Longarm swore under his breath. He hadn’t planned on getting a Blackfoot at the wrong end of his Colt! The Paiute missionary saw the bind he was in at the same time. Slyly, he held the thin deerskin shirt out to the old man, saying, “Of course. Let us see what happens when the white man shoots you.”
The old Blackfoot put the shirt on and stood there, his head cocked to one side in mild interest as he waited for Longarm to test his medicine. Longarm knew that if he killed the old man there’d be hell to pay. On the other hand, even though common sense indicated that he should back down, he knew what the Ghost Dancer would twist it into. He drew his .44, but said, “I have to think about this, boys. You see, I don’t believe in this medicine!”
The Paiute jeered, “Go ahead and shoot him. Are you afraid? Behold, my brothers, the medicine is working! Snake Killer is wearing the medicine shirt and the white man can’t shoot him!”
“Damn it, it ain’t the same thing!”
“Yes it is! Wovoka says a man wearing the medicine shirt cannot be harmed by white man’s bullets! Whether you shoot or not, the results are the same! Anyone with eyes can see this!”
Longarm had to admit that the Paiute had a point. The rascal knew he wasn’t about to gun the old man and was twisting it to look like magic!
Then Prudence Lee was suddenly at his side. She held her hand out imperiously and said, “Give me the gun, Longarm!”
There was a murmur of surprise from the Indians. They were no more confused than Longarm. He said, “Miss Prudence, this gun is loaded with .44-40s and I told you to stay on the buckboard!”
“Give me the gun. I assure you I have no intention of shooting anyone with it.”
“Then what’s your play? You could miss without looking shameful, but they’d still say it was medicine, and-“
“Will you give me that damned gun and be still? You know I’m a missionary!”
Longarm let her take the gun by the barrel from his hand. She smiled prettily and held the grips out to the Paiute, saying, “The white man’s heart is not strong enough to shoot at a friend, even a friend protected by your strong medicine. You will have to fire it at Snake Killer!”
The Paiute backed away, stammering, “Not I! It is wrong for me to shoot at a brother!”
Prudence Lee followed him, holding out the gun in grim determination as they circled the council fire. She was smiling sweetly as she insisted, “But what harm can come to Snake Killer if Wovoka’s magic is stronger than a white man’s bullets? Surely you know how to shoot a pistol, don’t you? Heavens, I should think a man who preaches war would know at least a little about weapons!”
Most of the Blackfoot were laughing openly, now. The Paiute stammered obtuse theology and the little female missionary cut him up and down and sideways with sophistries of her own until it became obvious that the naked Ghost Dancer had no intention of letting her hand him Longarm’s revolver.
Presently, Prudence brought the pistol back to the tall deputy and handed it to him, saying, “Oh, dear, I suppose now we’ll just have to take his word for it about the shirt! He doesn’t seem to want to prove it one way or the other!”
Longarm grinned back at her as he holstered the .44 and said, “Yep, they’ll likely have to try those bulletproof Shirts without a demonstration.”
Old Snake Killer asked, “If nobody wants to shoot at me, can I take this thing off? It’s badly tanned and it itches.”
There was a roar of laughter, and Longarm said, “Let’s go, Miss Prudence. We’ll quit while we’re ahead.”
He led her back to the buckboard and helped her up to the seat as Rain Crow leaned over in his saddle and asked, “Do you want me to run that Paiute off?”
Longarm said, “No. Don’t make him look that important. This little lady just did quite a job taking the wind out of his sails and I suspicion that the more he preaches, the more they’ll laugh at him.”
“You may be right, for now. But what if Wendigo strikes again?”
“I see what you mean. But leave the Ghost Dancer be, anyway. If I don’t stop the Wendigo pretty quickly, we’ll be up to our chins in trouble, medicine shirts or no.
Longarm fingered a shiny new silver dollar as he stood in the saloon doorway scanning the bar in the dim light. Finally, he spotted the man he was looking for by the description the railroad workers had given him. The yard bull, Mendez, was a tall, lean man in a red checked shirt and peaked cloth cap. He wore an old Navy .36 in a battered army holster and looked like he could use a shave.
Longarm bellied up to the bar beside him and said, “I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal, Mr. Mendez. They told me over at the roundhouse that I might find you here.”
Mendez shrugged and said, “I’m off duty. It’s none of their business if I drink or not, on my own time.”
Longarm noticed he had a slight Spanish accent. “What are you drinking, then?”
“I’m not. Already have a skinful and I have to work all night.”
“I know. What’s coming through the yards tonight?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I think they’re running a passenger train through about eight-thirty. They don’t discuss the timetable with us greasers.”
“Oh? The two boys helping you chase hoboes are Mexican, too?”
“One’s a Mex. Other’s Irish. I’m a South American, if it’s bothering you.”
“Seems to be bothering you more than me, Mr. Mendez. I have some friends who grew up speaking Spanish.”
“I know, as long as they don’t want to marry your sister, huh?”
