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The window glared yellow. Sgt. Crawford turned away from it, from watching the hot dry afternoon and the squat timbered stockade outside. He was a trim, spotless man, very close to fifty, Provost Marshal of Fort Lonestar, and in charge of the stockade. "You're not from China, are you?" he asked Robinson, his back to the window.
Robinson, hat in hand, stood at the front of the sergeant's highly polished desk. "I understand that my appearance might be misleading, but I am actually from Korea, a country near China," he answered.
"I must say your English is impeccable." As Crawford watched Robinson a frown touched his narrow face. "But I thought all you hills had black hair." His tone was slightly skeptical as if challenging Robinson to explain himself. "You see, I noticed your hair is red."
Robinson did not reply.
Outside a horse neighed in protest. Two soldiers, one sounding very young and one quite old, laughed.
The sergeant returned to his desk and rested his fingertips on its smooth edge. "Now, what was it you said you wanted here?"
"I wish to see Mr. Morrison."
Lowering himself into his chair, first tugging at his blue trousers, Crawford said, "You want to talk with Morrison, do you?"
"I was told he was here."
Crawford moved his inkstand a quarter inch to the right and squared the edges of a small stack of unfolded letters. "He's here." His smile was narrow and brief as he tilted his head in the direction of the military stockade. "What exactly do you want with him, Mr......Robinson, is that your name?"
"I am Robinson, yes."
"Never met a hill with a name like that before."
"You have met many?"
Crawford's small smile returned for an instant. "Not very many, no more than I could help," he said. "What's your business with Morrison, Robinson?"
"I seek a relative of mine," Robinson told the seated sergeant. "I have been told that Mr. Morrison worked with him.
After sliding his inkstand back to its earlier position, Crawford said, "I have the feeling I know you from someplace, Robinson. Have we met before?"
"No."
"You know Morrison?"
"No."
"What sort of relative are you looking for?"
"My father."
"Name of?"
"John Robinson."
Sgt. Crawford gave a quick nod. "Jonny Robinson," he said, eyes on Robinson, "Logan Brock, Ollie Potts and Morrison." After a few more seconds he asked, "Those other names mean anything to you, Robinson?"
"No, nothing."
"The story is this," Crawford continued. "The four of them were supposed to be running a gold claim together, up in the mountain somewhere." Again he nodded towards the glaring window. "Seems to me pretty unlikely they had much luck. This sure isn't California back in the fifties around here. Morisson, your friend Morisson, took an ax to Logan Brock. Maybe it was over gold, and maybe Morrison just did it for fun." He rose slowly. "And you want to talk to him."
"If I might, please."
The Provost Marshal walked around the desk. He gingerly patted down Robinson's dusty clothes. Then he grabbed off Robinson's haversack and thrust in a hand to examine the contents. "What's all this? Tea, rice, pickled cabbage, and such like?"
"Yes."
"You look pretty healthy for a man who lives on things like this." He held the bag out to Robinson.
"I carry no weapons."
"So I notice." Crawford strode to the plank door of his office and tugged it open. "Corporal Wall," he called out into the dry yellow afternoon.
In little over a minute Wall appeared in the doorway. He was tall and sinewy. The sun hadn't tanned him but rather made his skin a splotchy peeling red. "Sir?" he said, saluting.
"Take this gentleman over to the stockade," instructed the sergeant. "He has my permission to talk with Morrison for....five minutes."
"Yes, sir," Wall rubbed at one peeling cheek with a red knuckle. "Come on along."
"Don't get too close to Morrison," Crawford called after Robinson as he went out.
When the door was shut the sergeant returned to his desk.
"I know," he muttered to himself, "I know I've seen him somewhere, someplace." He tugged out a right-hand drawer and began going through its contents.424Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmkwi2XeeTP
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The turnkey said, as he closed the cell door on Robinson, "Here's another visitor for the lion cage."
The walls of the small low room were adobe, thick. There was a chill feeling, a shadowy darkness. The only light was what seeped in through the cage-like grill of the cell's corridor wall.
In the far corner, one leg manacled to the wall with a fat length of chain, was a huge bearded man whose matted hair half-concealed his face. He was twice as wide as Robinson, wearing a dark shirt and a pair of light-colored work pants, which had not been laundered, it appeared, for a very long time. He was hunched, eyeing his visitor, breathing in short choppy breaths through his mouth.
"Mr. Morrison," began Robinson, "I understand you knew my father, John Robinson."
"Know him!" roared Morrison. With a swiftness astonishing in so big a man he lunged for Robinson, his powerful fingers curved to crush his throat.
The hands closed on thin air. Robinson, suddenly, was not where he had been.
A good two feet short of reaching him the huge man was jerked to a halt by his chain.
"Son of a gun," Morrison muttered, retreating into the shadows.
"I must find my father," Robinson told him mildly. "Will you not help me?"
"That shike-poke," mumbled the big bearded man. "Just like the rest of them." His huge hands squeezed shut into fists.
"You and my father were partners. You, my father, and two others."
Morrison grunted, his hands unflexing and then forming fists again.
Robinson, unmoving, said, "Can you tell me where I might find my father?"
The big man's laugh was short, rumbling---nearly a snarl. "In hell, I hope."
"My father is dead, then?"
"If I," said Morrison, "could get out of here he would be." He laughed once more. "You're a liar like everybody else. It's not your father you want. It's the gold. You and Ollie Potts and Jonny."
Robinson persisted. "But where is my father now?"
"I can tell you where Logan Brock is," said the huge Morrison. "They stuck him in the ground." His voice grew dimmer and seemed to sink inside him. "But Jonny now, I think...."
Robinson eased a few steps closer to better hear what the big man was saying. "Yes?"
"Gotcha, ya claim jumper!"
Robinson had come too close. Morrison was able to loop his chain around the lanky man's neck.
"Fix ya good now," promised Morrison.
Robinson chopped out flat-handed. The big man bent, gasping. Then Robinson was out of the man's grasp. He pivoted and clapped his hands over Morrison's shaggy ears for an instant.
Morrison yowled with pain, stumbling, chains rattling, back into the corner of the cell.
"I am sorry that I had to hurt you," said Robinson.
"My ears." He had his head hunched into his shoulders and was rubbing his temples, his mouth open and gulping in air.
"I mean you no harm, Mr. Morrison. I only want you to tell me where...."
The thick door of the cell rattled, then creaked open outward. Sergeant Crawford was there, a sheet of rough buff-colored paper in his hand. Beside him stood a tall, moderately overweight man in a major's uniform.
"Well sir," Crawford said to the major, "I think you can see for yourself he's the man they want." He pointed into the cell at Robinson."
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