Longarm on the Santee Killing Grounds

by Tabor Evans

  She shrugged her shoulders, perking up the small firm breasts he could just make out under her pleated calico in a surprising girlish way, as she told him flatly, "Captain Bedford was a kindly as well as gallant officer during the war. There was more to assisting hungry and homeless survivors than just chasing Indians away. I think he was in charge of the spare horses. I know he was in a position to issue supplies without the usual fuss and feathers others put us through."

  She served him another slice of cake, unasked, as she went on to say, "My late husband and I were at the dance they staged to welcome the captain and his bride when they came back to Brown County about eight or ten years after the war. Life in the peacetime army hadn't agreed with an ambitious man and a farm-bred wife. So nobody was surprised when they bought the Bergen homestead and commenced to raise barley, ponies, and kids. Two girls and a boy, the last I heard, with another one on the way."

  "Back up a ways and let's go over them buying a homestead claim, ma'am?"

  She shrugged again, just as perky, and explained. "With money he'd saved up as a soldier, I suppose, Old Lars Bergen had proven his original claim and so the land was his to farm, let, or sell. They say the old man lost interest in his quarter section after losing one son in the war, another to prairie lightning, and then his wife coming down with the cholera and dying on him so nasty."

  She grimaced, made a brushing motion, and continued in a brighter tone. "Suffice it to say the old Bergen place is a lot more cheerful these days. The Bedfords are good neighbors, even if they didn't come from the same old country. I still do business in town, so I can tell you their credit is good. Captain Bedford pays all his bills when due."

  "That's what I heard," said Longarm thoughtfully. He had no call to tell her what he meant to ask at the bank. But she'd said at the start he looked sort of travel-stained, and he'd scare most bankers by striding in with a Winchester as well as a strange face. So he told her, "I sure could use some place to store my saddle gun for a spell, and you say you still have that dry-goods store in town, ma'am?"

  She shook her head. "You can leave that rifle here with me if you like. We never rebuilt the place the Indians burned out. Since the railroad crossed the river I've done better taking orders for barbed wire, patent windmills, and such from this very house."

  He allowed in that case he'd be proud to bring her anything she might need from town when he came back for his Winchester. When she asked when that might be he told her truthfully, "Can't say yet. I got some wires to send, some other errands to tend, and some calls to make around Courthouse Square. Then I got to find me a place to stay, hire me a pony to ride, and-"

  "I've more than one spare room and two horses out back," she told him. "One of them draws my sulky, and I ride the other when I have to make time cross-country. So I can tell you it's a pretty good jumper, with my weight at least."

  Longarm started to protest, he didn't want to put her to that much trouble. Then he considered how tough it might be for a hired gun to find out which hotel a stranger in town had registered at if he was holed up in a private home a good quarter mile away instead. So he nodded soberly and said, "I can easily get away with putting down a dollar a day for room and board, and most liveries hire mounts at two bits a day plus deposit, ma'am."

  She said she dealt in hardware, not room and board, and suggested they argue about it after he came home for supper. So, the day not getting any younger as they sat there staring thoughtfully at each other, he allowed that sounded fair, and they shook on it before he headed on into town on foot.

  It only took Longarm a few minutes to cover the five or six city blocks to the area around the depot he was more familiar with. That Western Union was still where it had been the time he'd stopped here in New Ulm on his way to Northfield, where the James and Younger gang had robbed that bank. When he strode in and identified himself to the older gent behind the counter, he was told they'd been expecting him because more than one wire had been sent to him in care of the New Ulm Western Union.

  One was from Billy Vail, informing him that yet another of those hundred-dollar treasury notes had turned up at a Cheyenne bank, but that he was to go on with his investigation at New Ulm in any case, that you didn't investigate by running in circles, and that nobody in Cheyenne could say who'd broken that big bill in a local saloon on a Saturday night to begin with.

  Another wire was from Pagosa Junction in the South Ute reserve, in answer to the earlier wire he'd sent them while changing trains at K.C. The Indian Police said they'd dragged a few likely stretches of the San Juan in vain and relayed his request to the Navajo Agency downstream. So he knew he didn't have to wire the Navajo Police after all. They'd find the body of that murdering young jasper for him or they wouldn't, and in either case it wasn't too likely anyone out to assassinate federal lawmen would be packing identification papers made out to his true name. But aliases turned up on the yellow sheets as well, if an owlhoot rider kept flashing the library card, voter's registration, or whatever he'd stuffed in his wallet.

  Longarm hummed a few bars of "Farther Along" as he tore open the last wire from an old pal in Denver who screwed like a mink and rode herd over a library of war records, including Confederate, collected by a rich eccentric who, having avoided service in either army, seemed to have enjoyed the hell out of the war on paper.

  The good old gal he'd wired for more details about Tyger, Flanders, and others who deserted about that same time, such as that scout he only had down as "Chief," had wired back she needed more time. For most of the Confederate records in that private library in Denver dealt with western rebs, such as Hood's Texas Brigade. But she said she'd keep digging and that she was looking forward to a personal visit as soon as he got back to Denver. Longarm grinned as he put all the telegrams away, for after all those pure hours aboard those trains, even the memory of a sort of homely old gal could make a man feel sort of horny. He remembered how hard she tried to please with a rollicking rump despite her plain appearance.

  Recalling what Ilsa Pedersson had just said about him looking like a hobo, Longarm scouted up a barbershop that served hot baths in the back as well. He borrowed a whisk broom and did what he could about the fly ash and dust on his duds as the tub slowly filled with only slightly rusty water. He had a fresh shirt and a change of underwear in his saddlebags, of course, but he didn't want to traipse all over New Ulm to get them. The dirt on his light blue work shirt wasn't all that awful anyway, once he'd washed his hide good with naptha soap and had the barber sprinkle him with plenty of bay rum after his shave out front.

  The barber's business had been slow that afternoon, but a lawman who knew the ropes of a small town didn't press his luck by bringing up the subject of Israel Bedford. Old Ilsa had already told him the suspect enjoyed a good local rep, and there was no way in hell to ask about folks in a town this size without someone being sure to let them know there was a stranger in town asking about them.

  There were only so many hours in a day to work with, but a strange lawman who didn't let the local lawmen know who he was ahead of time could sure have silly conversations about the six-gun someone had just noticed he was packing with no other visible means of support.

  Billy Vail's opposite number in these parts worked out of the bigger twin cities further east, where the Minnesota joined the Mississippi. So the ranking law in New Ulm was the county sheriff, and fortunately the sheriff himself was out raising campaign funds for the coming fall elections. So Longarm only had to tell a senior deputy what he was doing in Brown County in a dirty shirt and with a.44-40.

  The deputy said they'd been expecting him, and added that the boys from the Saint Paul Federal Court had already questioned everyone at all involved, without finding out too much.

  When Longarm groaned inwardly and asked whether other deputies had called on Israel Bedford, lest he not know those serial numbers had been recorded, the sheriff's deputy said cheerfully, "Hell, you can't hardly ask a man where he got a treasury note without e
xplaining why you're asking, can you?"

  Longarm grimaced and growled, "Sometimes it don't pay to be quite so direct. I don't suppose anybody wondered what a suspect might do with other listed treasury notes he'd been fixing to spend once they told him how they'd spotted the first ones?"

  The local lawman shrugged. "There was no need to pussyfoot. Everyone knows Captain Bedford is as honest as the day is long, and your federal pals left content with his story."

  "Which was?" Longarm asked.

  The deputy sheriff answered, "Livestock transaction. Bedford has some of the finest riding stock in the county for sale. Serves his mixed mares with a pure Morgan stud these days. Told us he'd sold a saddle-broke filly and a promising colt for that hundred-dollar note. Said the buyer was an Indian, or mayhaps one of them Metis, or Red River breeds. Anyways, others out his way say they'd seen a whole family of dusky wanderers around the right time. The one who paid cash for Bedford's stock was dressed like a white man. Had a more Indian-looking squaw and a mess of raggedy kids tagging along, from toddlers to kids in their teens. Us county riders tried to help your federal deputies cut the trail of the prosperous savages, but the sod's as thick and springy as it gets out yonder, and they were traveling with neither a cart nor travois so... What the hell, it ain't as if Captain Bedford is famous for robbing folks and wasn't there something about an Indian riding with that gang when they shot up that government office at Fort Collins?"

  Longarm shrugged. "We can't ever get everyone to agree on how many there were in the gang. One witness figures five all told. Another counted six or eight as he bled on the floor. He may have just been excited. Nobody on the streets of Fort Collins seems to have counted shit as the gang left cool as cucumbers and slow as innocent churchgoers. But Tyger and Flanders did have at least one associate called Chief. I'm still working on his full name. The army sure kept casual records as they were chasing Little Crow with such informally recruited columns."

  The somewhat older Minnesota man nodded. "Don't I know it. I rode with Sibley's Volunteers, and we had to laugh at those ragtag Galvanized Yankees when they rode tear-ass all over after Sioux we'd already shot the liver and lights out of."

  He got up to stride over to a file cabinet as he continued. "We thought some of the regulars were all right, though. Captain Bedford was in charge of his column's remount and quartermaster detail. Not as picky as some West Pointers when it came to sharing supplies in the field with comrades in arms. Made hisself a heap of friends out this way."

  Longarm nodded and said he'd heard as much. Then, since the son of a bitch was helping himself to a swig from that jug without offering to share, Longarm allowed he had other fish to fry, and got back out to the square before he found himself saying something unprofessional. It wasn't easy, knowing half-ass federal men and selfish county men who openly favored his prime suspect had totally fucked up his original plan of action.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Granger's Savings & Loans was just off the square, and a handsome young gal peering out through the bars of the teller's cage didn't look scared of strangers as Longarm came in just as they were fixing to shut down for the afternoon. When he flashed his badge and told her what he'd come for, she vanished for a moment, and then unbolted an oaken door from the inside to run him back to the branch manager's private office.

  The bank was run by a P.S. Plover, a portly white-haired cuss who rose behind his acre or so of desk in a neighborly way to wave Longarm to another padded chair and offer a cigar from his big brass humidor. "That was quick," he said. "I just posted my letter yesterday and I didn't expect Saint Paul to send anyone this side of Monday."

  Longarm accepted the Havana claro with a nod of thanks, and took his seat before he replied. "I ain't from the marshal in Saint Paul, Mister Plover. I ride for Marshal Vail out of Denver, and I'm here in response to that purloined treasury note you all detected. You say you've written more since?"

  As he lit his fancy smoke the banker explained. "I'm pretty sure I can name that breed who bought stock off Israel Bedford with one of those hot treasury notes, Marshal Long."

  Longarm modestly replied, "I'm just a deputy marshal, but lots of folk make that same mistake. Just let me get out my notebook before you name the mysterious Indian for us, hear?"

  As Longarm gripped the cigar with his teeth to break out his notebook and a pencil stub, the banker said, "He's not pure Sioux. Looks like a full-blood, if you ask me, but he claims to be white on his daddy's side and hence eligible to own land, sign contracts without a white sponsor, and in sum, make a perfect pest of himself with his full-blood squaw and platoon of trashy breed brats."

  Longarm poised his pencil and cocked a quizzical brow, so the banker said, "His name's Chambrun, Wabasha Chambrun, for God's sake. Claims to be the spawn of a French-Canadian mountain man and a squaw of the Osage persuasion."

  Longarm wrote down the name, mildly observing, "Squaw means woman in most Algonquin dialects. Osage, Santee, and other such Sioux-Hokan speakers say something like Wee-yah for women in general. Meanwhile, whilst they talk much the same lingo, real Osage range farther south than you'd have expected your average Canadian trapper to range in the Shining Times."

  The banker shrugged. "I have them down as Santee Sioux too. But try to prove it, and even if you could at this late date, who but the Land Office has any say in the matter of their homestead claim?"

  He took a drag on his own cigar before adding, "In any case, the rascal who stuck Israel Bedford with that hot treasury note came in here bold as brass just yesterday to open a savings and checking account with us."

  Longarm grinned wolfishly with the cigar at a jaunty angle and asked, "With yet more of those treasury notes from the Fort Collins robbery?"

  The older man splashed cold water on that. "Well, not in so many words. He presented four hundred and thirty-seven dollars to Magnusson out front, in bills of smaller denomination, but I had told all my tellers to watch out for prosperous Indians, and so they naturally asked him, in a cool and casual way, if he was by any chance the same Mister Chambrun who'd bought that nice riding stock off Israel Bedford. So guess what he admitted bold as brass!"

  Longarm whistled thoughtfully. "Stupid as hell too, if he knew where that bigger bill came from. Could we have your smart Dealer join in with the rest of this conversation, lest we drop even one detail in the cracks?"

  The banker nodded and banged a desk chime near the humidor as he agreed, "Good thinking. I should have asked her to stay to begin with. She was the one who brought that hundred-dollar treasury note to MY attention when a shopkeeper got it off another depositor last week."

  The willowy-hipped but top-heavy blonde came in to join them with a puzzled smile. Her boss waved her to another seat and explained, "I want you to tell Deputy Long just what you know about both the Bedford and Chambrun accounts, Vigdis."

  Longarm jotted down "Vigdis Magnusson," figuring that might not get you teased as much by the other kids in your school if they'd been stuck with Swedish names as well.

  The beautiful blonde explained in her educated but lilting English how they'd already known about the respectable Captain Bedford paying for seed and supplies with that paper a dark sinister stranger had stuck him with. She said she couldn't rightly say why a Polite breed or assimilate had struck her as sinister when he'd come dressed white and with a batch Of innocent paper and Specie.

  She said the sinister stranger had given his name as one Wabasha Chambrun, had allowed he and his family were settled in and trying to Prove their own homestead claim up the river a ways, and had said that he'd heard it was safer to keep his money in a bank and pay his bigger bills by check.

  The big blonde sounded a mite puzzled as she confided to Longarm, "I'm not sure why such a simple story from such a Polite homesteader simply asking to open an account with us made me feel all tingly and sneaky. But it did, and so I found myself asking if he was the same Mister Chambrun who'd bought that adorable colt Off Captain Bedford. He admitted
he was, with neither shame nor hesitation!"

  P.S. Plover nodded sagely. "There You have it, young Sir. I naturally reported what Vigdis told me, in writing, that very afternoon. When are you Planning to arrest the thieving redskin?"

  Longarm put the notebook away so he could take the cigar out of his mouth as he explained. "I ain't planning to arrest nobody right off. It ain't that I'm lazy. It's just that I've found it tough to start a fire with wet matches or keep a cuss in jail on weak evidence. And by the way, who's holding that treasury note at the moment?"

  Plover blinked in surprise and said, "Why, we are, of course. In its own sealed and marked envelope, in our vault, lest we mix it up with innocent bills. I offered it as evidence to the sheriff as soon as I saw its serial number was on that list. But the sheriff told me I'd best hold on to it for the time being because he'd be reporting what seemed a purely federal matter to you federal officers."

  Longarm nodded and said, "He did good. Put a man with a lawyer in a county jail on an interstate federal charge, and he'll be out on a writ and likely long gone before anyone like me is likely to be in town. I'd just have to find some safe place to store the evidence for now if I was to ask you to turn it over, so I won't."

  The smart buxom blonde asked who'd get stuck in the end, knowing there was no way to exchange a counterfeit note for the real thing, once you'd been dumb enough to get stuck with it.

  Longarm told her, "We're not jawing about queer money, ma'am. We're talking about stolen goods. Once that bill in your safe ain't evidence any more, the Fort Collins paymaster who replaced the murdered one will likely reclaim it."

  She protested that it hardly sounded fair to stick her bank for funds stolen clear out Colorado way. So he said, "I hadn't finished. Didn't that merchant get the note from Bedford to begin with? And didn't he get that money from this Wabasha Chambrun?"