Tribal Ways

by Alex Archer

  “Most likely,” Johnny said, “there’s all kinds of feuding all the way up the law-enforcement ladder about whether to pull elements off the Casino for this. Even postpone the opening.”

  He was truly enjoying himself, Annja could see. He thinks we’re about to see action, she thought. And he loves it.

  She couldn’t honestly say she didn’t feel the same way. She still wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. But she was personally going nuts sitting still and not being able to do anything.

  “Nation won’t let them put off the grand opening,” Billy said. “Got too much riding on it—money, reputation. They’ll take it all the way to the top if they have to. And no politician’s so highly placed he or she’ll turn down nice gifts of Indian-casino cash.”

  Johnny held up a big hand. “Wait,” he said sharply.

  “We’re getting reports now of an explosion near an elementary school in Lawton,” an older reporter was saying on the screen. He had piercing blue eyes, silver-white hair shellacked into unlikely waves and a voice like molten amber. Apparently the station’s big gun had been rolled out to break the new development.

  “Holy shit,” Ricky said. “Let me go check the police scanner.” He disappeared through the rounded archway of the door to the rest of the house.

  As the group sat and listened tensely in the kitchen more information filtered in from various sources. The story played out that a car had exploded and burst into flames on a side street a half block away from the school. The students had been inside at classes; there were no reports of injury.

  “Why would the Dogs take so much trouble to avoid hurting people if they’re starting a terrorist campaign?” Annja asked.

  “It’s smart,” Angel said. “They want to frighten people and shake up the authorities without making everybody hate them. Killing kids will pretty much unify the country against them.”

  “Speaking of the old militia types,” Billy said, “not that I knew any. They used to say after the Oklahoma City bombing that if McVeigh hadn’t blown up those kids at the daycare in the Murrah Building he’d have been considered a national hero. Now, I’m not saying I agree with that, but they did have a point.”

  “And even setting off a bomb near a school will freak everyone out completely,” Snake said. “No matter what’s going on elsewhere the pigs have to respond to this one. Big-time.”

  “So,” Johnny said. “Two diversions. That’ll shake everybody’s shit loose.”

  “Except the Dogs’,” Snake said coolly.

  “Look, I’m as skeptical of the authorities as anybody else,” Annja said. “But won’t they see these have to be diversions, too?”

  “Oh, hell, yes, Annja,” Billy said. “Even Lamont sees that.”

  “Even if they recognize it’s a feint, what else can they do?” Johnny asked. “As Snake says, threatening a school’s the thermonuclear option. The authorities have to jump all over it.”

  “So now what?”

  “Dog Soldiers’re about to make their move,” Billy said, draining his fifth mug of black coffee. “We sit tight and hope to spot it in time to put a stick through their front spokes.”

  “How’re you going to do that if—”

  “You were going to ask, ‘if the Feds can’t?’” Johnny laughed. “What did I tell you? Nothing happens in Indian country—”

  “That people don’t know about. Yeah. But you guys had no clue about that terrorist confab at the training center,” Annja said.

  “The Dogs were being ultra-hush-hush about that. And we weren’t looking for it. This is the Dog Society making its big play—whatever it was they wanted those other radical fools to jump in on. It’ll be public, splashy, and we’re on full alert for whatever it turns out to be.”

  “Like the government, we got eyes and ears everywhere. Only ours are human,” Billy said. “Advantage—us.”

  “He’s right,” Snake said. She seemed amused.

  And as if cued Ricky appeared in the doorway. He held a small yellow push-to-talk radio to his ear.

  “I think we got a hit.”

  20

  A half mile ahead, it rumbled along parallel to their jouncing, hurtling course, throwing up a big wave of yellow dust from the indifferently graded road.

  “A hijacked gasoline tanker?” Annja said. Actually, she yelled it at Johnny Ten Bears’ back, trying to make herself heard above the singing of the wind and the snarling of the motorcycle’s big engine. “Don’t the Feds have some kind of security measures to prevent that?”

  “They got a program,” Johnny called back. “More paperwork than implementation so far. But you have to know by now the Dogs have their snouts in the Federal trough somewhere, too. If there were safeguards, they circumvented them.”

  At unquestionably unsafe speed they rode a dirt road southeast of Lawton. A dozen or so of the Iron Horse People charged behind them on their big stripped-down bikes. They’d gotten the tip from an old buddy of Billy White Bird’s. He was neither a member of the Iron Horse People nor an Indian, Annja gathered. Rather he was a participant in the underground-economic network, the establishing and maintaining of which seemed to be among the club’s main purposes.

  “But how do we know it’s really been—oh, my God!” Annja’s question turned to startled outcry as she saw a swarm of bikes and a pickup truck following in the tanker’s dust. They immediately began to peel off to intercept the fast-closing Iron Horses. Some cut down a connecting dirt road to cross their path.

  En route Johnny had shouted an explanation to Annja that this area had been grid-graded in preparation for an entire phantom subdivision—investment homes, products of the real-estate bubble now burst. The houses would never be built; the roads remained, turning gradually into arroyos from rain and wind.

  Annja could make out the black-painted faces of the approaching riders. Most wore buckskin leggings and went bare chested despite the overcast cold. They were pretty seriously committed to this reenactment stuff.

  Some raised hands toward the Horses. Thin gray smoke gouts were whipped away by passage wind as they opened fire. The bullets came nowhere near as far as Annja could tell. No spouts of dirt or miniature sonic booms of high-velocity projectiles passed by. Not surprising, given their terrible firing platforms.

  “What do they think they’re reenacting,” Annja called, “The Road Warrior?”

  With a snarl of a big V-twin engine Billy White Bird pulled alongside them.

  “Do you see that posse of posers?” he shouted. “They’re wearing feathers.”

  Annja saw it was true. At the back of most of the enemy riders’ heads flapped an eagle feather. The missing ones, she suspected, had been plucked away by the breeze.

  And leading the procession down the connecting road ahead, right in front of a pickup truck full of men with M-16s, rode a man on a motorbike who sported a full flowing Plains feather bonnet.

  “What an asshole!” Johnny cried over his shoulder. His own long hair was tied in a ponytail and tucked down the back of the olive-drab T-shirt he wore beneath his colors, to prevent it flapping in Annja’s face. “You’re supposed to get awarded those feathers one by one for counting coup!”

  “I think it’s a case of entitlement gone amok,” Billy shouted, “since if you look real close that’s little Georgie Abell wearing the tourist curio. The fat bastard’s been behind this all the fucking time!”

  “Holy shit,” Johnny said. “You’re right.”

  “We’ll clear the way,” Billy called. His grin widened and he wound out the throttle.

  “Better haul out that piece we got you,” Johnny called over his shoulder to Annja. “You probably won’t hit anything with it, but you’ll give the bastards reason to stand back.”

  “Already on it,” she called, pulling her Glock 23 from a holster at the small of her back.

  She wished she dared pull back the slide enough to confirm a round was chambered—as she’d been rigorously taught to do wheneve
r a firearm came into her hands, to confirm its status as loaded or empty, and regardless of whether she’d just watched someone else do it. She’d reaffirmed the handgun was loaded several times already; the impulse was pure habit. But it was a good habit.

  Dog Soldiers on dirt bikes had cut cross-country. They began passing through the Horse column, firing handguns and even CAR-4 full-auto carbines one-handed. Annja blazed away at a couple, missing as Johnny had predicted. Well, she’d expected it, too. Hitting a fast-moving target from a platform that was also moving, and moreover bouncing all the hell over the rutted road, was basically impossible save by mad accident. And indeed when the Dogs began swirling around in the field beyond for another pass, a quick look around showed no Horses had fallen.

  “Told you!” Johnny called.

  “But they’re on dirt bikes!” she cried. No motorcycle expert, she did know the smaller machines were more agile, far better cross-country than the burly Horse choppers, which were optimized for long-distance highway cruising.

  “Yeah, but our target’s bound tighter to the road than we are,” Johnny called back. “And these Dogs don’t live to ride, the way we do. Buncha dilettantes.”

  And indeed Annja saw several of the Horses vault defiantly from the saddles of their bikes to stand one-footed on a side peg, before hooting and resuming their seats. The Comanches had always been reputed among the very best horsemen among the horse-worshiping Plains nations; apparently her comrades took the whole Iron Horse thing literally.

  “Impressive. But what about the pickup with all the guys with guns?”

  “Watch Billy,” Johnny shouted.

  The crossroad still lay a quarter mile ahead.

  Bent low over his handlebars Billy rode straight at the big pickup truck. The Dog Soldiers in the back were firing furiously over the top of the cab with full-size M-16s and obviously missing. Billy leaped up to stand on his seat, giving them a double-barreled finger as his machine slowed with his hand off the throttle. The bike wobbled. He jumped back down to the saddle as lightly as a gymnast, grabbed the bars and veered off into the grass as the truck roared past.

  The road had a drainage ditch running alongside it. Drawing his pistol, Billy circled back around and into the dry, weed-choked ditch, following the big truck.

  The Dog Soldiers in the back had jostled one another all out of any order when he went past the first time. Some grabbed for handholds in case the massive Harley slammed head-on into the truck. Others swung around shooting, hoping with wild optimism to hit him.

  They were still untangling themselves when he rolled up the inner bank onto the road next to the truck, almost inside arm’s reach. He pushed out the chunky revolver until its four-inch barrel was almost pressed to the front tire, then blasted off two shots. He yanked his front wheel right, hard, putting a boot down and taking off at a right angle to the road.

  “Yeah!” Johnny crowed. “Classic buffalo-hunter move!”

  The tire blew. Before the driver could do much about it the truck veered into the ditch. The truck slammed onto its side, bounding over the winter-tan grass. Dog Soldiers and their long black rifles spilled out.

  They were picking themselves up and helping one another to their feet as Johnny whipped past them up the crossroad in pursuit of the runaway tanker. Though she had no way to be certain Annja thought none seemed badly injured. They were certainly hard core, these Dogs, dilettantes or no. And she already knew they were deadly dangerous.

  A swirling battle had developed. Or rather the Dogs on their more agile machines swirled around the Horses, who charged on single-mindedly after their quarry. Both sides shot at each other but if anybody went down Annja didn’t see.

  Annja leaned forward into Johnny’s back. Conscientiously she kept the Glock pointed skyward with her trigger finger braced on the frame instead of inside the guard. “What’s the plan?” she shouted.

  “I’m open!” Johnny said. He sounded as if he were totally enjoying himself. As if he’d enjoy it, live or die.

  “Get in close to the tanker’s rear,” Annja said. “I’ll climb up the back and go for the cab. Take out the driver.”

  Johnny turned his head briefly to blink back at her through his aviator shades. Mirrored in his eyes she saw the very question she was asking herself. Did I actually just say that?

  “You’re crazy!” he shouted.

  “Of course I’m crazy. Look, I can do it. It’s the only way. Unless you trust me to drive the bike while you climb up.”

  By the tensing of his shoulders she could tell what he thought of that. About the same as she did, actually.

  But it was true. They weren’t going to be able to shoot out enough of the big rig’s eighteen tires to slow it down. And there were three bad boys riding up top the tank itself, armed with full-length M-16s, lying down and aiming, at least sort of. They’d likely pick off any Horses who got close enough to take a moving shot at the driver in his high cab. And as Johnny turned onto the road behind the tanker Annja saw yet another long black barrel sticking out the passenger’s side window of the cab.

  “You mean it?” Johnny called.

  “Just do it, before I come to my senses!”

  “I’ll call the club to give you fire support.”

  “Wait! On a tanker full of gasoline?”

  “Tank’ll probably self-seal, if our bullets can even punch through,” Johnny shouted. “Those puppies’re tougher than you think. Anyway, bullets don’t start fires for shit. Even in gas. Believe it—I know.”

  “Go for it,” she said. She heard him speaking for the benefit of the microphone on the radio headset he and the other Horses wore. She couldn’t make out the words. Since they were doubtless in Comanche she knew it didn’t matter.

  With a full-throat snarl a bike pulled up beside them. Snake was riding it. She caught Annja’s eye, gave her a thin smile and a salute with her .45. Then she swerved off the road and gunned ahead to shoot at the gunmen atop the stolen tanker.

  The rear gunner man lay on his bare belly shooting single shots. That metal must be cold, Annja thought. A shift in the flow of movement caught her eye. She looked aside in time to see a riderless Horse motorcycle bounce across the prairie for twenty yards before veering to one side and toppling in a cloud of dirt and bits of dried grass. She grimaced. She wondered who it was, hoped he hadn’t been badly hurt.

  Or she. Even Angel, who looked fourteen and, like her name, rode with the club to battle this morning. It wasn’t the traditional Plains way. It was the New Traditional Iron Horse way.

  Yellow muzzle flames flared like suns, right toward Annja. Bullets cracked by her head so near she turtled down inside the borrowed leather jacket she wore.

  Johnny whooped, put his head down between his handlebars and gunned the engine. Despite its double load the powerful vintage bike leaped ahead at crazy speed. It caromed high off the bumps and rattled as if coming to pieces. Annja wasn’t sure how he could possibly keep the machine on course. But he did.

  She tucked her stubby Glock back in its holster and clung to him hard.

  Gunfire crackled from close behind. Iron Horse People were closing in, firing at the tank-truck gunner as they came. Annja hoped they had the sense to aim high. It would really suck to take a round through the back of her head from her own guys.

  The gasoline tank’s rear loomed before her like an oval silver cliff. The gunner up top winced as a bullet whanged off metal near him. He jumped up, trying to keep Johnny and Annja in his sights as they got close to the bumper.

  The Horses loosed a rapid-fire volley at the Dog Soldier. Glancing around, Annja saw the head of Black Bull Jake, a Kiowa, snap back as he took a bullet through the forehead. Riding at his side Snake had to veer wildly off the road to keep from being knocked down by his out-of-control bike.

  Then Johnny was up alongside the left end of the tanker’s big corrugated-metal rear bumper. Not letting herself think about it, Annja grabbed his shoulders. Using him to brace herself she clambere
d up onto her seat. Then she jumped for the bumper.

  She got a foot down on it. And found herself falling forward helplessly.

  21

  Annja’s momentum carried her across the sheer face of the big silver-gleaming tank’s end. She got a hand on one of the steel rungs welded to the back of it and clung like a monkey. Her right leg flopped down off the bumper. The toe of her shoe kissed the road winding by below. She felt a terrible tug for a moment, then yanked her foot back up onto the bumper by sheer force of will.

  She may not have had the upper-body strength of even a substantially smaller man, but Annja was still strong. She got her other hand on a rung and hauled herself upright.

  Riding hard alongside the bumper’s left side, Johnny gave Annja a grin and a thumbs-up. And out of the grassland came George Abell, his ridiculous feather bonnet flapping behind him, straight into Johnny’s blind spot. Annja screamed and pointed.

  Abell swung a hatchet in a gleaming silver arc. It struck Johnny on the back of his head. He fell off his bike, narrowly missing the tank-truck’s bumper, to roll over and over in the road.

  Annja heard the Horses scream in rage. Abell accelerated rapidly away cross-country as bullets cracked around his feathers.

  Annja saw Johnny stir, start to pick himself up. She hoped desperately he wasn’t badly hurt. But a crackle of full-auto gunfire from above told her she had no more time to spare him.

  She swarmed up to the top of the tank twelve feet above the dirt road. Empty casings fell on her in a glittering cascade. A glittering hot cascade. One seared her cheek painfully, just glancing off.

  The Dog gunman was standing straight up with legs braced right above her. But he was looking back, not down. The pack of Horses following close in the tanker’s dust cloud whooping vengefully and shooting at him seemed a far more credible threat than that some crazy white-eyes chick would actually jump onto the truck and come after him.