One of the cowhands said, “Hot damn! Let’s round that pesky redskin up and make him talk!”
Longarm laid a restraining hand on the man’s arm. “Hold on! He didn’t do it. He could have killed Yellow Leggings, but he was at the agency when the boy, Gray Dog, was murdered. As for Roping Sally, he didn’t know she was riding out last night in the first place, and didn’t have the time in the second. And even if my watch was wrong, I’ve ridden some miles beside Rain Crow and he leaves footprints like the rest of us mortals.”
One of the hands asked, “What was Roping Sally doing out there last night anyway?”
“She’d said something about stray cows, last time I saw her,” lied Longarm, adding quickly to change the subject, “I’m going over to the rail yards to jaw with the dispatcher. There was a train through, just before we found the bodies. Train crew might have seen something.”
To his relief, the three cowhands stayed behind to jaw with the coroner about Roping Sally’s funeral. Apparently the locals had taken up a collection to see her to the burial ground in style. It was just as well. Longarm wasn’t of a mind to attend the funeral. He felt bad enough about the way he’d treated her as it was. He knew it hadn’t really been his fault she’d ridden out there looking for him. He’d told her not to. On the other hand, if he’d kept his damned pecker in his pants … but what was done was done. Her soul would likely rest easier if he avenged her than it would if he just blubbered like a fool some more.
Longarm walked across the unfenced rail yards as a Baldwin switcher shunted a string of empties on to a siding. He spotted a man walking along the tracks toward the station with a sheaf of papers in one hand and dog-trotted after him, calling out, “Howdy! I’m a lawman!”
The man stopped and said, “I ain’t. I work for the railroad and I got some cattle cars to move.”
Longarm fell in beside him as the dispatcher walked toward a string of empty cattle cars down the line. He explained the situation and asked, “If somebody was leaving off and on your trains out yonder, would the boys in the caboose likely notice?”
The dispatcher answered, “The brakemen walk the whole train, setting the wheels for that nasty drop just west of here. How far out on the prairie are we talking about?”
“That rolling stretch just inside the reservation line. How long does it take to set the drags, headed east?”
“Well, each car has its own brake. The boys set every one unless they’re loaded heavy, but they spend some time up on the catwalk on most trips.”
“When would a fellow have the best chance of leaping for a passing grabiron without being spotted?”
The dispatcher considered the question for a moment. “Headed west, he could likely climb aboard here in the yards and if he was in an empty reefer, he might leap off without busting any serious bones or being spotted. The train climbs for the Rockies without ever using brakes. Slows down some, topping rises. Yeah, getting aboard a train out there ain’t that big a shucks.”
“How about coming back? Could a man hop aboard without being seen, anywhere along the downhill grade?”
“He’d be one boss hobo if he could,” the yardman chuckled. “Like I said, the crews start working the brakes at least twenty miles out. He’d have to pick his train—ahead of time, too. A heavy freight would have a brakeman up on dang near every car. A train hauling back a string of empties would be his best bet.”
“That train that passed me last night—the one I mentioned. Was it full or empty?”
“Empty. A string of gondolas coming back from delivering ballast to the new section they’re building in the mountains. Only thing is, it was scheduled on an off-hour. Your man could wait out there a week for a line of empty gondolas. He’d have to be a railroader who knew the business, too. We run all sorts of mixed loads at odd hours. I keep trying to tell the front office this ain’t any way to run a railroad, but will they listen?”
Longarm pulled the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes against the glare of the mid-morning sun. “You said a boss hobo could do it. I noticed some cuts out there. If a man took a long run as a train was coming, then threw himself out a good ten or twelve feet-“
The dispatcher guffawed loudly. “He’d bust his fool head before a mile of freight ran over him. The only way you could do that in the dark would be to have a flat car or a gondola under you when you came down. You’d have to know where it was likely to be when you leaped, and like I said, pick a time when the brakemen wasn’t walking along the tops of the cars.”
“He couldn’t grab the side of a passing cattle car or reefer?”
“In the dark, at that speed? Listen, mister, landing on your ass somewhere on a forty-foot flat car bed would be bitch enough! Reaching for a passing grabiron in the dark, ten feet off the grade, don’t take hobo skills. It takes suicidal lunacy, and impossible luck to do it once. Twice is impossible.”
Longarm nodded. “I’ll take your word for it. How about hoboes, anyway? You have many riding your cars of an evening?”
“Naw, not this far west. Sometimes we give a lift to cowhands or Indians who ask politely. The stops are too far apart out here for the gents of the road.”
“You’d notice, then, if the same hobo kept hanging about these yards?”
“Sure, and I’d sic the bulls on him. We got a real mean yard bull over at the roundhouse. His name is Mendez and he’s a Mex or something. You want to talk to him about hoboes?”
“Later, maybe. Does he ride the trains or just work the yards?”
“Mendez is only a yard bull. We got some private detectives on the passenger trains, and the train crews deal with free riders on the freights. Mendez ain’t on duty this time of the day, but he bunks over by the roundhouse with the switchmen and two kids he has helping him at night.”
“I’ll get around to them later. You’d know if they’d been having hobo troubles. Could you tell me the next time a string of empty flats or gondolas is due down from the mountains?”
“Nope,” the yard man answered. “Like I said, they run this railroad off the cuff. Sometimes I’m lucky if they wire me a few hours ahead. Some night we’ll have two locomotives meeting headlamp to headlamp in the middle of God-knows. Maybe then they’ll listen to me.”
Longarm frowned and said, “Hmm, a man using your trains to get about would have to be reading your orders over your shoulder, then, wouldn’t he?”
“Just about. Who did you have in mind?”
Longarm leaned toward the man conspiratorially, and whispered “He-Who-Walks-the-Night-Winds.” Then he said pleasantly, “Thanks for your time,” and turned about and walked away across the yard, leaving the dispatcher to stare after him, scratching his head.
The murder of two Indians in one evening was bad enough. The murder of Roping Sally was something else. Any sign that the so-called Wendigo might have been careless enough to leave was obliterated as parties of hard-eyed cowhands and patrols of eager soldiers rode in circles all over the reservation for the next three days and nights. Calvin Durler was worried about possible misunderstandings between the races. Longarm was worried too, but the possible bright side was that a reservation jump wasn’t likely until things simmered down. The Indian police made sure the Blackfoot stayed close to home and Longarm spread the word in town that he’d take it personally if anyone shot a Blackfoot without one damned good reason. The fact that the Wendigo had killed Indians as well as whites helped.
The third evening after Roping Sally’s funeral found Longarm seated on the agency steps, chewing an unlit cheroot, as the army scout, Jason, rode in alone.
Jason dismounted and joined Longarm on the steps, saying, “I’ve been ordered to find the Wendigo. Ain’t that a bitch?”