Free War on the Cimarron by Luke; Short

had his man. Frank waited, wondering.
    They went into the live oaks, turned east, traveled a half mile, still in the timber, and where the ground gave way to a little swale holding a tangle of berry thicket the Indian stopped and pointed.
    The lieutenant dismounted and gave orders to the troopers to beat the thicket. The first trooper there discovered that the thicket was dead stuff piled there to cover some freshly turned earth. In lieu of a shovel the troopers used their hands to scoop out the dirt, and presently they lifted out a sack half full of whisky bottles. The lieutenant grunted, and when his men pulled up three more full sacks he turned to Frank.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œNot mine,” Frank said. “The Circle R was here until two days ago.”
    For the last time the lieutenant conversed with the Cheyenne through the interpreter, and then he shook his head soberly and looked at Frank.
    â€œIt won’t do, Christian. You’re the man, and you’re under arrest.”
    Frank shifted his glance to study the Cheyenne, who was watching him with those bland, secretly curious black eyes of his race. Frank pulled his horse around and walked it over beside the Cheyenne’s horse. He spoke in Comanche, which was the Indian trade language of the southwest country.
    â€œWho paid you to lie?” he asked.
    The Cheyenne started at the sound of the Indian speech. He replied in a sullen voice, using the Comanche speech, “You sold it to me.”
    With the back of his hand Frank clubbed the Cheyenne full in the mouth. It was a hard blow, quick, giving the Cheyenne no time to dodge. It knocked him sideways in his saddle, and before he could catch his balance he slipped and fell heavily to the ground on his side.
    The lieutenant palmed up his gun and pulled his horse over beside Frank’s.
    â€œThat’s enough!” he said sternly. “You’d better come along peaceably.”
    Frank said, “All right,” in a thick and angry voice. Orders were given the troopers to save out two bottles of whisky for evidence and smash the rest, and when that was done they rode back to the shack.
    Red came up to Frank, and Otey followed him. The troopers were scattered loosely about the place, making a break impossible even if Frank had planned it. Frank remained mounted.
    Red said to him, “Bad news?”
    â€œSomebody’s planted some whisky back in the brush, and they’re taking me in. Otey, you move camp away from the shack and cache some of the corn and grub. Keep the wagon on the move and stay away from the creek and take a look at the place once a day to see what’s going on. Red, take a good look at that Cheyenne.”
    â€œI have,” Red drawled. “He’s picked up a bloody nose since he rode in here.”
    â€œFollow us into Reno but keep out of sight,” Frank said. “I want you to find out the name of that Indian and what camp he’s in and anything else about him you can, understand?”
    â€œYou want me to nail up his hide?” Red asked.
    â€œI’ll do that when I’m out,” Frank said grimly.
    â€œYou ain’t goin’ to get out,” Red said in anger. “They’ll put up a bail you can’t meet and hold you till fall court in Kansas and then freight you up there for trial. I’ve seen it!”
    â€œI’ll get out,” Frank said. “All I want is for the crew to keep out of trouble until I’m with you again. Remember, that means you, Red.”
    He pulled his horse around before Red could answer and rode over to the lieutenant and said, “I’m ready, Lieutenant.” The order was given to mount, and Frank and the lieutenant led the cavalcade down the slope, Red and Otey looking on helplessly.
    On the silent ride back to Reno Frank considered what had happened. The Cheyenne had been paid to give evidence that Frank was selling whisky to the Indians. Two outfits might have paid