That redhead was hovering too close for Longarm to grab another egg without asking her to refill his empty schooner. So he nodded at her and held up two fingers as he told Billy Vail, “I can hazard a mighty educated guess without having to go all the way down to New Mexico. A land rush always attracts hired guns. There’s one heap of timber and Lord knows what mineral rights to be fought over once the Jicarilla are moved south willing or otherwise.”
“There ain’t going to be any Indian fighting,” said Vail in a dead-certain tone. As the barmaid slid two fresh beers across the mahogany at them Vail explained. “I told you I read. Things cross my desk you never see in the Rocky Mountain News. So I can assure you that me and Interior Secretary Schurz agree with you and General Sherman that the army can win all the medals it needs chasing Victorio and his glorified horse thieves to the south. The government’s hoping your Jicarilla pals will move down to the Tularosa Agency without any serious fuss. The BIA is sending extra allotments and some Apache-talking agents to negotiate.”
Longarm reached for another egg to go with his fresh beer as he said, “Nobody talks any lingo called Apache. Not their Pueblo pals who first called ‘em Apachu, meaning ‘Enemies’ in another lingo, nor the mixed bag of Na-dene speakers. They don’t see why we divide ‘em and dub ‘em Navaho, Mescalero, Chiricahua, and such, by the way. They call themselves names such as Na-dene, N’de, Dene, Tinde, Inde, and Lord knows what-all.”
Billy Vail said something mighty dirty.
Longarm blandly continued. “The BIA might or might not be able to move the ones we call Jicarilla off that prime mountain real estate without a fight. Those not-so-mysterious strangers will doubtless get out of those dry canyons to the east and into the greener pastures of that big old reserve as soon as it seems halfway safe to plunder it. So why not wait and simply ask ‘em who they are and where they came from, once they start filing homestead or mining claims? You got to tell the government things like that as soon as you file either.”
The older man reached for his own beer as he wistfully replied, “I used to come up with easy answers before Sam Houston and me got nowhere trying to keep the Rangers on the winning side and I married up with a member of the unfair sex. If you and the ostrich bird would take your fool heads out of that Apache reserve and listen up, both that Indian land and the surrounding territory of New Mexico are the beeswax of the federal government, which don’t want to wait for drygulching gunslicks to volunteer full confessions. Like I said, they asked for you by name. So can I wire Santa Fe you’re on your way or not?”
Longarm told him to hold the thought as he headed back along the bar. Billy Vail had noticed the head barkeep sending that sassy little redhead into the back rooms with that tray, of course. Ginger was the sort of gal even a married man kept an eye on. But she was nowhere to be seen at the moment, and if Longarm meant to take a leak he didn’t have to be so downright rude!
Then Vail saw Ginger coming back out with her empty tray, and sure enough, that tall, tanned drink of water was saying something that made her blush and cork him on one sleeve with her free little fist.
Then Ginger moved back behind the bar and Longarm ambled back to rejoin Vail, asking, “Are you sure you and General Sherman ain’t out to tangle me up in Indian trouble just to wrangle a sneaky report on the poor Jicarilla out of me?”
Vail sniffed primly and declared, “I work for the Justice Department, not the War Department, and as far as me and Santa Fe can say, the only Indians up those spooky old canyons have been dead for quite a spell.”
Longarm picked up his beer schooner to drain it as Vail asked again, “How about it? Are you riding for us or not?”
Longarm sighed, put down the empty schooner, and picked up his old silver badge to polish it some against the front of his tobacco-colored tweed vest. “Reckon I am. Lord knows I sure can use the money this weekend.”
Vail smiled. “Bueno. I’ll have Henry get right to work on your travel orders.”
But Longarm quietly suggested, “Don’t hurry old Henry just on my account, Boss. If I thought I’d be fixing to leave before Monday or Tuesday, I doubt I’d be needing that much money.”
CHAPTER 2
It sure beat all how a gal could get off work on a Saturday as pretty as a picture and wind up so puffy-eyed and shrew-tongued on a cold gray Monday morning. But Longarm took her downstairs for a decent breakfast in the Tremont House dining room, and tried to be a sport as she counted the ways he’d used and abused her, all the while stuffing her face with pork sausage and waffles. A few cups of coffee later the little redhead had forgiven him and wanted to know if they’d be coming back to this same hotel when she got off work that evening. So he lost back all the ground he’d gained, and had to listen to some mighty unladylike remarks when he confessed that though it burned like fire, he had a train to catch.
He really did board the Durango combination later that same day. Old Henry, the priss who played the typewriter for Billy Vail, had naturally scheduled him to get off the D&RG Western at the town of Chama, New Mexico Territory, just south of the Colorado line near the headwaters of the Rio Chama. But Longarm figured others might be just as slick about train rides from Denver as old Henry. He had discovered to his sorrow that riders of the owlhoot trail tended to expect a federal deputy to be coming their way sooner or later if they were up to any serious sinning. So he stayed aboard to the next jerkwater stop at Dulce, where the tracks crossed one corner of the Jicarilla reserve.
This made sense in more ways than one, assuming his boss and Governor Lew Wallace were on the level with him about those mysterious gents a good day’s ride to the southeast being white men the BIA didn’t know from Adam’s off-ox. For one thing, he was getting off where a lawman on his way to La Mesa de los Viejos had no call to get off. In addition, he was wearing a faded denim outfit instead of his usual three-piece suit and packing a stock saddle borrowed from the Diamond K near Denver instead of his usual army McClellan. And finally, a federal rider would be in better shape to dragoon himself some federal riding stock there without the whole world having to hear about it.
The D&RG Western locomotives stopped to fill up with boiler water at the Dulce Indian Agency because, as the Spanish name for the place would indicate, the springwater there ran sweeter there than anywhere else for miles around. But Longarm didn’t care. As the train he’d gotten down from filled up on sweet water, he was already legging himself and his borrowed roper and saddlebags to the whitewashed agency complex, nestled between the broad, flat railroad right-of-way and the eroded cliffs of striped sedimentary rocks to the south. The higher peaks of the Continental Divide rose hazily to the east. Dulce already lay way above sea level, and while the Divide rose even higher, the mountains down this way, while still considered a stretch of the Rockies, didn’t stick up quite as high as, say, the Front range west of Denver.
A brown-faced gent in a dark blue uniform came out of the Indian Police guardhouse as if to see what the tall, strange pindah lickoyee, or “white eyes,” wanted. Sentimental reporters who paid a bit too much attention to that schoolmarm who claimed to have lived with the Lakota long enough to translate their bellyaching, wrote a heap of bull about the Indian Police being made up of trash whites instead of real Indians. Longarm knew the Indian Police were run by white men, just as the rest of the country was. But it would have been impractical as all get-out to have any police force staffed by underpaid white boys who didn’t savvy the lingo of the folks they’d been armed and equipped to ride herd on.