Sheriff Dan Harmon was pouring a cup of coffee in his office as he listened to Allie’s account of what she had found—and where it had ended up. He handed Allie the cup and started pouring another one. “So you think the killers might live right here in Arkmore?” he asked her when she had finished.
“Thanks,” Allie said, in response to the coffee. She waved away a fly that was bothering her. “I don’t necessarily think that’s the case, but it’s possible. When I arrived in town, the four sets of tracks split up and went four different directions. I tried to follow a couple of sets, but they finally became wiped out in other horse’s tracks. Over the next couple of days, I’m going to check out the livery stables and see if maybe the four men met at one of them, exchanged horses, and left town on different ones. If I don’t find anything there, I’ll scout the roads leading out of town and see if they came back together somewhere on the outskirts of Arkmore. They may have just come through Arkmore to destroy their tracks. It’s about the best way to do it.”
Harmon nodded. “That’s about all you can do, I guess. At least we know where their hideout is. How far out of town is it?”
“Fifteen miles, give or take a half mile either way.”
“It would be nice if we could stake out that cabin, see who is using it.”
“I thought the same thing, but I can’t do it. Well, I won’t do it. Like I told you, it looks like there is enough hay and water to last those horses at least a month. And given the fact that each of the attacks on the ranches has been spaced about a few weeks apart, it may be that long before there’s another one.” Allie pulled a face. “No way to tell, of course, and we can’t bank on that, but that’s the way it has been so far. I can’t sit out there for a month waiting for them to show up again. But I’ve got an idea about a stake out.” A possible solution to the stake out problem had occurred to Allie as she was riding into Arkmore that day.
“What is it?” Harmon asked her.
“I’ll tell you later.” Harmon wouldn’t like it. She wasn’t going to tell him at all, if she could help it. To change the subject, she asked, “Did you set up a meeting with the other marshals in the area?”
“Yeah. Town meeting, tomorrow night at 8. Boomer Gulf, Pick Handsome, and Fred Harrison all said they would be here. Pastor Joel over at the church says we can use their building, it’s the biggest in town.” He gave Allie a pensive look. “It may all end up being moot, Allie.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, we still need to find those killers and you’ve pretty well proven it isn’t Indians. But we may have seen the last of the raids.”
Again, Allie asked, this time a little impatiently, “Why?”
“Colonel Timothy Einarsen at Fort Pearson—do you know him?”
“I haven’t met him, but I know his sorry reputation.”
“Yeah. Well, anyway, he was in town yesterday and said,” and here Dan paused, as if a bit apprehensive to continue. “He said talked to General Davis Gordon, who is the commanding military officer for the territory, about moving all the Northern Cheyenne down to Indian Territory. There was too much territory up here for him to cover and if all the Indians were grouped down there together, they would be easier to keep an eye on.”
Allie’s skin crawled. In a quiet voice, she asked, “What did Gordon say?”
Dan shook his head. “Gordon doesn’t have the authority to make that decision by himself. He’s going to check with Washington, though he doesn’t think they’ll approve it—yet. Three raids doth not a rebellion make. But, a few more killings, and well, yeah, your people might be shifted down south. Attacks on white settlers is one reason the Southern Cheyenne were relocated.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Allie exploded. “Did you tell Einarsen that Indians aren’t the ones doing the killing?”
Dan nodded. “I told him about the Friday night attack and what you had found. The raid further convinced him that the Indians need to go. He dismissed, out of hand, everything you said about it being whites.”
“Why?” Allie was beginning to sound like a broken record.
“’What would you expect her to say? She’s an Indian. Her testimony would be totally inadmissible in a court of law.’ Words to that effect.”
Allie turned away in disgust and anger. As it was, she didn’t get to see her people as often as she liked, but if they were moved to Indian Territory, she would almost surely never see them again. “Indian Territory. That’s 1500 miles away,” she muttered to herself. She turned back to Harmon. “Dan, we’ve got to find out who is doing these killings and shove it in Einarsen’s face. It’s not right to move innocent people from their native lands. The reservation is bad enough, but the Northern Cheyenne have lived up here for countless generations. It would be another Trail of Tears.” Allie was referring to the forced exodus of the Cherokee in the 1830s from their homes in Georgia to Indian Territory. About a quarter of the Indians died on the way. “Do you think telling Einarsen we’ve found the hideout of the killers would make any difference?”
Dan grunted. “Do you?”
The answer to that was obvious. “Sorry,” Allie muttered. “Dumb question.” She set the coffee cup down on Dan’s desk and rubbed the back of her neck, tired. “If I show my face around town, am I liable to get shot? I was persona non grata around her a few days ago.”
Dan smiled. “No, what you did out at the Rogers’ place is well-known. Nobody will bother you. Except maybe to thank you.”
Allie smiled. “Not even Luke and his buddies?” She referred to the event a few weeks before at the Bear Den Restaurant.
Dan smiled back. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of those fellows since that day.”
“Ok, I’m going to get a room for the night and something to eat. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can locate those horse tracks, but I’m not optimistic.”
“Just be at the meeting tomorrow evening at 8, if at all possible.”
Allie headed for the door. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world…”
The next night, Monday, June 20…
Allie showed up at Harmon’s office about 7 o’clock. “Did you find any tracks?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “Those horses are probably still in town somewhere. But that doesn’t mean their owners are.”
“Yeah,” Harmon said. “Well, it was worth a shot looking for them.”
“What are you going to do at this meeting tonight?” Allie asked.
Harmon leaned back in his chair and looked at the ranger thoughtfully. “Cui bono,” he said. “I’m going to lay out, for everybody, exactly what the circumstance is. Indians almost surely aren’t guilty. That means white men are. Who benefits?”
“Do you think your banker, Fontenot, could do something like this? Or who is the land agent out here?”
The sheriff frowned. “Your first question is hard to answer, Allie. To judge a man’s heart. I’ve never thought of Faye Fontenot as a murderer.”
“He’s not pulling the trigger, Dan. He’s just providing the money. Usually, those who do provide the money for killing faint at the sight of blood.”
Harmon nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of that. The land agent, Yeager Allen, is afraid of his own shadow. He’s not behind this, I’d bet my last bottom dollar on it.” He gave Allie a wry grin. “Admittedly, that’s not much, not with my pay.”
“I know what you mean,” Allie replied. “What about the other bankers or land agents in the territory?”
“I’ve met the bankers and agents in Tin Cup and Kinsey, but not in Sugarloaf.” Dan shook his head in doubt. “I don’t know them well, though. They could be involved, I suppose. It could be all of them. But something tells me that Arkmore is the center of it.” He glanced up at Allie. “The killers rode here yesterday, not someplace else.”
Allie nodded her understanding. “None of this is conclusive. We need information, and we need it fast, or a lot of innocent people are going to suffer.” Her thoughts were on the Cheyenne at the reservation. She gave the sheriff a dry grin. “So throw as much mud as you can during this meeting tonight, Dan, and see if any of it sticks.”
“That’s what I intend to do…”
The meeting did not get started until about 8:20. A lot of the ranchers and farmers in the region had to ride several miles to get to town, so they were showing up a little late. Marshals Boomer Gulf, Fred Harrison, and Pick Handsome were all in attendance, but no one from their towns came. It was simply too far. Dan Harmon didn’t think that mattered. As he had told Allie, he was convinced, in his gut, that the answer was in Arkmore, not Tin Cup, Kinsey, or Sugarloaf.
The church building, which could seat about 100, was almost full. Only men attended, but most families in Arkmore—and close environs—were represented, either by a husband, father, or son. Harmon hadn’t been too open about his purposes for the meeting, but he did indicate that it was about the “recent attacks on the ranches in the area,” and that was still of utmost concern to all the people. Even if Indians weren’t guilty—and not everybody was convinced of that yet—the killers were still loose so any news Harmon could provide for them would be welcomed and needed.
Marshals Harrison, Handsome, and Gulf stood in the back. Allie was going to stand on the raised platform, against a wall, behind and to the right of the speaker. She had no intention of saying anything, unless necessary. But she wanted to watch faces. She stood with her arms and ankles crossed, hat pulled low—the only one in the building who hadn’t removed their hat—but she was loose and ready for anything. If Harmon handled the meeting right, it could get very interesting.
Mayor Bradley Sims made a couple of opening remarks, mainly to introduce the topic and the agenda. “Sheriff Harmon will explain recent events to you thoroughly, and take any questions you might have. Marshal Harrison, Gulf, and Handsome, from Kinsey, Tin Cup, and Sugarloaf are here, and we are also honored to have Ranger Allie Summer with us.” He motioned briefly towards Allie, who simply flicked a wrist in acknowledgement. She noticed a lot of people studying her carefully. Many of them probably hadn’t heard of her; not everybody is acquainted with law officers, famous or otherwise. But no doubt a lot of people did know her by name and reputation—the Bear Den Restaurant incident had gotten around—and were looking at her curiously. She wore her usual loose clothing, and had her hair piled under her hat, so she appeared gender neutral. Her obvious youth was one source of interest.
Dan Harmon walked up to the podium once Sims finished. The room was quiet, waiting for the sheriff to begin. “Thank you all for coming, and an especial thanks to Marshals Harrison, Gulf, and Handsome, and Ranger Allie Summer.” And he, too, briefly acknowledged Allie’s location. He then tried a small joke. “Summer has arrived in two ways,” he said, fanning his face to indicate the hot weather that had recently plagued the region. He got a few chuckles, but nothing major. Allie didn’t smile or move; except her eyes, which continued, one-by-one, to search the faces in the building. She paused for an extra heartbeat when she saw Faye Fontenot. He was sitting about halfway back, on the left side of the auditorium—Allie’s left.
Harmon said, “The purpose of this meeting is, as Mayor Sims said, to briefly catch you up on recent happenings, but more than that, to explain where we stand now. This whole matter has taken a rather curious turn. By now, you all know of the recent attack on the homestead of Art and Rita Rogers, and how it was thwarted by the quick, decisive work of Ranger Summer here.” All eyes shifted to Allie for a moment. She made no move. The sheriff continued. “What is now quite obvious is that the Cheyenne Indians on the Big Horn reservation are almost surely not guilty of these killings.” That statement created some stirring in the room. The rumor that Indians had not been guilty had been circulating, but Harmon now confirmed it.
“How do ye know that, Sheriff?” a man near the back asked. “We heerd all along it was Injuns doin’ it, and now you say it ain’t?”
Harmon looked at Allie. “Would you care to explain? I think you can do it better than I can.”
Allie gave him a bit of a sour look because she didn’t want to, but she walked towards the podium. Before he moved, Harmon introduced her. “This is Ranger Allie Summer. She is recognized, by all lawmen in the territory, as the best ranger on the force, and we are extremely fortunate to have her. She is part-Cheyenne Indian, so her knowledge here is invaluable.”
There were murmurs. “She? Her?”
“I’m a woman,” Allie said, and lifted her hat so that her hair fell to her shoulders. That caused a number of gasps and stunned stares. Allie paid no mind to any of that. “Now, to answer the question. There are four lines of evidence that prove Cheyenne Indians were not involved. One, the song that was sung by the killers, which the girl Molly heard, as well as I and Art Rogers, is not a Native American song. It comes from Scandinavia. I know because the half of me that isn’t Cheyenne is Scandinavian. No Cheyenne Indian could possibly know that song. Two, the markings and feathers on the arrows used to kill the ranchers are from Southern Cheyenne Indians, not Northern Cheyenne. No one on the reservation would use those markings. They are distinct to each tribe or band within a tribe. Sioux, Crow, Arapaho—all Indian tribes have their distinctive arrow markings. Three, the moccasin prints found at the Rogers’ ranch were not from Cheyenne Indians. Those, too, are distinctive.” Here, she actually stuck out a foot to show the kind of moccasin design she—hence, all Northern Cheyenne—wore. “And four…” Here Allie paused a few moments and looked around. She had everyone’s rapt attention. “I followed the tracks of the men who raided the Rogers ranch Friday night. They led to a cabin about 15 miles from here. Nowhere near the Big Horn reservation. Nobody was at the cabin, but four unshod horses were in the corral. I followed the tracks of four shod horses away from the cabin. They did not go to the reservation. Cheyenne are not involved. That’s all, and I think that’s conclusive.” Allie stopped, and walked back to where she had been standing.
Her ending was a bit abrupt and took the audience by surprise. Nobody spoke for a moment, then someone asked Allie the question she was hoping, and expecting, would be asked. A bit of melodrama never hurt…“Well, don’t stop there. If’n them tracks didn’t lead to the Injun reservation, where did they go?”
Allie looked at the man who had asked the question. With a slightly amused expression on her face, she replied, “They led here. To Arkmore.”
This stunned the gathering even more. Silence for several seconds, then there was buzzing in the crowd and somebody burst out, “You mean to tell us the killers is somebody from Arkmore?”
Allie just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Haven’t found them yet.” Then, just to tweak the crowd some, she said, “Could be four of you men sitting in here tonight.”
That really riled the group, though Allie noticed a lot of men looking around nervously—not necessarily in guilt, but in concern that maybe she was right and that four cold-blooded murderers were sitting in their midst. Still, the majority seemed to take exception to Allie’s suggestion and a man near the back shouted, “How dare you…”
Sheriff Harmon gave Allie a somewhat annoyed look, but took over the podium again and motioned for silence. “Ranger Summer is not accusing anyone. Don’t be upset. But what she is suggesting is that we don’t know who the killers are and, again, all evidence now points away from Indians on the reservation.”
“But she’d say that ‘cuz she’s an Injun,” somebody said.
“So I ought to be able to recognize Indian sign when I see it,” Allie replied. “And I can tell you, conclusively, Indians didn’t commit those crimes.”
“You’d say that to protect your own people,” the fellow grumbled in response.
Allie walked to the edge of the dais, and with fire in her eyes and voice, said, “I resent that. I resent that very much. I’m a Montana Ranger. I joined the force after a bunch of white scum murdered my Indian father and white mother, and I joined it to do my best to prevent that from happening to anybody else. My job, first and foremost, is to protect the citizens of this territory. I’ve been doing that for the last three years—laying my life on the line for the likes of you, and I’m here right now to attempt to save your sorry hides, not protect the ones who are trying to skin them. Yes, I am very proud of my Cheyenne heritage; but I am also proud of my Scandinavian, and American, heritage and for anybody to suggest that I would cover up the brutal murders of innocent people because of something running through my veins is about as disgusting and revolting—and insulting—a suggestion as could be thrown at me. Now, if you don’t want my help, say so, and I’ll leave. There are other people in this territory who need the services of the Rangers and I’ll be more than happy to go assist them and let you find your murderers on your own.”
The room was quiet and nobody was looking at Allie. Nobody was looking at…anybody. The man who had prompted Allie’s tongue-lashing said quietly, “No offense intended, ma’am.”
Allie didn’t say anything. She turned, looked at Harmon, nodded, and went back to her place against the wall.
The sheriff decided it would be best to go right back to business. “One of the reasons for this town meeting was to set these facts before you. Obviously now, our investigations are turning in a different direction. If Indians are not guilty—and you may not be convinced by Ranger Summer’s arguments, but I am—then sadly, we must look to our own house. I don’t necessarily mean Arkmore. Just because the killers rode here doesn’t mean they live here. But it does appear most likely now that white men are guilty of these crimes.”
There was an uneasy silence in the room, with some squirming and some looking around. “Why would any white man do sich a thang, Sher’ff?” somebody near the front asked, the agony evident in his voice.
“Well, that’s what we have to find out, Bud. White men, trying to throw the blame on Indians. Why? What would happen if these raids continued, and especially if people believed Indians were guilty?”
“If’n we thought Indians was guilty, ‘ventually we’d go down to that village and try to wipe it out,” somebody suggested.
“Somebody has already tried that,” Allie ventured, and again, the crowd looked at her.
Her eyebrows went up. “Surely you know that a few weeks ago, some white men raided the Indian village on the Big Horn. Burned down most of the houses. Two Indians, an old man and a baby…a baby… died in the flames. The Indian agent, Wylie Wilcox, was also killed in the raid. Stabbed in the heart.”
There were gasps at this. Allie was nonplussed. She looked at Harmon. “They didn’t know about the raid on the village?” she asked him.
With some delicacy, he replied, “The news got around that the village had burned, but no other details were known.”
“How do ye know white men did it?” somebody asked Allie. “That fire could have started in the village for any number of reasons.”
“White man sign all over the place,” Allie replied, and didn’t bother to explain further. She walked to the edge of the dais again. Hands on her hips, she looked over the audience, her face and voice hard. “So, boys, here’s what happened. Some white men, dressed and acting like Indians, go and murder some innocent white settlers in the area. In revenge, some white men go and try to destroy the Indian village, killing three more innocent people in the process. Would anybody like to try to explain why all that was done? Perhaps some of you know.” And again, there was some uneasy squirming in the auditorium.
Nobody said anything for a few moments, and then the cat got out of the bag. R. J. Torrance, who had been one of the men on Odas Schafer’s raid of the Indian village, spoke up, his conscience burning. Not looking up, but speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear, he said, “Odas, you said nobody was gonna die. We’d just burn down some houses and them savages’d get the message.” R. J. looked up, anguish on his face. “We kilt a baby, Odas, a innocent little baby.”
Everybody looked at R. J. in shock, and then at Odas Schafer, who had a horrified expression on his face. “Shut up, you fool!”
The room went deathly quiet again. Sheriff Harmon spoke. “You want to tell us about it, R. J.?”
“He don’t know what he’s talkin’ about, Sheriff,” Schafer blurted out. “You know R. J. He spends most of his time drunk. He’s dreamin’, that’s all. We didn’t do nuthin’.”
“Oh, Odas,” R. J. said. “What we done was wrong. Killin’ an old man and a baby. And all for a measly fifty bucks.”
“Who all was in on the raid, R. J?” Harmon asked.
Torrance didn’t have to answer. Three men jumped up and tried to get out the windows. “Grab them!” Harmon ordered, and after a few moments’ tussle, Carlo Hand, Colby Weaver, and Hobart Hendley—the other men who participated in the village attack—had been subdued. Some neckerchiefs were offered to tie their hands behind their backs.
Odas Schafer and R. J. Torrance hadn’t moved. “Well, I guess that answers my last question,” Harmon said. He looked at Pick Handsome and Boomer Gulf. “Pick, Boomer, would you escort these fellows to the jail?”
“Shore thing, Sheriff,” Pick said and started moving forward.
But Allie stopped him. “Marshal, before you take them away, I have two questions.”
Everybody looked at Allie. Allie looked at Schafer. “Who killed Wiley Wilcox?”
Schafer didn’t look at her. He was looking at Torrance with evil in his eyes. “I don’t know. Injuns probably took advantage of the situation and kilt him.”
“You had a knife, Odas,” R. J. said. “And I seen you disappear ‘round the corner of a building with it.”
“Yore lyin’ through yore teeth, Torrance. Wait’ll I get my hands on you—“
Allie interrupted him. “What I find curious, Schafer, is that the knife was still in Wilcox’s body the next morning. Why didn’t you take it out?”
Odas scowled. “I couldn’t git it out, it was—“ And then he realized what he had said. His eyes got big and he jumped up and tried to fight his way through the marshals at the back but Fred Harrison decked him with one blow. The Kinsey marshal then picked up Odas and held him. Schafer was groggy but conscience.
“Well, I guess that solves that mystery, doesn’t it,” Harmon said.
“No, no, it doesn’t, Sheriff Harmon,” Allie said. “There’s one more question to be answered.” Everybody was looking at her again. She addressed Schafer. “Who paid you to do it?”
Heads, in unison, now turned to the back of the room, staring at Odas Schafer. He had recovered enough to respond. “I ain’t tellin’.”
Allie slowly walked down the steps of the dais and down the center aisle towards Odas Schafer. “Oh, yes, you are.” People gasped when a knife appeared in Allie’s hand and she wristed it back and forth as she unhurriedly walked towards Schafer. “I’m half-Indian, remember? That old man and that baby were relatives of mine. Family. In Cheyenne culture, we avenge ourselves of blood killings.” She smiled at Schafer, not a pleasant smile; she was less than 15 feet away from him now and getting closer by the second. “We Indians know lots of ways to make a man talk…”
Odas swallowed. “You can’t do nuthin’ to me, woman.”
“Oh, I don’t think anybody in here would begrudge me a couple of minutes with you, Odas. You killed my family.” She was standing almost toe-to-toe with him now, her ice eyes boring into his. “Just a couple of minutes, Marshal,” she said to Harrison, who was still holding Schafer. “I’ll find out who paid him.”
Odas was on his tip-toes now, leaning back away from Allie as far as Harrison would allow. “Oh, a couple of minutes should be ok,” Harrison said. “I need to go to the privy anyway.”
“Harrison, you can’t let her…” Odas said. “Look at them eyes! She’ll kill me…”
“Who paid you?” Allie said, her knife now at the tip of Schafer’s nose.
Odas closed his eyes, turned his head, and grimaced. “The banker! It was his idea. He paid us! Get her away from me!”
Allie looked at Harrison and motioned with her head for him to take Schafer away. But nobody was watching the ranger at the moment. All eyes were on Faye Fontenot.
“Is he telling the truth, Faye?” Harmon asked.
Fontenot was nervous, but he was a pretty good actor. “Oh, Harmon, you can’t believe anything Odas Schafer says, you know that. And, good grief, with that woman about to cut his nose off…no court in the land would accept his testimony.”
“We’re not in a court,” Allie said, as she walked back up to the front of the auditorium. “Sheriff Harmon, why don’t you explain…’cui bono’…to the audience?”
Harmon nodded slowly, his eyes on Fontenot. “Once it became obvious to us that Indians weren’t doing the killing, Ranger Summer posed the old Roman question: cui bono? Who benefits? If it were believed that renegade Indians were on the loose, killing and raping as they had in previous years, then many settlers would leave. There has already been some talk of that, as you all know. Of course, they leave their land and default on their loans. Who gets the land?”
“The bank does,” somebody volunteered, warming up to Harmon’s argument.
“So all these people leave. But when the matter is settled and the ‘Indians’ are caught, many, many people will move to this area. Buy land. Probably at higher prices.” Harmon paused a moment. “Who benefits?”
Everybody looked at Fontenot. “The bank does,” a voice offered quietly.
“No!” Fontenot said, standing up. “This is not true. I mean…” He was flustered now because people were beginning to forget about the raid on the Indian village and were starting to believe the banker was behind the murder of the white ranchers. “Ok, ok,” he said. “I’ll admit. I paid Schafer and the others. I didn’t want him to kill anybody and I certainly didn’t intend for the idiot to kill Wilcox. Since the army wouldn’t act, all I wanted to do was send a message to the Indians—if the raids continue, whites will strike back. That’s all.” He looked at Allie and then at the sheriff. “Sheriff Harmon, I…I thought Indians were doing the killing. If it kept up, people would leave. It might be years before other people moved in. The town could dry up…the whole area could go broke…”
“The bank would close,” Allie offered.
“Well, of course, it would, but the whole area would be in an economic depression. I was trying to stop the Indian raids!”
Fontenot had a pleading expression on his face as he looked at Harmon. Nothing could be heard in the room except the labored, tortured breathing of the banker. “You aren’t behind the killing of the white settlers?” Dan asked him.
“Good Lord, no! Why would I do that? It would defeat the very purpose.”
“But you told me land prices would go up.”
“Yeah, but what good would that do if none of us were here to benefit from it?”
Harmon looked at Allie and raised his eyebrows. She nodded. “The man’s an utter fool, but he’s not behind the killing of the white men. But arrest him for the raid on the village.”
Fontenot seemed relieved and in agony, all at the same time. “I was just trying to help the community,” he said, as Pick Handsome led him away.
After all the felons were gone, the room was silent again for a while, as the remaining men all seemed to be mulling over what had taken place the past few minutes. Harmon took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Somebody from the audience finally asked, “Ranger Summer, do you really think he’s innocent o’ killin’ the white folks?”
Allie was standing, hands on her hips, staring thoughtfully at the back door where law and outlaw had just departed. “He’s not guilty of that,” she said.
“How can you be sure?”
Allie then shifted her gaze to the questioner and looked at him for several seconds. “Because,” she said, “he’s not Scandinavian.”