“Well, yeah, he did tell me about it, but-“
“There you go. I’ll tell you what. Next time some old boy takes a shot at me, I’ll run right over to your office. By the way, where is it?”
The sheriff jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Down thataway, near the station house.”
“That’s settled, then. I hope you boys drink before noon. I see the bar is open.”
Before anyone could answer, Jason shouted, “Down!” and pushed Longarm hard, as he dropped behind the nearby watering trough.
The first shot parted the air where Longarm had been standing and crashed through the boarded-over saloon window he’d broken the last time he’d been by. The second raised a plume of spray from the watering trough and spattered Jason with water as he shouted, “Up behind that false front! The hat shop next to the land office!”
Longarm had dropped behind a barrel he hoped was filled with something. He aimed his drawn .44 at the drifting smoke cloud above the building the scout had indicated and snapped, “I’ve got him spotted. Watch your head!”
Another shot from above the hat shop gave away the sniper’s position behind the false front lettered Hats and Bonnets. Longarm figured the last S was his best bet, but he crossed both Ts with bullets as he fired three times. Jason popped up and sent an army .45 round through the pine boards as, somewhere, someone screamed and they heard the clatter of a rifle sliding down shingles and a loud, wet thud.
Jason said, “He dropped between the hat shop and land office, in that narrow slot.”
Longarm saw Agent Chadwick peering out of his doorway and shouted, “Get back inside, Chadwick! Jason, you and Murphy cover me!”
Then, without waiting for an answer, he was up and running. He crossed the street in a zigzag run, flattened himself against the corner of the hat shop, and quickly reloaded as he got his breath. A woman stuck her head out of the hat shop and Longarm motioned her back inside with a silent, savage wave of his .44. Then he took a deep breath and jumped out, facing the narrow slot between the buildings as he fired for effect into it. He dropped to one knee under his own gunsmoke and took a long, hard look at the body lying face-down, wedged between the plank walls on either side. Then he stood up and thumbed more cartridges into his Colt as Jason ran across to join him, saying, “Murphy lit out. I think he ran into the saloon and just kept going. We get him?”
“Yeah. I owe you, Jason.”
“Don’t mention it. Lucky I seen the sunlight flash on his barrel as he was fixing to do you. Anyone you know?”
“They called him Curley. He was a friend of the one I got last night. I’ll be surprised as hell if he don’t have a record, too.”
By now Chadwick had joined them, peeking around the corner to gasp, “Jesus H. Christ! How many of these hired guns do you figure we have in Switchback, Longarm?”
“Don’t know. I make it two less, right now. I’ll get him out of there in a minute. Right now I owe Jason, here, a drink. He just saved my ass.”
Chadwick followed them to the saloon, as did the hat shop owner and a dozen others in the neighborhood who’d heard the shooting and wanted to steady their nerves.
The scout didn’t seem to think he’d done all that much, considering, but he let Longarm buy, muttering something about the way the army paid folks, these days. As they leaned against the bar together, Longarm said, “It’s lucky I found you in town. I mean, aside from what you just did for me. I’ve been meaning to ask some questions about the army’s interest in the Blackfoot.”
“Hell, they ain’t all that interested, Longarm. Beats me why we’re here. Likely Washington just figures soldiers’ve got to be some durned place if they ain’t another.”
“You been getting anything on expected Indian trouble?”
“From the Blackfoot? They were ornery enough, a few years back. Ain’t lifted anybody’s hair for a coon’s age, though. They were rooting for Red Cloud back in ‘76, but only a few kids really rode with the Sioux. The old men kept most of the tribe back, playing close to the vest till they saw which way the cards were stacked. It’s a small tribe, but they bled enough for a big one in the Shining Times.”
“Were you out here then? You don’t look old enough to go back to the beaver trade.”
“I ain’t. Came West as a hide hunter after the War. Knew some of the old Mountain Men, though. Most of ‘em’s getting on in years, now, but my first boss hunter was left over from the Shining Times. Used to brag on a Blackfoot arrow he still carried in his hide.”
“You ever hear mention of a breed called Johnny Hunts Alone?”
“Hell, I know him. He skinned for me five or six years ago, down by the Powder River. Wasn’t very good at it, though. He was sort of a lazy, moody cuss.”
“Damn! You’re the first man I’ve met who can tell me what he looks like, then!”
Jason stared soberly at his drink and said, “Maybe. But he never done me enough harm to mention, Longarm. How important are the papers you might have on him?”
“I could lie and say I just wanted to talk to your old sidekick, but you just saved my ass, so I won’t. Telling it true, I aim to take him in dead or alive on a murder warrant, Jason.”
The scout shifted uncomfortably. “You’re giving me a hard row to hoe. Johnny once talked some roving Sioux out of taking my hair.”
Longarm shrugged. “I can’t make you tell me, but-“
“But you can likely make me wish to God I had, huh? All right. As long as I was fool enough to allow I knew him, and seeing he ain’t around Switchback anyway, he’s maybe half a head shorter than me and looks like what he is—half white, half Blackfoot.”
“Can’t you do better than that?”
