Skull Moon (3 page)

"You saying we got us a new type of animal?"

Perry just shrugged, refused to speculate.

Lauters spat a stream of tobacco juice into the snow and looked up towards the mountains. He had a nasty feeling things were about to go bad in Wolf Creek.

When Joseph Longtree rode into the quadrangle of Fort Phil Kearny, the first thing he saw were bodies. Eight bodies laid out on the hardpacked snow and covered with tarps that fluttered and snapped in the wind. They were all cavalry troopers. Either wasted by disease or bullets. Both were quite common in the Wyoming Territory. He brought his horse to a halt before the bodies and followed a trooper to the livery.

Longtree had been to the fort before. But like all forts on the frontier, its command roster was constantly changing. During the height of the Sioux War of '76, this was especially true. Troopers were dying left and right. And now, two years later, that hadn't changed.

His horse stabled, Longtree made his way to the larger of the blockhouses, knowing it contained the command element of the fort. It was warm inside. A great stone hearth was filled with blazing logs. A few desks were scattered about, manned by tired-looking officers, their uniforms haggard and worn from a brilliant blue to a drab indigo. They watched him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Can I help you, sir?" a stoop-shouldered lieutenant asked. He had a tic in the corner of his mouth, his amber eyes constantly squinting. A habit formed from long months chasing Sioux war parties through the blazing summer heat and frozen winter wind.

Longtree licked his chapped lips, pulling open his coat and flashing his badge. "Joe Longtree," he said in a flat voice. "Deputy U.S. Marshal. You have some orders here for me from the Marshals Office in Washington, I believe."

"One moment, sir," the lieutenant said, dragging himself away into the commanding officer's quarters. He came back out with a short, burly captain.

"We've been expecting you, Marshal," the captain said. He held out his hand. "Captain Wickham."

Longtree shook with a limp grip. "The orders?"

"Don't have 'em," the captain apologized. His cheeks were full and ruddy, his hairline receding. Great gray muttonchop whiskers rode his face like pelts. "There's a man here, though, to see you. A Marshal Tom Rivers. From Washington."

Longtree's eyes widened.

Rivers was the Chief U.S. Marshal. He was in charge of all the federal marshals in the Territories. Longtree hadn't seen him since Rivers had appointed him.

"Tom Rivers?" Longtree asked, his face animated now.

"Yes, sir. He's come to see you before riding on to Laramie. I'm afraid he's out right now with Colonel Smith." Wickham frowned. "One of our patrols was ambushed by a Sioux raiding party last night. We lost eight men. Eight damn men."

Longtree nodded. "I saw the bodies."

"Terrible, terrible thing," Wickham admitted.

"Sure it was Sioux?"

Wickham looked insulted. "Sure? Of course we're sure. I've fought them bastards for ten years, sir." He quickly regained his composure. "We still have trouble with isolated bands. Most of 'em don't even know Crazy Horse surrendered. And until they do...well you get the picture, Marshal."

"When do you expect them back?"

"Before nightfall, sir. I've heard you went after the fugitives who robbed that wagon in Nebraska. Murdering thieves. How did you fare, sir?"

Longtree shrugged. "Not as well as I'd hoped." He scratched his chin. "Had to bury all three of 'em. Would've liked 'em alive."

"It's what they deserve, sir." Wickham patted Longtree on the shoulder. "It seems you have some time before the colonel and his party return. You've had a long hard ride, sir, might I suggest you take advantage of our hospitality?"

"It would be welcome," Longtree said, the burden of the past few days laying heavy on him now.

"Lieutenant!" Wickham snapped. "Find a bed for the marshal. He'll be wanting a hot meal and a bath, I would think."

The stoop-shouldered lieutenant took off.

"If you're a mind to, sir, I'd be pleased to join you for a hot drink."

"Lead the way, Captain," Longtree said.

The interior of the groghouse was dim and dark and smelled of pine sap and liquor. There were tables arranged down the center and knotty benches pushed up to them. Longtree and Wickham each got a mug of hot rum and sat down. There was no one else in the house but them.

Longtree hadn't been to Kearny for some time, but it hadn't changed very much. In '68, it had been abandoned due to pressure from warring Indians. As had Forts C.F. Smith and Reno, all located along the old Bozeman Trail. Only Kearny had been re-opened, back in '75.

"So tell me of your exploits in Bad River," Wickham asked in his typically robust manner. He could discuss a woman's frilly pink underthings and make it sound masculine with that voice.

Longtree sipped his drink. "Not much to tell."

"They put up a fight, did they?"

Longtree laughed without meaning to do so. "You could say that." In a low voice, he described the events that had transpired. "If it hadn't been for that Flathead...well, you get the picture."

Wickham furrowed his eyebrows. "A strange turn of events, I would say. Very few men survive the noose. I've known but one and he spent the remainder of his days with a crooked neck."

"My throat doesn't feel the best," Longtree admitted, meeting the captain's gaze, "but nothing's damaged. A week or so, I'll be fine."

"Odd, though."

Longtree had the distinct feeling Wickham didn't believe him. He loosened the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing a bandage wound around his throat. Carefully, he unwrapped it. There was a bruised, abraded, and raw-looking wound coiled on his neck.

Wickham's eyes bulged. "My God... how could you survive that?
How?"

Longtree wound the bandage back up. "I don't know. Luck? Fate? The grace of God?" He shrugged. "You tell me."

Wickham had nothing to offer. He downed his rum. "Well, back to work, Marshal. I'm sure we'll see each other before you leave. Good day, sir."

Longtree watched him leave. No doubt he was going back to gossip about the hanged man to his fellow officers. Longtree supposed it had been a bit dramatic showing the wound, but he detested a look of disbelief in another man's eyes. And after everything he'd been through, he figured he could be excused a bit of drama.

He ordered another rum and waited.

Waited and thought about Tom Rivers.

The room wasn't bad.

There was a bed and blankets and a little firepot in the corner. A few logs blazed in it. A washtub had been filled for him with steaming water. A cake of soap and a couple towels were set out.

"Just like home," Longtree said, kicking off his boots and clothes.

After his third hot rum, the lieutenant had come for him and brought him to the officer's mess. He stuffed himself on tender buffalo steaks, sliced potatoes, and cornbread washed down with ale. He hadn't eaten a meal quite so good in some time.

As he scrubbed a week's worth of dirt and sweat off, he thought about Tom Rivers. Why would the Chief U.S. Marshal come all the way from Washington to the Wyoming Territory to bring him his assignment? It just didn't wash. Maybe Rivers was out visiting his marshals--something Longtree had never heard of him doing--and had just decided to serve Longtree's papers in person.

Could be.

But Wickham had said that Rivers wanted to see him before riding down to Laramie. What was so important that Rivers would wait around to see him in person? There had been no set time for the arrival of Longtree; it could've been today or next week or next month, for that matter.

Longtree reclined in the soothing, steaming waters and wondered about these things. Thoughts tumbled through his head in rapid succession.

There was always the possibility that Rivers had come in person to tell him that his appointment as a federal marshal had been revoked. It had happened to others. But it seemed unlikely. Longtree had been with the marshal service since '70 and in that time, of the dozens and dozens of wanted men he'd hunted down, only a few had eluded him. His record was very impressive. If he was being turned out, then it wouldn't be a matter of job performance.

The drinking? Was that it?

Also unlikely.

He hadn't allowed himself to do much drinking recently. And the only time he did was between assignments. And lately, there'd been no time between them: one assignment came right on the heels of the last with no break in-between. It had always been the boredom before, waiting around with nothing to do, no constructive purpose, that set Longtree going on one of his drinking binges or indulgences in other vices.

No, Rivers coming had nothing to do with that.

But just what the reason was, Longtree couldn't guess.

The next thing he knew, the water was cold and there was someone knocking frantically at the door.

"I'm coming," the marshal mumbled.

He dragged himself to the door.

"Let me guess," Longtree said. "I'm fired."

"Of course not, Joe," Tom Rivers said plopping himself down in a chair by the fire. He warmed his hands. "In fact, we need you more than ever now."

Longtree, dressed only in a red union suit, pulled his shoulder-length dark hair back and tied it with a thong of leather. He reclined on the bed.

"Tell me of your expedition with Colonel Smith," he said, changing the subject.

Rivers grinned, smoothing out his mustache. He was a thin man, corded with muscle. His face was lined and pocketed with shadow. His eyes a misty green, like the depths of a pond. He had an easy way about him and there were few who didn't warm to him almost immediately. It was rumored that years ago when Rivers had been a marshal in Indian Territory, he'd charmed many a white and redskin outlaw into handing over their weapons. He was a natural diplomat. People just seemed to want to do good by him.

"We didn't see a thing," Rivers admitted. "Not a damn thing. The only injuns we came across were a beaten, pathetic lot, half-starved." He shook his head. "I never cared much for the Sioux. You know that. Give me a Shoshone or a Pawnee or a Flathead any day. But to see them reduced to what they are now...well, it's a sorry sight to see a once proud lot like them begging for a few crusts of bread."

Longtree rolled a cigarette. "The buffalo are disappearing fast and with them, the Plains Indians. I think we're about to see the death of an entire people."

"It pains me some, I must admit," Rivers said.

Longtree lit his cigarette. "I never loved the Dakotas either." It was a truth that didn't require elaboration. Longtree had been a scout in the army and had fought the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Commanche back in the sixties. He developed a hatred for the Sioux Nation not only for their campaigns against whites but for the brutalities and indiscriminate slaughter of other tribes. "But it's a shame to see this happen. When the buffalo are gone...well, they won't be far behind."

"I'm afraid that was the plan, Joe."

Longtree nodded.

In 1874, he knew, a group of Texas legislators had proposed a bill limiting the slaughter of the buffalo herds. It would've imposed restrictions of how many animals hunters could kill each day and limited the range in which they could be taken. It sounded like a good idea. But the army jumped all over it. The sooner the buffalo were gone, they argued, the sooner the backs of the Plains Indians would be broken. It was logical and during the height of the Indian Wars, no one really opposed such thinking. The army had found it almost impossible to pin down and defeat the swift-moving nomadic tribes of the plains--the Blackfeet, Sioux, Cheyenne, etc. But once the buffalo had been decimated, these peoples would no longer be able to feed, clothe, and house themselves. And an army cannot survive without raw materials.

It was sound thinking, if somewhat cruel.

But it worked.

"There must be a few bands out there still, though," Rivers said. "It'll probably take a few more years to clean them out."

Longtree nodded. "Why don't you tell me now why you've come.''

"I'm just visiting my marshals. It's something I've been planning on doing for awhile, I just haven't gotten around to it." Rivers paused, pulled out a clay pipe and filled it. "As for you, Joe, I have a special assignment."

"Which is?"

"I need you to go up to Wolf Creek in the Montana Territory and look into some killings up there."

Longtree exhaled a column of smoke. "Wolf Creek. I know of it, near Nevada City. But that's John Benneman's territory," he reminded Rivers. Benneman was the deputy U.S. Marshal operating in southwestern Montana.

"Benneman's on a leave of absence, Joe. He got shot up pretty bad bringing in a couple road agents. He'll be out of commission for months." Rivers looked unhappy about this. "Besides, this is a special situation. We need more than a lawman on this. We need someone with investigatory skills."

"Go on."

"There's been five murders in and around Wolf Creek," Rivers explained. "Vicious, brutal killings. It appears to be the work of an animal. The bodies have been devoured. But...well, you'll see for yourself."

"So hire a hunter, Tom. If it's some marauding grizz that's your best bet. I've been hunting men for too long now to be going after an animal."

Rivers sighed. "Word has reached us that it may be a
human being
doing this. Nothing concrete, just rumor."

Longtree lifted his eyebrows. "What are we talking here?"

"I don't honestly know what's going on, Joe. Something strange, that's all. I want you to go up there and have a look. That's all. Poke around a bit, see what you find out."

"This is all pretty sketchy."

Rivers looked him in the eye. "You've done more on less."

"Maybe. Still, not much there."

Rivers nodded. "I know. Just take a week or so and nose around. If you think we got an animal, fine. We'll put a bounty on it and bring in the hunters. If it's a man...well you know what to do then."