McCrory's Lady (33 page)

      
He was a spare, lanky man running to a slight bit of flab around his middle. Lamp stood almost six feet tall, his body was stoop shouldered and his beard-stubbled face was narrow and crafty. He studied the intruders with gleaming yellow eyes reflected in the light of the lanterns his police held up.

      
“I thought I told you to stay off reservation land, McCrory,” he said angrily to Colin as the riders all dismounted.

      
“I'm here as an escort...and guide for this gentleman. Caleb Lamp, meet Leonard Potkin, special investigator for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He's come all the way from Washington to have a look at the White Mountain Reservation.”

      
A slow, cunning smile hovered at the corners of the agent's thin lips, then vanished. “I'm real sorry to have to spoil yer trip, Mr. Potkin, but I don't think it'd be safe to stay here overlong, nossir, I don’t.”

      
“Really?” Potkin's bushy white eyebrows shot up disdainfully. “Why ever not? Have you lost control of the savages?”

      
“Not at all, sir,” Lamp replied righteously. “It's just that there's been a smallpox outbreak—right here at the post village.”

      
Colin cursed beneath his breath as Potkin's face took on a ghostlike hue in the lantern light.

      
“Why wasn't word sent to me in Prescott?” Potkin demanded indignantly.

      
Lamp put out his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn't know when you was coming, Mr. Potkin.”

      
“Like hell you didn't,” Colin said through clenched teeth. One look at Potkin was enough to convince McCrory that the investigator would do precious little investigating. In fact, he looked so energized by fright that he probably could have ridden all the way back to Prescott by sunrise—if their horses could have withstood the hardship.
So that's why Win Barker was content to let us ride here without any attempt to stop us.

      
“It might be best if you spent the night here at the post and got an early start in the morning,” Lamp said with false solicitude. “I’ll have a couple of my Injun gals make up some beds.”

      
“They haven't been exposed to the disease, have they?” Potkin croaked.

      
Lamp shrugged. “Don't seem like it, but you musta seen how dirty them Apach are. They carry most all kinds of disease. Now, it don't make no never mind to me, ‘cause I had the smallpox when I was a tad; but if a man never did...and wasn't vaccinated...” He let his words trail away suggestively.

      
“I reckon well take your graciously offered hospitality, Caleb,” Colin said sarcastically. “Maybe Mr. Potkin will have time while your cook is fixing us something to eat to take a look at the reservation's books.”

      
“You stay out of this, McCrory,” Lamp said, edging closer to Colin with narrowed eyes, his fists balled tightly at his sides.

      
“Er, there was some mention of discrepancies between supplies shipped and those received from Tucson. Perhaps, we could discuss it over something hot to drink,” Potkin said, shivering in the cold night wind.

      
Lamp glared at McCrory, then shrugged at Potkin. “Let me see what I can do. First let's get some chow. Little Eyes, she's the squaw who cooks for me, made some beef stew. It's a mite chewy, but it'll fill ya up.”

      
They ate the spicy, tough meat, palatable enough to Colin and his men. Potkin consumed his with a pained expression on his face, as if the act of chewing was loosening his teeth. After the meal, when McCrory again brought up the matter of the books, Potkin waved him off saying he was far too exhausted to make any sense out of such records.

      
Colin awakened with the dawn, already feeling the heat that the day promised. If he were to get any work out of that old fool Potkin, he knew he needed to get at it quickly before the investigator fled the reservation. He swung his feet over the side of the short, narrow pallet, scarcely aware of his dismal accommodations. Potkin had been given a private room on the first floor next to Lamp's quarters. Colin and his men had been put up on the second floor of the big adobe post house. It was really an attic beneath a crude shingled roof which leaked during the rainy season and let in sun during the summer.

      
The big room was bare of furniture except for the rude pallets lined up across the eastern side of one wall. The rest of the large space was filled with crates, sacks and boxes, all bearing U.S. government stamps—probably grain and other foodstuffs being given out to the Apaches in tiny increments for as long as the goods could be stretched to last.

      
Ignoring the snores of his sleeping companions, Colin pulled on his boots after carefully checking them for poisonous pests. He rose and strapped on his Peacemaker, picked up his Remington, and swung his saddlebags across his shoulder. As he climbed down the rickety ladder from the attic, the sounds of strident voices echoed across the open front room of the post. The area was huge and high-ceilinged.

      
Scattered around the big room were sacks of cornmeal, barrels of flour, crates of tinned goods, and boxes of blankets and yard goods piled in no apparent order. Most of the dry goods crates and boxes were broken open to reveal their contents and entice the Apaches into buying on credit—ahead of their allotment allowances. Once enough cheap red calico and glass beads had been given away, then the food rations could again be shorted and the books seemingly balanced.

      
But Colin's thoughts about Lamp's bookkeeping schemes were interrupted when he heard the familiar voice of Dr. Aaron Torres.

      
“I've brought medical supplies but what I need—what I will have at once—is a real infirmary. There's plenty of room in this building.”

      
“You're not bringing a bunch of sick savages into my quarters,” Lamp said flatly, stepping toward the slim, unarmed Torres with menace in his voice.

      
“Aaron, I should've known you'd have a good reason to gallop off into the night, leaving Prescott without a word.”

      
Torres's green eyes widened with surprise and pleasure. “Colin! What are you doing here? Did you get word about Eden?”

      
The smile instantly left McCrory's face, and a vise seemed to squeeze his chest with dread. “What about Eden?”

      
“She's fine—just fine. Nothing's happened to her. I expect word just didn't catch up to you yet—about her coming to the reservation to help me with the smallpox victims.”

      
“No, I hadn't heard,” Colin said as air again rushed into his lungs. “She's here?”

      
“Right behind you,” Eden said, dashing from the door of the post into her father's arms for a big hug. “We've been out at Lucero's camp treating the worst cases they have there, but so many of the sick are here. This is the best place to set up an infirmary. They need more shelter from the heat of day and chill of night than their brush wickiups can provide.” Her gold eyes darkened as she stared meaningfully at Lamp.

      
“Now look here, missy, I'm a bureau agent, not a nursemaid. It's my job to give out supplies and keep track of them Apach, not to set up hospitals,” Lamp answered with a sneer.

      
“It's your job to see the Apaches of White Mountain Reservation provided for—in all emergencies—isn't that correct, Inspector Potkin?” Colin asked as the older man entered the room from the door behind Lamp.

      
“Well, er, I suppose responding to an outbreak of dangerous illness would be deemed an appropriate action,” Potkin replied, rubbing sleep from his puffy eyes.

      
“I can't be responsible for any white folks' health if you bring them pox-ridden Apach here,” Lamp said to the doctor.

      
Aaron's expression was furious. “If you were really concerned about contagion, you'd have backed my petitions to Washington for cowpox serum to vaccinate these people. Then, no one would be ill.”

      
Lamp shrugged. “Too late for that now. Anyways, you know how the government is about sending perishable supplies. If they can't even get cornmeal here without weevils, what do you expect would happen to serum?”

      
“We must be careful about spreading the disease. Some white people aren't vaccinated either,” Potkin said nervously.

      
“I’ll take care of controlling contagion,” the doctor said authoritatively. “One of the first things to do is quarantine those afflicted in decent quarters. I've ridden to every encampment in the outlying areas and warned them to stay close to home. So far the outbreak is confined to two small camps that brought it from the village here at the agency.” Torres had some thoughts about why the outbreak had started here, but did not bring that up at the moment. He turned to the dignified but rather rumpled older man dressed in dusty Eastern clothes and said, “I understand you're from the Bureau in Washington?”

      
“I'm here to look into the charges brought by Mr. McCrory about the administration of this agency, yes,” Potkin replied, straightening his suit jacket.

      
“I'm a physician and I have at least a dozen cases of smallpox. I need to set up an infirmary here and to have an authorization for more medical supplies. If you'd care to come with me, I could show you the need for—”

      
“Oh, I'm quite certain you can be trusted to diagnose smallpox, doctor,” Potkin cut in with alacrity. “As to the use of this post, I see no reason why it can't be converted into a hospital—on a temporary basis, of course. I shall be happy to approve your requisition of any additional supplies you feel are needed. I'm certain I can do that from Prescott. As it is, I must be on my way back for important meetings in the capital.”

      
Colin's eyebrows went up sardonically. “You don't plan to tour the reservation?”

      
“I scarcely think it prudent if the doctor is trying to enforce a quarantine, do you?” Potkin replied.

      
“We could visit the sites he's found free of the disease,” Colin replied, knowing Potkin would refuse. “But if you think it too risky, you can at least look over the agency accounts to see if they're in order.”

      
Potkin smoothed his hand over his hair and eyed Caleb. “Yes, I do suppose that would be a good idea. Would you be so kind as to show me your records, Agent Lamp—er, after we've broken our fast, of course.”

* * * *

      
The sun rose over Crown Verde, sending its radiant golden light into Maggie's bedroom where she tossed restlessly in a fitful nightmare she had been having with increasing regularity over the past couple of weeks. She dreamed she had eaten something that made her violently ill. Suddenly, she awakened gagging. Throwing off the covers, she heaved her legs over the side of the bed and raced for the washbasin on her dry sink across the room, barely reaching it in time to lose the meager contents of her stomach.

      
When the onslaught was finished, she felt much better. This was really odd. She dipped a linen washcloth into the pitcher of clean water and sponged her sweaty face, then checked in the mirror. No green pallor.

      
“Well, at least I don't seem to be coming down with some dreadful malady,” she murmured, slipping on her robe and belting it.

      
Eileen, arms laden with a stack of freshly folded quilts, came bustling down the hall just as Maggie opened the door to her room. “Top of the mornin' to ye, Maggie. I've a big pot of coffee on the stove and there's fresh cream and wild raspberries to go with yer oatmeal.”

      
Maggie turned a bit pale as her stomach again lurched. “Just coffee sounds fine, Eileen,” she managed as the housekeeper walked past her and deposited her burden in the cedar chest against the wall.

      
“If ye're not wantin' the oatmeal, I can whip up a plate of them spicy Mexican eggs with chilies the hands fancy so much,” the older woman offered. Maggie turned even paler and clutched her stomach. Then, Eileen noticed the basin, and a look of concern filled her eyes. “Ye were ill again?” She put her hand on Maggie's forehead and tisked. “Yer not feverish.”

      
“No, I'm fine, really. I just don't seem to have an appetite for breakfast. It's those damn dreams I've been having the past couple of weeks. Thank goodness I didn't have them the two days Colin and I were in Prescott! I'd hoped they'd go away—along with this waking up to lose my stomach.”

      
A look of shrewd comprehension came into Eileen's eyes. “Let's us go downstairs and have that coffee. Then, we can talk.”

      
They entered the big ranch house kitchen, Eileen's domain, for Maggie still had not learned to boil water. The housekeeper poured them each a steaming mug of coffee and then sat down at the big polished oak table beside her friend.

      
“These dreams—and what happens when ye awake—how long has this been goin' on? I only heard Rita mention yer bein' sick once last week.”

      
Maggie shrugged, uncomfortable about being unwell, she who had always
 
prided herself on being so healthy and strong. “It's all Colin's fault, damn him.”

      
“That might be,” Eileen said beneath her breath.

      
Maggie continued, not hearing the comment. “He's got me so upset it's a wonder I don't have nightmares in the daytime. Eileen, someone keeps trying to kill him. He's made dangerous enemies and he won't take any precautions—riding out to that reservation where anyone can ambush him.”