by Tabor Evans
Hawzitah thought, nodded, and said, "It would be grand if we met those forked-tongued Wichita or Mexicans in our own hills! But your words about blue sleeves and war paint sounded wise. I think we will just ride with you as far as the open prairie between here and all those blue sleeves!"
So that was how they worked it. Longarm piled a last armful of green oak branches on his smoky fire before he helped the two gals get the four ponies ready to go. No Horse Indian was about to help anyone else with his or her own ponies. Then, mounted on Gray Skies, Longarm led the way directly on down through the high chaparral of the sun-baked southern slopes toward what surely seemed the rising dust of a fair-sized cavalry column.
Along the way, he got in a few more words for the real Indian Police, explaining once more to Hawzitah how his own young men could track down and count coup on sneaks such as the ones they'd just brushed with. He told the older man how those Apache Police had won medals, big shiny ones, for saving the life of their agent, John Clum, in a fight with renegades. He told the Kiowa leader how the great Lakota war chief, Red Cloud, had encouraged young men to join the so-called Sioux Tribal Police. He said, "Cochise met us halfway and died prosperous in bed. Red Cloud and Quanah Parker have both been making honest money on the side, without cutting their hair or joining the Women's Christian Temperence Movement."
Hawzitah answered dubiously, "I have heard all this. Maybe it is true. I will think about it."
Then he said, "Today I am painted for fighting in the old way. So I think this is about as far as my young men and I should ride with you!"
Longarm felt no call to argue against common sense. So they split up amid some cottonwoods where a draw fanned out across the rolling prairie, and Longarm led just the two gals toward that mustard haze of trail dust betwixt them and Fort Sill.
They saved the platoon led by a callow second john at least an hour and change by meeting them miles short of the hills. The patrol leader answered to Second Lieutenant Standish, and he naturally wanted to ride on and see if they could cut the trail of those fake Indian Police. He allowed the army had been getting reports about the rascals from all over. It usually took folks a day or so to figure out they'd been taken, after they'd paid off peace officers who were said to be paid by the B.I.A.
Longarm shook his head and pointed out, "Kiowa who know this range better, no offense, assure me the rascals have made it over to the post road by now. They could just as easily be headed for Fort Sill as Anadarko by now. So why don't we all just see if we can make the fort by supper-time? I promised to bring these ladies back, and by now the little one's momma ought to be having a fit!"
Standish, to his credit, thought before he asked, "Wouldn't it be awfully stupid to ride into an army post in fake uniforms after a firefight with a federal lawman?"
Longarm nodded but said, "Be even dumber to ride that way to the B.I.A.'s main agency at Anadarko. A white soldier might be slower to spy a fake resident of this reserve than a rider for the real Indian Police."
Standish nodded grudgingly, but said, "If I was one of those crooks I think I'd put on my cowboy outfit!"
Longarm smiled thinly and said, "I suspicion they dress more like Indians just traipsing about. Down where Cache Creek runs into the Red River they seem to have had some of the outfit in uniform, with at least a dozen more pretendin' to be quill dependents in a nearby tipi ring. Thinking back, with my eyes half-shut as I try to picture that setup, I ain't dead certain that what I took for women and kids had to really be women and kids. What do you call them Lakota boys who dress up and even walk like weyas? That's what Lakota call their women, by the way. Don't never call a Lakota weya a squaw."
Standish promised he wouldn't and said, "I've heard of those Sioux fairies. I find Indians sort of confusing. You think that could be what we're up against down this way?"
Longarm chuckled dryly and said, "My point is that it's easy for anyone to look like anything at a distance. It wasn't long after I talked sense to what I took for Indian Police that what I took for Kiowa in feathers and paint tried to keep me and a newspaper gal from going on to ask possibly embarrassing questions."
He rode on a bit further with his eyes shut all the way. Then he opened them with a nod and said, "That tipi circle down by the Red River wasn't set up traditionally. It was set up the way you or me might set up a tipi ring, with all the doorways facing one another as if they were seated around a table."
Standish squinted into the distance as if he too was picturing an imaginary Indian camp. "Looked about right to me," he decided.
Longarm said, "Me too, just passing by. Both of us are white men, not Horse Indians housewives. I'm commencing to doubt the bunch I met to the south were real Horse Indians. Such riders, even if they left their womenfolk behind, would be inclined to pitch a traditional camp, with every tipi open to the sunrise, not some Cuffier and Ives notion of an Indian village green!"
As they rode on the young officer, new to both the army and the West, but not to pictures of Indian camps, observed, "We have more than a few tents pitched downright sloppy along Flipper's Ditch around the fort, Deputy Long. Now that you've brought it up, I can't recall just which way any doorway might be pointed."
Longarm made a wry face and said, "I was talking about traditional Indians. Dispirited drunks and broken old men pimping for their wives and daughters might pitch a tipi upside down for all it matters."
Standish nodded, then asked, "Who's to say that's not the sort of reservation trash you've run up against then?"
Longarm said, "Me. They've come after me in particular more than once. They've come at me too brave, or desperate to be beggars or even pimps. After that, we know they swindled some Kiowa pretty slick, and tried to slicker that Running X outfit out of serious money. That sass who calls himself Black Sheep had me half convinced he was a real lawman, and you may have noticed the real badge I showed you back there where we first met."
Standish shot a thoughtful glance at the late afternoon sky. "In sum we have a band of clever desperados out here somewhere," he said. "I sure hope we can make Fort Sill before that storm blows in from the south!"
Longarm stared up at the darkening sky until he spotted silently flickering lightning deep in the badly bruised clouds. "We're a good three hours from the fort and less than an hour from that gullywasher headed our way," he said, "I know I ain't in command of this column. But if I was I'd circle the ponies and pitch me some of those swell army pup tents you all ought to be packing!"
Standish said, "Don't be ridiculous! We're only six or eight miles from the fort. We could make it in less than an hour and a half if we loped our mounts a good part of the time!"
"Through a gullywasher?" Longarm marveled. "They give no prizes for killing your ponies and catching pneumonia out our way. If I was in command I'd camp on high ground and let the gathering storm blow over before I rode on."
Standish let a little steel creep into his voice as he quietly replied, "You're not in command, Deputy Long. My orders from Colonel Howard were to investigate those distant smoke signals and report back to him as soon as I knew what they might mean. You've been kind enough to save us part of the trip. But meanwhile my commanding officer is waiting, probably with everyone on the post braced for an Indian raid. So I'll not waste a whole night out here in the dark just to keep from getting wet!"
He must have meant it. He raised his free arm and waved his men foreward, calling out, "In column of twos, slow gallop, ho!"
Longarm sidestepped Gray Skies, and waved down Minerva and the young breed gal leading the pack brute as the soldiers blue lit out at a lope as if anxious to meet up with that storm from the south.
Matawnkiha Gordon said, "I know. It's going to be raining fire and salt by the time we can hope to make camp!"
But the kid was good and so, with Longarm's experienced help, they had a canvas half-shelter facing a good fire with its back to the rain as the afternoon sky turned twilight dark and proceeded to sweep the rolling short
grass all around with silvery sheets of summer rain.
They'd tethered the four ponies to some rabbit brush on the downwind side of their rise. They'd piled their saddles at either end of their flapping lean-to. That kept some of the swirling wet drafts at bay. They'd spread their bedding on the grass before it had managed to get wet. So they enjoyed a cold but reasonably dry supper as they huddled side by side in the gathering dusk with the storm showing no signs of letting up.
Minerva asked if they thought those soldiers had made it to the fort by this time. Longarm said he doubted it, and Matty said it would serve them right if they all drowned. Eating pork and beans from a can, she declared, "You Saltu are always in such a hurry to go nowhere. The three of us are as warm and dry as anyone can hope to be when Waigon spreads his wings. That gold bar chief was stupid. Stupid!"
As Longarm chuckled in agreement Minerva whispered, "Waigon?"
He said, "Thunderbird. I thought you were taking down a heap of Comanche, Miss Minerva."
She sighed and said, "I keep hearing new words. Didn't you say you were a Christian, Matty?"
The little breed shrugged and said, "When they are giving presents at the agency Sunday school I am. At times like these, when I have to look out for myself, I remember your Jesus Ghost didn't know how to fight when they came to kill him. He let himself be killed without a struggle, as if he was not a man of puha! When I asked the missionary about this, he said I was too savage to understand what the Jesus Ghost was doing for me. Maybe he is right. Nothing the Jesus Ghost ever did for me would keep me dry and feed me fine beans if I was out here on my hands and knees, praying like a Saltu girl !"
Longarm put a warning hand on Minerva's knee to keep the white gal from arguing religion with a pagan breed in the middle of such a storm.
The rain seemed to be easing off as the wind, if anything, blew harder. It got dark as hell, save for the ruby glow of their wind-fanned night fire. When Minerva suggested they build the fire back up, Longarm sadly asked, "With what? Those sage brush roots and cow chips we started with were dry when I first put a match to 'em. As of right now there's nothing flammable for miles that ain't wet as a mad hen."
He patted her knee in the dark again. "We'll be warm enough under our bedding, and it ain't as if we ain't had a long hard day. So what say we all turn in with the extra tarp over us?"
Minerva took his wrist in both hands to move his hand down the inside of her thigh, under her damp summer dress, as she allowed his words made a lot of sense.
He started to ask her what in thunder she thought she was doing. But he knew little Matty could hear every word, and it was all too clear what she was doing once he discovered, with the back of his hand, she was wearing no underdrawers between those smooth and almost clammy bare thighs.
He murmured, "I didn't know you were feeling scared again, Miss Minerva. I'd be lying if I denied you're making me feel... just about as nervous. But can't it wait until all three of us make it on to Fort Sill and that swell hostel I told you about?"
She began to rub his bare knuckles along the warm crease in her fuzzy lap as she half murmured, half moaned, "I thought we were all bedding down for the night out here, Custis."
On the other side of him, Matty yawned and declared, "You two do as you like. I'm tired. I've eaten. I want to go to sleep now. I have spoken!"
Suiting actions to her words, the little breed raised her end of the casually spread bedding and proceeded to get under some of it. Longarm didn't ask how much of her own duds she was shucking as she tossed at least some yards of damp cotton atop the tarp beside him.
He just got to his hands and knees so Minerva could get under at her end. Then he wriggled in between the two of them, having removed no more than his hat, boots, and gun rig. As he snuggled down he felt Matty's bare back with one hand, and didn't explore further down her arched spine. To the other side of him, Minerva lay naked as a jay, facing him, and he didn't have to depend on accidental brushes with either hand. Minerva had his right hand gripped in both hers as she hauled it back down to her fuzzy moist groin and whispered, "As I was saying before you interrupted me, you shy boy..."
"Minerva, for Pete's sake!" he protested, not wanting to say anything less delicate.
The passionate schoolmarm seemed to follow his drift. For she was casual and innocent as she quietly asked, "Are you still awake, Matty?"
The young girl muttered, "Go away. I was plucking sweet grass to weave a yattah for my umbea, and you brought me back from the dream country. Talk to Custis if you can't sleep."
Minerva did. She whispered, "She's too sleepy to pay attention, even if the wind wasn't flapping that canvas over us. Won't you even finger me, for land's sake?"
It seemed the best way to quiet her down. But even as he started to strum her old banjo with lust-slicked fingers, he murmured, "It can't be later than six or eight. So it ain't as if this was all that desperate a situation, ma'am."
She began to move her compact hips as if she was being laid as she moaned, "Speak for yourself. This is all so deliciously sordid, and for all we know, those Indians could be creeping up on us this very minute! I want to come again before I die, and doesn't this remind you of that night we did it in that Pullman berth with those Hard-Shell Baptists sleeping just across the aisle from us, Ace?"
Longarm had a better notion what was eating her now. He'd met other gals who seemed to get a dirty thrill out of taking chances at being caught in the act. There'd been that older gal back home in West-by-God-Virginia who'd never let him have any in her hayloft unless her sister was milking the cow down below.
The sister had been more sensible about doing it out in the woods a mile from their dear old dad and his Greener Ten-Gauge. But then there'd been that French gal touring with Miss Sarah Bernhardt who'd confided she just loved to suck dick in a theatre box, with the show going on and the orchestra droning passionate sounds.
He knew he ought to be ashamed of his fool self as she proceeded to unbutton his fly while she snuggled her naked body closer. But of course he never was. Her naked body felt more tempting in the dark than it looked inside a summer-weight outfit in sunlight. So he kissed her back when she pressed her parted lips to his and hauled out his rock-hard organ-grinder. For he was made of mortal clay and when you got down to brass tacks, what in thunder was a sixteen-year-old kid going to do to them if she figured out what they were doing to each other?
As if she'd read his mind, without taking her lips from his, or missing a stroke as she pulled his pecker, Minerva begged him to put it in her, adding, "It feels so romantic out here on the wet windswept prairie with the children fast asleep!"
He fingered her faster to encourage what she was doing to him, but he still felt awkward about the other gal under the covers with them, and so he whispered, "Wait till we get to that hostel at Fort Sill and I'll romance the hell out of you across a brass bedstead with the lamp lit and the mirror tilted our way!"
To which she demurely replied, "What kind of a girl do you take me for? I could never go up to a man's rented room like some woman of the town!"
He said, "I figured we'd hire separate rooms and act sort of sly, seeing you find that exciting. But how about your own place or, hell, your schoolhouse back at your agency? That sounds sort of risky to my way of thinking."
She sniffed and stopped stroking, just hanging on, as she told him, "It would only be distasteful. The door bolts on the inside and none of my Indian pupils would dare attempt to break in. And there's no soft place to lie down, and the whole place smells of chalk dust and unwashed children and their greasy lunch bags."
He sure wanted her to move that soft hand on his hard shaft some more. He tried slowing down with his own fingers. She called him a meany and began to stroke him some more even as she pleaded, "Can't we finish right, darling?"
When he didn't answer, she murmured louder, "Matty? How are you coming with that basket for your momma?"
When there was no answer, Longarm reflected that the
wind-flapped canvas and moaning prairie all around was making at least as much noise as discreet screwing. So he moaned himself and rolled atop her with his duds on, at first.
Then his naked shaft was in her to the hilt, and she was peeling his duds off for him with her hands as she moved those school marmish hips in a way that might have made her a rich woman in Leadville or Virginia City. The best part was that they didn't bounce the solid prairie under little Matty the way they'd have surely bounced any bedsprings they were sharing with her. Longarm didn't ask why Minerva tossed the top tarp aside as she wrapped her slender but surprisingly strong legs around his waist and softly begged him to thrust harder and faster. He knew full well how his bare ass would have whipped the covers back and forth across that sleeping kid's skinny naked hips. And thinking about the dark tawny Matty's younger and likely even tighter little twat, just inches away from the one he was in, inspired him to start hitting bottom with every stroke as Minerva gasped, "My Lord, you're not at all like Ace after all, and to tell the truth you may be curing my warped hankerings for that tinhorn brute!"
Longarm allowed he was about cured of some heartless gals who'd used and abused him more recently. Then they came hard, and she agreed a shared cheroot might save both their lives.
It was tricky to light up, even with a wax Mexican match. For the wind eddied in under their flapping canvas shelter. But the match cast enough light to tell Longarm he'd been right about that other gal's skinny bare ass.
As if she sensed the light, or perhaps because of the chill in the air, Matty covered her bare butt with her blanket as she muttered some sleepy Kiowa curse words without turning over to face them.
Longarm hastily shook the match out, aware of how much of them the kid would have seen as he lit that cheroot. Then he and Minerva were snuggled under the tarp, naked limbs entwined, as they shared the one smoke. He wondered what other unmaidenly vices she indulged in, but he never asked. Billy Vail hadn't sent him all this way to investigate an almost pretty schoolmarm's morals.
