Skull Moon

"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.

10

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.

11

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.