the agency. One thing about the Cherokees in general, and their policemen in particular: they didn’t waste a lot of time or energy on small talk.
• • •
Half a silent hour later, Slade picked out the buildings clustered around Berringer’s office and residence. When they had closed the half mile remaining to a hundred yards or so, the leader of Slade’s escorts said, “You were a friend of Little Wolf.”
Not asking him.
Slade caught the past tense, worried by it. He replied, “I
am
his friend.”
“Dead men do not have friends,” the Cherokee informed him.
Something tightened in Slade’s gut. “You’re telling me that Little Wolf is dead?”
“His pony came without him to the village. Searching for him, we find nothing, but he did not leave on foot.”
“What are you telling me?” asked Slade.
“Last time you came, it was about the whiskey being smuggled in by whites.”
“That’s right. It’s taken care of,” Slade informed him. Thinking,
This time, anyway.
“Before he disappeared,” the leader told Slade, “Little Wolf was looking for the men smugglers. He believed they had a friend here, and perhaps where you come from.”
“In Enid?”
“Someone to pass messages,” the Cherokee explained.
That made good sense to Slade. Rafferty would have wanted someone who could warn him if Judge Dennison caught wind of anything affecting liquor traffic in the territory. Someone who could tip him off when marshals were en route to Stateline, for example, helping Rafferty arrange an ambush for them on the trail.
“I’ll check that, when I get back home,” Slade said.
“Maybe ask Agent Berringer,” his escort said, and then stopped talking as they neared the agency.
Where Berringer stood waiting to receive them once again.
Just like old times,
Slade thought.
Except this time, you’re leaving with me.
“Marshal Slade, we meet again,” said Berringer, half smiling from the porch.
“Can’t tear myself away,” Slade said. No smile on his side.
“You’re alone this time.”
“Looks like it.”
“How goes your investigation of the whiskey running?”
“Pretty well wrapped up,” Slade said. “A couple of loose ends to tie up, still, but I’m about to top it off.”
“We should enjoy some peace and quiet, then,” said Berringer.
“At least until the trial,” Slade said.
“You’ve made arrests, then?” Berringer had lost a little of the color from his face.
“Just one or two to go.”
“I call that a success. And I appreciate you coming out to share the news.”
“Figured you ought to be the first to know,” Slade said, “about a warrant with your name on it.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke, Marshal?”
“You see me laughing, Mr. Berringer?”
The agent stared at Slade a moment longer, then ducked back inside his house and slammed the door behind him, shooting bolts to bar the way.
Slade glanced at his escorts, saw no evidence of any movement on their part, then dismounted and drew his shotgun from its saddle scabbard. Mounting to the porch, he
stood off to the left side of the door, a stout log wall from gunfire if it came.
“This is a bad decision, Berringer,” he called out through the door. “You’re cornered and you don’t have any reinforcements coming. Brody and the rest of them are dead in Stateline. You’re the last name on my list, and one way or another you
are
going back to Enid.”
No response.
Slade took a step back from the door and raised his shotgun, aiming at the upper hinge. Before he had a chance to fire, a deep voice at his back said, “Do you mean to kill him?”
Turning toward the sound, he recognized Joe Mockingbird from his last visit to the reservation. Mockingbird still carried his .50-70 Sharps carbine tucked beneath one arm.
“I’d rather take him in alive,” Slade answered. “But I’ll leave that choice to him. If it goes wrong, I’ll need signed statements from your officers as witnesses.”
If the can write,
Slade thought, now wondering if he would have to take them all to see Judge Dennison, a motley caravan crossing the plains.
“What charges does he face?” asked Mockingbird.
“Right now, accessory to moonshining and smuggling liquor. That could be upgraded at his hearing. Say accessory to murder.”
“He will hang?”
“Depends on what comes out at trial,” Slade said. “More likely, he’ll do time. I’d guess about ten years.”
“It’s better if he lives, then,” Mockingbird replied. “To understand captivity.”
“Suits me,” Slade said and turned back to the door, angling his twelve-gauge toward the upper hinge. The
close-range blast of buckshot tore it free, a second doing likewise for the lower hinge. Slade guessed approximately where the inner bolts should be and fired once more, blowing a ragged porthole through the door and splintering its jamb. The door sagged slowly forward, then gave in to gravity and toppled to the porch, raising a minor cloud of dust on impact.
Two rounds left in Slade’s Winchester, and Joe Mockingbird’s Sharps carbine was a single-shot. They both wore pistols, though, and Slade thought that their long guns ought to get them through the gaping doorway.
If they weren’t killed first.
Another moment’s hesitation, wondering if Berringer was crouched in hiding with a six-gun pointed at the doorway. Or a shotgun. Hell, maybe he’d moved a Gatling gun in there since Slade’s last visit on his way to Stateline. Anything was possible, but standing on the doorstep like a drummer selling tin pans door to door would get him nowhere.
Slade considered calling out to Berringer again, then rushed the door instead, slipped through it, ducking off to one side with his shotgun raised to cover Mockingbird as he came in. The man they sought was nowhere to be seen, but Slade heard something from the general direction of the study where he’d met with Berringer on both prior visits to the rez.
With Mockingbird a cautious step behind him, Slade moved toward the agent’s study, planting each foot carefully, unable to remember whether any of the floorboards squeaked. They didn’t, as it turned out, and he reached the study door, stopped there, pausing to listen. He could hear Berringer moving on the far side of the door. Dragging a chair or something? Maybe setting up a barricade for his last stand?
Slade called out through the door. “This doesn’t have to end in blood. Come out, and we can—”
Something hit the floor inside the office, followed by a gagging, thrashing sound. Slade tried the door, surprised to find it was unlocked, and pushed on through. In front of him, Frank Berringer hung wriggling with a noose around his neck, suspended from a rafter beam.
Slade dropped his Winchester, rushed in, and grabbed the hanging man around his legs. Tried hoisting him to take the pressure off his windpipe, but it wasn’t doing any good. A half turn toward the open door revealed Joe Mockingbird, watching the grim tableau with something very much like satisfaction on his face.
“Help me, will you?” Slade called to him. “You need to cut the rope!”
Mockingbird hesitated for another second, then leaped forward, climbed atop the agent’s desk, and started sawing on the tight rope with a knife drawn from his belt. It seemed to take forever, but the rope eventually parted, Berringer’s full weight descending onto Slade. The lawman spun and dropped his burden on the desktop, trembling fingers scrabbling to free Berringer’s bruised neck from its noose.
Berringer gasped, drew breath, then started coughing, mixed with sobbing as he huddled on the desktop. Mockingbird still loomed above him, knife in hand, but finally, reluctantly, stepped down and back away from Berringer, leaving the breathless man for Slade to handle.
When he got his voice back, Berringer wheezed, “Kill me, will you? God, just get it over with!”
“That’s not my job,” Slade said. “Judge Dennison may want to see you swing, but not before you’re tried and everything comes out. Who knows, you may get lucky. Say you get ten years. When you get out, you’d only be—what? Fifty? Fifty-five? Maybe somebody needs a dishwasher or janitor.”
“Please!” Tears were streaming down the agent’s face, his voice a battered whisper. “You can say I ran, or pulled a gun.”
“Wouldn’t be right,” Slade said, steering his captive toward the exit, pausing on the way to grab his shotgun. “Every man deserves his day in court.”
Slade found a crowd awaiting them outside Berringer’s house. He counted half a dozen badges in the front row, tribal officers, with better than a hundred Cherokees arrayed behind them. No one spoke, and no one moved, eyes locked on Slade and Berringer as they emerged. It almost had the feeling of a lynch mob, minus any of the ruckus Slade had seen at other vigilante necktie parties in the past.
He turned to Mockingbird and asked, “What’s this about?”
“They need to see him leaving in disgrace,” said Mockingbird. “Unless you choose to leave him here, with us.”
“He’s not too popular, I take it?”
“He’s a white man who has cheated us in every way he could. Now, we discover he has helped to make our people drunk and foolish, so that he can steal the only land remaining to us.”
“Sounds like bad news travels fast,” Slade said.
“You can’t leave me here,” said Berringer, a tinge of panic in his wasted voice.
“Thought you were anxious to be done with living,” Slade replied.
“But not like
this.
”
“Discriminating taste, I guess.” Slade faced the silent crowd and raised his voice. “I’m taking this man to the court in Enid for his trial. He won’t be coming back here, I can guarantee you that.”
“They will send someone else,” said Mockingbird, over his shoulder.
“Bound to,” Slade replied. “But with this character’s example fresh in mind, it may be someone better.”
“You believe that?” Mockingbird inquired.
I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it,
Slade thought. But said, “Much as I’d like to make him walk, we’ll need another horse.”
And one was there, almost before he knew it. Slade helped Berringer mount up, then climbed aboard his roan. The crowd parted to let them pass, this time without an escort to the reservation’s border.
Halfway back to Enid, Berringer said, “I suppose you’ll shoot me now.”
“Stop asking,” Slade replied, “before you talk me into it.”
“No, I just meant…Rafferty told you about Little Wolf, I guess?”
Slade pinned him with a glare. “What do you mean?”
“He
didn’t
tell you? Christ.”
Berringer wheezed, or maybe he was laughing at himself. Slade couldn’t tell. The agent’s comment brought to mind his recent conversation with the tribal officer. “Why don’t you tell me,” Slade suggested.
“He was always butting into things, you know? That Little Wolf. I’m not sure how he tracked the whiskey, timing the delivery, but he was waiting for the last shipment that came across.”
“And?”
“And he tried to stop it. Thought he could arrest the driver and his escort, maybe. I don’t know. They got the drop on him, and that was all.”
“He’s dead, then?”
“Dead and buried,” Berringer confirmed. “Rafferty’s men took care of it.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Say four weeks now. About that, anyway.”
“I guess you could try running, after all,” Slade told him.
“What?”
“Your way out. Shot while trying to escape. No trial, no more embararssment. I’m game if you are.”
“Now, wait. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Call it shock.”
“Call it a public service,” Slade replied. “Go on. Your move.”
Berringer blanched. “I won’t. It’s murder if you shoot me now.”
“Guess I could live with that. And you’re a little short of witnesses.”
“You took an oath!”
“Did you?” Slade challenged him.
“For God’s sake, Marshal—”
“God’s no part of this or anything you’ve done, as far as I can see.”
“Deliver me to Enid. I’ll tell everything. You don’t know all the men involved in this.”
“It’s not worth saving you for small fry,” Slade replied.
“So, how about a senior agent of the BIA? And there’s a U.S. senator.”
“If I find out you’re lying…”
“I can give you names right now,” said Berringer.
“Don’t bother. Don’t say anything at all, in fact, from now until you see Judge Dennison.”
Berringer seemed about to speak, maybe agreeing with the terms, until Slade aimed a warning finger at his face. That was enough to silence him and keep him quiet for the
long ride back to Enid, where a cell was waiting for him and he’d have a chance to tell his story. Maybe even save himself by giving up the bigger men behind him. Certainly it wouldn’t be the first time that a deal was made to grease the wheels of justice.
And the big men Berringer betrayed? No doubt they would have batteries of lawyers standing by to speak on their behalf, raising as much dust as they could to counter any claims the witness made in court. Would any of them finally be held responsible, except for Berringer?
At least
he
wouldn’t wriggle off the hook. No matter what bargain he struck, Slade vowed that to himself. And to the memory of a departed friend. By one means or another, Berringer would settle up his debt.