service since '70 and in that time, of the dozens and dozens of wanted men he'd hunted down, only a few had eluded him. His record was very impressive. If he was being turned out, then it wouldn't be a matter of job performance.
The drinking? Was that it?
Also unlikely.
He hadn't allowed himself to do much drinking recently. And the only time he did was between assignments. And lately, there'd been no time between them: one assignment came right on the heels of the last with no break in-between. It had always been the boredom before, waiting around with nothing to do, no constructive purpose, that set Longtree going on one of his drinking binges or indulgences in other vices.
No, Rivers coming had nothing to do with that.
But just what the reason was, Longtree couldn't guess.
The next thing he knew, the water was cold and there was someone knocking frantically at the door.
'I'm coming,' the marshal mumbled.
He dragged himself to the door.
12
'Let me guess,' Longtree said. 'I'm fired.'
'Of course not, Joe,' Tom Rivers said plopping himself down in a chair by the fire. He warmed his hands. 'In fact, we need you more than ever now.'
Longtree, dressed only in a red union suit, pulled his shoulder-length dark hair back and tied it with a thong of leather. He reclined on the bed.
'Tell me of your expedition with Colonel Smith,' he said, changing the subject.
Rivers grinned, smoothing out his mustache. He was a thin man, corded with muscle. His face was lined and pocketed with shadow. His eyes a misty green, like the depths of a pond. He had an easy way about him and there were few who didn't warm to him almost immediately. It was rumored that years ago when Rivers had been a marshal in Indian Territory, he'd charmed many a white and redskin outlaw into handing over their weapons. He was a natural diplomat. People just seemed to want to do good by him.
'We didn't see a thing,' Rivers admitted. 'Not a damn thing. The only injuns we came across were a beaten, pathetic lot, half-starved.' He shook his head. 'I never cared much for the Sioux. You know that. Give me a Shoshone or a Pawnee or a Flathead any day. But to see them reduced to what they are now…well, it's a sorry sight to see a once proud lot like them begging for a few crusts of bread.'
Longtree rolled a cigarette. 'The buffalo are disappearing fast and with them, the Plains Indians. I think we're about to see the death of an entire people.'
'It pains me some, I must admit,' Rivers said.
Longtree lit his cigarette. 'I never loved the Dakotas either.' It was a truth that didn't require elaboration. Longtree had been a scout in the army and had fought the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Commanche back in the sixties. He developed a hatred for the Sioux Nation not only for their campaigns against whites but for the brutalities and indiscriminate slaughter of other tribes. 'But it's a shame to see this happen. When the buffalo are gone…well, they won't be far behind.'
'I'm afraid that was the plan, Joe.'
Longtree nodded.
In 1874, he knew, a group of Texas legislators had proposed a bill limiting the slaughter of the buffalo herds. It would've imposed restrictions of how many animals hunters could kill each day and limited the range in which they could be taken. It sounded like a good idea. But the army jumped all over it. The sooner the buffalo were gone, they argued, the sooner the backs of the Plains Indians would be broken. It was logical and during the height of the Indian Wars, no one really opposed such thinking. The army had found it almost impossible to pin down and defeat the swift-moving nomadic tribes of the plains-the Blackfeet, Sioux, Cheyenne, etc. But once the buffalo had been decimated, these peoples would no longer be able to feed, clothe, and house themselves. And an army cannot survive without raw materials.
It was sound thinking, if somewhat cruel.
But it worked.
'There must be a few bands out there still, though,' Rivers said. 'It'll probably take a few more years to clean them out.'
Longtree nodded. 'Why don't you tell me now why you've come.''
'I'm just visiting my marshals. It's something I've been planning on doing for awhile, I just haven't gotten around to it.' Rivers paused, pulled out a clay pipe and filled it. 'As for you, Joe, I have a special assignment.'
'Which is?'
'I need you to go up to Wolf Creek in the Montana Territory and look into some killings up there.'
Longtree exhaled a column of smoke. 'Wolf Creek. I know of it, near Nevada City. But that's John Benneman's territory,' he reminded Rivers. Benneman was the deputy U.S. Marshal operating in southwestern Montana.
'Benneman's on a leave of absence, Joe. He got shot up pretty bad bringing in a couple road agents. He'll be out of commission for months.' Rivers looked unhappy about this. 'Besides, this is a special situation. We need more than a lawman on this. We need someone with investigatory skills.'
'Go on.'
'There's been five murders in and around Wolf Creek,' Rivers explained. 'Vicious, brutal killings. It appears to be the work of an animal. The bodies have been devoured. But…well, you'll see for yourself.'
'So hire a hunter, Tom. If it's some marauding grizz that's your best bet. I've been hunting men for too long now to be going after an animal.'
Rivers sighed. 'Word has reached us that it may be a human being doing this. Nothing concrete, just rumor.'
Longtree lifted his eyebrows. 'What are we talking here?'
'I don't honestly know what's going on, Joe. Something strange, that's all. I want you to go up there and have a look. That's all. Poke around a bit, see what you find out.'
'This is all pretty sketchy.'
Rivers looked him in the eye. 'You've done more on less.'
'Maybe. Still, not much there.'
Rivers nodded. 'I know. Just take a week or so and nose around. If you think we got an animal, fine. We'll put a bounty on it and bring in the hunters. If it's a man…well you know what to do then.'
Longtree still didn't care for it. 'What makes this government business, Tom? Sounds like a local matter to me. Doesn't seem like our jurisdiction at all.'
Rivers found and held him with those crystal green eyes. 'Shit, Joe, you know better than that. I can make just about any goddamn place the province of my marshals if I so choose.'
'Sure, Tom, I know. But humor me.'
'Well, we've got an ugly situation there, Joe. First off, Wolf Creek sits at the foot of the Tobacco Root Mountains and I don't have to tell you what that means-silver. And lots of it. Some people back in Washington, some of whom I work for, don't like this business at all and you can't rightly blame them: they own interest in the mines. Secondly, we've got a camp of Blackfeet in the hills outside Wolf Creek on reservation land. And they've been crying foul to the Indian Agents about how the law has been treating them up there.' Rivers mulled it over. 'What we're afraid of is these murders getting hung on the Blackfeet and the locals taking matters into their own hands. And you know the Blackfeet. You know 'em well as any-they get pushed, they'll push right back. They won't tolerate whites raiding into their territory.'
'They're a proud bunch,' Longtree said, nodding. 'They don't particularly care for whites and you sure as hell can't blame them.'
'And that's where you come in, Joe. You're half-Crow.'
'Crow ain't Blackfoot, Tom.'
'No, and a pecker's not a pike, but you're all we've got, my friend. Just go on up there, nose around. See if
