“It might, except they probably know that the Piegan are locked in what we would call a struggle for political control within their own tribe,” MacNall said.
“This is the first anybody’s mentioned anything about that.”
“Frankly, Marshal, I’m not surprised. Tall Man and the Crow would want to feign ignorance to make it seem they would have no motive to kill John Jumps-the-Creek. That is, they would want to present themselves that way if they were guilty. It is equally possible that they are innocent and may not in fact have any knowledge of the battles for control going on within the Piegan tribe.
“And the Piegan themselves, well, they say very little about their own politics. I only hear bits and pieces of it myself.”
“John Jumper would have told me,” Longarm said. “He was a good man. If his son is anything like the father was, then maybe I can get Cloud Talker off alone an’ get him to open up to me.”
“I wish you luck. Cloud Talker tells me as little as possible. And I have to take what little he does say with a hefty dose of salt. Frankly, I am never entirely sure when he, or for that matter any other Piegan, is telling me the truth.”
“There is that,” Longarm agreed, finishing off the brandy.
“More?”
“No, thanks, this is plenty. Look, Reverend, do you at least know who’s in conflict in the Piegan nation and what it is that they want?”
“I know Cloud Talker is one of the principals,” MacNall said, “and I know that one of the issues is whether the tribe will remain peacefully here or if they will break out and try to force a return to their homeland.”
“Back to the Marias?” Longarm asked.
“There, or possibly they would be content to join the Blackfeet at their agency. The Piegan and Blackfeet have a kinship, I believe, but I am not clear on just what the relationship is.”
“It’s enough generally to know that they’re what we might call cousins an’ not try and get any further into it than that. It doesn’t make much sense to a white man anyhow,” Longarm said. “But it’s a genuine bond as far as they’re concerned. You want to remember that too. Could you send ‘em all back to the Blackfoot agency if you decided that’d be the best thing for everybody?”
“Of course not,” MacNall said. “I have some limited authority here at this agency, but none at all when it comes to the larger picture. I doubt the gentlemen in charge of things back in Washington would even welcome suggestions from me on the subject if those ideas were not in line with the policies already established.” MacNall spread his palms and smiled. “I am a very small fish, Marshal, in a rather muddy pond.”
“I know the feeling,” Longarm agreed. “Oh, yeah. Something else.”
“Yes?”
“The tribal police. Are the Crow involved in that too?”
“Not at this time,” MacNall said. “The Crow arrived here relatively recently and at a time of transition between the previous administration and my appointment. To date there are no Crow policemen. I have, of course, cautioned the Piegan officers to exercise restraint and a sense of brotherhood when dealing with their Crow brothers.”
“You do understand, I hope, that the Piegan an’ the Crow ain’t real likely to think of each other as brothers,” Longarm said.
“Marshal,” MacNall chided him in return. “We are all brothers upon this earth. We are all God’s children in equal measure.”
“That may be so when you’re lookin’ at them from a pulpit, Reverend, but there’s times when the man with the biggest war club is somewhat more equal than his poorer-equipped brother.”
“I do not see it that way, Marshal. Not at all that way.”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say.” Longarm stood and set his glass aside, reaching down to shake the agent’s hand. “Thanks for the entertainment, Reverend, an’ for the information. They both been a help.”
“Any time, Marshal. I am at your disposal, sir.”
Longarm nodded to the girl—damned nice-looking—and made his way out of the former ranch house, now headquarters for the Upper Belle Fourche Intertribal Agency.
Death and politics, Longarm reflected as he walked back toward the Crow camp. Hell of a combination, those two.
Chapter 17
It was damned difficult trying to get any sleep in Tall Man’s lodge. Not that Longarm was uncomfortable exactly. The grass mattress and buffalo robe were plenty comfortable to lie on. It was the noise that was so distracting. All that moist, meaty slap-slap-slap of flesh on flesh that was bothersome.
Longarm supposed it was something one would become used to, living with an entire family inside one small structure. But damn, it was impossible to keep from listening. And from getting horny.
The thing was, Tall Man was having himself a fine old time fucking his young wife Whatshername. It took Longarm a moment to call the girl’s name to mind. It finally came to him. Burned Pot.
He had no way to know if the girl’s name was as appropriate as Tall Man claimed, but by now there were several things about the pretty little wife that Longarm could attest to.
Like, for instance, Burned Pot was a squealer and a grunter when she was having fun under the robes.
Her pregnancy didn’t seem to be putting any restraints on Tall Man or on Burned Pot. Tall Man had cuddled up behind her, pressing tight against her round little butt, so that they were lying close together like a pair of nested spoons. From that point, with everyone save Longarm sleeping naked anyhow, it was no great leap from a hug to a humping, and Tall Man had made that transition.
Quite a while ago, in fact. Longarm wished to hell the man would come and get it over with. But every time the two of them got to thrashing and yelping to a fare-thee-well, Tall Man would slow down or even come to a halt in the proceedings, obviously wanting to drag out the enjoyment of the moment as long as possible.
Which was just fine for him, dammit, but not so much fun from a spectator’s point of view.
Eventually Longarm decided he was either going to have to move out of hearing or join in. And he kinda suspected Tall Man did not want male companionship right at this very moment. Better to get up and take a hike in the cool of the night than to lie there getting all worked up with his balls aching and no hope of any relief ahead.
Accordingly, Longarm slipped out from under his borrowed blanket, made sure he had his smokes, and stepped into his boots.
Tall Man and Burned Pot were still hard at it when Longarm ducked under the tent flap and emerged into the chill night air.
He took a few deep breaths and lighted a cheroot, then ambled off toward the edge of the Crow encampment and beyond.
Ghosts. Two of them. Longarm did not believe in ghosts. He damn well did not. But there a couple of them were. One tall and one small and both of them drifting silent as wraiths—well, why not; they were wraiths, right?—down along the low ridgeline where Longarm was seated on a boulder to finish his cigar.
But … ghosts?
A chill raced up Longarm’s spine. That is … he knew better. Hell, yes, he did. But he couldn’t help thinking.
Pale, these ghosts. Pure white in the starlight. No moon to help out, just the thin hint of visibility sneaking down from a cloudless sky.
But … ghosts?
“Don’t come no closer without you tell me who you are,” he said more or less in the direction of the ghosts. The smaller one increased speed and came closer anyway. Longarm shivered. Then felt foolish as hell when the “ghost” turned out to be nothing but a white dog. The dog sniffed Longarm’s hands, its breath hot on cold flesh, then flopped down at Longarm’s feet with its tail curled tight around its butt. Dang thing seemed perfectly content there too. “Who are you?” Longarm asked the bigger ghost, which he took now to be a smallish human form dressed in a flowing white garment.
“I am Angelica.” The voice was very soft and melodious. All right then. Not a ghost. An angel maybe? She damn sure looked angelic once she got close enough that Longarm could see a little. Angelica had black hair flowing down to her waist—a fact that likely contributed to the seemingly ethereal disembodiment, the ghost-shape that is, when seen from afar in the starlight—and a slim, lovely shape that was thinly disguised by the draped cloth of her pure white raiment.