someone said “Indian” in Montana, some fool was bound to bring up Custer.
The land office was closed, but the railroad station wasn’t. He tethered his chestnut and went in to send a progress report to Denver, knowing Billy Vail was likely having a fit. Then he asked the railroad telegrapher, “When was the last train in from the west, this after noon?”
The telegrapher said, “There was one about noon. Eastbound passenger express will be coming through in an hour or so. It don’t figure to stop here, but we can flag her down for you if need be, Marshal.”
Longarm shook his head. “Ain’t going anywhere. Just asking about your timetable. Was that noonday train a slow freight, with flat cars and such?”
The telegrapher frowned. “Flat cars? Don’t think so. It was a fast freight, bound for Chicago with live beef. I could ask Dispatch if they were deadheading any flats.”
“Don’t bother. What I had in mind was no cattle train highballing downgrade.”
He took out two cheroots, offered one to the telegrapher, and thumbed a light, muttering, “Damn! Just as I was hoping I had it figured, the son of a bitch went and busted all my bubbles!”
“I thank you for the smoke, Marshal. But I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I, now. Is your yard bull, Mendez, patrolling out back?”
“He should be. Old Mendez drinks a mite. If you don’t find him, you’ll find one of his sidekicks. Be careful about creeping up on ‘em sudden, though. That one Irish kid is quick on the trigger as well as a mite hard of hearing. Come up on him sudden and-“
“Never mind. No sense in poking around dark tracks at night, spooky yard bulls or no. You could likely tell me if there was a work train, or something slow like that, fixing to leave the yards tonight, couldn’t you?”
“I could, but there ain’t. Next slow freight headed west will be at ten tomorrow night. Empty cattle cars, due in from the East. They’ll be dropping ‘em off for loading, all up the line and through the night.”
“Anything coming east? Say around midnight?”
The telegrapher picked up some dispatch flimsies from his table and consulted them before he nodded and said, “Yeah. There’s a string of flats, low-balling through as the other orders allow it. Flats empty from unloading telegraph poles, over in the Great Basin sage country. There’s a midnight passenger train using the tracks, first. Then the low-balling empties will likely poke on in.”
Longarm thanked his informant, and leaving his mount where it was, moseyed over to the saloon to drink while he studied on where he’d spend the night and what in hell was going on.
In the saloon, he found Jason, the army scout, talking to the piano player, who’d stopped playing “Garryowen” long enough to wet his whistle. Jason waved Longarm over and said, “I owe you a drink, don’t I?”
“Don’t know who’s ahead, but I’ll take it.”
As Jason ordered another shot for himself and a glass of Maryland rye for Longarm, the deputy asked, “Was that old cavalry tune your notion?”
“No. I just got done explaining to the professor, here, about this being a time for other songs. How soon do you figure your Blackfoot out there aim to make their move for Canada?”
“You can tell your soldier boys not to bank on any medals this summer. Somebody killed the damn fool who was trying to talk them into it.”
“Do tell? Some friends of mine likely made a long trip for nothing, then. We are talking about a Paiute named Ishiwati, ain’t we?”
“I don’t know the bird’s name well enough to say it, but that sounds close. You say somebody was looking for him?”
“Yeah, out at the fort. A posse of Crow lawmen just arrived with a warrant for his arrest. I was fixing to bring ‘em out to the reservation, come morning. You say somebody shot him?”
“That’s close enough. He’s deader than hell. These Indian police looking for the Dream Singer would sound like Sioux to folks, wouldn’t they?”
“Reckon so. Crow and Sioux both talk Dakota. Why do you ask?”
Longarm chuckled and explained, “You’ve just handed me the first good news I’ve had all day. I heard there were some strange Sioux hereabouts and I’ve had the Blackfoot going crazy trying to locate ‘em on the reservation.”
The barkeep brought their drinks and they downed them in silence. Longarm ordered them each another, and Jason said, “I’ll tell the Crows they can rest easy when I ride back to the fort later tonight. That Ishiwati was one bad Paiute, to hear ‘em tell it. Now, if someone would just shoot that damn Wovoka himself, we’d likely have some peace and quiet. What was the killing about? More of that Ghost Dance shit?”
“Sort of. You might say Ishi-whatever got into a theological dispute with the Wendigo.”
The scout whistled and said, “Another one of them things, huh?”
The piano player asked, “What’s a Wendigo?”
Longarm said, “I wish I knew, Professor. Jason, you’re a professional tracker. How would you Cross maybe two or three hundred yards of dusty stubble without leaving sign?”
“I’d ride around it. There’s no way to jump three hundred yards.”
“That’s the way I see it. When are you heading back to the fort?”
“A couple of hours, maybe. Came into town for some tail, but the professor, here, tells me French Mary’s been rented for the night by a big spender off the Double Z. I was just fixing to try my luck at Madam Kate’s. You want to come along?”
“Not tonight. French Mary’s the little redhead with the saucy mouth, ain’t she?”
