Tim Curran - Skull Moon

Bowes leaned back in the chair behind the desk, knowing, as all did, it would soon be his chair. He scratched at his thin beard. "I'm all for that, Marshal. But where the hell do we start? Folks around here are all for putting up a bounty on this animal. You know what that would mean? Every drifter with a gun who fancied himself a hunter would be crawling out in those hills, shooting any damn thing that moved and each other in the process."

"Yeah, I figured they'd be thinking that way." Longtree smoked and was silent for a moment. "We've got to think this thing out carefully. There's no room for mistakes here. We're dealing with something much more dangerous than any animal I've ever come across."

"What the hell is it, Marshal? What kills like that? What sort of beast kills like it… enjoys the act of killing?"

Longtree shook his head. "Something's going on here. Something the likes of which neither of us have ever seen."

"Like what?" Bowes asked.

"I'm not sure," Longtree admitted. "Not just yet."

Bowes looked irritable. "If you've got some idea, let me in on it. Christ, this is madness."

"I'll keep my thoughts to myself for now," Longtree said. "No point in going off half-cocked or making myself look foolish."

Bowes didn't look happy. "Okay, have it your own way."

Longtree would have liked to share his thoughts. But as yet, they were just thoughts. Half-formed ideas with no basis in reality. Yet. They were dealing with something horrible here. Something unknown. Something that didn't follow the rules, but set new ones. A beast that killed like an animal, but seemed to be almost following some indecipherable pattern. Once Longtree could figure out what that pattern was, they would be close to finding out what sort of killer they were dealing with.

"What's our first step, Marshal? Can you tell me that much?"

"I need to know about these men that were killed," Longtree said.

"Why? They were just men."

"I need to know about them," Longtree maintained. "If there was anything they might have had in common."

"You aren't suggesting that this beast picked these men to kill, are you?"

"Could be," Longtree told him. "I just don't know yet. I won't overlook anything at this point."

Bowes shrugged and talked at some length about the victims.

He covered a lot of the same ground as Wynona Spence had. Abe Runyon had been a railroad man, quick with his temper and fists. Not well liked. Cal Sevens had worked at the livery where he was killed. He was a newcomer to town, been there only a few years and kept mostly to himself. Charlie Mears lived at the Serenity Motel. He was a miner and had been fired from the mines for drinking. But he always seemed to have plenty of money and some suspected he was a highwayman. Pete Olak was a woodsman who cut firewood for a living. He had contracts with a few hotels and the railroad. He had been married with two kids and was well-liked. George Reiko was little better than a drunk. He lived with the Widow Thompkins and never seemed to do much but drink and gamble. Nate Segaris had a little spread outside town and had gone to seed since the death of his wife. He had a few horses. Gambled a bit. Drank with the miners and ranch hands on Saturday nights. Curly Del Vecchio was an ex-con, a veteran gambler and drunk, and pretty much just a plain nuisance.

Longtree mulled this all over. Despite the fact that a few of them tended to drink and gamble, there was no thread that tied them together. And drinking and gambling hardly made them members of an elite club.

"Nothing more?"

"Well…they all hated the local Indians. I know that much. Most folks around here do," Bowes said, unconcerned. "I didn't know all of them that well, but I've dealt with them in my job. None of 'em really seemed to associate together. I've heard all of 'em talk about what they'd like to do with the injuns more than once." Bowes shrugged. "But there's a lot of folks around these parts with the same leanings. Those men were just like a lot of 'em."

"There's a Blackfeet reservation outside town, isn't there?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't advise going up there. They don't like white folks much. Especially ones that carry badges."

"I'll keep it hidden."

"You're crazy, Marshal."

"Maybe, but I'm going."

"Well don't expect me to drag yer body out come morning."

Longtree just grinned.

Dewey Mayhew looked down on the sheriff. "Had yourself a good toot, did ya?" he said.

Lauters grimaced. "What the hell do you want?"

"To talk. Nothin' wrong with old friends talkin' is there?"

The sheriff tried to sit up but his head was pounding. An oil lamp was going in the corner. Darkness was pressed up against the little window. God, how long had he been out? Hours? Last thing he remembered was some run in with that Longtree fellow.

"What do you want to talk about?" Lauters grumbled.

Mayhew looked very solemn, scared almost. "About the murders."

"Ain't nothing new to say."

"There's been seven killings, Sheriff. Seven killings."

Lauters rubbed his eyes. "I'm aware of that."

"Those men-"

"I know."

"There's only three of us left," Mayhew said desperately.

"Keep your voice down."

Mayhew was trembling. "That thing won't stop till we're all dead."

"That's enough, Dewey."

"Tonight it'll come for me or you or-"

"Enough," the sheriff said with an edge to his voice. "You just keep quiet about things. If you don't, I'll kill you myself."

Longtree rode into the hills with only the vaguest of directions from Deputy Bowes as where to find the nearest of the Blackfeet encampments. The wind had died down from what it was earlier in the day and the temperature was above freezing. Longtree'd experienced things like that before in Montana and Wyoming. Blizzards and freezing winds followed by a brief warming trend, a thaw that would turn everything to slush and then to ice a week later when the temperature took another dive below freezing.

The country above Wolf Creek in the foothills of the Tobacco Roots was beautiful. Brush and scrubby cedar on open slopes gave way to snowy peaks, twisted deadfalls, and thick stands of pine and spruce. The mountains were huge and jutting above the timberline, barren and majestic.

But dangerous.

This whole country was like that. It was almost a religious experience viewing it, but the reality was sobering. This was a place of sudden landslides. Blizzards that kicked up with no warning. Frozen winds that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Starving wolf packs. Marauding grizzlies that were anxious to pack extra meat and fat in their bellies before hibernation. It was also the home of the Blackfeet Indians, considered by some to be the most bloodthirsty nation on the upper Missouri.

Coming up over a ridge, Longtree saw the camp. Knowing they'd probably seen him coming for some time.

Longtree rode unmolested into the Blackfeet camp, accompanied by barking dogs.

There were about twelve buffalo skin lodges, most painted with geometric designs and huge, larger than life representations of birds and animals. A few weathered faces poked out of the flaps of tipis and withdrew at what they saw. Around twenty people were formed up in a camp circle around a vast blazing fire.

Longtree dismounted and tethered his horse to a pine. He approached the band cautiously, making it known he was no threat.

The Indians seemed intent on ignoring his very presence.

The men remained seated, dressed in buffalo hide caps with earflaps and buffalo robes with the fur next to their bodies. A few wore hooded Hudson Bay blanket coats and heavy moccasins. The women were dressed pretty much the same in robes and trade blankets covering their undecorated dresses. Babies poked out of the furry folds of their robes. A few women were nursing older children.