But then hopefully, that was one of the things that would soon be worked out.
There was no sign of the Reverend MacNall, but probably he was inside in conference with Captain Wingate. The army officer’s horse was tied to the hitching rail close to where the police were squatting to smoke and swap lies.
When Longarm and the others arrived, the policemen stood and—not an entirely friendly gesture—reached for their Springfields. Longarm, Tall Man, and Cloud Talker confronted the policemen while the Crow warriors, perhaps thinking to avoid being taken as a threat, took the horses and went off toward the back of the headquarters.
“Where are the men who went with you?” a dark-skinned Piegan warrior with corporal’s stripes on his sleeves asked in challenge.
“Dead,” Longarm said.
“You murdered them?”
“No, but I sure as hell defended myself from ‘em,” Longarm answered. “I think you boys need some cleaning out, Corporal. Right quick.”
The man’s answer was to lift the muzzle of his .50-70 so the big rifle was aimed more or less in the direction of Longarm’s belt buckle.
“I’m glad Colonel Wingate is here, Corporal. Him an’ his soldiers will be taking over the duties of policing this agency while the tribal police are reorganized.”
“You cannot-“
“But I can. I have the authority to do exactly that.” Which was pushing the truth all it would stretch and then some, but somehow Longarm doubted that this Piegan police corporal was familiar with constitutional law.
“We will not let you.”
“You got no choice about it, Corporal. The police force is disbanded as of right now. You and your boys lay down your rifles and … Corporal, if that thumb o’ yours so much as comes close to the hammer on that rifle, you are gonna have yourself a fatal bellyache. I said-“
The corporal was not paying attention.
Or possibly the man had no idea just how fast a good man with a six-gun can put one into action.
The corporal jammed the hammer of his Springfield back to full cock.
And Longarm’s first bullet hit him square in the chest—all right, so Longarm had lied about shooting him in the belly—at damn near the same instant.
The Piegan probably didn’t even see the speed of the draw that killed him.
Behind the corporal the rest of the police were trying to get their guns into action.
One got a shot off, but it was high, ripping overhead somewhere between Longarm and Cloud Talker.
Longarm shot a private in the arm and another in the leg, and by then there were no good targets left because Tall Man’s Crow warriors had posted themselves behind the Piegan and opened fire on the policemen at the signal of Longarm’s first shot.
The Piegan crumpled and fell, and Tall Man and the other Crow were on them with hatchets and knives before the breath was out of them.
Blood and bits of flesh sprayed into the air and onto the side wall of the agency building. It was one ugly sonuvabitch of a sight, and the Crow continued to slash and hack and mutilate the police long after the men were dead.
The Reverend MacNall and his principal assistant, Charles Prandel, ran out onto the porch, but by then it was much too late for them to stop the butchery.
“My God, Long. Stop those men. Shoot them, arrest them, something!” MacNall yelled.
Longarm didn’t see much point in trying. After all, the Piegan were already dead. Still, it was true that Cloud Talker looked mighty grieved. “Tall Man. Call your warriors off, will you?”
Tall Man seemed as intent as anyone on chopping policemen into pieces, but he heard and stopped whacking. He said something in his own language and after a moment, one by one, his warriors slowed their efforts and gradually quit.
By then there was more blood on the ground beside the agency building than one might find in a Chicago packinghouse. Or so it looked anyhow.
“What is the meaning of this, Marshal?” MacNall demanded.
“Retribution, I think you might say,” Longarm told him. “An’ justice.” He glanced toward the west. Damned if the girl hadn’t been right after all. The sun was just now approaching the horizon. “Your police have what you might call exceeded their authority lately. Like committing murder.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I ain’t entirely for sure, Reverend,” Longarm admitted. “I was hoping you could tell me that. I-“
A pale and deadly ghost-shape dashed in front of Longarm, moving so quickly it seemed a blur.
A flash of white. A menacing growl. A leap high into the air.
Reverend MacNall threw a hand up in a vain attempt to block the fangs from his face.
The white dog—Angelica’s so-called spirit wolf—hit the agent full in the chest and sent him crashing backward, onto the floor and hard against the wall.
MacNall screamed as the dog bit and tore at his flesh.
