“You don’t happen to know what route they follow nowadays?” Longarm asked.
“Sure do. They come down Slater Creek—that’s south of here about twelve, fourteen miles—then up and over the backside of the Peak.”
Longarm grunted. That was pretty much the way he’d just now come. Without running into the band he was looking for.
“They’ll be along by and by,” Giver said. “I’ve never known them to fail. They always come eventually.”
“Guess I’ll ride back down and see can I find them.”
“Anything I can do for you while you’re here, Marshal?”
“Not unless you got something to eat.”
“No, but if you’re riding south you’ll pass by the Widow Clark’s place. She sets a good table and won’t charge you for it, although if you insist, she’ll take a little something to replace the supplies she’s used up. It, uh … she could use the help, if you see what I mean.”
“I do, and I thank you for the suggestion.” Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson, then turned away. He stopped again, though, before he reached the door and turned back to face Giver once more. “Say, now. Would you happen to have a piece of paper and a stamp? It just now occurred to me that I took off from Denver without leaving word, and I oughta do something about that while I can.”
“Paper, envelope, and stamp, all for five cents. You can’t find a better bargain than that,” Giver claimed. “Oh, and a pen and ink to write your letter with. You can stand right here at the counter if you like. I won’t peek, not even after you leave.”
Longarm pushed his hat back a mite and accepted the writing implements Giver laid out for him. In all the fuss and feathers after Billy’s murder, he never had gotten around to telling Debbie what was going on. She deserved better than that. Especially, Longarm thought, if he intended to see her once he got back to the city.
And he damn sure did hope to see that lovely lady again once things shook out and Billy’s murderer was where he properly belonged.
Longarm paused for a moment of thought, then began scratching a quick note for the tall and buxom nurse whose company he enjoyed so much.
Chapter 13
The postmaster’s directions were easy to follow, and even—wonder of wonders—accurate. Longarm found the broad, grassy valley twelve or fourteen miles south of the Florissant Post Office where one creek flowing sluggishly out of the west joined another, faster-moving stream that came down from the north. Longarm suspected that the north-south-flowing creek was the same one he’d already crossed a dozen or more times when he was up on the mountain. Here the two joined to continue southward, no doubt eventually adding their waters to the Arkansas River.
It was not the creeks that captured Longarm’s attention, though, so much as it was the numerous fire rings left unused at least over the past winter, and the elliptical beaten areas of grass, covering an area of four or five acres nearby, that showed where temporary lodges had been erected in past years.
This, he was sure, was one of the Utes’ stopping places on their twice-annual migrations from the mountains to the plains and back again.
He was equally sure that the tribe had not yet gotten this far in their journey this season. Longarm spent several minutes gazing out over the landscape, trying to decide if he should ride west up the narrow, lush valley of what the Florissant postmaster called Slater Creek, or if he should instead venture south into the area sometimes known as High Park, the smallest and least known of the chain of protected wintering places.
A wrong choice could mean missing the tribe in their travel and a serious delay in the pursuit of Billy Vail’s murderer or murderers.
After a few minutes of thought, he accepted logic above urgency and stepped down from his saddle to begin unpacking. Since he did not know which direction to take from there, it made sense to sit still and wait for the Utes to come to him.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Longarm mumbled under his breath as a soft, crunching-tearing sound wakened him from what had been a deep sleep. It was not quite dawn yet, the sky to the east pale and luminous but with no sign yet of actual sunlight visible beyond the tall, conical peak that dominated the horizon above the valley.
The source of the noise that had disturbed him, Longarm discovered without having to move from his bed, was a herd of elk cropping grass on the far side of the creek not forty yards from where he’d spread his bedroll.
There must have been well over a hundred animals in all strung out beside the creek bed, twenty-five or thirty of them bunched close enough to hit with a well-pitched rock. They obviously had come down to water in the thin light of dawn and were taking their time about it, enjoying the rich bottomland grass as well.
Longarm looked them over and decided they were too grand a gift to be ignored. After all, what is a party without plenty of roast meat for the feasting?
And Longarm did intend to throw a party for the Utes when they showed up.
With a grunt of satisfaction he slid the Winchester out of its scabbard and, still lying snug and warm inside his blankets, took easy aim on the chest cavity of a particularly large and tasty-looking cow.
The herd erupted into a miniature earthquake of snorts and whistled warning calls and pounding hoofs at the sound of Longarm’s gunshot, but the cow dropped in her tracks and never so much as quivered, while the rest of the bunch ran frantically toward the line of low hills to the east, where they immediately disappeared into the timber. Longarm never got another glimpse of them climbing for the safety of the heights, even though he knew where to watch, where the huge, majestic animals almost had to be. Within seconds he might have believed he’d imagined the whole thing. Except, that is, for the presence of the dead cow lying on the grass mere paces from his bed.
Stretching then and yawning, Longarm laid the Winchester aside, sat up, and pushed the covers off his body. He leaned down to stir last night’s ashes into this morning’s fire with the addition first of some dry grass and then, quickly after, a handful of twigs and small branches he’d gathered the evening before. As soon as he had a fire going, he set his coffeepot over it and only then stood, yawning again, to bring out his knife and walk over to the downed elk.
He had work to do there so he would be ready when the Utes arrived.
Chapter 14
“Long Arm! Heya. Long time no see, yes?”
“Too long, old friend,” Longarm told the grinning, nearly toothless Indian who dropped unhurriedly off the side of his horse and came forward to grab Longarm in a bear hug that made rib cartilage pop. “How are you, Bad Eye?”
“Good, yes, and you, Long Arm?”
“Better now that I see my friends the Ute people.”
“You come to visit with your friends, Long Arm?”
“I do, Bad Eye. Tell your women there is meat to roast, there, and tonight when the meat is ready to eat we will feast together.”
“You have whiskey, Long Arm?” Bad Eye asked, eyeing—with two perfectly sharp eyes despite his name—the casks sitting some distance apart from Longarm’s spare and spartan camp.
“You know it would be against the law for me to give whiskey to you, Bad Eye. I cannot do that.” The Indian’s expression became sad. Longarm winked at him. “On the other hand, I can’t pay attention to everything that goes on behind my back tonight,” he added.
Bad Eye laughed and turned to say something to the group of young warriors who had also dismounted and come over to get a closer look at this white warrior who several times in the past had proven himself a friend of the tribe. The men chortled with delight at whatever it was Bad Eye told them. Not that Longarm had much doubt about the gist of that conversation. There would be whiskey to be had this evening, and best of all, it would be without cost. They would not even have to barter for it, just help themselves whenever Long Arm was not looking.