whom on this expedition.
His new position offered a whole new set of tactical considerations. There wasn't much cover between this wooded knoll and the trail about a furlong south, with fair cover growing right up to the far side and the open slope they'd have to cross no steeper than that streetcar line up Denver's Capitol Hill. He figured he could drop eight or ten if they rushed him in a bunch. He didn't know what he'd do if they charged across the trail spread out in greater numbers.
He glanced up at the sky. He didn't need to dig out his watch to see no cavalry patrol could have made it far enough to matter as yet.
Longarm asked a carpenter ant crawling along the log, 'Do you reckon we're just spooking ourselves? Those fakes have to know they ain't got all day to hit and run. So what if they've just run?'
He figured Comanche would have charged by this time. In their day they'd been admired for fighting just as bravely, or dumbly, as Texas Rangers. Most other Indians considered a fallen hero a dead fool. There was no shame in calling off a 'bad fight' because the idea was to make the enemy die bravely, not to get your fool self killed.
Counting those others Godiva Weaver had nailed the other day, the gang had taken mighty heavy losses for the nervous moments they'd been able to manage for him so far. He asked that ant how come the rascals had kept coming back for more. The ant didn't seem to know. Longarm insisted, 'it has to be a better reason than my guns and boots. Some leader with a personal hard-on has to be ordering them to lift my hair in particular!'
He warned himself he was thinking in circles. Not wanting to give away his position with tobacco smoke, he plucked a stem of grass to chew as he softly sang:
Farther along, we'll know more about it. Farther along, we'll understand why. Cheer up, my brother, walk in the sunshine. We'll understand this, all by and by.
Then he spotted riders coming along that trail from the southwest. There sure were a heap of them. All wearing feathers, paint, and those black buckskin leggings as they sat their ponies tall, as if they didn't have a worry in this world.
Longarm wasn't sure they did. He had sixteen rounds in his saddle gun, the gals had his other guns, and there had to be at least fifty of the befeathered riders headed his way!
Then he recognized a familiar war bonnet. It was the only thing about old Necomi that hadn't been daubed with red, black, and yellow paint. And that had to be good old Hawzitah riding beside the chief, in spite of the way he'd whitewashed his head and shoulders. So Longarm half rose to shout, 'Look out, Necomi! We're surrounded up this way and you boys are riding into an ambush!'
That inspired a Kiowa reply that sounded like puppy dogs getting their tails docked in a meat grinder. As half his followers dropped off the trail to beat through the brush and cuss it just awful, the more dignified Necomi rode closer to shout, 'Which side was sending up those smoke signals? We could not read them. But when we see smoke above our own hills we wish to know why!'
Longarm called back that he'd been trying to signal Fort Sill. The older Kiowa shouted, 'We can talk about it later. My scouts say some of those fork-tongues wearing black leggings just rode off to the northeast, and I wish to talk to them before they die!'
Longarm broked cover to signal danger with his free hand as he cautioned, 'Call your young men back! I just told you I sent for the U.S. Cav! What would you do if you were a green trooper and you saw Kiowa in feathers and paint coming your way at full gallop?'
Necomi was smart enough to picture that. He swore mightily and rode closer, protesting, 'This is not sensible! We could catch them if we really tried. But they will be far, very far, by the time the blue sleeves get here!'
As they closed to within conversational distance, Longarm nodded and said, 'I know. If your young men were dressed as Indian Police, those mysterious rascals would never get away. But they're not. So now all we can do is wait here and explain all this confusion to the infernal army!'
CHAPTER 16
The morose Necomi didn't wait an hour for the hated cavalry. He headed for home with most of his followers. But the more progressive or more curious Hawzitah thought his two dozen painted warriors ought to practice their scouting. So they did. Longarm had to take their word when they reported no bodies after a thorough search out at least a mile in all directions. The knoll he'd chosen for a stand was surrounded by tanglewood-choked draws, timbered north slopes, and high chaparral most everywhere else. But once real Kiowa came back with signs as small as torn-off feathers, blood-spattered grass stems, and one brass uniform button, Longarm had to concede they'd have hardly overlooked a full-grown corpse out yonder.
He was stoking the smudge fire atop the knoll with fresh green branches, with the two gals hunkered nearby, when old Hawzitah came through the blackjacks again to report, 'They were riding shod ponies. Many shod ponies that dropped blue sleeve sign. Those who paint themselves do not feed their ponies oat seeds for the birds to peck at. I think all of them, whether in blue sleeves or paint, were riding police ponies. By the time those other blue sleeves get here they will have made it east to the post road to Anadarko. Nobody will be able to pick out their sign from the other hoofprints on such a well-traveled trail, even if they forget to change their clothes!'
Longarm grimaced, stared thoughtfully down at the brass button in his left hand, and said, 'I'm afraid you're right. This button tells me the ones in uniform may not be wearing government issue. The B.I.A. salvages cast-off army blue for the Indian Police. But some dress more spiffy. Agent Clum, over to the San Carlos Reserve, managed to get local settlers to outfit his Apache Police in spanking new blue tunics with their own pewter badges a spell back. I'll ask the Comanche Police sergeant I know whether this button looks like one he'd want his own boys to polish.'
Minerva Cranston had been listening with interest. So she chimed in. 'What good would that do you either way, Custis? We've all agreed those mysterious uniformed riders don't seem to be Comanche. There are no other Indian Police on this particular reserve. So it's obvious they begged, borrowed, or stole those uniforms somewhere else!'
Longarm shook his head and said, 'They might have bought 'em. You can buy such livery, from a maid's uniform to an officer's full kit, in any fair-sized city, east or west. Indians acting on their own would be more likely to just steal new duds, no offense, Hawzitah.'
The old whitewashed Kiowa smiled and replied, 'A fighting man takes what a fighting man needs. I count coup on all the good things I have stolen from your kind. But I think I see what you mean. Those forked tongues have cheated many people of much money. They may not have the courage to just kill Indian Police and strip them. They may just buy those blue uniforms and black Spanish hats they were wearing when our younger brothers bought their own ponies back from them.'
