Longarm and the Missing Husband (13 page)

Once the coffee flushed the mush out of his brain, he had a third cup and then, again sitting on the bale of fur, got thinking.

These assassination attempts, or at least this last one, were directed at him, not Beth Bacon.

They were able to get two hotel rooms this time, and Beth was safe in hers with the door bolted. He knew that for a fact because he had tried her door on his way out this morning.

But the idiot with the knife had slipped into
his
room last night, not Beth's. The murder attempt was clearly directed at him.

But why?

He could understand someone giving up on trying to kill Beth once her husband's body was found. After that, if indeed keeping her from knowing about the murder was the original purpose, there was no sense in killing her.

Now the target was one United States Marshal Custis Long. Clearly.

Longarm could almost understand that. Hank Bacon's killing had taken place on Federal land and just as clearly was a Federal crime.

So someone was trying to keep the long arm of the law from snatching him up and sending him to the gallows. That made sense. So far.

The thing that really did
not
make sense to him was the burning of Hank Bacon's ledger.

Someone had hunkered down by that fire with his own murder victim lying right there beside him and taken the time to tear pages out of that heavy, canvas-bound ledger and burn them.

They'd even tried, with less success, to burn the end boards.

It took so long that they used up Bacon's entire overnight supply of firewood in the process. All of it.

Obviously this had been a long process, tearing pages out a few at a time, burning everything they could.

Now why in hell would a man go through all that?

It made no sense to Longarm.

But it most assuredly made good sense to
someone
.

Longarm bought a chunk of jerky to chew on while he sat on the fur bale and chewed on his thoughts and his confusion.

Then finally he stood, brushed himself off, and headed for the agency headquarters to see what Agent Payne had in mind this morning.

“He won't be but a minute, Marshal,” the day clerk, a man named Dowdell, told him.

Longarm nodded, yawned, took a seat on one of the chairs outside the agent's office. He was still chewing on the idea that he was the intended target of the assassination attempts. It really made no sense to him. He was certainly no threat to anything or anybody around this agency.

He wished he was a threat to somebody, but the sad fact was that he had no idea why he was being targeted for murder. Or by whom.

He smoked a cigar. Wished anew that he had thought to bring a bottle of whiskey with him to the dry reservation. Well, supposedly dry. Probably a man could at least buy
tizwin
here if he knew the right person to approach and the right things to say when he got there.

He made a mental note to ask Bull Mathers about that. Very likely Bull would know where a man could find a drink.

He finished the cigar. Yawned again. Looked up hopefully when Payne stepped out of his office with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

Payne, however, was not greeting Longarm but leaning over his clerk's desk.

“Dammit, Harry, they've raised the prices again. Do you know how much he is charging for a beef now? A hundred twenty dollars. Just two months ago it was an even hundred. Now he wants a twenty percent increase. Not just for the beef either. Twenty percent across the board, he says.”

Dowdell took several of the papers from his boss, adjusted the spectacles that perched on the bridge of his rather large nose, and said, “It's all in order, sir. It does seem a lot to pay for one scrawny animal, but we have no choice. Not unless we want to stop issuing beef. We could, um, perhaps we could find some other source?”

“There is no other, dammit,” the agent growled.

Payne looked up and noticed Longarm sitting there. “Can you believe it?” he said, grateful for this new audience to his troubles. “The prices go up practically every month. As it is, I shall have to petition the Bureau for an increase in the budget. If they don't grant the money, I don't know what we will do to feed the tribes.”

“Twenty percent,” Longarm said. “That seems a lot.”

“Oh, it is. Believe me. Do you know how much we pay for flour? Plain, ordinary wheat flour. He charges three hundred dollars a barrel. Do you know how much the tribes consume? Especially in winter when the hunting is bad. They come in and expect to be fed. They were promised they would be fed. Promised, I tell you, by our own government. And I don't know that I can afford to feed them through the winter this year.”

“Don't you have any choice?” Longarm asked, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair.

“None,” Payne said. The agent moved closer, ignoring Dowdell and giving his attention to this newcomer who would not already be familiar with his rant. “Johnson has a lock on the supply situation here. Has had since before I was appointed to the agency. And he is charging unconscionable prices for barely satisfactory goods.

“Why, you should see the cattle that he sells us. He has them driven in twice a year, scrawny, emaciated things. The tribes prefer to slaughter their own, you understand. We issue beef on the hoof and they mount their ponies and chase the poor creatures down with bows and lances and who-knows-what. It is like hunting and they prefer it. But . . . such poor, miserable beasts. And he charges so much for them.

“That is why I was so hopeful when that surveyor came through.” Payne turned to his clerk. “What was that man's name again. Harry? The surveyor?”

“Hank Bacon, sir. His widow is here now to take his body home.”

“Oh, yes. Bacon. How could I have forgotten that? I had hoped that he would bring us some bacon. And potatoes and a thousand other things. He was here on behalf of a railroad, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Longarm said.

“Pity he was killed. That is the sort of thing that can happen to a man traveling alone in wild country.”

“That's right,” Longarm said. “If, uh, if a railroad were to come here, you would be able to buy your goods almost at city prices, wouldn't you? Ordinary prices plus a little for transportation.”

“Exactly,” Payne said with enthusiasm. “That is why I so hoped the railroad would be coming through on its way north.”

“Right,” Longarm said. “Well, sir, if you will excuse me, there's something I have t' do.”

“No, wait. I need you to fill out these arrest forms after that incident last night.”

But Payne was speaking to Longarm's back as the tall marshal headed out the door.

“Pierre!” Longarm said, entering the sutler's store and politely standing aside for a trio of young Indian women who were on their way out.

“Yes, Marshal? Did you forget something earlier?”

“More like I didn't know something earlier,” Longarm told the man.

“Sorry. I don't understand,” Pierre said.

“Tell me something, friend. How are you with a rifle?” Longarm asked.

“Marshal, to tell you the truth, I'm a terrible shot with any kind of gun.” He laughed. “That is a large part of the reason why I became a clerk instead of a hunter or a trapper. My people are mostly trappers, but not me, as you can plainly see from this apron I'm wearing.”

“But you are a very loyal employee, Pierre.”

“Why, thank you, Marshal. I appreciate that.”

“Is your boss in?” Longarm asked.

“He's out back taking inventory on some things. We have to order our merchandise awfully far ahead of actual need, you see, because of the time it takes to transport goods up here.”

“Expensive, too, I would think,” Longarm said.

“Very,” Pierre agreed.

“So a railroad would make things convenient. But also much less expensive, isn't that so?”

“Perhaps. Is, uh, is there a point to all this, Marshal?”

“You know there is, Pierre. Your boss . . . and you . . . have been worried that a railroad would come along and give you competition, cut deep into your profits because of that.”

“Oh, I don't know,” the clerk said.

“Sure y' do,” Longarm told him, his voice no longer carrying a tone of friendly banter. “Point is, so do I. I finally know what the problem has been all along. First Hank Bacon. Then his widow. An' now me. We all of us, one way or another, threatened the cozy setup you an' Johnson have had here.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Pierre insisted.

“I think you do. I think it so strongly that I'm gonna put you under arrest. We'll have t' arm wrestle to see who tries you, U.S. district court or a Shoshone tribal court. But we can work out little details like that later. Right now I want you t' turn around an' put your hands behind your back.”

Instead of his hands going behind his back, Pierre reached underneath his apron.

At the last second Pierre saw that he was going to be too late. He got his pistol out quickly. Longarm got his .45 even quicker.

Pierre's eyes went wide with shock and disbelief. He probably saw the puff of smoke and the lance of flame that preceded the bullet that smashed into his breastbone. He may have had time enough to realize that the marshal had just killed him. The last thing he saw in this life may well have been the dirty, mud-caked floorboards in Johnson's store.

The smoke from Longarm's gunshot boiled up between them and partially obscured Longarm's vision, but he could see well enough that Pierre had dropped his .455 Webley and fallen facedown onto the floor.

In the closed quarters the sound of the shot reverberated from the ceiling and fell like a heavy weight onto Longarm's sense of hearing. He shook his head trying to clear it and held his nose and tried to blow through it, popping his ears against the sudden pressure.

Pierre's blood flowed onto the floor. Off to the side of the big room a handful of shoppers, four Indians and a pair of off-duty soldiers, tried to make themselves look inconspicuous as they hurried out of the place.

Longarm gave the shoppers a hard look, but none of them mounted any challenge. When he was sure the store was clear except for himself and Pierre's body, he flipped open the loading gate at the back of his .45's cylinder and ejected the spent cartridge. His hearing was still impaired and he did not hear the
tink
of the empty brass hitting the floor.

He felt in his coat pocket and produced a fresh cartridge. He dropped it into the empty chamber and closed the loading gate then returned the Colt to its leather.

That cuts off the tail, he thought. Now to find the head of this particular serpent and chop that off, too.

Outside the sutler's store he saw one of the soldiers who had just left the place.

“You. Corporal. Have you seen the sutler this morning?”

“Yes, sir. Just a couple minutes ago I seen him jump on a horse. Don't think it was his but he got on and started off at a larrupin' run.”

“Which way'd he go?” Longarm asked.

The soldier pointed toward the northeast, a direction Longarm sincerely doubted since there was so little to be found there. Apparently the man was trying to throw him off the scent.

Longarm grunted. Paused to think for a moment. His tracking skills were good, but . . .

He headed into the village and twenty minutes later found Bull Mathers.

“I'm needin' your help, Bull.” Longarm explained the situation and asked, “Can you track the man?”

“Not me, maybe, but I know someone that can. He's only a kid and an Arapaho kid at that, sixteen maybe seventeen years old, but he can track a mouse over a flat rock. He's the best I ever seen. I can get him for you if you like.”

“I'd appreciate it,” Longarm said.

“Wait here.” Half an hour later Mathers returned with a scrawny, pimple-faced Indian boy in tow. “This is . . . Long, you wouldn't be able to pronounce his name anyhow. Just call him Hey You and you'll get along fine. But he doesn't speak any English so I'd best go along with you.”

“Fine with me, Bull. Let's grab some gear and get after the man.”

“He has some pals he'd like to come with us. It would be fun for them. Almost like raiding was in the old days,” Mathers said.

“Fine by me. I'll get my mule and meet you in front of the headquarters building.”

Longarm hurried back to the hotel and made up a pack that mostly contained cigars, matches, and jerky. He found his mule and saddled it, including breast strap and crupper, and made it back to the administration building within a quarter hour. Mathers and eight Arapaho boys, the youngest of whom could not have been more than fourteen, were already there waiting for him.

Longarm could not see any firearms among the gaggle of teenagers, but every one of them carried a lance and two of them had bows as well. They acted like they were hunting coyotes instead of a man.

Mathers spoke to Hey You and their little procession started out.

They were not two miles out of the village before Hey You said something to Mathers, who turned in his saddle and relayed the information on to Longarm.

“He says Johnson is pushing his horse too fast. He'll break the animal down if he keeps up like this.”

“Tough luck for the horse,” Longarm said. “Tougher for Johnson.”

Late in the morning of the next day they caught up with the fleeing sutler. Johnson was walking his horse, which was limping badly on the off fore.

The Indian boys gave a whoop and rushed ahead, Longarm and Bull Mathers following at a calmer pace.

“Just hold him for me,” Longarm shouted at the backsides of their racing ponies. “Me and Bull are coming.”

“You realize, don't you, that they couldn't understand a word of that,” Mathers said. “But don't worry. They'll get him for you.”

The Indian boys raced ahead, the riders yipping and shouting, lances waving, ponies running flat out with their ears laid back.

“Shit, they're having fun, aren't they?” Longarm observed.

“This is almost like in the old days for them,” Bull said. “They've never proved themselves as warriors. Too young.”

“Oh, damn. What are they up to now?” Longarm said.

The boys were circling around Johnson, hollering for all they were worth. They dropped off their ponies and surrounded the sutler.

Probably, Longarm thought later, everything would have been all right except Johnson made the mistake of pulling his pistol and pointing it at one of the Arapaho.

Three lance tips lashed out, rapping Johnson's wrist and forearm. Hard. The man dropped his revolver without firing it, but by then it was too late.

Another lance thrust pierced Johnson's upper arm. Succeeding thrusts by one or more of the eight youngsters jabbed him in the kidney, the stomach, the cheek. Then the blood lust came over the boys and they punctured Johnson's gut, his balls, his throat, and finally Hey You delivered a fierce thrust into the man's heart.

By the time Longarm and Mathers reached them, Johnson was already dead and the eight newly proven warriors were painting themselves with the man's blood.

“You aren't going to arrest them, are you?” Mathers asked, sounding more than a little worried.

Longarm sighed. “The man resisted arrest. I saw that clear enough. And no, I ain't gonna arrest them. It was a clear case o' self-defense, the way I saw it.”

He reached into his pocket for a cheroot and a match, already thinking about returning to the reservation and accompanying Bethlehem Bacon back to the railroad.

There would be time along the way . . . and she was a damn fine-looking woman . . .

Longarm was smiling when he reined his mule toward the reservation and Beth.