Longarm shrugged, flicked ash on the carpet to keep down any carpet mites, and muttered, "You ain't me. Before I had time to think I sent back word I'd come by some more, unless I got called out of town."
Vail shrugged and suggested, "There you go then. Just stay the hell away from the gloomy cuss and let him think you've been sent somewhere else."
To which Longarm replied, ''Bueno. Where are you sending me, to do what?"
Vail blinked, laughed incredulously, and started to tell his senior deputy not to ask such silly questions. But he could see Longarm really meant it. That was one of the problems you could have with a man who took pride in keeping his word.
Vail muttered, 'Thunderation, we don't have any outstanding warrants that could carry you far enough to matter. I take it you'd as soon be out in the field when they swing old Blue Tooth next week?"
Longarm grumbled, "Yep. Damned hangman sure picked a swell time for his damned daughter's wedding. I make
it eight or ten days before I can rest more easy about a shiftless skunk I owe."
Vail hesitated, then began to rummage through the disorganized papers on his desk. "I did have a dumb request from the B.I.A. here somewhere, speaking of shiftless skunks. They asked for you by niune. You'd think by now they'd have all the damned sign-talking scouts they'd ever need, and I was fixing to have Henry type up a letter to turn them down."
Longarm frowned thoughtfully and said, "I ain't scouted all that much, and your average Indian agent knows as much or more sign as I do, Billy."
Vail said, "I was just going to have Henry point that out to them. I suspect they only asked for you by name because they know you scouted Shoshoni for the cavalry that time in '78 when Buffalo Horn rose up by the South Pass."
Longarm said, "Buffalo Horn and his young men were more Bannock than true Shoshoni, if you want to put a fine point on it, and as I recall with some dismay, the army shot the shit out of Buffalo Horn's band, including Buffalo Horn, and then shot a mess of mighty surprised Shoshoni for dessert before those of us who knew better could stop 'em."
Vail nodded. 'The B.I.A. noticed. You've got quite a rep for getting along tolerably with Mister Lo, the Poor Indian. So anyway, they wanted to know if they could borrow you some more for some delicate negotiating with the Lemhi Shoshoni over by their Snake River."
Longarm said, "They call themselves Agaidukas if we're talking about the so-called Shoshoni and Bannock under old Chief Pocatello on the Fort Hall Reservation. Lemhi Shoshoni, or Western Snakes, was bestowed on 'em by mountain men. Mormon settlers, and such."
Vail sighed wearily and muttered, "Jesus H. Christ, if I ask the kid what time it might be he tells me how to build a clock! I just now told you the B.I.A. admired your astounding grasp of Indian lore. Do you want to mosey over
to Fort Hall and see what's eating those damned Indians by any name or don't you?"
Longarm said, "I do. Anything beats staying in Denver for that infernal hanging."
Vail shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Nobody said a thing about hanging you, and they do say Shoshoni squaws like to broil a captive's dick on a stick, with him still connected to it."
Chapter 3
The rest of the morning was more tedious than torturous for a man who was anxious to get out of town. Billy Vail told Henry to get in touch with Interior and make sure they understood Justice was paying no field expenses for such tomfoolery. Then he told Longeirm that even if he wanted to ride with the party headed out west to powwow with Pocatello, it would be best to wait until the dudes got considerably closer.
They'd be expecting to meet Longarm and some Mormon scouts at Ogden, in Utah Territory, where everyone had to switch from rail to mule trains for the rough going up into the Indian country that Little Big Eyes, or Secretary of the Interior Carl Schurz, aimed to buy from his red children for his white children. The bargain-hunters were likely crossing the Mississippi about now, and anyway, nobody Blue Tooth was likely to send after Longarm with yet another plaintive invite was likely to know where to find him after quitting time.
He read the little Henry had given him about the request from the B.I.A. at the bar of the nearby Parthenon Saloon, and put the carbon copies away when he was joined by Crawford, a reporter for the Denver Post, who quietly observed, "I figured you might be in here. At the risk of spoiling a good story, I feel I have to warn a pal Fm not
the only one looking for you this afternoon. He's about your height and my build, wearing an undertaker's expression as well as an outfit picked out for him by the late Edgar Allan Poe. When last seen inquiring for you over in the Black Cat he had on a black Texas hat and low-slung buscadero gun rig as well. Would you like to make a statement for the Post whilst there's time?"
Longarm washed down the rest of the pickled pig's knuckle he'd been working on with some needled beer before he replied. "Sounds like another lawman or a hired gun. A Texas Ranger new in town might not have heard about my disagreement with that barmaid at the Black Cat. I shot the only Texican really mad at me last week. But like the old song says, farther along we'll know more about it. Anyone who told him I sometimes lunched in the Black Cat would have surely mentioned this place as well."
Crawford moved out of the line of fire between Longarm and the nearby swinging doors as Longarm simply let his loose frock coat hang free of his gun grips while he shifted his beer schooner to his left fist, asking, "Might you have much on Chief Pocatello of the Western Shoshoni in your back files, pard?"
The shorter but thicker-set newspaper man blinked owl-ishly and volunteered, "Bad Injun in his day. He and his Snakes got to count coup on a couple of dozen troopers and Lord knows how many wagon trains during the Civil War. General Connor and his Nevada Volunteers caught up with him and his band on the Overland Trail near the end of the war, and would have hanged 'em the way they hanged all those Santee Sioux about the same time. But then old President Lincoln spoiled the fun with blanket pardons for the treacherous red devils, subject only to modest improvements in their manners."
Longarm grimaced and said, "Old Abe must have been on to something. They do say Pocatello's kept his word after making his mark on the Box Elder Treaty of '63, tempted as he might have been by the famine of '65 and
the big Shoshoni Scare of '78. So what might I be missing about this deal?"
Not knowing what he was talking about, Crawford had no more to offer and said so. Longarm finished his beer, watching that doorway, as he idly wondered whether the back files of Crawford's paper could have such a simplistic view of Mister Lo.
He put his empty beer schooner down, having decided he'd just as soon risk a slap in the face as paper cuts on dusty fingers. He didn't tell Crawford just where he was headed, so the fool reporter wanted to tag along, lest he miss a front-page gunfight.
Longarm laughed sincerely and declared, "A gunfight was the last thing I had in mind, old son. That mysterious cuss with his hat crowned Texas-style is likely from the B.I.A. And he's likely as anxious as me to hear why in thunder even a sissy would need scouts, or even translators, to visit friendlies on a fully staffed agency."
"What if he's not? What if he's looking to fight you?" Crawford demanded hopefully.
Longarm snorted wryly and declared, "I reckon I'll fight him. Like I said, we'll know all about it farther along. Meanwhile, I eat my apples one bite at a time, smd so now I'm off to see if someone who knows more than either of us about Indians can hazard a guess as to why I seem headed for Idaho Territory, Lord willing and the tracks don't wash out."
He got rid of the pesky reporter—it wasn't easy—and ducked through the big bottom floor of the Denver Dry Goods to make sure he wasn't being followed before he legged it on over to the terraced slopes of Capitol Hill.