“I told you, I’m a lawman. I was staked out here for a bushwhacker who took a shot at me in Bitter Creek last night. What’s your tale?”
“Chambrun du Val she is going to Crooked Lance to kill a beast, he.”
“feller named Cotton Younger?”
“Exactement! How does Misieur’s know this thing?”
“Cotton Younger’s wanted in Canada, and if you ain’t a French Canuck you sure talk funny for Wyoming. Are you a lawman or is your business with Cotton Younger more personal?”
“The animal, she is murdaire mon petite Marie Claire! Chambrun du Val she swear on the grave revenge!”
“WelL you can stop aiming at me, then. We’re on the same side. My boss sent me up here to carry Cotton Younger in for a hanging. Along with what he did up Canada way, he’s killed a few of our folks, too.”
“Bah! Hanging, she is too good for this Cotton Younger! It is the intention of Chambrun du Val to kill him in the manner of les Cree!”
“You’ll likely have to settle for a hanging. One of your own Northwest Mounties is up in Crooked Lance ahead of us both. There’s a sheriff from Missouri and at least a brace of private detectives working for the railroads, too. At the rate it’s going, he’ll be long hung before either of us gets there, so do you reckon we should shoot each other or get on up to Crooked Lance some time soon?”
“Misieur’s knows the way?”
“More or less, don’t you?”
“Mais non, Chambrun du Val, she is, how you say, looking for Crooked Lance.”
“Well, I see the man I was laying up here on these rocks for don’t seem anxious to show his face, so I’ll be neighborly and carry you there if you’ll promise not to shoot me.”
The old voyageur lowered the muzzle of his buffalo gun, so Longarm swung his own muzzle politely to port arms and slid down the granite to join him. As they walked together to where their horses were munching aspen leaves, Longarm asked, “How well do you know Cotton Younger, Mister du Val?”
“Chambrun du Val, she’s nevaire see the beast, but she will know him. It is said the animal is big and very blond. They call him Cotton because his hair, she is almost white. Also, she is now in the jail at Crooked Lance, and, merde almost, how many such createures like this can there be in any one jail, ah?”
“They say he’s related to some who rode with the James-Younger gang a few years back. You hear anything about that, up Canada way?”
“Mais non, this createure rode alone through the Red River dimord Countries. Chambrun du Val was off on the traplines when he murdaire mon petite Marie Claire. Mon merde on what he do down here in les States. He shall die, most slowly, for what he do to Marie Claire!”
Longarm untethered his bay and swung up in the saddle, slipping the Winchester into its boot as he led off without comment. Behind him, the old man leaped as lightly as a young Indian aboard the broad back of his huge black gelding, calling its mate to heel with a low whistle.
The French Canadian waited until they were free of the trees and out on the trail before he called out, cheerfully, “Misieur’s has not considered Chambrun du Val just had the opportunity to shoot him in the back?”
Not turning his head, Longarm called back, “You don’t look stupid. You’ve got enough on your plate without gunning a U.S. lawman for no reason this far south of the border.”
“Misieur’s is a man who misses little, ah?”
Longarm didn’t answer. What the man had said was the simple truth. The oldtimer’s eyes were sharp as hell and, together, they stood a better chance of riding into Crooked Lance alive.
Once they got there, Chambrun du Val would be one more headache. He’d want to kill the prisoner. The other lawmen ahead of Longarm would doubtless argue over who had first claim on Cotton Younger, too. in fact, by now, it was a pure mystery what the owlhoot was doing in that jail up ahead. The Mountie, the Missouri sheriff, or some damned lawman must have gotten through by now. Anyone riding in would be packing extradition papers, so why wasn’t anyone riding out with Cotton Younger?
Longarm leaned forward and started to urge his mount to a faster pace. Then he eased off and shook his head, muttering, “Let’s not get lathered up, old son. We’ve a long ride ahead and farther along we’ll know more about it. Riding ourselves into the ground ain’t going to get us there, so easy does it. Whatever in thunder is going on has been going on for weeks. It’ll keep a few more hours.”
The Crooked Lance Trail was longer and rougher than Longarm had anticipated. He and his fellow traveler rode through old burns where charred lodgepole trunks and fetlock-deep ashes obscured the trail. They crossed rolling meadowlands frosted with sweet-smelling columbine and climbed through steep passes where patches of dusty snow still lay unmelted and the air was thin, cold stuff that tasted like stardust. They forded whitewater streams and rode gingerly over vast stretches of frost-polished granite, keeping to the trail by reading sign. The seldom-used trail vanished for miles at a time under new growth or windblown forest duff, but a mummified cow pat or the bleached, silvery pole of the telegraph line led them to the next stretch of visible trail. Longarm noticed that the single line of copper wire was down in more than one place as they passed a telegraph pole rotted away at its base. He couldn’t really tell whether the wire had been torn up by the harsh winds of the high country or by someone intent on silencing Crooked Lance. You could read it either way.
The journey ended when they rode down into a flat-bottomed valley cradled among high, jagged peaks. Longarm reined in, and as the Canadian paused beside him, he studied the cluster of log buildings down the slope. He counted a dozen or so buildings surrounded by corrals, near an elbow of the sluggish stream draining the valley bottom. It looked peaceful. He saw some ponies hitched in front of some buildings and figures moving quietly along one unpaved street. Two of them appeared to be women in gathered print skirts and sun bonnets. A cluster of men were sitting on the boardwalk in front of a larger building, their boots stretched before them in the street, as they talked quietly or just sat there waiting for something to happen, as men tend to do in small towns.
