“You don’t understand,” Longarm said, trying to keep his voice calm and low and reasonable, even though he would much rather have raved and snarled and railed at the dumb little son of a bitch. What was he? Twenty years old or thereabouts? All he knew to say was what his ignorant bosses had told him. “This bombing is being blamed on the Utes. Fine. I was there that day. I saw the bomber. It looked like it coulda been a Indian, true. An’ maybe some bunch of them was dumb enough to throw that bomb. But that only means the investigation needs to be done by somebody that the Ute people will open up an’ talk to. Right? I mean, don’t that make sense? An’ if I do say so, mister, that means I oughta be the one going out into the field to look into it from that end. The Utes know me. They trust me already. Do you have any idea how difficult it can be to convince an Indian that he oughta trust some stranger? Ask Smiley there. He knows.”
Longarm looked at the tall, saturnine deputy for support. The dour Smiley grimaced once and nodded. “I hate to say it, but Long is right. He already has a foot in the door with those people. Now if it was the Arapaho, that would be different. I know them better. But Long, he knows the Utes. And they know him. The sensible thing would be for Long to pick those of us he wants along to help and then ride south.”
“West,” Rakestrom corrected. “The Ute reservation, as you apparently do not know, is well to the west from here.”
“South,” the unsmiling Smiley shot right back at him. “What you an’ those fancy-britches popinjays from Washington don’t seem to know is that you won’t find the Utes on their reservation at this time of year. Not the young, wild ones anyway, and those are the ones Long and us need to talk to about the bombing.”
Rakestrom scowled. “We seem to be getting off the subject,” he said. “Let me say this one last time. And I’ll not hear any further argument. Certain decisions have been reached. It is now up to us, to all of us, to implement those decisions and carry this investigation to a successful conclusion at the earliest possible moment. I have here a list of assignments.” He held a sheet of paper up for all to see, as if by way of proving something. Longarm had no idea what. “I will announce your assignments, and I expect each of you to carry them out whether you agree with them or not. Is that understood?”
Longarm folded his arms. He wasn’t about to give an answer to anything as asinine as this deal seemed to be. And most of the other fellows in the room seemed equally unhappy.
“Long.” Rakestrom was looking—glaring was more like it—at Longarm. “You are Long, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Longarm admitted.
“Albert Morris, charged with tampering with the mails. Are you familiar with the case?”
“I’ve seen the flyers on him, if that’s what you mean.”
“Morris has been detained in Salt Lake City. He is being held there waiting formal arrest and transport back here for arraignment and trial. You are detailed to go and get him. See Marshal Vail’s clerk for copies of the warrant—one copy for service on the accused and another for the Salt Lake City police, don’t forget. You can draw expense vouchers too, of course.”
Jesus, Longarm moaned under his breath. Billy Vail was dead. The U.S. attorney was dead. Two important visitors from Washington were dead. And Longarm was supposed to go to Utah to fetch back some petty little asshole who’d clipped somebody else’s mail? He could not believe it. Longarm could not fucking believe it. Whose idea was this anyway?
“Deputy Nathan Krause,” Rakestrom’s voice droned on, the tone flat and dull and boring. Kind of like his personality, Longarm thought. Without initiative or common sense.
This was, this really and truly had to be, the dumbest damn idea he’d ever heard of. Jesus!
Chapter 6
Longarm was loafing at the back of the room, waiting for the crowd to thin out. He wanted to have a few words with Henry in private. In particular he did not want young Rakestrom around at the time. He was frowning, concentrating on seeing how long an ash he could build at the tip of his cheroot before it fell off, when he felt a touch at his elbow.
“H’lo, Dutch,” Longarm said. The man, an old and trusted deputy who had worked for Billy Vail about as long as anybody in the bunch, looked like Hell half warmed over. He needed a haircut, a shave, a bath, and—Longarm’s nose wrinkled a mite—a change of clothes. His eyes were crisscrossed with bright scarlet veins. “Hope you don’t mind me mentionin’ it, Dutch, but you look like you’re coming off a three-day drunk.”
“Only two days, but you aren’t s’ wrong after all. I managed to drink enough for three days. Hell, for a week. Ever since I heard the news.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. You, uh … I don’t recall seeing you at the funeral earlier.”
“I wasn’t there, Longarm. Billy would’ve understood. I just couldn’t stand it.”
“I didn’t go out to the cemetery my own self. Same reason.”
Dutch nodded and sidled a little closer, lowering his eyes and his voice. “You figure to talk to those boys from the Secret Service, do you?”
“Thought I might have a word with them, yes.
“Don’t bother. I just tried it. You know how they introduced themselves? Agent Smith and Agent Jones. Can you believe that shit? They won’t even give us their right names, but we’re supposed to bow down an’ do whatever they say. And invite me in on the investigation? Hell, no. They said they been asked—asked, can you believe that—asked to take over for us an’ so that’s what they’ll do. Leave us experienced old-timers to take care o’ bullshit while they handle the important work. I never seen any two so slick nor any two so damned arrogant as Mr. Smith an’ Mr. Jones. Christ!”
“They said they’d do the important stuff, did they?”
“That isn’t the wording they used, but it’s damn sure the meaning. They’ll handle the investigation into the bombing. Hey, they’re the president’s own fair-haired boys, right? Us dumb hayseeds can handle the routine garbage. And o’ course, when Congress gets its report it’ll be the Treasury Department that gets the credit, not Justice.”
“I hope whoever replaces Billy isn’t a damn politician,” Longarm said with feeling.
“I don’t think it’s gonna make a lick of difference to me who’s appointed,” Dutch said, his voice bitter. “The son of a bitch won’t be able to hold a candle to Billy Vail, I don’t care who it is. Me, I’m quitting. Quick as Billy’s killer is found, my badge hits the desk. It wouldn’t be the same without him.”
“I been thinking the same way,” Longarm admitted.
“So are you gonna be a good boy an’ go serve their stupid papers and all that shit?” Dutch asked.
Longarm grinned. “I always follow orders, Dutch. You know that.”
The deputy laughed, the sound short and bitter with no trace of merriment in it. “That’s one o’ the things I’ve always admired about you, Longarm.”
“You going your own way, Dutch?”
“Just the same as you.”
“You got any ideas?”
“Hell, yes, don’t we all?”
“If there’s anything I can do …” Longarm offered.
“Yeah. The same t’ you too. If you need any help with anything, wire Henry. Tell him … I dunno, tell him to send you some tulips.”