Longarm suspected he did, seeing the Kansa Nation who’d hunted the long-gone buffalo in the Flint Hills were considered “Friendly Sioux” by the War Department. But nobody knew as much as a know-it-all who was trying to show off. So he let the Kansas cuss tell him Minnipeta translated roughly as “Firewater.” The local man explained, “Used to be an Indian trading post there, when there were still Indians. The Kansa came from miles around to trade buffalo hides for trade liquor they called minni peta, see?”
Longarm nodded soberly, even though he suspected some white man with a smattering of the lingo had made it up. Some Indians did call strong drink firewater. The ones who drank seriously were more likely to call it minni wakan or “medicine/power water.”
Longarm had already known the simple history of Minnipeta Junction. But he tried to sound green as he asked if there wasn’t supposed to be a business block with doctors, lawyers, a bank, and such in the cattle country crossroads settlement.
His informant shrugged and said, “I forgot about the bank. It ain’t such a big bank. It’s tied in with that Drover’s Trust you can find all over. But about the only time they’re really busy out to Minnipeta Drover’s is the end of each month, when the hired hands and bills are paid with checks the bank will cash for a modest fee.”
“They run that bank to cash checks?” Longarm asked in a desperately casual tone as he mentally pictured the amount of cash on hand they could be talking about.
The local man shrugged and said, “I reckon. They have to make some profit on saving all them cowhands a ride into Florence to cash checks here. Ain’t a cowhand in a hundred with a bank account allowing him to cash a check gratis. Most outfits pay by check these days, to save worry about keeping large sums on hand around their cows.”
Longarm said he knew how such high finances worked. It was no skin off his nose if the average cowhand worked his ass off for just a dollar a day and grub, only to get skimmed by everybody from those check cashers to the barkeeps who jacked up the price of bar liquor on a payday weekend. Longarm had quit herding cows when he’d noticed how little pleasure there could be in getting screwed. His job with the Justice Department was made more interesting by other embittered cowhands who tried to improve their financial positions with community loops, running irons, or masks over their faces.
Nobody he talked to during that endless night had heard tell of any other females who’d shown up around Minnipeta Junction recently enough to matter. On the other hand, nobody kept track of the comings and goings of crossroads whores, and that widow woman who was only known as a widow woman who’d bought the Nesbit place had done so before Miss Medusa Le Mat had been so naughty down in East Texas.
That didn’t mean most anybody couldn’t buy a modest spread in one state and then go rob a bank in another. Nobody had accused Miss Medusa Le Mat of acting predictably, and nobody he’d talked to could give him a tight enough description of either that widow woman or her full-grown daughter for Longarm to decide either way. In the meanwhile, there was that bank, and along towards three in the morning, one old boy with a dreadful headache recalled, encouraged by half a cheroot, that they had invited him to a coming-home shivaree for a Flint Hills rider called Buster Crabtree, but that Buster had never shown up and they’d had to drink to his freedom without him. The helpful drunk didn’t know what Buster Crabtree had been sent to prison for. It was safe to suppose the drunk turned up most anywhere there were free drinks to be served.
They were served sourdough bisquits and gravy with piss-poor coffee for breakfast, led next door to the courthouse, and allowed to wait a century or more until Judge Hiram Drysdale, a prune-faced old cuss with a beard and black robe that could have used a dusting, came in to hold court and collect some damned money for the township.
Longarm found himself seated too far from Waco McCord to ask how the asshole from the saloon was feeling that morning. But when their case came up, he found himself standing beside the beefy bully in front of the crusty old judge, who got right down to brass tacks by saying he’d read the damned record and they could save themselves the trouble of a tedious trial by just agreeing to shake hands and forking over ten dollars a piece to yonder court clerk.
Longarm said that sounded more than just. But Waco protested he was broke. So the judge said he didn’t have to shake with Longarm, adding, “We got a county road that was just waiting for you, and that’s what you’ll be working on for the next thirty days, young man.”
Waco protested he couldn’t do any thirty days at hard. To which the judge suggested he just do as much of it as he could.
But before they could lead Waco away, Longarm said, “Hold on, Your Honor. If it please the court, I’d be proud to pay old Waco’s fine.”
Chapter 6
Longarm had read somewhere how this cannibal chief had decided to give the missionary’s suggestion about being kind to one’s enemies a try because he figured it would likely drive them crazy.
Judge Drysdale and Waco McCord both regarded him with looks usually reserved for hysterical women and prophets proclaiming the end of the world. But Judge Drysdale gamely asked, “How come you’d like to pay his fine instead of your own, Mr. Crawford? Do you enjoy road work with high summer coming in?”
Longarm explained, “I meant to pay both our fines, Your Honor. That would come to twenty dollars, wouldn’t it?”
Judge Drysdale soberly replied, “It surely would. Are you a man of independent means, Mr. Crawford? They have you down here as an unemployed cowboy.”
Longarm shrugged and said, “I got some back wages saved up, and the fight I had with Waco here was as much my fault as his. I’d hate to have thirty days at hard for anybody on my conscience, no offense, if I’d had anything to say about it.”
The old-timer on the bench shot Longarm a thoughtful look before he decided, “I wouldn’t want McCord and his few friends at feud with me if I was new in these parts either. Case closed and pay the court clerk on your way out.”
Waco McCord never said a word until Hard Pan had them armed and dangerous on the street again. Then the beefy bully looked as if he was fixing to bawl as he blurted out, “God damn your eyes, Buck! I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say! Ain’t nobody ever been nice to me after knocking me cold before!”
Longarm said, “You might try saying thanks. If that’s too big a strain, just don’t start up with me again and we’ll say no more about it. I have to get something more civilized than that jailhouse breakfast in my gut. I found a place last night that wasn’t bad. Let’s go eat.”
