Longarm and the Shoshoni silver

They'd be expecting to meet Longarm and some Mormon scouts at Ogden, in Utah Territory, where everyone had to switch from rail to mule trains for the rough going up into the Indian country that Little Big Eyes, or Secretary of the Interior Carl Schurz, aimed to buy from his red children for his white children. The bargain-hunters were likely crossing the Mississippi about now, and anyway, nobody Blue Tooth was likely to send after Longarm with yet another plaintive invite was likely to know where to find him after quitting time.

He read the little Henry had given him about the request from the B.I.A. at the bar of the nearby Parthenon Saloon, and put the carbon copies away when he was joined by Crawford, a reporter for the Denver Post, who quietly observed, "I figured you might be in here. At the risk of spoiling a good story, I feel I have to warn a pal Fm not

the only one looking for you this afternoon. He's about your height and my build, wearing an undertaker's expression as well as an outfit picked out for him by the late Edgar Allan Poe. When last seen inquiring for you over in the Black Cat he had on a black Texas hat and low-slung buscadero gun rig as well. Would you like to make a statement for the Post whilst there's time?"

Longarm washed down the rest of the pickled pig's knuckle he'd been working on with some needled beer before he replied. "Sounds like another lawman or a hired gun. A Texas Ranger new in town might not have heard about my disagreement with that barmaid at the Black Cat. I shot the only Texican really mad at me last week. But like the old song says, farther along we'll know more about it. Anyone who told him I sometimes lunched in the Black Cat would have surely mentioned this place as well."

Crawford moved out of the line of fire between Longarm and the nearby swinging doors as Longarm simply let his loose frock coat hang free of his gun grips while he shifted his beer schooner to his left fist, asking, "Might you have much on Chief Pocatello of the Western Shoshoni in your back files, pard?"

The shorter but thicker-set newspaper man blinked owl-ishly and volunteered, "Bad Injun in his day. He and his Snakes got to count coup on a couple of dozen troopers and Lord knows how many wagon trains during the Civil War. General Connor and his Nevada Volunteers caught up with him and his band on the Overland Trail near the end of the war, and would have hanged 'em the way they hanged all those Santee Sioux about the same time. But then old President Lincoln spoiled the fun with blanket pardons for the treacherous red devils, subject only to modest improvements in their manners."

Longarm grimaced and said, "Old Abe must have been on to something. They do say Pocatello's kept his word after making his mark on the Box Elder Treaty of '63, tempted as he might have been by the famine of '65 and

the big Shoshoni Scare of '78. So what might I be missing about this deal?"

Not knowing what he was talking about, Crawford had no more to offer and said so. Longarm finished his beer, watching that doorway, as he idly wondered whether the back files of Crawford's paper could have such a simplistic view of Mister Lo.

He put his empty beer schooner down, having decided he'd just as soon risk a slap in the face as paper cuts on dusty fingers. He didn't tell Crawford just where he was headed, so the fool reporter wanted to tag along, lest he miss a front-page gunfight.

Longarm laughed sincerely and declared, "A gunfight was the last thing I had in mind, old son. That mysterious cuss with his hat crowned Texas-style is likely from the B.I.A. And he's likely as anxious as me to hear why in thunder even a sissy would need scouts, or even translators, to visit friendlies on a fully staffed agency."

"What if he's not? What if he's looking to fight you?" Crawford demanded hopefully.

Longarm snorted wryly and declared, "I reckon I'll fight him. Like I said, we'll know all about it farther along. Meanwhile, I eat my apples one bite at a time, smd so now I'm off to see if someone who knows more than either of us about Indians can hazard a guess as to why I seem headed for Idaho Territory, Lord willing and the tracks don't wash out."

He got rid of the pesky reporter—it wasn't easy—and ducked through the big bottom floor of the Denver Dry Goods to make sure he wasn't being followed before he legged it on over to the terraced slopes of Capitol Hill.

He cut across the State House lawn, watching out for fresh sheep shit on the close-cropped leaf-littered buffalo grass as he tried to watch out for a possible ambush at the same time.

All the windows of the big stone State House were down, so it seemed safe not to worry about the afternoon sunlight