Longarm and the War Clouds (8 page)

“I'd like to apologize, Major,” Longarm said, unable to contain his frankness. “But you had it coming.”

Leslie glanced in surprise at Longarm and grinned delightedly.

“I did for a fact,” Belcher admitted. “And I myself would like to apologize. I was completely out of line. Drunk on duty, and out of line. I'm terribly ashamed.”

The man bowed his head. He said a quick table prayer and then nodded to Blue Feather sitting beside him. “Blue Feather will fill your bowls with her hearty and succulent rabbit stew. This young lady has been cooking for my wife and I since we came to Fort McHenry two years ago, and I don't think I've eaten better food in the finest New York restaurants. Quite a remarkable feat, given what scant and often poor provisions the girl is supplied with.”

As the stew bowls were passed around the table for Blue Feather to fill, Longarm sat in amazement at Belcher's gall. He'd been caught screwing his young housemaid only a few scant hours ago by Captain Kilroy, Longarm, War Cloud, and Magpie, and didn't look one bit chagrined.

And still he wore his self-righteous indignation over his young wife's indiscretions with Black Twisted Pine on his sleeve!

Longarm wondered—hoped—that the man would whistle a different tune this evening about wanting Longarm and War Cloud to haul not only his wife but her lover back to Fort McHenry for punishment. That he'd softened his stance on the undignified matter. If not, the two men weren't going to get along much better than they had earlier.

Very little was said over the simple meal of stew, fresh bread, and wild peas roasted lightly in butter. As Belcher had promised, everything was delicious.

For dessert, Blue Feather served peach pie and whipped cream. The peaches were not fresh, of course—they came from airtight tins—but still the pie was just as tasty as the rest of the meal.

Blue Feather filled everyone's coffee cup for a second time—everyone except Magpie's, who apparently did not indulge in the White Eyes' drink, Longarm was not surprised to see. She drank only water.

Then, when Blue Feather had cleared the table and was busy washing dishes in the kitchen, Belcher set a bottle of brandy on the table. When Leslie, Longarm, and War Cloud had laced their coffee with the liquor, Belcher added a jigger to his own. He slid his chair a few inches back from the table and to one side, and crossed one leg over the other. He sipped his coffee and stared down into his cup for a time.

Suddenly, he said, “Well, gentlemen, it's time I got down to brass tacks. If you talked at all to my sister-in-law, you've probably gotten a somewhat skewed perspective on the troublesome state of affairs here at McHenry. Uh . . . regarding my wife and that savage, that is.”

Leslie shot a riled look at her brother-in-law. “Anson . . .”

The major waved her to silence and slid his gaze between Longarm and War Cloud. “Let me tell my side of it, Leslie. You've obviously had your say. I can tell by the expression in these men's eyes that they're somewhat perplexed.

“Perplexed?” Longrm said with a mirthless chuckle. “Yeah, I guess you could say I'm perplexed.”

He stared hard at the major so that the man would know exactly what he was talking about—the man's dalliance in his office earlier with his young Apache housekeeper when he was supposed to be pining for his wife. And then Belcher's insistence on bringing both his wife and her lover back to the fort whether they wanted to come or not.

“Let me clear things up for you, Marshal Long and War Cloud.” Belcher sipped his brandy-laced coffee, stared down into the cup, and chuckled as though he saw something funny there. He set the cup down and ran a hand through his hair, grinding his back against his chair with a grunt, as though massaging weary muscles.

When he was done, he drew a deep breath and leveled a vaguely ironic gaze at Longarm. “I assure you that I am not a good man. No, far from it. But then, you already know that.

Belcher looked at Leslie, who held his gaze obstinately. The major grinned and shifted his gaze to Longarm and War Cloud again.

“Be that as it may, I can also assure you that I love my wife. And that she, despite the fact that she's run off with that . . . that Black Twisted Pine . . . still loves me.”

“Then how can you explain what's happened?” Longarm wanted to know.

“My wife is a frail creature. Not so much in body but in mind. And, just like her sister here, she is amazingly beautiful. You can see how she would be an easy target for a strong man. A strong, lustful man. You see, she tends to romanticize the savages.”

He glanced at War Cloud. The Coyotero narrowed his eyes.

Belcher sipped his coffee and stretched his upper lip back from his teeth as he swallowed. “Gentlemen, I submit to you that Black Twisted Pine brainwashed my dear Lucy into believing not only that he loved her, but that he could give her a better life than I can. He coerced her into believing that she should run away with him into the mountains of Mexico and live a pure, raw life out in the open air.”

Leslie said, “How can you be so sure that she was brainwashed into believing this, Anson?”

“Because I found out from Kilroy . . . only
after
the incident,” Belcher added disgustedly, “that Black Twisted Pine is a member of a secret religious sect inside the Chiricahua band of Apaches. A sect whose . . . uh, mecca, if you will . . . is a mountain inside the Shadow Montañas known as
Blood Mountain.
”

Sitting to Longarm's left, War Cloud made a barely audible sound. It was like a single organ chord emanating from deep in his chest. Magpie must have heard it, too, because she turned her own questioning gaze to her father.

“Heard of it?” Longarm asked his friend.

War Cloud said nothing.

Belcher said, “I'm told that the Chiricahuas don't speak of it. A very secret thing. Quite private. Kilroy heard about it from an old medicine man who, in his later years, got a loose tongue . . . especially when he overindulged in
tiswin.
The captain told me that Blood Mountain is said to house the spirit of an Apache witch who, during a special ceremony, bestows certain magical powers upon young women taken there. Powers that turn them into sorceresses.
Witches.
”

Leslie said, “Anson, you never told me this.”

“What would be the point?” Belcher shrugged. “It's all rot. A bunch of Apache hoodoo nonsense, though having thought about it for a while now, I realize that it's probably the same rot that Black Twisted Pine probably filled Lucy's head with.”

“It's not nonsense to the Chiricahuas, Major,” War Cloud said tensely.

Belcher ignored him as though he weren't there. “It's just the type of fanciful gibberish that would appeal to her imagination and foolishly romantic sense of the world. I'm sure this Blood Mountain is a place my wife would find quite fascinating. A place where she thinks she can confer with the spirit world and find the . . .
enlightenment
 . . . she's been looking for her entire life. And I've no doubt that that's where Black Twisted Pine has taken her . . . to commune with this Chiricahua witch. She no doubt believes she'll finally find the meaning of life, peace, and happiness there.”

Face flushed with anger, Belcher sipped his coffee and brandy.

War Cloud turned to Longarm, said, “I've heard enough of this man's shit for one night, brother. I'll be heading back to the bunkhouse.” He glanced at Magpie, who slid her chair back and rose, casting her cold stare at the major.

“Leaving so early?” Belcher said. “But the night is young, my Indian friends!”

War Cloud said, “You got no respect for the Apache way, Major. No respect for your wife. No respect for any woman. You don't even respect yourself, Major.” The scout thrust an arm and an angry finger at his not so gracious host. “Men like you die hard deaths in Apache country!”

He barked something in his own Coyotero tongue to Magpie, and the two strode angrily toward the door leading to the foyer.

Belcher rose from his chair. “How dare you speak to me in that tone, you fucking heathen!”

War Cloud stopped and wheeled back to face the room. His eyes were wide and bright. He'd wrapped a hand around one of the Colts on his hips but managed to keep the weapon in its holster. His jaws were hard. Longarm could tell he was really talking with himself about not triggering a .44 round through Belcher's forehead.

Longarm had gained his feet, as had Leslie. He held his hands out, palms down, placatingly, and said in a soft, even tone: “Easy.”

Belcher was glowering at War Cloud from beneath his knit brows, the soldier's face beet-red. War Cloud stared back at the man. Unlike most Apaches, he didn't mind meeting the gaze of a white man dead-on. He'd always been like that, Longarm knew. Even before he'd left the Apache world to mingle with the White Eyes. If this were anywhere except on a cavalry fort, and if he hadn't agreed to accept a job, Longarm knew that Major Belcher would be roughly one ounce heavier about now and as dead as a fence post.

War Cloud removed his hand from the walnut grips of his Colt, turned, and strode out into the foyer, Magpie close on his heels. The girl cast a quick glanced toward Longarm.

The front door clicked open and slammed closed. Longarm turned to Belcher, who had slid his angry gaze to the lawman.

He said, “If there were anyone else around who could track my wife and that savage of hers to their lair in the Shadow Montañas, I'd have him thrown in the guardhouse awaiting court-martial.”

Longarm said, “No, you wouldn't.” He leveled a hard, threatening look at the man. “We're heading for those mountains first thing tomorrow, Major. We'll find your wife and Black Twisted Pine, and I'll do everything I can to bring your wife back here to Fort McHenry. Those are my orders. But no one except you said anything about bringing the woman's lover back, and I don't answer to you.”

He walked to the door leading to the foyer and said without turning around, “Obliged for the meal, Major Belcher. I don't expect we'll be speaking again until me and War Cloud return.”

In the foyer, he donned his hat and went out.

He crossed the boardwalk running along in front of the married officers' houses and stepped onto the parade ground. War Cloud and Magpie were walking away ahead of him. The sun was down but it was not yet dark.

Belcher's front door opened behind him. Longarm stopped and swung back around to see Leslie step out onto the porch of the major's house, drawing the door closed behind her.

“Longarm!”

Holding her skirts above her ankles, she hurried down the porch steps and ran to him, her rust-red hair bouncing on her shoulders, earrings flashing. She looked up at him with beseeching in her eyes green as amethysts. Those clear, lustrous orbs glinted in the fading salmon-gold light remaining in the clear sky vaulting over the fort.

“Please—I have to talk to you. In private.”

“What about?”

She shook her head. “Later.”

Leslie glanced around the parade ground. Uniformed men were walking here and there, silhouettes sliding around in the gloaming. The hum of separate conversations reached Longarm's ears.

A few of the men turned their heads toward him and Leslie and stopped talking, nudging others with elbows. They were obviously interested in what the major's beautiful sister-in-law and the federal lawman were doing together.

Rumors spread like wildfires on remote military outposts.

“There's a wagon shed down by the stables, north side of the fort,” she whispered. “I'm going to get changed, and I'll meet you there in a half hour.” She turned to walk away before he could object.

 • • • 

Longarm stood outside with War Cloud while Sergeant Fitzpatrick lowered the flag to the melancholic strains of a young corporal bugling taps. War Cloud didn't seem to want to talk about Belcher, likely afraid of getting his neck up again, and that was fine with Longarm, who saw no need to get himself riled up again, either.

They had an assignment—one that was larger than both of them and Belcher, and one that concerned border security as much as preventing a flare-up of the Apache wars. They had to remember that Belcher wasn't the only one capable of sending American troops into Mexico. Lucille's father, the territorial governor, was even more of a threat.

Longarm and War Cloud had to do everything they could to get Mrs. Belcher if not back in the loving arms of her husband, at least safely back on the American side of the border.

War Cloud went to bed, grumbling. Longarm bit the end off a three-for-a-nickel cheroot and took a slow walk along the fort's perimeter, chewing up time, smoking, and thinking, as he made his nonchalant way to the fort's north side. An arroyo cut through a corner of the fort, and there was plenty of greasewood and mesquites for modest cover.

Not that he didn't have the run of the fort, but to protect the girl's honor more than anything, he didn't want to be spied skulking around with Leslie McPherson.

He found the buggy shed just south of the arroyo, where the stock barns, hay barns, and corrals were sprawled across a broad pasture area along the twisting ravine. He came up to the shed—a long, low, pole-roofed building open on three sides—and sat on a covered rain barrel to await his coconspirator. He didn't know what Leslie wanted to speak to him about, but he thought a safe guess would be her sister.

When he'd been sitting on the barrel for a good twenty minutes, he checked the time by starlight on his Ingersoll. Fifteen minutes late. He'd begun to grow concerned when he heard the crunch of gravel in the arroyo thirty feet straight out in front of him.

Before he realized it, his instincts had caused his right hand to quickly slide the Colt .44 from the holster on his left hip. Just after he'd clicked the hammer back, the girl's voice rasped, “For God's sakes, don't shoot me, Longarm!”

The lawman depressed the Colt's hammer. “Sorry, Leslie. Old habit, I reckon.”

He heard more gravel crunch and watched her indistinct shadow rise up out of the ravine. As he dropped down off the rain barrel and stepped deeper into the shadow of the barn, she came toward him, a Mexican-style shawl, or mantilla, wrapped over her head and shoulders. Beneath it she wore a black-and-white calico blouse, a long, dark skirt, and black boots. She stopped two feet in front of him.

“Piece of work, isn't he?” she said, keeping her voice low.

“I'd bet my Colt against horse apples he don't have a whole lot of friends.”

Leslie took one step closer. Her eyes beneath the lacy, black veil flashed in the starlight as did the ends of her front teeth revealed by her parted lips. “I love how you handled him. I've never seen anyone stand up to him like that before.”

“Frankly, the man needs a bullet.”

“I'd pay you to assassinate him but my father keeps a rather tight rein on my allowance, and I've never been adept at earning my own living.”

Longarm chuckled at that. “What'd you want to see me about?”

“I got to thinking that, since I may never see you again, we should finish what we started earlier.”