“That was likely my fault,” Longarm said. “I shared a bottle with him the night we found Yellow Leggings and Roping Sally.”
“I’m not talking about that far back. I think he’s been drinking recently.”
“Maybe he has. I had a couple of drinks this afternoon. You reckon I’m fixing to scalp you?”
“It’s not the same. You and I are white men.”
Longarm took a drag of smoke and blew a thoughtful ring before he nodded and said, “I know. When Indians get drunk they sing funny. Most white boys sing ‘O’Riley’s Daughter,’ or ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me,’ when they get falling-down drunk. Can’t make head or tail out of those Indian songs.”
“Come on,” Durler said. “You know how many drunken Indians have gotten in trouble.”
“Yep. Some Indian drunks are mean as hell. But the meanest drunk I ever met was a trail boss called Ben Thompson-No, come to think of it, I met a jasper called Doc Holliday last year, who was even meaner. I do so wish they wouldn’t let mean fellows drink, don’t you?”
“You’re funning me, but it’s no laughing matter. I’m not supposed to let my Indians get at firewater.”
“Hell, you ain’t been serving it to them, have you?” the deputy asked.
“No, but if it’s on the reservation-“
“There can’t be all that much of it, or, if there is, your Blackfoot hold their liquor better than most folks in Abilene or Dodge. You’ve got enough on your plate just trying to make cowboys out of them. Try and make sober cowboys out of anybody and I’ll show you an easier task, like walking on water or feeding the Blackfoot Nation on loaves and fishes.”
The Indian agent sighed and said, “I know you think I take my job too seriously. Nan says I worry more about my Indians than I do her. But, damn it, somebody has to worry about them. They’re like children. If someone doesn’t help them, they’re as doomed as the buffalo!”
Longarm shook his head wearily and said, “You’re wrong a couple of ways, Cal. They ain’t kids; they’re folks. Likely not much smarter or dumber than the rest of us. As to ‘the poor Indian, fading away like the snows of yesteryear,’ there are more Indians now, counting breeds living as whites, than there were when Columbus found and misnamed them.”
“That’s crazy, Longarm!” Durler said. “Why, there’s hardly an Indian east of the Mississippi and this whole territory used to be Indian land until-“
“Until we took it all away from them and packed them tighter on these reservations,” Longarm interrupted. “I’m talking about population figures, not land. Before we crowded them, they were wandering hunters or small farmers, scattered in bands of maybe thirty-odd souls, hither and yon. Little Big Horn never would have happened if the far- flung bands hadn’t been snowballed into a real army-sized gathering of the clans. You started here with a fair-sized reservation for Blackfoot, right?”
“Of course,” the agent agreed.
“Only now, you’ve got Bloods and Piegans on the same land, and if I know the B.I.A., they’ll be shipping you stray Shoshoni and leftover Flatheads any day now, as the cattle country expands with this beef boom. I wouldn’t worry about ‘the noble savage’ fading away on you, Cal. He’s having kids like everyone else, and getting sardined on such little land as we see fit to set aside for him in odd, god-forsaken corners.”
“All right, what would you do, Longarm?” Durler asked.
“I’d start by treating them like folks. I’d give them full citizenship and leave ‘em the hell alone.”
“You can’t be serious! Why, right this minute, the Apache are running around killing folks and-“
“I’d make Indians obey the law, like everybody else,” Longarm cut in. “If a white man or a colored man kills somebody, we call it murder. When an Indian gets mean we make a policy.”
Durler said, “Well, I don’t make the policy, and you’ve got to admit these Blackfoot aren’t enthusiastic to learn about herding or farming.”
“Why should they be?” Longarm asked. “If you were in jail and some nice warden told you he aimed to teach you a trade, would you stop thinking about busting out?”
“I see your point. But, like I said, I don’t make the policy. So there ain’t much I can do about it, here.”
“Sure, there is. You can ease off and ride with a gentler hand on the reins. I’ve smelled some sour mash on a few breaths since I came here, but what of it? Last mean drunk who came at me was as white as you are. I’d worry more about catching the Wendigo and holding the tribe this side of the border than I would about sociable drinking.”
Before they could argue further, Prudence Lee came out to tell them supper was served.
The missionary was a good cook, but the meal was uncomfortable for Longarm. He found himself facing Nan Durler across the table, and while her eyes stayed on her beans, Longarm couldn’t help wondering what she’d been saying in the kitchen to Prudence. He’d learned a long time ago, the hard way, that women were even worse than men about kissing and telling. For all the fretting and fussing about so-called fallen women, he’d noticed fallen women bragged like anything about all the men they’d fallen with. Prudence Lee said something to him, so he risked a look her way. The missionary woman met his eyes innocently as she repeated her request that he pass the salt. But that didn’t mean much; Nan hadn’t let on she’d known about him and Gloria Two-Women, until she’d tried to seduce him in the bathtub.
He wondered what Prudence Lee would say if be asked to sleep on her couch; not that he was about to ask her such a foolish thing. There was no way he was going to get out of spending another night under Nan Durler’s roof, without it looking odd as hell to her husband.
“Someone just rode up outside,” said Calvin Durler, breaking in on Longarm’s worries.
Longarm said, “I heard it. Sounds like an unshod pony. One of your Blackfoot, I suspicion.”
The two men excused themselves from the table and went out on the porch. Rain Crow was sitting his pony in the last rays of the sun. He called out, “I have found the Paiute Ghost Dancer. He told some people he was going off alone to make medicine. He told them he was calling on the ghosts in a place where Indians had fought a good
