by Tonia Brown
“Armed?”
Ched shook his head. “Not with gunsh.”
“No, he wouldn’t be. He assumes this is a friendly visit.”
“He’s the only one,” Boon said.
“Let me guess, Jones has his men as well as the weapons hidden. Probably in sniper positions?”
“You got it, Sharge,” Ched said.
Dodger massaged his aching temples. “Great Ganesh, this won’t end well. I wish I had more time.” He ran his hands across his empty hips. “And the girls.”
Ched waggled a familiar weapons belt at Dodger. “Found theshe in the forge.”
“Oh hello, ladies! Thanks.” Dodger snatched the belt from the not-dead driver and slid it on. The moment the weight settled on him, his confidence doubled. Which to say, it was a bit higher, but not by much.
“Thank goodness the fire was out,” Boon said.
“You mean the machine was off. The forge is powered by the heat of the ICE machine.”
“That’sh clever,” Ched said.
“Clever yes, but another problem. There is no way Jones will give the ICE machine to us if it is powering his forge. And if we don’t get it back to the doc with a suitable excuse, then we’re going to have a blood bath on our hands.”
“We are probably going to have bloodshed either way,” Boon said. “I went to have a look, and those men headed this way are armed for bear.”
“You went out that far?” Dodger asked. “Alone?”
Boon looked away. “I know I shouldn’t have, but someone needed to take an assessment. Torque’s long vision can only give so many details.”
The spirit meant well, which was enough to keep Dodger from reaming the man. For now. “We can talk about all of that later. Right now, I need you and Ched to get the doc to safety. Take him back to the line and then join me … where are they approaching from?”
“The south,” Boon said.
Dodger pointed to Boon. “Get back to the line and tell Torque to move her northwest of here, about a half-mile. Wait for Ched to get back with the doc, and then the pair of you get back to the ICE machine and pack it down. I’ll try to keep everyone from killing each other.”
“Don’t forget the envelope,” Boon said.
“The envelope?” Dodger asked, then sucked a quick breath through his teeth. “Crap on a cracker, I almost forgot it again. All of this trouble keeps pushing it out of my mind.”
“Am I missing part of the conversation?” Critchlow asked. “Because I feel like I am distinctly missing part of the conversation.”
“I’m afraid our shecret ish out,” Ched said.
Dodger cut Ched an evil look. Surely he wasn’t going to complicate things by trying to explain who Boon was?
“Our sharge here talksh to himshelf,” Ched said, widening his usual rictus grin. “And anshwersh himshelf on occashion.”
“Is that part of his thought process?” Critchlow asked. “Like when he goes quiet for no reason?”
Boon snickered.
“Shure, shure,” Ched said. “It’sh all part of hish myshtique.”
“Mystique,” Critchlow echoed, then smiled at Dodger too.
It took everything in Dodger’s power to keep from wiping that smile’s clock. “You’ve got your orders, folks. Get to it. Everyone meet back up at the line. If you don’t hear from me in twenty minutes, get the Sleipnir the hell out of here.”
“Aye, Sharge,” Ched said, and he took off to collect the doc.
The spirit nodded and left without another word.
“What about me?” Critchlow said.
“What about you?” Dodger asked as he checked the ladies for ammo and function.
“You never gave me any orders.”
“That’s because you’re coming with me.”
Critchlow let out a small gasp of surprise, then gave a little salute. “Aye, Sarge.”
Dodger sighed as he ran a hand the length of his face. “All right, then. Let’s see if we can stop us a massacre.”
The natives stationed their welcome party at the far border of the reservation, near the Sleipnir, which hadn’t moved an inch. So much for following orders. Hopefully, Ched would have a little more success in his mission. Getting the doc the hell out of here before the lead started to fly was the single most important objective here. Everything else was secondary.
Dodger led Critchlow through the reservation in a slow crawl, ducking and dodging as much attention as possible. Again, it was surprisingly easy, thanks to the excitement generated by the recent events. This had a downside as well; almost all of Jones’s tribe had gathered to greet the newcomers, which meant they were all sitting ducks should things take a turn for the worse. Dodger and his shadow reached the Sisters’ tent with unexpected ease. He stopped and peered around it, taking a moment to assess the situation. Most of the crowd formed two pockets on either side of the official welcoming party, which consisted of the chief and his entourage, including Jones.
And the doc.
“What is he doing there?” Dodger asked.
“Who?” Critchlow asked.
“The doc. He is front and center like this is a Sunday picnic and not an all-out battle. He should be on that train. And where in the world is Ched?”
“To be fair, your boss man is probably as unaware as the others of what is really going on here.”
Dodger eyed the line of elders with a grunt. Jones had once again changed clothes, returning mainly to the white-man style of dress, save for a thigh-length buckskin vest. Dodger wondered why the unusual combination, until Jones lifted the vest to scratch the small of his back. That was when Dodger spotted the handles of two revolvers poking out of the back of Jones’s trousers.
“You’re right,” Dodger said. “Maybe I should’ve let Boon spread the word.”
“Who?” Critchlow asked.
“Never mind that, looks like our guests are here.”
A cloud of dust in the distance produced a line of riders, growing ever closer to the excited natives. This was it. The government men had arrived. Dodger could only hope the doc knew what he was doing.
“What do you think is Jones’s plan?” Critchlow said.
“I wish I knew,” Dodger said. “I’m sure he has his men stationed all over the place. If he is clever, and I think he is, then he will wait until one of the agents becomes aggressive, perhaps even let them draw first. We can’t allow Jones to signal his men to fire. Or even reveal their weapons. Once those agents see that the natives are armed …” Dodger let the idea trail off, unable to put the horror into words.
“Ah, yes. I see. They will take defensive measures.”
“That’s a funny way of saying slaughter everyone.”
“I’m a bureaucrat, remember? Making the worst sound acceptable is what I do best.”
Dodger plucked that idea from the very air and clung to it. “You’re absolutely right.”
Critchlow furrowed his brow at Dodger’s grin. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”
“Because I think it’s time you earned your keep around here. Come on.” Dodger pushed the agent into the open and fell in behind the man.
Thankfully, everyone’s attention—including Jones’s—was so tightly focused on the riders that no one seemed to notice Critchlow and Dodger approaching from behind.
“What are you doing?” Critchlow asked as they moved toward the gathered crowd.
“You need to intervene here.”
“Me?”
“You’re the agent for these folks. Do some agenting already.”
“Right. I’m the agent.” As they walked along, Critchlow mumbled to himself for a moment, then asked, “What am I supposed to say?”
“Just keep in mind that you are the representative in these parts. Sort of like the sheriff. That makes you the law. Be the law.”
“But those men are above me.”
“No one is above the law.”
As Dodger and Critchlow grew closer to the tribal repres
entatives, so did the oncoming visitors. The government men, ten in all, pulled their horses to an abrupt stop not more than twenty feet from the crowd, dismounted and immediately headed toward the man in charge. A few threw pensive glances to the Sleipnir, but most were focused on the surrounding crowd, scanning for any hint of trouble. They made no motion to hide the guns hanging from their hips.
Dodger pushed Critchlow the last few feet, into the line beside the chief, then took up a place next to the doc on the other side.
“Mr. Dodger,” the doc said.
At the doc’s words, Jones whipped about and narrowed his eyes at Dodger.
Dodger tipped his fingers to his forehead in greeting.
“What are you doing here?” Jones asked.
“Like I said before,” Dodger said, “where the doc goes, I go.”
“And it is certainly good to see you,” the doc continued. “I was beginning to believe you weren’t going to join—oh my! What happened to your face?”
“I had a bit of a run-in with the door to my quarters,” Dodger said as he touched his tender cheek and jaw.
The chief said something, then chuckled.
The surrounding natives laughed as well, save for Jones, who continued to scowl at Dodger and didn’t bother to translate.
“He said you look like you lost the fight,” Critchlow said.
Dodger forced a short laugh and nodded to the approaching men. “Those our guests?”
The doc snorted. “If you can call them that. Rude lot, the whole bunch. Showing up far too early like this without so much as a warning. If Torque hadn’t spotted them, I would still be asleep in the teepee.”
Critchlow hastily translated to the natives, to which the chief said a few things.
“He suspects that is what these men wanted in the first place. It is good that both of your … um … I think he means subordinates … it is good they both scouted the riders.”
The doc nodded to the chief. “Yes. It is.” He then leaned in close to Dodger and whispered, “Please don’t let Torque know the chief called him a subordinate. I will never hear the end of it.”
Dodger couldn’t help a genuine but painful grin at that. A grin he lost the instant he spotted the leader at the head of the approaching men, and a face he knew far, far too well, despite the number of years it had been since he last laid eyes on the man.
****
back to toc
****
Chapter Fifteen
Unwelcome Guests
In which Dodger meets up with a familiar face
“Who is in charge here?” the agent asked.
“I am,” Critchlow said. He hissed at his own words, then bit his lip as he motioned to the chief beside him. “I mean I am the representative agent. This is Chief Atchee, the man in charge of the tribe.”
The government man grinned and approached the chief with his hand extended in traditional white-man greeting. “Agent Tyler Crank, at your service.”
The sound of the man’s name gored Dodger to the soul. How many years had it been since they last crossed paths? Ten years? Longer? The last time Dodger spoke with Crank was just before the powers that be stripped Dodger of his rank and sent him to the front lines. In fact, it was less of a conversation and more of an argument. If Dodger had it to do all over again, it would’ve been less of an argument and more of a fight.
Or a murder.
Time had been good to Crank. What was he now, in his fifties? Maybe older? The man had put on a touch of weight, which was to be expected when it came to middle age, but other than that, he was as handsome as ever. Dodger had always been envious of Crank’s good looks and easy way with the ladies. Crank still dressed in all black, regardless of the heat.
“This is Benjamin Jones,” Critchlow said, motioning to the native beside him.
“Benjamin?” Crank asked. “That’s not a savage’s name.”
“It is not my tribal name,” Jones said. “I spent some time in the company of Reverend Young.”
“The Mormons,” Crank said with a sneer. He looked to Critchlow and laughed. “Great God, I feel sorry enough for him as it is being a native, but to be strapped with that blowhard?” Crank looked back to Jones and tipped his forefinger to his hat. “You have my condolences, boy.”
Jones’s nostrils flared in resentment, but he somehow managed to keep his mouth shut.
“Actually, sir,” Critchlow said. “We are fortunate to have him with us. He speaks English far better than I speak Ute.”
“Good then,” Crank said. “He can translate for me instead of you. I don’t have a whole lot of time to waste on a slow speaker.” Crank pushed Critchlow aside and all but yanked Jones into the man’s place. “Now, who do we have here?”
With remarkable restraint, Jones introduced the agent to the rest of the line.
Tyler Crank—the same man who had taken a young Rodger on his first mission—turned his handshake and greeting to the gathered entourage. Once he came to Dodger, he paused and stared for a moment longer than Dodger was comfortable with. “Do I know you?”
“No, sir,” Dodger said. “I wouldn’t reckon so.”
“That’s quite a bruise you have there. Been in a fight recently?”
“Not at all. Just clumsy.”
Crank held out his hand. “Tyler Crank, Federal representative.”
Dodger stuck his hand out. “Arnold Carpenter, head of security for the Sleipnir.”
Jones narrowed his eyes at Dodger, a trace of a smirk crossing his lips.
“The Sleepnear?” Crank asked, getting it wrong like everyone always did. “You mean that wonderful train?”
“Yes, sir,” Dodger said.
“I’ve heard of the thing but never had a chance to see it before.”
“That is because it isn’t on display,” the doc said.
Crank turned his attention to the professor. “And you are?”
“The owner of that wonderful train. Professor H.J. Dittmeyer, PhD, MD and DGE. Mr. Carpenter here is my bodyguard.”
Dodger almost breathed a sigh of relief at the support of his lie. He just wished there were some way to keep Jones from spilling the beans.
“Of course,” Crank said. “I have heard so much about you. I’m Tyler Crank, a representative from the Federal government. It’s nice to meet you, sir.” Crank proffered a hand, which the doc ignored. Rejected, Crank was left to nod at the doc before he moved on to the last few natives in line. Jones followed on his heels, translating the name and position of each man. After the greetings were done, Crank stepped back to the middle of the group, took a few paces backwards, then looped his thumbs in his belt, staring at the group of gathered folks like he was appraising a hundred head of cattle and not speaking with the honored leaders of a native tribe. When he finally spoke, he addressed Critchlow.
And only Critchlow.
“I suppose you know what I’m here for?” Crank asked.
“Yes, sir. To assess the ICE machine.”
“Assess and remove, Agent Critchlow. Assess and remove. These natives don’t need or want the burden of such a dangerous machine. Now do they?”
Jones translated this to the natives. There came a few murmurs, and one or two gasps, but on the whole, the tribe kept their wits about them.
Dodger nodded to Critchlow. Go on then, he wanted to say. Do your job.
Critchlow closed his eyes. After a quick huff, he opened them and said, “Actually, sir, I rather think the natives do want the machine.”
Raising an eyebrow at the man’s words, Crank asked, “Really? Is that what you think?”
“Yes. Sir.”
Jones set to translating the interaction for the benefit of all present.
Crank took a few steps toward Critchlow, then lowered his voice to a whisper as he leaned in to say, “I think we both know that what you think doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Because what I say goes. Understood, Agent Critchlow?”
Trembling from head to toe, Critchlow swa
llowed audibly before he said, “No, sir.”
Crank leaned away from the insolent man. “What was that?”
“I said, no, sir. I don’t think what you say goes. At least not here. Sir.” Critchlow pointed to the border of the reservation, a few yards away. “Perhaps over there, what you say goes. But here,” Critchlow paused as he shifted his finger to point to the soil directly under his feet. “Here, what Chief Atchee says goes. Sir.”
“Is that so?” Crank let out a soft laugh as he took a few steps away from Critchlow. “And what makes you think that?”
Something inside of Critchlow broke at the question, for without warning, a torrent of unguarded opinions poured forth from him. “I don’t think, sir. I believe. And what makes me believe is the treaty that grants these fine folks rights to this land. The same land no one else wanted. The same treaty that our president himself signed. I believe this is Chief Atchee’s land, not ours. I believe we are visitors, at best. And as visitors, I believe we should show a bit more respect. Don’t you agree? Sir?”
Jones was fast on the back end of Critchlow’s words, explaining them as best he could to the natives. Once he was done, a whoop went up across the crowd. Crank’s men glanced around nervously at the noise, but thankfully, none of them went for a weapon. The cry lasted a few seconds before the chief raised his hands, at which the whoop died down.
The chief said a few things in a slow and calculated manner.
The man’s speech had a peculiar effect on Jones. Each word brought out an obvious disappointment in him. Every syllable changed his whole demeanor. Every enunciation shifted his entire attitude. Every word the chief spoke pierced Benjamin Jones to the heart.
“No,” Jones whispered.
Critchlow looked just as shocked as Jones, but translated the message all the same. “The chief says none of that matters, because the machine has malfunctioned. He has returned the bulk of the disobedient machine to the father. That would be Professor Dittmeyer, sir.”
The doc fairly beamed with pride as he crossed his arms and smirked at the agents. It was the most defiant body language Dodger had ever seen the old man employ. Dodger officially had no idea what was going on, and he didn’t like it one bit.
