Free The Arrow Keeper’s Song by Kerry Newcomb Page B

teams came together at the pitcher’s mound and went about settling the issue with fists and baseball bats. Allyn Benedict, as umpire, declared the game a draw and quit the playing field.
    Uniformed officers hurried toward the melee in a futile attempt to restore calm. But the rivalries ran deep and had been allowed to fester throughout the long, boring months of duty. It was going to take something more than a few barked commands to bring the situation under control.
    Allyn spied his son waving to him from the sidelines and angled over to the young man. Clay grinned and nodded toward the brawling troopers.
    â€œThe rules out here are different from back east,” he chuckled.
    â€œIn more ways than one, and for a lot more than baseball,” Allyn replied. “Has Mr. Lehrman arrived?”
    Clay nodded and indicated the cluster of cabins and bar-racks that made up Fort Reno. An impressive array of settlers arriving in wagons, carriages, and on horseback had been assembling at the fort since the end of July. The meadow east of the fort was a sea of white canvas tents and smoky cook fires. The impending land rush had attracted would-be landowners from all over the country. With change in their pockets and a fistful of dreams, these settlers were anxious to carve a place for themselves out of the soon-to-be-opened reservation. Already folks had begun to grumble about how unfair it was that the Southern Cheyenne would receive land allotments before even taking part in the rush. His thoughts on the turbulent days to come, Allyn outpaced his son as he entered the parade grounds and proceeded with all due haste toward the land office in which he had set up shop in anticipation of September 1.
    Grasshoppers whirred in ungainly arcs, escaping the Indian agent’s crushing steps. Dust billowed in his wake. Allyn’s face felt dry and blistered from the sun, and he entered his cramped office with a sigh of relief. It was a sparsely furnished space, two chairs and a desk, a cabinet for documents, and a territorial map on the rear wall. A rotund man sweating in a frock coat sipped whiskey from a flask as he sat by an open window and fanned himself with a copy of the Tulsa Register.
    â€œSorry I’m late, Mr. Benedict. I am Artemus Lehrman, vice president of Prairie Oil and Gas. The driver I hired promised we’d be here by midmorning.” He tossed the newspaper onto the desk and patted it with the fleshy palm of his hand. One news article dominated the front page: the impending land rush, which was destined to change the face of the territory for all time.
    It was a lesser piece of reporting, however, that had caught Artemus Lehrman’s attention. He jabbed a finger at a narrow column whose banner simply read “Tragedy in Cuba.”
    â€œIntriguing situation there. Deplorable. Simply deplorable. The damn Spanish are brutally suppressing the people of the island. One of their leaders, a charismatic rascal by the name of Antonio Celestial, has appealed to Washington for help. The president grudgingly turned him down—at least that’s the rumor I heard. Although there is some popular sentiment to involve us.” Lehrman folded his hands across his ample belly. “Think of it. A fine little war could prove quite profitable.”
    â€œWe are a long way from Cuba,” Clay interjected, breaking Lehrman’s long-winded reverie.
    â€œOn the contrary, my good lad. The island is practically at our doorstep. Why, dash it all, the entire world is but a stone’s throw away, at least that’s the way it seems. A good steamer can take you anywhere on the ocean. Rails span the Americas and Europe.” Lehrman’s voice rose in pitch as well as volume as he expounded the virtues of the modern world. It clearly made him excited just thinking about the endless possibilities for a shrewd businessman like himself. “You’d do well to keep your eye on Cuba, young man. Mark my