Longarm and the Shoshoni silver

Longarm sighed and replied he'd just said that. He knew why she was talking so much and saying so little. He'd once caught himself being sort of windy in the company of a gal he really wanted, before he'd learned it was a dead giveaway and more likely to spoil a good chance than advance it. Women of experience, the best kind to experience, were inclined to shy at would-be lovers who came at them acting sort of silly. He'd learned to be wary of silly gals for the same practical reasons. The game was confusing enough when you played it with other sensible grown-ups.

Indians were not considered grown-ups, even when they seemed to be acting sensible, under current federal law. So a foolish white boy could get himself in a whole lot of trouble acting silly with silly little Comanche gals who might or might not be listed as government wards by the B.LA.

He didn't ask Tupombi if she was as they strode up the dusty street together. He knew some breeds were while others were not. Just as he knew the only thing that lied worse

than a man with a hard-on was a woman feeling "unfulfilled." That was what gals said they were when they were feeling homy, "unfulfilled."

The Concord with its mule team had naturally swung around to the back by the time Longarm and Tupombi joined the new arrivals in the main waiting room, along with Shoshoni Sam and the manager.

The manager said he'd just come from the kitchen and that supper would soon be ready, provided everyone there called scrambled eggs and fried venison a supper. So it was just as well the coach had come up the delta carrying plenty of mail and only four passengers, all male and two of them Mormons who meant to sup with kith or kin in town.

The jehu, a grizzled peg-leg who'd been driving the same route a good spell, warned the two Saints not to hurry, saying, "If we're running late we're running late. I don't meant to leave here till well after daybreak in the morrow, after hearing Mister Lo is off the reserve this fall again!"

He wasn't the only one there staring sort of pensively at the obvious Indian Longarm had come in with. So Longarm quietly told the jehu, "She's with me and other mild-mannered folks here. Before you tell us about wild Indians, might you know anything of a party of white government men headed this way from Ogden for way longer than it should have taken 'em to crawl on their hands and knees?"

The somewhat younger shotgun man volunteered, "That's who warned us about the Indians. We met up with 'em this very afternoon, forted up beside the trail where it fords Club Creek."

Longarm consulted his mental map, located the dumb place they'd picked, and decided, "Indians or no Indians, they could have made it in to town by now from that close!"

The jehu nodded and said, "We just did. Allowing for my swell driving, they could be coming in anytime now. Only they won't be. They 're scared. I mean, there must be over a dozen of the timid souls, with plenty of shooting irons and no women or children along. But they told us they mean to stay

put there for the night, the yellow-bellied greenhorns."

His shotgun man hesitated, then decided, "Fair is fair and their scouts J/V/tell 'em to stay put whilst they rode on ahead."

One of the two remaining passengers volunteered, "It was the two more experienced scouts they'd hired in Ogden who spotted Shoshoni sign and ordered the party to fort up while they scouted ahead. None of us saw any Shoshoni. On the other hand we were moving as fast as spit skips across a hot stove."

"The Shoshoni ain't supposed to be on the warpath this autumn," Longarm said. "Those gents from the B.I.A. and Land Use were sent all the way out here to treat with the local Shoshoni bands. So why in blue blazes would they be trying avoid meeting up with any?"

The jehu shrugged and growled, "Don't look at us. Blacky here just told you none of us saw any Shoshoni!"

The passenger called Blacky, an obvious mining man who seemed to know his way around these parts, explained, "It was the greenhorns' scouts, the missing ones, who said the Indians were acting sort of spooky. They must have known what they were talking about, whatever it was they'd spotted, for they've been missing entire ever since they had their dudes fort up and rode off!"

The manager's drab Lulu came in to tell them, or warn them, it was supper time. So they all filed in to the dining room. Tupombi went on back to the kitchen to help the other two women without having to be asked. Longarm had already noticed she was pretty and smelled as clean as most gals who rode astride in deerskin. It was a joy to see she had some manners as well.

After that the meal was rough and ready, with the fancy perked coffee making up for the overdone eggs and greasy venison. Sort of. One almost had to admire a cook who could fuck up eggs and ruin well-hung venison. It showed a sincere ambition to stay out of kitchens as often as possible.