Read Online Longarm and the War Clouds by Tabor Evans - Free Book Online Page B

light bled into the eastern sky, he could make out what he thought was gold trim on the blue hat of the lead rider. Also, farther back in the group what appeared to be a guidon buffeted gently.
    A company flag?
    Longarm glanced at War Cloud. The scout glanced back at him. Silently, they agreed to hold their positions.
    Voices sounded in conferring tones. Then one of the group separated from the others and came on ahead on what appeared an army bay. The lone rider came on slowly, hooves thudding softly in the well-churned dust of the trail. When Longarm made out the sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeves of the soldier’s blue tunic, the lawman rose to stand beside the mesquite while War Cloud and Magpie held their positions.
    â€œThat’s far enough, Sergeant,” Longarm said.
    The soldier reined his bay up sharply about twenty yards back along the trail. The man’s startled horse sidestepped and blew, rippling its withers and shaking its head.
    The man in the saddle was burly. He wore a leather-billed forage hat and suspenders over his blue cavalry tunic.
    The lawman could see the man’s eyes flash wildly beneath the brim of his cap. Just as the sergeant began to lower the carbine he’d been holding barrel up on a stout thigh, Longarm said, “Easy, soldier. I’m a deputy United States marshal. The men you’re after are dead and the loot is secure.”
    Longarm set his rifle on his shoulder, making no quick movements in case the sergeant was trigger-happy, and stepped out onto the trail. “If it’s them you’re after, I mean,” he added.
    The sergeant looked at him askance and flexed his yellow-gloved hand around the neck of his army-issue Spencer repeater. “We’re after three yellow-bellied scalawags, true enough,” the man said in a deep, slightly raspy voice. “But how do I know you ain’t . . . ?”
    â€œIs that ole Tom Fitzpatrick I hear bellyachin’ up there on that army bay, Custis?” War Cloud stepped out onto the trail, his own Spencer repeater resting on his shoulder.
    Longarm glanced at the scout, who looked up at the sergeant, white teeth showing between his parted, upswept lips.
    â€œWell, jumpin’ Jehoshaphat,” sputtered the sergeant, who appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties. “If it ain’t that old dog eater, War Cloud his own mangy self!”
    The sergeant hipped around in his saddle and bellowed at the group behind him, “Come on in, Captain! It’s all clear—got us a federal lawman and an old friend here!”
    The sergeant reached forward to shove his carbine into its saddle boot and then crawled heavily out of the saddle. He walked up to War Cloud, grinning broadly, and pumping the Indian’s outstretched hand. “Good to see you, kid. What in the hell brings you back to this next of the woods, and how in the hell did you run down them curly wolves for us? Two days ago they robbed the stage out of Tombstone, an’ we finally cut their trail yesterday afternoon.”
    Fitzpatrick’s eyes widened. He shifted his gaze between Longarm and War Cloud, and then pointed at both men, saying, “Oh, wait a minute. By thunder, I bet you’re both here to . . .” He let his voice trail off, and then, as the rest of his patrol rode on up behind him, he shielded his mouth with his left hand as he whispered, “Not to speak of it in front of the enlisted men. Just the captain.”
    The sergeant shook his head darkly, emphasizing that the subject shouldn’t be blabbered out.
    â€œWhat do we have here, Sergeant?” asked the lead rider, a rangy, mustached young man with captain’s bars on the shoulders of his dark blue uniform blouse.
    He frowned beneath the brim of his blue kepi whose left side brim was pinned up against the crown. There were seven other soldiers, including the guidon bearer, riding behind him. All the bays