“That is interesting if true, Longarm. Are you sure of your information?”
Longarm shrugged. “How sure can anyone be who ain’t actually a Piegan himself? It’s what I been told lately an’ what I seen for myself in the past. That sure as hell—excuse me, Ames, I sometimes forget you’re a reverend. What I meant to say is that I won’t swear to anything. But I do believe it to be so until or unless I learn something to the contrary.”
“Of course all of this will be moot,” MacNall said, “if open warfare breaks out on the reservation. If that happens there will have to be armed intervention, and the tribes will have to be separated somehow. Perhaps one of them moved to another agency where they will not be tempted to enter a cycle of recurring revenge and retaliation.”
Rogers grunted and barked out a short, sharp little laugh. “If that happens, Ames, I want the haulage contract for the move.”
“Always looking for the silver lining, aren’t you, Cale?” MacNall said.
“You know me, Ames. If life gives me a pile of shit, I’ll plant a garden and use it for fertilizer.”
The agent threw his head back and roared. “I do like you, Cale. God knows that I do.” Still smiling, he turned back to Longarm. “Is there anything we can do to help you, friend?”
“Keep your ears open. An’ you might ask your tribal police to do the same.”
“I will be glad to do that. We want to cooperate any way we possibly can. May I ask you something in return?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think you have any realistic expectation that you can avert war here and talk the tribes into achieving an amicable peace?”
“I think there’s a real good chance of it, Reverend. Tall Man will listen to me. We’re old friends. An’ if I can ever get Cloud Talker … and whoever else might emerge to lead the Piegan … if I can get them to Sit an’ smoke a pipe with me, then I think I got a real good chance to make sure nobody lights the fuse on the powder keg you got here.”
“Good,” MacNall said with enthusiasm. “Be assured, Sir, that you can count on our full cooperation. Anything at all, just let us know.”
“Thanks.” Longarm took another puff on the vile cigar and looked outside. The rain was still falling, but not quite as heavily as before. “if you’ll excuse me now, I think I wanta make a run for it before this mess gets any worse.”
MacNall walked with him onto the porch and shook Longarm’s hand. “Good luck to you.”
“Thanks, Reverend. And to you.”
“Gray Buck,” the agent called out, catching the attention of one of the Indian police who was taking refuge at the far end of the porch. “Fetch the marshal’s horse, would you? Then I have an errand for you to run, please.”
The policeman bobbed his head and ran out into the rain, taking his precious—well, to him anyway—old Springfield .50-70 with him.
Chapter 25
It wasn’t but a whoop and a holler from the agency headquarters back to Tall Man’s Crow camp, but the dreary, drizzling rain made it seem further.
Rather than risk the horse’s legs—Longarm had scant regard for the animal, actually—on the mud-slick ridge that he and Tall Man had come thundering across during their race, Longarm rode wide around it and splashed into the creek that meandered through the basin where the Upper Belle Fourche Intertribal Agency was laid out.
At least on a day like this he did not have to worry about the heavy-footed horse getting him wet. He was already wet to the skin. It was a good thing he had clothes on. Naked he most likely would have looked like a large, pink prune. He was thinking about the warmth he could expect to find in Tall Man’s lodge and about the prospects of getting out of his sodden clothes. He hadn’t brought baggage with him from Camp Beloit—the primary reason he wanted to get back there soon—but if nothing else, he could borrow a breechclout and blanket from Tall Man. Yellow Flowers could dry his wet garments by the fire tonight, and by morning he could set out warm and dry again. If the damned rain quit, that is. There was no sign yet of that, although in truth it had let up considerably.
Longarm’s Stetson took flight, leaping high in the air and sailing over the horse’s ears to land in the rain-dappled water of the creek.
Longarm bent low onto the animal’s neck and took a firmer grip on the reins to keep the horse from bolting.
Even as he was busy doing that with his left hand his right was groping behind him in search of the butt of his Winchester.
Except, dammit, the Winchester, along with Longarm’s own McClellan saddle, was back at the army post, and this borrowed rig had no carbine attached to it. Not even one of the stubby and ineffective little Springfield .45-55 cavalry carbines that were damned little improvement over the old 50-70 trapdoor conversions.
Somewhere back behind him—about at the top of the ridgeline, he guessed without actually seeing—he heard the dull, belated report of a muzzle blast. The sound was partially muffled by the rain and the moist, heavy air the rain caused, but Longarm had no trouble figuring out that some son of a bitch was back there shooting at him.
With no long gun to return the fire, Longarm was in what could best be described as a piss-poor position.
Turning around and charging uphill into the teeth of a rifleman with a solid rest to shoot from and a constantly diminishing range did not seem an especially bright idea to him.
And while he had nothing whatsoever against running the hell away, that option would only expose his back to continued attempts by the rifleman to plant a bullet in the vicinity of Longarm’s spine. That choice was not particularly enticing either.
Longarm picked the third choice. He rolled off the horse’s back and into the water.
At which point he discovered that he had been completely wrong about something.
It was possible to get wetter than he’d already been.
The creek wasn’t just wet, it was almighty cold.
A second bullet came buzzing in just as Longarm came up spitting and sputtering and gasping for breath after momentarily disappearing beneath the water’s surface.
White spray flew about two feet to Longarm’s right, and the horse tried to pull away.
It was only then, actually, that Longarm noticed he still had a grip on one of the leather reins. The horse reared in terror and tried to bolt.
The hell with that. It might be a little tough on the horse, but that nine hundred pounds or so of hide and flesh was all the cover there was for several hundred yards in any direction, and Longarm wasn’t about to turn loose of that rein.
He came to his feet, dripping water and shivering with cold but not really concerned about that at the moment. He hauled the horse back down on all four legs and turned it so that the animal was between him and the rifleman somewhere up there on the ridge.
The ambusher helped Longarm’s spotting skills by firing again. A puff of white smoke bloomed high atop the crown of the ridge, and seconds later Longarm felt the horse flinch.
Longarm had only his revolver to return the fire, and there was little chance he could score a hit at a distance of a hundred fifty yards or so.
On the other hand, just making the asshole nervous would be a help.
Longarm steadied his hand across the saddle and took careful aim, lining his sights on a point about a foot above where he thought the rifleman should be. He cocked the hammer manually and took a deep breath, let half of it out, and then slowly, gently applied just the least lick of pressure to the trigger of the big .44.
The Colt rocked in his hand and let out a satisfying bellow.
Mud and rock chips flew a good three feet wide of Longarm’s mark and a couple feet low. So much for long-range marksmanship in the rain.