by Tabor Evans
Longarm allowed barley and cracked corn made for a fair balance as he poured some feed in with the twists of hay he'd already shoved in Blaze's feed box. It wasn't until his hostess moved to pick up her lantern again that he noticed her informal costume. She hadn't been whistling Dixie when she said she'd about given up on him getting in any time tonight. But it would have been rude to tell a lady he could see so much of her through a nightdress with a lantern on the far side of it, so he never did. But she sure had swell legs for a gal with that much gray in her hair. Her gathered-at-the-neck outfit of ivory cotton flannel looked more modest as soon as she was holding her wan lantern between them again. Old gals living alone doubtless got so used to flouncing about the house informally that they tended to forget they looked half undressed to late-night visitors.
She told him he was unusually kind to riding stock as he finished rubbing old Blaze down with some sacking while the pony put away some fodder after being watered first. Longarm went on rubbing as he just shrugged and said, "I ain't all that kindly. I'm just more country than some townsmen who don't ride as serious, ma'am. Me and old Blaze here warmed up pretty good with some cross-country lopings in chill night air, and I'd like to borrow him some more tomorrow."
She naturally said Blaze was his to ride as often as he liked. So he naturally replied, "That's how come I don't want him lamed up with poorly tempered sinews, ma'am. Ride a Sunday horse serious, and let him rest up without a good rubdown, and he'll wind up the next day the way we do when we're out of shape and cut a cord of stove wood or do a couple of loads of laundry in our first rush of enthusiasm."
She laughed and said she knew what he meant, although she couldn't picture him doing even one load of laundry. Then she said something about heating up the coffee, and left the lantern for him as she headed back to her kitchen.
He draped his saddle blanket over one of the rails of one stall and his McClellan over another. He hung on to his saddle gun as he picked up that lantern and followed after old lisa.
She'd been wrong about the ham turning cold. It was at least lukewarm, thanks to her warming oven, and the fried potatoes she served with it hadn't gone greasy yet. As he dug in at her kitchen table he wasn't sure he wanted too much of that reheated but strong-smelling coffee. For he had a busy day ahead, his head was still buzzing with events of the day just ended, and it was going to be tough to fall asleep in a strange bed under the same roof as such a sweet smelling female in any case.
He could tell, even as she sat across from him with her matronly curves covered modestly enough by soft ivory folds, that she'd just had a hot bath and doused herself with plenty of lilac water after using some white vinegar to get her hair, or something, clean enough to eat off. But she wasn't acting flirty as she demanded he bring her up to date on his moonlight ride. When he told her he meant to check Wabasha Chambrun's homestead claim before giving the cuss enough rope, she looked puzzled and said, "I know for a fact he bought enough Glidden wire and staples to fence a full quarter section, Custis. Wouldn't even an Indian have to be awesomely stupid to think he could get away with simply squatting along a well-traveled county road?"
Longarm washed down some chewed-up ham and potatoes with her fine coffee before he replied. "How often might you ask to see the title deed of a homestead you're riding past on a visit to somewhere else? I'll ask at the courthouse come morning whether Minnesota follows common law on squatter's rights. A lot of states still do, and we're only talking about two years' difference if your luck holds out."
She said she had no idea what he was talking about. She'd said her folk had hailed from a different old country. So Longarm had to explain. "Back when Ben Franklin and the boys were inventing a whole new country, they still felt the need for some law and order. So they decreed that until such time as they passed new laws that might read different, the courts could go along with the precedents of old English common law. That's what you call what some judge and jury have already said a time or more, a precedent. If you refuse to buy ignorance of the law as an excuse, you got to let folks sort of know what to expect if they do the same things the courts have decided on in the past, see?"
She said she did, despite the dubious look in her big brown eyes, so he continued. "The doctrine of undisputed habitation, or squatter's rights, goes back before King William's Doomsday Book. For as law and order came out of the Dark Ages, it was tough to produce a written title search on such property as you might or might not have held a spell."
The Minnesota gal brightened and said, "Oh, they tell about such things in the Sagas! The Norse tradition held that land belonged to the first man who'd drawn water and built a fire on it, as long as he was man enough to defend it."
Longarm nodded and said, "Defending it against the claims of any others was the sticking point in any such notions of land titles. It was tough at times to say who might have been first on a particular plot of ground. So the early courts held that any man who'd held his claim for seven years or more, undisputed by any others, likely had as good a claim to it as anybody."
She asked, "What about Indians, in the case of land on this side of the main ocean?"
He grimaced and said, "Now you're straying from common law into a can of historical worms. Whether this corner of Minnesota became so civilized by Indian treaty or criminal trespass is moot, with all the original Indians marched off to the Dakota Territory. As of, say, 1864 this has all been federal open range or taxable privately held land, depending. If Chambrun's been allowed to file a proper homestead claim, despite his complexion, so be it. Five years after his claim's been approved by the Land Office, providing he doesn't mess up entirely, the land is his to keep, cherish, or sell at a profit as far as Uncle Sam cares."
She nodded. "But if they never filed, and just fenced off some open land on their own?"
Longarm said, "I told you I got to look up the local view on squatter's rights. But unless Minnesota law reads different, and specific, Chambrun and his kin get to keep that quarter section as their own as soon as they've held it seven years with nobody else disputing 'em." Ilsa stared wide-eyed across the table. "I can see why you said it was only a matter of two years either way. But would they let an Indian pull a stunt like that, Custis?"
To which he could only reply with a shrug, "Depends on what you can prove an Indian, or vice versa, in a court of law, should that be your pleasure."
She looked mighty puzzled, even as she picked up the coffeepot to refill his cup. So he said, "No more coffee for me, thanks. It's tougher for some folks to decide who might be an Indian than it can be to decide who's colored. I ain't sure I follow the logic myself, but in those courts as enforce color codes, it seems a person known to have any colored ancestry is colored. But the same folks who won't rent a room to an octoroon, with one colored grandparent, seem just as able to classify anyone less than half Indian as a white person with a little Indian blood."
"Then this Wabasha Chambrun could be a white man in the eyes of the law?"
Longarm shrugged. "Depends more on the B.I.A. than his biology. Chief Ross of the Cherokee was seven-eighths Scotch-Irish, and there's many a blue-eyed blonde drawing their government Indian allotment just by putting on a fringy shirt and lining up like the rest of their nation. Folks listed as Indians by the B.I.A. are identified as such by allotment number, tribal agency, and such. But there's nothing to prevent a member of a so-called friendly band from just going into town, getting a job, and forgetting the whole deal, no matter how much Indian blood he may or may not have in him. So saying what Chambrun says about a French-Canadian daddy is true, and if he's never been listed on paper as any particular sort of Indian, he's about as white as you or me, at least as far as federal law can prove."
She said she'd never heard such nonsense, and made as if to pour him some more coffee anyway. So he put a hand across the top of his empty cup. "Waste not, want not, Miss Ilsa. It ain't as if I don't admire your coffee. I just don't want to toss and turn all night, as I'm apt to wit
h my mind filled with caffeine as well as a heap of other distractions!"
She sighed and said she knew what he meant, murmuring something about it having been over a year since last she'd felt really fulfilled in her lonely bed.
That was what womenfolk called getting laid, fulfilled, and hadn't she said her man had been dead longer than that?
Longarm tried to ignore the sudden tingle in his pants as he tried not to wonder too hard whether she'd made a slip or was out to tell him something. For a man could mess up either way at times like these. He had a good thing going already, with nobody in New Ulm so sure just where he was forted up after dark, and the sweet old widow woman was likely to think he was lower than a sidewinder's belly button if he abused her generous hospitality by grabbing for a dessert she wasn't really offering.
On the other hand, Hell had no fury like a woman turned down once she'd offered, however delicately. So he didn't dare say he'd had all the supper he cared for and just wanted to go to bed before he had a better handle on her own bedtime aspirations.
He figured it might be safest to ask her whether she knew that other Swedish gal, Helga Runeberg, out at the Rocking R. He sensed he might have been safer asking about somebody else when his hostess flared. "I've seen her around town in her silly hat and buckskin skirts, the self-satisfied young snip! I might have known she'd been flirting with you since you'd been riding no more than ten miles from her door!"
Longarm had to laugh. "Hold on, Miss Ilsa, I've never laid eyes on the gal in question. I was more interested in her common sense than her looks."
The older woman didn't sound too sensible as she snapped, "Helga Runeberg hasn't got any common sense. Her poor father would turn over in his grave if he knew how she rides all over, unescorted, as carefree as one of her cowboys."
Longarm said, "It was one of her cowboys as told me his boss lady had said she was able to tell a real lawman from a fake lawman at first sight. I was hoping to save me a ride out her way with some educated guesswork as to how a carefree cowgirl might know so much about lawmen."
The widow woman shrugged inside her loose nightdress and replied, "I wouldn't put anything past Helga Runeberg. They do say she was sparking a married deputy sheriff till Pastor Lindorm heard about it. Maybe she knows a lot of lawmen in the Biblical sense. I don't really care to know her at all."
Longarm made a mental note to drop by the Rocking R the next time he was out that way, and surprised himself by having to stifle a real yawn he hadn't been expecting.
The widow woman noticed and said, "Good heavens, it is almost ten o'clock, and I'm not usually such a night owl myself. I suppose you must be anxious to get to bed, right?"
He allowed that was about the size of it as they both rose from the table. He started to help her move the dishes to the drain board of her modern wet-sink, but she told him they could wait till she felt more in the mood for housework. So he didn't argue as he started to follow her out of the kitchen, Winchester in hand.
As she moved just ahead with her candlestick, she laughed and asked if he always went to bed fully armed. He told her he hardly ever got all the way in bed without leaning the Winchester in a handy corner and hanging his gunbelt over a bedpost. He assumed she was leading him to some guest room. So he was mildly surprised when they wound up in a perfumed chamber with a lot of Irish lace draped around the big fourposter.
Ilsa set the candlestick on a nearby bed table and softly asked, "Do you mind if I get undressed in the dark, Custis? I know it seems old-fashioned, but as I said before, I don't get to do this much anymore."
He figured the safest answer called for simply pinching out the candle without saying anything as the room was plunged in darkness.
He leaned his Winchester against the wall behind the bed table as he heard the soft rustle of cloth coming off and that odor of lilac water and vinegar grew stronger. He waited for her to shyly suggest it was all right for him to come to bed before he shucked his own gun, boots, and duds as calmly as he felt able, rolled in under the covers, and took the warm cuddly nakedness he found there in his own bare arms. Then as she sobbed, "Oh, Custis, I feel so low. Whatever must you think of me?"
He ran a friendly hand down her naked flank as he suggested he feel her somewhat lower, and then he kissed her firmly as she tried to cross her legs and say something dumb about what he was trying to do to a poor defenseless widow. Then he was doing it to her, and she was doing it back with considerable skill, as her poor embarrassed lips kept murmuring all sorts of accusations and excuses for what just came naturally at times like these.
He knew better than to say anything before he'd made her climax and allow she just might like it. So he tongued her ear and humped her hard, with her big bare breasts crushed against his naked chest and one hand under her tailbone as he helped her bounce in time with his thrusts. She suddenly wrapped both legs around his waist to hug him further into her as she sobbed, "Oh, Custis, I'm really trying to respond to you, but it's been so long and you have to give a girl time to warm up!"
He told her to take all the time she wanted, since he wasn't going anywhere but in and out of her for the foreseeable future. But he still had to wonder, even as he came in her and just kept going with no need to change positions, what a gal this tigress was jealous of might be like in her own right!
But of course he never said so. For even as he was pleasuring her dog-style a good half hour later, old Ilsa was purring, as she arched her spine to take it deeper, that he was never going to get away from her now that she'd caught up with him at last.
She seemed to think he had just what it took to satisfy her hungry ring-dang-do. But he didn't see why. She felt tight as a schoolmarm as he just went on doing what came naturally in anybody that passionate.
He could only hope she was feeling natural as she suddenly shot off his erection, rolled over on her back, and pleaded with him to finish in her the more romantic way.
He felt mighty romantic as well, coming with her softer warm flesh crushed beneath his excited heaving body. But then she sort of spoiled the afterglow by murmuring, her lips against his bare shoulder and her hand clutching his balls right firmly, "Oh, Custis, I'm so happy, and I can't wait to see how surprised everyone will be when we post the bans with Pastor Lindorm!"
He didn't answer. He sensed it could be considered impolite to tell a gal she was loca en la cabeza right after you'd come in her. There'd be plenty of cold gray dawn to go into why a man who packed a badge had no call marrying up with anybody young or old, for richer, poorer, or whatever, till Mister Death grinned that spoilsport grin at all concerned.
He was sure she'd follow his drift when he told her about those department funerals he had to go to all the time. A lot of gals had, and hell, some of them had been young enough to marry up with if a man was ready to do dumb things like that.
CHAPTER 14
It was a caution how some folks could think so smart with their heads and so dumb with their glands. But by the time she'd fed him a swell breakfast in bed, Longarm had convinced the hot-natured Ilsa it might be wiser to keep their understanding a secret until he found out who was gunning for him and how come.
It hadn't been easy. The strong-willed widow woman had said she'd be proud to share the fate of her new-found true love. She'd only given in after Longarm managed to convince her she was being downright sneaky in the name of the law. They said the glamorous Confederate spy, Miss Belle Siddons, had enjoyed the sneaky part of her services to the Southern cause even more than screwing all those Union officers half to death. Lots of men enjoyed it better sneaky too.
After breakfast, a tub bath, and a blow job, Longarm ambled over to the Western Union to see if anyone else was excited about him. He found some messages waiting for him there care of the telegraph office.
Durango and the South Ute agency were still working on just who that so-called Calvert Tyger they'd buried and the kid who'd gone off the trestle into the San Juan might have been. Longarm was even more certai
n someone ad been fibbing about that charred body registered as Tyger when he opened a message from his home office to discover his fellow deputies, Smiley and Dutch, had found two other rooming house registers that claimed, in different handwriting, Calvert Tyger had spent some recent nights in other parts of Denver at the same time, before somehow moving on alive and well as far as any fool records showed, So some damned body, for some damned reason, seemed to be going around checking in and out for the night under the assumed name of a wanted man. It made no sense to Longarm, but on the other hand, he wasn't the asshole doing it!
It got worse when he stopped by the nearby sheriff's office to ask if those other federal deputies from Saint Paul had by any chance arrived and asked for him the night before.
The same deputy sheriff he'd talked to before said nobody from Saint Paul had arrived at all. Then he handed Longarm a telegram they hadn't mentioned at the Western Union, since it had been addressed to other lawmen, and said, "Looks as if all you federal men could be barking up the wrong tree here in Brown County."
Longarm scanned the wire from the Texas Rangers, and heaved a vast sigh. For according to Texas, another of those recorded hundred-dollar treasury notes from the Fort Collins robbery had surfaced at a bank in Amarillo.
As he handed the message back, Longarm said, "Try her this way. A bank in any part of the country would have that list of serial numbers and money-changers who might give a shit. But nobody making change in a gambling hall or house of ill repute would have that list or care where the money came from as long as it was good."
The local lawman answered dubiously, "A hundred-dollar bill does stand out in a crowd, you know."
Longarm nodded. "I just said that. Any card dealer or crib gal presented with such paper would doubtless ask the floor boss or madam to okay it. But without that list, all the smartest eye could detect would be whether the note was genuine or not. Once they changed it for the high roller or low-lifer, they might or might not take it to their own bank for safekeeping. The odds are just as good they'd pass it on to some other business folks as rent, liquor-bill payment, or whatever. So there's just no saying how many hands any of these fool bills might have passed through before they were spotted by some sharp-eyed banker such as P.S. Plover around the corner."
