Lincoln County. Hell, I was in Dodge last month and you know what they got? They got uniformed police and honest-to-God street lamps in Dodge now! Things keep up this way and we’ll likely both be out of a job!”
Leaving the policeman nursing his injured civic pride, Longarm paid the silent, surly Greek behind the counter for his breakfast and resumed his walk to work, feeling almost human. He knew he rated the day off for having spent the night on duty, but these new regulations about paperwork meant he had to report in before he could go home to his furnished digs for some shut-eye.
The Federal Building sat at the foot of Capitol Hill. Longarm went in and climbed to the second floor, where he found a door marked UNITED STATES MARSHAL, FIRST DISTRICT COURT OF COLORADO.
He entered, nodded to the pallid clerk pecking at his newfangled typewriting machine, and made his way to an inner door, where he let himself in without knocking.
His superior, U.S. Marshal Vail, glared up with a start from behind his big mahogany desk and snapped, “Damn it, Longarm! I’ve told you I expect folks to knock before they come busting in on me!”
Longarm grinned and was about to sass the plump, pink man behind the desk. Then he saw Vail’s visitor, seated in an overstuffed leather armchair near the banjo clock on the wall and tipped the brim of his hat instead, saying, “Your servant, ma’am!”
The woman in the visitor’s chair was dressed severely in black, with a sort of silly little hat perched atop her coal-black hair. She was about twenty-five and pretty. She wasn’t quite a white woman. Maybe a Mexican lady, dressed American.
Marshal Vail said, “I’m glad to see you on time for a change, Longarm. Allow me to present you to Princess Gloria Two-Women of the Blackfoot Nation.” Longarm managed another smiling nod before the girl cut in with a severe but no less pretty frown to say, “I am no such thing, Marshal Vail. Forgive me for correcting you, but, John Smith and Pocahontas notwithstanding, there is no such thing as an Indian princess.”
Vail shrugged and asked, “Aren’t you the daughter of Real Bear, the Chief of the Blackfoot, ma’am?”
“My father was war chief of the Turtle Clan. MY mother was Gloria Witherspoon, a captive white woman. There are no hereditary titles among my father’s people, and even if there were, no woman could inherit the rank of war chief.”
Vail looked annoyed but managed a wan smile as he nodded and asked, “Just what is your title, then, ma’am?”
“I’m a half-breed. On rare occasions, I’m called miss.”
Longarm ignored the bitterness in her almond eyes as he leaned against the back of another chair and suggested, “I don’t reckon your family tree is what you’ve come to Uncle Sam about, is it, Miss Two-Women?”
Vail cut in before she could answer, saying, “I’ve got the lady’s complaint down, Longarm. It’s your next job.”
Longarm didn’t think it was the time to point out that he rated the day off. He knew it wouldn’t do any good and the odd little bitter-eyed woman interested him. So he nodded and waited for Vail to fill him in.
The marshal said, “This lady’s daddy sent her to see us, Longarm. A bad Indian’s gone back to the blanket. I got his wanted papers here somewhere … anyway, I want you to run up to the Blackfoot reservation in Montana Territory and-“
“Ain’t you assigning me to a job for the B.I.A., Chief?”
The girl said, “The man my father is worried about isn’t a problem for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, sir. They don’t know he’s alive. My father reported him to the Indian agent at Fort Banyon. They told him they’d file a report on the matter, but of course we know they won’t. Like myself, Johnny Hunts Alone is nonexistent.”
Longarm asked, “You mean he’s …”
“A half-breed. You don’t have to be so delicate. Half-breed’s one of the nicer things I’m used to being called.”
Vail found the “wanted” flyer he’d been rummaging for and said, “He may not exist to the B.I.A., but Justice wants him bad. Matter of fact, we don’t have him down as an Indian, half or whatever. We’ve got him as one John Hunter, age thirty-six, no description save white, male, medium height and build. When he ain’t hiding out on reservations he robs trains, banks, and such. We got four counts of first degree on him in addition to the state and federal wants for armed robbery.”
Longarm pursed his lips and mused, “I remember seeing the wanted flyers, now. Funny, I had him Pictured in my head as just another old, uh-“
“White man,” Gloria Two-Women cut in, stone-faced. Both men waited as she continued, “Like myself, Johnny Hunts Alone is a Blackfoot breed. In his case, his mother was the Indian. They say his father was a Mountain Man who, uh, married a squaw for a trapping season. She gave him his half-name of Johnny, hoping, one would presume, his father might come back some day.”
Longarm asked, “Was he raised Indian, then?”
“To the extent that I was, I suppose. I’ve never met him. They say he ran away to look for his white father years ago.”
Vail explained, “The way I understand it, this Johnny Hunts Alone, John Hunter, or whatever, can pass himself off as white or Indian. He sort of raised himself in trail towns, hobo jungles, and such till he took to robbing folks instead of punching cows. The reason he’s been getting away with it for years is that we could never find his hideout. According to this little lady’s daddy, the jasper’s up at the Blackfoot reservation right now. Miss Gloria, here, will introduce you to her daddy and the chief’ll point the owlhoot out to you. Seems like a simple enough mission to me.”
Longarm sighed and said, “Yeah, it always does. Do you mind if I ask a few questions? Just a result of my suspicious nature.”
Without waiting for permission, he stared soberly at the girl and asked, “How come your Blackfoot relations are so suddenly helpful to Uncle Sam, Miss Two-Women? Meaning no disrespect, the Blackfoot have a reputation for truculence. Wasn’t your tribe sort of cheering from the sidelines when Custer took that wrong turn on the Little Big Horn a few summers back?”
