all. Why that night?'
'You're thinking the Sheriff was involved in that lynching, aren't you?' Bowes asked pointedly. 'Well, if that's the case, Marshal, I'd say you're listening to too much local gossip. I would think after all this time them rumors would've died out.'
'Rumors about Lauters being mixed up with the vigilantes?'
'You know what I mean.'
Longtree suppressed a grin. If nothing else, their little talk here had established the basic facts of what Moonwind had said: Red Elk had been lynched and there were rumors about Sheriff Lauters' complicity.
Bowes fixed him with a lethal stare. 'I'll tell you something, Marshal. I'll tell you something right here and now. I'm loyal to Bill Lauters and I don't want to hear that kind of talk. You investigate these murders all you want and I'll gladly help you all I can, but I don't want to hear you insulting that man. He might not look like much now, but once, once he was a fine lawman.'
Longtree nodded. 'Don't get yourself upset, Deputy. Nobody's insulting him. You have to remember that my job is to look into every possible motive for these killings. And if I start thinking the Indians are involved, I have to ask myself why?' Longtree told him sincerely. 'And if you tell me this Red Elk was lynched and there was bad blood following that business and rumors flying around, well then, I'm going to get suspicious. I wouldn't be worth a shit as a lawman if I didn't.'
'Okay, Marshal, I understand. And I think you understand me.'
Longtree studied Bowes with narrowed eyes. 'Tell me about these cattle rustlers.'
Bowes laughed. 'Damn. Not too much you don't hear about is there?'
'It's my job.'
Bowes shrugged. 'Nothing much to tell. In the past three, four years, during the warm months, we've had some rustling. No one was ever caught, few were questioned. No leads, no nothing. Just a lot of hearsay.'
'Tell me the hearsay.'
'Folks say there's a ring involved here, a group of men who are responsible. Some say they're based here in Wolf Creek, others say Virginia City or even Bannack. Take your pick. Nothing's ever turned up, I'm afraid. Folks in these parts call 'em the Gang of Ten. I don't know why. That's it.'
Longtree was listening to this and remembering all Moonwind had said about the vigilantes being the rustlers and Lauters being involved. He was also thinking that if it was this Gang of Ten that were the vigilantes, that possibly eight of their number had been murdered. There was no proof of this Skullhead or that the Indians were out for revenge, but Moonwind had certainly wanted him to think so.
He needed proof.
Any kind of proof. But how could he get it? Getting something on Lauters would be tough. But what about the Indians? Also tough. Moonwind had said Red Elk, her brother, was a shapeshifter. It sounded crazy, impossible, but…
'The Blackfeet bury their dead, don't they?'
Bowes looked at him as if he were insane. 'Yeah, they do. They put 'em in the ground same as us.'
'Where would Red Elk be buried?'
A shadow crossed Bowes' face like he didn't care for where this was leading. 'Up in the hills. There's a burial ground up there. But get any crazy ideas out of your head, Marshal. That cemetery is sacred ground to them. You get caught nosing around up there-won't be enough of you left to bury.'
'Let me worry about that,' Longtree said. 'How can I find it?'
Bowes looked upset. 'It's in a little valley, hard to find.' He sighed heavily. 'I could show you, I guess. I went up there once as a kid. On a dare. I could take you. That is, if you're determined.
'I am.'
Bowes just shook his head. 'What do you want up there?'
'I want to examine Red Elk's remains.'
19
'Yes, I do think we're looking at a banner year, Marion,' Wynona Spence said, beaming. 'We shan't see a year like this again.'
She sipped her tea and thought about the killings and, though she did not take pleasure in anyone's untimely death (as if death were ever timely), she couldn't help but feel a certain satisfaction in the money she was taking in. And that was just good business sense, nothing more. When she had taken over her father's operation, people treated her as if she were crazy. A woman undertaker? Good God, who'd ever heard of such a thing and what woman in her right mind wanted to while away the hours processing the dead?
The general consensus in Wolf Creek was that she would not last.
She would certainly fail.
But she had not failed-she had prospered. She took command of the business her father had built, working it and oiling it and crafting it carefully with nimble fingers until it was a sure success. So successful that she had branched out and now owned considerable stock in a silver mine and controlling interest of some three businesses in Wolf Creek. Gone were her father's charming, old world country boy idiosyncrasies-embalming and burial on credit, coffins on a promise of future reimbursement, gravestones and plots given to friends at cut-rate prices. Such things were not only bad business, but self-defeating. The mortuary business was no different than any other: it existed to make money, to show a profit, not to engender the proprietor to the locals with reams of homespun compassion.
Perhaps Wynona wasn't well-liked in general, but she was a very shrewd businesswoman.
And regardless of all the gossip she inspired living with another woman that no one ever saw, they couldn't take that away from her.
She set down her teacup and swatted at a fly. 'Flies and at this time of year, Marion. Can you believe such a thing? Must be that sun warming 'em up in the windowsills. Do you suppose?'
Marion, dressed-out in a fine and flowing bedroom gown of fine lace and spiderweb satin, said nothing. The coverlet was pulled up beneath her armpits and her hands were folded over her bosom. She did not stir. She did not do anything.
Wynona added a touch of Irish whiskey to her tea, sipped it, approved. 'Yes, I do think father would be quite proud of me. Wouldn't you agree, Marion?'
Marion just laid there, eyes shut, lashes resting against her sallow cheeks like the fine and feathery legs of a moth. A fly lighted off her hair and landed on her face. It walked a tickling tread down and across her lips.
Marion did not move.
20
Sheriff Lauters was at Dr. Perry's, sitting in his little study, thinking over all the mumbo-jumbo Claussen had told the doc and the doc had told him. And every moment, he got a little angrier.
'Damn that Jesus-spouting fool,' Lauters said. 'If he was here now, I swear to God I'd ring his scrawny neck. Stupid sonofabitch.'
'Take it easy, Bill,' Perry said, stretching his back and wincing. 'Claussen doesn't know any better.'
'Yes, he does. Goddamit, he does. He's an educated man. He should know better than to be spreading around old wives' tales like that. Werewolves, monsters…my ass.'
'Hopefully, he'll keep it to himself.'
The sheriff grunted in disgust. 'That's a whole hell of a lot to be hoping for, Doc.'
Perry shrugged. It was his back he was concerned with at the moment. Not murders. Not Claussen. Not werewolves and bogies. His lower back was knotted up with a raw, twisting pain. It was not getting better. One of these days he wouldn't get out of bed at all.
