War on the Cimarron Read Online Free PDF Page A

again, and the hidden man across the compound shot too, and then the man up by the gate yelled: “Get under that wagon shed, Christian!”
    The man across the compound threw a shot in the direction of the gate, and then Frank pounded into the dark shadows of the shed and flattened himself against the back wall. He listened to the man up ahead fight his horse, and he shot once and his fire was not returned.
    Suddenly the man across the compound broke away from the shadows. He was mounted and he was riding straight across to join his partner.
    Frank swung his gun up, but before he could shoot, two shots in rapid succession came from the man by the gate. The horse swerved and grunted and went down, and its rider catapulted over its head. He scrambled out of the dust then and crawled behind the down horse and yelled miserably, “Get out the back way, you damn fool!”
    The other rider put his horse out from the shed at a dead run, heading for the stable archway, and the man afoot wheeled and ran in the same direction. In that uncertain light Frank emptied his gun and saw them both vanish in the archway.
    Almost immediately he heard the noise of men on the street running toward the stable. Then out of the darkness the lone figure of a man appeared. He stopped and said, “Christian?”
    It was the man by the gate.
    Frank said, “All right.”
    â€œKeep your mouth shut and let me talk,” the man said.
    And Frank walked up to join him and face the crowd which was coming through the gate.
    As soon as the lantern was lighted a blue-uniformed army captain took command. He came striding toward Frank and the stranger, who was standing just beyond the downed horse.
    â€œWhat’s going on here?” the captain asked in a voice of iron authority.
    Frank glanced obliquely at his companion. He was an unshaven and redheaded young puncher in ragged clothes, and his face, pleasantly homely, was overlaid with a tough and amused defiance that did not change at the sight of authority. He was a solid man, inches shorter than Frank, and his shirt was so ragged that patches of sunburned skin showed through the rents in his sleeve.
    The captain was a small man with a cavalryman’s stiff gait. When he saw Frank’s companion he stopped and said sourly, “Oh. You again.”
    â€œThat’s right,” the redhead said.
    â€œWhat was all the shooting about?”
    The redhead let the curious crowd of garrison loafers form a loose circle about them, and then he gestured to the downed horse. “I come in here for my horse. Soon’s I stepped in the gate all hell broke loose. A couple of gunnies cut loose at me. This man here”—he nodded his head toward Frank—“was comin’ out of the stable. He sided in with me and we drove ’em off.”
    The captain’s hot eyes shifted to Frank. “Who are you?”
    Frank told him his name and, remembering the advice of the redhead, said no more. The captain grunted and went over to the downed horse. It was dead and was wearing a worn saddle whose leather was almost rotted away. The captain bent over and studied the brand. “Circle R,” he announced.
    Frank glanced obliquely at the redhead, and the redhead shook his head faintly.
    The captain wheeled then and came back to the redhead. “I gave you a warnin’ last week, didn’t I?”
    The redhead nodded. “I been rememberin’ it. Only I don’t call it gettin’ in trouble when you defend yourself against a couple of bushwhackers.”
    The captain glared at him. “Shibe, the trouble with you is you bring trouble with you. Maybe you better try stayin’ away from Reno for a stretch and let us catch our breath.”
    â€œThat an order?” the redhead drawled.
    â€œStraight from headquarters,” the captain said grimly. “We’ve had enough of you here. Next time you’re seen in Reno we’ll throw you in the