He started to rein in, thought better of it, and rode on, muttering, 'Let's eat this cake a bite at a time, and look at some records by the cold light of logic, before we go asking a man late at night whether he holds lawful title to his spread or not.'
A man who'd lie about one thing would likely lie about others, and if the late Jacob Weber of Switzerland could claim a whole section of prime bottom land free as his private paradise, after proclaiming himself and his family The Father, The Son, and the Holy Ghost, it only stood to reason a squatter with Indian blood might say most anything.
A heap of such folks had started to. Squatter-traders such as William Bent of Bent's Fort and mountain men like Kit Carson had married up with all sorts of Indian ladies from all sorts of nations, friendly or not, to produce all sorts of kids who tended to live red, white, or however the spirit moved them. So it was tough to say what the civil rights of, say, the Bent kids ought to be, with one grown son scouting for the army, a second living purely Quill in a tipi with the Cheyenne, and the one daughter married to a French-Canadian trader living white, even though he was said to be part Creek.
Longarm decided the confusing ancestry of Quanah Parker was most relevant to whether Wabasha Chambrun might or might not hold a valid homestead claim. Old Quanah, born to a white captive woman and her Comanche husband, who'd done the right thing by the pretty little thing, had started out as a holy-terror Comanche war chief, scared the shit out of his white kin, and then, after they'd scared the shit out of him a few times, recalled he was half white after all and joined the winning side. This appeared to give old Quanah the right to a government allotment as a tame Comanche, and at the same time to wheel and deal in Texas real estate as a white or at least part-white Texican business man. Longarm figured that was as fair as the law letting the pure white Belle Shirley Starr live Cherokee at Younger's Bend in the Indian Nation, just because she screwed Indian moonshiners as well as white horse thieves.
One of those spooked cows came tearing along the fence line at him, bawling fit to bust. Longarm swung Blaze out of the way as the full-grown steer tore past, spooked by something at least as terrifying up ahead.
That was something to study on in light as tricky as this.
That ink blot a pistol shot away in the moonlight appeared to be a clump of coppice, or second-growth saplings sprouting from the stumps of more serious cottonwoods cut a few years back, for corral poles or other such use most likely. Cottonwood wasn't worth much as firewood or construction timber. Longarm swung his mount out to his right, meaning to circle wide. As he heard the brush of metal against springy twigs he rolled out of his saddle, Winchester and all, to flatten in the tall grass as Blaze loped on a ways, and then stopped as if to ask how come those reins were dragging on the grass like so.
Blaze could wait. Longarm addressed the inky shadows ahead in a firm but friendly voice, calling out, 'Evening. I'd be Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, out this way on government business with fifteen rounds in the tube of this saddle gun I can aim as polite or as rude as your answer might call for.'
There was a long silence. Then a youthful voice with just a whiff of that Swedish singsong in it called back, 'Well, I'd be Gus Hansson, riding for the Rocking R, which you've been riding across, and Miss Helga figured you might be over this way.'
Longarm stayed put, keeping his guard up and his saddle gun trained as he called back, 'Who might this Miss Helga be, and how come she figured anything about me, since we've never been introduced?'
The kid who'd been hunkered in the coppice broke cover, turning out to be in his teens with batwing chaps and a hat big enough to house at least a small Indian family. 'My boss lady is Miss Helga Runeberg, who's owned the Rocking R since her daddy's pony hit a prairie-dog hole at full gallop a couple of roundups back. Her home spread fronts on the Sleepy Eye trace six or eight miles to the southwest.'
Longarm started to comment on all the grass the mysterious lady seemed to think she held rights to, if this was her drift fence, but that was between her and Land Management. So he kept his mouth shut and his ears open, and sure enough, the kid explained. 'Earlier this evening Some strange riders came by, allowing they was federal deputies looking to ride with you, since they'd heard you'd ridden out to the northwest of New Ulm.'
That meant at least the Bedfords and those colored folks were off the hook, if what this kid said was true. Longarm got to his own feet, gun muzzle trained politely but still ready for anything. He heard young Hansson say, 'After we told 'em we hadn't seen any sign of you and they'd rid on, Miss Helga told us to fan out far and fan out wide, so's to tell you they were looking for you and telling whoppers about being on the same side.'
Longarm answered cautiously, 'As a matter of fact, some lawmen from Saint Paul could be headed this way. How come your boss lady cast such doubts on their reasonable-sounding tale, Gus?'
The young cowhand shrugged and said, 'Miss Helga's smart, I reckon, or mayhaps she recognized one or more of 'em from somewheres else. She can be sneaky too, when she's giving a hand enough rope to hang hisself. But why not ask her your ownself, Deputy Long? Miss Helga said the rider as caught up with you was to carry you on back to the big house so's you could tell her what you wanted us to do next about the big fibbers.'
Longarm thought before he decided. 'It's a tempting invite. But I'm already invited to supper with another lady in New Ulm, and I'd as soon go over some records at the county courthouse before I say what I want to do next with, to, or about anybody.'
Young Hansson was close enough now so they could converse in quieter tones as he shrugged and said, 'Suit yourself, but don't you never say I didn't relay her invite after warning you about them odd riders. I swear I didn't know who you were when first I spied you way out here in the middle of nowheres. How come you ain't on the county road where I expected to meet up with you, Deputy Long?'
Longarm explained, 'I was afraid somebody less friendly might be expecting me to head back to town that way. You ain't the first who's told me or warned me I have so many admirers out searching for me by the light of the silvery moon, Gus. You know those colored folks a mile or so up facing that other road?'
The local rider calmly asked, 'Which darkies, the Conway family or the Bee Witch?'
Longarm blinked uncertainly and replied, 'The folk I talked with looked more like a family than any sort of bees, or even witches. I heard some riders had been asking about me ugly from a colored boy about your age. Your turn.'
Hansson said with certainty, 'That sounds like one of the Conway boys. They're all right. We've told all the nesters along the bigger river we don't object to no quarter-section claims along the county road. For as long as they don't string bobwire more than a half mile southwest of the road, it helps our own drift wire hold Rocking R stock back from that dangerous river and spooky road travel.'
Longarm dryly replied, 'I'm sure your new neighbors find that a generous offer. I thought those Conways had to be on my side when they warned me some rascals were talking mean about me. Try that Bee Witch on me some more.'
