Longarm and the Unwritten Law

by Tabor Evans

  But being a woman, Minerva naturally wanted to hear more about those other gals who'd been this mean to him. He figured that went with Professor Darwin's notions. He'd read how Mormons, Turks, and other such harem keepers were only carrying on traditions far older than, say, Queen Victoria. Menfolk, like apefolk, wolves, elk, and such, were inclined to hog all the females they could, fighting off any other males that might come courting.

  But womenfolk, descended from many a great-granny who'd been part of some caveman's herd, were more inclined to size up the competition with a view to out-screwing them. So Longarm knew the horny schoolmarm wouldn't get sore if he told her the truth about that fickle newspaper gal or the mysterious stranger who'd taken cruel advantage of his weak nature the other night at Fort Sill.

  Minerva laughed sort of dirty, and said she'd wondered why he'd seemed so anxious to lure her to that army hostel. She agreed it had doubtless been some army wife with a hankering for novelty. When he said he was worried about her damned army husband finding out, Minerva said she doubted many wives were in the habit of confessing such side trips to their menfolk.

  He had to tell her the whole dumb tale of Attila the Hungarian and the confession of his Magda before he could ask her opinion, as a woman, on that mess.

  Minerva agreed it made little sense from a male or female position. After a thoughtful drag on their shared cheroot she said, "The only thing I can think of is that she was trying to protect her real lover. Didn't you say he'd been heard to speak Hungarian to her?"

  Longarm replied, "I never said it. Neighbor gals who know way more about the lingo say this rascal claiming to be me was some sort of greenhorn from their old country."

  Minerva passed the smoke back to him as she pointed out, "He might not have told anyone he was anybody. When her husband heard she'd been billing and cooing with a tall dark stranger, it was Magda herself, a greenhorn bride who barely speaks English, who told her man an American lawman had done them both dirty, remember?"

  Longarm did. He said, "It's already been suggested there was this article about me in the papers about the time old Magda would have had to come up with some answers in a hurry. I'm glad you think that was what she might have been doing too. My boss has other deputies looking into it, and since all roads seem to lead to the same reasons, that's likely where they'll wind up. They'll get the real story out of the lying sass, and I'll be able to turn this other stuff over to the army and real Indian Police. Lord knows they ought to be just as good as tracking flimflam artists across their own range."

  She took the cheroot from his lips and flicked it far out into the windy darkness as she cooed, "You don't have to leave just now, do you?"

  So a grand time was had by all, or at least two out of three of them, and they even got some sleep, once the storm had blown itself over and it got too quiet to get dirty under the covers with little Matty snoring away.

  They got up, ate a cold breakfast, and were on their way again as the sun rose off to the east in a cloudless windswept sky.

  That shavetail's complaint that they'd been almost there when the storm hit had been well taken. They'd ridden less than an hour when they topped a rise to make out the fluttering flag and higher rooftops of Fort Sill to the south.

  Seeing the Comanche sub-agency lay east-northeast of the actual fort, although within the sprawling limits of the military reservation, Longarm led the gals that way until they spotted the steeple of that church Quanah Parker and his band attended when they weren't beating drums for other puha. Somebody must have spotted them riding in, for old Aho Gordon came tearing out on foot to meet them, wailing at her daughter in Kiowa and saying awful things about Longarm in English until Matty calmed her down in their own lingo.

  The dumpy Indian gal stopped cussing Longarm, and switched to cussing those lying two-hearts who'd endangered her only child and cost her two sleepless nights. She told Longarm she was sorry she'd called him a baby-raper, now that she'd been told he'd behaved so properly to both of his companions, and added she'd heard rumors of riders dressed as Kiowa who failed to respond to the hand signals all Horse Indians were familiar with.

  As Matty helped her mother aboard her own pony to ride into the agency with them, Longarm said, half to himself, "Paid-up Scotch-Irish outlaws have been known to gussy up like Indians, and a breed or Mex would look even more convincing to anyone but a real Quill Indian. We've established no Black Leggings Kiowa are wearing paint with permission of their lodge leaders. I'm pretty sure those tipis I took for Comanche down by the Red River were circled wrong for traditional Horse Indians. I know one I winged was calling out in Spanish, unless it was one of his pals calling for him. In either case, no Indian on this reserve would have reason to call for water in Spanish, whilst few Mexicans would be likely to be fluent in the sign lingo of these plains."

  Minerva said, "Didn't you tell me that when you and that other girl tried to signal peaceful intent from that sod house they pegged a shot at you, Custis?"

  He smiled thinly and replied, "Didn't know you were really that interested. But the more I study on it, the more it looks as if those fake Black Leggings ain't real residents of this here reserve!"

  They rode on into the settlement, to be greeted by yapping dogs, laughing kids, and Police Sergeant Tikano, who said he'd already heard some of it from a rider from Fort Sill.

  The three ladies seemed headed for the Gordon cabin to sip tea or something. Longarm and his two ponies wound up out front of the police station, a frame structure cut to the same pattern as a B.I.A. schoolhouse. As Tikano was ordering one of his uniformed policemen to take the ponies around back and tend to them, the older white agent, Conway, came over from his larger house to join them. Longarm waited until they were inside, where the moon-faced Comanche sergeant seemed to keep his own moonshine on file, before he got out the brass button his Kiowa pals had found on the mountain for him.

  Tikano handed him a tumbler of moonshine as he took the button in his other hand, held it up to the light, and decided, "Ahee, it looks like it came from one of our uniforms. When we started to organize, the army gave us ragged old tunics and the B.I.A. gave us straw hats. The kind Saltu farmers wear. Quanah said we looked like scarecrows. He sent away to Saint Louis for real uniforms and felt hats like the soldiers wear. That is why this button has crossed poggamoggons instead of U.S. on it."

  Longarm took a polite sip of firewater and said, "I thought they were supposed to be war clubs. So what we're talking about would be fake Indian Police in real uniforms that were lost, Strayed, or stolen?"

  Conway allowed that made sense to him too. But the Indian scowled and declared, "We are missing no uniforms. None. We have less than a hundred Indian Police, counting the noncommissioned officers. All of them are Comanche, so far. All of them are known to me as Hou-Huam with true hearts. Hear me, each man has been issued one uniform. One. None of them are missing. None of them have reported the loss of the fine uniforms Quanah bought them. Even if one, or even two of our men got drunk and were ashamed to report such stupidity, didn't you say there were many of these forked-tongued koshares wearing big blue falsehoods?"

  Longarm nodded thoughtfully and said, "That's about the size of it. But a tailor who'd sell uniforms to Quanah would sell the same sort of uniforms to most anyone else. You wouldn't know the name of that outfit in Saint Lou, would you?"

  The Indian and his agent exchanged glances. Conway shook his head and said, "Quanah never asked my permission. I had nothing to do with the whole shebang. As I understand it, Quanah got permission to start his own police from the main office, up at Anadarko. They have a telegraph line to the outside world at Anadarko. We don't. Have to depend on the army line out of Fort Sill in a real emergency. Fortunately we don't have many, betwixt the cavalry and Quanah's new police force looking out for us."

  Longarm nodded absently, and turned back to Sergeant Tikano to ask, "Did you say no Comanche held higher rank than noncom? Who does that leave as the commissioned officers
in your outfit?"

  The Indian looked sincerely puzzled as he polished off the last of his own drink and said, "Nobody. I mean, there's no Saltu dressed up as an Indian Police Officer. We take our orders from Quanah. Maybe he takes orders from army officers, or our boss agent up at Anadarko."

  Longarm cocked a brow at Conway, who said, "Makes sense to me. I know I don't order even Sergeant Tikano here direct. Whenever we have trouble here, Tikano and his boys seem able to get on top of it without my help. I have asked them to arrest troublemakers who sass me on allotment day. But I reckon you'd have to ask at Anadarko if anyone other than Quanah rides herd."

  Longarm insisted, "Some B.I.A. official has to approve their payroll. Quanah can't be hiring and firing out of his own pocket, can he?"

  Conway shook his head and replied, "I just now said somebody up to Anadarko has to have the final say. You might ask Fred Ryan, if he's made it back to Fort Sill yet. Fred's in closer contact with headquarters thanks to that army telegraph line. That's how come Fred's our liaison man at Sill. He gets to relay heaps of messages back and forth. He'd likely know the address of that tailor in Saint Lou. For I doubt Quanah would have ridden all the way up to Anadarko to wire out for uniforms when he could have done so from Fred Ryan's office.

  Longarm figured Fred Ryan was likely still in Fort Smith that morning, but said he knew how to use a telegraph key, if push came to shove and the Signal Corps would patch him through to a line off the reservation. So seeing nobody at the sub-agency could shed more light on the subject, he said he had to get on over to the army post.

  He tried calling on Minerva to say his proper good-byes. But she seemed too busy over by the school to chat with him. So he just rode on out with a clear conscience, seeing he didn't seem able to terrify her by the safe sane light of a sunny morning.

  CHAPTER 17

  Longarm walked his tired ponies most of the modest way over to Fort Sill. He'd ridden them harder earlier, and it was that awkward time of the morning when folks were either too busy or too sleep-gurrimed to chew the fat with you. That summer gullywasher would have wiped away any sign that even greenhorns might have left, and the one man who might be about to clear away a heap of cobwebs, Quanah Parker, was nowhere to be found just yet.

  Crossing the post road, Longarm read by the rain-paved mud how a whole mess of riders and at least six wheeled vehicles had just that morning headed north. Any signs young Standish and his patrol had left riding in through that slurry were naturally long gone. Longarm decided it stood to reason that Colonel Howard had sent out other patrols in more strength, once Standish had reported in. But unless they'd been wired further news about those fake riders, it seemed to Longarm the wrong way to go about it. The so-called Indian Wars had always been a tad distinguished for useless wear and tear on the U.S. Army. A heap of Mister Lo's diabolical cunning was nothing more than the facts of life on the High Plains. There were a lot of directions to ride on a sea of grass twice the size of the Baltic. Columns crossing it in the open, bold as big-ass birds, were invisible below the horizon to a scout on horseback less than ten miles away.

  Longarm rode through the seemingly deserted shantytown outside the east gate of the cavalry post. He knew the whores, pimps, and gamblers were there. Night owls with no profit to be made this side of the army flag coming down again had no call to be out on their muddy streets at this hour. He passed a seemingly random grove of canvas tipis. He smiled to himself as he noted that despite the casual way they'd been put up by the side of the wagon trace, all four covered entrances faced due east.

  Mexicans playing Kiowa wouldn't have been brought up in any sort of Indian shelter facing any direction. Longarm knew that despite the obvious Indian ancestry of many a Mexican, Spanish notions of orderly living had produced a sort of Papist Pueblo culture, with the faith and superstitions of the Spanish peasant plastered over the tortillas and red peppers contributed by Aztec, Chihuahua, and such. Mestizo or even pure Indio Mexicans started out with the same 'dobe bricks as, say, a Zuni from New Mexico, but after that they had all their front doors facing the street, no matter where the sun might rise in the morning.

  He nodded at the sentry lounging by the gate and rode on through, muttering, "Nobody in that gang ever pitched a tipi around real Horse Indians. They'd have only had to do it once before the kids laughed at them and called them total assholes. If I knew better, from just my own friendly visits, it's a safe bet those rascals learned about the Indian Police and Black Leggings Lodge from Ned Buntline's Buffalo Bill Magazine!"

  As he crossed the churned-up muddy parade Longarm warned himself not to chase moonbeams further than they might be shining. That one slicker calling his fool self Sergeant Black Sheep hadn't had a Mexican accent and he'd seemed at ease with police routine, whether he'd ever been sworn in as a lawman or not.

  Longarm asked Gray Skies, "How do you feel about an American crook of Mex descent who spent some time on a small-town force or, hell, did some time in jail!"

  When his mount failed to answer, Longarm insisted, "Anyone serving more than thirty days on a vagrancy conviction would pick up the way real copper badges walk and talk. That one could even be a breed. Only the one who called for water in Spanish has to have been a Mex for certain."

  By this time they'd made it to the stables, where a remount noncom he'd talked to earlier was coming out the open end to greet them. The soldier's Class B uniform for the day showed he only supervised the mucking out of the stalls inside. So Longarm didn't offer him any reins as he dismounted, saying, "Good ponies you boys loaned me. I noticed a whole shit-house of riders just left from here a short while ago."

  The two-striper nodded and replied, "You noticed right, and the old man was sort of pissed that you hadn't made it back yet. Him and the First Battalion just rode out to track down them painted Kiowa."

  Longarm sighed and said, "Aw, shit, I'd best switch this saddle and bridle to that bay I rode in on and see if I can catch up with Colonel Howard before he hurts somebody, or vice versa! They took the post road north, right?"

  The man they'd left behind nodded and said, "Headed up Anadarko way. Somebody said something about them wild Indians crossing the post road or following it one way or the other. They never came this way. The agency guns around Anadarko are forted up and ready for the red rascals, of course. The army and the B.I.A. have been burning up the wires, trying to figure which way the rascals went."

  Longarm started to lead the two jaded ponies inside as the remount man tagged along, volunteering, "That Colorado pal of yours is with the column driving a buckboard."

  Longarm handed the reins to another remount man dressed in faded blue fatigues as he asked with a puzzled frown, "Pal of mine, you say?"

  The noncom said, "A Mr. Homy-something. Said he'd driven all the way up from Spanish Flats looking for you."

  Longarm knew it was useless to hope. But he still made sure they were talking about Attila Homagy, from Trinidad, Colorado, before he decided, "I might not ride after that column just yet. Got to send me some telegrams first. Where might I find your signal officer at this hour pard?"

  The army regular looked awkward and suggested, "You might find the liaison office less busy, Deputy Long. They got their own telegraph setup, and with Agent Ryan over by Fort Smith, his breed clerk can't have all that much to do.

  Longarm didn't ask whose wife the signal officer might be with as so much of the outfit rode off to glory. But that reminded him of the other night and so, seeing the enlisted men always knew, he asked what the colonel had decided about those two officers who'd been fighting in the hall at the hostel.

  The remount man grinned lewdly and said, "Long gone. Colonel Howard rides with fairly easygoing reins, but he won't put up with downright stupid. Both officers were transferred out the next morning, one to Fort Douglas in Mormon Country and the other down to Fort Apache. We all felt the sassy wife on her way to Fort Apache got off lucky, once she'd been caught with the regimental Romeo."

  L
ongarm nodded and agreed it seemed rough on the innocent wife of that Romeo.

  The remount man nodded, but said, "That's how come he was only sent to Fort Douglas, despite his wayward dong. The colonel's lady, Miss Elvira, said they had to consider the innocent victim of the untidy triangle. Fort Douglas ain't much worse than here for the wives, and her horny husband deserves the slow rate of promotion over yonder in the Great Basin."

  Longarm didn't ask how they'd learned this much tending to the regimental riding stock. He knew senior-grade officers rated lots of household help, and he hadn't even had to serve breakfast to the older couple himself to learn old Elvira tended to call the shots about social matters on or about this post.

  He agreed she seemed an understanding old gal, and left the two army ponies in the care of the army as he ducked out and circled the parade the less muddy way until he came to Fred Ryan's liaison office near the Headquarters and Headquarters building. He'd never figured out why the army felt you ought to say "Headquarters" twice. But he didn't really care.

  Finding the door of the B.I.A.'s more modest doghouse unlocked, he went inside, where a baby-faced breed wearing a white shirt and shoestring tie looked up from a desk behind the counter and primly told him the boss wouldn't be back until later in the week, if then.

  Longarm nodded and said, "I know Fred Ryan rode the mail ambulance east. We waved to one another in passing. I'd be Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, and I'm sure old Fred would be proud to let me use your telegraph key, seeing the army signal officer seems away on serious business as well."

  The young breed rose warily to come over by the counter as he confessed to being Hino-Usdi Rogers of the Cherokee persuasion. When Longarm bluntly asked him what a Cherokee might be doing here in Kiowa-Comanche country, Rogers looked embarrassed and explained how Ryan had brought him along to a newer post after hiring him and training him at the Tahlequah Agency in the Cherokee Nation. Longarm didn't care. Ryan had obviously been with the B.I.A. longer than the Kiowa or Comanche had been with this agency.