“Da. This is vhat Carl Schmidt have tell us vhen he come to Russia to say the railroad land is to sell.”

  They reached the fence and Longarm pulled the roan’s reins free. Petrovsky freed his mule and stood waiting, a question in his eyes.

  “Well, hell, I guess it won’t hurt if you come along,” Longarm told him. “It ain’t likely we’ll turn our man up at Hawkins’s, and if we do, there won’t anything get started that I can’t handle. If the old man is at the bottom of this, it might do him good to see you with your arm in that sling.”

  “Nichivo!” Petrovsky shrugged. “It does not the arm matter. It is not hurt me. I have before got vounds vorse as this one, vhen ve fight the Cossacks.”

  “Just the same, it’s a long way back to Junction and then on out to Hawkins’s place.”

  “Is to go back to town no need. I show you shorter vay.”

  Petrovsky’s route may have been shorter, but it didn’t seem so to Longarm. He led them in a winding route along the narrow lanes between the fenced fields, jogging left and right as the fencelines required. There was little talk exchanged between them; Longarm was preoccupied. He was trying to figure out how he’d explain to Clem Hawkins why he wanted to inspect the boot soles of his ranch hands in a way that wouldn’t arouse the crusty cattleman’s instant anger. He gave short replies when his companion tried to start a conversation, and after a few efforts, Petrovsky gave up and spoke only to give directions through the checkerboarded wheatfields. They came to the end of the cultivated land and turned onto the cattle trail. Sooner than Longarm had expected, they saw the big ranch house looming ahead, its white walls tinged now by the drooping orange sun.

  “Don’t take me wrong, now,” Longarm cautioned Petrovsky. “But you’d better not say too much when we get to Hawkins’s place.”

  “Da. This I tell myself, Marshal, Chooyat. I know this. I am to be small man, say nothing.”

  “That’s the right idea. Hawkins don’t like you Brethren, I don’t have to tell you that. I ain’t looking for him to be easy for me to handle, when you come right down to it.”

  There was no greeting at the door, this trip. Their mounts tethered at the hitch rail, Longarm and Petrovsky waited several moments after knocking. The man who opened the door was a stranger to Longarm; he’d not seen him on his earlier visit.

  “Boss is out at the bunkhouse,” he said. “Hands are just getting in from the gather. You better—”

  “We’ll just step around there, then,” Longarm said. He turned on his heel, and before the man in the door had a chance to object, both Petrovsky and Longarm were off the porch.

  Clem Hawkins had his back to them when they saw him in front of the bunkhouse, talking to one of his hands. He heard their footsteps on the hard-packed dirt and turned quickly. His lips compressed into a narrow line when he recognized Longarm.

  “God damn it!” Hawkins exploded. “You federal men never do seem to get tired of poking your noses into a man’s business just when he’s busiest! Here I am, trying to find out how many steers I’m going to be able to ship, and you come around again. What is it this time?”

  “I’m trying to track down a bushwhacker, Mr. Hawkins,” Longarm replied, his voice low and even. “Fellow shot into a crowd last night, wounded this man here, came pretty close to winging me.”

  Hawkins looked closely at Petrovsky. “You’re one of them damn nesters. I’ve seen you around town.”

  With dignity, Petrovsky replied, “I am citizen of this country, like you. Difference is, maybe I not so rich.”

  With a grunt, Hawkins turned back to Longarm. “What’d you bring him on my place for? I told you the other day how I feel about them foreigners.”

  “I brought him because he’s a citizen, just like he said. And he’s got the same right you’d have if it was you who’d been shot.”

  “You saying I had something to do with that shooting?” Hawkins demanded.

  “No sir. Not even hinting. All I know right now is that whoever pulled the trigger was a ranch hand. That’s how the evidence reads. He could work here, he could work someplace else. I’m going from one spread to the next until I find him.”

  Longarm’s calm, quick answers seemed to mollify Hawkins a bit. The rancher looked Petrovsky up and down again, though, before he said, “I guess you’d know the bushwhacker if you saw him?”

  “I’ll know him.”

  “You said the shooting was at night. How the hell could you see him, if he was a rifle-shot away from you?”

  “I’ll know him,” Longarm repeated. “All I want to do is take a look at your men. I’ll only need a few minutes. Are they all in from the gather?”

  “All but one or two. My foreman’s still out on the prairie, and the segundo’s up at the tally pasture. All the hands have come in, as far as I could tell. Like I said when you were here the other day, I’ve hired on a lot of new men for the gather.”

  “If you’re the kind of man I sized you up to be, Mr. Hawkins, you’ve got no more use than I have for a skunk who’d throw down on a bunch of unarmed folks, potshot at ’em from the dark,” Longarm said. “Now, do you mind if I go in your bunkhouse for a look? I’d guess most of your hands are in there, waiting for the supper bell.”

  “They’re in there. And you’re right; I’ve got no liking for a backshooter,” Hawkins replied. “Go on in. But I’ll come with you and keep an eye on what you do.”

  Longarm and Petrovsky followed Hawkins into the bunkhouse. The long, narrow building, two bunks wide and thirty long, was crowded with men. Some of them lounged on their bunks, while others were stripping off sweat-wet shirts, getting ready to wash before, supper. The air was full of loud conversation, laughter, and the sharp fumes of Bull Durham tobacco smoke.

  Hawkins stamped his bootheel on the floor to get their attention. When the buzz of voices died away, he said, “This man’s a federal marshal. He wants to take a look at you.”

  “How come?” called a voice from the back of the building.

  “Because I told him he could!” Hawkins snapped. “Now you men answer whatever questions he wants to ask you.” He nodded at Longarm. “Go ahead, Marshal. I hope you’ll make it quick. Cook’ll be ringing the supper bell in about three minutes.”

  Raising his voice, Longarm said to the men, “I’ll leave it to Mr. Hawkins to tell you later what this is all about. Right now, it’ll help me a lot if all of you who ain’t on your bunks sit down or lay down, and I’ll just walk down the middle and take a quick look at you. That way, we’ll be finished before supper.”

  There was a certain amount of under-the-breath complaining, but the men who were on their feet shifted around until each of them had settled on a bunk. Most of them followed the cowboy adage “Never stand up when you can sit down, never sit down when you can lie down.” Only a half-dozen chose to sit. To avoid giving away his purpose prematurely, Longarm concentrated first on the loungers. He walked down the aisle between the rows, glancing quickly at the soles of each pair of boots exposed to his eyes. At the back of the room, he turned and started moving forward again.

  At the first bunk on which a man was sitting instead of lounging, Longarm said, “Lift your feet up so I can see the soles of your boots, cowboy, if you don’t mind.”

  Though the man he spoke to seemed a bit bewildered by the strange request, he lifted his feet to show a pair of unbroken soles on his scuffed boots. Longarm moved on to the next sitter, who, after having heard the request made of the first one, lifted his feet without being asked. By now, everyone in the bunkhouse was aware that something out of the ordinary was going on. All of the occupants were watching closely. Their stares ran the gamut from amusement to bewilderment to hostility.

  One of the scowlers was a heavily bearded man who sat on the third bunk at which Longarm stopped. Though shirtless, he still had on his hat. When Longarm requested him to raise his feet, he replied with a surly, “Why the hell should I?”

  “No reason except I’m asking you to. And your boss told you to answer whatever I asked you about.”

  “I don’t always do what my damn boss tells me to, either,” the cowhand snarled. He leaned back, though, as if to comply with the request.

  Something in the man’s voice had struck a gong in Longarm’s memory. His muscles tensed involuntarily when he heard it, and as the leaning man changed his motion to a rolling reach for the holstered revolver that hung from a peg over his bunk, Longarm had his own Colt out and buried in the cowhand’s bare ribs.

  “I can pull this trigger a hell of a long time before you can reach that gun of yours,” Longarm grated. “Now suppose you just sit back down and raise up your feet.”

  “You’ll have to knock me down!”

  Longarm was too wise to risk breaking a knuckle on a hard skull. Without shifting his Colt, he swung his left elbow around and jabbed it into the reluctant cowhand’s throat. The objector choked, gulped, and dropped to his bunk, gagging. Longarm pulled on the left leg of the man’s Levi’s and brought the sole of his boot into view. A crack gaped in the center, running completely across the sole from edge to edge.

  He dropped the leg and reached for the cowhand’s shoulder. The man’s hat had fallen off when Longarm’s blow landed, and his half-bald head was exposed for the first time. On the left side of his scalp, a long scar ran from the line where his hat kept the skin from tanning, and disappeared in his tangled black hair.

  “Hell!” Longarm exclaimed. “I ought to’ve recognized you right off. Would’ve, except you’ve let your whiskers grow since I put you in the federal pen for twenty years. Last time I saw you, your face was shaved. Prud—let’s see, now—Prud Simmons.”

  “Yeah, damn you! And you oughta remember me. It was you give me this scar on my head,” Simmons growled.

  “You better be glad my eye was off that day,” Longarm told him. “Let’s see. Dakota Territory, just outside Fort Totten, along Devil’s Lake. A half-inch lower, you’d be dead. Was it me, I’d rather be alive in jail than pushing up daisies.” He frowned. “Five years ago, and you got twenty. Even with good-behavior time off, you oughtn’t to be out yet. I’d say you escaped, Prud.”

  “You got too good of a memory, Longarm,” Prud Simmons said sullenly. “That’s what the cons in the big house says, anyhow. So when I saw you out here the other day, I figured you was looking for me. That’s why I begged off sick, told the foreman I was going to town and see the doctor. I thought sure I had you, when I followed you out in the country. Bad luck I missed, damn it!”

  Clem Hawkins had pushed his way through the men who’d crowded into the bunkhouse aisle when the brief fracas had flared. He looked from Simmons to Longarm.

  “You mean this man’s a fugitive from justice, Marshal?” Hawkins asked.

  “I sent him up five years ago for attempted murder and bank robbery. I’d bet he’s busted out of the federal pen, I just ain’t got a wanted circular on him yet.”

  “Betting’s one thing, Long. Being sure is something else. I want you to be damned sure before you haul off one of my men.”

  “If you want to put it that way, then, I’m sure. I’m sure of something else, too.” Longarm fished out the cartridge case he’d found where the night-shooter had kneeled to fire. He passed the brass cylinder to Hawkins. “This is the cartridge case the man who did the shooting ejected out of his rifle. If you take down that rifle over Simmons’s bunk, you’ll see it’s a .32-20, same caliber as this. And if that long-barreled pistol hanging there ain’t the same caliber too, I’ll bite the barrel in half.”

  Hawkins stared at Longarm for a moment, then took down the rifle from its pegs and inspected the action. He tossed the gun on the bunk and lifted the revolver from its holster, opened the loading gate, and peered at the inscription stamped on the cartridge case visible through the gate.

  “You’re right both ways,” he said. There was a grudging respect in his voice. “Looks like you knew what you were doing. I hope you’re satisfied that I didn’t have anything to do with that shooting?”

  “I never figured you did, Mr. Hawkins. Worst thing I thought was that one of your hands heard you cussing the homesteaders so much that he figured they were fair game.”

  Hawkins nodded. “You’re going to take the son of a bitch away, I hope? I don’t want outlaws on my spread, Long.”

  “Oh, I’ll take him to town and turn him over to the sheriff. I’ll ask you one favor, though. It’s night, and more’n a two-hour ride to Junction. Prud’s got a tricky way of slipping handcuffs—that’s how he got shot. He’d been taken by a sheriff up in Dakota, slipped the cuffs off, and shot him. Petrovsky’s got a fresh wound, and he’ll want to drop off at his house, instead of town. I’d sooner take Prud in by daylight.”

  “You don’t have to ask. You can lock Simmons up in the icehouse after supper. There’s no way to open it from inside, and it’s built solid. The water drain’ll give him air, and there’s no ice in it now. There’s a spare bunk in my segundo’s shack. You can sleep there.”

  “I guess that includes my friend, Mr. Petrovsky, too?”

  Longarm gave Hawkins credit. The rancher hesitated for only a few seconds before nodding. “Seeing he’s hurt, I’ll let him stay too. But—” for the first time, Hawkins spoke to Petrovsky—“Don’t you get the idea you’re welcome. You and your kind never will be, on my place.” He looked at the men around them. “Hetter, Rob, you two take care of the marshal. Long, I’ll expect you to have these men off my place after breakfast tomorrow.”

  With this, Hawkins turned and stalked from the bunkhouse, leaving his hands to take care of providing the grudging hospitality he’d offered.

  Chapter 8

  To the left of the three riders plodding along the cattle trail toward Junction, the sun had just cleared the horizon. Longarm and Petrovsky rode abreast. Prud Simmons, not only handcuffed, but tied to his horse by a rope looped around his ankles and passed under the animal’s belly, was half a lariat’s length behind them. The morning air was crisp and clean, tanged with just a breath of autumn’s promise.

  Longarm said, “Well, Petrovsky, we cleared up more’n one thing. Prud was aiming at me, not you or one of your friends. And it was a personal grudge that hadn’t got a thing to do with the fuss between your friends in the Brethren and the ranchers, or with the election, either.”

  “Da. Is good to get settled, these things.” Hesitantly, then, he said, “In Amirika, is custom for friends to call first names between each other, nyet?”

  “Mostly. Or nicknames.”

  “Ve are friends, Marshal? If is so, you please call me Fedor?”

  “Why, sure. And—well, a lot of my friends, and a lot of folks who ain’t so friendly, call me Longarm, instead of my real first name, which I ain’t particularly in love with, only it was the one my Ma and Pa gave me, so I bear it right proudly.”

  “Longarm? Eta mozhna, I call you so?”

  “Sure, if you want to.”

  “Spasiba, Longarm. Is good to have friends like you.”

  “I’d say the same thing about you, Fedor. You sort of surprised me, being such a good tracker. I thought all you Brethren were farmers.”

  “Nyet, nyet! Here, is farming all ve can do, until after the language and the Amirikanitski manners ve learn. But in old country, is Mordka schoolteacher, is Nicolai Belivev work in store, is Anatoly Yanishev koosnec, like you say blacksmith. Rest of us, da, look after horses, cow, make crops in fields.”

  “And your family were gamekeepers, trackers. From what I saw yesterday, you did a little man-tracking, too.”

  “Da. To help find criminals, you understand. Not to do anything to help Okhrana catch political refugees. Or religious.”

  “Okhrana? That some kind of policeman?”

  “Is secret police of Tsar. Is bad, Okhrana. Nobody helps them.”

  “Is that why you figured you’d run for sheriff against Grover?”

  “Is not my idea, Longarm.” Petrovsky smiled at his first use of the familiar form of address. “Is from Mordka, from Brethren.” He thought for a moment and added brightly, “But now, I help you find Tsimmons, nyet? And is be good to help me make votes.”

  “Now wait a minute, Fedor. If you start out acting like you’re the sheriff this far ahead of the election, you might not be making a hit with a lot of folks who’d vote for you otherwise.”

  “Making hit?” Fedor asked. “Vhat means this?”

  Longarm grinned. “I guess you never heard about baseball. It’s a game they play back East. One man throws a ball at a man who’s got a club they call a bat, and the fellow with the bat’s supposed to hit the ball. It ain’t much of a game, when you put it up alongside steer-busting and bronc-riding, but the dudes back there seem to like it.”

  “Is good thing a hit to make, bad thing not to, then?”

  “That’s right. The fellow that makes the hits is the one the folks like. And if these folks around here don’t like you, they ain’t going to vote for you.”

  Petrovsky sighed. “Amirikanits talk. Is hard to learn. But I remember vhat you tell me, I do like you say.”

  “You understand, I can’t take sides between you and Grover. I’ve got to stand right in the middle and see you both get a fair shake.”

  “Da. This I know. Is good thing, I think, Amirikanits vay to give everybody same chance.”

  “Sure it is. And I wish you luck, come the election.”

  Ahead of them, a buggy appeared around a curve in the cattle trail. Longarm pointed to it.

  “Well. Looks like old Clem Hawkins is getting an early visitor.”