turned out to be a bad move. Twice.'
She said, 'I read about those fights at Adobe Walls. In the first one Kit Carson and those army troopers had some cannon with them. In the second fight for Adobe Walls, the place was being held by a big party of professional hunters armed with scope-sighted rifles!'
Longarm said, 'Same deal. The Indians outnumbered them way more than we're outnumbered, unless we haven't seen all them Black Leggings yet. There's no way four riders could make it down off yonder rise and as far as this doorway with me lobbing sixteen rifle rounds and five from my pistol at lem.'
She showed how keen a reporter she was by demanding, 'Don't you carry six bullets in that six-shooter, Deputy Long?'
He replied, 'Not if you value your own toes, ma'am. It's best to grab for a double-action aimed down along your own leg with the hammer riding on an empty chamber. I got a double-shot derringer in my vest pocket, by the way. Would you like to borrow it till we see how this turns out?'
She said, 'I don't see why. I've seven shots in this rifle.'
Then she did see why, and soberly added, 'I guess a hand pistol would be surer at the end. Is it true the best way is to suck on the barrel like a lollipop and just pull the trigger?'
He said, 'I wouldn't know. I've never committed suicide yet.' Then he got out his derringer, unhooked it from his watch chain, and tossed it in the grass near the hem of her travel duster as he added, 'Don't blow your brains out just yet, ma'am. Seeing the boys across the way seem stuck for ideas, I'd best try to commence the parley. I have to lay this old Winchester aside to talk with both hands. So keep a sharp watch out back.'
She didn't turn, but had to ask, 'Talk with both hands?'
He leaned the Yellowboy against the inside sods as he explained. 'Sign talk. Hardly anyone speaks Kiowa. It ain't close to any other Horse Indian dialect. So it was the Kiowa themselves who invented the now universal sign lingo of the plains.'
He stepped just outside the doorway, raising his right hand with trigger and middle finger pointed at the sky to signal friendly notions. Then he pivoted his upraised palm to say he had a question, pointed at them, and made the sign for calling before he cupped a hand to his ear, adding up to, 'Question, you are called? I want to hear.' Which was about as tight as sign lingo worked.
Behind him, Godiva Weaver called, 'What's going on out there?'
To which he could only reply, 'Nothing. They're staring smack at me but they don't seem to want to answer.'
She suggested, 'Maybe they're not Kiowa after all.'
He shrugged and said, 'Wouldn't matter if they was Arapaho, Caddo, or Shoshoni. All of 'em use the same sign lingo no matter how they talk. That's why sign lingo was invented to begin with. Think of how a nod, a head shake, or a stuck-out tongue meant the same things by different names to an Anglo, a Mex, or a Dutchman. Then lard on a mess of other such signals until... Kee-rist!'
Then he threw himself backward through the doorway as a rifle spanged in the distance to send a buffalo round humming like an enraged lead hornet through the space he'd just occupied.
Longarm rolled sideways to grab for his propped up Yellowboy as, behind him, Godiva Weaver cut loose a lot with that Spencer.
He didn't ask what she was firing at. He warned her not to waste any as he popped up in the corner of a front window space to prop his own rifle over the soggy sod sill.
He found no targets for his overloaded Yellowboy. The far side of the trail had been hastily vacated by the sons of bitches who'd replied so rudely to his request for a parley.
He moved over to the newspaper gal's position, saying, 'Change places with me. You've only got two rounds in that Spencer now. So see if you can reload as you guard the empty slope.'
Then he saw what she'd been aiming at out back, and whistled in sheer admiration as he made out the three bodies scattered in the tall dry grass. He didn't see anybody moving out yonder now. He still trained his own rifle on the view to the west as he told her flatly, 'Three stopped with five rounds is what I'd call downright swell marksmanship, Miss Weaver. Where in thunder did you learn to shoot so fine?'
She answered simply, 'I grew up on an army post. My father was stationed at Fort Marion after the Seminole had calmed down. It was awfully hot for most sports. So we spent a lot of time on the rifle range.'
Longarm watched the scattered brown forms out back as he slowly concluded, 'You surely must have. You either killed the three of 'em totally or scared 'em so bad they're afraid to draw breath now. Were they charging mounted or afoot?'
She demurely replied, 'On horseback, of course. There were five of them. I'd have gotten them all if they'd been coming slower!'
He said he believed her, and asked how they were doing out front. She said, 'Not a sign of life. They must have thought their main body could move in past a mere girl as they kept you distracted from that other side. But I guess they've learned their lesson, and I'll just bet that's the last we'll ever see of them!'
He said, 'Don't bet next month's salary or your favorite hat on that, Miss Weaver. They're still out there. The leader who got 'em in this mess would never be able to show his face at a dance if he just cut and run. They have to stick around until dark, if only to see if they can recover their dead
He started to say something else. But he figured she had more than enough to worry about. So he held the thought.
It didn't work. A gal paid by a newspaper to think on her own two feet had gotten good at it. In a desperately casual tone she asked, 'Is it true Plains Indians never attack at night, Deputy Long?'
To which he could only reply, 'Never is an overconfident word, and my friends call me Custis, Miss Weaver.'
She said, 'In that case you'd better call me Godiva. For anyone can see you're the only friend I have for miles right now! What if we made a break for it just after dusk? I don't see how just the two of us could defend this
