Longarm Double #4: Legend with a Six-Gun

NOVEL 7

Longarm and the High-Graders

Chapter 1

Longarm entered the Manzanita Saloon to the lilting strains of Garryowen, being played very fast on what sounded like tin pans. Had he come through the front entrance, he’d have been able to see who or what was making all that racket an hour before noon. But when a shifty-eyed stranger tells a lawman that someone is waiting for him in a saloon, then darts away before he can be questioned further, common sense dictates a prudent avenue of approach. So Longarm came in the back door.

There was a pantry to his right. The kitchen to his left was deserted. Longarm nodded. Drawing the .44-caliber Colt Model T he carried for just such mysteries as this, he eased toward the barroom on the balls of his feet. He moved quietly for a man of his size, but the music out front was so loud that he probably could have ridden a horse along the corridor without being noticed. It was a noisy place, considering that it seemed to be empty.

That was something to ponder. August was hotter than the hinges of hell in the Sierra foothills, and the dusty streets of Manzanita were devoid of life as the siesta hour approached. He’d only been in town about a half hour, and hadn’t climbed up on a soapbox to announce his arrival. Yet the rat-faced little cowhand had been waiting in the empty street as Longarm had come out of the livery after leaving his army issue gelding in a cool stall. The hand had just said something about Longarm’s being wanted over at the saloon, and then had slithered away like a sidewinder seeking shade under a flat rock.

Who in thunder could know he was in Manzanita? They were expecting him up at the mine, and he’d intended to pay a courtesy call on the local law before beginning his investigation, but he’d deliberately arrived two days early. It was surprising what a lawman could stumble over that way. Yet he’d been spotted the moment he had ridden in. Someone probably had a reason for watching the trail from Angel’s Camp.

There was a bead curtain across the doorway into the barroom. The tall deputy stood in the shadows behind it as he studied the barnlike space on the other side of the beads. There was no bartender behind the long oak bar to his right. The rinkytink music was coming from a coin-operated harmonium against the wall to his left. In the middle of the room, seated at a table with his back to Longarm, was a dark figure in a brocaded charro outfit. A black sombrero hung on his back between his shoulders. The exposed hair was dishwater-blond. Some Anglo had apparently taken to the Old California style, which made no never-mind to Longarm, but he did think the double-barreled shotgun the stranger held trained on the swinging doors to the sunlit street was a proper thing for any lawman to take an interest in.

Training his .44 on the man at the table, Longarm said, You just freeze in place and listen, friend. I’ve got the drop on you. A sudden sneeze could get you killed. You got that much of my message, old son?

Without moving a muscle, the man in the charro costume asked, Is that you, Longarm?

"Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, at your service. In a minute, we’ll palaver about who you might be, and why you have a scatter gun trained on the doorway you invited me through. Right now I want you to slide your chair back away from that gun on the table. Then I reckon you’d best put both hands on top of your golden locks and stand up slow and easy. I’ll tell you when I want you to turn around."

The man at the table didn’t do as he was told. He crabbed sideways off his chair, shotgun and all, and pivoted on one knee to fire.

He didn’t make it. The twin barrels were three-quarters of the way around when the Colt kicked in Longarm’s palm and the lawman’s first slug slammed into the man’s chest. The shotgun went off, blowing a hole in the baseboard of a corner as Longarm fired again. Between the recoil of the twelve-gauge and the .44 slug that caught him just under one eye, the would-be ambusher was thrown flat on his back to the sawdust-covered planks. A booted heel drummed mindlessly a few times, as if dancing to the music box, and then the corpse lay very still, staring up into the drifting blue gunsmoke with a bemused smile.

Longarm parted the beads and strode over to stare down at the man he’d just shot. He was a total stranger. Longarm reached into the side pocket of his Prince Albert coat for two fresh rounds as he studied the odd situation. The harmonium tinkled merrily on as he thumbed the spent brass from his cooling weapon, wondering how to go about shutting the infernal contraption off. He muttered to the dead stranger, You likely thought you were as smart as an old he-coon in a henhouse when you put a penny in and cranked her up, huh? What was I supposed to think it was, a piano being played in a crowded saloon?

Holding the Colt in his right hand, Longarm dropped to one knee, being careful not to get the spreading blood on his tobacco-brown tweed as he went through the dead man’s pockets with his free hand. The man he’d shot was about thirty, with one of those uninteresting faces you see every day. He’d backed his shotgun with a brace of Smith & Wesson .45s in a silver-mounted gunbelt. Longarm noticed that one of the ivory grips had been notched four times. He sighed and muttered, Jesus, you’ve been reading Buntline for sure. No calluses worth mention on your gun hand, so despite the vaquero outfit, you ain’t a dally roper. You’re tanned enough to have been out in the sun a few years, so you ain’t some loco Easterner playing big bad cowboy, either. But those notches don’t make you look like anyone with a lick of sense. Who were you trying to scare?

At that moment a shadow appeared in the front doorway and a voice called out, What’s going on in here? You are talking to the law!

Longarm looked up at the worried-looking newcomer in the doorway and replied, I’m law, too. Just shot it out with this cuss for some fool reason. I’m still trying to find out why. He reached into his inside coat pocket. Producing his wallet, he flipped it open. His badge glittered dully in the dim light filtering in from the street. Custis Long, he said. Deputy U.S. marshal out of Denver. Now who the hell are you?

The Manzanita lawman came in to join him, introducing himself as one Constable Lovejoy. As he got his first good look at the body, he said, Oh, Jesus H. Christ! You’ve shot the Calico Kid!

Is that who he was? The name doesn’t mean much to me, Constable. I pride myself on a tolerable memory, but if any wanted fliers on a so-called Calico Kid have ever come my way. I disremember seeing them.

Lovejoy said, God, this is awful! We have a nice quiet little town here, and I don’t have deputy-one who’d go up against the Calico Kid and all.

Longarm got to his feet, dusting off his trousers and holstering his six-gun as he studied the concerned-looking smaller man. Lovejoy was gray around the edges and had a slight pot. He had the kind of politician’s face that seemed to be made for smiling a lot. But right now he looked as if he were getting ready to burst out crying. Longarm said, He did seem to think he was one mean fellow, but I doubt that he’ll give anyone any more trouble. You reckon he really shot four men like he bragged?

Hell, it’s more like a dozen. I’m going to have to do something about this mess, Longarm.

Longarm managed not to raise an eyebrow. He had no memory of having told the constable his nickname. Counting the dead man at his feet, that made at least three people in Manzanita who had been expecting him to ride in early.

Playing dumb, the tall deputy said, Well, it was open-and-shut self-defense, even if I wasn’t packing a federal badge. I’ll make a statement for the county before I mosey on.

Lovejoy said flatly, "Longarm, you ain’t going nowhere in this county! You just shot the Calico Kid!"

Longarm pushed his Stetson back from his forehead. You keep saying that like it’s important. Who was he, the bully of the town?

Damn it, he was a killer. Meanest son of a bitch we’ve had in these parts since Joaquin Murietta rode through in ’53!

Well, don’t get your balls in an uproar. His killing days are over.

Hell, I’m talking about his friends, Longarm!

Longarm looked down at the glassy-eyed corpse and shrugged as he mused, He had friends? Well, anything’s possible, I reckon. The way it seems to read right now is that he recognized me as I rode in and decided to build his rep some more with an easy murder. If his plan had worked, you’d likely be telling him right now what a serious thing he’d just done. I’ve got friends, too. They call themselves the U.S. Justice Department.

The constable was sweating profusely now. "Yeah, but your friends ain’t likely to ride in shooting in the next hour or so. The Calico Kid’s friends are! You take my meaning?"

I’m not sure. Since I don’t have the calling for raising folks from the dead, what is it you’ve got in mind?

"I want you to git, damn it! If you’ve a lick of sense, you’ll fork that pony you have over at the livery and ride out sudden and far!"

Longarm shook his head and said, Can’t. My outfit sent me here to do a job and I don’t aim to ride anywhere till it’s done. I’ll help you put what happened here on paper, then I’ve got to head up to the Lost Chinaman diggings. I was aiming to poke around here in town for a spell before I rode up for a look-see at the mine itself. But since everyone seems to know Uncle Sam has a man in the field already, I don’t reckon it’s worth my time to jaw with the local barber and such.

Lovejoy hesitated. Then he nodded and said, I figured you were on that case. We’d best go over to my office. If you won’t leave peaceable, we may as well take down your statement and at least get you out on the trail. Calico rode with a mean bunch and at least one of them knows you just killed him.

Longarm thought, Strike two! but didn’t say anything aloud as he followed the constable out the door. Other men were standing in the street now, and Lovejoy called to one of them, Hawkins, go fetch Doc Forbes and tell him we got a fellow who needs planting. Me and this deputy U.S. marshal will be at the jailhouse if you need us.

The little crowd parted as they crossed the street to the shady overhang of the opposing frame buildings. Longarm was now aware that the local law knew how he’d been set up. Yet he didn’t remember having told Lovejoy about the rat-faced hand by the livery. That could be taken several ways. Lovejoy might have heard it from the stablehands. It seemed a bit soon to conclude that he was in cahoots with the gang against a fellow lawman.

The Manzanita jail was a thick-walled adobe structure with a redwood-shingled roof. Lovejoy ushered him in and Longarm saw that it was a one-room building partitioned by iron bars. A morose-looking Indian sat crosslegged on the floor of the lockup. He didn’t look at them as they entered.

The office was furnished with a rolltop desk and some bentwood chairs. There was a typewriter on the green blotter of the desk. Beside it stood a funny-looking contraption of a kind that Longarm had never seen before. He asked, Is that one of Professor Bell’s newfangled talking telegraphs?

It sure is, Lovejoy said proudly. We’re up to date in California. Got us a line running all the way to Sacramento, now.

Longarm was impressed. You must have some budget. My boss, Marshal Vail, has been trying to get him one of those back in Denver. Washington keeps telling him it’s a passing fad.

Lovejoy put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and began to hunt and peck, standing. Longarm snorted and said, Hell, let me type it up for you. I ain’t got all day.

You know how to play a typewriter? Lovejoy said incredulously.

Some. I’ve been fooling with the one in the office in Denver.

He sat down at the desk and began to hunt and peck a bit faster than the constable had, but not much. For the life of him, he couldn’t see why everyone was in such an all-fired hurry to change things. He’d been writing his reports in longhand for six or eight years and nobody had ever said they couldn’t read his Palmer penmanship.

He had typed out, REPORT BY CUSTIS LONG, DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL, DISTRICT COURT OF DENVER, before Constable Lovejoy got up the nerve to place the muzzle of his revolver against the nape of Longarm’s neck.

Longarm stopped typing. He asked, Do you have a reason for whatever you’re trying to pull, Lovejoy?

The constable licked his lips and said, You just keep them hands up there. I don’t want no trouble, Longarm.

Longarm said, "Hell, old son, you’ve already got trouble. But he did as he was told. As Lovejoy held the muzzle of the revolver against the base of Longarm’s skull with one hand, he frisked and disarmed him with the other. As Lovejoy took the derringer from Longarm’s right-hand vest pocket, the lawman nodded and sighed, Yeah, they gave you a pretty good rundown on me, didn’t they? Not many folks know about the derringer on my watch chain. Who are you working for, those jaspers who’ve been stealing high-grade from the Lost Chinaman?"

State of California, Lovejoy said, adding, You could have rode out like I asked, but they said in Sacramento that you was a stubborn cuss. You get up, now, and move slow for the lockup. I don’t want to shoot you, but . . .

Longarm rose slowly to his feet, the gun pressing against his back, but he protested, Lovejoy, you are starting to piss me off a mite. You can’t lock me up.

Lovejoy cut him off. You ain’t the law in California. You’re out of your jurisdiction, and Justice Field, down in Sacramento, says you have no call to mess in local matters.

As the constable opened the jail door and shoved him inside, Longarm snorted, "Hell, if you mean Justice Stephen Field, he’s in trouble too! I wasn’t ordered out here by the Denver office. I’m on a special assignment from Washington! It seems they’ve been wondering why the federal marshals out here can’t seem to get a handle on those missing gold shipments. As the door slammed shut, he added, We’re talking about gold being sent to the U.S. Mint in San Francisco, Lovejoy. We’re talking about Uncle Sam’s money. Savvy?"

Look, I just do my job as best I know how. Sacramento says your badge don’t mean shit on this side of the Sierras and, damn it, it was your own idea to go and shoot the Calico Kid!

Come on, the silly son of a bitch was trying to murder me!

Maybe. Well see about it at your trial.

"My what? What the hell charges are you holding me on, God damn it?"

The constable holstered his six-gun. Don’t know. Maybe murder. Maybe manslaughter. That’ll be up to the district attorney, won’t it?

Longarm laughed, still more puzzled than alarmed, and said, Lovejoy, this ain’t going to work. I know you old boys up here in the Mother Lode play rough, but we’re not talking about jumping some greenhorn’s claim or robbing a Mexican. We’re talking about over a dozen gold shipments sidetracked between here and the mint. You don’t seem to grasp that it’s federal gold we’re talking about!

Lovejoy shrugged and turned away. One of the townies came to the door and yelled in something about the undertaker. Lovejoy said, I’ll talk to him. Keep an eye on the jail, will you?

As Lovejoy left, Longarm called out, They’ll send someone else, you damned fool! Even if you kill me, you’re going to be combing U.S. deputies out of your hair until Justice finds out where all that ore’s been shipped!

And then the constable was gone. The man he’d deputized to take his place went over to the desk and sat down with his back to the lockup. He put his feet up on the desk and lit a smoke. Longarm asked, You mind telling me something, friend?

The man didn’t answer. Longarm swore softly and turned away from the bars. The Indian on the floor said, I am not a bad person. Don’t hurt me.

Longarm went over to the fold-down bunk and sat down, saying, I’m not a bad person, either. What are you in for?

My name is Bitter Water. I am a Miwok. What you Saltu call a Digger Indian.

Longarm had recently come to know and respect these groups of foraging Indians contemptuously called Diggers. They were peaceable, graceful, and intelligent peoples who were often ruthlessly exterminated or driven from their lands by avaricious whites. He had recently had occasion to help a group of Paiutes in eastern Nevada whose stores of their staple food—pinyon nuts—were being destroyed by uncontrolled, illegal logging. Longarm extended a large, callused hand toward Bitter Water, and the small Indian shook it firmly. Well, I’m Custis Long, he said, and I’ll call you a Miwok. You didn’t say why they arrested you.

Yes I did. I told you I was an Indian.

Is that against the law?

"In this county? Yes. Some. Saltu came to the valley where my people have always gathered acorns. They said it was their valley now. They said they had a paper from Wa Sentan telling them they could keep cows there. When I asked to see the paper, they hit me. So I ran away."

I’m sorry, Bitter Water. I hope you don’t think all of my people are like that. But how’d you wind up in this jail if you got away?

"You have a good heart, but you do not listen. I said I ran away. I did not say I got away. While I was running from the men with cows, I crossed some other Saltus’ mining claim. They caught me with a rope and brought me here. They say I have been stealing gold. Someone has been stealing gold around here, and, as I said, I am an Indian. Bitter Water shrugged as he added, I think they will hang both of us as soon as it gets dark."

Longarm shot a glance out front. Lovejoy had taken his watch along with his badge, gun, and last three smokes, but he could see it was still early afternoon. Turning back to the Indian, he said, Lovejoy said something about a trial. How often does the circuit judge come over from the county seat?

I don’t know. It does not matter. They will not hear of us over in San Andreas. The men in Manzanita who hang people call themselves vigilantes. It is said nobody knows who they are, but I think this is a lie.

Longarm frowned thoughtfully. Then he got up and went over to the bars again, calling out, Hey, this fellow says you have a vigilance committee in this town. I thought that sort of thing went out with the forty-niners.

The deputy, if that was what he was, didn’t answer. Longarm insisted, Look, I don’t know if Lovejoy told you boys the facts of life, but I am a federal officer. You just try lynching a federal man and you won’t have to worry about the Justice Department. You’ll have the U.S. army up here asking all sorts of questions.

Again, there was no reply. Apparently the man at the desk knew how hard it is not to give anything away, once you start talking. The people behind this had their henchmen well-trained.

All right, he decided, let’s take as gloomy a look at this mess as possible and see where that leaves everyone. His investigation had been nipped in the bud, either by some very clever plotting indeed or just a bit of quick thinking on the part of a skunk wearing a badge. It didn’t matter whether the late Calico Kid had been in on it or not. By shooting the inept gunman, he’d delivered himself into their hands. The Indian’s idea made sense, too, damn it. Longarm knew there was no way they’d ever hang a murder charge on him in open court. On the other hand, if he and Bitter Water were killed, by vigilantes, friends of the Calico Kid, Or simply trying to escape . . .

It still won’t work, he called out, adding, My office knows I’m here in Calaveras County. The Lost Chinaman is fixing to ship another carload of high-grade ore down to the stamping mills, and if I don’t ride in with the gold, they’ll send in another team.

No answer.

Longarm insisted, Sure, you and your pals might steal at least one more shipment, but then what? You’re spreading yourselves a mite thin already, you know. I figure even if we’re talking about the highest grade of ore, it still can’t run more than a few thousand dollars a trainload, before it’s refined. I can see you’ve bought your own law all the way down to the state capital, but, like I said, there’s only so much gold and there are a lot of palms to grease.

Hoping the silent man was at least listening, he insisted, Look, you can bribe almost anyone to look the other way about a trainload of ore. But the rates go up as soon as you start killing folks, and a deputy U.S. marshal comes high as hell. I know you won’t answer, but I want you to study on my words. Up to now, I don’t have a thing on anyone. But once the government starts getting serious about you boys, it’s all over. You have too many people in on it. One of you, only one, just has to get worried about his own hide, or maybe pissed off because he thinks he should have had a bigger share and—

The man at the desk swung his boots to the floor and turned around to snap, "You just hush, mister! You don’t know what you’re talking about!"

Longarm was a bit relieved to see that the man wasn’t deaf. The hell I don’t. I’m talking about a U.S. deputy being hindered, or worse. You’re not going to like it in Leavenworth, boy.

God damn it, you got no call to say I’m a thief. I’ve never stole a penny in my born days. Me and every other honest man in the county is as riled as you are about them jaspers robbing the ore trains, and I’ll not be tarred with the same brush as them!

Longarm saw that the man was young and rather simple-looking. He smiled and asked, Why are you holding me, then? Can’t you see you’re helping the high-graders, even if you’re not in on it?

The guard shook his head and said, Don’t fun with me, mister. You know you shot the Calico Kid.

"Then you must be one of his friends, right?" Longarm prodded him.

Hell, I just said I was an honest man. I got no truck with them wild gunslicks Calico used to ride with.

Longarm shook his head wearily and marveled, Loco. The whole bunch has busted out to nibble locoweed, unless I missed a turn a ways back. If you and Lovejoy ain’t with the high-graders, and you ain’t with the Calico Kid’s bunch, what in thunder am I doing behind these bars?

You’re in jail ’cause it’s where you belong, damn it. You had no call to come here and stir up trouble.

I’d say the trouble sort of came my way. I was only trying to do my job.

No, you wasn’t. You don’t belong in these parts, mister. We got a town constable and a county sheriff. We got our own federal marshals down to Sacramento. You’re just a durned old carpetbagger! Nobody around here ever asked you to stick your nose into our business, did they?

"I hate to call such an honest man a liar, but you are purely full of shit. I was asked to investigate those gold robberies. Uncle Sam asked me, real polite. Are you saying Calaveras County’s not part of these United States?"

The youth hesitated. Then he said, You’re trying to mix me up, and turned away again. This time he meant it. Longarm tried reason. He tried argument. He tried saying mean things about the man’s mother. Nothing worked. After a while he got tired of talking to the back of an obviously thick skull and went back to the bunk. As he sat down again, the Indian muttered, We have nothing to worry about as long as they are guarding us.

Longarm started to ask what Bitter Water meant. Then he nodded in sick understanding. He’d investigated enough lynchings to know the form.

If that was indeed the plan, Constable Lovejoy would go through the motions for the rest of the day. A rural community like Manzanita went to bed early. Or at least, the honest elements did. Later, in the dark of the moon, Lovejoy would probably be called away from the jail on some obscure mission. That was when the night riders would arrive.

Later, some luckier lawman might put it all together and they’d know at last whether the late Custis Long had been lynched by men in the pay of the gold thieves, by pals of the Calico Kid, or by someone he hadn’t figured out yet. Yeah, they’d get to the bottom of it, in time. You don’t steal federal gold and murder federal marshals and hope to get away with it forever. But he didn’t have forever. He had maybe eight or ten hours if he intended to crack the case himself. It wasn’t a bit comforting to think some other lawmen might track down the answers, after he was dead.

The Indian’s voice was soft as he asked, Would you get mad at me if I made a suggestion?

Longarm smiled and said, No. I think it’s a good idea.

Bitter Water looked puzzled as he asked, Do you read my words before they are spoken?

"Hell, if you’re thinking about anything but busting out of here you must be loco, too. What’s your plan?"

Bitter Water suddenly looked even more dejected. "I was hoping you had one. All I know is that we can’t stay here overnight. Right after dark would be the best time, don’t you think?"

Longarm shook his head and said, That’s when they’ll be expecting us to try and bust out. One of the oldest tricks around is to leave a prisoner unguarded and sort of let him think he’s escaping.

Morosely, Bitter Water studied the floor between his knees for a time before he sighed, "Heya! Waiting outside with rifles. Forgive me for being stupid. I have spent little time in Saltu jails. When do you think we should get away?"

Right about now would suit me just fine. It’s mid-afternoon and hot as hell out there. Half the town’ll be taking a siesta, and the restless souls are likely holding a funeral for the cuss I just shot.

I agree. But I don’t see how we can get out of this place. If I had a knife I could dig through the adobe wall, but—

It’d take too long, Longarm interrupted. I think we’d better try an old trick and hope that jasper out front is as dumb as he looks. The old prison fight would never work on anyone who’s worked as a guard for six weeks, but he might not have heard of it.

He does look stupid, Bitter Water agreed. But what is this trick you speak of?

"Oh, you’re going to start beating me up. I don’t think he’d care if I started slapping you around, but—"

The suggestion caused a flicker of enthusiasm to brighten the Indian’s features. Yes. No Saltu is going to stand by and allow a brother to be bested by a dirty Indian. But what are we supposed to be fighting about?

Hmmm, we’ll have to make it look a mite serious, won’t we? Let’s see now. What’s a good old boy likely to have strong feelings about? I’ll tell you what, Bitter Water. Take off your pants.

The Indian looked thunderstruck and muttered, You are making a joke. What do you take me for?

"That ain’t important. It’s what we want him to take you for. I want you to act like a wild, crazy Indian with a hard-on. Come on, old son, I know you ain’t a jail-wolf."

Bitter Water shrugged and stood up, turning out to be taller than the lawman had expected. The Indian dropped his ragged britches and stepped out of them, naked from the waist down. Longarm shouted, You ain’t gonna do no such thing, you crazy red bastard! and then he grabbed the startled Indian by the shirt and pulled him against his own frame, crying out, Help! This crazy Digger’s after my white ass!

The guard swung around to stare openmouthed as the two men rolled over and over on the floor. Then he sprang to his feet and shouted, Hey, what the hell kind of jail do you think we’re running here? We don’t allow that sort of thing in Manzanita, boys!

Longarm whimpered, Get him off me, then! He’s as strong as a goddamned elephant and I reckon he’d fuck one, given the chance!

The guard fished a key from his ring and fumbled with the lock, saying, Hit back, damn it! You’re a white man!

He’s killing me! He must have been chewing that crazy Indian medicine they use to get riled up!

The door was open and the guard stepped in, muttering, Oh, for God’s sake, as he drew his gun. Longarm saw what was coming and tried to shove Bitter Water out of the way, but the gun barrel slammed down against the side of the Miwok’s head and Longarm felt him go limp. He rolled the Indian off, hooked a toe behind the guard’s ankle, and kicked him hard in the kneecap with the other booted heel.

The guard went down, gasping in pain, but still holding on to the gun as Longarm rolled to his hands and knees and dove headfirst over his victim’s thrashing legs. He landed with all his considerable weight on the man’s chest and grabbed for the wrist of his gun hand as he kneed the guard viciously. The man gasped in pain. Longarm grabbed his hair and pounded his head on the floor until he lay limp and silent. Then Longarm hit him once for luck and got up with the other man’s gun in his own hand.

He stood for a moment, listening. The sounds of the struggle didn’t seem to be drawing any attention from the blazing furnace of the town outside. Both Bitter Water and the guard were breathing, but were obviously out of it for some time to come.

The Indian looked sort of silly lying there with no pants on, but his appearance was the least of Longarm’s worries. He stuck the gun in his waistband and picked up the Indian’s discarded pants. As he knelt to fumble them on over Bitter Water’s big feet, the Indian opened his eyes and asked, What are you doing?

Trying to get you dressed and out of here.

Bitter Water sat up and said, I can do that. Why didn’t you run away as soon as you had the chance? Didn’t you think he knocked me out?

You mean he didn’t? Longarm asked, astonished.

No. I was only dazed. It came to me as I lay there that I would be wise to let you run away and then leave myself. You are a good person, but you are Saltu.

You mean you figured you could lose yourself in the timber easier without a white man tagging along?

Of course, Bitter Water replied with assurance. No white man can track me in my native hills. But you did not run away. You stayed to help me. This is a new thing I must consider.

Longarm shrugged and said, You light out on your own if you’ve a mind to. I’ve got to see if I can find my gun and badge.

But as he went out front to rummage through the constable’s desk, the Indian, now dressed, took his arm and said, Come, Saltu brother. The siesta will be ending and we must have at least an hour’s start on them through the trees.

Longarm looked at Bitter Water with some surprise. I thought you aimed to make it on your own, Bitter Water. Just let me find my stuff, and—

"You are a good person, but a fool. You had your badge and they arrested you! When they find their friend unconscious, the whole town will be after us!"

"Us? All for one and one for all?"

The Miwok nodded. You have me in your debt. Come with me and no Saltu will ever cut your trail.

Well, maybe if I can get a few miles off and study my next move a spell . . . Longarm speculated.

Come. I will show you things no Saltu knows about these hills. Later, you can go back to Wa Sentan. Agreed?

Longarm nodded, but then he said, Not hardly. This case is just getting interesting.

You mean to come back to this place? Without your badge? Without your gun? Without a friend in the county?

Hell, old son, I’ve got a gun. The other odds just promise to make the game a mite more interesting.

*   *   *

In a white man’s town, wearing a white man’s cast-off rags, Bitter Water had seemed a rather shabby specimen. But crouched on a granite outcropping beside the lawman, the Miwok was a wild creature in its own element. The Mother Lode country lay in the oak-covered foothills of the Sierras, rather than in the evergreen slopes he’d half expected, so they were no higher than the Colorado prairie he was used to, yet Longarm was out of breath. His Indian companion had set a killing pace since they’d skulked out of Manzanita. Bitter Water had led them downslope for a time, which made sense, since anyone trying to cut their trail would figure they’d made a beeline for the high country. But then he’d led them in a series of hairpin turns through canyons thick with undergrowth and over hogback ridges too steep for a billy goat to consider, and, except for knowing that they were somewhere to the south of, and slightly higher than Manzanita, Longarm was completely lost.

He could only hope that anyone following them was as bushed and mixed-up as he was. As he rested his cramped calves by sprawling on the granite on one elbow, Longarm began to recover his bearings as well as his breath. The lookout Bitter Water had selected was a cunning choice. Longarm knew most men moved to the highest ground they could find when they wanted to see out across the world. The Miwok had led them to one of many boulders running in a horizontal band two-thirds of the way up this particular ridge. Anyone sweeping the high country with field glasses from the valley below would have no particular reason to study the rocks they were on, and their outlines were well below the skyline.

At the same time, they had a spectacular view to the west, north, and south. The sun was low and blazing red as it headed for China. The tawny, rolling foothills lay below them like some huge, wrinkled carpet, stitched together by the Great Spirit from odds and ends of animal skins—mostly cougar. The ridges ran north and south, under a cover of cheat grass and wild mustard, in rounded muscular curves that reminded one of the feminine strength of a great cat. It was easy to see, from up here, why California was earthquake country. The lower slopes of the Sierra looked as if they were about to spring at the North Pole. The folds between the smooth rolls of the slopes were dark with canyon oak and manzanita. To his left and right, the land grew rougher as the slopes became steeper, with a darker pelt of ponderosa pines and other evergreens disputing the claim of the lowland vegetation. He couldn’t see the snow-covered crests of the High Sierra behind them, for the range climbed to the timberline in graduated waves, steeper toward the east and gentler toward the sunset. The western slope of the Sierra would hardly have been noticeable, in fact, had not time and the patient running waters of a million brooks carved the main slopes into thousands of smaller ridges and canyons.

Bitter Water was watching one of the brush-choked canyons. They had come through it on the way here, and he was worried about his attempts to hide their sign. He’d called the place Spider Valley, Longarm remembered it as a winding stretch of dusty hell where he’d crawled on his hands and knees under waist-high twisted branches that smelled like medicine. He didn’t remember seeing any spiders in Spider Valley, but the place had been crawling with sassy little lizards who stuck their tongues out before they darted away along the branches.

He couldn’t locate it now. Spider Valley could have been any of those wrinkles down there, sinking into twilight well ahead of the still brightly illuminated ridges. He squinted his eyes against the red sun and managed to make out the distant flatness of the Great Valley between where they stood and the lower coastal ranges. The lowlands shimmered under a flat haze of dull orange and woodsmoke gray as the late afternoon breeze moved in from the invisible Pacific, beyond the horizon. He knew Sacramento was down there, somewhere. That son-of-a-bitch federal judge who’d disputed his jurisdiction was probably watching a nice sunset and planning a night on the town. In a state notorious for political corruption, Justice Stephen Field had gained a reputation for innovative crookedness.

The trouble with federal judges, Longarm mused, was that they were appointed for life and were often given the job as a reward for getting out the vote instead of for juridical literacy. Justice Field was one of those old-timers who’d come West to do good, and he had done a lot of it—for himself. They said he’d killed a few men in his day, and he was widely known for his draconian views on the rights of Greasers, Chinks, Niggers, or Injuns, as he called them. He was reputed to be thick with the railroad barons and bankers. He’d elevated the art of land-grabbing and claim-jumping to a fine science. This very year, at a place called Mussel Slough, U.S. marshals from the judge’s district had done battle with a group of small ranchers and farmers who had failed to see the justice in their homesteads being seized by Justice Field for his richer cronies. Longarm was glad he hadn’t been assigned to that case. The Battle of Mussel Slough had been a bloodbath California was going to remember. Five settlers had been gunned down by federal deputies, but they had taken two members of the attacking forces with them before losing their lands. It was easy to see why someone in Washington had asked for a deputy from another district. The California marshals had said they had no idea who had been stealing that gold bound for the San Francisco Mint. Longarm wondered if they were all in on it, or if he only had a few key men in high places to worry about. He felt a certain sense of loyalty to his fellow deputies, but in truth, he knew his own good reputation was mostly the result of his having a certain amount of common sense in an outfit tending to hire cheap help. He knew a lot of federal deputies who didn’t have sense enough to pour piss out of their boots. They’d go where they were told and see what they were told to see. The cover-up that Washington suspected was pretty obvious. Yet, wasn’t it a mite too obvious?

Longarm chewed thoughtfully on the edge of his full, dark brown mustache. Aloud, he muttered, I don’t understand it. We just ain’t talking about all that much money!

Beside him, Bitter Water asked, What money are you talking about?

Longarm said, I’ve been thinking about those gold shipments. A federal judge is expensive and I’ve been adding it up. Those high-graders haven’t been running off with gold bullion; they’ve been stealing whole trainloads of ore. You know what ore is, don’t you? Bitter Water looked at Longarm a bit reproachfully.

Of course. My people roamed the Mother Lode before the Saltu found out there was gold in that band of yellow-brown quartz that runs north and south through these hills. He chuckled softly and added, We used to make arrowheads out of it. If the Saltu were less unfriendly, we could show them places where the flecks of gold in the rock are visible to the naked eye. We never had any use for it. Gold is softer than lead; it makes very poor tools. In the old days our children used to find the beads of gold washed out of the rocks by running water and, being children, they’d bring them to their mothers. Once, when I was a boy, I found a nugget as big as my thumb. My mother said not to be foolish. It was the time of the year to be gathering acorns.

Longarm nodded and said, I sometimes wonder myself why so many men have gone crazy over the stuff. Though I don’t hold with eating acorns. Pinyon nuts ain’t bad, but acorns are bitter as hell.

The Miwok laughed and pointed a finger at Longarm. You are a Saltu. You don’t know how to wash the bitterness from our food. Your people have no patience; you only eat what’s easy. Over to our west, there is a valley where a whole party of your people starved to death many years ago. They were very crazy. They starved surrounded by food, had they but seen fit to gather it. Yet they cried like women and started to eat one another. My people have often joked about those crazy Saltu.

Longarm frowned and asked, Are you talking about the Donner party, back in the gold rush?

I think that was what they were called. They got lost in the High Sierra and were snowed in for the winter. There were roots and nuts all around them, but they ate each other. The ways of your people are very strange.

Longarm had had this same conversation with other Indians, so he didn’t want to get into it. Unlike some whites he knew, Longarm liked most Indians. But he didn’t buy the noble savage myth. As a man who’d lived with, slept with, and fought with Indians, he knew them better than either the bigots who hated them or the poetic writers who, never having swapped shots with Apache, tended to picture them as misunderstood supermen. The tragedy of the American Indian was simply that, save for a few tribes he could think of, they saw the world they shared with the white man as something different—something no white man could fully understand. Bitter Water seemed neighborly enough, and they were in this mess together. But Longarm knew that, no matter how it all turned out, they’d never really understand each other, so he didn’t waste time trying.

He said, The sun’s going down. You aim to spend the night up here on this rock like some big-assed bird?

The Miwok shrugged and said, One part of this country is as good as any other. I don’t see dust against the sunset. If they are trailing us, they are on foot.

Longarm stood up, shook the kinks out of his leg muscles, and stretched in the red glow of the setting sun.

I could have told you that. We went through places no pony could have gone. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t have laid odds on a mountain goat.

If I had run off alone, Bitter Water continued, I would not think anyone was taking the trouble to search for me. They consider us pests rather than game worthy of a great hunt. But you seemed important to them. From what you have told me this day, important people want you out of the way. There may be a reward offered for your capture. Saltu will do anything for money.

The tall deputy nodded grimly. "That’s for damned sure. But you purely puzzle me, Bitter Water. You know what money is."

Of course. Did you think I was a stupid person? You know I speak your tongue. ‘Fuck’ and ‘money’ are the first words anyone learns around you people.

Longarm chuckled. Well, maybe ‘son of a bitch’ comes almost as early. Where’d you pick up English, at some mission school?

"No, my band avoided the padres when Mexico owned California. They were nearly as cruel as your people. When I was young, I was captured by some gold miners. They