White Lightning (6 page)

Naylor gave Slade a little frown, then shrugged and said, “I do all right.”

“I think two guns would pull my pants down. Let us go now.”

Slade had managed not to laugh and guessed that Naylor would be wondering if he’d been made a fool of by the
Indian. If so, he didn’t make an issue of it, saying to the Cherokee, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Joe Mockingbird. And yours?”

“Luke Naylor.
Marshal
Naylor.”

“Agent Berringer has hoped someone would come to see him about whiskey. Captain Gallagher is coming, too.”

“Today?” asked Slade.

“We don’t know when,” Joe Mockingbird replied.

“I’d like to ask you something,” Slade pressed on, “without giving offense.”

“People say that when they intend to be offensive,” said their guide.

“I’ve known a few like that,” Slade granted. “What I need to know deals with the other marshal’s death. The way he died.”

“I’ll answer if I can,” said Mockingbird.

“Okay. When he was found, he had no feet. They’d been cut off, it seems, not eaten by coyotes. That sound familiar to you?”

Mockingbird considered it, then said, “I think Apaches do that. Maybe the Comanches, too. Not Cherokee.” He glanced at Naylor with a little grin and said, “Unless somebody wants foot stew.”

“Foot—!” Naylor caught himself, cheeks coloring, and said, “I get it. That’s a real rib tickler, that is.”

The reservation’s seat of operations was a small town built around the agent’s residence. Its public buildings were a one-room school that doubled as a meeting hall, a church, a stable with a blacksmith’s shop attached, a dry goods store, a barn for grain and cattle, and a stout log jail. Beyond those clustered buildings, clapboard houses had been built with no great thought to streets, as far as Slade could tell. Privies were ranged along the outer limits of the settlement, like pointy-headed sentries, forcing those whose homes stood at the center of the town to run in the event of an emergency.

Joe Mockingbird led Slade and Naylor to the structure that contained the bureau agent’s home and office, all in one. Somehow, it seemed that word of their arrival had preceded them. Roughly a hundred Cherokees stood watching in the small town square, or from their nearby doorways, as the three horsemen rode in.

And waiting on the front porch of his quasi-mansion was Frank Berringer.

He looked like power: stocky, six feet tall, a nearly-square head crowned with ginger curls planted atop broad shoulders with sparse evidence of any neck. His deep-set eyes surveyed the new arrivals from beneath thick eyebrows that were mirrored by his lush mustache. He wore a three-piece suit of charcoal gray, with gleaming spit-shined boots. The gold chain of a pocket watch secured his straining vest.

“Ah, Marshal Slade,” he said, when they were close enough for conversation. “Still in harness, eh?”

“Looks like it, Mr. Berringer.”

“And your companion is…?”

“Luke Naylor,” Slade replied, then rounded off the introduction. “Luke, Frank Berringer.”

Luke nodded, kept his mouth shut, sizing up the man.

Berringer peered at Mockingbird as if the Cherokee had just appeared from nowhere, then said, “We won’t keep you, Joe. There’s work to do, I think.”

Mockingbird wheeled his animal around and left without a word or backward glance at Slade and Naylor. Other members of their silent audience began dispersing, too, appearing sullen and uncomfortable under scrutiny from Berringer.

The agent smiled without conviction as he said, “Well, gentlemen, won’t you come in? We should be dining soon. I hope you brought your appetites.”

“We’ll need to get our horses settled first,” Slade said.

“Of course. My oversight.” Berringer turned back toward the open doorway of his residence and called out, “Ashwin! Rajani!”

Two young Cherokees appeared in answer to the summons. Both wore cautious poker faces, standing at a semblance of
attention in the presence of three white men, two of them with guns and badges. They could have passed for brothers, separated by a year or two in age.

Berringer examined them, as if he hoped to find fault with their spotless servant’s garb, then said, “Convey these horses to the stable. Tell Hemadri to take special care of them.”

The two youths bobbed their heads in unison, came forward, and received the reins from Slade and Naylor. Slade took time to thank the one called Ashwin, who cracked his façade enough to show a measure of surprise at common courtesy.

“Now, if you’ll follow me,” said Berringer. He turned, preceding them into his home. The place was just as Slade remembered it, spotless, a man’s retreat with no sign of a woman’s touch. “I’m pleased to see you gentlemen, but sorry for the circumstances, naturally.”

“Bill Tanner spoke to you, I understand,” said Slade.

“About our difficulties, yes. Kindly accept my most sincere condolences for his untimely end.” Berringer led them to his study, indicating deep chairs with a gesture of his hand. “Something to drink?”

“What have you got?” asked Naylor, speaking to the agent for the first time.

“Bourbon, Irish whiskey, cognac, sherry,” Berringer replied.

“No lack of alcohol,” said Slade.

Berringer cocked a woolly eyebrow and replied, “Of course, this is my personal supply. And drinking is forbidden to the
Indians
, not to their…supervisors.”

Wondering what he had meant to say before he checked himself, Slade said, “It sets an odd example, though.”

“You think so, Marshal?” Berringer pretended to
consider Slade’s idea, then frowned, dismissing it. “I think it best for subjugated people to accept the day-to-day realities of life.”

“I’ll try that Irish,” Naylor interjected, with a smile.

“Of course. And Marshal Slade?”

“Nothing for me right now, thanks.”

“As you wish.”

Berringer poured two double shots of Irish whiskey, handed one to Naylor, then sat facing them in yet another padded armchair. Slade watched him sip his drink, then said, “About this liquor problem you’ve been having…”

“Straight to business. Good. We have, in fact, been plagued of late by smugglers of illicit alcohol. The impact on my charges, as you may imagine, has been detrimental.

His
charges
, speaking of the Cherokees as a personal burden of duty.

“We’re behind the times on what’s been happening,” Slade said. “I understand you’ve had one killing tied to liquor somehow.”

“That’s correct. A drunken brawl two weeks ago that led to stabbing. A buck called Avinash was killed. I understand his name meant ‘Indestructible.’ Ironic, don’t you think?” Berringer smirked and took another sip of whiskey. “Several others suffered minor injuries during the fracas. We have two in custody for manslaughter.”

“How long has this been going on?” Naylor inquired.

“The whiskey smuggling? To my knowledge,” Berringer replied, “about two months. At first, I thought the cases of intoxication we encountered were produced by native beer the tribesmen make from sarsaparilla roots and berries. As it turns out, though, I was mistaken.”

“And you’ve caught no one bringing in the liquor?” Slade inquired.

“Not yet,” said Berringer. “After the fatal melee, I interrogated the survivors. Two of them reluctantly admitted that delivery was made by white men, but they either didn’t know or would not share with me the names.”

“Bill Tanner thought he had a lead in Stateline,” Naylor said.

“Oh, yes? He must have learned that after he was here,” said Berringer. “At least, he failed to mention it.”

“We’re interested in the smuggling and mean to stop it if we can,” Slade said. “First thing, of course, we need to find whoever murdered Marshal Tanner and collect them for Judge Dennison.”

“Priorities, of course,” said Berringer. “Do you suspect my Cherokees?”

“The only lead we have right now,” Slade answered, “is the damage that he suffered.”

“There was mutilation, as I understand it,” said the agent. “Scalping, was it?”

“And some other things,” Slade said. “I need to ask about the feet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Someone chopped ’em off,” said Naylor.

“Oh?”

“Our undertaker, back in Enid, had the notion that was something Indians might do,” Slade said. “To keep a vengeful spirit from pursuing them?”

Berringer frowned. “Well, now. It’s nothing that I’ve heard associated with the Cherokee,” he said. “But then, I haven’t made a detailed study of their odd native customs. Here, you realize, we stress the Christian values that have made our country great.”

As if on cue, an older tribesman dressed in butler’s garb appeared and said, “Dinner is served.”

•    •    •

Berringer’s house had indoor plumbing—no sprints to a privy in the middle of the night for him—so Slade and Naylor washed up in a small room off the kitchen, then proceeded to the dining room. The table there had seating for a dozen people but was set for three. Frank Berringer presided at its head, while Slade sat to his left and Naylor on his right.

The agent poured wine all around, not asking Slade this time, and sipped his while another Cherokee, this one apparently the waiter, served them large bowls of potato soup. Slade spotted onions in the mix and gave the cook due credit for his effort.

While they ate the soup, Berringer talked about his trials and tribulations at the agency. “The Cherokee are childlike, for the most part,” he explained, “but even children may turn savage if they’re not restrained, eh, gentlemen?”

Slade chewed a mouthful of potato, letting Naylor take the bait. “I knew a kid like that, one time,” Luke said. “He damn near bit my little finger off. Still got the scar.”

Berringer eyed Naylor’s upraised finger with a fine disdain, saying, “Of course, the danger from a tribe of full-grown savages, no matter how childlike in mind, is that they won’t be satisfied with simply gnawing on your finger. If their heathen impulses are not constrained…well, who knows what may happen in the way of tragedy?”

“Your school helps out with that, I guess,” said Slade.

“To some extent,” the agent granted. “Though I must admit, we aren’t producing any scholars here. The brighter ones can learn to read and write, if they apply themselves sufficiently, but this peculiar talk of higher education for the red man I’ve been hearing? I mean, really. What’s the point?”

“Never got past the seventh grade, myself,” said Naylor. “Guess I’ve done all right.”

“And that’s the key,” said Berringer. “An individual must recognize his limitations. Why encourage hopeless fantasies when they are just a waste of time and energy for all concerned?”

The soup was gone, and Berringer summoned their waiter with a little silver bell. The Cherokee cleared off their bowls and soupspoons, coming back after a moment with their main meal for the evening. It looked like venison, with sweet potatoes and some green beans on the side.

“We’re living off the land here, as you see,” said Berringer. “The Cherokee have learned to farm, after a fashion, and they’re still proficient hunters. Don’t believe the gossip that you hear about privation, gentlemen.”

Slade would have bet a month’s pay that no Cherokee was dining from a menu such as Berringer’s tonight, but he kept the opinion to himself. Instead, he said, “I wonder if you could arrange, before we leave, for me to see my friend.”

Berringer looked up from his meal and frowned. “Your friend, Marshal?”

Slade held the agent’s gaze and answered, “Little Wolf.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Why’s that?” Slade asked.

“Because we haven’t seen him for…oh, what? Three weeks now, I would say. Perhaps a little more.”

“You’re saying that he’s disappeared?”

“I wouldn’t state it so dramatically,” said Berringer. “He’s what I’d call a restless sort. It’s not the first time he’s been absent without leave, as you may be aware.”

“You wouldn’t be referring to the time he helped me track those fugitives to Texas,” Slade replied, not making it a question. Neither did he mention that the chase had taken
Little Wolf and him across the border into Mexico without official sanction from the governments on either side.

“No, no,” said Berringer. “But I’m advised there was at least one prior occasion when he left the reservation for some reason of his own, never explained.”

“That rings a bell,” Slade said. “In fact, it was the first time that he saved my life. And helped me bag the Bender family.”

Berringer blinked at that. “The Benders? Out of Kansas?”

“Out of anywhere they chose to go, until we stopped them. Me and Little Wolf.”

Berringer sipped his wine, then said, “I had not heard that part of it.”

“Don’t worry,” Slade replied. “It wouldn’t be the first time files were incomplete.”

“Indeed, sir. At the risk of bearing tales, my predecessor’s record-keeping skills left much to be desired.”

Slade brought the conversation back on track. “I’d be disturbed to learn that Little Wolf had come to any harm through no fault of his own.”

“I have no reason to believe that is the case,” said Berringer. “Of course, once he’s beyond the reservation’s boundaries, there’s nothing I can do to find or help him.”