The woman picked herself up and stood there for a moment glaring at him, her expression one of unalloyed hatred.
For half a heartbeat he was convinced she was going to do it, that she was going to scream and cry rape after all.
But she had too much to lose.
After a time she bent—she really was one fine-looking figure of a woman, damn her—and retrieved the hat and duster. She yanked them on and stormed away into the night.
Longarm sighed with relief as he turned back toward the borrowed bed in what passed for Visiting Officers’ Quarters at Camp Beloit.
Chapter 30
“Are you sure you won’t stay, Longarm? Mrs. Wingate was saying only last evening what a nice man you seem. I know she would be pleased to entertain you. I, uh, I have rather a lot that I must do right now. To tell you the truth, Longarm, it would be something of a favor to me if you could stay longer. Keeping Amanda amused, don’t you see, so that I can get my work done.”
“I’d like to, Tom, but I have to get back to the agency and see can I keep things calm.” Longarm finished tying his gear onto the saddle—his own saddle this time, thank goodness—and dropped the stirrup in place. “If the Piegan an’ Crow go at each other, you’ll have a lot more to do than the administrative stuff here.”
“I suppose that is true.”
“Thanks for the hospitality,” Longarm said. He smiled and added, “An’ thanks for the hat.” It was no Stetson, but the officer had come up with an old Kossuth—probably obtained from the camp trash heap—that he’d given to Longarm. The sloppy, floppy rag of black wool felt was no substitute for Longarm’s favored brown fur felt. But it was indisputably better than nothing, and so Longarm was pleased to have it.
Longarm swung onto the back of the chestnut pony, and gave the fractious animal a few moments to settle down. The horse was not accustomed to a bit and bridle, Indians generally preferring to use a single rein knotted around the lower jaw to control their mounts. Longarm could ride with that arrangement in a pinch, but it was not comfortable for him. And if one of the two had to be in discomfort on this score, he figured it could just damn well be the horse. He did his part by giving up his comfort for the horse’s when it came to a choice of saddle, the McClellan being a fine fit for a horse’s back but a real ball-buster for the human rider who had to suffer on the upper side of the thing.
“Any idea when you’ll be back?” Wingate asked.
“None,” Longarm admitted. “But I’ll make it a point to come back through an’ bring you up to date even if things go well. If they don’t, well, you an’ your boys can pick up the pieces an’ ship me back to Denver.” If there’s any of you left either, Longarm thought to himself, but refrained from saying aloud.
“Now there is a voice of confidence,” the captain said with a small smile.
“If I can’t be confident, Tom, I can at least be practical.” Longarm leaned down to shake the man’s hand, then backed the chestnut a few paces and lightly touched the brim of the ugly Kossuth hat. “Come a-runnin’ if you hear the sound of guns, Tom.”
“I’d be happier if you can keep those guns quiet, Longarm.
Longarm nodded and reined the chestnut north, toward the Indian agency.
Yellow Flowers stepped out of the lodge, took one look at Longarm, and fainted dead away.
It was, Longarm thought, an unusual form of greeting, to say the very least.
He jumped down off the chestnut and dropped his reins to ground-tie the animal. That was usually an invitation for a horse to declare itself free, but in this case he didn’t much give a shit. He wanted to see to Yellow Flowers. Besides, if the chestnut did run away, it was not likely to run any further than the Crow horse herd, and there would be no real harm in that.
Longarm knelt beside Yellow Flowers and rubbed her cheeks and her wrists the way he’d seen others try to revive stricken ladies. “Yellow Flowers? Are you all right? Talk to me, Yellow Flowers. What’s wrong? Where’s Tall Man?” Longarm’s initial thought was that Tall Man had been killed and the tribes were on the brink of war. That or … God knows what other possibilities could exist. “Yellow Flowers?”
Burned Pot and a gaggle of little girls had come outside too by now, and were gathered close around, but none of them appeared to speak any English. And there was no sign of Tall Man in his own lodge. That was damn-all worrisome.
“Yellow Flowers?”
Burned Pot brought out a wet cloth and bathed Yellow Flowers’ face with it. A moment more and the older wife of Tall Man sneezed. Then opened her eyes.
Her eyes went immediately wide again, and for a moment Longarm thought she would pass out for the second time in as many minutes. But she did not. She groaned a little and wriggled about on the grass, and soon struggled to sit upright. He helped her so that she was sitting on the beaten earth at the entry to the lodge.
“What is it, Yellow Flowers? What’s wrong?”
“You are not a spirit, Longarm? You have not come to take me with you to the spirit world?”
“No, Yellow Flowers, I’m the same as always. An’ the only place I come from is the army camp down south of here. Now will you please tell me-“
“Word came to us that Longarm was dead. It is said you were killed in the hills to the west. Your body is being brought to Agent MacNall at the place of the white men’s houses. Tall Man went there to claim the body of his friend and to mourn.”
“Did Tall Man take his gun?” Yellow Flowers hesitated. “Yellow Flowers. Please!”
Reluctantly she nodded. “Yes, Longarm. My husband took his gun and rode his best war horse when he went to see what the Piegan did to his friend.”
