But it wasn't Chambrun who broke. He seemed at a total loss for words as his wife came over, slamming two empty tin cups down on the bare wood as she snapped, in perfect English, "Your damned coffee will be ready in a minute. My Wabasha has done nothing wrong, nothing. It was I who gave him that paper money. All of it. Are you going to take me down to Mankato so they can hang me too as my children watch and weep tears of blood?"
Longarm answered quietly, "Not hardly, ma'am. Possession of stolen property ain't good for much more than a year in jail, and that's only when they can prove you knew it was stolen. So if I were you and I'd come by that recorded treasury note honestly, I'd just tell the law the truth and have done with it. The fine print on that note allows you had every right to spend it, any way you saw fit, as long as you broke no laws to come by it, see?"
She said something about that coffee, and went back to her range to consider his offer. Chambrun asked which one of those windy kids up the road had blabbed to the law about family matters.
Longarm smiled thinly and replied, "Would you want me to tell on you after I'd tricked a bitty dab of gossip out of you?"
His wife turned around to stare thoughtfully down at him, her dark eyes filled with worried wonder. She said, "You say you don't care where people might get money as long as they have broken none of the laws they pay you to enforce. But hear me, what do you have to do with the regulations of the Bureau of Indian Affairs?"
Longarm answered honestly, "Nothing. I don't ride for the B.I.A. and Brown County ain't an Indian Reserve no more. If you're hinting you might have saved up or even re-invested some B.I.A. allotments, when everyone knows you spend it all on white flour and ribbon bows before it's time for another handout, that's between you and your B.I.A. agent. If you had a B.I.A. agent. Since you seem to be living off the blanket on your Wasichu homestead claim, I fail to see what beeswax of my department it might be."
She stared long and hard. Then she nodded and said, "I think I know who you must be. They spoke of a man like you at the Crow Creek Agency out in the Dakota Territory. Our western kinsmen called you Wasichu Wastey and said you spoke as straight as you could shoot. Are you not the one Mahpiua Luta calls his Medicine Grandson?"
To which Longarm could only modestly reply, "I reckon old Red Cloud and me are on friendly enough terms considering. He's one wise old gent, and likely would have kept his own bands out of that dumb Custer fight whether I'd warned him that time or not. It hardly took as much medicine as some said I must have had to predict the way things were sure to come out in the end. Red Cloud got invited back east to Washington after he'd won his war along the Bozeman Trail with the U.S. Army back in '68. So he knew what Tatanka Yotanka, Tashunka Witko, and the others would be up against if they opposed old Terry's advance on their Paha Supa treaty lands. All I told the big chief that he hadn't heard was how certain members of the crooked Indian Ring in Washington were hoping for a nice big battle, because that would give them the excuse to just tear up the Treaty of 1868 entirely and grind the whole Lakota Confederacy up like sausage meat."
Tatowiyeh Wachipi sighed soulfully and said, "You spoke the truth. After the good fight at Greasy Grass along the Little Big Horn, they said we were savage children it was pointless to bargain with, and they took away the powers of all our chiefs and moved us off all the good lands, all of it. Do you think that was fair, after signing the Treaty of 1868 with Mahpiua Luta in ink?"
Longarm shrugged and said, "Depends on how you read a treaty, I reckon. The Five Civilized Tribes lost their rights to self-government in the Indian Nation after they chose to fight on the Confederate side in the war. There was nothing in any treaty about the government granting perpetual scalping rights to anybody."
Chambrun said, "Hold on! My own ina's folk were Osage and they fought on the Union side in the War Betwixt the States!"
Longarm nodded and said, "That's doubtless how come the Osage got their own strip in the Indian Nation, carved out of Cherokee and Creek holdings along the Arkansas. I'm glad to hear you really have Osage blood, Mister Chambrun. But how come we're jawing about such ancient history when all I ever asked was where you all got that one infernal treasury note?"
She pouted, "How can you prove the one we paid Israel Bedford for some stock was the one they say somebody stole from that payroll? A Wasichu who hates us would find it easy, very easy, to switch the paper we paid a neighbor in good faith with another he knew to be stolen. Did we think to keep a record of the serial numbers on our own money? Did Israel Bedford? Does anybody, unless they have a good or bad reason?"
Longarm started to say something that might not have been perfectly fair. Then he nodded soberly and said, "Hokahey. Let's try that on for size. Let's say Banker Plover had already short-stopped one of those red-hot treasury notes and was keeping it on ice for some devious reason. Let's say he just waited until an innocent party came in to deposit a plain old innocent hundred-dollar note. Then let's say the banker switched 'em and called the law on a customer."
Chambrun said that worked for him. His wife agreed it only confirmed what she'd always thought about Wasichu who dealt in treacherous written words and complicated numbers that always left you owing the trading post more than you'd expected.
Longarm shrugged and quietly asked, "How could Banker Plover have known where Bedford got that recorded note before he had the chance to ask him?"
The breed and his wife exchanged puzzled glances. She said something too fast for Longarm to follow in their private lingo. Then she turned away to see about that coffee.
Chambrun chuckled and said, "She says you must be Wasichu Wastey because you chew your thoughts so good before you spit them out. Now that you've put it that way, even I can see how unlikely it was that old P.S. Plover could have had it in for us in particular."
As his woman brought the coffeepot back to the table, Longarm asked either one who cared to guess, "Then what might that banker have had against Bedford? There's the old boy who'd have been in a whole lot of trouble if he hadn't been able to point to you, and you hadn't owned up to giving him that mysterious treasury note."
Tatowiyeh Wachipi poured the reheated coffee as she told Longarm in a weary voice, "There is no real mystery about where I got that money, and other money. From Wowinapa, you call him Mister Thomas Wakeman, and others of our people who now live as if they were Wasichu and, as you suggested, invest allotment funds for some of our people still drawing them from the B.I.A."
Longarm whistled softly and asked, "Ain't Thomas Wakeman, also known as Wowinapa, the surviving son of Little Crow?"
Dancing Antelope Gal nodded soberly and replied, "Just as I am a niece of Wamni Tanka. You called him Big Eagle and sent him off to the state penitentiary as if he'd been a common thief instead of a great war leader!"
Longarm shrugged and said, "He got off light. The state posted a twenty-five-dollar bounty on Santee scalps and a heap of burnt-out homesteaders got new starts by collecting quite a few. But weren't we talking about Little Crow's grown son, who lives respectable these days?"
She nodded soberly and said, "As Thomas Wakeman, Wowinapa is now an Episcopal deacon and an official of the Y.M.C.A. Other Santee who never wanted to go to that Crow Bend Agency have done as well. Hear me. Some of them have done very well, very, off the blanket and under a Wasichu haircut."
Her husband volunteered, "A gent can get hurt asking a stranger drinking next to him in a saloon how he might have come by that deep tan and sort of high cheekbones."
Longarm nodded impatiently and said, "I drink regular with such old boys, and a fellow deputy out of the Denver office makes no bones about his Indian blood. Could we stick to that hundred-dollar treasury note?"