Tribal Ways by Alex Archer Page B

Indian secessionists. We’re up front about that. It’s our whole reason for being. What we aren’t is racist.”
    “Oh, really.”
    “Please, Ms. Creed. Hear me out. Yes, we picked on you because you were white meat—and would’ve been meat for real if you went through the wrong door in Comanche County. You still could turn out that way, no matter how tough you are. Our reflex first thought was that you needed a good scare to keep you from making a mistake that could seriously cost you.”
    “Why would I believe that?”
    “To start with,” he said, “we let you get out alive.”
    She froze with a forkful of eggs partway to her mouth. “All right,” she said. “Point taken.”
    “Our grievance is with the Great White Father,” Johnny said. “ And his hirelings, whatever color they are. We want nothing to do with Washington. Take nothing from it—give nothing to it. That’s what we’re about. Self-determination above everything else.”
    “Your mother said you had a lot of ideas in common with the old militia types.”
    “My mother?”
    She grinned. Despite the all-knowing-native act he could be caught by surprise, after all. “I met her in Albuquerque. Your father sent me to her for a cultural background briefing. He didn’t tell me she was associated with the ubiquitous Ten Bears clan, either.”
    “Okay, so my dad and I aren’t always as dissimilar as we’d maybe both like to believe. How is she?”
    “Fine. So’s your sister.”
    His grin showed nothing but genuine pleasure. “Thanks. We don’t always keep in touch.”
    The smile faded. “Please. Hear what I tell you. It’s not just that there are some people, whether Indians or shit kickers, in these parts who’re inclined to prey on lone young women. Especially ones as pretty as you are. Just fact, ma’am. No familiarity implied.
    “It’s that this is a very dangerous time and place for any outsiders—especially inquisitive white-eyes. There’s a war going on. One that’s the more nasty for being underground.”
    Annja frowned. “Your father told me there was bad blood between you and—”
    “And the Dog Society. You saw some of them the other night.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Please don’t play coy with me, Ms. Creed. This isn’t bad blood—it’s war. I’ve seen war. I know what it looks and feels and smells like.”
    “I know.” He spoke like someone who did know war. Those who only experienced it at second hand seldom understood about the smell.
    “I’m talking about midnight disappearances. Decomposed bodies found in washes. A body count nobody talks about. And it keeps on rising.”
    She couldn’t doubt the truth of what he said. She was surprised, though, by how much Johnny’s ever-helpful father hadn’t told her.
    “The Dog Society were originally Cheyenne,” Johnny said. “A lot of them live around here, too.”
    “I know the history part,” Annja said. “Your mother filled me in. It’s current events I’m not too clear on.”
    “Well, okay. The Dog Soldiers, twenty-first-century edition. A few actual Cheyennes belong, as well as some Kiowa. Most of them are young Comanches. They are racists, who don’t like white-eyes worth spit. They’re hard-core traditionalists, or what they like to imagine Numunu traditions are, anyway. They really believe, and I can’t emphasize this enough, that as the American empire weakens, the time approaches when they can throw off the white-eyes’ yoke and rule.”
    “Really?” she asked. “And that differs from your philosophy, how?”
    “Fair question. We—the Iron Horse People—don’t want to force anybody to do anything but let us alone. We only want to rule ourselves. Yes, we think the empire’s going down, too. We’ve got eyes. Don’t you see it?”
    She hesitated. “Let’s stick with the sales pitch for your philosophy.”
    “The Dogs are eager to kill anybody whose feet stray from their very narrow path. We fight them, yes. To contain them. To try to