Longarm shook his head. “Ain’t going anywhere. Just asking about your timetable. Was that noonday train a slow freight, with flat cars and such?”
The telegrapher frowned. “Flat cars? Don’t think so. It was a fast freight, bound for Chicago with live beef. I could ask Dispatch if they were deadheading any flats.”
“Don’t bother. What I had in mind was no cattle train highballing downgrade.”
He took out two cheroots, offered one to the telegrapher, and thumbed a light, muttering, “Damn! Just as I was hoping I had it figured, the son of a bitch went and busted all my bubbles!”
“I thank you for the smoke, Marshal. But I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I, now. Is your yard bull, Mendez, patrolling out back?”
“He should be. Old Mendez drinks a mite. If you don’t find him, you’ll find one of his sidekicks. Be careful about creeping up on ‘em sudden, though. That one Irish kid is quick on the trigger as well as a mite hard of hearing. Come up on him sudden and-“
“Never mind. No sense in poking around dark tracks at night, spooky yard bulls or no. You could likely tell me if there was a work train, or something slow like that, fixing to leave the yards tonight, couldn’t you?”
“I could, but there ain’t. Next slow freight headed west will be at ten tomorrow night. Empty cattle cars, due in from the East. They’ll be dropping ‘em off for loading, all up the line and through the night.”
“Anything coming east? Say around midnight?”
The telegrapher picked up some dispatch flimsies from his table and consulted them before he nodded and said, “Yeah. There’s a string of flats, low-balling through as the other orders allow it. Flats empty from unloading telegraph poles, over in the Great Basin sage country. There’s a midnight passenger train using the tracks, first. Then the low-balling empties will likely poke on in.”
Longarm thanked his informant, and leaving his mount where it was, moseyed over to the saloon to drink while he studied on where he’d spend the night and what in hell was going on.
In the saloon, he found Jason, the army scout, talking to the piano player, who’d stopped playing “Garryowen” long enough to wet his whistle. Jason waved Longarm over and said, “I owe you a drink, don’t I?”
“Don’t know who’s ahead, but I’ll take it.”
As Jason ordered another shot for himself and a glass of Maryland rye for Longarm, the deputy asked, “Was that old cavalry tune your notion?”
“No. I just got done explaining to the professor, here, about this being a time for other songs. How soon do you figure your Blackfoot out there aim to make their move for Canada?”
“You can tell your soldier boys not to bank on any medals this summer. Somebody killed the damn fool who was trying to talk them into it.”
“Do tell? Some friends of mine likely made a long trip for nothing, then. We are talking about a Paiute named Ishiwati, ain’t we?”
“I don’t know the bird’s name well enough to say it, but that sounds close. You say somebody was looking for him?”
“Yeah, out at the fort. A posse of Crow lawmen just arrived with a warrant for his arrest. I was fixing to bring ‘em out to the reservation, come morning. You say somebody shot him?”
“That’s close enough. He’s deader than hell. These Indian police looking for the Dream Singer would sound like Sioux to folks, wouldn’t they?”
“Reckon so. Crow and Sioux both talk Dakota. Why do you ask?”
Longarm chuckled and explained, “You’ve just handed me the first good news I’ve had all day. I heard there were some strange Sioux hereabouts and I’ve had the Blackfoot going crazy trying to locate ‘em on the reservation.”
The barkeep brought their drinks and they downed them in silence. Longarm ordered them each another, and Jason said, “I’ll tell the Crows they can rest easy when I ride back to the fort later tonight. That Ishiwati was one bad Paiute, to hear ‘em tell it. Now, if someone would just shoot that damn Wovoka himself, we’d likely have some peace and quiet. What was the killing about? More of that Ghost Dance shit?”
“Sort of. You might say Ishi-whatever got into a theological dispute with the Wendigo.”
The scout whistled and said, “Another one of them things, huh?”
The piano player asked, “What’s a Wendigo?”
Longarm said, “I wish I knew, Professor. Jason, you’re a professional tracker. How would you Cross maybe two or three hundred yards of dusty stubble without leaving sign?”
“I’d ride around it. There’s no way to jump three hundred yards.”
“That’s the way I see it. When are you heading back to the fort?”
“A couple of hours, maybe. Came into town for some tail, but the professor, here, tells me French Mary’s been rented for the night by a big spender off the Double Z. I was just fixing to try my luck at Madam Kate’s. You want to come along?”
“Not tonight. French Mary’s the little redhead with the saucy mouth, ain’t she?”
“Yeah, and she does use it nicely. But I can’t wait around all night for that damn cowboy to get done and, anyway, I got delicate feelings. Don’t like to kiss a gal right after she’s been … well, you likely know why they call her French Mary.”
The piano player said, “There’s a new gal at Madam Kate’s who ain’t been used all that much. They say she ain’t more than sixteen or so and still likes her new job.”
Jason laughed and said, “There you go, Longarm. What say we go over there and get her while she’s hot?”
“You go, if you’ve a mind to,” Longarm said. “I’ve got other fish to fry.”
“What’s the matter, don’t you like tail, or are you too proud to pay for it?” the scout gibed.
“Hell, everybody pays for it, one way or another. I’ve just never liked cold cash transactions,” Longarm said.
“Shit, whores are the only honest women I’ve ever met,” Jason observed. “I’d far rather give the gal the two dollars than shilly-shally about with ‘nice girls’ who wind up with your money anyway.”
“Like I said, we all pay, one damn way or another, and I’ve often said to myself it makes more sense to just slap down the cash right off. I suspicion I must be a sissy.”
Jason laughed, and before they could continue their discussion, the land agent, Chadwick, came in to join them. Or, rather, to join Longarm and the professor, for he didn’t know Jason, except by sight. The scout, as if inhibited by the other federal man, finished his drink and left in pursuit of carnal pleasure.
The professor went back to the piano to play “Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes,” for some reason, and Chadwick said, “I have a wire for you here, someplace.”
He took a folded scrap of paper from his frock coat and handed it to Longarm, who read:
WHAT’S HOLDING UP THE PARADE QUESTION STOP YOU ARE OVERDUE AND NEEDED HERE STOP REPORT TO DENVER AT ONCE STOP SIGNED VAIL
Chadwick said, “I could open up and send an answer for you.” But Longarm shook his head and answered, “He’s likely not in his office and you’re closed for the night and God knows how long, remember?”
“Won’t you get in trouble, ignoring your superior’s orders?”
“Hell, I’m already in trouble,” Longarm laughed.
“No notions about those killings last week yet?”
“Had some. They blew up in my face this evening when the Wendigo hit again.” Chadwick looked astonished and gasped, “Jesus! You must be joking!”
“Nothing funny about it. This one was really spooky. The others were almost impossible to figure, but this time the Wendigo outdid himself. Killed another Indian in what must have been broad daylight, then sashayed off at least three miles to the nearest cover, without leaving a single sign coming or going.”