MacNall rubbed his chin and frowned. “Really?”
“You didn’t know ‘bout that?”
“I must confess that I did not.”
“The Piegan aren’t only undecided about who will be their spiritual leader. There’s also some question about who will become head man at the councils too.”
“I thought among the Piegan both spiritual and administrative leadership was the same. And frankly, I assumed that Cloud Talker is next in the line of succession.”
“John Jumps-the-Creek was shaman and head man too. That don’t mean he’ll be replaced by one man. Could be two. Usually is, in fact. John Jumper was unusually strong. His people respected him an’ wanted to follow him. Cloud Talker doesn’t have anything like John Jumps-the-Creek’s force of character.”
“That is interesting if true, Longarm. Are you sure of your information?”
Longarm shrugged. “How sure can anyone be who ain’t actually a Piegan himself? It’s what I been told lately an’ what I seen for myself in the past. That sure as hell—excuse me, Ames, I sometimes forget you’re a reverend. What I meant to say is that I won’t swear to anything. But I do believe it to be so until or unless I learn something to the contrary.”
“Of course all of this will be moot,” MacNall said, “if open warfare breaks out on the reservation. If that happens there will have to be armed intervention, and the tribes will have to be separated somehow. Perhaps one of them moved to another agency where they will not be tempted to enter a cycle of recurring revenge and retaliation.”
Rogers grunted and barked out a short, sharp little laugh. “If that happens, Ames, I want the haulage contract for the move.”
“Always looking for the silver lining, aren’t you, Cale?” MacNall said.
“You know me, Ames. If life gives me a pile of shit, I’ll plant a garden and use it for fertilizer.”
The agent threw his head back and roared. “I do like you, Cale. God knows that I do.” Still smiling, he turned back to Longarm. “Is there anything we can do to help you, friend?”
“Keep your ears open. An’ you might ask your tribal police to do the same.”
“I will be glad to do that. We want to cooperate any way we possibly can. May I ask you something in return?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think you have any realistic expectation that you can avert war here and talk the tribes into achieving an amicable peace?”
“I think there’s a real good chance of it, Reverend. Tall Man will listen to me. We’re old friends. An’ if I can ever get Cloud Talker … and whoever else might emerge to lead the Piegan … if I can get them to Sit an’ smoke a pipe with me, then I think I got a real good chance to make sure nobody lights the fuse on the powder keg you got here.”
“Good,” MacNall said with enthusiasm. “Be assured, Sir, that you can count on our full cooperation. Anything at all, just let us know.”
“Thanks.” Longarm took another puff on the vile cigar and looked outside. The rain was still falling, but not quite as heavily as before. “if you’ll excuse me now, I think I wanta make a run for it before this mess gets any worse.”
MacNall walked with him onto the porch and shook Longarm’s hand. “Good luck to you.”
“Thanks, Reverend. And to you.”
“Gray Buck,” the agent called out, catching the attention of one of the Indian police who was taking refuge at the far end of the porch. “Fetch the marshal’s horse, would you? Then I have an errand for you to run, please.”
The policeman bobbed his head and ran out into the rain, taking his precious—well, to him anyway—old Springfield .50-70 with him.
Chapter 25
It wasn’t but a whoop and a holler from the agency headquarters back to Tall Man’s Crow camp, but the dreary, drizzling rain made it seem further.
Rather than risk the horse’s legs—Longarm had scant regard for the animal, actually—on the mud-slick ridge that he and Tall Man had come thundering across during their race, Longarm rode wide around it and splashed into the creek that meandered through the basin where the Upper Belle Fourche Intertribal Agency was laid out.
At least on a day like this he did not have to worry about the heavy-footed horse getting him wet. He was already wet to the skin. It was a good thing he had clothes on. Naked he most likely would have looked like a large, pink prune. He was thinking about the warmth he could expect to find in Tall Man’s lodge and about the prospects of getting out of his sodden clothes. He hadn’t brought baggage with him from Camp Beloit—the primary reason he wanted to get back there soon—but if nothing else, he could borrow a breechclout and blanket from Tall Man. Yellow Flowers could dry his wet garments by the fire tonight, and by morning he could set out warm and dry again. If the damned rain quit, that is. There was no sign yet of that, although in truth it had let up considerably.
Longarm’s Stetson took flight, leaping high in the air and sailing over the horse’s ears to land in the rain- dappled water of the creek.
Longarm bent low onto the animal’s neck and took a firmer grip on the reins to keep the horse from bolting.
Even as he was busy doing that with his left hand his right was groping behind him in search of the butt of his Winchester.
Except, dammit, the Winchester, along with Longarm’s own McClellan saddle, was back at the army post, and this borrowed rig had no carbine attached to it. Not even one of the stubby and ineffective little Springfield .45-55 cavalry carbines that were damned little improvement over the old 50-70 trapdoor conversions.
