“Come on, we know how he died! He was skinned alive.”
“Maybe. I’d like an M.D. to give me an educated guess as to bullets, poisons and such, though. He’ll keep a day or so in this dry, thin air, so you put him in a shady spot with maybe some chopped ice in the box with him. I’ll show you how when I get back. I want to make it over to the fort and back by daylight.”
He tipped his hat to Nan and ducked out the side door as the agent followed him toward the buckboard. The crowd of Indians was still in place, standing sullenly silent and not appearing to notice either white man as they crossed the village street. Longarm found a young boy seated on the trading post steps with the reins of his rented mule in hand. He gave the kid a nickel and a smile for his trouble. The kid put the coin in his britches and went away without saying thanks or looking back. Longarm couldn’t tell whether they were all pissed at him, the agent, or white folks in general.
It occurred to Longarm that unless he found the killer of Real Bear pretty quickly, things were likely to get ugly hereabouts.
Fort Banyon was little more than an outpost, manned by an over-aged second lieutenant and a skeleton platoon of dragoons. A cluster of log buildings surrounded a parade ground of bare earth and was surrounded in turn by a rail fence, broken in places. Everything from the tattered flag drooping from the flagstaff of lodgepole pine to the threadbare uniforms of the men lounging on the orderly room steps told Longarm there hadn’t been a general inspection for some time and that morale was low, even for a frontier garrison.
He wasn’t challenged as he drove through the open gateway and across the parade to the orderly room. The C.O., a dumpy man with a florid face and an unbuttoned officer’s blouse, came out on the porch to stare at him morosely as Longarm hitched the mule to a rail. As the deputy walked over to the steps the officer asked, “Did you bring mail from town?”
“No sir. I’m a Deputy U.S. Marshal, not the mailman. I need a mount. I generally ride a gelding at least fifteen hands high. Got my own saddle and bridle.”
“What are you talking about, mister? This is an army post! We don’t sell horses!”
“Aw, hell, Lieutenant, this argument I keep getting from you fellows is as tedious as shitting on an ant pile. I know you’re supposed to give me an argument and we both know that in the end, I’ll get the horse. So what say we agree it’s a hell of a note how the Justice Department imposes on the army and I’ll b on my way.”
Before the officer could reply, his first sergeant came out to join him. The C.O. said, “Lawman. Says he wants a horse.”
The sergeant shook his head at Longarm and said, “We’re short on mounts, mister. We’re here to keep an eye on them Blackfoot, not to be a remount station.”
“Yeah, I noticed how scared you are of Indians. Your pickets damn near shot me as I came in. You look like an old soldier, Sarge. Do we have to go through all this bullshit? You know damn well I’m riding out of here on one of Uncle Sam’s ponies, and if you keep me here much longer I aim to make you feed me supper, too!”
“You’ve got requisition papers, I guess?” the sergeant said.
“Sarge, I’ve got carte blanche. I’m covering first degree murder. Federal. So give me something to sign and I’ll be on my way.”
The two army men exchanged glances. Then the lieutenant shook his head and said, “Nope. I’m shorthanded on men and mounts. Maybe you can borrow a pony over at the reservation agency. They’re federal, too.”
“Yeah, and my legs drag when I ride Indian ponies. I ride with a McClellan saddle and too much gear for one of those skinny critters I’ve seen over yonder. Maybe if Custer hadn’t shot all those Indian ponies they’d have one fifteen hands high, but he did, and they don’t.”
“You don’t like our army, mister?” the lieutenant bristled.
“Why, boys, I like it more than I can tell you. Hell, if I was mad at you, I’d likely try and give you a hard time.”
“You feel up to giving a platoon of dragoons a hard time, mister?”
“You mean whup all thirty-odd of you? Not hardly, Lieutenant. I’m a friendly cuss. So why don’t you lend me a mount and I’ll tell you what; I’ll just forget about a few old reportables, next time I wire the government.”
“Reportables? You must be drunk, lawman! You got no power to report doodly shit about army matters!”
“Well, I ain’t connected up with the Inspector General’s office, though, now that you mention it, I do have some drinking pals in Denver who work for the I.G. All us lawmen sort of exchange information.”
He looked around thoughtfully before adding innocently, “But you’re likely right. I don’t figure the I.G. would be interested in little things like no guards posted or a few busted fences or that flag nailed up there night and day without proper hoisting lines. Tell me something, Lieutenant. How do you hold proper flag ceremonies twice a day, the way you’ve got it sort of up there for keeps?”
The officer scowled and started to bluster. Then he shrugged and told the sergeant, “Give the blackmailing son of a bitch a horse.”
“Does the lieutenant want him, ah, well-mounted?”
“By all means, Sergeant. He’s a fellow federal officer,” the C.O. said sweetly.
Longarm followed the first sergeant down the barracks line to the corrals as some of the enlisted men who’d heard the exchange followed. Longarm sighed wearily. He’d been through this same hazing so many times, he knew the routine better than most soldiers did.
They got to the remuda corral, where a civilian in buckskins perched atop a corral rail, jawing with a uniformed stable hand. The first sergeant introduced the civilian as a scout named Jason, they winked at the horse wrangler and said, “Cut old Rocket out for this nice deputy, will you?”
The stable hand grinned and took a throw rope from the gatepost as Longarm said, “I’ll trot back and fetch my saddle.”
“Don’t you aim to watch us pick your pony, mister?”
