Sitting their mounts beyond the firelight, Longarm and Rain Crow listened silently as the old man wailed, “In the Shining Times we ate fat cow! In the Shining Times we were men! In the Shining Times great Manitou smiled at us and our enemies wet their leggings at the mention of our name! But when the Blue Sleeves came we let them treat us like women. We let them tell us where we could live instead of fighting them like men! I say Wendigo has come among us because Manitou has turned his back on us in shame. I say we should fight again as men. I have spoken!”
Rain Crow started to translate, but Longarm hushed him, muttering, “I got the drift. Who’s that other old one coming forward now?”
“He is called Snake Killer. Do you want me to tell them to stop?”
“No. Let them have their say. Nothing here’s all that surprising.”
Snake Killer was, if possible, even older than the man whose place he was taking at the fire. He wore one tattered feather with a scalp-tip in his gray braids. His legs were bare, but he wore an old army tunic against the chill of the night. Longarm suspected that the tunic might have been issued to a Seventh Cav trooper, once. He could see where the arrow holes had been neatly darned over.
Snake Killer said, “Hear me. I do not count my coups, as all here know about my fight with the chief of the Snakes in the Shining Times. I agree this is a bad place for us. I, too, fear that Manitou no longer smiles on us, but I think it would be a bad thing to fight the Blue Sleeves again. They beat us when there were only a few white men on the high plains, and now there are many. Many. I say we should go north, into the lands of the white she-chief, Victoria. In Canada there are not so many white men. In Canada there are still buffalo along the Peace River. There are other people like us on the Peace River, but I think we could beat them and take their hunting grounds away. It would be a good fight—better than fighting the Blue Sleeves for land they’ve already ruined forever.”
Longarm swung his mount away and rode toward the agency as Rain Crow fell in beside him. The Indian policeman sighed and said, “They are just talking, I think. If you catch Wendigo in time they may not jump the reservation after all. Old Snake Killer likes canned beans and his bones are too brittle for the warpath.”
“Yeah, but that same conversation’s probably going on around a dozen fires tonight. Have any of Wovoka’s missionaries been talking to your folks, Rain Crow?”
“You mean that Paiute prophet who makes medicine shirts and tells of ghosts helping us against the army? I chased one away a few months ago. I know how to read and write. I think a man who puts on a medicine shirt Wovoka says is bulletproof would be foolish. I have seen one. The medicine shirt was badly tanned deerskin with painted signs all over it. They said its medicine would protect the wearer from a soldier’s bullets. But when I tested it with my knife it didn’t turn the tip of my blade! That’s when I chased the man away.”
“But not before you decided his medicine was no good, huh?”
“Of course. I am what I am. I was too young to fight in the Shining Times, but my father took hair from two of your soldiers before they killed him. If I thought I could drive all of you back across the big water, I would do it. But I know I can’t, so I am trying to learn. They say the Shining Times can never come again and I believe this. So I must be … I must be something new.”
“Well, you’re honest enough, and we’ll likely always need good lawmen, red or white.”
“It is almost a job for a real person. Tell me, is it true you white men count coup when you kill an enemy? I have heard it said yes and I have heard it said you just get drunk after a victory.”
“You heard it partly right both ways, Rain Crow,” Longarm said. “Sometimes we hoist a few drinks to celebrate a job well done and the soldiers get medals if they’ve done something worth bragging about.”
“I know what medals are. You wear them on your chest instead of your head. Have you ever heard of an Indian getting one of these medals?”
“Sure. The army’s decorated some scouts for gallantry in action.”
“I couldn’t scout for the army. They never fight anyone I don’t like. If they asked me to help them kill Ute or Crow I would scout for them and win many medals. But they always want to kill our allies.”
“Well, the killing’s almost over, I hope. Save for some Apache holding out down near the other border, the army doesn’t have much call for scouts any more. They’ve got a white scout over at the fort. You know him?”
“Jason? Yes. He is a good person, for a white man. I asked him why the soldiers were still there and he said he didn’t know. He said he just goes where they send him. He said he didn’t think the soldiers were mad at us any more.”
“Yeah. I’d say their officer is a pissant, though. He’s bored and spoiling for a fight. I do hope if your folks decide to act foolish they’ll jump north instead of any other way. Wouldn’t take much to start that old lieutenant shooting.”
They rode back to the agency, where Rain Crow said he’d stable Longarm’s mount before going back to his own shanty. Longarm asked if he wanted a cup of coffee first and the Indian said, “No. The woman is nice to us, but she is afraid. Deer Foot says she thinks the agent’s wife is going to run away from him one day. When this happens, I do not want to know anything about it.”
Longarm said good-night to the Indian and went inside, thinking of Rain Crow’s notion. If the Indians saw it too, he hadn’t been as dirty-minded as he’d first supposed. Nan was fixing to run off with the first man who made her an offer and she was a pretty little thing. On the other hand, Calvin Durler was a decent cuss. Being a Christian surely could get tedious.
Inside, he found the Durlers seated at the kitchen table with a tiny white girl dressed like a sparrow. Calvin said, “Longarm, allow me to present you to Miss Prudence Lee. She arrived just after you rode off.”
Longarm removed his hat as the agent added, “Miss Lee’s from the Bible Society. I keep telling her she’d do better in town, but she says she’s come to bring the Gospel to our red brothers.”
Prudence Lee dimpled prettily, considering how little there was of her, and said, “We were just talking about the ritual murders, Deputy Long. It’s my intention to show the Blackfoot the error of their ways.”
Longarm forked a leg over a chair and sat as Nan Durler shoved a mug of coffee in front of him without looking at him. He grinned and said, “The army’s sort of showed them some errors already, Miss Lee. What do you mean by ritual murders?”
“Isn’t it obvious that the medicine men have been sacrificing people to their heathen gods?”
“No, ma’am, it’s not. I’ve been told the Pawnee used to make human sacrifices, long ago, but none of the other plains tribes went in for it, even before we, uh, pacified them.”
“Come now, I know I’m a woman, but I know the terrible things they’ve done to captives in the past.”
“Captives, maybe. That was torture, not religion. The two killings we just had were simple murder. The men killed were both on friendly terms with such Blackfoot as I’ve asked.” He looked at Durler to add, “Rain Crow and I saw some old boys pow-wowing about a trip to Canada. You’d better see about issuing some rations and back payments.”
“My God, I’d better let the army know if they’re preparing to jump the reservation, too!” Durler said.
“I wouldn’t do that. Not unless you want some dead Indians no Wendigo had to bother killing. Those boys over at the fort are bored and ugly.”
Prudence Lee, having warmed to her subject, broke in insistently to ask, “What about the Sun Dance?”