Massacre Trail by Lyle Brandt

Author:Lyle Brandt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Given Colonel Northcliff’s attitude, Slade saw no point in making small talk on their ride out to the Saline Reservation. They were wasting time, in his opinion, when he could have chased the wagon tracks leaving the Hascomb spread, but Northcliff had him worried.

In his present state of mind, Slade wouldn’t put it past the colonel to exaggerate—or even fabricate—some bit of “evidence” against Red Eagle and his Cherokee, in order to support a move against them. He wasted no time speculating over Northcliff’s motives and did not delude himself into believing he could stand between the U.S. Army and the Cherokee for any length of time.

In this one case, however, Slade could stop Northcliff from muddying the waters and allowing the real killers to escape while framing Indians to close the case. If he accomplished nothing else, in fact, that would be something.

But it wouldn’t be enough.

Slade didn’t see himself as a detective—certainly, he didn’t have the mental powers of the fictional crime fighters created by Poe or the Englishman Doyle—but certain facts seemed obvious.

Red Eagle had not ordered any of the homestead raids, nor—in Slade’s personal opinion—could he name the individuals responsible. If they’d been Cherokee, he thought the chief would either give them up or find some way to punish them himself.

And if the murderers were white, Colonel Northcliff would never find them. Couldn’t find them, much less prosecute them, even if he wanted to, since his authority was limited to Fort Supply and the surrounding reservations.

Slade reckoned that one key to running down the killers would be finding out who bought the livestock they had stolen on their raids. They would be damned conspicuous dragging a remuda of horses around the Oklahoma badlands, and Slade seriously doubted that they were devouring all the rustled cattle.

He had tried to make that point to Sheriff Eastman, more than once, but Eastman didn’t seem to hear him. Or it could be that he didn’t want to hear it.

Slade had an impression of the sheriff as a man who ran a tidy town and dealt with lawbreakers according to the standard small-town formula. He would walk softly with the locals who controlled his fate around election time—particularly those with the authority to gut his budget—but he would pull out the stops if strangers overstepped themselves in Paradise.

He seemed to be a cookie-cutter lawman, one who wouldn’t buck the odds or the majority opinion if he wasn’t guaranteed a profitable win. Of course, Slade couldn’t swear to that, but first impressions in a case like this were generally all he got.

And though he’d never served a day in uniform, he also knew a bit about the colonel’s type. He’d met some army officers at poker tables, riding trains and stagecoaches, and even chasing Indians across the vast Southwest. Slade knew that some exalted duty over anything—or anyone, including their own wives and families—while others looked beyond their discharge papers, sketching an imaginary life of ease and plenty.

Slade pegged Northcliff as one of the latter, though he couldn’t see the colonel’s angle yet.

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