“You let the Northwest Mounted steal a U.S. federal fugitive?”
“No. I let him think he did. That owlhoot was just a poor shiftless thief who never did anything Uncle Sam’s interested in. Got at least a couple of birds with one shot, too. By slickering the Mountie into vanishing off into the blue with the evidence, I can forget who might have to answer to Utah for killing him. I’d be obliged if we kept all this between us, though. Might be a few birds left to that shot I just mentioned.”
“What was that about Kincaid?”
“He’s another deputy, turned up missing. I’m looking for the one that bushwhacked him on his way to Crooked Lance. Been snooping around for Mexican heels and a.30-30 deer rifle amongst the folks I brought over here yesterday evening. Ain’t found anybody that fits, yet. But we’ll have more company, soon. Let’s see about them ham and eggs. I’ve worked up a real appetite, likely from the mountain air.”
CHAPTER 21
A band of mounted Indians brought in Mabel Hanks and the six riders from Crooked Lance who’d been with her when she tried to cut Longarm and his prisoner off at Bitter Creek. They’d given up there, and followed sign as far as the scene of Tinker’s death before being jumped and captured by Longarm’s Indian allies.
Mabel rode in dusty but trying to look elegant, sitting sidesaddle under her feathered hat, which the Indians admired immensely. Her little husband came over as Longarm helped Mabel dismount, stealing a feel of the holstered, man-sized S&W she wore around her corseted waist. Cedric Hanks said, “You shouldn’t have let ‘em take you, damn it!”
“Oh, shut up! What were we supposed to do, make a stand in a dry canyon against all these Indians? What’s going on hereabouts? It looks like you-all had a firefight where these jaspers surrounded us.”
Cedric shrugged and said, “They surrounded us, too. This lawman’s pretty slick, but he lost his prisoner. Damned if I can figure what he wants with the rest of Us.”
Mabel glanced at Longarm and asked, “Is that right? Did the prisoner get away after all the work we did?”
“Didn’t get away, ma’am. He’s on his way to Canada, dead. That Mountie rode off with the body.”
“And you’re still standing here? what’s the matter with you? He can’t be more’n a few miles off. Why ain’t you chasing him?”
“Got bigger fish to fry. Besides, I’ve transported dead ones before. Gets tedious to smell after a day or so on the trail. I figure packing a rotting cadaver all the way to Canada is punishment enough for being more stubborn than smart. You and these boys hungry? The agent sent some husked dry corn over from the stores and the Indians will sell you jerked beef and coffee. For folks as aimed to track me and mine from hell to breakfast, you didn’t store much grub in your possibles.”
“We thought you was making for Bitter Creek, like you said.”
“I figured you might. Where’s Captain Walthers? Following the tracks across the Great Salt Desert?”
“How should I know? The army man peeled off along the way. He rode off talking dark about a telegram to the War Department.”
“That’s good. Why don’t you set a spell and make yourselves to home? I’ll be over at the agency if you need anything. Anything important, that is. I don’t split firewood and the Indians will show you where to get water, answer the call of nature, or whatever.”
He walked away, leaving the newcomers to jaw about their position with those already gathered, worried and restless, around the campfire.
As he crunched across the gravel, Hanks fell in at his side, protesting, “Not so fast, damn it. You got no right to hold Mabel and me. We ain’t done nothing. Hell, the other night, I thought you and me was going to spring Cotton Younger together!”
“So did I, ‘til I got a better grasp on the situation. You were right about Mabel being killed with me, but what the hell, she had her reasons.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did Cotton Younger say anything to you ‘fore he passed away? You must know it wasn’t my idea to shoot him before he told us where the James Boys was hiding!”
“He died sort of sudden.” Longarm lied.
“Jesus, didn’t you get anything out of him? How come you let that Sergeant Foster steal him? Wasn’t your orders to bring him in dead or alive?”
“Yep, but I just explained all that. They’ll likely rawhide me some for losing the body, but not as hard as they would have for gunning a guest of the U.S. State Department, and Foster was a serious cuss. Besides, what can you really do to a dead owlhoot? He can’t talk and hanging him without a fair trial seems a mite uncivilized. I reckon they could hold a trial, if the jury had clothespins on their noses and the judge didn’t ask how he pleaded, but as you can see, it’d be a waste of time and the taxpayer’s money.”
“You’re funning me, Longarm. I’ll bet you got it out of him. I’ll bet you know where Jesse James is hiding! I know you marshals from old. You wouldn’t take that Mountie pulling the wool over your eyes unless you was on to something bigger than old Cotton Younger!”
“Well, you just go back to your woman and study on it. I’ve had my say about the missing cadaver and this conversation’s over.”
He left the bewildered little man standing there and continued to the mission. The sun had topped high noon and he found the Caldwell’s and Kim Stover out back, seated in the shade behind the kitchen shed as the harsh, cloudless light made up for the cold night before by baking the dusty earth hot enough to fry eggs on.
Agent Caldwell started to ask more questions, but his wife, Portia, looked knowingly at Kim and said something about making the rounds of the village, adding something about sick Indian kids.
Caldwell muttered, “I don’t remember any of the Utes being sick,” but he let her lead him off after she’d tugged firmly on his sleeve a time or two.
Kim Stover smiled wanly and said, “She’s quite the little matchmaker, ain’t she?”
Longarm sat on the kitchen steps near her camp chair in the shade and said, “She’s got a lot of time on her hands, out here with no other white women to talk to.”
“She was advising me on the subject. I reckon we sort of told the stories of our lives to one another, between supper and breakfast. She doesn’t think I ought to marry up with Timberline.”
“I never advise on going to war or getting married, but the gal who gets Timberline ain’t getting much in the way of gentle. He rides good, though. Must know his trade, to be working as ramrod for a big outfit. Maybe he’s out to marry you for your cows.”
“I know what he’s after, and it ain’t my cows. Ben and me didn’t have much of a herd when he died. It’s thanks to Timberline my herd’s increased by a third since then. I know you don’t like him, but he’s been very kind, in his own rough way.”
“Well, maybe he don’t like my looks. How’d he add to the size of your herd? Not meaning to pry.”
“He didn’t steal them for me, if that’s what you’re getting at. Timberline’s been honest and hard-working, for his own outfit and all the others in Crooked Lance. He’s the trail boss and tally man when we drive the consolidated herd to market because the others respect him. More than once, when the buyers have tried to beat us down on the railside prices, Timberline warned us to hold firm. Working for an eastern syndicate, he always knew the going and fair price.”
“That figures. His bosses back East would wire him the quotations on the Chicago Board. That’s one of the things I’ve been meaning to get straight in my head, ma’am. You folks needed that telegraph wire. When did it first start giving you trouble?”
She thought and said, “Just after we caught that cow thief, Cotton Younger. We wired Cheyenne we had him and they wired back not to hang him but to hold him ‘til somebody came to pick him up. Right after that the line went dead. Some men working for Western Union fixed it once, but it went out within the week. Timberline and some of the others rode up into the passes to look at it. They said it looked like the whole line needed to be rebuilt.”