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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.