“I’ll be glad to help the law in any way,” Wynona told him.
“I’d appreciate that, Miss Spence…you are J. Spence, aren’t you?”
“No, unfortunately not. J. Spence was my father, Joshua, dead these past seven years. I’m his daughter, Wynona,” she explained in a flat voice. “Do you find it strange for a woman to occupy herself in such a profession?”
Longtree shrugged. “Family business, I guess. Most natural thing in the world for your father to want his kin to carry on things. As long as you’re happy with it.”
“Oh, I am.”
“Then you don’t need my approval.”
Wynona found herself staring at him, finding him a remarkably enlightened man. It only added to his air of mystery, made him seem exotic somehow. Interesting. Wynona figured she would’ve fallen in love with him years ago. But not now.
Longtree said, “I don’t know what Sheriff Lauters told you, but I can assume it wasn’t good. He’s taken an instant dislike of me. I’m only here to look into these murders, not take over his job or bully anyone into confessing to the crimes.”
Wynona sighed. “Of course not.” Longtree had an easy way about him. He seemed well spoken as if he were educated, sincere, honest. He seemed to be the kind of man it would be easy to like, easy to trust. “Would you like to see the body?”
Longtree shook his head, pulling up a chair. “No, I got my fill of that last night. I want to talk about the others.”
Wynona sat down. “Very well.” She seemed almost disappointed.
Longtree lit a cigar, pulling out a little notebook and pencil.
Wynona watched his every movement, somehow fascinated by him. He was maybe an inch under six feet, muscular without being stocky or massive. His face was clean shaven, rugged, handsome, the skin nearly as dark as that of an Indian, yet the features-long jaw, high cheekbones, aquiline nose-were clearly European in origin. His hair was long, black, a lustrous tinted indigo like that of an Indian. It was pulled back tight and tied with a leather thong.
“My mother was a Crow,” Longtree said, reading her thoughts.
Wynona blushed a bit. “My Lord…how did you know I was thinking that?”
“In my profession, mind-reading comes in handy.”
Wynona swallowed. “Yes, I imagine it would. So you are an Indian, then?”
Longtree just smiled. “Not too many people ever guess. They think my skin is darker from too much time spent in the sun and wind.”
The glow faded from Wynona’s cheeks, her skin now sunless again. “No, I don’t imagine too many do. The study of physiognomy is something of a hobby of mine. I often try to guess from skin coloration, features and the like where a man’s point of origin in the world might be. Do you know, Marshal, that the Indian has dark skin not only because of heredity but because of his lifesytle? If the white race were suddenly to take to the plains and live out in the elements like the Indian, within a few hundred years or so we’d probably look much like them.”
“I don’t doubt it. My father was English. In the summer he was dark as any Indian. Only in the winter did his skin pale.”
“Fascinating,” Wynona said sincerely.
“Did you examine the other bodies?”
Wynona nodded. “Yes, sir, I did. In some depth.”
“Tell me what you found.”
Wynona spoke in some detail of the victims. She gave Longtree very detailed information not only on the physical remains and their condition, but on the men themselves. Their habits and lifestyles as best as she knew them.
“Abe Runyon, Cal Sevens, Charlie Mears, Pete Olak, George Rieko, Nate Segaris, and finally Curly Del Vecchio,” Longtree read from his notebook. “All men. Odd that this beast hasn’t gotten a woman or child. It’s almost like its killing selectively.”
Wynona raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that. We’re dealing with a beast here, Marshal, not a reasoning being.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
“You don’t…I mean, you don’t think a man is responsible for any of this?”
“No, not a man, I don’t think.”
“You mean a beast which… reasons?”
Longtree did not comment on it.
Wynona considered it. Yes, all men…but it had to be a coincidence, right? It could be nothing else. The idea of a creature that selected its victims…now that was frightening. She’d never even contemplated such a thing. But now that she had, she feared it would never leave her brain.
“Well,” Wynona said, “you’ve certainly given me food for thought. Dark food, at that.”
Longtree thanked her for her help and left.
Wynona shrugged and went back to the cadaver of Nate Segaris. “Well, Nate, back to work. Did I ever tell you that I was well-acquainted with your mother? No? It was when you were off fighting the war…”
3
Longtree next did what he dreaded: he went to the Sheriff’s office.
He’d dealt with countless local lawmen in his tenure as a federal marshal. They came in all varieties as did all men. Some were kind and friendly, glad for his assistance. Others were suspicious, yet helpful. Still others were like Lauters: arrogant, hateful, self-serving. They saw the advent of a federal man in their territory as an insult, the government’s way of saying they weren’t doing their job. And nothing could be farther from the truth.
Longtree fought through the vicious winds and entered the jailhouse. As he feared, Lauters was there. Without the heavy coat on, he was still a large man, earning his nickname of “Big Bill”. He was a powerful fellow, Longtree decided, both physically and psychologically. But well past his prime. He was fat, bloated almost, having the look of a man who drank heavily on a daily basis. His face was puffy and white, the eyes bloodshot, blood vessels broken in his nose.
He was a veteran alcoholic. There was no doubt of this. Longtree, a man who’d battled the bottle himself, knew a drunk when he saw one.
“Morning, Sheriff,” Longtree said.
Lauters just glared. His pale lips spread in a frown. They didn’t have to go very far. “Well, well, well, the Marshal has come to save the day.”
Longtree suppressed a grin. Lauters was drunk. “I need a little information on the murdered men.”
“Well, you won’t get it from me.”
“C’mon, Sheriff. What’s the point of this? You know the law; you have to cooperate. Help me out here and I’ll do my best to stay out of your hair.”
“Yeah, I know the law, mister,” Lauters said slowly, his eyes not quite focusing. “I know the goddamn law and I don’t need no yellow sonofbitch like you to tell it to me. Damn breed.”
Longtree sighed and put his hat on the desk. “You got a deputy?”
“None of yer fucking business.”
Longtree sat down and stared at the man. Obviously, he’d been doing some checking to know that Longtree was a half-breed or “breed”, as he called it. That meant that he probably knew everything there was to know. Not that it mattered.
“You’re wrong there, Sheriff, it is my business. I’ll ask you again: Do you have a deputy?”
“Goddamn breed. You know how many injuns I’ve killed? Do you?”
Longtree grinned sardonically. “Know how many white men I’ve killed?”
Lauters stood up, swaying a bit. “I oughta take yer sorry ass out back and teach it a lesson.”
“Nothing you can teach me, Sheriff. Nothing at all.”
“Wanna slap leather, boy? You wanna—”
“Sheriff.” The voice was stern, authoritative. It belonged to a white-haired man with a drooping gray mustache. “That’ll be enough now. We got enough problems around here without you being put in your own jail.”