Call Him Savage Read online

War Franklin McClave, and,seated at the far end of the table and looking even younger than hisforty-nine years, the President of the United States.

  The remaining two were just a couple of men to me: dark businesssuits, clean collars, manicured fingernails and the type of faces yousee twenty of on any city block.

  * * * * *

  I walked on down the room, feeling as conspicuous as a cheer leader ata wake, while five pairs of eyes sorted me over molecule by molecule.When I reached the near end of the table, I stopped, resisted animpulse to salute, and stood there at attention.

  The President managed to keep from smiling, although you could see hewasn't far from it. "Thanks for coming here so promptly, Mr. Quinlan.I'd like you to meet my associates."

  He reeled off names and titles. The two strangers were a Mr. Proudfitand a Mr. Kramer, occupations not disclosed. Kramer was small andageless, with a weather-beaten face and a mouth like a steel trap;while Mr. Proudfit had the look of a benign monk, until you saw thetempered steel glint in his piercing eyes.

  When introductions were completed, I said, "How do you do?" once,including them all, and went on waiting. Nobody suggested I sit down,probably because there were only five chairs around the table to beginwith and the room's two couches were too far away to keep me in thegroup. The President gave me the same winning smile that had pulled acouple million extra votes his way in the last election, and said,"Let me start off, Mr. Quinlan, by telling you that we've got aproblem on our hands--one that may very well involve the peace andwell-being of the entire country. The details are going to strain yourcredulity beyond human limits, I'm afraid--just as they have ours. Butthere is enough supporting evidence to what we've heard for us to dosomething about it. And that's where you come in."

  He paused, evidently waiting for a response from me. There was onlyone response I could make--even though I hadn't the slightest ideawhat he was talking about. "I'm at your service, Mr. President."

  His smile was a medal for my chest. "Thank you. At this point I'dbetter let Mr. Kramer take over."

  Kramer leaned back in his chair, placed the tips of his fingerstogether and stared searchingly at me over them. His voice, when hespoke, was as dry as his skin. "Mr.--ah--Quinlan, I understand youwere born thirty-one years ago on a Potawatomi Indian reservation inthe state of Michigan."

  I blinked. "That's right. Not many people know it."

  "You are part Indian, I believe?"

  "One quarter Potawatomi."

  "Also, I'm told that you are something of an authority on the historyof the American Indian."

  "I've written books on the subject and expect to write a good manymore."

  "You speak the language?"

  "What language?"

  He floundered a little. "Why--ah--the--ah--Indian language."

  * * * * *

  "Look, Mr. Kramer," I said, "there are scores of Indian languages.Nobody in history, red man or white, could ever speak all of them.Fortunately most Indians belonged to one of several great families,and the language of each family was close enough for the tribes inthat family to understand each other. I can handle the language of theAlgonquin like a native, being part Potawatomi myself. I can get by inthe tongue of the Iroquois, the Caddoan, the Siouan, and theMuskhogean. The Dene and Uto-Aztecan would give me considerabletrouble, while the Penutian would be just about a blank."

  I stopped there, and shrugged. "Sorry. I didn't mean to turn this intoa lecture."

  Kramer's weathered face stayed expressionless. "Are you familiar withthe customs of Indians of, say, two hundred years ago?"

  "With their customs, clothing, religions, food, taboos, cultures,weapons, or anything else you can think of."

  Franklin McClave, the Secretary of War, cut in on us at this point. "Ithink, Bob," he said to Kramer, "that Mr. Quinlan qualifies for thejob." His glance turned to me. "I'd like for you to meet a man waitingin the next room, Quinlan. I want you to hear his story, talk to him,ask him questions, then give us your opinion of the results. Do youmind?"

  I spread my hands. "Whatever you say."

  Kramer got to his feet and went over to a side door. He pushed itopen, said something I didn't hear, then stepped rather quickly out ofthe way.

  A moment later young Daniel Boone came out!

  * * * * *

  Of course, it wasn't really Daniel Boone at all. Leaving out the factthat the "dark and bloody ground" frontiersman had been dead nearly ahundred and fifty years, this man was a lot handsomer, with entirelydifferent features. But he was wearing the fringed buckskin trousersand shirt, the beaded moccasins, the coonskin cap, and his coarseblack hair hung almost to his shoulders. A powderhorn swung from hisneck by a greasy cord, and he was holding on to a six-footmuzzle-loader as though it were his only contact with reality.

  I stood there with my chin two inches from the rug and gawked at him.He was scared to death. His deep-set brown eyes rolled fearfully fromside to side, with too much white showing around the irises. Hisclutch on the gun grew even tighter, whitening the knuckles of hishand.

  Muscles crawled on my scalp. A strange tension seemed to fill theroom. Kramer cleared his throat. "This man's name is Enoch Wetzel, Mr.Quinlan. I want him to tell you exactly what he told us earliertonight."

  I felt the tendons in my legs tighten, pulling me into a slightcrouch. I was back a hundred and seventy years in the past, with adull anger starting to move around in me. "Wetzel," I said, making itsound like a dirty word. "Any relation to Lewis Wetzel?"

  * * * * *

  The young man's eyes widened with astonishment and obvious relief."Well, now, I reckon so! Lew's my uncle."

  "Lew Wetzel," I said between my teeth, "is a low, stinking, murderingskunk!"

  I ducked just in time to keep from being brained by the swinging stockof the long gun. I came up under it quicker than I'd ever moved beforein my life and nailed him on the jaw with a solid right, getting myshoulder behind it. It was like hitting the Hall of Justice. Hegrunted and up came the rifle butt for another try.

  Suddenly the room was bulging with strangers. A dozen arms foldedaround the young man, the gun was ripped from his fingers and he hitthe rug with a thump that shook the room. The buckskin-covered legsthreshed briefly, then were still.

  I moistened my lips and backed away as sanity returned. I looked atthe frozen faces around the table. "My fault, Mr. President. I can'tblame you for thinking I'm as crazy as he is. But, as Mr. Kramermentioned, I'm part Indian. Back in the seventeen hundreds afrontiersman named Lewis Wetzel murdered a lot of Indians--men, womenand children. I suppose you might say I went atavistic, or something,at hearing this fellow claim he was Wetzel's nephew. He's a screwball,of course, and I owe you a good solid apology for starting a ruckus."

  The President wasn't smiling now. "Perhaps I should have told youbefore, Mr. Quinlan, we may desperately need this young man'sassistance in the near future."

  I almost blurted out the wrong thing, but bit my lip instead andremained silent. The President's eyes swung to the heap of humanity onthe floor. "Let him up, boys. I'll call you if I need you again."

  The six Secret Service men rose and stood Enoch Wetzel on his feet,then returned to the adjoining office, not looking too happy aboutleaving a madman with the Chief Executive. Wetzel pushed the long hairoff his forehead and stood there glowering at me, spots of angry colorin his dark cheeks.

  I said, "Forget it, Mac. I made a small mistake."

  His thin lips peeled back in a snarl. "Halfbreed!"

  I took it, although nothing was ever harder for me to do. Kramerhurriedly stepped into the breach. "Mr.--ah--Wetzel, we're waiting foryou to repeat what you told us before."

  The tall, broad-shouldered young man turned from me to face the longtable. There was a graceful dignity about him, in his posture, in theway he held his head, that you don't see often. Again I felt the hairmove along my scalp. For a guy
who was as nutty as peanut brittle, hewas certainly convincing in his role of frontiersman. Turn back theclock far enough and this could have been one of General AnthonyWayne's scouts at the battle of Fallen Timbers. He even _smelled_ thepart.

  * * * * *

  "My father got hisself put on by General Harmer as a scout a fortnightback. The General, on orders from President Washington, was to leadhis sojers to the north after the Injuns up there. Pop allowed as Iwas ready to try my luck agin the abbregynes, so he took me along.

  "Three-four nights after we set out ahead the rest, Pop an' me comeonto fresh Injun signs. We move powerful careful through