Longarm and the Indian War

He saw a small hunting party on the ridge top to his left and waved to them, receiving a friendly wave in return. Indians, he thought, although he could not make out which tribe they belonged to. He did question their choice of a place from which to look for game. Surely they had to know how close the soldiers at Beloit were, and just as surely the presence of the soldiers would scare game away. Still, that was only an assumption. Perhaps those fellows up on the ridge knew something Longarm didn’t. Or then again, maybe it wasn’t game they were waiting for but some soldier who would sell them whiskey or other contraband. Fortunately for Longarm, it was not a problem that was his to worry about.

He rode on, and within a half hour reached Captain Wingate’s headquarters.

“Longarm. Welcome. Where is the horse … never mind, you can explain later. Get down, man. Come inside here. There is someone I want you to meet. Remember when that fellow said a civilian hired a rig for transportation out here? Do you remember that?” The officer laughed. He seemed quite excited about whatever this was. “Come inside now. Hurry.”

Longarm stepped down off the chestnut and handed his reins to Wingate’s orderly.

“Christ, I almost took you for an Indian when you were coming in,” the one-time brevet colonel said, “dressed the way you are.”

Longarm himself had as good as forgotten his rather bizarre costume, which consisted more of items borrowed from Tall Man than his own clothing, still damp from his swim the day before. And of course he had no hat. Dammit. A man accustomed to wearing a hat is unduly annoyed by sunlight in the eyes, and Longarm had been blinking and complaining to himself the whole way down from the agency.

“Here. Go ahead inside,” Wingate said, taking him by the elbow and propelling him through the tent flap into the shade and relative cool within. Longarm stopped dead in his tracks.

“Deputy Marshal Long, I would like you to meet-“

It was the randy, skinny, insatiable blonde with the hot pussy and deep mouth who’d been his traveling companion on the stagecoach north.

“-my wife Amanda,” Wingate concluded.

It was a good thing Longarm didn’t have false teeth. He would have coughed them right out of his mouth and into the dirt if he had.

As it was, he bent double in a fit of wheezing and hacking meant to cover his confusion.

Amanda Wingate, on the other hand, seemed quite thoroughly at ease with the situation of seeing her husband and a recent lover together. But hell, it likely was a situation she’d faced often enough before now, Longarm thought uncharitably.

After all, the woman was the one who’d practically raped him.

And come to think of it, she’d gotten into Deadwood at the exact same time he had, but it had taken her a couple of extra days to make it out here to join her husband. The logical explanation for that was that she’d wanted to see what kind of males she could find to suck dry—and he was thinking of that in the sense of a black widow spider, not as the term sometimes related to the pleasures of sex—before she drove out here to join Captain Wingate.

Longarm managed to regain control of himself, and made a small bow while Wingate completed the formalities of introduction.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“Likewise, I am sure, sir.” Amanda Wingate laughed and fluttered her eyelashes shamelessly.

“I believe you will find, Longarm, that my Amanda has a perfectly devilish sense of humor. She pretends to be the flirt, you see, but she is really the sweetest lamb possible, and I do love her most dearly.”

“Yes, I can see that you do,” Longarm said.

Poor sonuvabitch, he was thinking. It was a good thing a cuckold’s horns weren’t visible, or Wingate would have been wearing a trophy-sized rack on his head.

“You will join us for dinner, sir?” Mrs. Wingate suggested.

“It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”

“Sir?” The orderly, or another just like him, was peering in through the headquarters tent flap.

“What is it, Boatwright?” the commanding officer asked.

“Wagons coming, sir. Should be that load of supplies you’ve been looking for. You said you wanted to know.”

“Excellent,” Wingate said with a smile. “Thank you.”

The orderly saluted, the gesture perfunctory and poorly executed, and withdrew.

“If you two would excuse me,” Wingate said, “I have to see to the unloading and distribution of these supplies.”

Longarm touched his forehead—he wasn’t wearing a hat but had forgotten that small detail at the moment—and hurried out on Wingate’s heels. He suspected it would be a good idea for him to avoid spending any time alone with the lovely Amanda lest she bring up things best forgotten now that she was back in the company of her husband.

Besides, there is always something delightfully fascinating about watching others hard at work.

Chapter 29

Pale moonlight entered the small, low-ceilinged dugout as the green elk hide nailed over the door was pulled aside.

There was light to see by for only a few seconds. Then a body filled the space, and quickly thereafter the elk skin dropped back into place, closing out the moonlight.

Longarm was not startled. Hell, he’d been more or less expecting the visit.

He heard the faint sound of cloth rustling in the silence of the night. He’d heard the same thing before. This time, though, it was not something he’d been looking forward to. If there had been a lock on the door into the dugout, he would have bolted it. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been.

“Go away,” Longarm said, his voice low. “Go back to your husband, Mrs. Wingate.”

“What? No hello kiss, Marshal? And after all we’ve been to each other. Imagine that.”

“Like I said, ma’am. Go back to your husband. I don’t want you here.”

“You wanted me before, though. Didn’t you?”

“An’ I gave you what you wanted too, but that’s past now. Leave it be.”

“But dear, I didn’t know then that I was fucking a real United States marshal. You should have told me. It is so exciting, darling, thinking about all those vicious criminals you’ve brought to justice. Have you ever had to shoot any of them? Tell me what it feels like to kill a man.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had to shoot nobody.”

“Now why is it that I have the feeling you are lying to me, darling?” She laughed, her voice brittle in the night. He felt her come nearer to him, although it was so dark inside the dugout that he could not see her. “Can you believe it, dear? That was one of the reasons why I chose to marry Tom. He looked so dashing in his uniform. So … martial.” She laughed again. “A strange twist, isn’t that? My martial lover has been a huge disappointment. But not my marshal. You were quite good, you know. You know how to please a woman. Poor Tom doesn’t know anything more about women than he does about killing. A store clerk, that’s all Tom is. A dull and dreary little store clerk. And he hardly knows what to do with that pathetic little thing between his legs. Now you, darling, that is a hammer you have. And you know how to use it. It makes me wet just thinking about how it was being with you. Why, you are the best I’ve had in … months and months. Truly you are.”

Longarm felt the touch of her hand. Finding his waist. His crotch. Slipping inside his trousers to cup and tickle his balls and gently squeeze his cock. “So big,” Mrs. Wingate whispered as she continued to stroke him. “I love that, you know. Is it true that in Mexico they put on performances where ponies fuck human whores? Have you ever seen any such thing? Do you know how excited it makes me feel, thinking about having a cock that size rammed into me? Tell me they really do that sort of thing, dear, and I’ll head straight for Mexico when I leave here.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, dear. I have no secrets from you.” She laughed. “Well, hardly any. And none at all that are important.”

“Why’d you come here now? I mean, you’ve already as good as said your marriage was a mistake. I know good an’ well you don’t lack for mate companionship. So why’d you come here in the first place?”

“But darling, didn’t I tell you? Tommy’s family is very rich. I have to see about my allowance, dear. I need an increase. So I’ll spend a month or so letting Tom paw my body, and then when I have what I need I’ll go down to Mexico and find out if they really do that down there. Tell me, won’t you? Tell me the truth.”

“I don’t know if they do any such a thing,” Longarm lied. “Don’t care neither.” That was certainly the truth.

“Oh, this feels so nice,” she cooed as she stroked and pulled at his erection.

“Go back to your husband, Mrs. Wingate. I don’t want you.”

“You’re lying now, dear. I can feel in this tool of yours that you want me. Your prick wants me, dear, even if you think you don’t. Your prick knows. Always trust your prick, darling. It won’t lead you astray.”

Now there was some sage advice, Longarm thought. Sure. You bet. “Go back to your husband now. Please.”

“What for, dear? Poor Tommy is already worn out. Can you believe it? One, two little climaxes and he’s done for. He is in his bed snoring up a proper storm. And so satisfied that he’s sleeping with a smile on his silly face. He didn’t give me near enough, dear. So I thought I would come visit you and get the rest of what I need tonight.”

“No, thanks. I’m not interested.”

“Of course you are, dearest.” She squeezed his cock. Rather sharply this time. “Besides, if you don’t do what I want, darling, I just may scream and burst into such big old tears that anyone, just anyone, would have to believe that you tried to molest me.”

Longarm took her hand and pulled it away from his pecker. “Leave me alone, damn you.”

“I’ll scream. Believe me, dear, I can wake up this entire camp. What will they think, hmm? You could go to one of those prisons you’ve helped to fill with those horrid, nasty little bad men. You might even hang for trying to rape me. Oh, doesn’t that make you all hot and horny just thinking about it? You could die for me, love. Even if you don’t especially want to.”

“Mrs. Wingate, whyn’t you go fuck yourself if it’s a fuck you want so awful bad.”

“I’m warning you, Marshal. I’ll scream. I will.”

“Go ahead.”

“What?”

“I said go ahead. Scream your fool head off. If anybody hears you … an’ I doubt that they would, seeing as how we’re buried under three, four feet o’ dirt and sod in this dugout … but even if somebody does hear you, they wouldn’t hang me without a court-martial. An’ just think what it’d do to your reputation when my friend Quentin Cooper, the stage driver, testifies about you giving me blow jobs on the roof of the coach on the way up here. You thought he didn’t notice? Hell, Quint thought that was one of the funniest things he ever saw, you on your knees with your face full of cock. And once Quint testifies, darling … just think what effect that will have on Colonel Wingate’s family.” His voice hardened. “Think what effect Quint’s testimony will have on your allowance.”

“You wouldn’t!” she gasped.

“Scream, bitch. That’s the only way you’ll really find out if I’m running a bluff. You wanta make sure you’re heard? Step outside before you yell. Make sure someone comes to rescue you. Then see how it works out from there.”

“You bastard.”

“You bitch.”

“I hate your guts, damn you.”

“Seems fair enough since I don’t have a helluva lot of regard for you neither.”

“God, I want you. Fuck me. I’ll leave you alone after that, dear. I promise. But I’m so hot I’ll burn up if I can’t get your cock inside me right now.”

“Sorry. Not interested.”

“Liar.”

But in fact he was not. His erection had subsided by now, and no amount of kneading and pulling would bring it back. Mrs. Wingate dropped to her knees and tried to blow him again, sucking and making wet, gobbling noises in her anxiety to prove that she could command pleasure from him.

Her efforts were in vain. All she managed to do was to make him wet with her saliva. Longarm’s pecker remained flaccid and limp in her mouth.

For one awful moment he thought she was going to bite in her frustration, but fortunately she did not think of that. He was sure the only reason she would refrain, however, was because it did not occur to her. Restraint … and for that matter, rational behavior … did not seem to be the lady’s long suit.

“Bastard,” she spat at him when finally she let his prick slide out from between her lips.

“Bitch.”

She stood and slapped him across the face. Hard.

Longarm slapped her back.

“Oh, God, yes. Do that again.”

Thoroughly disgusted, Longarm spun the woman around, planted a foot in her backside, and gave her a shove that sent her tumbling through the doorway and out into the moonlit night.

He found her hat and the much-remembered duster on the floor, gathered them into a clumsy wad, and threw them out too.

The woman picked herself up and stood there for a moment glaring at him, her expression one of unalloyed hatred.

For half a heartbeat he was convinced she was going to do it, that she was going to scream and cry rape after all.

But she had too much to lose.

After a time she bent—she really was one fine-looking figure of a woman, damn her—and retrieved the hat and duster. She yanked them on and stormed away into the night.

Longarm sighed with relief as he turned back toward the borrowed bed in what passed for Visiting Officers’ Quarters at Camp Beloit.

Chapter 30

“Are you sure you won’t stay, Longarm? Mrs. Wingate was saying only last evening what a nice man you seem. I know she would be pleased to entertain you. I, uh, I have rather a lot that I must do right now. To tell you the truth, Longarm, it would be something of a favor to me if you could stay longer. Keeping Amanda amused, don’t you see, so that I can get my work done.”

“I’d like to, Tom, but I have to get back to the agency and see can I keep things calm.” Longarm finished tying his gear onto the saddle—his own saddle this time, thank goodness—and dropped the stirrup in place. “If the Piegan an’ Crow go at each other, you’ll have a lot more to do than the administrative stuff here.”

“I suppose that is true.”

“Thanks for the hospitality,” Longarm said. He smiled and added, “An’ thanks for the hat.” It was no Stetson, but the officer had come up with an old Kossuth—probably obtained from the camp trash heap—that he’d given to Longarm. The sloppy, floppy rag of black wool felt was no substitute for Longarm’s favored brown fur felt. But it was indisputably better than nothing, and so Longarm was pleased to have it.

Longarm swung onto the back of the chestnut pony, and gave the fractious animal a few moments to settle down. The horse was not accustomed to a bit and bridle, Indians generally preferring to use a single rein knotted around the lower jaw to control their mounts. Longarm could ride with that arrangement in a pinch, but it was not comfortable for him. And if one of the two had to be in discomfort on this score, he figured it could just damn well be the horse. He did his part by giving up his comfort for the horse’s when it came to a choice of saddle, the McClellan being a fine fit for a horse’s back but a real ball-buster for the human rider who had to suffer on the upper side of the thing.

“Any idea when you’ll be back?” Wingate asked.

“None,” Longarm admitted. “But I’ll make it a point to come back through an’ bring you up to date even if things go well. If they don’t, well, you an’ your boys can pick up the pieces an’ ship me back to Denver.” If there’s any of you left either, Longarm thought to himself, but refrained from saying aloud.

“Now there is a voice of confidence,” the captain said with a small smile.

“If I can’t be confident, Tom, I can at least be practical.” Longarm leaned down to shake the man’s hand, then backed the chestnut a few paces and lightly touched the brim of the ugly Kossuth hat. “Come a-runnin’ if you hear the sound of guns, Tom.”

“I’d be happier if you can keep those guns quiet, Longarm.

Longarm nodded and reined the chestnut north, toward the Indian agency.

Yellow Flowers stepped out of the lodge, took one look at Longarm, and fainted dead away.

It was, Longarm thought, an unusual form of greeting, to say the very least.

He jumped down off the chestnut and dropped his reins to ground-tie the animal. That was usually an invitation for a horse to declare itself free, but in this case he didn’t much give a shit. He wanted to see to Yellow Flowers. Besides, if the chestnut did run away, it was not likely to run any further than the Crow horse herd, and there would be no real harm in that.

Longarm knelt beside Yellow Flowers and rubbed her cheeks and her wrists the way he’d seen others try to revive stricken ladies. “Yellow Flowers? Are you all right? Talk to me, Yellow Flowers. What’s wrong? Where’s Tall Man?” Longarm’s initial thought was that Tall Man had been killed and the tribes were on the brink of war. That or … God knows what other possibilities could exist. “Yellow Flowers?”

Burned Pot and a gaggle of little girls had come outside too by now, and were gathered close around, but none of them appeared to speak any English. And there was no sign of Tall Man in his own lodge. That was damn-all worrisome.

“Yellow Flowers?”

Burned Pot brought out a wet cloth and bathed Yellow Flowers’ face with it. A moment more and the older wife of Tall Man sneezed. Then opened her eyes.

Her eyes went immediately wide again, and for a moment Longarm thought she would pass out for the second time in as many minutes. But she did not. She groaned a little and wriggled about on the grass, and soon struggled to sit upright. He helped her so that she was sitting on the beaten earth at the entry to the lodge.

“What is it, Yellow Flowers? What’s wrong?”

“You are not a spirit, Longarm? You have not come to take me with you to the spirit world?”

“No, Yellow Flowers, I’m the same as always. An’ the only place I come from is the army camp down south of here. Now will you please tell me-“

“Word came to us that Longarm was dead. It is said you were killed in the hills to the west. Your body is being brought to Agent MacNall at the place of the white men’s houses. Tall Man went there to claim the body of his friend and to mourn.”

“Did Tall Man take his gun?” Yellow Flowers hesitated. “Yellow Flowers. Please!”

Reluctantly she nodded. “Yes, Longarm. My husband took his gun and rode his best war horse when he went to see what the Piegan did to his friend.”

“Christ!” Longarm erupted.

He came to his feet and spun away, not even taking time to speak a word of goodbye, nor one of warning, to Yellow Flowers and Burned Pot.

He ran for the chestnut—thank goodness the horse hadn’t wandered away trailing the reins—and vaulted into the saddle, driving his spurs into the animal’s flanks before he even had time enough to take a good seat. There was no time to waste, dammit.

Chapter 31

The chestnut had no speed, but by God it had heart. Longarm had to give the creature that much. It never quit on him.

He thundered through the creek, silvery plumes of water arcing high, and on across. Up the low ridge and down the other side.

The horse gave him everything that was in it. The run might well have broken its wind. But the horse’s great heart was strong, and it charged with everything it had for every foot of the distance.

And a fine thing that was because Longarm got there barely in time.

Tall Man was outside the agency headquarters, surrounded by Piegan tribal police and engaged in a silent fury of hand-to-hand combat with at least eight of the snotty sons of bitches.

Tall Man’s rifle and ceremonial war club had been stripped away from him, and the Blood policemen were busy administering a thumping, kicking, clubbing beating to the lone Crow leader.

Blood coated Tall Man’s face and neck and chest, and one eye was swollen shut so that he could not see to even try to ward off the blows that rained down on him from that blind side.

Tall Man was no more of a quitter than his chestnut traveling horse, however, and every time one of the Piegan landed a blow, Tall Man lashed out in swift, if ineffective, retaliation.

Longarm got the impression the Piegan were enjoying themselves. Taking their time about cutting down this ancient enemy. They wanted to humiliate him, Longarm suspected.

All but one of the bastards.

That one was not taking an active part in the vicious pummeling. He was standing back, watching, waiting. And when he felt sure he had been forgotten, the short, stocky policeman reached beneath his tunic and brought out a Hudson’s Bay butcher knife, the old familiar model with the ten-inch blade and an excellent temper to the steel.

The Piegan was maneuvering himself to a position immediately behind Tall Man when Longarm saw what he was up to and took a hand.

Longarm did not waste time dismounting from the chestnut and charging the Piegan. He simply pointed the tiring horse at the police officer and slammed into the sonuvabitch.

The Piegan flew in one direction and his knife in another, and Longarm threw himself off the horse and into the middle of the fray.

“You, back off. You, over there. You and you and you, grab this cowardly back-stabbing cocksucker and put him in irons. No, goddammit, don’t look at me like that. Do what I tell you. Right damn now. That’s right. In manacles. The man tried to commit a murder. I witnessed the crime, and he’s my prisoner. Do you want to argue the point with me and go to prison with him? Then haul out your cuffs and put them on that man right damn now. Do it!”

Longarm’s tone of voice left no room for argument.

It helped, of course, that the Piegan cops were so surprised by his sudden, unnerving appearance among them.

But then after all, as far as they knew, they were being confronted by a ghost. And a furious one at that.

Not too many Indians wanted to piss off ghosts. This bunch certainly did not.

Longarm helped Tall Man to his feet while the Piegan police took one of their own into custody and snapped steel bracelets onto him.

While all that was going on, the Reverend MacNall came outside to inquire about the commotion.

He too had heard the news about Longarm’s death. Obviously so. When he saw Longarm standing there trying to mop some of the blood off Tall Man, MacNall stopped stock still and gaped. “I thought …”

“So did everybody else, I reckon,” Longarm said.

“But how did you … I mean, thank goodness you … I don’t know exactly what I do mean. But God, I’m glad to see you alive and well.”

“You ain’t the only one can say that, Reverend. Believe me.”

“You men,” MacNall snapped at the Piegan coppers. “What is the meaning of this trouble here?”

One of the policemen stammered out something and pointed to the one Longarm had placed under arrest.

“Is that necessary, Longarm?”

“It is, sir.” Longarm explained what the Piegan tried to do. “I saw it with my own eyes, Reverend. There’s no doubt what he was up to.” Longarm retrieved the knife from the ground. It had fallen against the side wall of the agency headquarters building. Close up the weapon looked every bit as nasty as it was. “If he’d put this in Tall Man’s back, Reverend, there wouldn’t have been no way to avoid these tribes going to war, sir. Think about that.”

MacNall scowled and said something to the policeman in his own tongue. It was a gift Longarm hadn’t known the reverend possessed and one Longarm wished he had. But then some people have a way with languages. And some have to struggle just trying to get along in one. Longarm found himself more at that end of the scale of possibilities than the other.

“I’ve ordered this man to be locked up, Longarm. You can take your prisoner any time you want him.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“As for this other business …”

“Yes, sir?”

“We still don’t know much about your murder, do we?”

Despite the seriousness of the moment—or what could have been a deadly seriousness anyway had Longarm not intervened in time—Reverend MacNall looked somewhat amused when he mentioned Longarm’s murder to the purported victim.

“I got to admit one thing to you,” Longarm said, his voice solemn.

“Yes?”

“I’m gonna be real disturbed if I find out that it’s true.” MacNall threw his head back and laughed openly, and Tall Man joined him.

Chapter 32

Another contingent of Piegan tribal police, three of them, brought in the body that was supposed to have been Longarm’s.

The reason for the confusion was cleared up as soon as the people gathered at the agency headquarters saw the dead man.

He was an Indian. No question about that. But he was wearing a tweed coat, an ancient and ragged thing, but one which at a distance would appear remarkably similar to Longarm’s normal clothing. And much more to the point, the dead man had been wearing Longarm’s flat-crowned, snuff-brown Stetson hat. The one that Longarm hadn’t been able to find after it floated downstream in the creek.

He did not now want the hat back. Not to wear again anyway, although it might still have some utilitarian value as evidence in a murder investigation.

The Stetson had been shot twice. Once off Longarm’s head, the second time while this dead Indian was wearing it. Now the hat had been crushed—probably stepped on by one or more horses would be Longarm’s guess—and was stiff with caked, dry blood and with other, even less pleasant-looking stuff.

The Indian who had been unfortunate enough to find the hat and wear it had been shot through the head by a large-caliber slug. Brain matter, darkening as it dried and hardened, was coated thick inside the crown of the expensive hat, and the fine beaver-fur felt was sodden with the man’s spilled blood.

No, Longarm would not want his hat back. Not after a dozen cleanings would he want to put the thing on his head again.

But the Stetson told him volumes about the fate of the Indian who’d been wearing it.

“Poor son of a bitch,” Longarm said. “Anybody know who he is?”

“He is not Crow,” Tall Man said.

“I’ve seen him before,” the Reverend MacNall said. “He’s Piegan. I don’t recall his name.”

“Short Tail Rabbit,” one of the policemen said. “He is one who wished to lead our people in council.”

“Yes, of course,” MacNall said. “I remember him now. Bright fellow and a good speaker. One of Cloud Talker’s opponents in the quest for control of the tribe.”

The policeman nodded.

“You know,” MacNall mused aloud, “my first thought was that Short Tail Rabbit was mistaken for our friend Longarm and killed by accident. But now..

It was an interesting theory anyway, Longarm thought. “Anybody know where Cloud Talker is?”

MacNall shook his head. Tall Man did not bother to answer. It was safe enough to assume that he would neither know nor care much about the whereabouts, or the well-being, of the Piegan leader. If, that is, Cloud Talker did indeed prove to be the leader of his people that he’d positioned himself to become.

“Anybody seen Cloud Talker today?” Longarm asked of no one in particular.

There were no responses. Apparently no one had.

“I think,” Longarm said, “I’d best go find him an’ have a talk with him. Any suggestions, anyone?”

“No,” the agent said, “but if you don’t mind, friend, I would like to send a police escort with you. Just, um, in case.”

“In case of exactly what, Reverend?”

MacNall shrugged. And elected not to elaborate, possibly because of the Indians who were listening in to the conversation.

The agent said something to the Piegan policeman who seemed to be in charge, and that officer nodded to the trio of police who had just brought in the body of Short Tail Rabbit. “These men will go with you, Longarm, and keep an eye on your back.”

“I appreciate that.” It occurred to Longarm that yesterday when he’d waved to that “hunting party” on the ridge top when he was riding into Camp Beloit, he might well have been waving to a band of hunters who were hunting him. It seemed more than merely possible that they were fooled into letting him pass because he was bareheaded at the time and riding a Crow pony. They might simply have failed to recognize him from afar, just as someone mistook Short Tail Rabbit for Deputy Marshal Custis Long.

Unless MacNall was right, and Short Tail Rabbit’s death was a deliberate attempt by Cloud Talker to eliminate a political rival.

Or then again, Longarm speculated, both those possibilities could be true. One would not necessarily rule out the other. The “hunters” could have failed to recognize Longarm and Cloud Talker could have taken advantage of Short Tail Rabbit’s wearing of Longarm’s Stetson to shoot him and divert suspicion from himself.

And Hell might freeze over before tomorrow’s sunrise too. Sometimes a man could think so damn much that all he accomplished was to tie himself in knots, Longarm knew.

The one thing Longarm was sure of right now was that he wanted to locate Cloud Talker and have a word with the man.

“You boys need to change to fresh horses before we start out? No? Then let’s ride, fellas. Let’s see can we find Cloud Talker before nightfall. Tall Man, I’ll be back to spend tonight in your lodge if I can. If not, then I reckon I’ll see you tomorrow.” Longarm touched the brim of his old Kossuth—the thing didn’t seem quite so nasty-looking in comparison with the current state of his Stetson—as an informal salute to Reverend MacNall, and swung into his saddle again.

He did want to have a word with Cloud Talker. And quick, before there were any more bodies around here, what with first John Jumps-the-Creek and now Short Tail Rabbit dead.

Very many more bodies and the Piegan nation, or anyway this band of it, would find itself without leadership altogether.

Chapter 33

It occurred to Longarm—somewhat too late to do anything about it—that he should have asked MacNall to send along someone who spoke some English. As it was, it looked like none of his escorts could speak a word of it.

They were making themselves clear enough in spite of that. What with gesturing and jabbering and pointing the way, they made it plain that they wanted Longarm to go with them to the spot where they’d found Short Tail Rabbit and then start the search for Cloud Talker from there.

It wasn’t exactly the way Longarm might have chosen to handle it. But it could have been worse, he supposed.

And since he couldn’t argue with them anyway, neither side being able to understand a word of what the other was saying, he gave in and went where the three Piegan policemen indicated.

They rode west from the agency, crossed the creek and the adjacent drainage, and entered a chain of low, grassy hills. In the distance Longarm could see the dark humps of some pine-covered bluffs reminiscent of the Black Hills. Except these hills up here did not have gold in them. Longarm was damn well positive about that. They wouldn’t have been given to the Indians if they were worth anything.

They had gone seven, maybe eight miles when the Piegan cops pointed down to a thin trickle of water gleaming bright silver in the slanting afternoon sunlight. Again using broadly dramatic gestures, the tribal police indicated that this was where Short Tail Rabbit had met his demise.

The Piegan fell into single file behind Longarm as he let the chestnut pick its way down the shallow slope toward the murder site.

As they came close the horse began to fidget and blow snot, no doubt smelling blood there. Longarm shortened his rein and slipped his feet back in the stirrups until he barely had his toes on the irons.

It was not, however, the chestnut he was thinking about.

As Longarm’s mount reached the tiny rill and gathered itself to jump across, Longarm heard the sound he’d been expecting.

He threw himself off the chestnut, striking the ground already in a roll and coming up with his Colt in his hand.

Behind him—behind where he’d just been actually—a .50-70 Springfield roared, and a slug the size of a grown man’s thumb sizzled a foot or so above Longarm’s saddle. His empty saddle.

The sharper, lighter bark of Longarm’s Colt followed so fast behind the report of the rifle that the two sounds were almost as one, the six-gun’s fire virtually an extension of the sound of the rifle shot.

One very amazed Piegan warrior took Longarm’s bullet low in the throat. The policeman had time for his eyes to flash wide open in horror. Then he was driven backward off the seat pad of his pony to fall with a drenching splash into the creek, Springfield flying in one direction and his cavalry-style campaign hat in another.

Longarm did not take time to admire his work, however. He swung the muzzle of the Colt toward the next man in line, but before Longarm could pull the trigger that policeman too was driven backward off his horse.

The third warrior was unseated almost in the same instant, and Longarm of a sudden had no more targets. All three Piegan policemen were down, either dead or dying, the last two having been practically cut to ribbons by half-a-dozen bullets or more.

Longarm climbed to his feet and looked up toward the ridge he and the Piegan had vacated minutes earlier.

Tall Man showed himself on the skyline there. Tall Man and at least a dozen of his Crow warriors.

Under the circumstances, Longarm decided he would not complain about the Crow killing their old Piegan enemies, even if they were all supposed to be friends and neighbors nowadays.

No, sir, he wasn’t going to fuss at them even a little bit for shooting down their agency neighbors like that.

Instead he pulled out a pair of rum crooks—he did wish Tall Man would get around to sharing some of those good cheroots he’d won off Longarm—and hoped he had enough of the vile things left in his saddlebags to properly reward the warriors Tall Man brought with him.

Chapter 34

“You already knew,” Tall Man said, mouthing his words through a dense curtain of smoke from the crook Longarm had given him. Longarm thought the Crow sounded disappointed.

“I knew,” Longarm agreed.

“How?”

“Same way I bet you figured it out. Short Tail Rabbit wasn’t shot by accident from a distance. He couldn’t have been mistaken for me and shot in my place. Whoever murdered him damn well intended to because they were standing not more than a few feet behind him. A heavy, slow-moving slug like one from a .50-70 rifle will only punch a hole at any range over fifty, sixty yards or so. In order to make as big as mess as Short Tail Rabbit’s head was, the shooter had to be close enough to damn near tap him on the shoulder.” Tall Man grunted once and nodded, turning to repeat Longarm’s words in his own language for the benefit of the other warriors.

“You did not need us as we thought you did.”

“A man always needs his friends.”

“But with these Piegan you did not need us,” Tall Man said.

The truth was that Longarm had fully intended to take the Piegan alive if he could. He certainly had wanted at least one of them left alive and available for questioning.

That was no longer a possibility, however. Tall Man’s Crow warriors had seen to that.

“What will you do now, Longarm?”

“I still need to speak with Cloud Talker.”

“How will you find him?”

Longarm grinned. “That’s another thing that was kinda a giveaway about those Piegan murderers. Usually, my friend, the most effective thing is also the simplest. To find Cloud Talker, I’ll first go look for him at his lodge. If he isn’t there, well, we’ll worry about that if the time comes.”

“Ha!” Tall Man barked. “Good. We will go with you.”

“I’m not expecting trouble, Tall Man. Not from Cloud Talker.”

“One never knows where trouble will find you. Or when.”

“If you want to come along …”

“I will come.”

Longarm grunted in agreement with the statement. It wasn’t really a request. “After we see Cloud Talker, Tall Man, the three of us can go make sure there won’t be any war between your people an’ his.”

“You know who killed the Piegan shaman and Short Tail Rabbit?”

“If you mean do I know yet exactly who it was that clubbed John Jumps-the-Creek, no. I don’t. Though when it comes to Short Tail Rabbit, I expect that the killer is lying on the ground over there. I don’t think it really matters now which one of them killed him. The point is why they done it.”

“And you know the answer to this?” Tall Man asked.

Longarm sighed. Then shrugged. “Old friend, I don’t have the faintest idea why all this has been done. I wish to hell I did, because then I think I could figure out all the other details that aren’t lining up in my mind just yet.”

“We will go now. Talk to Cloud Talker.” Tall Man stood, and his warriors sprang to their feet also.

Longarm glanced back at the bodies of the dead Piegan policemen. They probably ought to be given burials.

On the other hand … piss on them. What they already had was precisely what they deserved. If the Piegan wanted them properly buried, then the Piegan could come out and do the burying.

“Let’s go, my friend.”

Chapter 35

Cloud Talker wasn’t exactly in hiding. The man was sitting outside his own lodge, cross-legged on a coyote skin, with a mirror in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other, busy pulling stray whiskers off his face and neck. Longarm had seen Tall Man and others do the same thing many and many a time, and it purely hurt just to look at. A good razor and strop seemed mighty fine in comparison, and never mind the nuisance of having to shave so often.

Cloud Talker seemed surprised, and perhaps more than a little afraid as well, when he saw Tall Man and his band of Crow coming. Cloud Talker came to his feet and reached behind him for one of the ubiquitous Springfield rifles. “Does it start here, Long Arm? Have these enemies come to kill me?”

“They haven’t come to kill you, Cloud Talker. And they aren’t your enemies. Right now they could well be the closest thing you got to having friends. Have you heard about Short Tail Rabbit?”

“What of him?” Cloud Talker made his feelings on the subject clear enough. He turned his head and spat at the mention of his rival’s name.

The Piegan shaman’s attitude changed when he heard about the murder. A look of sharp alarm made his eye grow wide. But then, if the Piegan tribal police could murder Short Tail Rabbit, what would they do if they became angry with him as well.

“What does Agent MacNall say about this, Long Arm?”

“We haven’t discussed it with him, Cloud Talker. We wanted to come see you first thing. Figured you, Tall Man, and me could all go see MacNall next an’ see can we bring this mess to a conclusion everybody can live with.”

“Yes, please. Whatever you say, Long Arm.”

“Tell me something, though, Cloud Talker. Do you think you can control your tribal police? There’s at least a few rogues runnin’ with them.”

“I … when the sun was young in the sky, Long Arm, I would have said to you that these men are Piegan. That they will follow me. But if what you say about Short Tail Rabbit is true …”

“It’s true enough, Cloud Talker,” Longarm said.

“With my own eyes I saw the police try to shoot our friend in the back,” Tall Man added. “If Longarm were not a warrior to be reckoned with, he would be dead now.”

Cloud Talker shook his head. “I do not know. I do not know what to do now.” He looked beyond Longarm, grimaced, and looked down toward the ground.

Longarm glanced around. The girl Angelica was there behind him. And the big white dog. For some reason Cloud Talker seemed unwilling to look at the girl.

“Hello,” Longarm said. He smiled. “Do you know you’re even prettier in daylight?”

Angelica ignored the flattery and approached Cloud Talker. She lightly touched Cloud Talker’s forearm, a small gesture which aroused a pang of jealousy—stupid but undeniable—in Longarm’s chest. Damn, the girl was gorgeous. She went way the hell past being merely pretty. She was so beautiful there ought to be, maybe was, a law against screwing her.

“You are a good man, Cloud Talker,” she said. “But you are not your father. You cannot be shaman. Not such a one as he was.”

“But you …”

Angelica nodded. “Yes. For our people.”

Longarm realized that this, then, was the major battle for domination. Not between Cloud Talker and Short Tail Rabbit as he had thought. The larger confrontation had nothing to do with leadership in council. This, for the future of the Piegan tribe, was of much greater importance because this contest of wills to determine who would become shaman had to do with the tribe’s health and their spiritual survival. And until now Longarm had not recognized either the importance of the choice … or who the players were.

“You ask too much,” Cloud Talker said.

“I ask nothing for myself. It is the good of the people that I want. Can you say the same, Cloud Talker? Can you come with me to the high place to fast and seek the guidance of the spirits? Will you do that, Cloud Talker? Will you let the spirits choose between us?”

Cloud Talker winced. It was a challenge that a shaman could not duck. After a moment, thoroughly miserable, he nodded. “When this is done,” he said. “We will go to the high place. We will fast. We will know the will of the spirits.”

“That’s good for the Piegan nation,” Longarm put in, “but it doesn’t do much to take care of the problem between you an’ the Crow. There’s still the renegade police to worry about an’ the fact that so many of your people think the Crow killed John Jumps-the-Creek.”

Angelica looked down at the dog, which had parked itself by Tall Man’s ankles and was contentedly allowing the Crow chief to scratch its ears. “He likes You,” she said.

Tall Man rubbed the dog’s muzzle and said, “Fine dog. I would buy it. Use it to breed fat puppies.”

“An’ then put them into the stew pots,” Longarm injected.

“Of course,” Tall Man said. “What else?”

“He is a spirit wolf,” Angelica said, “and he is not for sale.”

“Tell me if you change your mind,” Tall Man said.

“I will not change my mind.”

Tall Man shrugged.

Longarm recalled that the girl had once said something about the dog—wolf, whatever—taking a part in this, but he couldn’t remember what that was supposed to be about.

Nothing important, apparently. The creature looked like a happy, mild-tempered pet sitting there with its tongue lolling and eyes drooping sleepily while Tall Man continued to scratch and pet it.

“I think,” Longarm said, “we should go talk to the Reverend MacNall an’ see what he thinks we should do to get the police force cleaned up, an’ see can we figure out who actually swung the club that killed John Jumps-the-Creek.”

“You will know,” Angelica said. She pointed off toward the sun, which was sinking inexorably toward the distant horizon. “Before the fire of the sun touches the hills to the west,” Angelica said, “the murderer of the shaman will meet his death.”

“You’re sure of that?” Longarm asked. Angelica’s prediction was bold, sure, but foolhardy. Whoever had killed the old shaman wasn’t likely to jump up and shout out a confession. And the process of proving responsibility was apt to be a long and difficult one, even knowing full well who was ultimately responsible for the act.

“I am sure,” Angelica said. “The spirits have told me. The spirits do not lie.”

“If you say so. Tall Man? Cloud Talker? If you boys are ready, I think we’d best go now. Before, uh, sundown.”

He glanced back at Angelica, but the pretty girl quite obviously was unaware of any sarcasm that might have been implied.

The small party set off on foot to accommodate Cloud Talker and Angelica, while several of the Crow warriors came along behind leading the horses.

Chapter 36

The usual group of Piegan tribal police was gathered outside the agency headquarters. Perhaps it was only his recent experience that was influencing Longarm, but he thought the whole damn bunch of them looked like a bunch of sullen, insolent thugs. The truth, of course, was that for all he really knew, these might be the best and the finest and the most honorable of all the Piegan warriors.

But then hopefully, that was one of the things that would soon be worked out.

There was no sign of the Reverend MacNall, but probably he was inside in conference with Captain Wingate. The army officer’s horse was tied to the hitching rail close to where the police were squatting to smoke and swap lies.

When Longarm and the others arrived, the policemen stood and—not an entirely friendly gesture—reached for their Springfields. Longarm, Tall Man, and Cloud Talker confronted the policemen while the Crow warriors, perhaps thinking to avoid being taken as a threat, took the horses and went off toward the back of the headquarters.

“Where are the men who went with you?” a dark-skinned Piegan warrior with corporal’s stripes on his sleeves asked in challenge.

“Dead,” Longarm said.

“You murdered them?”

“No, but I sure as hell defended myself from ‘em,” Longarm answered. “I think you boys need some cleaning out, Corporal. Right quick.”

The man’s answer was to lift the muzzle of his .50-70 so the big rifle was aimed more or less in the direction of Longarm’s belt buckle.

“I’m glad Colonel Wingate is here, Corporal. Him an’ his soldiers will be taking over the duties of policing this agency while the tribal police are reorganized.”

“You cannot-“

“But I can. I have the authority to do exactly that.” Which was pushing the truth all it would stretch and then some, but somehow Longarm doubted that this Piegan police corporal was familiar with constitutional law.

“We will not let you.”

“You got no choice about it, Corporal. The police force is disbanded as of right now. You and your boys lay down your rifles and … Corporal, if that thumb o’ yours so much as comes close to the hammer on that rifle, you are gonna have yourself a fatal bellyache. I said-“

The corporal was not paying attention.

Or possibly the man had no idea just how fast a good man with a six-gun can put one into action.

The corporal jammed the hammer of his Springfield back to full cock.

And Longarm’s first bullet hit him square in the chest—all right, so Longarm had lied about shooting him in the belly—at damn near the same instant.

The Piegan probably didn’t even see the speed of the draw that killed him.

Behind the corporal the rest of the police were trying to get their guns into action.

One got a shot off, but it was high, ripping overhead somewhere between Longarm and Cloud Talker.

Longarm shot a private in the arm and another in the leg, and by then there were no good targets left because Tall Man’s Crow warriors had posted themselves behind the Piegan and opened fire on the policemen at the signal of Longarm’s first shot.

The Piegan crumpled and fell, and Tall Man and the other Crow were on them with hatchets and knives before the breath was out of them.

Blood and bits of flesh sprayed into the air and onto the side wall of the agency building. It was one ugly sonuvabitch of a sight, and the Crow continued to slash and hack and mutilate the police long after the men were dead.

The Reverend MacNall and his principal assistant, Charles Prandel, ran out onto the porch, but by then it was much too late for them to stop the butchery.

“My God, Long. Stop those men. Shoot them, arrest them, something!” MacNall yelled.

Longarm didn’t see much point in trying. After all, the Piegan were already dead. Still, it was true that Cloud Talker looked mighty grieved. “Tall Man. Call your warriors off, will you?”

Tall Man seemed as intent as anyone on chopping policemen into pieces, but he heard and stopped whacking. He said something in his own language and after a moment, one by one, his warriors slowed their efforts and gradually quit.

By then there was more blood on the ground beside the agency building than one might find in a Chicago packinghouse. Or so it looked anyhow.

“What is the meaning of this, Marshal?” MacNall demanded.

“Retribution, I think you might say,” Longarm told him. “An’ justice.” He glanced toward the west. Damned if the girl hadn’t been right after all. The sun was just now approaching the horizon. “Your police have what you might call exceeded their authority lately. Like committing murder.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I ain’t entirely for sure, Reverend,” Longarm admitted. “I was hoping you could tell me that. I-“

A pale and deadly ghost-shape dashed in front of Longarm, moving so quickly it seemed a blur.

A flash of white. A menacing growl. A leap high into the air.

Reverend MacNall threw a hand up in a vain attempt to block the fangs from his face.

The white dog—Angelica’s so-called spirit wolf—hit the agent full in the chest and sent him crashing backward, onto the floor and hard against the wall.

MacNall screamed as the dog bit and tore at his flesh.

Longarm could have shot the animal. Probably should have shot it. His .44 was already in his hand and the dog was less than a dozen paces distant, its back to him and all its attention concentrated on savaging the Indian agent.

Longarm could have shot it. Except his hand remained motionless even while he gave thought to the need to defend MacNall.

He stood there and watched as the dog slashed and snarled.

He continued to stand there, rooted and immobile, as the dog ripped Ames MacNall’s throat out and shook the dying man like a terrier shakes a rat.

And he continued to stand in awe as the dog backed away from the body of its victim, shook itself once, and then calmly trotted off the porch and out of sight around the back of the building.

“The sun is now touching the far hills, Longarm,” Cloud Talker said softly.

Longarm shook himself and looked around. Angelica was gone. So was the dog. The spirit wolf. Longarm felt a chill dance up his spine.

Over on the porch Charles Prandel stood trembling with fear, his forehead beaded with cold sweat.

“I think,” Longarm said, “we got to ask you some questions, Prandel. I think …”

“Longarm.”

“Yes, Tall Man?”

Tall Man and one of his warriors were standing in the entrance to the headquarters. Longarm hadn’t so much as noticed them go inside, but probably they had gone looking to see if there were any more Piegan police who needed killing. A chore which none of the Crow seemed to find all that distasteful, actually.

“The captain, Wingate, Longarm.”

“Yes?”

“He is in here. He has been bound with handcuffs and gagged, Longarm. You should come, I think.”

“Yeah, I reckon I should at that. Cloud Talker, you watch Prandel there. Don’t let him go anyplace, hear?”

Longarm holstered his Colt and stepped wide around the gore that marked the Reverend MacNall’s death.

Chapter 37

“Greed,” Wingate said. The officer was seated behind Ames MacNall’s desk, the Indian agent’s records spread out before him. The documents might as well have been written in Piegan for all Longarm understood them, but to Wingate they were clear as Austrian crystal. “MacNall and his friend Prandel there have been making a fortune off their assignment at this agency.” Wingate rubbed his wrists where the steel of the manacles had chafed and gouged him.

“You say you already suspected it?” Longarm asked.

The officer nodded. “That’s what brought me here this afternoon. I wanted to call MacNall to account for his excesses. Do you remember that I had a load of goods delivered to Camp Beloit recently?”

“Sure. You said you had to check it all in, I believe. What’d they do, short the amounts on you an’ hold stuff back for themselves to sell on the side?”

“Oh, much more lucrative than anything that simple. And in fact, the amounts delivered were exactly as invoiced.” Wingate gave Prandel a tight smile that held no mirth whatsoever. Prandel was seated nearby, wearing the handcuffs recently removed from Wingate’s wrists.

“I imagine they expected me to verify the amounts of goods, as of course I did. But what they did not anticipate was that I would also know what they paid for each of those items.

“Longarm, for the past eight years I have sat behind a desk supervising the granting of contracts for procurement and haulage at frontier posts from the north of Dakota Territory to the southern tip of Arizona Territory. I know the contract rates. 1 know what each hundredweight of flour costs, every bottle of vinegar or slab of bacon. I can tell you off the top of my head the freight charges of the twenty leading transportation contractors west of the Mississippi River. And I could see at a glance the profits MacNall and this man were raking in by falsely reporting their costs and pocketing the difference.

“I haven’t confirmed all of it in these books. Yet. But I can tell you that they have been stealing from the government at a rate that I expect will total in the tens of thousands each year.”

“Just that easy?” Longarm asked.

“Just that easy,” Wingate said. “It is quite simple, of course. They bought bacon, for instance, at three cents per pound, but charged against the agency accounts at the rate of five cents.”

“Fine, but two lousy cents-“

“Adds up to a great deal of money when you are thinking in terms of tons upon tons of supplies of various sorts. Beef, flour, blankets—why, they even drew funds at the rate of three quarters of a cent per cartridge for ammunition for all those rifles they said they bought at two dollars and a half apiece. And the quartermaster to my certain knowledge delivered the rifles and the ammunition without charge other than the transportation.”

“They figured to get rich,” Longarm said.

“Figured, hell, Longarm, they were getting rich.”

“Which explains why they grabbed you and were fixing to kill you this afternoon. But why John Jumps-the-Creek? I mean, the old boy was a friend of mine. He was a great shaman and a leader of his people. But he didn’t know or care a damn thing about logistics or the cost of things.”

“I think he did care about the welfare of his people, though,” Wingate said.

“That he did, I guarantee it. He was a genuinely good man, and would never have let anything bad happen to the Piegan nation. Not if he had any say in the matter.”

“Could he have kept the Piegan from going to war with the Crow?”

“Yes, I think John Jumps-the-Creek was strong enough to do that,” Longarm answered.

“You should probably ask your friend there”—Wingate pointed toward Charles Prandel—“but I think I know what MacNall had in mind. The same reason why he had his political cronies back in Washington have an ineffective field officer assigned to command Camp Beloit, actually.”

“I don’t understand,” Longarm admitted.

“MacNall and Prandel, along with whoever else they were paying off in this deal, wanted to reduce the population of the agency. They wanted me here because they were sure a desk officer like me would not be able to stop the hostilities MacNall himself intended to generate.”

“But …”

“It makes sense, Longarm, when you look at the cold figures on paper. It costs roughly seven dollars … six dollars and fifty-four cents if you want to draw a fine line … to feed and clothe one agency Indian, Crow or Piegan, for one month. MacNall, was drawing funds at the rate of approximately twelve dollars per Indian per month.”

“Giving him one helluva nice profit,” Longarm said.

“But not enough to satisfy his dark soul, I think. By killing off, say, two hundred people … and then not reporting those losses to the Department of the Interior … he could reap the full twelve dollars per head instead of a meager five, as he was already doing.”

“Jesus,” Longarm blurted out.

“I somehow doubt the reverend took Jesus into account when he was making his plans,” Wingate said dryly.

“Do you have enough evidence that we can convict Prandel of all this?”

“There is certainly enough to have convicted MacNall, but that is moot now. I think … no, I think there will not be sufficient evidence to charge Mr. Prandel.”

“Then what do you think I should do with him?” Longarm asked.

Wingate smiled. “I think we have no choice in the matter, Longarm. We will have to turn him loose. Why don’t you inform Cloud Talker and his Piegans of that. They might, um, wish to escort Mr. Prandel off the agency.”

“You can’t do that!” Prandel yelped. “You can’t turn me over to those fucking savages. My God, man, you seen what they done to MacNall and the coppers. They’d do the same to me.”

“Sorry, man, but we can’t possibly hold you without evidence against you.”

“I … I can give you evidence. A statement. A confession. I’ll sign anything you say. But don’t turn me out for the Injuns to get at.”

Longarm stood and reached for a cigar. It seemed that L. Thompson Wingate had things rather nicely under control here. From this point on it was all paperwork anyway. And paperwork was exactly Wingate’s meat.

Longarm wandered out into the cool of the evening. Tall Man and Cloud Talker had gone home, each in his own direction. There would be no trouble between their people now, Longarm was sure.

And if there were any more renegade Piegan of the sort who would put personal interests ahead of the good of the tribe, Longarm was sure the new Piegan leaders—whoever they turned out to be—would handle it without interference from the United States government.

In the meantime there was someone Longarm wanted to see once more before he left.

He found the chestnut horse tied at the rail next to Wingate’s army mount and swung into the saddle.

“The girl you seek is not here, Long Arm. She has gone to fast and to speak with the spirits.”

“Thank you, Bad Tooth. Do you think she will be gone very long?”

“She will not return until Long Arm has returned to his own people. I am sorry, Long Arm, but Angelica said I should tell this to you. She will not see you again. There was something … a temptation? She did not explain this to me, but I know her. She is afraid to see you again. I do not know why.”

Longarm knew. It was a compliment that she would not see him again. It was a source of great sorrow as well.

The truth, though, was that Angelica loved her people far more than she could ever love Longarm. Or any other mortal man.

And perhaps that was just as well, considering.

“Thank you, Grandmother. I have no presents for you and Juanita Maria tonight, but I will leave something for you at the agency. Please forgive me for not bringing anything tonight.”

“It is not the presents that make you welcome here, Long Arm. You know this is true.”

“Yes, I do, Grandmother.” Longarm turned to leave, then remembered something and turned back to the old woman. “Bad Tooth.”

“Yes, Long Arm?”

“Where is the white dog?”

“White dog, Long Arm?”

“Yes, the one that knew Ames MacNall was the man who murdered your husband.”

Bad Tooth looked puzzled still.

“Don’t you remember, Grandmother? When we talked before, Juanita Maria mentioned going outside and finding the dogs standing watch over your husband’s body. Your big white dog must have been one of them.”

“Yes, I remember when she said this, Long Arm. But … we have no white dog. We have never had a white dog. Brown, black, spotted, you have eaten of our dogs many times before now … but no, we have never had a white dog.”

“But … the dog Angelica called the spirit wolf …”

Bad Tooth shrugged. “I am sorry, Long Arm. Not here.”

Longarm turned and—unsure of just what to believe … or disbelieve—rode into the night.