the switchmen and two kids he has helping him at night.”
“I’ll get around to them later. You’d know if they’d been having hobo troubles. Could you tell me the next time a string of empty flats or gondolas is due down from the mountains?”
“Nope,” the yard man answered. “Like I said, they run this railroad off the cuff. Sometimes I’m lucky if they wire me a few hours ahead. Some night we’ll have two locomotives meeting headlamp to headlamp in the middle of God-knows. Maybe then they’ll listen to me.”
Longarm frowned and said, “Hmm, a man using your trains to get about would have to be reading your orders over your shoulder, then, wouldn’t he?”
“Just about. Who did you have in mind?”
Longarm leaned toward the man conspiratorially, and whispered “He-Who-Walks-the-Night-Winds.” Then he said pleasantly, “Thanks for your time,” and turned about and walked away across the yard, leaving the dispatcher to stare after him, scratching his head.
The murder of two Indians in one evening was bad enough. The murder of Roping Sally was something else. Any sign that the so-called Wendigo might have been careless enough to leave was obliterated as parties of hard- eyed cowhands and patrols of eager soldiers rode in circles all over the reservation for the next three days and nights. Calvin Durler was worried about possible misunderstandings between the races. Longarm was worried too, but the possible bright side was that a reservation jump wasn’t likely until things simmered down. The Indian police made sure the Blackfoot stayed close to home and Longarm spread the word in town that he’d take it personally if anyone shot a Blackfoot without one damned good reason. The fact that the Wendigo had killed Indians as well as whites helped.
The third evening after Roping Sally’s funeral found Longarm seated on the agency steps, chewing an unlit cheroot, as the army scout, Jason, rode in alone.
Jason dismounted and joined Longarm on the steps, saying, “I’ve been ordered to find the Wendigo. Ain’t that a bitch?”
“No reason you shouldn’t try. Everybody in Montana’s looking for the ornery son of a bitch. What happened to your dragoons?”
“Reckon they’ve had enough exercise for now. The lieutenant said he was reconsidering his options. That’s what he calls drinking alone in his quarters. You aim to light that cigar or just gum it to death?”
“Been trying to quit smoking. What’s your pleasure?”
“I thought maybe we could throw in together. I been all over this country and you know what I’ve found? I ain’t found shit. You reckon this Wendigo’s really a haunt?”
Longarm shook his head. “I reckon we’re missing some simple trick. Whoever’s doing it isn’t completely crazy. The Wendigo’s had enough sense to lay low while half the territory’s out here looking for him. That leaves someone with a reason as well as some slick way of moving about.”
“Well, the heat’s dying down. You suspicion he’ll be doing it some more?” Jason asked.
“It’s not likely that he’ll suddenly get religion and just quit. I figure his play is spooking the Indians, which he’s done some. It’ll take some more spooking to make them jump the reservation, so, yeah, he’s likely planning his next move about now.”
“You reckon there’s a land grabber behind all this, Longarm?”
“That’s an obvious suspicion, but I can’t get it to wash. No way any of the local cattlemen could claim this land, even if the Indians light out and leave it empty.”
“How about a buried treasure, or a mineral claim, or such?”
“Studied on that, too. The Blackfoot are spread out thin here. A man slick enough to get in and out without being spotted could dig up half an acre easier than he could kill folks watching for him. As to minerals, they’ve been looked for. The prairie soil’s forty feet at the least to the nearest bedrock and it’s been surveyed by Uncle Sam. There’s some lignite coal beds to the north. Too deep to be worth mining and too poor to be worth burning, next to all that anthracite they have back East. Nope, there’s nothing here but grass and water, and like I said, no way a white man could beg, borrow, or steal rangeland. The Wendigo is after something, but I’ll be damned if I know what.”
Jason scratched his bearded jaw and said, “I hear there’s a pow-wow on the reservation tonight. You reckon the War Department might be interested?”
“You’re welcome to come along, Jason. I’m riding over with Rain Crow, my Blackfoot deputy. He says one of Wovoka’s Dream Singers is on the reservation. Rain Crow offered to run him off, but I said to leave the rascal be, for now.”
“Them Dream Singers are pretty nasty, but it’s your play. I’d go along if I thought there’d be some pretty squaws, but the old men will likely just be shaking rattles and talking sulky. So I’ll pass on your offer and get on back to the fort.”
As Jason turned to mount his bay, Longarm asked quietly, “Before you go, would you mind if I asked you a sort of unfriendly question?”
Jason swung around and stared back thoughtfully before he shrugged and said, “Ask away. I’ll let you know if I take it unfriendly.”
“Where were you the night of the three murders, Jason?”
The scout laughed and answered, “At the fort. Lucky I can prove it, ain’t it? I’ve seen how fast you can draw!”
“I had to ask. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know you’re just doing your job, Longarm. Hell, I won’t even get pissed when you check my story at the fort. A man with nothing to hide has no call to get pissed, and, hell, you never mentioned my mother.”
They both laughed. Longarm relaxed the hold he’d had on the derringer in his right coat pocket.
Jason asked, “Hear any more about Johnny Hunts Alone? Or do you suspicion him and the Wendigo might be
