War on the Cimarron by Luke; Short Page A

murmured, repeating Luvie’s words. “I just wondered.”
    â€œTry me.”

Chapter V
    After supper Frank and Red went out to the corral and in the fading light saddled their horses. Before they were half finished Otey drifted out to the corral and watched them. Presently, when their horses were saddled, Otey said to Red, “You drift. I want to talk to Frank.”
    At a nod from Frank, Red went out, and Otey came over to Frank. “You’re out to make trouble, Frank, ain’t you?”
    Frank said, “I can’t tell yet,” and stroked his horse’s nose.
    â€œThat girl was right, Frank. She told you the truth. And it made you mad. You’re listenin’ to that redhead, and he’s makin’ fight talk. He’s got nothin’ to lose, and you have. You goin’ to do it?”
    â€œYou want to quit, Otey?”
    â€œNot me,” Otey said. “I give you your first pony, and you aren’t chasin’ me out. I’ll just stick around until they carry you home in a basket, and then you’ll have some sense.” He grunted and turned away. “Providin’ that redhead don’t get you killed off first.”
    Frank didn’t say anything. He rode out and joined Red, and he was thinking of Otey. Discounting a natural jealousy between Otey and Red, Otey’s words still made sense. Luvie Barnes’s nagging had made him see red, and Red Shibe was just reckless enough to join in with him in anything he wanted to do.
    Red, sensing what Otey must have said, murmured, “Maybe we better go back, Frank.”
    â€œHell with it,” Frank said flatly, stubbornly. “Go back if you want, or come along with me. I got a bellyful of bein’ pushed around.”
    Red gave the general direction of Corb’s place, and during the three-hour ride he explained Corb’s layout. Corb had come into the Nations to run cattle. He had traded with the Indians before that and had been in the Nations long enough to build himself a frame house and acquire a reputation for easy bachelor living. But long since Corb had given up the idea of running cattle for money. His whisky peddling was more lucrative. He had a slick method of selling it, caching it in a dozen secret and remote places where it could not be found. He never sold the whisky himself; his men were the agents. The army and the agency both knew Corb peddled it, but proof was impossible to get. Any Indian, drunk or sober, who hinted at the source of his liquor was found beaten up, his tepee burned and his possessions taken. Corb had a way with Indians, especially the malcontents, and his position was so strong with them that the army could not move against him without provoking rebellion. Corb was the power in the Nations, and gradually he had drifted into the lease business, the most important of all. Only the Reservation Cattle Company, with its thirty riders, was powerful enough to defy him. All the rest paid tribute to Corb.
    Frank listened, and he was sobered by what he heard. He was afraid to tell Red now what he had planned for tonight, for fear Red would try to stop him. And right now Frank didn’t want to be stopped.
    Frank asked one question. “Does Corb run a lot of horses, Red?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Red said and looked over toward Frank. But Frank said no more. They rode north until Red picked up a certain creek, and then they turned west. Presently a pin point of light showed ahead, and Red said, “We better go careful now.”
    They stopped under the black shade of two cottonwoods some seventy yards from the house, and Frank studied the layout in silence. The house was a two-story affair with a light in only the ground-floor corner room. Beyond the house the dark shape of a barn and sheds bulked large and black against the lighter horizon, for there were no trees close to the house. A man came to the door, a dipper in his hand, spat out a mouthful