“I wanted to ask you about that, Mr. Chadwick. What would happen to all that land if the Blackfoot sort of, well, lit out for Canada or someplace?”
“You mean abandoned the land held in trust for them? Nothing, right away. I suppose the army would round ‘em up and bring ‘em back, in time, don’t you?”
“Those the army left breathing. Would the land revert to public domain if it stayed empty long enough?”
Chadwick shifted his cigar and thought for a moment before he said, “It’d take a long time, but if Uncle Sam just couldn’t get any Indians to live on that range for, oh, at least seven years … you know what? I don’t know what the regulations are. I’ve got enough paper on the open-range questions I answer for white folks.”
“Seems to me some of the Cherokee lands down Oklahoma way got taken by white settlers after the Cherokee picked the wrong side in the War. If those Blackfoot lit out and abandoned the reservation, hmm, seven years is a long time, ain’t it?”
“I think I get your drift. You’re suggesting someone’s trying to run the Indians off, eh?”
“It’s a natural suspicion, but planning on filing on abandoned land seven years up the road seems a right cool game for anyone with murder on their mind. You’re sure there’s no way anyone could get at that range sooner, huh?”
Chadwick puffed his cigar pensively. “Not as far as I know. Find out anything about that old boy you shot last night?”
“Yeah, he had his last name in his wallet. The nickname Fats fit the wanted papers on him. He was a gunslick for hire. New Mexico has a murder warrant on him and he’s suspected in other parts of picking fights for pay.”
“But you said you had a fuss with him in Denver.”
Longarm nodded, slowly scratching the back of his neck. “I did. What I’m trying to figure, now, is whether he trailed me up here for personal reasons or was in town on other business, saw me, and decided to pay me back. I never told him I was coming to Switchback. I disremember saying so to anyone in Billings.”
“You mean someone here in town might have sent for a hired gun and the rest was just dumb luck?”
“A man could take it either way. You have any ideas on who might be fixing to start a private war, hereabouts?”
Chadwick shook his head. “Not offhand. Save for the troubles out at the reservation, we ain’t had much trouble up here lately.”
“You issue range permits, don’t you?”
“Sure. I register homestead claims and hire out government grass on a seasonal basis. You know how most cattle outfits work. They claim a quarter-section with timber and water for the home-spread, then range their cows on the open prairie all around. Uncle Sam’s supposed to be paid a range fee by the head, but they cheat a lot.”
“You hear tell of anyone fighting over range?”
“Nope, I ain’t. The herds are building fast, since the buffalo thinned out, but most of the locals are friendly enough about it. They let the cows mix on the open range, work the spring and fall roundups together, and cut and brand neighborly. There’s maybe a little friendly rivalry, but nobody’s ever taken it past fists.”
Longarm chewed thoughtfully on his cigar, then said, “Let’s look at it another way. Cal Durler says he’s been missing cows. Any others been having trouble along those lines, hereabouts?”
The land agent looked surprised as he asked, “Are we talking about rustlers, Longarm?”
“We’re talking about what I call cow thieves. If some local stockman has been building his herd the sudden way, it might account for some of what’s been going on. Cow thieves get shot a mite in these parts unless they have some guns to back their play. So a dishonest cattleman might hire some guns—or on the other hand, some neighbors who aim to put him out of business might do the same.”
Chadwick nodded in understanding and blew out a stream of smoke before saying, “I’ve heard talk about the reservation herd losing strays. Some of the locals think it’s funny as hell. That kid Durler has a lot to learn. I don’t think anyone’s really stealing his cows, but you’ll have to admit an unbranded calf running wild along the reservation line might be tempting fate.”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to show him how to herd cows properly. But if you’re right about the local cattle outfits, it’s odd about those hired guns.”
Chadwick shrugged and said, “That one you had to shoot was likely just passing through, then. Or maybe he was trailing you personal.”
Longarm put a hand on the doorknob and said, “Maybe. I thank you for the use of your wire and I’d best be on my way.”
“Don’t mention it. Where you headed next?”
“Thought I’d drift around town and get the feel of things before I ship some stuff East at noon and get on out to the reservation. To tell you the truth, I’m sort of stuck for some answers.”
Leaving the land office, Longarm walked across the dusty street toward the saloon. In the shade of the overhang he found the army scout, Jason, talking to an older man with a tin star pinned to his white shirt. Jason thrust his bearded chin at the approaching deputy and called out to him. Longarm joined them on the plank walk in front of the swinging doors and Jason said, “Longarm, this is Sheriff Murphy.”
As Longarm nodded to the lawman, Murphy said, “How come you didn’t report that shooting you had last night, Deputy?”
“I did. The body’s over at the coroner’s. We had it out on the open range and I figured it was a county matter.”
The sheriff fixed him with a hard look. “I like to know when folks get killed in or about Switchback, mister. I know you federals think your shit don’t stink, but I’d take it kindly if you let us poor country boys in on things once in a while.”
“Sheriff, I meant no offense. I truly thought the doc would fill you in, and as you can see, he did.”
“Well, yeah, he did tell me about it, but-“
“There you go. I’ll tell you what. Next time some old boy takes a shot at me, I’ll run right over to your office. By the way, where is it?”
The sheriff jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Down thataway, near the station house.”
“That’s settled, then. I hope you boys drink before noon. I see the bar is open.”
Before anyone could answer, Jason shouted, “Down!” and pushed Longarm hard, as he dropped behind the nearby watering trough.
The first shot parted the air where Longarm had been standing and crashed through the boarded-over saloon window he’d broken the last time he’d been by. The second raised a plume of spray from the watering trough and spattered Jason with water as he shouted, “Up behind that false front! The hat shop next to the land office!”
Longarm had dropped behind a barrel he hoped was filled with something. He aimed his drawn .44 at the drifting smoke cloud above the building the scout had indicated and snapped, “I’ve got him spotted. Watch your head!”
Another shot from above the hat shop gave away the sniper’s position behind the false front lettered Hats and Bonnets. Longarm figured the last S was his best bet, but he crossed both Ts with bullets as he fired three times. Jason popped up and sent an army .45 round through the pine boards as, somewhere, someone screamed and they heard the clatter of a rifle sliding down shingles and a loud, wet thud.
Jason said, “He dropped between the hat shop and land office, in that narrow slot.”
Longarm saw Agent Chadwick peering out of his doorway and shouted, “Get back inside, Chadwick! Jason, you and Murphy cover me!”
Then, without waiting for an answer, he was up and running. He crossed the street in a zigzag run, flattened himself against the corner of the hat shop, and quickly reloaded as he got his breath. A woman stuck her head out of the hat shop and Longarm motioned her back inside with a silent, savage wave of his .44. Then he took a deep breath and jumped out, facing the narrow slot between the buildings as he fired for effect into it. He dropped to one knee under his own gunsmoke and took a long, hard look at the body lying face-down, wedged between the plank walls on either side. Then he stood up and thumbed more cartridges into his Colt as Jason ran across to join him, saying, “Murphy lit out. I think he ran into the saloon and just kept going. We get him?”