Read Online Stamping Ground by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online

eastern Dakota. Holes in the corners and a pale spot on the wall behind the desk indicated that the map had been taken down recently for close study. A curled corner was held in place beneath a white china mug with damp brown grains clustered in the bottom. Behind the desk stood a high-backed swivel chair, its dark wood covered to within an inch of the age-polished edges by hard, dry leather secured with large brass tacks. From fort to fort, the decor never varied.
    Major Harms peeled off his hat and pegged it beside the door. His hair, like his beard, was jet black, short at the temples and neck and full on top. A bald spot the size of a ten-dollar goldpiece showed defiantly at the back of his head. He made no attempt to conceal it. He stepped around behind the desk and dropped into the swivel chair in a cloud of powdery dust. His forehead just beneath the hairline was ringed unevenly with several different shades of tan where he’d settled and resettled his hat under the scorching sun.
    Hudspeth sat down on the edge of the sturdy captain’s chair that faced the desk as if easing himself into a scaldingtub of water. Evidently it had been some time since he’d sat a saddle as long as he had during the past few days. I chose a bench that ran along the right wall and wished it were the back of my horse, it was that hard. Pere Jac remained standing. In his dusty half-Indian, half-white man’s attire, his pewter-colored hair loose about his shoulders, eyes impassive as the heads of newly driven nails, he might have been posing for the stamp on a penny. The mingled scents of leather and dust and sour sweat and, faintly, old bear grease wafted from him. Aside from the grease, I was at a loss to determine how much of it was his and how much mine.
    â€œFrankly, gentlemen, I don’t see how I can help you, nor why I should try.” Harms folded aside the map on his desk, revealing mottled traces of green blotter paper beneath a pattern of dead black ink.
    â€œThe letter calls for your co-operation,” Hudspeth rapped.
    â€œNot mine, Broderick’s. And it calls for something which was not his to give. He had no authority to bring in an outside party. Hostile Indians fall within the jurisdiction of the U.S. Army and no other. Their crimes are not a matter for the civil courts.”
    â€œJudge Flood thinks different.”
    â€œJudge Flood can go to bloody hell.” The words came lashing out. He fell silent, rolled the map back farther, found a hand-worked wooden humidor standing on the corner of the desk, and removed the cover. He drew out a cigar the length of his wrist, struck a match—placing a fresh groove on a previously unmarred section of desk—and ignited it. Blue smoke came billowing out in true Grant style. I don’t smoke, but it would have been nice if he’d offered us one. He used the same match to light a lamp with a milky white glass shade on the opposite corner and sat back as the soft glow gulped up the shadows.
    â€œForgive me, gentlemen,” he said. This time he sounded sincere. “I’ve been in the saddle eighteen hours straight. We’re short-handed, but it’s important we show the enemya stern face. I’m tired and my patience is on a short halter.”
    â€œAny luck?”
    He looked at me quickly. “Luck? Doing what?”
    I didn’t answer. Finally he shook his head.
    â€œWe hit every arroyo and dry wash between here and Jamestown. No trace of Ghost Shirt or his warriors. Two of my Indian scouts deserted. They’re afraid the Great Spirit is on the other side. Superstitious heathens!” He puffed furiously. His features swam behind an azure haze.
    â€œYou’re lying, Major.”
    He stared. Something akin to rage glimmered in his dull brown eyes. I went on before he could blow.
    â€œYour horse was heaving and covered with froth. They don’t get that way unless they’re ridden fast and hard. Two