Skull Moon

Wynona sighed. "Oh, what a day I've had, Marion. What a most interesting and unusual day," she said, sipping whiskey. "More murders. More business. And a most interesting man. A deputy U.S. Marshal named Joseph Longtree. A fascinating man. What? Oh, don't act like that, I assure you he means nothing to me…"

12

Deputy Bowes watched the sheriff come in and was glad to see the man was sober for a change. "Another one?" he said.

Lauters sat behind his desk. "Dewey Mayhew."

Bowes set a cup of coffee before him. "No point in asking the particulars, I guess. I know 'em all well enough by now."

Lauters nodded. "Same three-toed prints in the snow, spur at the heel. Goddammit."

"Should we try tracking it?"

Lauters didn't answer. He stared off into space, his lips moving with silent words. He sipped a third of his coffee away and opened the bottom drawer. He took out the fifth of rye, pulled the cork with his teeth, and poured some in his coffee. "Any excitement tonight?" he asked, wincing as the liquor settled in his belly.

"Not too much. Got a miner by the name of Ezra Wholesome in lock-up."

"Wholesome?"

Bowes scratched his beard, grinning. "Yeah. Lost five hundred to the house over at Ruby's. Wouldn't pay. Pulled his iron."

Lauters looked up. "Any shooting?"

"No, I talked him out of it."

Bowes was good. You had to give him that. Lauters never once regretted signing the man on. He had an innate gift for soothing the savage beast, cooling hot blood with carefully-chosen words. He could talk sense to gunmen and crazy injuns with equal ease. Lauters figured he could've charmed the habit off a nun.

"You wanna tell me about it?" Bowes said.

The sheriff nodded. "Mayhew was alive when I got there."

"What did he say?" Bowes asked this intently.

Lauters told him. Then told him what the blacksmith, Rikers, had seen. "Devil, he said. Looked like the Devil." Lauters drank straight from the bottle now. "Goddamn Devil. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Bowes shrugged. "You think there's anything to it?"

Lauters shrugged. "Hell if I know. Tomorrow, I'm gonna have Johnson over at the paper print up some bounty posters. It'll draw some professional hunters in. Couldn't hurt."

"It didn't make any moves against Rikers?"

"Not a one. He came out there with his lantern, frightened it off. Lucky to be alive, I suppose."

Bowes sighed. "Longtree," he said carefully, "thinks these killings are related. That the beast is going after certain people."

Lauters took another drink. "You believe that?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore."

"Longtree don't know his ass from an umbrella stand, son."

"He seems like a smart fellah, though."

Lauters did not comment on that.

There was no point: He knew Longtree was smart. Knew it well as any man, but he'd never admit to it. Couldn't bring himself to. Federal intervention had always been a sore spot with Lauters. And now here comes this big-mouthed deputy marshal and he was a goddamn breed to boot. And a crafty, smart sumbitch, too. Lauters didn't like a guy like that poking around. There were too many skeletons in too many closets and the last thing this town needed was some breed rattling them loose.

Besides, dammit, how was it going to look if that wily, hotshot bastard solved these goddamn murders while Lauters, a white man, was running around in circles scratching his fat ass? Not good, that's what.

But the murders.

Jesus. Those bodies. Despite himself, he wouldn't be one bit surprised if Rikers was right and it was old Satan himself. Those tracks…

Lauters gulped off the bottle again. Rye ran down his chin. He didn't bother to wipe it off. He just stared into space with wide, bloodshot eyes. His lips trembled with a tic.

"Something the matter, Sheriff?"

"Yeah," Lauters, said staring into the amber depths of the bottle. "I'm scared shitless."

13

It was getting on around two when Longtree heard the horse approaching.

He'd been sleeping an hour or so and started awake at the sound. Years of hunting and being hunted by dangerous men made him a light sleeper. He woke at almost anything. Sometimes a good wind stirring the trees was enough.

He pulled himself free of his bedroll. His horse snorted.

The rider stopped in the treeline surrounding his little gully. "Come on in," Longtree called, pistols out now.

The rider came down the trail slowly, the horse's hoofs crunching the snow with gentle, timed steps. Longtree fed a few logs into the dying fire and it blazed with flickering orange light. The rider was an Indian. There was no doubt of this. A long buffalo robe was pulled over his head and he sat astride a rawhide saddle.

But it wasn't a "he." It was Laughing Moonwind from the Blackfeet camp.

She wore buffalo mittens and carried an old Kentucky rifle. She tethered her horse and sat by the fire.

"I guess you were the last person in the world I expected," Longtree said, putting his pistols away and sitting by her side. He rolled a cigarette from his tobacco pouch.