the Crow camp. He paused before pulling it snug, however.
He was already among the Piegans, and still had tied behind his cantle the rest of the presents he’d expected to give to Cloud Talker. Before, that is, the Blood shaman had stalked off in a huff.
In addition to the twist of tobacco that he’d given to Cloud Talker, Longarm had earlier bought and brought along two more twists of molasses-soaked tobacco and one pint of sugar and another of coffee. It seemed a shame to haul those around when they could serve to bring some smiles to the old women who once were married to John Jumps-the-Creek. And hell, Longarm was here now and had some time to spare. He might just as well look up Juanita Maria and … what was the other wife’s name? Teeth, tooth, something about teeth. Of course. Bad Tooth. But then, as he remembered it, Bad Tooth at least had some teeth left in her head to be bad. Juanita Maria didn’t.
With thoughts such as those in mind, Longarm dropped the stirrup back onto its leathers without tightening his cinch, and instead untied the burlap sack the agency sutler gave him to hold his purchases.
He stopped at Cloud Talker’s lodge and asked the young wife there, “Where can I find the wives of Cloud Talker’s father?”
The girl shook her head, but the other wife came up behind her and addressed Longarm over the younger wife’s shoulder. “At the far north edge of the camp there is a lodge, very old, with three buffalo on it. That is the place of the son of Bad Tooth’s sister. That is where the woman called Bad Tooth lives.”
“Thanks.” Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson and hiked off to the north.
Ten minutes later he decided he should have gotten the horse off its tether. He didn’t mind a little walk. But this Piegan camp was two, maybe three times the size he’d expected to find.
What had Wingate said about the number of Piegan warriors? Nine hundred or so? Damned if that was so. Longarm was no great shakes at estimating numbers, especially when it came to Indian camps, where one warrior might live in a single lodge or there might be a dozen bunking in that same amount of space. There were some experts who used a rule of thumb calling for there to be five warriors for every lodge in a given village. Whatever the case, Longarm was certain that the figure given to Wingate was way low. Maybe by as much as half the true strength of the tribe. Hell, there could be as many as two thousand fighting men available to the Piegan. And Wingate, with no field experience to draw on, had no way to so much as guess that he was being fooled.
One thing Longarm was sure of. If hostilities broke out between the Piegan and the Crow, there wouldn’t be a Crow of any shape or age alive longer than an hour or so. Tall Man’s much smaller band would be wiped out in no time.
And considering how few blue-leg soldiers Wingate had under his command at Camp Beloit, the same could easily happen to them with the second wave of screaming, blood-hungry Piegan.
The Piegan camp was strung out for well over a mile along a narrow creek run.
Longarm was sobered and thoughtful as he walked on and on among the Piegan lodges.
“Grandmother,” Longarm said by way of greeting.
The old woman turned, her eyes growing wide and round as she saw who the visitor was.
She let out a shriek as if she’d been attacked by a grizzly bear, and began to yammer and scream in her own language, at which the younger women who were nearby commenced to buzz and mutter amongst themselves. Longarm had to wonder just what line of bull old Bad Tooth was giving them. Powerful stuff, he suspected, based on the way eyes rolled and expressions dashed from joy to horror and back again.
It was probably just as well that he didn’t understand a word of it, he thought, because if he did he might feel compelled to correct some of the more glaring fabrications. And what can ruin a good yarn quicker than the truth, eh?
Bad Tooth jabbered at the other women for a while, then jumped up from the pegged-down coyote skin she’d been scraping and ran—well, hopped and hobbled in something approximating a run—into another lodge close by. She emerged from it moments later with Juanita Maria, every bit as excited as Bad Tooth, hard on her heels.
Longarm smiled. He’d found the both of them, and neither woman looked like she’d changed the least bit since last he’d seen them.
Of course the last time he’d spoken with these two old crones, they’d had the security and respectability of marriage to their tribe’s leading citizen.
Now, with John Jumps-the-Creek dead, they were burdens on their relatives. Hangers-on who could hope for a few scraps and leftovers at best, and who might well starve to death if the man who sheltered them ran short of food come the next winter. The life of an aging widow in most tribes that Longarm knew of was precarious under the most favorable of circumstances, and impossible—quite literally so—when things were not going well. An unproductive old person, man or woman, was apt to be turned out into the snow with neither blanket nor food as a means of preserving the food supply for those who were younger and stronger and able to pull their own weight in the daily routines.
Today, though, these two particular old women were alive.
And seemed extremely happy to receive this visit from a friend.
Longarm, Bad Tooth, and Juanita Maria were all grinning when they ran to him and began hugging him with all their wiry strength.
Chapter 22
“Here. No, the sugar is for you, Juanita Maria; I know how much you like your sweets. No, Grandmother. All of it. I brought it only for you.”
Juanita Maria spoke no English, so Bad Tooth translated for her. Juanita Maria, who had been the wife of John Jumps-the-Creek’s youth, was crying by the time Bad Tooth was done talking. Either Juanita Maria was becoming mighty sentimental in her old age, or Bad Tooth was gilding the lily somewhat in her speechifying. Either way, both women seemed happy, and that was what counted. Longarm was glad he’d had time to come find them, gladder still that he could bring them a few small items to show that he still cared about them.
“How have you been?” he asked. “Are you well? Do they treat you with the respect and the kindness my grandmothers deserve?”
