Longarm Double #3: Frontier Justice

NOVEL 5

Longarm in the Indian Nation

Chapter 1

Snapping awake with all senses alert wasn’t anything new to Custis Long. He’d done that every morning for almost as many years as he could remember. What was new was snapping awake in a bed far softer than his own, in his rooming house, and as different as his own bed was from the rough shakedowns on the ground that he’d gotten used to in the field. For a moment he was startled by the unaccustomed luxury of satin sheets and pillowcases brushing his bare skin, the scent of patchouli and musk heavy in his nostrils, and a soft, warm feminine form cuddled up to him.

For a moment, Longarm resisted two temptations. The first was to lever himself out of bed the way he usually did the instant he was awake. The second was to nestle down again with the woman, who was still asleep, and enjoy the pleasure of rousing her.

He didn’t resist the temptation to recall the night from which he’d just awakened, and memory brought a smile of pleasure to his face. The evening had started badly. He’d swung off the train at Julesburg to find the station agent waiting for him with the yellow flimsy of a telegram. The wire had been from his chief, Marshal Billy Vail, ordering him to get back to Denver as fast as possible while Vail dispatched another deputy to take on the Julesburg case. Longarm had gotten enough messages from his boss to distinguish between the ones that meant what they said and those that gave him a choice of obeying them or ignoring them. The telegram, together with his badge, enabled Longarm to persuade the stationmaster to flag the Limited, which would get him into Denver that night.

While the westbound Limited puffed impatiently, Longarm swung aboard the baggage car, where he dropped off his saddle and gear. Then he made his way through the train, looking for a seat. There were only two chair cars, both full, and the Pullmans were just as crowded. He didn’t find a seat until he’d walked all the way back to the observation car, which was also the club car, and where he’d probably have wound up in any event for a drink while he waited for the first call to dinner.

Years of riding trains to and from his case assignments had given Longarm a good eye for the recurring types of passengers he encountered. He figured the man standing next to him at the tiny corner bar while they were both waiting for service for a traveling salesman, a drummer; the back-tilted gray derby hat and the flashy stickpin in an overly ornate cravat were both earmarks of the type. It was easy to see, from the drummer’s red face and unsteady hands, that he’d been spending too much time with the bottle. The man hadn’t gone in to the dining car when the chime-tapping steward came through making the call to dinner. In fact, he’d ignored all three announcements. Longarm went in on the second call, and in the diner he noticed the woman. She was sitting with another woman and a man, and it would have been impossible not to notice her. She was the most attractive feature of the otherwise drab dining car.

Longarm shared a table with three other men—stockbrokers, judging from their conversation in which he took small part. Their talk of stock issues, debentures, convertibles, and options held small interest for him, and they were too engrossed in business talk to spend much time chatting idly with a stranger they’d never see again. After the meal, he returned to the observation car and took his after-dinner dram of Maryland rye out onto the platform to enjoy the crisp night air, which grew progressively crisper as the Limited huffed and swayed gently in its climb up the foothills of the Rockies. The first hint he had of trouble came when the door to the observation platform opened and the woman he’d seen at dinner came flying out.

Longarm grabbed her just as she was about to hit the brass rail that ran across the end of the platform, Hey, now! he said. You ought to be more careful. You could’ve fallen right off the train!

Whatever she’d been about to say in reply was lost in a bullroar from the drunken traveling man who rushed after her onto the observation platform.

Don’t play hard to get with me! he shouted. His face, Longarm could see in the light from the open door, was even redder than it had been before supper. You fancy dames are all alike! Lead a man on, then run away!

Please! Let me alone! the woman pleaded. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to!

You weren’t acting this way inside! he charged.

I came out here to get away from you! she snapped.

You came out here so I’d follow you and we could be by ourselves, he retorted, with drunken lack of logic. That’s just fine, girlie. Now we can play!

Longarm stepped between the drummer and the woman. Obviously, the drunk hadn’t noticed him before, for the man’s eyes bugged out when he saw him. Longarm said, I heard the lady tell you she wants you to leave her alone.

Who in hell are you to butt in? the man demanded. Trying to cut me out with the dame, are you?

He swung. Longarm had no trouble grabbing the slowmoving wrist. His calloused hands cut into the soft skin of the drummer’s arm as he pushed the man to the side of the observation platform. Before the startled drummer knew what was happening, Longarm had grabbed his other arm and was holding him out over the edge of the platform, his legs swinging in rhythm with the swaying of the speeding train, nothing but the thin mountain air below his feet.

Looking down at the ground rushing past below him had a very sobering effect on the drunk, especially when the wind took off his derby and sent it sailing into the dusk. He gasped, Jesus, mister! Don’t let go of me! If you drop me, I’ll be killed for sure!

Let me hear how nicely you can apologize to that lady for troubling her, Longarm ordered.

Now, I didn’t mean anything! I was just—

Please! the woman said. Don’t hurt him on my account!

Longarm didn’t answer her. He gave the drummer a shake. Find your tongue fast, mister! If I let you go now, it’ll be a long walk to Denver!

Lady, I’m sorry I stepped out of line, the man gasped. If you’ll overlook it—

Yes, yes! I’ll accept your apology, she said quickly.

Longarm pulled the man back onto the platform and released his arms. The drummer wiped the sweat off his red face with trembling hands and fled into the coach.

My goodness! the woman said. You certainly have a way of dealing with people who upset you. I hope I never get in your bad graces! But I’m very grateful that you stepped in to stop that man from annoying me.

Longarm took off his Stetson and made a little half-bow. I’m glad I was on hand, ma’am, to save you trouble.

You must be very strong, she smiled. That man weighed at least two hundred pounds, but you handled him like a sack of peanuts.

Well, even if he was three sheets to the wind, he ought to’ve been able to tell you’re the kind of lady who wouldn’t appreciate somebody like him trying to get fresh with you.

The woman looked abashed. I suppose it was partly my fault. I made the mistake of coming back here to the observation car for an after-dinner glass of port, instead of having it served in my compartment.

Your friends I saw you with at dinner didn’t come back with you, then? the lawman asked.

Why, they weren’t friends. Just people I was sharing a table with, as one does on a train.

I guess it wouldn’t have mattered to a gentleman, even if you were sitting down drinking by yourself, on a train. In a saloon, now, it might’ve been different.

The woman’s hand flew up to her breast. Goodness! I wouldn’t go into a common saloon, even with an escort! I’m Julia Burnside, by the way.

She extended her hand, palm down. Longarm didn’t know whether she expected him to kiss it or shake it, but thought it wasn’t quite his style to be kissing a lady’s hand, so he grasped the hand and shook it, while with his other hand, he touched the brim of his hat.

My name’s Long, Miz Burnside. Custis Long, deputy U.S. marshal from the Denver office. He hesitated, then asked, Would I be presuming if I asked if you are related to the late general?

No. She smiled. "We are not related, though I do hope I have better luck than he did. But my father’s family lives in Georgia, and I think the general came from New England. And it’s Miss Burnside, by the way."

He smiled. I wasn’t aiming to be nosy, ma’am. Just wondering. Again Longarm hesitated. Then he suggested, If you’d like to go back in the car and finish your glass of wine, I’d be honored to sit with you. It might keep somebody else from bothering you.

Why, thank you, Mr. Long. Or should I call you Marshal Long? I’d enjoy your company.

It doesn’t matter a bit what you call me, ma’ am. I don’t set a lot of store in titles, but I’ve gotten sort of used to being called Longarm. Here, let me open that door for you.

They sat chatting in the observation car, Miss Burnside with her glass of port, Longarm with a fresh glass of Maryland rye, while the Limited steamed up the long slope to Denver. Without being obvious about it, Julia Burnside encouraged Longarm to talk of his experiences, and he enjoyed their conversation thoroughly, as would any man who finds an attractive young woman interested in what he had to say.

When the conductor called the first warning for the Denver stop, they joined the flurry set off by other passengers who were getting off at the Colorado capital. Longarm decided to write off the incident as a pleasant but inconsequential evening. Even so, he hated to see it end. He’d found Julia Burnside’s dark beauty and her slow, sensuous way of smiling exceedingly attractive. She was past the age of kittenish youth, but not yet overly mature. Longarm didn’t expect to see her again after they parted in the excursion car, but when he’d picked up his gear from the baggage master and was carrying it out of the depot, he saw her standing on the top step. A porter with a loaded luggage cart waited behind her. She was surveying the long line of hacks and carriages with impatient bewilderment.

Something wrong, Miss Burnside? Longarm asked.

She turned toward him, obviously pleased to see him, but puzzled. My carriage isn’t here. I sent our housekeeper a wire from Omaha, telling her to have Duffey meet me. She shook her head. The staff wasn’t expecting me back so soon. I suppose they’re treating themselves to a few days away from their jobs.

Your family had to travel somewhere else, then?

There’s only my father and me. Mother died several years ago. We’d planned to spend another week in Atlanta, but he got a telegram that called him to New York, and I decided to come home alone.

Well, now, you ought not go to an empty house by yourself, at night. Suppose I just escort you home?

Really, Marshal Long—Longarm—there’s no need for that. I’m not a baby. I can go home without worrying or being afraid.

Just the same, he said, I bet you’d feel better if somebody was with you.

Well, if you’re sure I wouldn’t be imposing. The house is in quite a lonely part of town, some distance out on Sherman Avenue.

All the more reason I should see you home. And you ain’t imposing one bit, Longarm assured her. I don’t have a wife or anybody waiting for me. I’ll just see that you get home safe and sound.

He whistled up a hack and saw that her bags were properly stowed away, then tossed his own gear onto the rack on top of the vehicle. He was wondering if he’d been too forward in making his offer. Julia Burnside’s dress and manners had marked her as being prosperous, but a home on Sherman Avenue meant more than mere prosperity; it meant wealth. His conversation during the drive was somewhat inhibited, but his companion more than made up for it with a stream of light, somewhat nervous chatter as the hack passed beyond the zone of lighted streets and into the city’s outlying residential section.

When he saw the Burnside house in the veiled moonlight of the autumn night, looming huge and dark in the center of an acre or so of newly planted lawn and shrubbery, Longarm whistled softly to himself. It must look bigger than it really is, he thought. Then the hack turned onto a semicircular driveway that led to the front door of the imposing structure, and Julia said, I’ll go on ahead and light a lamp in the hall, if you don’t mind seeing that the driver gets all my bags.

Longarm jumped out of the carriage, helped her down, and then helped the cabman assemble the luggage. When they got to the house, the door was open, and a lamp was glowing in the hallway. Involuntarily, Longarm took a step inside. While the hackman was arranging the luggage on the floor just inside the doorway, Julia Burnside appeared at Longarm’s elbow.

Turning back from his quick glance down the long, dim corridor, Longarm volunteered, You’ve got a pretty good-sized house here, Miss Burnside. If it’s been left by itself very long, it might be a good idea for me just to walk through it and make sure there’s nobody lurking in any of the rooms.

I was hoping you’d offer to do that, Marshal. It’d make me feel a good deal safer.

I’ll just tell the hackman to wait. Longarm started after the driver, who was already halfway back to the hack.

There’s no need, she said. I’ve already paid him and told him to come back for you at six. And I warned him to be sure nothing happens to your saddle and other equipment.

Longarm said the first thing that popped into his mind. I didn’t expect you’d invite me to stay.

I didn’t plan to, until we were halfway out here. Julia pulled the jewelled pin from her hat and tossed the hat down the dim hall. Before his eyes, Longarm saw a prim-and-proper young lady suddenly transformed into a flashing-eyed temptress. She went on, Then I asked myself, ‘Why not?’ And, do you know, I couldn’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t, so I did! And she threw back her head, laughing huskily.

As pleasant as he found the memory of what had followed, Longarm couldn’t lie still while he exhausted the recollections of the night. Habit was too strong to overcome; he simply wasn’t comfortable lying abed of a morning, with the day and his duty waiting. The soft satin sheets slithered luxuriously over his skin as he slipped out of bed. There was enough of a glow coming from the coal fire he’d lighted in the bedroom’s small fireplace to enable him to locate a window. He opened the heavy velvet drapes wide enough to see the graying sky. It wasn’t quite six o’clock yet, by his reckoning.

Moving as quietly as he knew how, he dressed by the grate’s soft glow, adjusting his gunbelt and holster by feel, and forgoing the routine which he usually followed each morning in his own room, of inspecting his weapons closely. He didn’t know when Julia would wake up, but when he turned toward the bed after slipping his arms into the sleeves of his Prince Albert coat, she was sitting up, propped on the pillows, watching him dress. Her hair was tousled into dark curls around her face, her full lips were slightly swollen, and her shoulders gleamed in the fireglow that turned her creamy skin a rosy pink and accented the dark, pebbled rosettes of her upthrust nipples.

How did it get so late so soon? she asked, stretching languidly.

Longarm smiled. Time’s got a habit of hurrying, when you’re enjoying yourself.

I’d enjoy having you come back to bed, even for a little while.

Now, Julia, you know I can’t. It’s getting on toward six, and that’s when you said the hack would be back.

Tonight, then? she asked hopefully. If the servants show up, I’ll send them away, and we’ll have the house to ourselves again.

You know I’d like to. The only problem is, by tonight I might be headed out for God knows where. I told you my chief wired me to hurry back here, that he’s got a case waiting for me.

Yes, I remember, she pouted. When you come back, then?

Sure. I don’t know when that’ll be, but I’ll find a way to let you know.

Let me find you, Longarm. My father resents any man with whom I make friends. He seems to want to choose all my companions himself. Of course, he always has his own ‘companions’ in a cozy little nest that he keeps in town, near his office. And I’ve decided that if he can choose his, I have a right to choose mine.

Just have somebody ask at Marshal Vail’s office in the Federal Building. Longarm stepped to the bed and bent to kiss her. When I get back, then.

He let himself out the big front door just as the hack rolled into the driveway.

A few minutes after eight, fortified by a hot breakfast and freshly shaved, Longarm walked into Billy Vail’s office in the Federal Building.

Vail looked up from his paper-strewn desk and grunted, Time you were getting here.

If I’d known you were in that big a hurry, I’d’ve come right here from the depot last night, Longarm said mildly. Only I didn’t expect I’d find you here, then.

I might’ve surprised you, Vail replied. He made a face, clasped his hands over a stomach that was beginning to bulge, and belched. Damn soggy fried potatoes I had for breakfast. Nobody cooks spuds the right way anymore. Well, now that you’re here, sit down and listen.

As Longarm settled into the red morocco armchair across from his chief’s desk, he said, The way that wire you sent me read, I didn’t think you’d give me a chance to sit down before I had to leave on whatever job it is you pulled me back for. What’s come up that’s so all-fired important?

Vail answered with a question. Was Cady Martin in the outer office when you passed through it?

Cady? The sheriff from Teller County? If he was, I didn’t see him. The only one out there was your pretty little sissified pen-pusher.

Pressing a button on his desk, Vail waited impatiently for the door of his office to open. When the young, pink-cheeked stenographer-clerk stuck his head inside, Vail asked, Has Sheriff Martin showed up yet?

He just this minute came in, the young man replied.

Well, tell him to trot on in here. Turning to Longarm, the chief marshal went on, It’s really Cady’s case, so I asked him to wait over in town to tell you about it.

We’re handling county cases now? Longarm asked incredulously.

We’re handling this one, because Frank and Harry Warde have a connection with it. And if we don’t take it on at Cady’s request, we’ll be getting one from the senator as soon as Cady gets back to Cripple Creek and the Wardes have time to telegraph Washington.

Longarm nodded. All right. I get what you’re driving at.

Cady Martin came in. A Colt swung from his hip, a leather vest with a star pinned on it hung loosely from his shoulders. Cady was a lanky, sandy-haired man with an untrimmed tobacco-stained mustache that drooped wearily down on either side of a long, protruding chin. His eyes were red-rimmed and he needed a shave.

’Morning, Billy, he said. Longarm. Sorry I’m late, but I saw the elephant and heard the owl last night. Seemed to me I was entitled to cut loose after all the riding I’ve done the past week.

No harm, Vail told him. Sit down, Cady, and go over what you told me yesterday. I want Longarm to get it firsthand.

Martin pulled up a chair from the row ranged along the wall and let himself down into it carefully. Not a hell of a lot to tell. These three gophers, Scud Petersen and Dob something-or-other and Eddie Boyle, they got tired of scratching hardrock, so they figured they’d change their luck by robbing the Miner’s Bank, there in Cripple Creek. That’d be three, close to four weeks back. Well, I don’t know how much experience them yahoos had robbing banks before, but they fucked this one up real good. He paused to squirt a stream of amber tobacco juice into the spittoon beside Vail’s desk.

Longarm took the opportunity to ask, You mean they didn’t pull it off?

Oh, they pulled it off, all right. Got something like thirty thousand dollars, mostly in gold and silver, but a few greenbacks. Only Jimmy Clark, the teller at the bank, ran to the door and cut loose on ’em with a shotgun after they got outside. Tim Andrews heard the ruckus, and he come running down from his office, and when the smoke cleared away they’d shot both Tim and Clark.

Sorry to hear that, Longarm interrupted. Tim was as good a town marshal as I ever ran into.

Yep, he was all right, Tim was, Martin agreed. Only good thing about it was that Tim shot Scud first, dropped him cold, and the one called Dob took so much lead from the shotgun that he died a little ways out of town. I was up to Gillel when it all took place. By the time I’d got word and made it back to Cripple Creek, Eddie Boyle was long on his way, with all the loot. I took Sid, and we dogged after him on a cold trail. For all we knew, he might’ve been shot up, too, and had to hole up someplace close by.

Martin stopped to spit again and Longarm observed, Only I get the idea it didn’t happen that way.

Sure as hell not, the sheriff agreed. To cut it short and sweet, if Boyle was hurt at all, which I don’t guess he was, he wasn’t hurt enough to slow him down. He left a trail a mile wide, buying fresh horses every town he came to that had a livery stable. We didn’t have no trouble following him.

Vail said, You don’t need to go through all that, Cady. Just tell Longarm what you wound up with.

Like I told you yesterday, Billy, we wound up with what the little boy shot at, Martin snorted. Boyle cut east to La Junta and then made tracks straight on south to the Indian Nation. Sid and me got as far as Fort Supply before we ran into a couple of Pawnee Indian policemen. They spotted our badges and told us to hightail the hell back to where we had jurisdiction.

Well, they were right, in a way, Vail said. It’s federal territory, down in the Nation. I don’t say they should’ve turned you and Sid back, but the Indian police never did take kindly to anybody from outside butting in on their home grounds.

Martin slammed a palm down on Vail’s desk. Damn it, Billy, it wasn’t like Eddie Boyle’s an Indian! He might be a breed, come to think of it, but he robbed a bank in my territory! You’d think them redskin bastards would give me and Sid a hand, instead of chasing us off!

It doesn’t work out that way, Longarm put in. They don’t make us welcome in the Nation even if we wear federal badges the same as they do.

Sure. I know that, Martin said disgustedly. But that didn’t leave us much legroom. Thing is, while I was coming back to Cripple Creek from Gillel, Sid found out a little bit about Boyle. Seems he used to talk a lot about a woman he was sweet on down in the Nation. Hottest piece of ass he ever had, he used to say. He was always getting ready to go back to her.

Now that’s interesting. Longarm frowned. Whereabouts does she live?

The sheriff shook his head irritably. Damn it, I don’t know! We never could find that out. But we were on a good trail, when we got pulled off it. Anyhow, we didn’t come off so good when we tried to argue with them Pawnees, so we just turned around and headed home. Then, on the way back, I got to thinking. That Miner’s Bank belongs to the Warde brothers, and I know neither one of ’em is going to be satisfied till they see Boyle on the business end of a hanging rope. So I figured I better stop on up here and get Billy to pick up where me and Sid left off.

All three of the men sat silently for a moment. They knew what the sheriff had been thinking. The big mining and financial syndicates that had dominated Colorado’s commercial life since the days when it had still been a territory had grown even stronger with statehood. The syndicates were almost a government unto themselves; they’d taken the Cattlemen’s Association as a model and had assembled a band of enforcers, a loosely knit, small private army, that worked in parallel but not always in cooperation with the authorities. There was one big difference. The enforcers weren’t bound by laws and rules of evidence, and often recovery of the loot from a mine or gold train or bank robbery was secondary to punishing the perpetrators as examples. Usually, the punishment was a lead slug.

Well? Vail asked Longarm. How do you see it?

The deputy pulled absently at a corner of his mustache for a moment, then replied, About like you do, I guess, Billy. The Warde brothers are going to be pulling strings as soon as Cady reports back to Cripple Creek. You called the turn a while ago.

Vail said, If their men go into the Nation looking for Boyle, they’re sure to rub the Indian police raw. I want a man down there to keep trouble from exploding—to get Boyle first. You’ve had more cases down in the Nation than anybody else in the office. Your warrant’s ready whenever you are.

Longarm nodded slowly. All right. Give me time to sit down a minute with Cady and find out what else I can about this Boyle fellow. Fort Reno’s as likely a place as any for me to work out of, so I’ll take the early train and connect up with the Rock Island spur that runs down to the Nation. Expect me back when you see me, I guess.

And try to take things as easy as you can, Vail said. The last time I heard, things were nice and quiet down there. Don’t get me blamed for starting another Indian war, whatever else you do!

Chapter 2

For the first two or three miles of his ride from the end of the Rock Island spur track to Fort Reno, Longarm couldn’t make up his mind whether the seat of the jolting army supply wagon was more or less uncomfortable than the bench in the caboose where he’d spent the previous night and half the morning. Finally, he decided there wasn’t much to choose between the two, and devoted his attention to the landscape.

There was as little to choose between the country he was seeing now and that which he’d watched while the freight train rolled south from Wichita into the Indian Nation. Both landscapes were virtually featureless, and both bore the same kind of vegetation. The land between the Indian agency at the Darlington railhead and Fort Reno, ten miles farther south, was perhaps a bit more rolling, but on it grew the same blackjack oaks, gum trees, and mesquite patches.

Although the primary reason for Darlington’s existence was the Indian agency that served the Arapahoe-Cheyenne reservation, the agency had attracted a few other enterprises. There were a blacksmith shop, a notions store, a tintype gallery, and a pharmacy. There was also a big authorized trading post, which was also a general store, and housed in the same building with it were a hotel, a dining room, and a saloon. There was no livery stable.

Not that it would make any difference, Longarm thought as he shifted position trying to find a soft spot on the wooden seat. I’d pick an army-trained nag any day over what I might draw from a liveryman’s outfit in a place like this.

Something I’ve always wondered about, he remarked to the teamster on the seat beside him. "Why in hell does every fort in the Indian Nation have a railroad line running close to it, but not ever any spur tracks built right to the fort?"

Beats me, Marshal, the man said around his chaw of cut plug. But did you ever see the army do anything the easy way? The teamster joined in Longarm’s chuckle, then added, Besides, if they built the railroads right up to the forts, us teamsters wouldn’t have no jobs. And I’d a damn sight rather skin mules than get saddlesores on my ass chasing Indians all over hell and Texas.

Still having to go out after runaways, are they? Longarm asked.

Maybe not as much now as we used to. The boys at Fort Sill do, though. Them Comanches and Kiowas down there jump the reservation a lot worse than the Araps and Cheyennes around Fort Reno.

Comanches and Kiowas are a sight wilder than most, I’d say, Longarm remarked.

Damn right, the driver agreed, and a sight meaner, too. Not that the ones up here are much better. I tell you, Marshal, I’m just as glad that agency’s where it is, instead of jammed up to the fort. We don’t get a lot of ’em wandering around, maybe slipping a rifle or pistol up under their blankets if they get a chance. And them Indians damn sure ain’t going to be collecting their beef allotments and butchering the critters in smelling distance of our barracks.

Longarm nodded abstractedly. He was already plotting a course of action in his mind, to be refined after he’d studied the maps he’d pick up at the fort. Chiefly, he was wondering how far he was going to have to backtrack to pick up the trail of the missing Eddie Boyle. He’d forgotten a lot of the distances that he’d learned from his previous cases in the Nation, but seemed to recall that Fort Supply, where Cady Martin had been forced to leave the fugitive’s trail, was a good hundred miles northwest of Fort Reno.

How’s the lay of the land between here and Fort Supply? he asked the teamster.

"About what you’d expect. Dry and cold at this time of year; will be until the snow starts next month. Then it’ll be just plain cold. Why? You heading up that way?"

Soon as I can pick up a horse at your remount depot and draw some rations from the quartermaster’s stores.

Well, I wish you good luck. The teamster spat around the end of the wagon. You’re going to need it, if you’re going into the open territory.

Mounted on a roan gelding, the best of the horses he’d seen at the remount corral, with jerky, hardtack, bacon, pintos, and a bag of coffee beans bulging his saddlebags, Longarm started back to Darlington in the waning afternoon. He didn’t intend to hit the real trail until morning. After a night and a day rattling around on the hard seat of the Rock Island caboose, he felt he was entitled to sit down to a dinner he hadn’t cooked himself, and to sleep at least one night in a real bed before he set out. Once he’d left Darlington, there wasn’t any way of knowing how long he’d have to get by on rations of bacon, beans, hardtack, and jerky, with perhaps a rabbit now and then, or how long he’d sleep in his bedroll on the ground. The maps he’d gotten at the fort showed only one settlement between Darlington and Fort Supply.

His second look at the settlement that had grown up around the Darlington Indian agency didn’t change the opinion Longarm had formed of the place when he’d first stepped off the freight. He’d thought then that there wasn’t much to it, but it was better than nothing at all. Looking at it again in the lowangled sunlight of the dying day confirmed his first impression.

About fifteen buildings formed the agency itself; isolated by the river from the settlement, they stood in a neat, open square in the middle of plowed area that had obviously been used in growing farm crops of some kind. Longarm could almost discern the purpose of each building just by looking at it from the outside: dwellings, an office, workshops, a church, a school, warehouses, barns; a corral stood off one corner of the square. The agency buildings were all neatly painted, white with dark gray trim, and they shone fresh and clean in the early evening sunshine.

In contrast, the trader’s settlement that had seemed imposing from a distance was shabby and scruffy-looking when seen up close. The main structure was the all-purpose, three-story building that dominated everything. From the placement of the signs that hung on it, Longarm saw that the Murray Hotel occupied the two upper floors, and Baker’s Store and Trading Post the main floor, with one end given over to the dining room. The saloon was housed in an ell that had been added on to one end of the structure as an afterthought.

When new, the big building had been painted with a single coat of drab gray paint. It seemed to be the only shade available in the Nation, except white. Now, the paint was scabrous and splotched, and beginning to peel, showing the raw boards in places. The white trim that had outlined the eaves, doors, and windows had weathered, until it almost matched the gray walls. Behind the store stood a large new warehouse, built of bricks.

To the northwest, the rolling plain fell in a gentle slope to form a saucer within a sweeping curve of the Canadian River’s north fork. A narrow trace of beaten earth, neither wide enough nor distinct enough to be called a road, wandered at random across the plain. Longarm counted eleven houses spaced irregularly along the trace within a distance of perhaps three miles. All the dwellings stood in stubbled fields checker-boarded by irrigation ditches. The fields hadn’t been plowed after the summer harvest; they were covered with sheared stalks of corn and maize.

All the houses were uniform in size and shape—small cubes with roofs shaped like pyramids. Chimneys stuck up from the roof peaks. They were all painted with the same sodbuster-gray that covered the trader’s building. Beyond the houses, the conical shapes of tipis marked the location of an Indian camp. Past the camp, the river formed a broken silver line that curved between low hillocks, its course bringing it toward the agency’s edge. The stream was shallow now, little more than a series of small pools connected by thread-thin trickles, waiting to be replenished by the rains that had not yet set in.

Longarm reined in at the long hitch rail that stretched from one end of the trading post building to the other. His stomach told him it was nearly time to eat, but curiosity was more commanding than hunger. He went into the store, where he found the interior cavernous, dim, and empty of customers. At the back, at a desk behind a long, scarred counter, a man sat checking over ledger sheets.

Help you with something? he called when Longarm entered.

Some information, maybe. Longarm picked his way through the maze of bales, boxes, and barrels that were scattered on the floor. My name’s Long, deputy U.S. marshal from Denver.

Asa Baker, the man said. I’m the trader here.

Figured that out from your sign, Longarm said, as he looked around the store’s deserted interior, at the same time taking stock of Baker from a corner of his eye. The trader wore a fringe of beard, his upper lip clean-shaven. His beard was gray, but his hair was still dark brown. His eyes were closely set and his eyelids were slitted under brows that appeared to be drawn together in a perpetual frown. Longarm went on, Trade don’t seem real lively, right now.

Too close to suppertime. Well, Marshal, who’re you after? Baker’s voice reflected long-suffering impatience. You’re bound to be looking for somebody. Every damned outlaw that finds things too hot for him outside heads for the Nation, and the law follows him.

I guess that’s about right, Longarm agreed. The one I’m after is a bank-robbing killer named Eddie Boyle.

What’s he look like? Baker asked. Names don’t mean much here; a man on the dodge, first thing he does is give himself a new one. But I guess you’d know that, if you’re who you say you are.

Just to set your mind easy— Longarm took out his wallet and flipped it open to show his badge. That satisfy you?

Looks real enough, all right. Well, what about this Boyle you’re after, Marshal? Colorado badman, is he?

The deputy nodded. Cripple Creek. Last one of a gang that robbed a bank and killed two men getting away. About all I’ve got is his description. Early twenties, just under six feet, sort of slim, dark-complected. He’s got a nose that’s been busted twice, high and low.

There’s plenty of men with busted noses around here, but none of ’em are strangers to me. How long’s this fellow been on the prod?

A month, give or take a few days. He’d’ve showed up here not more than a week ago, I’d guess, if he kept moving after he got across the Colorado line.

Baker shook his head. Afraid I can’t help you. There’s only been two or three strangers pass through here in the last two weeks, and none of them had busted noses. You sure your man headed this way?

Not too sure. All I know is he was headed south.

Guess you’ll have to backtrack, then. There’s not too many places up in the Cherokee Outlet where a man can get provisions. Outside of a few whiskey ranches just above the reservation border, there’s only New Cantonment, Fort Supply, and Beaver City. Looking thoughtful, Baker added, Unless he just cut though No-Man’s-Land and hit into Texas. There’s enough cattle ranches in the Panhandle now so a man could go from one to the other and keep eating pretty regular without ever showing his face in a town.

I’ve thought about Texas, sure. The thing is, I’ve been told that Boyle has a lady friend someplace here in the Nation.

The trader scratched his fringe of chin whiskers pensively. That covers lots of ground. Whereabouts in the Nation?

Now, if I knew that, I’d be making tracks for the place instead of standing here jawing with you, wouldn’t I? Tell me something, Baker. You been the trader here very long?

Going on four years. Moved over from the Creek lands a little while after the army begun herding the Cheyennes and Araps southward, and needed a trader on this reservation. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?

Longarm wondered why the trader’s voice suddenly took on a note of hostility, but ignored it. He said casually, I just wondered how well acquainted you might be with the Indian police on these stations here. If you were me, which one of ’em would be best to ask if he’d keep an eye out for this Boyle?

Baker snorted. None of ’em. Have you ever worked in the Nation before now, Marshal?

Some. Not lately, though. It used to be that the Indian police wouldn’t go an inch out of their way to help a white lawman, even if he wore a federal badge the same as they do. I hoped things might’ve changed.

They haven’t. But if you feel like you’ve got to ask one of ’em to help, I’d say an Osage named Short Bear is your best bet.

Thanks, Baker. Where do I find him? At the agency?

Tomorrow, maybe. If you want to talk to him sooner, he’ll more than likely be in the dining room next door at suppertime. Unless you plan to push on tonight?

I figure to stay here, if there’s a room open in the hotel.

There is. As far’s I know, Mrs. Murray’s only got one room rented out right now. They’ll be starting to dish up supper in a few minutes. If you’re thirsty, better stop at the bar first. No liquor in the dining room ’ cause it’s open to the redskins.

The lawman would have enjoyed a tot of Maryland rye, but decided to wait until after supper. He didn’t want to miss the chance of talking to the Osage policeman in the dining room.

Thanks, but I’ll wait a while, he told Baker.

Sure. You come to the bar after supper, I’ll set up the drinks myself. You tell Short Bear I said for you to talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen, but I don’t guarantee anything.

I’ll do that. The deputy turned to leave, then turned back, Oh, one more thing. Does the hotel have a barn or stall where I can put my horse tonight?

Nope. Hotel guests use my corral; it’s out back of the warehouse. If you need feed, I’ve got oats and grain for sale.

Carrying a small bag of oats and another one of corn, Longarm led his roan back to the corral, unsaddled the animal and fed it, then climbed the stairs to the hotel lobby, carrying his saddle gear, and signed the dog-eared register. Mrs. Murray—at least, he assumed she was the landlady—showed him to a room down a dark corridor, looking out at the warehouse’s blank wall.

No drinking or carousing in your room, now, she cautioned him. I run a nice, respectable hotel, and I expect my guests to behave, not go wild and break up my furniture. Now then, you can eat supper in the dining room if you get there inside of the next hour. It’s open for breakfast at five.

Thank you for the information, ma’ am. Longarm glanced at the mismatched furnishings: an iron bedstead with chipped paint and a sagging mattress; a pine straight-backed chair; a fumed-oak bureau spotted white with watermarks, its mirror mottled with age. I’ll be right careful of your furniture. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to send up the porter with some hot water—

Porter! she exploded. Mister, in this hotel, I’m the porter and the maid and the desk clerk, too! Mrs. Murray looked incredulously at Longarm. He’d kept his face straight and serious during her outburst, and this seemed to confuse her. After a moment, she relented. Oh, all right. I’ll get you a pitcherful from the dining room. They wouldn’t give it to you if you was to ask. But you’ll have to fetch it from the desk.

I’ll be glad to, ma’am. And I’m real grateful for your help.

Don’t worry, it’ll be on your bill, she retorted. Hot water comes extra with my rooms.

With the cinder dust from the freight train and the red trail dust from his trip to Fort Reno washed away, freshly shaved and wearing his clean shirt, Longarm entered the dining room a half hour later. The two long tables that stretched side by side down the length of the room weren’t crowded, but as Longarm studied the table arrangement, he saw that he faced a problem.

Two Indians wearing tall, round-topped hats and blue uniform tunics sat side by side, facing in his direction. There were vacant chairs flanking them on both sides, but Longarm knew that if he made it obvious that he preferred to sit next to Short Bear, he ran the risk of offending the second Indian. Without asking, there was no way to determine which of the two was the Osage Baker had said was friendly. If he sat beside the wrong man and then had to change his position, that would be a serious loss of face to Short Bear’s companion. Indian pride was touchy that way, he knew, and the last thing he needed was to offend either of the two policemen.

With this in mind, he decided to sit across the table from them. That way, he’d be talking to each of them on equal terms. More importantly, he’d be able to watch their faces for their reactions during the conversation. There were vacant chairs across from them, but the seat directly opposite was occupied by a woman. Her back was turned toward him, and he couldn’t tell a thing about her, but it had been Longarm’s experience that if a man ignored half a dozen empty chairs and deliberately sat down beside a lone woman, she was apt to take the act as an insulting advance and raise a ruckus. He didn’t need that, either, because then he’d be forced to apologize, and apologizing to a woman in public would reduce his stature to the Indians.

Typically, he decided to solve the problem by meeting it head-on. Going down the side of the table on which the woman was seated, he took off his Stetson and stopped behind her. He said, Beg your pardon, ma’am. I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, but I’m a deputy U.S. marshal, and I need to talk to these two officers on official business.

Turning in her chair, the woman looked up at him, and for the first time he got a look at her face. He realized with surprise that she was young, very young indeed. His guess was that she couldn’t be a day more than twenty, and might not even be that old.

She said coldly, It just happens that I’m talking with these gentlemen on business, too, Marshal. And I might point out that I was here first.

Longarm bowed his head diffidently, then raised it again and looked her steadily in the eye. I’m sorry, ma’ am, but I’m going to have to insist. I’ve got to leave here before daylight tomorrow, and I need to get my business done tonight.

The color rose in her cheeks, and she said angrily, Marshal, are you suggesting that I’m planning to spend the entire night with these two men? Do you mean to imply that I’m a lady of the evening? Is that what you thought I meant when I said I was talking business with them?

Now, ma’am, that wasn’t in my mind at all— Longarm began, but before he could continue, the girl had risen to her feet and slapped him sharply across the cheek.

Longarm knew he had to do something. To let the woman’s act pass by would cause the Osage policemen to classify him as, at worst, weaker than a woman, or at the very least, as a man of no