They seemed to be reeling that balloon back down toward an ant-pile scurry of distant folks on the far side of the valley. Whether anyone yonder knew his ass from his elbow remained to be seen. It was easier to see why they’d hired somebody to try.
The fenced-in forty acres of barley to his left looked sort of dry, but it was starting to head up and they’d likely fetch a crop on such ground water as the thrifty barley roots could still reach. As he heeled his hired bay downslope he saw other barley and a big patch of rye on the same southward-facing slope. Over yonder, facing north, he saw many more acres planted to flint corn, which was about shoulder high so far.
You planted hardy flint corn this far out on the high plains, even though an Eastern farmer’s first thoughts would be against it. But while it was true the north slopes of prairie rises caught pure frozen hell in wintertime out this way, the warmer and drier south slopes were cruel to corn in summertime. You could barely hope to grow barley or rye where the sun and south winds could hit full blast.
That balloon was about down now and sure enough, he could make out a couple of big red circus-style wagons over yonder. A lot of that corn to his south had been planted low enough for irrigation, if those tall sunflower windmills along the far edge of town meant anything. But as was ever the temptation of mankind, some of that corn and a lot more barley had been drilled in halfway up the far slope. So they had to hope, pray, or pluviculture some rain soon. That mild moist greenup they’d had this year, after the long dry spell after Little Big Horn, had encouraged some nesters to gamble. He could tell from his side of the valley that some homesteaders had planted upslope from that line of windmills and other improvements above the town. Stockmen were inclined to range their critters far beyond any official holdings as well. But while you could always move a thirsty critter to such water as there might be, a corn stalk just stood there until either you got some damned water to it or it withered up and blew away.
“It ain’t our problem,” he told his mount as they got to the mostly sandy bed of Beaver Creek and crossed it, with neither pony wetting a hoof to the fetlock. He didn’t say Billy Vail had sent him to cut the trail of Wolf Ritter. Not out loud. For an old gray geezer wearing an old army shirt with a snuff-colored vest and a Schofield .45-28 in a tie-down holster seemed to be regarding him with bemused interest as he rode up the far bank.
“Welcome to Cedar Bend and let me tell you about our pistol ordinance,” the old-timer began. But Longarm got out his own badge so he could flash it without saying much. This inspired the older lawman to snort, “Keep your durned guns for all I care, Uncle Sam. You had a body worried, scouting a spell up yonder, before you rode down to hit town from this side with everyone else up the other way watching them fool rainmaking gals.”
As Longarm reined and dismounted he put his badge away and introduced himself by name, adding, “Rainmaking gals? Not the one and pure patent holder, Dan’l Ruggles?”
The old-timer replied, “They call me Dad Jergens, and I do believe them rainmaking gals call themselves the Ruggles sisters, now that I think back. If it was up to me I’d run ‘em out of town as pure public pests. But the town council said to give lem a crack at making it rain. We need some rain. But I don’t believe in rainmaking, do you?”
Longarm shrugged and replied, “Haven’t seen it work yet. Spent a tedious seventy-two hours in a Hopi pueblo with rainmakers one time. It hadn’t rained by the time I left, despite all that drumming and a whole lot of snake dancing. Where can I bed down these ponies for the night, Dad? I can tell you on the way why I figure I ought to stay here instead of riding into Sappa Crossing after sundown.”
The old-timer said, “I’ll show you the way to our municipal corral. They don’t charge extra for watering stock, but fodder will run you a dime a head for corn and hay or an extra nickel for oats. I know why you don’t want to hit that Anabaptist town after dark. You just now made me wonder, and I’m a sensible Methodist.”
“You did seem a mite on the prod,” said Longarm as they strode side by side to higher ground along the combined wagon trace and main street. He didn’t have to ask why. The older lawman nodded and said, “Outlaws. Robbery over to the county seat and mayhaps a kidnapping or more down to Sappa Crossing!”
Longarm whistled softly and, taking the bull by the horns, told the other lawman, “I was supposed to look up some Mennonite shopkeeper down yonder. Is it understood this conversation is a private one, betwixt professional lawmen?”
Dad Jergens snorted, “Aw, hell, let me in on some secrets so’s I can mount the pulpit at First Methodist come Sunday and preach ‘em to the world! Have you any notion at all what a lawman worth his salt has to keep to himself in your average election year, old son?”
Longarm nodded and said, “The brother’s name is Horst Heger. All I know about him is that he’s supposed to have some sort of shop down in that Mennonite settlement.”
Dad Jergens shook his head and said, “I know him. He’s all right. I ride over yonder from time to time to do business with Heger. He’s a gunsmith. A good one. Fixed this old cavalry iron of mine to shoot straight as ever after I’d pistol-whupped a chicken thief with more enthusiasm than Major Schofield had in mind when he designed it for shooting Indians. Hold the thought and we’ll talk about Heger some more, in private.”
The figure coming out of the stable next to the municipal corral appeared to be an Indian, baby-faced and walking effeminately until it became more obvious you were staring at a handsome pair of tits under that red shirt and bib overalls. It sure beat all how a face could look so wrong on a young buck and so right on a young squaw with the same long parted and braided hair. Longarm noticed that aside from dressing like a white stable hand, the gal hadn’t painted the part of her hair any medicine color. So he had her down as an assimilate well before Dad Jergens said, “Deputy Long, this here would be Osage Olive and she’s all right, despite her savage appearance.”
The squaw, who’d have doubtless preferred to be called a weya if she spoke Osage, smiled wearily at the old-timer and told Longarm she answered to Olive Red-Dog.
He thought hard and tried, “That’d be Miss Sunka Luta then, right?”
The Indian gal’s sloe eyes betrayed no emotion, but she dimpled some as she replied, “I think I know who you must be. There is this Deputy Long called Longarm by his own people. My people call him the Wasichu Wastey. That means he is one of them who’s all right.”
Longarm dryly asked if that meant he didn’t have to pay extra for oats. Olive Red-Dog laughed as hearty as a boy.
Dad Jergens said, “Well, you kids go on and rub down them ponies or one another for all I care. I got to get on over to that rainmaking operation before real trouble starts in these parts.”
“Hold on, we were talking about gunsmiths!” Longarm called after the spry older lawman as Jergens lit out at a mile-eating pace.
The Indian gal reached for the reins and lead line Longarm was holding as she suggested, “Go after him, if it’s important. Dad’s all right but he’s a tad deaf as well as absentminded.”
When Longarm hesitated, as any thoughtful rider would have, Olive said, “This may come as a surprise to you, Wasichu Wastey, but I make my living tending to horses. You’ll find your saddle and possibles in the tack room when you come back to settle up. It’s those Cheyenne who count coup on robbing you boys. My people were on your side, back when things were wilder in these parts, remember?”
Longarm surrendered his riding stock to her with a smile, saying, “I was counting coup further east, at places such as Shiloh and Cold Harbor. Could you tell me what your town law is so exited about this afternoon, Miss Olive?”