'Can I help you, sir?' a stoop-shouldered lieutenant asked. He had a tic in the corner of his mouth, his amber eyes constantly squinting. A habit formed from long months chasing Sioux war parties through the blazing summer heat and frozen winter wind.
Longtree licked his chapped lips, pulling open his coat and flashing his badge. 'Joe Longtree,' he said in a flat voice. 'Deputy U.S. Marshal. You have some orders here for me from the Marshals Office in Washington, I believe.'
'One moment, sir,' the lieutenant said, dragging himself away into the commanding officer's quarters. He came back out with a short, burly captain.
'We've been expecting you, Marshal,' the captain said. He held out his hand. 'Captain Wickham.'
Longtree shook with a limp grip. 'The orders?'
'Don't have 'em,' the captain apologized. His cheeks were full and ruddy, his hairline receding. Great gray muttonchop whiskers rode his face like pelts. 'There's a man here, though, to see you. A Marshal Tom Rivers. From Washington.'
Longtree's eyes widened.
Rivers was the Chief U.S. Marshal. He was in charge of all the federal marshals in the Territories. Longtree hadn't seen him since Rivers had appointed him.
'Tom Rivers?' Longtree asked, his face animated now.
'Yes, sir. He's come to see you before riding on to Laramie. I'm afraid he's out right now with Colonel Smith.' Wickham frowned. 'One of our patrols was ambushed by a Sioux raiding party last night. We lost eight men. Eight damn men.'
Longtree nodded. 'I saw the bodies.'
'Terrible, terrible thing,' Wickham admitted.
'Sure it was Sioux?'
Wickham looked insulted. 'Sure? Of course we're sure. I've fought them bastards for ten years, sir.' He quickly regained his composure. 'We still have trouble with isolated bands. Most of 'em don't even know Crazy Horse surrendered. And until they do…well you get the picture, Marshal.'
'When do you expect them back?'
'Before nightfall, sir. I've heard you went after the fugitives who robbed that wagon in Nebraska. Murdering thieves. How did you fare, sir?'
Longtree shrugged. 'Not as well as I'd hoped.' He scratched his chin. 'Had to bury all three of 'em. Would've liked 'em alive.'
'It's what they deserve, sir.' Wickham patted Longtree on the shoulder. 'It seems you have some time before the colonel and his party return. You've had a long hard ride, sir, might I suggest you take advantage of our hospitality?'
'It would be welcome,' Longtree said, the burden of the past few days laying heavy on him now.
'Lieutenant!' Wickham snapped. 'Find a bed for the marshal. He'll be wanting a hot meal and a bath, I would think.'
The stoop-shouldered lieutenant took off.
'If you're a mind to, sir, I'd be pleased to join you for a hot drink.'
'Lead the way, Captain,' Longtree said.
10
The interior of the groghouse was dim and dark and smelled of pine sap and liquor. There were tables arranged down the center and knotty benches pushed up to them. Longtree and Wickham each got a mug of hot rum and sat down. There was no one else in the house but them.
Longtree hadn't been to Kearny for some time, but it hadn't changed very much. In '68, it had been abandoned due to pressure from warring Indians. As had Forts C.F. Smith and Reno, all located along the old Bozeman Trail. Only Kearny had been re-opened, back in '75.
'So tell me of your exploits in Bad River,' Wickham asked in his typically robust manner. He could discuss a woman's frilly pink underthings and make it sound masculine with that voice.
Longtree sipped his drink. 'Not much to tell.'
'They put up a fight, did they?'
Longtree laughed without meaning to do so. 'You could say that.' In a low voice, he described the events that had transpired. 'If it hadn't been for that Flathead…well, you get the picture.'
Wickham furrowed his eyebrows. 'A strange turn of events, I would say. Very few men survive the noose. I've known but one and he spent the remainder of his days with a crooked neck.'
'My throat doesn't feel the best,' Longtree admitted, meeting the captain's gaze, 'but nothing's damaged. A week or so, I'll be fine.'
'Odd, though.'
Longtree had the distinct feeling Wickham didn't believe him. He loosened the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing a bandage wound around his throat. Carefully, he unwrapped it. There was a bruised, abraded, and raw- looking wound coiled on his neck.
Wickham's eyes bulged. 'My God… how could you survive that? How?'
Longtree wound the bandage back up. 'I don't know. Luck? Fate? The grace of God?' He shrugged. 'You tell me.'
Wickham had nothing to offer. He downed his rum. 'Well, back to work, Marshal. I'm sure we'll see each other before you leave. Good day, sir.'
Longtree watched him leave. No doubt he was going back to gossip about the hanged man to his fellow officers. Longtree supposed it had been a bit dramatic showing the wound, but he detested a look of disbelief in another man's eyes. And after everything he'd been through, he figured he could be excused a bit of drama.
He ordered another rum and waited.
Waited and thought about Tom Rivers.
11
The room wasn't bad.
There was a bed and blankets and a little firepot in the corner. A few logs blazed in it. A washtub had been filled for him with steaming water. A cake of soap and a couple towels were set out.
'Just like home,' Longtree said, kicking off his boots and clothes.
After his third hot rum, the lieutenant had come for him and brought him to the officer's mess. He stuffed himself on tender buffalo steaks, sliced potatoes, and cornbread washed down with ale. He hadn't eaten a meal quite so good in some time.
As he scrubbed a week's worth of dirt and sweat off, he thought about Tom Rivers. Why would the Chief U.S. Marshal come all the way from Washington to the Wyoming Territory to bring him his assignment? It just didn't wash. Maybe Rivers was out visiting his marshals-something Longtree had never heard of him doing-and had just decided to serve Longtree's papers in person.
Could be.
But Wickham had said that Rivers wanted to see him before riding down to Laramie. What was so important that Rivers would wait around to see him in person? There had been no set time for the arrival of Longtree; it could've been today or next week or next month, for that matter.
Longtree reclined in the soothing, steaming waters and wondered about these things. Thoughts tumbled through his head in rapid succession.
There was always the possibility that Rivers had come in person to tell him that his appointment as a federal marshal had been revoked. It had happened to others. But it seemed unlikely. Longtree had been with the marshal
