White Lightning by Lyle Brandt Read Free Book Online Page A

understand it,” said the agent. “Scalping, was it?”
    “And some other things,” Slade said. “I need to ask about the feet.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Someone chopped ’em off,” said Naylor.
    “Oh?”
    “Our undertaker, back in Enid, had the notion that was something Indians might do,” Slade said. “To keep a vengeful spirit from pursuing them?”
    Berringer frowned. “Well, now. It’s nothing that I’ve heard associated with the Cherokee,” he said. “But then, I haven’t made a detailed study of their odd native customs. Here, you realize, we stress the Christian values that have made our country great.”
    As if on cue, an older tribesman dressed in butler’s garb appeared and said, “Dinner is served.”
    •    •    •
    Berringer’s house had indoor plumbing—no sprints to a privy in the middle of the night for him—so Slade and Naylor washed up in a small room off the kitchen, then proceeded to the dining room. The table there had seating for a dozen people but was set for three. Frank Berringer presided at its head, while Slade sat to his left and Naylor on his right.
    The agent poured wine all around, not asking Slade this time, and sipped his while another Cherokee, this one apparently the waiter, served them large bowls of potato soup. Slade spotted onions in the mix and gave the cook due credit for his effort.
    While they ate the soup, Berringer talked about his trials and tribulations at the agency. “The Cherokee are childlike, for the most part,” he explained, “but even children may turn savage if they’re not restrained, eh, gentlemen?”
    Slade chewed a mouthful of potato, letting Naylor take the bait. “I knew a kid like that, one time,” Luke said. “He damn near bit my little finger off. Still got the scar.”
    Berringer eyed Naylor’s upraised finger with a fine disdain, saying, “Of course, the danger from a tribe of full-grown savages, no matter how childlike in mind, is that they won’t be satisfied with simply gnawing on your finger. If their heathen impulses are not constrained…well, who knows what may happen in the way of tragedy?”
    “Your school helps out with that, I guess,” said Slade.
    “To some extent,” the agent granted. “Though I must admit, we aren’t producing any scholars here. The brighter ones can learn to read and write, if they apply themselves sufficiently, but this peculiar talk of higher education for the red man I’ve been hearing? I mean, really. What’s the point?”
    “Never got past the seventh grade, myself,” said Naylor. “Guess I’ve done all right.”
    “And that’s the key,” said Berringer. “An individual must recognize his limitations. Why encourage hopeless fantasies when they are just a waste of time and energy for all concerned?”
    The soup was gone, and Berringer summoned their waiter with a little silver bell. The Cherokee cleared off their bowls and soupspoons, coming back after a moment with their main meal for the evening. It looked like venison, with sweet potatoes and some green beans on the side.
    “We’re living off the land here, as you see,” said Berringer. “The Cherokee have learned to farm, after a fashion, and they’re still proficient hunters. Don’t believe the gossip that you hear about privation, gentlemen.”
    Slade would have bet a month’s pay that no Cherokee was dining from a menu such as Berringer’s tonight, but he kept the opinion to himself. Instead, he said, “I wonder if you could arrange, before we leave, for me to see my friend.”
    Berringer looked up from his meal and frowned. “Your friend, Marshal?”
    Slade held the agent’s gaze and answered, “Little Wolf.”
    “Ah, yes. Well, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
    “Why’s that?” Slade asked.
    “Because we haven’t seen him for…oh, what? Three weeks now, I would say. Perhaps a little more.”
    “You’re saying that he’s disappeared?”
    “I wouldn’t state it so