The Paiute jeered, “Go ahead and shoot him. Are you afraid? Behold, my brothers, the medicine is working! Snake Killer is wearing the medicine shirt and the white man can’t shoot him!”
“Damn it, it ain’t the same thing!”
“Yes it is! Wovoka says a man wearing the medicine shirt cannot be harmed by white man’s bullets! Whether you shoot or not, the results are the same! Anyone with eyes can see this!”
Longarm had to admit that the Paiute had a point. The rascal knew he wasn’t about to gun the old man and was twisting it to look like magic!
Then Prudence Lee was suddenly at his side. She held her hand out imperiously and said, “Give me the gun, Longarm!”
There was a murmur of surprise from the Indians. They were no more confused than Longarm. He said, “Miss Prudence, this gun is loaded with .44-40s and I told you to stay on the buckboard!”
“Give me the gun. I assure you I have no intention of shooting anyone with it.”
“Then what’s your play? You could miss without looking shameful, but they’d still say it was medicine, and-“
“Will you give me that damned gun and be still? You know I’m a missionary!”
Longarm let her take the gun by the barrel from his hand. She smiled prettily and held the grips out to the Paiute, saying, “The white man’s heart is not strong enough to shoot at a friend, even a friend protected by your strong medicine. You will have to fire it at Snake Killer!”
The Paiute backed away, stammering, “Not I! It is wrong for me to shoot at a brother!”
Prudence Lee followed him, holding out the gun in grim determination as they circled the council fire. She was smiling sweetly as she insisted, “But what harm can come to Snake Killer if Wovoka’s magic is stronger than a white man’s bullets? Surely you know how to shoot a pistol, don’t you? Heavens, I should think a man who preaches war would know at least a little about weapons!”
Most of the Blackfoot were laughing openly, now. The Paiute stammered obtuse theology and the little female missionary cut him up and down and sideways with sophistries of her own until it became obvious that the naked Ghost Dancer had no intention of letting her hand him Longarm’s revolver.
Presently, Prudence brought the pistol back to the tall deputy and handed it to him, saying, “Oh, dear, I suppose now we’ll just have to take his word for it about the shirt! He doesn’t seem to want to prove it one way or the other!”
Longarm grinned back at her as he holstered the .44 and said, “Yep, they’ll likely have to try those bulletproof Shirts without a demonstration.”
Old Snake Killer asked, “If nobody wants to shoot at me, can I take this thing off? It’s badly tanned and it itches.”
There was a roar of laughter, and Longarm said, “Let’s go, Miss Prudence. We’ll quit while we’re ahead.”
He led her back to the buckboard and helped her up to the seat as Rain Crow leaned over in his saddle and asked, “Do you want me to run that Paiute off?”
Longarm said, “No. Don’t make him look that important. This little lady just did quite a job taking the wind out of his sails and I suspicion that the more he preaches, the more they’ll laugh at him.”
“You may be right, for now. But what if Wendigo strikes again?”
“I see what you mean. But leave the Ghost Dancer be, anyway. If I don’t stop the Wendigo pretty quickly, we’ll be up to our chins in trouble, medicine shirts or no.
Longarm fingered a shiny new silver dollar as he stood in the saloon doorway scanning the bar in the dim light. Finally, he spotted the man he was looking for by the description the railroad workers had given him. The yard bull, Mendez, was a tall, lean man in a red checked shirt and peaked cloth cap. He wore an old Navy .36 in a battered army holster and looked like he could use a shave.
Longarm bellied up to the bar beside him and said, “I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal, Mr. Mendez. They told me over at the roundhouse that I might find you here.”
Mendez shrugged and said, “I’m off duty. It’s none of their business if I drink or not, on my own time.”
Longarm noticed he had a slight Spanish accent. “What are you drinking, then?”
“I’m not. Already have a skinful and I have to work all night.”
“I know. What’s coming through the yards tonight?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I think they’re running a passenger train through about eight-thirty. They don’t discuss the timetable with us greasers.”
“Oh? The two boys helping you chase hoboes are Mexican, too?”
“One’s a Mex. Other’s Irish. I’m a South American, if it’s bothering you.”
“Seems to be bothering you more than me, Mr. Mendez. I have some friends who grew up speaking Spanish.”
“I know, as long as they don’t want to marry your sister, huh?”
“I figure who my sister might marry would be her own business. Did some lawman give you a hard time, once, about your accent? Or do you just hate all us gringos?”
“One time might not have bothered me,” the yard bull said bitterly. “It gets tedious being called a greaser after the first hundred times or so. Look, you don’t have to butter me up to get me to cooperate. What do you want from me, Deputy?”
“I said it already. Trying to get a line on slow freights passing through the Blackfoot reservation at night.”
“I heard someone might be shooting Indians from the passing trains. The roundhouse gang was talking about it the other evening. If any of ‘em saw anything, they didn’t let me in on it.”
“I know you don’t ride the trains. Can you think of anyone who might, aside from the regular crews?”
“Freight trains? Hoboes, if we let them. The insurance company says we’re not to give rides to Indians any more. Damn fool Shoshoni fell between the blinds a few months back and his squaw sued the line. Some free passes being given out, back East, but only to ride the passenger trains. Freight crews have enough to handle without some idiot getting in the way as they run the catwalk.”
“Don’t suppose any hobo could get by you, maybe late on a dark night in the rail yards?” the deputy asked.
“Sure, one could, once in a while. Play hell doing it regular, though. My boys and me have orders to dust their asses with rock salt, getting on or getting off.”
“All three of you carry shotguns charged with salt, on duty?”
“Twelve gauge, double barrel, sawed off. I carry a sawed-off baseball bat, too. You want to hop a freight in my yards, mister, you’d better ask the dispatcher for permission, first.”
“None of the caboose hands or maybe a friendly engineer could give a pal a lift?”
“Sure they could. I only check the cars for bums. I have a helper go up one side with a lantern while I ease up the far side in the dark to dust the rascals as they slip away from him between the wheels. I dusted one boy right in the ass that way a month ago and you should have heard him holler. But I don’t ask who is riding the caboose or up in the cab. It’s not my job.”
Longarm tapped absently on the bar with the silver dollar in his hand and the yard bull added, “This sniper or whatever would have a hard time doing mean things from the cab or caboose, though, wouldn’t he?”
“Yeah. I may as well tell you, I’ve wired about the country for suggestions about crazy people working for your railroad. Nobody thinks it likely a full crew of lunatics are working out here.”
A worried expression appeared on the railroad cop’s face. “You know about that colored boy I killed in Omaha, then?”
“Yeah. Nebraska says you got off on self-defense. You said that hobo pulled a knife on you, right?”