“We are, you dunce, or you’d see I’m doin’ you a favor. These men work for Walter Ratdke, who doesn’t take kindly to having his men rousted. Remember that fella found hacked into fifty pieces last winter?”
Howard’s disappointment was no sham. “I ain’t scared of Radtke, and I ain’t scared of pretty boy or his cane. Bring ’em all on, and I’ll buck ’em out in gore.”
“You heard me,” Tom said.
It was back down or be shot. Enos backed down. Instead of returning to their table, though, he moved to another on the other side of the saloon. “There. Happy now?”
“Delirious.” Tom lowered the shotgun but didn’t put it away. To Gunther he said, “This was none of my doin’. Be sure to tell Mr. Radtke that.”
“You are not responsible for the antics of every cretin who enters your establishment.” Gunther bowed toward Enos Howard. “Another time, perhaps, schwein?”
“I can’t wait, pretty boy.”
With a twirl of his cane, Gunther departed. The two toughs limped at his heels, their hatred of Howard transparent.
All smiles, Enos came back across the room. “Still think I’m not worth my weight in spit?” he demanded. “I swatted that pair like they were bed-bugs.” He swilled some whiskey, then patted the bottle. “I trust I’ve proven myself.”
Tony had faced his chair around now that Gunther was gone. “All you’ve proven is you have mush for brains. Baiting them served no purpose.”
“Didn’t it?” Howard sneered. “I kept their attention on me, didn’t I, so they wouldn’t spot you and the farm boy here? I did you a good turn, but you’re not man enough to admit it.”
“You didn’t do it just for us,” Tony responded.
“True. There’s nothin’ more fun than a good brawl. Last one I was in, up Wyoming way, we broke every piece of furniture in the saloon. Cost every coin I had to my name, but it was worth it.”
“I thought you were wonderful, Enos,” Melissa gushed. “But I’m still waiting to hear why you gave up buffalo hunting.”
Howard’s exuberant mood evaporated like dew under a hot sun. “Maybe another time, Missy. Right now we’ve got somethin’ more important to jaw about.”
“We do?” Charley said.
“As sure as I live and breathe.” Howard polished off another finger of coffin varnish and belched. “When are we headin’ out after the Hoodoos?”
Nebraska Panhandle
Agent William Shores of the newly created United States Department of Justice had made camp out on the plain. O. T. Quarrel had offered him the use of a bunk, but Shores had declined. His superiors were counting on him to wrap things up in short order, and he had no intention of letting them down. He prided himself on his ability to perform his job effectively and expeditiously, and he would treat this case as he had every other throughout his career.
Shores rode until close to midnight, then made a cold camp. He considered making a fire but opted not to. He was in flat, open country, and a fire would be seen from a long way off. Supposedly, there weren’t any Sioux in the area, but why tempt fate?
His saddle for a pillow, Shores wrapped himself in a blanket and lay on his side. His rifle was close at hand. He heard a coyote yip. Not far distant, another answered. Much closer, something snorted, and there was the thud of receding hooves. It was the same every night. Constant animal sounds, often sounds Shores couldn’t identify. Grunts and snarls and roars that made sleep next to impossible.
William Shores was not fond of the West. He would rather be sleeping in his four-poster bed under his own roof than on the ground in the middle of the godforsaken prairie. He wasn’t a country boy. Far from it. His childhood in Texas had been spent mostly in town, and his later years in Chicago had ingrained into him the belief that city life was the only life.
It was a question of what a person was comfortable with. Shores liked the convenience of walking into a restaurant and ordering a meal rather than having to hunt it, shoot it, butcher it, and cook it. He would rather deal with heavy traffic than a war party. And given his druthers, he would rather have to contend with a stray dog rummaging in his garbage than a stray grizzly interested in devouring him.
Shores rolled onto his back and stared at the stars. He had only himself to blame for his current assignment. When the assistant director had called him in and asked if he had much experience with horses, he’d bragged that as a kid he had ridden nearly every day and was as at home in the saddle as he was in a trolley. Now here he was, chasing his own tail all over the wilds, trying to find five of the worst killers alive.
On that cheerful note, Shores dozed off. He slept fitfully, awakening at the slightest noises, until about four in the morning, when he gave in to fatigue and slept the sleep of the dead. A feeling of warmth on his face roused him. The sun was half an hour high. He had wanted to head out before dawn.
“Damn,” Shores said and sat up. The first thing he saw was his hobbled claybank, munching grass. The second thing he saw was an Indian.
Shores came up out of his blanket as if fired from a catapult. His hand automatically rose to his Smith & Wesson, but he didn’t draw.
The Indian made no threatening moves. Hunkered on his haunches, his thin arms folded across his knees, he grinned and said, “How do, Brother John.” He was naked except for a breechclout and moccasins and had long grey hair that hung down to his waist. His oval face was ridged with lines, the stamp of seventy- or eighty-plus years. A quiver hung across his back. At his feet lay an unslung bow and a tomahawk. “How do, Brother John,” he said again as Shores stood gaping.
“Who are you, Indian? What in heaven’s name are you up to?”
The old Indian went on grinning. “In Red Fox tongue him be Ainga-bite-waahni-a. In white tongue him be Red Fox.” His English was heavily accented. “I come far find you, Brother John.”
Shores scanned the prairie. He saw no other Indians. A paint horse was thirty yards out, grazing. “Why were you looking for me? And why do you keep calling me Brother John? My name is Bill. Bill Shores.”
“As you say, Brother John.” Red Fox slowly unfurled, the bow in his left hand, the tomahawk in his right. He stuck the handle of the tomahawk under the top of his breechclout. “Red Fox hunt you. Know you hunt badmen, Brother John.”
“Didn’t you hear me? My name is Bill. Not John.” Shores had a hunch the old Indian wasn’t in full control of his faculties. “What badmen are you talking about?”
“Hoodoos, Brother John.”
“Will you quit calling me that?” Shores couldn’t get over how the old Indian had snuck up on him as slick as could be. Had it been a Sioux, his throat would be slit and his scalp would be hanging from a coup stick. Which reminded him. “What tribe are you from? And what’s your interest in the Hoodoos?”
Red Fox touched his scrawny chest. “Red Fox be Sho-sho-ne. Uncle to White Dove. Brother to Mat-ta-vish.”
Shores understood now. “You’re after the men who killed him.”
“White Dove say Great Father send Brother John. Say you hunt gizhaa men. I help. We hunt. We kill.”
“How old are you?”
Red Fox looked at Shores as if to say “why do you ask?” But he answered, “Red Fox be seventy-eight winters. I born winter ice break on river, four children drown.”
Shores recalled hearing somewhere that Indian tribes measured years in “winters,” with each winter known for a notable event. “I don’t know how to tell you this without hurting your feelings, so I’ll come right out with it. You’ve come all this way for nothing. Go back to the reservation. I don’t need your help, Red Fox. You’ll only get yourself killed, and the Great Father would be mad at me for letting you come along.” He smiled to show he had only the old Indian’s best interests at heart and bent to pick up his saddle blanket.