“I get your drift. What’ll we show ‘em? More rope work or some fancy cutting?”
“Let’s just play it by ear. I don’t have a saddle horn or rope, so I’ll cut. You three throw some cows down for the hell of it.”
He turned to Durler and said, “We’re putting on a wild-west show for your kids, here. Why don’t you talk us up? You might mention that working cows is almost as much fun as hunting buffalo was, when they had buffalo to mess with.”
Durler laughed and said, “I got you, Longarm. You there, Short Bird! Come over here, I want to talk to you.”
So, as the Indians watched, Longarm started cutting cows out of the uneasy, milling herd as Roping Sally and her two helpers went through the motions of roping and branding. Longarm enjoyed it as much as the grinning Indian kids, for Sally was a lovely thing to watch in the soft evening light as he worked with her. His army mount wasn’t a good cutting horse, but he managed well enough, and every time he sent a steer running her way Sally roped it on the first cast. She roped underhanded, overhanded, and sideways, as if her reata was an extension of her fingers. She caught and stopped them by the horns, by either hind foot, and once she dropped a rolling loop in front of a young steer and grabbed him around the belly as he leaped through the hoop. Her dismounted helpers threw each critter she caught and hogtied it as if for branding. Longarm noticed they never got sloppy, like some hands, and threw a critter on the wrong side. He Surmised that every animal she owned was branded on the left rump, the way well-tended cows were supposed to be. It was nice to see serious work. In his time he’d seen cows branded on the right side, either flank, or shoulder. Some old boys didn’t seem to give a damn where they marked a cow, as long as they got done by supper.
It was getting darker and Longarm knew enough showmanship to call a halt before the audience got restless, so he rode up beside Sally and yelled, “That’s enough! We’ve run fifty pounds out of this beef and if they’re not interested by now, they never will be.”
“Hot damn! You cut good, Longarm! What in thunder are you wasting time with that badge for? Any damn fool can work for Uncle Sam! Takes a man to work cows!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I just saw a gal who could show Captain Goodnight a thing or two.”
“My daddy wanted a boy. I just grew up as much of one as I knew how.”
They rejoined Calvin at the gate and the agent was smiling as he said, “If they didn’t enjoy it, I surely did. I still think some of those tricks aren’t possible. My wife and I would be pleased to have you and your hands join us for supper, Miss Sally.”
“That’s neighborly of you, Cal. But we gotta get home. You can send me the receipt for these new cows when you’ve a mind to.”
And then, without another word, she swung her mount around in a tight turn and was off across the pasture at a dead run. Her hands were a bit surprised, but they followed and the three of them jumped their ponies over the far wire without looking back.
Calvin laughed and said, “One thing’s for sure, Longarm. Nan’s wrong about her not liking men. I think you could have some of that, if you’ve a mind to.”
“Hell, Cal, she chews tobacco!”
“I noticed. Sure built nice, though. I suspicion you touched her heart by catching her with her own rope.”
Before Longarm could answer, an older Indian came up at a dead run on a painted pony, shouting, “Wendigo! Wendigo!”
It was the moon-faced Yellow Leggings. Durler called back, “What are you talking about? What Wendigo? Where?”
“North. Out on the prairie. Near the railroad tracks. Wendigo got Spotted Beaver! They just found him!”
“Spotted Beaver, the old man with that band of Bloods? What happened to him?”
“I told you! Wendigo got him! It was a bad thing they found. Wendigo killed Spotted Beaver and flew away with his head!”
“His head was taken, for sure,” said Longarm, staring down soberly from the saddle at the god-awful mess that a dozen Indians stood around in the moonlight. It was too dark by the time they’d ridden over with Yellow Leggings to make out every detail, but it was just as well. The corpse spread-eagled on the grassy slope near the railroad right-of-way had been carved up pretty badly.
Rain Crow rode over, holding a coal oil lantern in his free hand as he reined in beside Longarm to say, “No sign. I circled out at least a mile all around. You can see where Spotted Beaver’s pony walked. You can see where it ran away. You can see where they rolled in the grass as they fought. That is all you can see. The Wendigo is said to walk the sky at night.”
“I don’t mean to question you as a tracker, Rain Crow, but a man on foot might not leave much sign in this buffalo grass.”
“That is true. We don’t know how long the grass has had to spring back from a careful footstep. But we are five miles out on open prairie. You can see where Spotted Beaver left hoofmarks.”
“A man can walk five miles in less than two hours, even walking carefully.”
“True, but where would a human go? There is nothing north of the tracks for fifteen miles. We are twenty-five miles from the reservation line. Nobody came in to Spotted Beaver’s campground. The Bloods knew something was wrong when his pony returned without him. They fanned out as they searched in the sunset light. If a man had been walking, they would have seen him.”
“Suppose the killer was waiting out here, killed this man, then rode Spotted Beaver’s mount and-No, that won’t work, will it?”
“I have been thinking. The Bloods tell me the old man decided to ride out to look for medicine herbs late this afternoon. He told nobody but his own people, and they were all together when he was killed.”
“Yeah. Hard to set up an ambush when you don’t know where your victim’s likely to ride. Maybe some old boy who just hates any Indian did it,” Longarm speculated.
“You mean a white man? I have thought of this too. The railroad tracks are not far. But the trains do not stop, crossing the reservation.”
“So, while a mean cuss might snipe at a stray Indian from a moving train, he wouldn’t cut off his head and mess him up with a carving knife, would he? I’m going to check their timetable, anyway. There might have been a work train out here this afternoon. Though I can’t see how a whole work crew would stand by as one of ‘em killed and carved an old man up like this.”
“You don’t think it was the work of the Wendigo, then?” Rain Crow asked.
“I’ll be in a fix if it was. I never arrested a ghost before.”
Calvin Durler rode over from where he’d been talking to some other Indians and said, “My folks are spooked pretty bad. They keep saying there is an evil spirit on the reservation.”
Longarm said, “I won’t argue about evil, and I’m not ready to buy a spirit.”
“Jesus, they’re still keening over Real Bear, and now this! We’ve got to put a stop to these killings, Longarm! What are you aiming to do?”
“Not sure. I reckon we’ll just have to eat this apple one bite at a time. I’ll have a word with any Indian who has a mind to talk about it Then I’ll run this body in for an autopsy, too, and see what the railroad has to say about track-walkers and such.”
“I guess we’ve done all we can for tonight, then?”
“No. You go on home and lock your doors and windows. I figure I’m just getting started.”
Chapter 6
The old Blackfoot’s face was painted with blue streaks and flickered weirdly in the firelight, and though he wore a shirt and dungarees, his long gray hair was braided with eagle feathers hanging down on each side of his narrow skull. He squatted near the fire in a pool of light as the others listened from the surrounding shadows of the open campfire. From time to time he shook the bear-claw rattle in his bony hand to make a point as he half-spoke, half-chanted, “Hear me! This place is not where men should live! Do you see buffalo about you? Do you see the skull-topped poles of the Sun Dancers? No! There is nothing here for us but white man’s beef and who-knows-what in the iron drums of food he expects us to eat!”