“No,” Longarm said abruptly. “I promise that no harm will come to you.”
“Ponies?”
“If they are stolen or run off or any harm comes to you, I will pay for them all.”
George scowled as if he had bitten into a bitter root. Longarm knew that the Indian did not want to take his ponies into Helldorado, but that friendship also weighed very heavily.
“George,” he said, “I need this favor. In return, I will pay you one hundred dollars.”
Longarm wasn’t sure where he would get the one hundred dollars. He had some money, but not enough, not even if he sold his Winchester repeating rifle and his Colt revolver, Ingersoll pocket watch with attached derringer, and every other damn thing he owned. But somehow, Longarm knew that he would find a way to scrounge up one hundred dollars, which was chicken feed considering that ten thousand dollars in stolen money were the stakes being played for in this deadly game.
George passed his pipe to Longarm saying, “You pay half money now. George no run out on friend.”
“I know that,” Longarm said, “but I don’t have fifty dollars right now.”
“Then how you get one hundred?”
“I can send for it over the talking wire.”
“How do this?”
“It’s … hard to understand,” Longarm said, fumbling for words. “Actually, the money itself doesn’t come over the wire, just the promise to pay.”
“Who promise?”
“My boss, Marshal Billy Vail.”
“Maybe he bring money to George Two Ponies and make happy.”
“He’s too far away.”
“Then maybe should not give promise,” George said after long reflection.
“Look,” Longarm said, “I’ll give you my rifle. A very good rifle.”
When George remained wrapped in stony silence, Longarm reached into his pockets and pulled out a good folding knife and fifteen dollars. “My rifle, this knife, and money. What do you say, my friend. All this and more later only for helping me get into Helldorado without getting killed.”
“Maybe,” George said, coming to his feet. “Let you know tomorrow.”
Longarm knew better than to argue or to rush George. If he had learned one thing about Indians, it was that they did not tolerate being crowded into important decisions. They made their decisions very slowly and carefully, and often only after consultation with the other members of their tribe, with special consideration for their wiser elders. Longarm was sure that his offer would precipitate a tribal council meeting and that the matter would be debated most of the long night.
“I need an answer by sunrise,” Longarm told the Indian as he also came to his feet. “Yes or no. I need an answer by tomorrow at sunrise.”
George didn’t indicate that he had heard this deadline, but Longarm was sure that he had. He followed George outside and they stood in the sunset of the day, watching liquid gold stain the calm surface of Pyramid Lake.
“How has the fishing been?” Longarm asked as evening laid a dark blanket across the eastern hills.
“Ask wife.”
“Then how is the horse hunting?”
“is good, when damn whites stay away from our land and the big mountains.”
Longarm knew that “the big mountains” were the Ruby Mountains. He nodded with sympathetic understanding, and went to unsaddle his horse. But it was gone, and his saddle had been neatly placed under a pinyon pine. A young boy that Longarm judged to be about eleven years old stood guard, and Longarm went over to offer the kid a reward for his diligence and initiative.
“Thank you for unsaddling my horse and watching over my things,” he said, knowing it was not necessary because no Indian would insult his fellow tribe members by doing the unthinkable of stealing from a friend and a guest.
The boy beamed.
“What’s your name?”
The boy raised both hands upward, palms to the sky. He shrugged his shoulders, clearly not understanding the question.
“My name is Longarm,” Longarm said, pointing at himself.
“Raul,” the boy said, picking up Longarm’s meaning.
“Are you a son of George Two Ponies?”
The boy was confused again because he did not know the meaning of the word son and Longarm, dammit, could not think of a way to convey this meaning.
Longarm smiled at the kid and dragged some change out of his pockets. He extended it to the boy, who took the money, then smiled and handed it back.
“Then how about this,” Longarm said, finding a piece of hard candy that he’d bought in Denver but had never gotten around to eating.
The boy took the candy and his eyes gleamed. He popped it into his mouth and grinned, then turned and went back into the camp and disappeared into George Two Ponies’ hut.
“Yep, he was the son,” Longarm said, untying his bedroll and spreading it on the ground.
Longarm was dog tired and he really was looking forward to sleeping under the stars, although the night would turn quite cold. No matter, he thought. His suit, his bedroll, and his horse blanket would be plenty enough to keep him warm.
In the morning, Longarm awoke to the feel of George’s moccasined foot prodding him in the side. Longarm started, then sat up and knuckled his eyes. It was very cold, and a stiff wind did not make things any more comfortable.
“What?” Longarm asked.
“You give rifle and we go now.”
“Good,” Longarm said, “but can’t we go into your hut first so that I can thaw out?”
George shook his head. “Go now.”
“All right, but first I need to find some different clothes. And I need to color my hair black, like yours. Did I tell you all this yesterday?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m supposed to look rough, like a mustanger-” Realizing that he was very nearly insulting his host, Longarm quickly took a different angle. “I need to trade clothes and boots.”
“Hat too?” George said hopefully.
“No!” Longarm lowered his voice. “Not the hat. Everything but this hat.”
George took that bit of bad news without comment. He wheeled around and stomped back to his hut and Longarm, stiff, cold, and blowing into his frozen hands, followed.
Two hours later, Longarm had his black hair and old clothes. Had the weather been warm, he would have insisted that the clothes be boiled before he wore them because they would most certainly have been infested with body lice. But the weather was cold and the clothes were without lice. Just before leaving, Longarm tramped over to the lake and stared at his reflection in its cold, gray surface.
“Yep,” he said, to himself, “I look rough enough to be an outlaw on the run or a mustanger. I look like anything but a lawman.”
Longarm left his Ingersoll watch and derringer in George’s hut. He hated to do that, but the type of man he was supposed to be would never carry a nice railroad pocket watch and gold watch fob.
“Let’s go,” he said to George. “Just show me my horse.”
“That one,” George told him, pointing to an ugly black gelding.
“He looks like a hard traveler.”
“Is.”
“Then how about something a little better?”
“No,” George said with finality. “If bad man kills you, then takes your horse, maybe bad horse kill him some day.”
“How comforting,” Longarm said, reaching for his saddle.
Fifteen minutes later, they were riding out of the Paiute camp, heading southeast to intersect the Tinckee River and angle farther south until they came to Helldorado. They were pushing mustang ponies, but they were all poor-looking beasts, with the exception of one handsome buckskin that was too skinny. These were the sorriest nags that George could collect in such a short period of time. Longarm knew that he wanted the very worst animals just in case they were both killed and the horses were kept by Killion or one of his men. An unfortunate but distinct possibility.
Chapter 10
“There,” George said, pointing toward the dozen or so buildings that were cradled in the lap of a collection of sagebrush-covered hills. “Helldorado.”