He thumbnailed a matchhead and lit his cheroot before he added, 'I suspicion us federal lawmen will enforce such new regulations in accordance to how we feel about particular cattle folk grazing public land we might be most interested in. My particular boss worries more about the green grass closer to our Denver office, unless, of course, somebody in other parts gives him a real reason to send in other deputies, and then other deputies, for as long as it may take to settle the matter to his satisfaction.'
Nobody said anything. Longarm let some tobacco smoke run out his nostrils and decided, 'I came over this way to pay a call on Western Union's Sleepy Eye office. It's been grand discussing my future with you all, Miss Helga. But now I'd best be on my way. So you go ahead and back-shoot me all you want, if you're really ready to retire from the beef industry.'
She must not have wanted to. Longarm heard some ominous muttering, and his spine commenced to itch like hell as he turned around to walk away from the spiteful gal and her surly bunch. So how come the street was suddenly so wide and he was moving so slow through air that felt as thick as glue until, suddenly, he found himself indoors again, breathing natural again as he muttered, 'Son of a bitch. I made it!'
CHAPTER 23
As was often the case in such small towns, there was more behind the yellow-on-black Western Union sign out front than the occasional sending or receiving of telegraph messages. The balding old bird who ran things for Western Union in Sleepy Eye doubled in brass as their postmaster and sold feed, seed, and hardware on the side. He was neither Swedish, German, nor breed, and he was starved for gossip and knew Mister Cornell had never meant the law when he'd forbidden Western Union employees from repeating messages sent by paying customers.
That westbound train Longarm had been advised to take to Sleepy Eye came though, without stopping, as he was winding up his main errand there with the agreeable older gent. So Longarm would have been happy about that buckskin waiting for him at their livery even if it had still been raining and that waitress had been prettier.
The telegraph clerk confirmed that, just as Longarm had suspected, the late Baptiste Youngwolf had been using this telegraph office closer to his bunkhouse on the Runeberg spread a lot. The friendly but only part-time telegrapher hadn't kept any telegram blanks, seeing he'd found the Indian's communications with some other redskin out west sort of tedious. He agreed as soon as Longarm pointed it out that dull remarks about kith and kin no outsider could identify worked good enough as a code with nobody else really trying to break it. The telegrapher recalled most of the wires had been sent back and forth between Sleepy Eye and a place called Aurora, Colorado. After that he just couldn't nail things down any tighter. Longarm soothingly explained Aurora was a town about the size of Sleepy Eye an easy ride east of Denver.
He said, 'One or more of that gang I told you about could lope out to that Aurora telegraph office and back before anyone in Denver even thought about it. I'd best send a wire to my Denver outfit from here, advising my boss how come he hasn't been intercepting too many wires sent to or from downtown Denver.'
The older gent handed him a yellow blank. As Longarm was block-lettering his terse advisory, adding there'd be more from New Ulm in a spell, he asked the older local whether Youngwolf had been the only Indian out at the Runeberg spread.
The Western Union man seemed sincerely annoyed by the suggestion as he replied, 'Jess H. Christ, Deputy Long, how many infernal Sioux do you want?'
Longarm suggested Youngwolf had been Ojibwa. The clerk nodded his balding dome and said, 'Chippewa are about the onliest Indians still allowed in these parts, and Chippewa are bad enough. We've just agreed that red rascal calling his fool self Baptiste, as if he was some sort of Red River breed, was a wanted outlaw who tried to blow you away with another man's shotgun without asking. You want me to find you more?'
Longarm smiled thinly and explained, 'Don't want more Indians. But I need more Indians if I'm to make heads or tails out of the last few days or nights.'
He told the helpful old-timer about those other Indians asking about him by name, although in another lingo, out at the Bee Witch's floating shanty. The telegrapher hadn't heard that much about any Bee Witch, proving the eccentric colored beekeeper had been better known up and down the bigger river to the east. They both agreed an Ojibwa who'd fought Santee in his salad days would have to be mighty broad-minded to be working with a bunch of the Santee, even this late in the game. The old-timer knew his Indians well enough to agree it would be impossible to mistake the one lingo for the other, and told Longarm, 'You got to remember the Sioux and Chippewa were going at it hammer and tongs before any of us white folks ever got this far west. Being both sides had similar views on religion, whether they prayed to Wakanna or Manitou, they tortured one another way worse than they ever tortured us. You see, there was more to it than personal dislike and-'
'I know about honoring a brave enemy by giving him the chance to die slow and stoic, singing his death song whilst you poke out his eyes and shove glowing embers up his ass,' Longarm said, waving aside the theology of another breed of humankind as he suggested they stick to more recent events. 'The blue and the gray fought more recent, with considerable enthusiasm, and yet there's been northern and southern malcontents riding the owlhoot trail together for fun and profit. So the real mystery would be where those other redskins have been hiding out all this time, whether they were in cahoots with that dead Ojibwa or not.'
The telegrapher suggested he'd heard tell of breeds, full-bloods, and even colored folks filing homestead claims in these parts just as if they were real Americans or dumb Swedes. Dumb Swede was said by non-Scandinavian settlers in these parts as if it was one word, the way Damn Yankee was said down Dixie way.
Longarm shrugged and said, 'I know. I've met some colored and Santee settlers over by the Minnesota lately. I can't make Youngwolf fit in with any of them, though. Aside from him hailing from an enemy nation, why would an Indian on the dodge hide out in a white bunkhouse and stick out like a sore thumb if he had even one family of Indians he could blend in with as, say, a real uncle who'd been further west for a spell?'
The telegrapher allowed he'd never hide out with a mess of Mexicans or Swedes if he had a whole bunch of his own kind to hide out among. Then he asked, 'What if those other Indians were after you for some other reason entire?'
Longarm grimaced and said, 'I was afraid you'd say something that smart. What do I owe you for this telegram to my boss? I want it to be delivered direct to his office with no argument about who had to pay, lest that gang slip another wire past us by way of that Aurora connection!'
The clerk rapidly counted off the words, and allowed a dollar and six bits ought to have the message on old Billy's desk before quitting time that afternoon. So Longarm paid up, and they shook on it and parted friendly.
He found his hired buckskin rested and raring to go when he and his Winchester made it back to that livery. So he settled up, saddled up, and was on his way back to New Ulm under the noonday sun, with enough of a prairie breeze to dance the wildflowers all around and dry their sweat enough to keep them comfortable.
This time Longarm followed the service road north of the tracks, to see whether his warning to Helga Runeberg
