“There you go. There’s nothing either of us can do. So let’s just hope it’s a passing notion.”
The deputy thought this might be a convenient place to change the subject, so he asked, “How are you coming with your Bible lessons?”
“I think the Indians are laughing at me behind my back. They enjoy the music and coloring books, but they don’t seem serious about learning the Word,” Prudence said, with a touch of disappointment in her voice.
“Well, you’ve only been here a short while and at least it keeps ‘em sober. If you really want to make friends hereabouts, spend a little time buttering up the older squaws. Anyone can draw a crowd of kids to a Bible meeting.”
“I’ve invited everyone. But the adults are so cold and reserved.”
“I know. They’re used to us taking ‘em for fools. You might start by asking questions, Miss Prudence. Most folks are proud to share what they know with strangers. Asking a body a question shows you think he or she might know something you don’t.”
“I see what you mean, but I don’t know what sort of questions I should ask.”
“Ask the squaws about medicine herbs. Ask them how to cook something.”
“I tasted some Indian food. It was awful.” Prudence wrinkled her pert nose.
“Takes time to develop a taste for pemmican and such. But asking a cook for a recipe beats complimenting her on her greasy stew and, hell, you don’t have to use a Blackfoot recipe.”
She laughed. Her little face was fetching in the lamplight as she said, “I’ll try it. I’m not getting anywhere with that big drum I brought.”
He grinned at her and excused himself to go out front and see what Rain Crow had to say. He found the Indian with the Durlers. Rain Crow hadn’t found anything, as the girl had told him.
Longarm asked, “Where’s Yellow Leggings? Did he go on home?”
Rain Crow shook his head and said, “No. I expected to find him here. We split up to search for sign and agreed to meet with you here for further orders. He should have ridden in by now.”
Longarm looked at the moon and said, “Getting late. We’d best go see what’s keeping him.”
Calvin Durler opined, “Yellow Leggings has always been slow-moving. He’s probably coming in at a walk. Why not give him a few minutes?”
“He’s had a few minutes. We’ll ride out and save him riding in all the way. Come on, Rain Crow.”
The Indian waited until they were well clear of the agency before he asked, “How did you know I was worried about Yellow Leggings?”
“Didn’t have to know. I worry enough myself. Any idea where your sidekick might have gone?”
“He rode east along the tracks to see if there was sign on any of the cuts you mentioned. I scouted north for a few miles until the poor light made me think I was wasting time. I thought he would be waiting for me at the agency.”
Longarm didn’t answer. They rode in silence until they regained the tracks and swung east. After a time they saw a pony grazing in the moonlight. Its saddle was empty.
Rain Crow said, “That is Yellow Leggings’s pony.” Then he called out, loudly, in Algonquin.
There was no answer, but somewhere in the night a burrowing owl hooted back at them mournfully.
Longarm followed as the Indian led, shouting for his friend. He felt as though something was crawling around in the hairs on his neck. He slid the Winchester out of its boot and held it across his thighs as they rode on. He heard a distant chuffing coming up behind them and warned, “Train’s coming, Rain Crow. Let’s swing wide so the locomotive won’t spook our mounts!”
As the Indian ahead of him did so, Longarm saw his own shadow painted on the silvery, moonlit grass by the yellower light of a railroad headlamp. Rain Crow shouted something in his own language and moved forward at a dead run as Longarm followed. Then he, too, saw something up ahead, illuminated by the beam of the eastbound train.
The train overtook them and thundered by as Rain Crow dropped to the ground, shouting, “It’s Yellow Leggings! Wendigo has him!”
Longarm’s Own Mount shied as the scent of blood reached his flaring nostrils and Longarm had to steady him before dismounting. He joined Rain Crow by the dark mass on the ground and lit a match with his free hind. Then he swore and shook it out. He’d seen enough.
But Rain Crow took a little bull’s-eye lantern from his saddlebags and lit it, cursing monotonously in Algonquin. He swung the beam over his dead friend’s body and the trampled grass around. Then he said, in English, “It’s like the others. No head. Not a drop of blood more than ten feet from the body!”
“The head could have been toted off in an oilcloth poke or something.”
“Yes, but what does Wendigo want with their heads?”
“Wants to scare you, most likely. We’re wasting time here. You know we ain’t likely to find sign. Let’s ride over to the next rise the roadbed cuts through. My map says it’s twelve feet deep.”
The Indian remounted and Longarm did the same. They were almost at the railroad cut when Rain Crow reined in and whispered, “Another pony. There, off to the south of the tracks.”
“I see him. Looks like a big buckskin-Oh, damn you, Lord! You couldn’t have let that happen!”
He loped over to where Buck stood, reined in, and almost sobbed, “Damn that gal! I told her not to come looking for me out here!”
The Indian said quietly, “Over there, near the tracks, pale in the moonlight.”
Longarm raced his mount over, slid it to a stop and leaped from the saddle to kneel at the side of Roping Sally, or what was left of her. He didn’t light a match. What he could see was ugly enough by moonlight. He pounded a fist hard against the sod by his knees and said, “We’ll do right by you, honey. If that son of a bitch is on this earth within ten miles he’s going to die Apache-style!”
Longarm walked to the lip, and got down, calling, “Shine that bull’s-eye over here, will you?”
Rain Crow did as he was asked, sweeping the rim of the drop-off with the narrow beam. After a time he said, “Nobody was up here when that train went by.”
“Let’s look over on the other side. A left-hander would have reached for a grabiron from over there.”
They rode down and across the tracks to repeat the same investigation on the north side of the track. The dry prairie straw betrayed no sign of blood or footprints, but when Longarm had the Indian swing his beam near his own boots, he saw that didn’t mean much. The drained soil up here was bone-dry and baked brick-hard. The stubble had been grazed by jacks, judging from a rabbit turd he saw, and his own heels didn’t leave tracks. Longarm took his hat off and threw it down, as he yelled, “All right, Lord! I’ve had just about enough of this shit!”
The Indian’s voice was gentle as he said, “The woman back there meant something to you, didn’t she?”
“Goddamn it, Rain Crow, shine that fool light somewhere else, will you?”
“I know what is in your heart, and there are tears in my eyes, too.”
“Well, I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me. I got a bottle in my saddlebags. Before we go for a buckboard to transport the two of ‘em, I figure we could both use a good stiff belt, don’t you?”
“Indians are not allowed to drink, Longarm.”
“I know. We’re going to kill that bottle anyway.”
Chapter 10
Longarm was still three-quarters drunk as he waited outside for the coroner to finish. He would have been drunker if he’d known how, but the numb anger in his guts had ruined his plumbing and the stuff was just going through without dulling the pain. It was bad enough to find a stranger’s body mutilated and beheaded, but he knew he’d dream a spell of nightmares about that once-shapely body he’d intended to remember with pleasure.