Straw Men (13 page)

Clint headed for the only place in Fort Winstead that served liquor and hosted card games on a regular basis. Since there wasn't any competition in the immediate area, the place was marked with a sign that simply read: Saloon. And since Farelli had steered him toward the place, the colonel didn't bother watching Clint once it was clear where he was going.

Without being obvious about it, Clint made sure the colonel wasn't keeping too close an eye on him. A few more precautions made Clint fairly certain he wasn't being watched by anyone else. Therefore, he felt fairly secure when he just gave the soldiers who'd brought him in a quick wave and then walked over to a table near the back of the saloon.

“You look nervous,” Abigail said as Clint sat down across from her.

He sighed and said, “You would, too, if you were walking in tall grass with so many snakes about.”

“That bad, huh?”

Catching the bartender's eye, Clint pointed to the soldiers he'd waved at before and had a round of beers sent over to them. He turned his attention back to Abigail and spoke in a lower voice. “I'll know a bit more before too long. Will you be here for a while longer?”

“At least for another night. The bunk house isn't exactly set up for proper guests, so the colonel arranged for me to sleep in one of the rooms reserved for visiting officers. It's free and just as nice as that fancy hotel from before.”

“And I doubt any officers will be visiting this place anytime soon,” Clint added. “Have you been keeping busy?”

She shrugged and chewed on her lower lip.

“You look guilty,” he said.

“I ain't guilty of nothin'!” she replied quickly. Realizing she'd raised her voice a bit, she brought it down a few notches and told him, “The colonel paid a hell of a lot of money for finding you and he's made it known he could have some more work real soon. I thought I'd see if I might be able to pick up some more work.”

“Nothing wrong with that. You do realize this work could be messier than you're used to?”

“Yeah, I know. I ain't accepted none of it yet.”

Clint couldn't help but admire the convincing half-scowl Abigail put on when she talked. The way she gripped her drink made it seem as if she wasn't sure she was going to lift the mug to her lips or smash it against someone's head. “What's the word been about this work Farelli's offering?” Clint asked. “Does it involve riding or shooting?”

“Maybe a little of both. What ever it is, there's bound to be dustups with the Injuns. That much was made real clear.”

“Well, you might just be in a position to do me a little favor.”

“That's funny,” she said with a grin. “I was thinking the same about you.”

“What do you think about Farelli?”

The smile that had appeared on Abigail's face drifted away as quickly as it had arrived. “His money spends.”

“So if you were to ask some more about these jobs he's looking to have done, would you mind letting me know what they involve?”

“And then what?” she asked suspiciously.

“And then…I don't know. That's it, really. I'd be mighty grateful to know what he might be planning.”

“Do you think it's something bad?”

“To be honest, I can't say for certain. It might be something that has nothing to do with what I'm thinking about. For a man like Farelli to somehow find his way to the rank of colonel, he's got to have a lot of irons in the fire. Some of them have got to be official, but most of them probably aren't. He's definitely got something going on with the Indians who have been making these attacks, but the deeper I dig, the more gnarled it all becomes.”

“I'll have a look-see, but I can't promise anything,” she told him. “No matter what I find, you'll owe me big and I aim to collect.”

“Name it.”

After a bit of thought, Abigail replied, “Meet me back here in an hour or two. I should have something for ya by then.”

“Great,” Clint said with a nod. “Now if you'll excuse me, I need to dig a little deeper.”

As Clint stepped outside of the fort's front gate, the only things he could hear were the crunch of his boots against the dirt and the banjo player who'd started playing inside the saloon. There were guards posted here and there, but none of them did anything besides nod when they saw Clint stroll from the fort. Even though Clint wasn't in the Army, the sorry state of Fort Winstead's patrols was disgusting.

All Clint had to do was walk over the first ridge to put himself outside of the sentry's notice. To his surprise, Clint realized that Ahiga had crept in even closer than that without being noticed. The big Navajo acknowledged Clint with a wave and worked his way back to meet him over the ridge.

“I could have snuck into that place and solved our problem right now,” Ahiga muttered.

“Actually, I bet you could have snuck in there easily. This fort isn't the problem, though. It's the assholes that are keeping it up and running. Well…barely up and running. Did the others try to follow me?”

Ahiga shook his head. “The Crow don't speak to us unless Tolfox tells them to and I told my own braves the truth.”

Smirking, Clint asked, “You know his name is Proud Fox, right?”

“Yes, but the other name rattles in his head like a…” After taking a moment to search for the right words, Ahiga finally said, “Like a bee in his bonnet.”

Clint chuckled more at the sound of those words coming from someone like Ahiga than the actual words themselves. “I'll bet it does. And your braves know that you wanted to let me go so I could talk to the colonel?”

“They knew they were supposed to let you go. Since I was the one telling them this, they didn't ask any more than that.”

“And you were able to speak with Tolfox?”

Ahiga nodded. “He stormed in when I was speaking to Mingan, strutting as he always does. When I asked to speak with him alone, Tolfox swelled up like the proud fool he is.”

“And?”

Furrowing his brow was all Ahiga needed to do for Clint to know he was uncomfortable with saying any more just then. “All right,” Clint said. “I'll let you know what the colonel had to say first. He's covering the tracks of the man who started the shooting, that's for certain.”

“Did he order the shooting?”

No matter how many suspicions Clint had or how many suspicions were turning out to be true, Clint knew that question was most definitely loaded. “I don't know for certain yet. I do know that he's got a history with Tolfox that stretches all the way back to before that name took root. Either that, or he knows Tolfox well enough to fall into the habit of calling him Proud Fox instead. Farelli slipped up and mentioned that name without blinking an eye.”

“So he could have been trying to kill his own soldiers instead of Tolfox?” Ahiga asked.

“That doesn't seem likely. Someone who gets ahead by cheating and double-dealing isn't the sort to throw murder into the mix.”

“Something like that would not bother Tolfox,” Ahiga stated. “All of the Crow are killers and thieves.”

Now it was Clint's turn to furrow his brow. “Is that a fact or is that just some bad blood talking?”

Ahiga started to answer that without thinking, but paused and then lowered his head slightly. “Before being forced to ride away from my tribe and join this one, I was at war with the Crow. I have spent too much time with Tolfox, however, and I know he is a killer. He leads us into attacks on wagons or settlers for no good reason and then says we need to go into hiding.”

“What about Mingan?” Clint asked. “That doesn't seem like his way.”

“It is not. But Tolfox's men follow Tolfox and they attack without question. After that, there is no other choice but to hide.”

“Hide from soldiers, you mean?”

Ahiga nodded.

“When was the first time Tolfox suggested an attack like this one?”

“A few years ago,” Ahiga replied. “I was new to this mixed tribe and ready to fight any white man in a blue uniform.”

“Was one of those men Farelli?”

Without hesitation, Ahiga nodded. “I stood beside Tolfox when he spoke with Farelli and struck a peace.”

“I'll bet that's right about the time when Farelli started getting promoted. That could explain how Farelli got so much recognition when all he does is take up space on a chair. In fact, it's not even a new idea. I just don't think anyone's set anything up that caused this much trouble just so they could come in and look like a hero squaring it away.”

Ahiga let out a breath that sounded like something close to a growl. “You and I are straw men, Adams. I have felt like one for some time and now I see you are the same.”

“Straw men?”

“We are not told what we need to know, so we may be kept weak. That way, when the fight comes, we are easily knocked down by whoever comes along.”

“Straw men,” Clint said. “Something set up just so it can burn.”

“Some among us have known that Tolfox holds secret council with the soldiers, but others don't want to believe it. And even if they do believe, there is nothing for them to do about it. Nowhere for them to go. We are a mixed tribe because we are all hunted by the soldiers or cast out by our own. There is nothing left for us.”

Clint placed his hand on the Navajo's shoulder. Although the Indian warrior tensed at that, he didn't pull away. “Whatever trouble your tribe is in, it will only get worse if you just keep following Tolfox. He'll lie to you and use you all up until he gets you all killed.”

“For some warriors, that is the only place for our path to lead.”

“Well, it doesn't have to be that way. Are you truly telling me you and your men would die for Tolfox?”

Ahiga didn't say anything, but the dark shadow that fell over his face said more than enough.

“Of course you wouldn't,” Clint said. “Just like there's no way in hell I'd die for Farelli.”

“But it seems that he wanted it to be that way.”

“Yeah,” Clint said as that truth settled in like a stone at the bottom of his stomach. “But just because we've been used as straw men doesn't mean we have to give up and burn. Farelli is already resigned to sitting with his feet up in this pile of firewood he calls a fort and knows that he's finished if any real officers find out what he's doing. All we need to do is get some proof.”

“When you told me you wanted to get away and meet with Farelli, you said you would lead him back to us.”

“And I did,” Clint said. “I told him I'd take him to your camp. Is everyone ready to move?”

“We have already moved. All that is left are the crippled wagons.” With a foul look on his face, Ahiga added, “Sleeping there was like sleeping in a white man's trash heap.”

“Well, there probably won't be much left. Did you make the arrangements we agreed upon?”

Ahiga grinned. “And one of my scouts has found someone who could be an ace in the hole.”

After hearing who Ahiga had found, Clint was the one grinning. “Good,” he said. “Now we can see who the straw men really are.”

After arranging another meeting along with some individual tasks, Clint strolled back toward the fort and Ahiga slipped away to blend in with the shadows. The Navajo moved like a large cat, keeping his head down and his arms stretched in front of him to avoid being surprised by a rock or bush.

Catching the eye of a guard near the front gate, Clint tossed the soldier a wave and kept walking. He had a lie on the tip of his tongue and ready to fly, but didn't even need it. The soldier returned Clint's wave with a nod and went back to what ever dream had been occupying his attention. Clint had heard soldiers talk about having the military in their blood, but hadn't thought much about that for himself. Perhaps he did have some military blood, because Clint still wanted to whip those lazy soldiers into shape even though he didn't have an official rank of his own.

The saloon was almost as busy as a proper gambling hall in a good-sized town. It seemed more soldiers were in there than at their posts or doing any real work. Then again, with a commanding officer like Farelli, it was a wonder that any work in Fort Winstead got done at all. Clint was looking around at the various faces inside the saloon when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

“You Clint Adams?” the bartender asked as he leaned back behind the bar.

Straightening the sleeve the barkeep had pulled, Clint replied, “I am.”

“One of the officers wants to have a word with ya.”

“Farelli?”

“Nah,” the bartender replied with a shake of his head. “Some other one.”

“Who?”

The bartender shrugged his shoulders angrily and turned to get back to his conversation with a drunken private. This time, he was the one who was interrupted by a tug on his sleeve. When he turned around, he saw Clint staring back at him.

“Where's this officer at?” Clint asked.

“Outside and to the right.”

Rather than impose upon the bartender any further, Clint stepped outside and turned right. There wasn't much to see there, other than a few hitching posts and a small house that was maintained enough to look distinctly out of place within the walls of Fort Winstead. But what jumped out at him more than the house was the horse tied to the post outside that house. It was a white mustang with brown spots.

Clint knocked on the door, which was enough to push it open an inch or two.

“Come on in,” a bespectacled clerk in a tidy blue uniform replied. He held the door open and then pushed it shut once Clint was inside.

“Is this where the visiting officers are allowed to stay?” Clint asked.

“Yes. Are you one of Colonel Farelli's guests?”

Unable to help himself, Clint replied, “Why, yes. Do I get a room for the night?”

“Just go right up those stairs. Only one other room's occupied, so you can take your pick from the rest. There's blankets and sheets available, so let me know if you need anything else.”

Clint might have heard those words, but he was already at the top of the stairs when the clerk finished his sentence. The slender young man with the spectacles must have been used to being treated that way, so he merely shouted the remainder of his instructions up the stairs and then went back to what ever he'd been doing before. In fact, Clint thought his rude manner might have helped put him over as an officer. At least the clerk didn't seem at all interested in following him up the stairs.

Just like any other house its size, this one had a narrow hallway at the top of the stairs, which led to several narrow doorways. All but one of those doors were halfway open, so Clint went straight to the one that was closed and tried the handle. After opening that door just enough to make his presence known, Clint leaned toward it and whispered, “It's Clint. Don't shoot.”

“Well, come in, then,” Abigail replied.

Clint stepped inside and found himself in a small yet tidy bedroom. Most of the space was taken up by the bed, itself, and Abigail was taking up a good amount of the space beneath the blankets. She lay on her side, using one hand to prop up her head. With her other hand, she pulled the blankets off to reveal that she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothes.

“You owe me big, Adams,” she said. “Time for me to collect.”