She nodded. "But if they never filed, and just fenced off some open land on their own?"
Longarm said, "I told you I got to look up the local view on squatter's rights. But unless Minnesota law reads different, and specific, Chambrun and his kin get to keep that quarter section as their own as soon as they've held it seven years with nobody else disputing 'em." Ilsa stared wide-eyed across the table. "I can see why you said it was only a matter of two years either way. But would they let an Indian pull a stunt like that, Custis?"
To which he could only reply with a shrug, "Depends on what you can prove an Indian, or vice versa, in a court of law, should that be your pleasure."
She looked mighty puzzled, even as she picked up the coffeepot to refill his cup. So he said, "No more coffee for me, thanks. It's tougher for some folks to decide who might be an Indian than it can be to decide who's colored. I ain't sure I follow the logic myself, but in those courts as enforce color codes, it seems a person known to have any colored ancestry is colored. But the same folks who won't rent a room to an octoroon, with one colored grandparent, seem just as able to classify anyone less than half Indian as a white person with a little Indian blood."
"Then this Wabasha Chambrun could be a white man in the eyes of the law?"
Longarm shrugged. "Depends more on the B.I.A. than his biology. Chief Ross of the Cherokee was seven-eighths Scotch-Irish, and there's many a blue-eyed blonde drawing their government Indian allotment just by putting on a fringy shirt and lining up like the rest of their nation. Folks listed as Indians by the B.I.A. are identified as such by allotment number, tribal agency, and such. But there's nothing to prevent a member of a so-called friendly band from just going into town, getting a job, and forgetting the whole deal, no matter how much Indian blood he may or may not have in him. So saying what Chambrun says about a French-Canadian daddy is true, and if he's never been listed on paper as any particular sort of Indian, he's about as white as you or me, at least as far as federal law can prove."
She said she'd never heard such nonsense, and made as if to pour him some more coffee anyway. So he put a hand across the top of his empty cup. "Waste not, want not, Miss Ilsa. It ain't as if I don't admire your coffee. I just don't want to toss and turn all night, as I'm apt to with my mind filled with caffeine as well as a heap of other distractions!"
She sighed and said she knew what he meant, murmuring something about it having been over a year since last she'd felt really fulfilled in her lonely bed.
That was what womenfolk called getting laid, fulfilled, and hadn't she said her man had been dead longer than that?
Longarm tried to ignore the sudden tingle in his pants as he tried not to wonder too hard whether she'd made a slip or was out to tell him something. For a man could mess up either way at times like these. He had a good thing going already, with nobody in New Ulm so sure just where he was forted up after dark, and the sweet old widow woman was likely to think he was lower than a sidewinder's belly button if he abused her generous hospitality by grabbing for a dessert she wasn't really offering.
On the other hand, Hell had no fury like a woman turned down once she'd offered, however delicately. So he didn't dare say he'd had all the supper he cared for and just wanted to go to bed before he had a better handle on her own bedtime aspirations.
He figured it might be safest to ask her whether she knew that other Swedish gal, Helga Runeberg, out at the Rocking R. He sensed he might have been safer asking about somebody else when his hostess flared. "I've seen her around town in her silly hat and buckskin skirts, the self-satisfied young snip! I might have known she'd been flirting with you since you'd been riding no more than ten miles from her door!"
Longarm had to laugh. "Hold on, Miss Ilsa, I've never laid eyes on the gal in question. I was more interested in her common sense than her looks."
The older woman didn't sound too sensible as she snapped, "Helga Runeberg hasn't got any common sense. Her poor father would turn over in his grave if he knew how she rides all over, unescorted, as carefree as one of her cowboys."
Longarm said, "It was one of her cowboys as told me his boss lady had said she was able to tell a real lawman from a fake lawman at first sight. I was hoping to save me a ride out her way with some educated guesswork as to how a carefree cowgirl might know so much about lawmen."
The widow woman shrugged inside her loose nightdress and replied, "I wouldn't put anything past Helga Runeberg. They do say she was sparking a married deputy sheriff till Pastor Lindorm heard about it. Maybe she knows a lot of lawmen in the Biblical sense. I don't really care to know her at all."
Longarm made a mental note to drop by the Rocking R the next time he was out that way, and surprised himself by having to stifle a real yawn he hadn't been expecting.
The widow woman noticed and said, "Good heavens, it is almost ten o'clock, and I'm not usually such a night owl myself. I suppose you must be anxious to get to bed, right?"
He allowed that was about the size of it as they both rose from the table. He started to help her move the dishes to the drain board of her modern wet-sink, but she told him they could wait till she felt more in the mood for housework. So he didn't argue as he started to follow her out of the kitchen, Winchester in hand.
As she moved just ahead with her candlestick, she laughed and asked if he always went to bed fully armed. He told her he hardly ever got all the way in bed without leaning the Winchester in a handy corner and hanging his gunbelt over a bedpost. He assumed she was leading him to some guest room. So he was mildly surprised when they wound up in a perfumed chamber with a lot of Irish lace draped around the big fourposter.
Ilsa set the candlestick on a nearby bed table and softly asked, "Do you mind if I get undressed in the dark, Custis? I know it seems old-fashioned, but as I said before, I don't get to do this much anymore."
He figured the safest answer called for simply pinching out the candle without saying anything as the room was plunged in darkness.
He leaned his Winchester against the wall behind the bed table as he heard the soft rustle of cloth coming off and that odor of lilac water and vinegar grew stronger. He waited for her to shyly suggest it was all right for him to come to bed before he shucked his own gun, boots, and duds as calmly as he felt able, rolled in under the covers, and took the warm cuddly nakedness he found there in his own bare arms. Then as she sobbed, "Oh, Custis, I feel so low. Whatever must you think of me?"
He ran a friendly hand down her naked flank as he suggested he feel her somewhat lower, and then he kissed her firmly as she tried to cross her legs and say something dumb about what he was trying to do to a poor defenseless widow. Then he was doing it to her, and she was doing it back with considerable skill, as her poor embarrassed lips kept murmuring all sorts of accusations and excuses for what just came naturally at times like these.
He knew better than to say anything before he'd made her climax and allow she just might like it. So he tongued her ear and humped her hard, with her big bare breasts crushed against his naked chest and one hand under her tailbone as he helped her bounce in time with his thrusts. She suddenly wrapped both legs around his waist to hug him further into her as she sobbed, "Oh, Custis, I'm really trying to respond to you, but it's been so long and you have to give a girl time to warm up!"