“A breed, working on a Montana spread? Hell, they’d hire a nigger first. Not as if they have. I’ve never seen a nigger cowhand, have you?”
“Yep. First man ever killed in Dodge City was a colored hand called Tex. Someone shot him the first day of the first drive up from Texas and they’ve been shooting ever since. I’ll take your word for it that Most Montana hands are white, though. How about the railroad or some other outfit?”
“You mean here in Switchback? I know just about every man in town, at least on sight. I don’t miss much, either, and I don’t like Indians. If there was a half-breed working in Switchback, even swamping out saloons, I’d have seen him, maybe five minutes before I ran him out of town. I could tell you stories, Longarm!”
“I’ve heard they Found some fellows after Apache worked ‘em over, too. We don’t have a good description of Johnny Hunts Alone, though. He could take after his pa’s side of the family. No telling how white he might look.”
“Didn’t you say Chief Real Bear said he was on the reservation?”
“Yeah,” Longarm said. “I see what you mean. He couldn’t look too white, unless some of the others have fibbed about not noticing.”
“He’s got to look nigh pure white or pure Indian, then, whether he’s hiding out with them or us. You can’t have him both ways.”
“You’re right. I thank you for the smoke. I’d best get over and see what the doc can tell me.”
Longarm left the land office and went back to the coroner’s. Inside, he found Real Bear even more messed up than when he’d been found. The coroner seemed cheerful, considering, as he looked up from the god-awful mess in his zinc-lined autopsy tray and said, “They fractured his skull before they started taking him apart. He was struck from behind with a blunt inStrument and most likely never knew what hit him.”
“That’s some comfort. You can’t tell what the weapon was, huh?”
“If I could I’d have said so. You mind if I keep his skull? Save for being stove in a little, it’s a beaut.”
“I told his kin I’d bring him back for a proper funeral, Doc. Are you a headhunter? I took you for a Presbyterian.”
“I’m writing a paper for the Smithsonian on hereditary bone structure. The Mountain Men spent more time screwing squaws than trapping beaver and some of the skull formations out here are getting interesting as hell.”
“Going to bury him head and all anyway. But while we’re on the subject, Doc, I’ve got papers on a Blackfoot breed who may be passing as anything. Is there anything I should be watching for?”
“You mean like the mark of Cain? It would depend on both parents. I’ve met pure-blooded Indians pale enough to worry about sunburn and some Scotch-Irish as white as you or me who have those same high cheekbones and hooked noses. I’d say if your man’s part Algonquinoid he might be a bit hatchet-faced for a white, but his complexion could go either way. If you could get your suspect to take down his pants—a lot of Indians have a dark sort of birthmark on their tailbone.”
Longarm grinned as he thought of a pretty little squaw he’d had with the lights on and dog-style, but he shook his head, and said, “That doesn’t seem a decent request, even from a lawman to a suspect. Could you sort of put him back together for me, Doc? I’d like to carry him home in a neater bundle.”
“Come back in about an hour. You figure they’ll leave the body in one of those tree-houses, or was he a Christian?”
“The Indian agency doesn’t let ‘em bury folks in the sky anymore. I know what you’re thinking, Doc, but forget it. This one’s gone for good.”
He said he’d be back directly and stepped outside, glad to inhale some fresh air after the medicinal smell of the coroner’s lab.
He headed back to where he’d left the buckboard, wondering what his next move ought to be, and suddenly grinned as he spied a wooden Indian standing in front of a cigar store next to a saloon. He muttered, “We were just talking about you!” and changed course to pick up some more smokes.
The unplanned move saved Longarm’s life, but only by an inch.
Something buzzed across the back of his neck, followed by the report of a high-powered rifle, and he wasted no time wondering if it had been an angry hornet. He loped for cover at a long-legged run without looking back as another bullet ticked the tail of his coat, and then he dove head-first through the front window of the saloon, sliding across a table on his belly in a confusion of broken glass, scattered chips, and cards, as the men whose poker game he’d broken up flew backwards from the table in all directions, swearing in surprise.
Longarm landed on his shoulder, rolled, and came to his feet with his gun in his hand and facing the shattered window as he shouted, “Hold it! I’m purely sorry about how I came in, but I come in peace!”
A gambling man kneeling in a corner with a drawn derringer got up, saying, “We heard the shots outside, stranger. How’d you get so popular?”
Longarm moved to the other window and looked out, gun in hand. It came as no great surprise to him that the street and boardwalks were devoid of life or movement. Everyone within sound of the shots had taken cover.
The bartender joined Longarm at the window. He had a barrel stave in one hand but his voice was reasonable as he said, “Before you bust this window, friend, who’s paying for the one you just come through so sudden?”
Longarm kept his eyes on the buildings across the way as he took out his wallet with his free hand and flashed his badge, saying, “Uncle Sam is paying for the glass and a round of drinks for everyone. Get back out of the light, though. That jasper was firing an express rifle!”
The gambling man with the derringer laughed and said, “Hell, nobody shoots folks I’m drinking with! You want me to see if I can circle in on the son of a bitch for you, Marshal?”
“It’s a kind thought, friend, but I imagine he’s pulled up stakes, and I don’t want gunplay with all those shops across the way likely filled with folks. I guess it’s safe for us to have that drink, now.”
“Any idea who tried to bushwhack you, Marshal?”
