Bent turned around again and caught his breath. A fire hidden below the horizon was sending a thin gray column into the clear sky.
Indians? Quite possible. It could also be something like the camp of buffalo hunters. Bent pushed Gus into the ankle-deep water. "Wash your face and hands. We must look presentable in case we meet white men."
Water flowed through Bent's fingers, darkened by dirt. Gus imitated him, watching him constantly for signs of displeasure. The dirt slowly vanished from the boy's face but the marks of punishment remained.
It was not merely a camp, it was a civilized outpost on the bank of the creek. Completely unexpected, remarkably substantial. The main building, from which the smoke rose, was rectangular, constructed of mud brick with a dirt roof the builder had given a slight pitch for drainage. From concealment in some post oaks Bent look with astonishment at two Indian ponies tied at the front door, which faced the bright creek. A side door opened into a small corral holding a big chestnut and two mules. A small outbuilding, a primitive stable, was half hidden by the main place.
Gus suddenly cried, "Look," and pointed. Bent slapped a hand over Gus's mouth and twisted the boy's head until he made a hurt sound. Only then did Bent take his hand away.
He was intensely curious about the animal that had excited Gus. It was a raccoon, very well fed. Its furry belly dragged the ground as it loped along the front of the main building. Someone's pet?
Bent slipped the saddlebags off his shoulder and unbuttoned his old coat. He brushed the butt of his tied-down revolver to be sure it was clear, then snapped his fingers. Instantly, Gus grasped his hand.
Man and boy approached the building on the rocky shore of the creek. The raccoon spied them and ran off toward the stable. Bent paused near the front door. He heard voices in conversation. He didn't want to be shot as a prowler and yelled, "Hello in there."
"Hello. Who's that?"
The door squeaked open. First out were the muzzles of a shotgun. Then the man holding it appeared. He was poorly dressed, swag-bellied, and had a face that reminded Bent of a flushed Father Christmas. The man's hair, more gray than white, was center-parted and worn in long braids. A beaded band wrapped the end of each braid. Small trade bells tied in the right braid jingled.
"Captain Dayton's my name. My nephew and I are lost. We're bound west."
"Not through the Indian Territory if you know the law," the man said, implying doubt of Bent's honesty.
"We're not in Texas?"
"Not for a few miles yet." The man searched behind Bent, as if looking for soldiers who might entrap him. He scrutinized Bent again. He decided the tall plug-hatted stranger must be just as close to the edge of the law as he was.
Color returned to the man's hands as he relaxed his hold on the shotgun. "I'm Septimus Glyn. This is my ranch."
Not much of a ranch,
Bent thought. "What do you raise, Glyn?"
"Nothing. I sell what the Indian Bureau won't." The man had an assertive manner but he didn't strike Bent as dangerous. A renewed sense of personal importance was energizing him. What if this ignorant trader knew he was speaking to the American Bonaparte? Wouldn't he be amazed?
"I have a little money, Glyn. Do you sell any food?"
Glyn again thought about Bent's surprise appearance in this wilderness. He didn't know what the man was really up to, but he decided a profit merited some risk. "Yes, I do. And whiskey, if you're thirsty. Got something else you might like, too." He stepped aside. "Come in."
Bent strode forward, pulling Gus. "Handsome little boy," Glyn said. "Marked up some."
"Fell off a horse."
Glyn didn't ask questions.
When Bent stepped in, he was startled by the furnishings: two large round pine tables, badly stained; chairs; a wide plank set across nail kegs piled two high with a row of unlabeled bottles on a shelf behind. A red blanket curtained a door, which perhaps led to living quarters.
At one table, two Indians sat with a brown bottle. Both were middle-aged. One was obese. They regarded Bent and the boy with puffy eyes full of suspicion. "They're Caddoes," Glyn said, putting the shotgun on his homemade bar. "Harmless. I run off any Comanches who want whiskey. They're too unpredictable."
So this was one of the illegal whiskey ranches. Bent had heard there were a number of them operating in the Territory. They purveyed weapons, staples, but mostly the whiskey the government didn't want the tribes to have.
The red blanket lifted and Bent saw something else that stunned him. A light-brown Indian girl stood there, her deerskin dress much soiled by food and drink. He thought at first that she was in her thirties. Her eyes were slitted from sleep and her black hair hung loose in uncombed tangles. She had a sullen air. She moved toward Glyn, barefoot, pushing hair off her right ear and eyeing Bent in a bold way. He in turn noticed the fullness of her breasts under the hide dress. He felt an unexpected quiver. He hadn't had a woman, or wanted one, for over a year.
Glyn poured a clear fluid from a bottle. "This is my wife, Green Grass Woman. She's Cheyenne. I took her from her village a year ago. She wanted to see the world, and I've showed her how it looks from flat on her back. She's but eighteen winters. Got a lively taste for gin, though. I taught her to like it, and certain other things." Glyn cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is — she's for sale too."
Bent bobbed his head. He'd already decided he wanted her. He had no intention of paying.
Septimus Glyn served up some slabs of cold venison and whiskey that tasted like it had been spiked with cayenne. It made Bent's lips burn. "Where do you get this stuff?"
"Over in Texas. Dunn's Station. There's a few Rangers over that way, but I dodge them. Once a month I traipse around to the Indian villages. Not many are left now that the Army's come in. The rest of the time I make a living here. They threw me out of the Bureau but I liked the country, so I stayed. I especially like screwing Indian women. They've got a special musky quality. You can find out for two dollars."
"Maybe later. Gus, eat something." The little boy tore up scraps of venison and forced them into his mouth. Looking bilious, he chewed.
Bent decided he'd found his haven. "We really want to make it to California before the winter. But we can pass the night with you if you've no objection."
Glyn shook his head. "Sleep in the stable, or my wagon, parked in back. Cost you a dollar."
"Fine," said Bent. He found a paper dollar in his coat and smoothed out the wrinkles. He gave it to Glyn, not really concerned, because the transfer was to be temporary.
The old Caddoes, defeated men who drank till they staggered, left before sunset. Bent and little Gus put their blankets in the old covered wagon, which was snugger than the shed that served as a stable. Bent repeatedly touched himself; he'd been stiff with excitement most of the afternoon.
He waited several hours, until he could stand it no longer, then crept from the wagon without awakening Gus. He opened the front door of the whiskey ranch with only a single telltale squeak, which didn't matter since there was already a lot of noise, moanings and gruntings, from behind the red-blanketed doorway. Bent drew his revolver.
He crossed the main room, guided by a glow behind the blanket. The Cheyenne girl was uttering deep, loud moans. Bent peeked past the edge of the blanket. A dim lantern showed him the girl's sweating backside; she was astride the whiskey trader, pumping' up and down with her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Glyn was rubbing her breasts. Both hands were in sight, and his shotgun was leaning against the wall, well out of reach. Good. What counted now was speed.
Bent tore the blanket aside and took three strides to the bed. In that interval, Green Grass Woman shrieked and Glyn's eyes popped open. He started to grab for his shotgun but gave up. "What the hell are you doing in here, Dayton?"