Longarm and the Shoshoni silver

"Pete Robbins is a moonshiner," Longarm finished, staring soberly down at the one called The Kid. "I can see how a cuss with an illicit still out in the nearby hills might have more to worry about than sneak-swapping a jug someone else made for a side of venison now and again. But how do you reckon they knew where to lie in wait for me so far south of town? I only told one gent, and him a stranger here as well, I was heading out to see what might have bogged that government party down."

Old Reynolds glanced about, as if to make sure all the faces in the fair-sized crowd were on his side before he cautiously confided, "You couldn't have passed anyone Pete Robbins had any business with if you rode directly south."

Longarm cautiously asked, "Meaning we might be talking about a home spread to the east, west, or north, with or without its own sweet scent of sour mash?"

Reynolds shook his head and replied, "We're talking about this other gentile you've deposited dead on our courthouse grass. My duties to your kind do not include your bad habits. I frankly see little or no difference between a man smoking or drinking stimulants himself and tempting others, red or white, to do the same."

Longarm nodded, but demanded, "Do you take as casual an attitude about an already lost sinner trying to dry-gulch a federal lawman within the fuzzy outlines of your theocracy. Bishop Reynolds?"

The older man shook his head no, but pointed out, 'There's not one shred of evidence connecting this total stranger with any of our local folk. Saint or sinner."

Longarm started to say something dumb. Then he nodded grudgingly. "You're right. This one's not about to confess any other motive, but that's not saying he couldn't have had one. Just before I got him instead, I heard his peird call him The Kid. That pard would seem to have answered to Pearly, and they were both out to get me at the behest of someone called Pappy. I don't suppose that means much to anyone here?"

Reynolds said it didn't, and turned to the others all around for any light they could shed on the subject. But nobody there had heard of a Zion County rider called Pearly. So many riders answered to Kid that nobody wanted to jaw about a Kid none of them had ever seen before. More than one Mormon townsman confirmed that Miss Zelda at the Overland stop called her uncle, Pete Robbins, most anything but Pappy. Even her half-witted kid brother, another kid entirely, seemed to fathom the difference between a pappy and an uncle.

Lx)ngarm asked more questions, and soon made a deal with ambitious locals in exchange for the contents of the dead man's wallet along with his guns, fair watch, and silver-mounted spurs.

A Mormon druggist who doubled as a part-time undertaker said he could tidy the cadaver up enough for a gentile photographer to record his dead features for future reference. After that, there'd be just enough time left over to plant him, unembalmed but wrapped in a tarp almost good as new over in Potter's Field, beyond the town dump.

By this late in the afternoon they all had to concern themselves with the remaining daylight. So as the druggist and his hired help got cracking with the cadaver, Longarm took the older lawman aside to say he'd be at the Overland stop at least one more night, if anyone more important wanted him to sign anything.

Reynolds sniffed, pointed out he'd already told Longarm he was the local bishop, for land's sake, and said he'd send a boy over to get that squaw's signature as well, once he'd

had time to write a proper report for the country records. So they shook and parted friendly, with Longarm feeling fairly sincere. For despite some of the fine print in that Book of Mormon, he had to respect folks who went by what they said they stood for.

Most everybody said they considered women human beings, and most everyone who'd never had any kith or kin scalped just gushed about that noble savage. Mister Lo. But Bishop Reynolds acted as if the signed deposition of a female Indian was worth taking the time and trouble to record.

As he strode the short but dusty distance to the Overland stop Longarm reflected on how well Mormons seemed to get along with both their womenfolk and Indian neighbors. The Angel Moroni had told them the American Indians were one or more of the Lost Tribes of Israel. So instead of calling them damned diggers and shooting them on sight, the way more sensible Saltu might, the Saints had tried to convert them or, failing that, make friends with them at least.