Free Longarm and the War Clouds by Tabor Evans

were sweat-silvered and dusty and weary-looking. They’d obviously been pushed hard for many miles.
    Fitzpatrick said, “Captain Gavin Kilroy, this here rock worshiper is my old friend, War Cloud. Apache scout. You and the rest of these men wouldn’t remember him, as you wasn’t stationed at Fort McHenry when he was, but he served about as heroically as any soldier I’ve ever known.”
    The sergeant turned to Longarm, and his gaze became uncertain. “And this here man is a federal deputy marshal.”
    â€œDeputy U.S. Marshal Custis P. Long, at your service, Captain,” Longarm said, reaching up to shake the hand of the young officer. “I, too, am a friend of War Cloud’s. Friend and colleague. We worked together several times back when he was tracking for the U.S. marshals. We were heading for McHenry on official business when we were bushwhacked . . . by the very three stage robbers you boys are after, I understand.”
    Most folks would have given War Cloud two or three skeptical looks. Not the young captain. There was probably a whole stable of Apache scouts at Fort McHenry, there being no more valuable tool for tracking Apaches than other Apaches.
    â€œPleased to meet both you gentlemen,” he said. “Are you sure you got the men we’re aft . . . ?”
    The captain let his voice trail off when Magpie stepped soundlessly onto the trail behind Longarm and her father. The girl stood with her moccasins spread, thumbs hooked behind her shell belt, staring with that typically skeptical glower.
    The sergeant and the captain had both jerked slightly with starts and touched their guns. But now the captain, scrutinizing the girl though he probably couldn’t see much of her in the misty near-dawn light, said, “And who is this?”
    War Cloud introduced his daughter.
    Fitzpatrick said in shock, “That . . . that there full-growed miss is your little Magpie?”
    â€œShe sure is,” War Cloud crowed.
    â€œWhy, last time I seen her—and it wasn’t all that long ago—she was only hock-high to a deer tick! Look at her now!”
    Fitzpatrick stepped forward, eyes bright with an older man’s joy at seeing a child again he hadn’t seen in years. Magpie’s face remained hard as sand-scoured granite, long, dark eyes reflecting the growing light.
    â€œHey there, you little tadpole—you remember me? Why, sure you do. You were probably six, seven years old last time I . . .”
    Fitzpatrick stopped, frowned, as the girl said something in Coyotero to her father, almost barking the guttural words, before swinging around and taking long strides along the cut toward where they’d left the stolen money and the horses.
    â€œDon’t mind her, Sergeant,” Longarm said. “That’s practically a bear hug compared to the greeting I got from the girl!”

Chapter 9
    â€œIt would be best, Marshal Long,” said Captain Kilroy as they rode along in the early morning sunshine toward Fort McHenry, “if you keep the real reason you and War Cloud have come to McHenry under your hat.”
    The captain’s long-legged bay blew and twitched its ears to the right of Longarm, both men and War Cloud leading up the south-heading contingent.
    â€œCould you chew that up a little finer for me, Captain? Sergeant Fitzpatrick mentioned it when we first met, but I find it hard to believe none of the enlisted men are aware of what happened.”
    â€œOh, there are plenty of rumors going around, of course, but I and the four other officers at McHenry have done our best to quash them. The men are not to speak of the . . . uh . . . the
incident.
You see, Major Belcher is somewhat thin-skinned on the subject, as I’m sure you can imagine anyone might be. Finding out that your wife was . . . is . . . carrying on . . .”
    â€œWith an