Chapter 16.

The next few nights were as nice, or nicer, with Trisha proving a real sport about experimenting in bed or anywhere else he could think of.

But the days went tedious as h.e.l.l, with those infernal raiders neither moving on to fresh fields of action nor offering a stand-up fight. It was almost as if the painted rascals were out to taunt the white eyes in and about Camino Viejo; for they seldom hit more than half a day's ride in any direction, and always seemed to double back and hit some more every time it seemed they'd ridden on.

Everybody Longarm talked with seemed as bewildered, whether they worked for Queen Kirby or her neighbors. Some were more jealous than others, but n.o.body was on really bitter terms with the hard-faced but jovial redhead.

Some Western Union riders repaired the wire to Santa Fe. It was cut somewhere else the same day, as if the Indians had been watching.

Longarm watched for smoke signals as he led patrols out on both sides of the river, trying in vain to cut the Indians' trail, with just enough sign hither and yon to let you know they were still around without saying exactly where.

Then it got worse. Wes Jones, leading his own patrol south along the riverbanks, came upon what was left of old Pappy Townsend and the bunch he'd led all the way to Santa Fe and back in search of the man who'd gunned their young kinsman Jason up at Loma Blanca. When Jones brought them back, stacked like bloated cordwood on a buckboard, it was generally conceded they'd have been far better off staying up in Loma Blanca. One could only hope the bodies had been stripped and carved up that thoroughly after they'd been killed.

Queen Kirby ordered eight pine coffins in a hurry for the bunch of them, and sent them on their way north, more dignified if not a whiff sweeter-smelling under the sunny New Mexico sky.

When he told Trisha about it later, the pale blonde turned paler and said she was scared, which sounded reasonable. Then she pleaded with him to take her away from such savage surroundings, which he would not, he told her, because he wasn't fixing on going anywhere before he learned what was going on.

They were getting undressed at the time, of course, so she tried to take unfair advantage of him, on her knees beside the bedstead, as she said, "Pooh! You told me you were a lawman, not the hired hand of a silly old thing whose only crime is that overdone henna rinse! You told me just the other night that neither gambling nor whoring are federal offenses, lucky for us, and everybody shoots to kill at Apache, save for the army."

He sighed and said, "I've noticed that. Some officers seem to go along with the Indian policy of the moment, whilst others like to preserve the species, lest a son still in West Point graduate to find no hostiles of his own to hunt. I sometimes feel we'd have been kinder in the long run to follow the Mexican or Canadian Indian policies. I know it saves a heap of money to just leave Indians be when they ain't bothering n.o.body, and arrest them as outlaws when they are."

She didn't answer. She couldn't talk with her mouth so full. He lost interest in what was going on everywhere else on earth that night.

It was downstairs in the dining room the next morning, her serving him more sedately with ham, eggs, and an innocent expression, when he told her, "Don't pack your bags just yet. But I reckon I could get us out of here aboard my two livery nags by way of the far side of the river and up to the railroad inside the reservation line. I doubt like thunder we'd meet many reservation-jumpers on or about the reservation they'd jumped. So by now n.o.body else over yonder should know whether to be sore at me or not."

She looked so puppy-dog eager he quickly added, "Hold on. I never said I'd be able to c you all the way back to Denver with me, and I ain't even fixing to cross the river till I check just a few more angles out."

She bent over to pour him more coffee as she asked what else there could be to find out about a sort of informal but sensible enough way to cope with any sort of wild and woolly killers.

He said, "We've been whittling away at where those raiders could be holing up by day to raid at night. But like you said yourself, fighting Indians for fun and profit ain't my regular occupation."

None of the few others having breakfast seemed to be listening, so he confided, "I just want to wire some questions. .h.i.ther and yon about old Queen, her boyfriend Wes, and a couple of her other old boys. She and the one who says he used to be called Slim tend to sound like a pair of carnival barkers when they get into a two-sided conversation. They lard their jargon with so many terms I can barely understand, and I've spent some time with carnival folk."

She pouted. "I was wondering where you learned to contort a poor girl into such dirty positions. Is that what you're planning to do to that old redhead as soon as you get the chance?"

He laughed incredulously and said, "Not hardly, albeit she does remind me of somebody prettier from a time gone by. I've been busting brain cells trying to remember. Neither of us would have forgotten a long-ago love affair, despite her bull about having met me before in San Antone."

Trisha said, "Goody! Does that mean you'll still let me French you if we meet like this a dozen years from now?"

He sighed and said, "Honey, you can do that when I come back to you this very evening, should that be your pleasure as well. Meanwhile, I think I may have seen a younger Queen Kirby's face on a tin-type or sepia-tone. It's possible she resembles some male relation on file. In either case, that carnival or theatrical background may narrow the target area down. I know some theatrical agents I can call on and, of course, the Pinkertons keep files on grifters, bunko artists, and such, because they provide security at so many state fairs and such."

Trisha had to go serve somebody else. He didn't care. He'd only been musing aloud with the only person he could trust with his musings in these parts.

He finished breakfast and ambled over to the card house. Queen Kirby and her Wesley hadn't shown up yet. Longarm had learned the others called the man in black her Wesley after hearing some shocking comments by old boys who'd overheard sloppy noises through door panels from time to time.

Longarm hadn't asked for further details. It was enough to know who might be making sloppy noises with whom. Everybody acted sort of disgraceful at such times, and some said the real queen, Victoria, favored that Scotch butler, John Brown, because it saved time behind closed doors with the two of them wearing skirts.

It was more important to know Wes outranked Darts Malloy, the wise-a.s.s who'd said they'd known one another as Hank and Slim in the old Sixth Minnesota. He sure talked like a gent who'd once run a dart game in some dingy traveling show, though he rode well enough.

Queen Kirby finally came in, looking flushed and out of breath, as if she'd been out jumping fences sidesaddle. Old Wes, coming in after her looked as if he'd been doing some riding that morning as well.

Queen Kirby declared, "We've been talking it over. We have to do something about those blamed Apache. It seems pretty clear it's not such a big war party and that they're shifting around like spit on a hot stove."

When n.o.body argued she said, "I want you boys to split up into smaller patrols to cover more range. How small can we get away with, seeing you're our Indian expert, Henry?"

Longarm soberly observed, "George Armstrong Custer was an Indian expert, Miss Queen. He wrote the training manuals the army still uses, and we know he didn't have enough men with him at Little Bighorn. But I reckon corporal's squads, every man with at least a fifteen-shot Henry, ought to be able to handle the baker's dozen we seem to be chasing all over creation."

She seemed confused by the numbers. Darts Malloy volunteered to her, "Corporal's squad is eight riders, Miss Queen. Baker's dozen is thirteen. Me and Henry were in the army together and that's the way you talk in the army. Ain't that right, Henry?"

Longarm dryly answered, "If you say so, Slim. If each head scout gets to pick and choose, I reckon I'd like to try those canyons off to the northeast today. n.o.body's been back since we spotted sign over yonder days ago."

n.o.body argued and Longarm didn't care who wanted to tag along as long as they were packing fifteen rounds in their magazines and one in the chamber. Most Indians packed single-shooters, or at best, the seven-shot Spencer repeaters the BIA had gone on issuing in fair weather or foul--to hunt with, of course. You could really nail a rabbit with a .52-40 Spencer round.

He rode out with his own eight Regulators a few minutes later, mounted astride one of the boss lady's better ponies, in this case a blazed roan with white socks. Darts Malloy, alias Slim, and Poison Welles seemed to want to hunt Apache with him. As they all rode out, Longarm noticed four of the others were on joshing terms with old Poison. The others seemed to have been with Queen Kirby longer. Longarm didn't trust any of them as far as he could spit against a windstorm.

But they got up to the mesa without incident. Longarm allowed, and Poison Welles agreed, that any Jicarilla lookouts peeking down at them from the rimrocks should have sent up some smoke by this time. It made Longarm less sure of himself to have a dime-novel enthusiast agreeing with him on Indian-scouting tactics!

They dismounted near the mouth of that one promising canyon and Longarm went first afoot, leading the roan with his c.o.c.ked Winchester pointing ahead. They'd almost made it as far as those nearly gone ruins when Darts Malloy pointed at the rocks across the way and said, "Say, don't that look like some sort of cavern betwixt them big boulders?"

Longarm had to stare hard before he made out what surely seemed an opening in the sandstone. He muttered, "That's what I get for a snap judgment. You've got good eyes, Darts. I'd best have a peek. Would you hold these reins for me, Jennings?"

He handed the reins to the nearest willing hand and moved in on the dark opening, saddle gun at port. He hadn't told anyone to stay or follow.

He was mildly annoyed when he heard Darts telling the others to stay put while he and his old army pal saw what was inside that hole in the wall.

But it did make as much sense to have somebody covering their backs, and the cleft was barely wide enough for the two of them single file.

It seemed to be more a natural crack, widened by erosion, than a tunnel or adit carved with any purpose in mind. Then he spied the scattered chalky bones in the gloom ahead and declared, "No Jicarilla born of mortal mama would ever hide s.h.i.t in here! See those skulls? Looks like a family tomb from years gone by. I make it a daddy Anasazi, a mama Anasazi, and look at all those baby Anasazi!" Then he heard someone yelling, "Longarm! Down!" and so he was already dropping to the gritty bone-strewn floor as all h.e.l.l busted loose in the confined s.p.a.ce. He could only hug the dirt and hold his own fire as bullets and rock fragments sponged off the rock walls above him and the air got stuffy with black powder smoke. Then somebody flopped limply half on top of him, and as Longarm rolled him off and over he could just make out the surprised dead face of his old army pal Darts Malloy. The shooting had stopped. Longarm eased his own weapon in position across the handy corpse and sat tight until a familiar voice called out, "You still with us, Longarm?"

The bewildered federal man replied, "Who wants to know?"

The rider he'd known up until then as Poison Welles called back, "Rod Duncan, New Mexico Territorials. Your old army pal was about to shoot you in the back just now. Lord knows how he meant to explain it. Maybe he figured he wouldn't have to. My boys threw down on his boys as soon as I opened up on the sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Longarm asked a trick question about the Governor's Palace down in Santa Fe. When Poison, or Duncan, confessed he'd never heard tell of a stenographer called Rosalinda, Longarm got to his feet and waded out through the gunsmoke to regard a mighty grim tableau around the sunlit entrance.

One of the two thoroughly shot-up cadavers was still c.r.a.pping blood and worse in slow but steady spurts. The other poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d just lay there.

The other lawman, who'd ordered the surprise ending to Malloy's wicked plan, nodded at Longarm and asked, "How do you figure all of this, pard?"

Longarm smiled thinly and said, "They had orders to kill me. What I really find mysterious is how a paid-up Apache fighter ever came up with Durango being there back in '76!"

Duncan shrugged and said, "Wes Jones was asking if anyone there had ever met the one and original Longarm. I'd read that story about you being in Durango some d.a.m.ned time and figured it would help if I volunteered.

To tell the truth, I don't know Colorado as well as I know New Mexico."

Longarm asked, "How come you joined up ahead of me, Rod?"

The New Mexico lawman indicated his four modestly smiling a.s.sociates as he explained, "We all did. Governor Wallace ordered us to when he heard something odd was going on up this way. I've been hoping you might know. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I can make any sense of it."

Longarm said, "Neither could I, until just now. Let's leave these old boys here for now and go make us some arrests. I'll explain along the way."

Duncan asked, "What about them Indians?"

Longarm said, "Ain't no Indians. Soon as you figure that out the rest just follows as the night the day!"