Fred Ryan frowned thoughtfully and replied, "Can't say I do. The breed who keeps the roll for Quanah's new police force over at their sub-agency would be the one for you to talk to.
When Longarm asked where he might find Chief Quanah himself, he lost a bit of respect for those fancy fringes and Comanche beadwork, even though it was Godiva who gushed, "You were right about Chief Quanah touring the other agencies to see how the more established tribal governments work, Custis. Mister Ryan here thinks the best place to head him off would be Fort Smith, just the other side of the Cherokee Nation. He has a great-uncle holding court there."
Longarm cocked a brow at Ryan and demanded, "Quanah Parker has a great-uncle working at the Fort Smith federal courthouse?"
Ryan nodded confidently and asked, "Who did you think old Judge Isaac Parker was, his great-aunt? It's a well-known fact that after the Texas Rangers rescued Quanah's white mother from the Indians, her uncle, Isaac Parker of Texas, took her in despite her shame."
Longarm laughed incredulously and said, "I've seen that in print too. But it's a fine example of what we in the outlaw-hunting profession call leaping to conclusions from disconnected evidence. I can't say whether Cynthia Ann Parker had an uncle named Isaac or not. But Judge Isaac Parker of the Fort Smith federal court is only in his early forties as we speak, and comes from Missouri, not Texas. So it don't add up as soon as you put all the figures down."
He resisted the impulse to reach for a smoke in the already damp and stuffy surroundings as he added, "I ain't as certain as the Texas Rangers that they rescued anybody, speaking of leaping to conclusions. Would anyone here care for a glass of punch? I don't know about you all, but them cool shades of evening had better get cracking."
Both gals at the table agreed they could go for some refreshing. But when he rose to go fetch three glasses, the colonel's lady, the plump Elvira Howard as she was called, got up to come along, saying he'd have trouble managing three glasses and that she'd been looking for an excuse to stretch her poor limbs.
Longarm didn't care. They walked over to the refreshment stand, and he ignored the toy sandwiches since he'd just had supper. But as he'd hoped, the ruby-red punch smelled of rum. For while enlisted men were forbidden hard liquor on post by the Hayes Administration, rank had its privileges and rum punch was one of them.
As he filled a glass and handed it to Elvira, she declared, for no good reason Longarm could see, "if I were kidnapped by Indians I'd kill myself before I'd let myself be ravaged and be forced to bear halfbreed babies like that white-trash Cynthia Ann Parker!"
He filled two more glasses as he quietly observed, "The Parkers of North Texas were considered quality, Miss Elvira. They owned land and didn't owe back taxes. As for letting herself be ravaged, that ain't exactly the way Miss Cynthia Ann might have seen it. She'd been captured as a little girl and adopted by a Comanche lady who liked children. She'd spent eight or nine years growing up amongst 'em, and it was only after she'd been initiated as a full-grown Comanche woman that the distinguished war chief Peta Nocona courted her fair and proper, playing his nose flute at her and reciting all the wondrous coups he counted. It sounds like bragging to us, but Horse Indians seldom lie about their deeds or fiches."
He put the ladle back in the punch bowl and picked up both glasses as he added, "Cynthia Ann could have said no. But I reckon she figured Peta Nocona was a good catch, considering. He married up with her as honorably as an Indian knows how. and by all accounts he never treated her mean. The couple had two sons, Quanah had a younger brother they usually call Pecos or Puma because his real name would be improper to say in mixed white company. Back around '60, just as the War Between the States was starting, the Rangers raided the Comanche for a change, and took back Cynthia Ann and a baby daughter called Topsannah. Her white kinfolks were happier about all this than she was. In less than five years little Topsannah had died, and the lonesome white captive who'd spent a quarter of a century as an Indian died soon after. Some say on purpose whilst others say she just pined away."
As they headed back to the table Elvira quietly declared, "At least she had some fun out of life before time's cruel teeth caught up with her! I can't see Myself marrying even a handsome Indian, but I guess a Comanche camp would be more diverting than... My God, why can't the entertainment committee come up with something new once in a while!"
Longarm didn't have to answer. They were already within earshot of the table. Longarm handed Godiva her punch and he and Elvira both sat down. As they did so they saw the conversation had drifted back to that shootout at the abandoned ruins. Ryan seemed to hold that his Kiowa had doubtless been out to make some point. He agreed they were harder to figure than the more progressive Comanche, but to his credit as an Indian agent, he held few Indians ever attacked for no reason at all.
Colonel Howard, who sounded as if he'd been at some rum without the fruit juice and such, snorted, "Oh, no? What about that ornery old Kiowa devil called Satan? He was the one who stirred up all the troubles starting in '70, wasn't he?"
Ryan gained more ground in Longarm's eyes by gently pointing out, "Big Satanta and crazy old Satank might have translated their names as White Bear and Sitting Bear. Neither one invited those white buffalo hunters to collect hides on hunting grounds ceded to the Indians in the Medicine Lodge Treaty of '67."
But Longarm knew old broken treaties were as tedious to hash over as whether Adam or Eve had sinned the most. So he sipped some punch, finding it strong enough but way too sweet, and opined, "I've been ambushed on my way to an assigned chore before. I don't mean to boast, or imply Miss Godiva here ain't prettier than me, but somebody here at Fort Sill sent for me to smooth out some wrinkles in your Kiowa Comanche Police and-"
"We don't have any Kiowa on the force," Ryan said quickly. "Under Quanah, the Comanche have drilled in corn and agreed to give beef instead of buffalo a try. But we haven't been able to recruit many Kiowa. They sneer and call other nations woman-hearted if they meet the bureau halfway. Then they cry like babies and demand government supplies because they won't give farming a chance and, big as it is, this reservation simply isn't big enough to feed substantial numbers on hunting and gathering alone!"
Longarm nodded soberly and replied, "I just said that. I've been on other reserves where hold-outs begged for increased allotments and complained the Great Father was trying to murder them because their agent wanted to vaccinate their kids and teach them how to read and write. The old-timers ain't just stupid. They're afraid they'll lose their hold on their tribesfolk if they don't keep control of the older medicine, the traditional chants, and where the next meal might be coming from."
Ryan nodded and said, "Quanah and the other Comanche leaders have managed to hold on to their authority and still get their kids vaccinated against the pox. Quanah's improved his own English, learned to read and write, and they say some of his white relations down Texas way have started to brag on him."
Godiva Weaver said, "I can't wait to meet him now that I know he's neither as old nor as stern as he looks in those published tintypes." Then she caught Longarm's amused expression and quickly added with flushed cheeks, "To interview for my paper, I mean. Maybe he can tell us why those Kiowa attacked us."
Longarm shrugged and said, "I thought I'd go ask the Kiowa at their own agency tomorrow."
Ryan laughed incredulously and said, "You won't even get them to speak English to you, even though a lot of them know how!"
Colonel Howard looked confused and declared, "You can't ride out to the Kiowa alone after they just tried to kill you. We can give you a cavalry escort, if you really think you can get anything out of the treacherous devils!"
Longarm shook his head politely and replied, "Thanks all the same, Colonel, but it's been my experience you get even less out of sullen Indians when you make 'em feel proddy. We all know the elders are either in control of their young men or they ain't. If any Kiowa who's at all high on the totem pole gave orders to have me stopped before I got here, he'll know I got here. Sometimes silence can be golden when a lawman knows how to question a suspect."
He took a sip of punch and added, "Any old-timer who's lost control of his young men might be way more willing to complain about it. Didn't General Sherman and Agent Haworth get a Kiowa chief to bear witness against Satanta and that medicine man, Mamanti, at the end of the buffalo war?"
Ryan nodded soberly and said, "The chief was Kicking Bird, and he pointed out two dozen heap-bad Injuns to save the rest of his band at the end. Then Mamanti cast heap-big medicine, likely arsenic, and Kicking Bird kicked the bucket. The Kiowa are one of the few Horse Indian nations who go in for political assassination."
Colonel Howard muttered, "Mean as hell. Sorry, ladies. Nobody can hold a candle to Comanche when it comes to blood and slaughter. They were a bigger nation, ranged further out from the mountains, and got into fights with Texicans first. So they perforce soon learned to fight more scientifically than anyone but, possibly, Cheyenne. Cheyenne got to digging trenches and reloading their own spent cartridges in the end. But before he saw the light, Quanah Parker led his boys as cleverly as if he'd gone to West Point. The Kiowa never progressed past dirty. Quick, sneaky raids and, as Mister Ryan just said, resorting to poison like red versions of the Borgias!"
By this time it didn't feel any cooler, but it had gotten darker outside. So Elvira Howard interrupted the discussion of Indian warfare to gently but firmly tell her husband, "If the dancing is ever to get under way this evening, don't you think the colonel and his lady had better take the floor?"
Colonel Howard didn't argue, but from the way he lurched to his own feet as his plump wife rose, he was one of those gents who held his rum better while sitting down.
As the older couple moved out on the empty dance floor, Ryan said something to Godiva Weaver, and the next thing Longarm knew he was seated at the table alone. But he didn't care. Like most men, the tall deputy mostly danced as an excuse to grab on to a gal for the first time. He found it perfectly logical that few men really liked to dance with ladies they'd already slept with or never meant to. As the dance floor filled with swirling couples, he figured any gal left over along the walls would be somebody's wife, somebody's daughter, or mighty ugly. So, having finished the sickly punch and wanting a smoke, he got up and headed out to the downwind veranda.
Nobody else seemed to care, and it was cooler and more peaceful out there in the semi-darkness as he smoked a cheroot and that louder dance music played in one ear while, off in the distance, someone was playing "Cotton-Eyed Joe" on a mouth organ. It sounded like that Running X rider who'd been serenading them along the trail north out of Texas. Harry Carver and his boys were likely sipping non-alcohol beer or soft cider down at the sutler's. Although as in the case of the rum punch inside, hard liquor could always find its way onto a post no matter what Lemonade Lucy Hayes got her husband, the President, to say.
Longarm blew a thoughtful smoke ring as he pondered that notion. He knew how the Reed-Starr bunch over by Fort Smith ran stolen stock and moonshine in and out of the Cherokee Nation. But that shabby clan of trash whites and Cherokee breeds didn't act like Quill Indians, and went out of their way to be nice to the Indian Police.
On the other hand, if Quanah Parker's Comanche Police were less willing to be bought off, and someone was worried about an experienced white lawman teaching them more than they already knew... That worked, up to a point. The point where things got tough to picture was where, in any direction, a Black Legging rider sporting feathers and paint loaded up on rotgut. Anyone running substantial amounts of liquor would be running it in for the troops. There were close to a thousand soldiers out here, all drawing at least thirteen dollars a month, and while Indians like to drink at least as much, they wouldn't have as much money to spend on such forbidden pleasures.
Longarm blew another smoke ring and muttered, "Then what edge would anyone acting sullen in buckskin have over a friendly Indian, mayhaps with a job on the post, when it came to peddling moonshine to the thirsty peacetime army?"
He became aware the dance music had stopped inside when some others came out on the veranda, not to join him but to cool off. He saw Godiva and old Ryan, speaking of buckskins, but they were down a ways and he had no call to pester them. Old Ryan was acting mighty attentive, and he'd likely told the newspaper gal already that he'd have his own quarters close at hand, doubtless more luxurious than a spartan room at that guest hostel.
Godiva must have told the B.I.A. man she wanted some of that swell rum punch. For she was suddenly alone as Ryan ducked inside again.
Longarm stayed where he was, and sure enough, the newspaper gal moved down along the railing to join him, saying, "Fred Ryan has just offered to wrangle me a seat on the B.I.A. mail ambulance bound for Fort Smith tomorrow morning."
Longarm nodded and replied, "You told me down in Spanish Flats you were out to interview Quanah Parker. I reckon it's possible for you to catch up with him in Fort Smith. He's got to be out there in some direction. Meanwhile he's expected back here some time or the other."
She sighed and said, "Fred told me You'd probably say something like that. I naturally didn't tell him about... our getting sort of silly on the trail. But he seemed to take it for granted that I was sort of... under your influence."