by Tabor Evans
She was dressed for her business, which was raising stock, in an expensively tailored but practical outfit. The split skirts that let her ride astride were the only distinctly female notions to her dark gray outfit. Her dark hair matched her black pony.
Longarm had been expecting lighter features to go with her Swedish name. She wasn't as tall as either Swedish gal he'd met on friendlier terms in New Ulm. But Longarm knew some Swedes were naturally short and dark, just as some Spanish folks were tall and blond. The local folks who knew her better would have said so if she'd been a breed. Her profile was turned to him as they rode past him at a trot, her with her nose in the air, so he decided she just missed being pretty, although her whipcord-skirted rump, as he turned to boldly watch the two of them ride off, bounced shapely enough in her double-rigged roping saddle.
He chuckled, tethered the buckskin to the hitch rail they'd just been using, and moseyed on inside to see if anyone had sent any wires meant for him.
They had. Old Billy Vail had wired from Denver that yet another of those recorded treasury notes had surfaced at a bank back East in Boston, for Pete's sake, and hence old Billy wanted Longarm to come on home. He'd considered Longarm's reports about the member of the gang he'd apparently caught up with, or vice versa. But he still thought Longarm could be chasing his own tail.
For as the older lawman tersely pointed out, it stood to reason a member of the gang with local connections might have headed for New Ulm after they'd divided the proceeds of that payroll robbery before they'd split up in every known direction. Some of the hot paper had shown up around the renegade scout's old stamping grounds for the same reasons he had. But as far as anyone knew, none of those Galvanized Yankees who'd led a young Chippewa astray had been Minnesota boys, and other treasury notes from the same robbery kept turning up all over creation. So what was a senior deputy doing where he'd already run one of the rascals to the grave?
Everything his boss had wired made sense. But so did another wire from the Navajo Agency at Shiprock. The Indian Police had finally spotted the bloated body of that cuss Longarm had sent flying into the San Juan from a couple of railroad transfer points back.
Better yet, they'd matched some scars and a silly tattoo with a couple of wanted posters, state and federal. So the young cuss who'd lost that fight with Longarm as they'd been crossing the white water of the San Juan had been a known road agent called Mermaid Morrison. Or else there'd been two pallid youths with the same bullet scars and a mermaid tattoo who might have felt they had just cause to tangle with a paid-up lawman aboard moving trains.
Longarm got out his notebook to make certain. Then he tore off a telegram blank to wire Vail he might not be finished in New Ulm yet. For another suspect they had down as a possible member of the Tyger gang had sure been anxious to prevent him from ever reaching New Ulm, and come to study on it, why had Youngwolf been trailing him with a shotgun like so if he'd been the only member of the gang for miles?
Longarm wired he'd have never spotted the gang member he'd nailed if the fool Indian hadn't broken such fine cover, as if to prevent him from spotting something else. Then he allowed he'd head home after he'd found out what they both seemed to be missing so far.
CHAPTER 22
Longarm's crotch still sat sticky in the saddle, but the rest of him was dry enough, by the time he'd topped the clay bluffs west of New Ulm to follow the rail line's service road with the morning sun at his back.
The same sun was only commencing to dry the rain-smoothed mud of the service road. So it seemed easy at first to read the sign of the one two-spanned carriage or wagon, most likely, preceding him towards Sleepy Eye after that short but serious shower.
Then he spotted a hoofprint overlapping a wheel rut to the right of the center strip of grass, and knew two horses had been pulling the wheeled vehicle while the other two, although moving stirrup to stirrup as if a team, had been packing two riders. There'd have been better than one set of wheel ruts if he'd been reading two buckboards, and a lone rider leading a pack brute would have left most of the hoofprints of both critters along one or the other dirt-strip.
By this time Longarm's tobacco was dry enough to smoke. So he lit up without reining in as he idly wondered why he gave a hoot about morning traffic along a public right-of-way. A one-span carriage or buckboard had left New Ulm first, followed within a few minutes or a whole heap of minutes by a couple of riders, with all concerned no doubt headed for Sleepy Eye, where the rail line crossed another northwest-to-southeast county road, meant to serve the folks along that side of the higher ground between the Minnesota and Sleepy Eye.
The horse apples he spied on the road ahead from time to time were of more import to the bluebottles and buffalo gnats buzzing over them as he passed. He'd gotten back to pondering more serious puzzles. So he'd almost put the ordinary signs of ordinary travelers out of his mind, but not all the way out of his mind, when he spotted sign that wasn't there.
A less experienced tracker, or even an Indian who didn't give a hang, might not have noticed something that wasn't there. But just the same, before there'd been four steel-rimmed wheels and four sets of steel-shod hooves heading down that same road. Now he only read the sign of four wheels and three critters.
Longarm casually drew his Winchester from its saddle boot as he rode on, sweeping the range ahead with his thoughtful gun-muzzle-gray eyes as he tried to come up with innocent reasons for that one rider to hive off across the gently rolling and grove-speckled prairie all about. The most logical reason involved a shortcut for a nearby homestead after keeping company with that other rider a ways.
Had they in fact been riding side by side to begin with? Wasn't it possible that one-span vehicle had left first, followed by a lone rider headed for Sleepy Eye, followed by yet another who'd cut across yonder grass at an angle after...
"Anything's possible," Longarm said aloud to his own mount. Then he asked the buckskin, "Would you walk more than half-ways to Sleepy Eye along this muddy wagon trace if you were really headed for another place from the beginning?"
When the buckskin failed to answer, Longarm reined her to his left, towards the railroad tracks, as he observed, "I've seldom seen you critters match your strides so tight unless the pal you were striding with was right close. But why are we arguing, when it's so easy for us to just swing clear of any sneaky bullshit?"
The buckskin balked a bit at crossing the loose railroad ballast and snaky steel rails. But Longarm rode with his knees tight and a firm as well as gentle hand on the reins. So they got across with no more than a little crow-hopping, and she settled down as soon as they were on soft ground again and he'd whacked her a couple of times with the barrel of his Winchester.
He rode due south, away from the rails at an angle, till they were better than an easy rifle shot from the tracks. Then he reined to his right some more, explaining, "It's better to be safe than sorry. That mysterious rider who dropped out of our parade couldn't have expected us to do what we just done. So even if he's hunkered off the road up ahead behind some sticker brush, he's going to have a long wait before he bushwhacks this child!"
Thanks to the clearly visible telegraph poles along the railroad right-of-way, it was just as easy to find the railroad flag stop ahead while riding most of the way across wet bluestem and more kinds of wildflowers than you saw on the higher and drier plains further west. When he saw a church steeple and grain elevator out ahead, Longarm had no call to cross the tracks a second time. He just kept riding until, sure enough, he came to that country road serving folks to the south as well as the north of the flag stop.
Sleepy Eye was called a flag stop because cross-country trains only stopped there if someone on board wanted off or the station master at Sleepy Eye flagged down the train because somebody wanted on. Freight and livestock were usually taken aboard on a more formal schedule, maybe once or twice a week.
To someone riding in from any direction, the overall impression of Sleepy Eye was that its name sure
fit it, even though it must have been named for the watercourse way off to the southwest on its own tanglewood flood plain. The just as aptly named town was mostly sun-silvered frame, dozing like a big dried-out buffalo chip in the late morning sun as Longarm rode in.
That clerk back in New Ulm had been on the money about the tedious ride, and jam on toast would only carry a man so far. So first things coming first, Longarm asked directions from a couple of kids shooting marbles in a dooryard, and dismounted out front of the only livery in town.
An old geezer wearing overalls and a Swedish accent came out to see if Longarm really wanted anything. Longarm told the hostler he didn't know how long he'd be in town, but that his buckskin pal could doubtless do with a rubdown and some fodder and water while she waited for him to finish his business in town. The old Swede said nobody had ever stolen anything from their tack room. But Longarm held on to his Winchester just the same.
So he was carrying it, muzzle aimed down as peaceably as he knew how, when he strode into the restaurant the old-timer at the livery had recommended. It stood handy to the Western Union and across from the open platform and stock loading ramps of the railroad. Longarm figured he'd fill up on stronger coffee and more solid grub than he'd managed for breakfast.
The drably pretty young waitress who seated him at a round table with a checkered red, white, and gravy-stained cloth didn't seem upset by his faded denims and Winchester '73. But he sure was getting dirty looks from the only other patron at that hour.
That small brunette he suspected of being the hot-tempered Helga Runeberg was seated at another table in a far corner, spitting venom at him with her big blue eyes from under the brim of her dark gray Stetson Carlsbad. Longarm had no call to nod at a lady he'd never been introduced to. He wasn't ready to question her about her Uncle Chief before he found out a bit more about the dead rascal. He'd come in here to settle his gut before he enjoyed the usual duel of wits with a small-town telegraph operator. So he didn't want to argue with the dead Indian's boss before he had a better line on whether Youngwolf had been taking advantage of an old pal's kin or the mean-eyed little gal had been aiding and abetting a cuss she'd known to be a charter member of a serious outlaw gang.
The drably pretty and dishwater-blond waitress said they didn't go by printed menus, but suggested the special for the day might be better for his health than anything their cook would ever whip up as a special order for some fussy eater.
When she added their special, as usual, offered him his choice between fried or mashed potatoes with his roast beef and succotash, he said he'd go with fried and asked if he could have his coffee with his grub.
She looked surprised, and asked how else anyone might ever drink their coffee. So he knew he was in a place that catered mostly to his own sort of country folk. The small brunette in the corner looked a tad stuck up for the place, and likely sipped her damned demitasse with a whiff of creme liquor, with some bittersweet dessert. She looked as if she could smell the crotch of his jeans clean across the room, and thought it unseemly to sweat in the saddle like a human being.
The air was still damp from all that rain as it started to warm up. So Longarm could smell that waitress pretty good as she returned in no time with his order. But he could tell she'd had a bath the night before, if not that morning, and it wasn't her fault she had to sweat a tad at honest work. He decided he liked her far better than the snooty sass in the corner, although the brunette would likely win in a beauty contest, where each feature got measured on its own.
Neither gal was a raving beauty, or even pretty enough to win the third prize, when you got down to brass tacks. But neither the pallid young waitress nor the somewhat older brunette cattle queen would have been thrown back in the sea if they'd washed up on Robinson Crusoe's beach.
Longarm figured he'd rather lay the waitress, although it wasn't going to bust his heart if he never laid either. The waitress seemed just a good old country gal who'd give a man a tolerable ride he might recall for as long as another payday in another trail town. The more finely featured but bitchy-looking brunette would likely scratch and bite, or just lay there like a slab of beef from the icehouse, depending on which way might make a man feel worse. He wondered idly who she kept reminding him of. She didn't look like any gal he'd even considered kissing lately. Yet he was almost certain he'd seen that almost pretty face and that elfin turned-up nose before. Meanwhile, the grub the much sweeter-natured gal had served was good, and the coffee was even better. Arbuckle Brand, if he was any judge, and percolated in one of those high-toned pots as well to taste this good!
Arbuckle Brand was roasted and ground to be sold in the Far West with such complications as high altitudes and primitive brewing in mind. So a mountain man or cow camp cook could make a tolerable mug of Arbuckle Brand in a tin can, over an open fire, a mile or more above sea level with alkali water. The stuff turned to strong black ambrosia that would wake a man up grinning when you made it in a percolator on a real stove. So Longarm put away his first cup pronto, and asked for a second before he'd finished half his grub.
The friendly dishwater blonde got even prettier in Longarm's eyes when she allowed he could have all the coffee he wanted at no extra charge. For she was surely used to serving cowhands, and it was only natural to wonder how fine she might be able to serve them in other country ways.
But he never came right out and flirted with the good old gal. He hadn't ridden all this way to spark a waitress, and even if he had, that other gal was watching and he could tell she thought all men were beasts. Or leastways, he was. But he resisted the temptation to get up and go over to assure he didn't mean to mess with their waitress, and hadn't set out to murder her Uncle Chief back in New Ulm.
Longarm had just finished the last of his special, and was fixing to ask what they had for dessert when he heard considerable galloping out front and glanced through the glass to his right to watch a dozen and a half riders reining in and dismounting by the railroad platform across the way. When he recognized one as Gus Hansson, Longarm smiled thinly and nodded in satisfaction. For now he had a better handle on just how long it took to ride out to the Rocking R and back. It was obvious the snip at that other table had sent the kid to fetch her other riders as she'd ridden on into town.
So he wasn't surprised when Helga Runeberg suddenly rose to her not-too-imposing height and swept grandly past him on her way out the front door. Longarm figured she had an account with the best beanery in town. So he was more surprised when that waitress scurried after her, waving a riding crop.
Then he realized the distracted cattle queen had left her crop at that other table. He'd thought that dishwater blonde looked honest.
He watched her chase the shorter but more imperious gal across the street and hand over the crop. On the way back, the waitress seemed to be in at least as much of a hurry, and her dishwater-gray eyes were wide and worried as they met his own through the glass.
As she came back in, Longarm asked what they had that day for dessert. The waitress asked if anyone had ever called him by the name of Longarm, and when he allowed some had, she looked really upset and said, "If I were you I'd skip dessert and let me show you another way out the back. We don't want trouble, I don't like noise, and even if I did, they just said something about you being a lawman!"
Longarm asked what else they'd said, and when she replied Miss Helga had called him a murderer who deserved to be punished, Longarm, sighed and said, "I reckon I'd best skip dessert at that. But you never want to duck out the back way unless you're certain someone ain't been sent around to the alley with just such an event in mind."
He asked how much he owed them. When she told him not to talk dumb and for heaven's sake get going, Longarm put a silver dollar on the checkered cloth by his empty plate, drank the last of his coffee, and got to his own feet, removing the Winchester from his lap to cradle it over his left arm as he headed for that same front door.
The waitress gasped, "Are you crazy or just deaf? Di
dn't you hear what I just told you?"
Longarm said, "Every word, ma'am. I know you're curious, but I'd be obliged if you stayed away from all this window glass for the next few minutes. Things are likely to get a mite tense out front for a spell."
Then he opened the door, stepped out in the sunlight, and things did. One of the younger hands across the way softly hollered, "Hot damn! The little darling must want to dance with all of us!"
An older and meaner-looking hand growled at him to shut up. All of them but their boss lady, standing with her boots apart a pace or more closer, were packing six-guns on their hips, and more than one, just like Longarm, had hauled out his saddle gun as well.
They were all a tad out of his way if the Western Union had been his next intended stop after all. He decided a beeline in any other direction but one could have the same effect on the wolf pack as a running deer fawn might have on the four-legged kind. So he strode straight across to where the only female in the bunch seemed intent on standing her ground. Then he stopped, just short of stepping on her booted toes, and softly said, "Allow me to introduce myself, ma'am."
Before he could she snapped, "I know who you are and why have you been following me?"
To which Longarm could only reply, "I ain't been. If I wanted to I reckon I could, lawful enough, on public thoroughfares across open federal range. I wasn't expecting to question you, on your own land or anywhere else I wanted to, before I had more to ask about. For now I choose to take your word you thought Baptiste Youngwolf was a misunderstood comrade in arms of your late father. I don't care just how you take my word it was him or me the other day when he came my way with that Cleveland twelve-gauge."
"Killer!" she snapped. "Cold-blooded killer with a bounty-hunting badge and not a fair bone in your body! Uncle Chief would have won if he'd really been after you with my daddy's shotgun in his capable old hands and a Navy Colt Conversion on his hip!"
