They were getting undressed at the time, of course, so she tried to take unfair advantage of him, on her knees beside the bedstead, as she said, “Pooh! You told me you were a lawman, not the hired hand of a silly old thing whose only crime is that overdone henna rinse! You told me just the other night that neither gambling nor whoring are federal offenses, lucky for us, and everybody shoots to kill at Apache, save for the army.”
He sighed and said, “I’ve noticed that. Some officers seem to go along with the Indian policy of the moment, whilst others like to preserve the species, lest a son still in West Point graduate to find no hostiles of his own to hunt. I sometimes feel we’d have been kinder in the long run to follow the Mexican or Canadian Indian policies. I know it saves a heap of money to just leave Indians be when they ain’t bothering nobody, and arrest them as outlaws when they are.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t talk with her mouth so full. He lost interest in what was going on everywhere else on earth that night.
It was downstairs in the dining room the next morning, her serving him more sedately with ham, eggs, and an innocent expression, when he told her, “Don’t pack your bags just yet. But I reckon I could get us out of here aboard my two livery nags by way of the far side of the river and up to the railroad inside the reservation line. I doubt like thunder we’d meet many reservation-jumpers on or about the reservation they’d jumped. So by now nobody else over yonder should know whether to be sore at me or not.”
She looked so puppy-dog eager he quickly added, “Hold on. I never said I’d be able to c you all the way back to Denver with me, and I ain’t even fixing to cross the river till I check just a few more angles out.”
She bent over to pour him more coffee as she asked what else there could be to find out about a sort of informal but sensible enough way to cope with any sort of wild and woolly killers.
He said, “We’ve been whittling away at where those raiders could be holing up by day to raid at night. But like you said yourself, fighting Indians for fun and profit ain’t my regular occupation.”
None of the few others having breakfast seemed to be listening, so he confided, “I just want to wire some questions hither and yon about old Queen, her boyfriend Wes, and a couple of her other old boys. She and the one who says he used to be called Slim tend to sound like a pair of carnival barkers when they get into a two-sided conversation. They lard their jargon with so many terms I can barely understand, and I’ve spent some time with carnival folk.”
She pouted. “I was wondering where you learned to contort a poor girl into such dirty positions. Is that what you’re planning to do to that old redhead as soon as you get the chance?”
He laughed incredulously and said, “Not hardly, albeit she does remind me of somebody prettier from a time gone by. I’ve been busting brain cells trying to remember. Neither of us would have forgotten a long-ago love affair, despite her bull about having met me before in San Antone.”
Trisha said, “Goody! Does that mean you’ll still let me French you if we meet like this a dozen years from now?”
He sighed and said, “Honey, you can do that when I come back to you this very evening, should that be your pleasure as well. Meanwhile, I think I may have seen a younger Queen Kirby’s face on a tintype or sepia-tone. It’s possible she resembles some male relation on file. In either case, that carnival or theatrical background may narrow the target area down. I know some theatrical agents I can call on and, of course, the Pinkertons keep files on grifters, bunko artists, and such, because they provide security at so many state fairs and such.”
Trisha had to go serve somebody else. He didn’t care. He’d only been musing aloud with the only person he could trust with his musings in these parts.
He finished breakfast and ambled over to the card house. Queen Kirby and her Wesley hadn’t shown up yet. Longarm had learned the others called the man in black her Wesley after hearing some shocking comments by old boys who’d overheard sloppy noises through door panels from time to time.
Longarm hadn’t asked for further details. It was enough to know who might be making sloppy noises with whom. Everybody acted sort of disgraceful at such times, and some said the real queen, Victoria, favored that Scotch butler, John Brown, because it saved time behind closed doors with the two of them wearing skirts.
It was more important to know Wes outranked Darts Malloy, the wise-ass who’d said they’d known one another as Hank and Slim in the old Sixth Minnesota. He sure talked like a gent who’d once run a dart game in some dingy traveling show, though he rode well enough.
Queen Kirby finally came in, looking flushed and out of breath, as if she’d been out jumping fences sidesaddle. Old Wes, coming in after her looked as if he’d been doing some riding that morning as well.
Queen Kirby declared, “We’ve been talking it over. We have to do something about those blamed Apache. It seems pretty clear it’s not such a big war party and that they’re shifting around like spit on a hot stove.”
When nobody argued she said, “I want you boys to split up into smaller patrols to cover more range. How small can we get away with, seeing you’re our Indian expert, Henry?”
Longarm soberly observed, “George Armstrong Custer was an Indian expert, Miss Queen. He wrote the training manuals the army still uses, and we know he didn’t have enough men with him at Little Bighorn. But I reckon corporal’s squads, every man with at least a fifteen-shot Henry, ought to be able to handle the baker’s dozen we seem to be chasing all over creation.”
She seemed confused by the numbers. Darts Malloy volunteered to her, “Corporal’s squad is eight riders, Miss Queen. Baker’s dozen is thirteen. Me and Henry were in the army together and that’s the way you talk in the army. Ain’t that right, Henry?”
Longarm dryly answered, “If you say so, Slim. If each head scout gets to pick and choose, I reckon I’d like to try those canyons off to the northeast today. Nobody’s been back since we spotted sign over yonder days ago.”
Nobody argued and Longarm didn’t care who wanted to tag along as long as they were packing fifteen rounds in their magazines and one in the chamber. Most Indians packed single-shooters, or at best, the seven-shot Spencer repeaters the BIA had gone on issuing in fair weather or foul—to hunt with, of course. You could really nail a rabbit with a .52-40 Spencer round.
He rode out with his own eight Regulators a few minutes later, mounted astride one of the boss lady’s better ponies, in this case a blazed roan with white socks. Darts Malloy, alias Slim, and Poison Welles seemed to want to hunt Apache with him. As they all rode out, Longarm noticed four of the others were on joshing terms with old Poison. The others seemed to have been with Queen Kirby longer. Longarm didn’t trust any of them as far as he could spit against a windstorm.
