Fedor shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed at the buggy as it drew nearer. “You can see who is him in buggy?”

  Longarm looked more closely. The vehicle was now near enough for him to make out the face of the man who was the buggy’s lone occupant, but it meant nothing to him. “I see him all right, but I don’t know who he is. Somebody from Junction?”

  “Nyet. Is man Mordka tell you about, man who cheat us on our vheat crop last year.”

  “Oren Stone? The fellow from Chicago?”

  “Da. Is him. Still pretty far avay, but him I know, I don’t make mistake.”

  Picking up speed as it left the curved spot in the cattle trail, the buggy was bouncing along at a good clip by the time it reached the riders. Longarm led them off the trail to give the carriage the center of the path. It passed them going fast. Longarm looked closely at the man holding the reins, but got little more than an impression of a stern face and a gray suit and hat.

  Watching the dust trail the buggy raised, he said thoughtfully, “Of course, there’s other ranches besides Hawkins’s along this trail, I’d guess. But it’s my bet that Stone’s going to see old Clem.”

  “You think is vork together, Hawkins and Stone?” Fedor asked.

  “Right this minute, I ain’t sure what to think. It was day before yesterday that Stone got to Junction. If he was real anxious to see Hawkins, why didn’t he go yesterday?”

  “Is maybe look at vheatfields yesterday,” Fedor suggested.

  “Yep. That might be the way it is. Well, there’s a lot more I’ve got to find out before I can make up my mind about a lot of things.”

  Petrovsky frowned, puzzled. “Explain, please, Longarm. Ya nipanauy. Is something you think about you don’t tell me yet?”

  Longarm took his eyes off the buggy. “I’m wondering just how Stone fits into this. Did he ever give you men any idea why he just happened to show up here last year?”

  “Nyet. Is just come in big railroad car as belongs to him, and start to buy our vheat crop.”

  “He ever spend any time you know about with Hawkins or the other cattlemen?”

  Again Petrovsky shook his head. “If he does this, ve do not know about it.”

  “Paid you off in cash, I guess? He’d almost have to, seeing as there’s not any bank in Junction.”

  “Gold he gives us for vheat, and more gold to sign paper saying ve sell him crop again this year.”

  “Well, we’ll find out soon enough whether him and Hawkins are in cahoots, but I’m betting he ain’t going out there this morning just to shake hands. That’s for me to look into later, though. Right now, I’ve got to get Prud into the sheriff’s office and see that he’s locked up. No need for you to go all the way into town with me, Fedor. When we get to whatever turnoff takes you home, you’d better go explain to your wife where you spent the night. She’s probably getting a mite anxious.”

  “Nyet. Is know, Mariska, I look after myself good. But is better I don’t go to sheriff’s office vith you, da?”

  “Da, and da again. If I was you, I’d steer clear of Grover just as much as possible between now and election day.”

  * * *

  Grover’s door was open and he was sitting at his desk. He looked up when Longarm pushed Prud Simmons through the door, and when he saw the handcuffs on Simmons’s wrists, his eyes widened.

  “What the hell have you been up to now, Long?” the sheriff said testily.

  “I ran across this yahoo just sort of by accident. He’s the man who did the night-shooting.”

  “Where was he hiding?” Grover asked.

  “Best place a man can hide. In a crowd. He’s one of the extra hands Clem Hawkins hired on for his gather.”

  “Damn it! You’ve butted into my jurisdiction! Now, we agreed—”

  “Hold up, Grover,” Longarm snapped. “No need to get feisty. Prud here also happens to be a fugitive, escaped from a federal pen. That’s right, ain’t it, Prud?” Simmons said nothing, but maintained the silence he’d held ever since Longarm had arrested him.

  “All right, tell me the story,” Grover said, when Prud refused to speak.

  “Sure,” Longarm replied. “I took Prud in for attempted murder and bank robbery up in Dakota Territory about five years ago. He drew a twenty-year sentence, so the only way he could be outside now is by breaking out.”

  “Or being pardoned,” Grover pointed out.

  “Not likely! But it won’t take long to make sure.”

  “What evidence have you got that he’s the night-shooter?”

  “Enough. Got a shell case from the place he was hiding when he fired off the shot, and a rifle to match it. It’s a .32-20, and there ain’t many of them down this far south. They favor it for the mountain country up north, where there’s a lot of long-range shooting. You might find three or four rifles of this caliber around here, maybe.”

  “Is that what you’re counting on for evidence?”

  “It’s not everything. Me and a witness found a bootprint out where Prud waited in a wheatfield. Sole’s cracked all the way across. You can look at the boots he’s got on. The left one matches that print, where I picked up the cartridge case.”

  “Pretty thin evidence,” Grover grunted. “Who’s your witness?”

  “You’d know him. Fedor Petrovsky.”

  “What?” Disbelief dripped from the sheriff’s voice. “What kind of game are you trying to play with me, Long? You took that nester bastard out with you on a case he’s involved in? What kind of witness is he going to make? Hell, he’s an interested party.”

  “He’s more than that. Fedor’s a trained tracker. His family have been gamekeepers in Russia for years.”

  “Gamekeepers? What’s that mean?”

  “Trackers, the way I understand it. They find tracks that show where a bear or elk is hiding out, then they guide the hunters to where it is.”

  Grover snorted. “Of all the fool things I ever heard! If these gamekeepers know where the animal’s at, why don’t they just shoot it themselves, and have it over with?”

  “I don’t know why, Grover. I guess they just do things different over there. But I watched Fedor. He knows tracking, all right.”

  “Maybe so, but you know how a jury’d take his testimony? Why, they’d laugh it out of court. You’d never get a conviction.”

  “That’s as it might be. You’ve still got Prud on that Dakota charge.”

  “Yeah. I guess I can hold him on that. Or could, if you’re sure he’s wanted for breaking out of the pen.”

  “It’ll only take a couple of hours to find out. I’ll go over to the railroad yard and wire my office in Denver. They’ll know.”

  “All right,” Grover said grudgingly. “I’ll lock him up. You go send your wire. We’ll figure out what to do when we’ve got the answer to it.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Longarm said. He started to unlock the shackles on Prud’s wrists. Simmons still said nothing. Longarm pushed the man toward the sheriff. “All right, Grover. He’s your prisoner now. I’d better warn you, he’s real slick at picking locks. If I was you, I’d keep a close eye on him.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just go get that wire off.”

  Longarm wasted no time getting to the Santa Fe train shed. As he passed the livery stable, he saw the buggy that had passed him and Fedor on the cattle trail heading back toward town, and made a note in his mind to call on Stone as soon as possible. At the train shed, he wrote out the wire asking about Simmons, and told the lone station agent who also served as telegrapher, “It’ll likely be a couple of hours before you get an answer. If you’d bring it to me, I’d appreciate it. You’ll find me at the Ace High or Cattleman’s, if I’m not at the restaurant or the sheriff’s office.”

  The agent nodded. “Sure, Marshal. You’ll have it just the minute I copy it off the wire.”

  As Longarm started back to Junction, he noticed Stone’s private railroad car sitting on a siding beyond the station.

  No time like now to talk to the gent, he told himself. He’ll be right fresh from visiting Clem Hawkins, or whoever he went to see this morning. Maybe he’ll let something drop if it’s fresh in his mind.

  He walked to the railroad siding and knocked at the frosted glass door in the car’s front vestibule. He kept from showing his surprise when the door was opened by an attractive blonde woman in her middle twenties.

  “Yes?” she asked. Her voice showed a total lack of interest.

  “I’m looking for Oren Stone.”

  “Mr. Stone is out.”

  “That’s funny. I just saw him drive up in a buggy to the livery stable. That ain’t more than a few steps away, Miss Stone.”

  “I’m not Miss Stone, and I don’t know when Mr. Stone will be back. I’ll tell him you called, if you’ll give me your name. Then, if Mr. Stone wants to see you, he’ll send for you.”

  “Well, now. Suppose if I do that, and Mr. Stone sends for me, I don’t feel like being sent for? It’d be sort of hard for us to get together if that happened, wouldn’t it?”

  Her voice was cold. “Mr. Stone usually decides whether he’s interested in—as you put it—getting together with someone who comes asking to see him.”

  “That’s funny. I’ve got the same habit myself. Only I haven’t got a pert young lady to answer my door and tell folks about it.”

  “As it happens, that’s my job,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re real good at it too. You look to me like you’d be good in any job you cared to take on.”

  “I find that a very impertinent remark.”

  “Do you, now? I was trying to pay you a compliment, but I guess you took it the wrong way.” Longarm smiled.

  “Really? I can very well do without compliments from strangers, Mr. . . . you never did give me your name.”

  “So I didn’t. Now, you know, that just might be on account of what I told you a minute ago. I’ve got a habit of not liking to have somebody send for me.”

  “Perhaps if you’d tell me what you want to see Mr. Stone about—” the girl suggested. She was obviously trying to be patient, but Longarm thought she wasn’t trying hard enough.

  “I’d rather keep that between Mr. Stone and me,” he replied. “If I tell him and he tells you, that’d be his business. If I tell you and he thinks I ought not have, that’s something else.”

  “I’d say that’s a fair statement,” a man’s voice said from behind Longarm.

  Turning, Longarm recognized the man who’d been identified on the cattle trail by Fedor Petrovsky. He said, “You’d be Mr. Oren Stone, I take it?”

  “I am.” The wheat broker looked past Longarm to address the girl. “Who is this man, Mae? And what kind of trouble is he giving you?”

  “Well . . . not really trouble,” she replied, after a momentary hesitation. “He’s been insisting on seeing you, but so far I haven’t persuaded him to tell me his name or his business.”

  “Yes, I gathered that from what I overheard,” Stone said. “All right.” He faced Longarm again. “Now that I’m here, suppose you tell me who you are and what you want.”

  “The name’s Custis Long, Mr. Stone.” Longarm slid his wallet out of his inside coat pocket and flipped it open. “Deputy U.S. marshal out of the Denver office. I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

  “About what?”

  “Mostly about some complaints the wheat farmers hereabouts have made to me. That’s good enough for openers.”

  “I can’t imagine what they’d have to complain about. I’ve done a little business with them, but certainly nothing illegal, nothing that would interest the federal authorities.” When Longarm offered no explanation, the wheat speculator went on, “Come inside if you want to tell me what all this is about.”

  Mae stepped aside to let Stone and Longarm pass from the vestibule to the entryway of the private car. She closed the door and followed a step or two behind them.

  Longarm took in the interior of the railroad car with a quick glance. It was a standard-sized coach, but its size was the only thing standard about it. Walnut-paneled walls, lace draperies at the stained glass windows, more stained glass in the gaslights’ shades, an overstuffed lounge chair, a divan, a mahogany dining table, and a sideboard laden with cut glass turned the front end of the couch into a luxurious sitting room–dining room. At the rear, a narrow door stood ajar, revealing a corner of a kitchen done in Shining nickel-plated metal; a second door beyond that was also half-open, and through it, Longarm could see part of a lavishly spread bed.

  Stone motioned Longarm to a chair and settled down on the divan, facing him. Over his shoulder, he commanded brusquely, “Mae, see what Marshal Long will take, and fix me my usual.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Stone.” In contrast to the tone it had held during her earlier exchange with Longarm, the girl’s voice was appealingly pleasant. “Mr. Long? Or should I call you Marshal Long? What will you have to drink?”

  “Maryland rye without any fancy trimmings, if you’ve got some on hand. And it doesn’t make any difference what you call me, Miss—Miss—”

  “Bonner,” Stone put in. “Mae Bonner.” To the girl he said, “Be sure to serve the marshal the Gillincrest rye, Mae. If your taste is for Maryland whiskey, Marshal, I think you’ll find this one pleasant.”

  Stone said nothing more until Mae Bonner had poured the drinks and served them. Both men used the pause to size one another up, exchanging looks of frank appraisal, Longarm meeting the broker’s close scrutiny with an equally penetrating one.

  He saw a man in his late fifties, judging by his white hair and faintly lined ruddy skin. Stone favored a straight, full, British-cut mustache. Under it, his lips were red and full. His nose was aquiline, his eyes brown, his full sideburns carefully trimmed. He wore a faultlessly tailored lounging suit of gray cheviot. Longarm remembered that he’d deposited a pearl gray derby on the hat rack in the car’s entryway; it matched the spats that covered his ankles above highly polished black shoes. His full-puffed cravat was dark; an opal stickpin glistened in it, and a pair of opals were set in gold links that held his snowy cuffs.

  When Longarm had sipped his whiskey, Stone’s appraising look changed to one of questioning. Longarm nodded. “This is as fine a whiskey as I’ve ever tasted. Just wish I could afford it.”

  Stone smiled. “I’m afraid it’s not a matter of price, Marshal. A few of us contract for delivery of the entire output of this whiskey, and there’s a waiting list of men who’ll take the places of any of us who don’t buy our standing order every year.”

  “However you come by it, this is still damned fine whiskey, Mr. Stone.” Longarm took out a cheroot and lighted it. The tobacco smoke and rye flavor mixed blandly on his tongue.

  “I thought you’d enjoy it. Now, then.” Stone was suddenly all business. His smile vanished, his eyes grew cold. “What am I accused of doing that’s set the federal government after me?”

  “I’d better straighten you out on one thing, before I say another word. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. I’d just like to ask you a question or two, and I figure the best way to run down rumors is to go right to the man who’s involved in them.”

  “Ask ahead. My conscience is clear.”

  “Fine. You were here in Junction about this time last year, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. I told you I had some dealings with the immigrants who are growing wheat here.”

  “You bought their wheat?”

  “Certainly. That’s my business, buying and selling commodities.”

  “Did you pay the going price at the time you bought it, or the price it got when you sold it later on the Grain Exchange?”

  “That’s got no bearing on anything, Marshal. The Justice Department hasn’t any jurisdiction over private commodities sales. God help the country if it ever does. You’d have a bunch of know-nothing drones in Washington telling experienced businessmen how to run their affairs.”

  “Just for my own satisfaction, Mr. Stone, could you see your way clear to give me an answer?”

  Stone thought for a moment. “Very well. As long as it’s understood that it’s given to you privately and unofficially.”

  “You’ve got my word on it.”

  “I did what any broker would have, bought at the current market price and sold at the price that was current when I wanted to dispose of my holdings. In a private transaction, that doesn’t come under any kind of government regulation, I might add.”

  “Sure. I don’t say you did anything that wasn’t legal. I’m just trying to run down a complaint or two.”

  Stone seemed mollified. He said, “I think you’re intelligent enough to tell the difference between the value of my word and that of an ignorant immigrant, Long.”

  “I’d sure try to. Now, tell me about the option agreements these wheat growers signed over to you last year, if you don’t mind. Do they set a fixed price?”

  “Certainly not. They bind the grower to sell his crop on my call at the current market price per bushel. If they don’t live up to their agreements, I can sue them. And will, let me assure you. That’s legal too, by the way.”

  “What you’re doing is called hedging short sales, ain’t it, Mr. Stone? Seems like I’ve heard it called that, even if I don’t set myself up as an expert on how stock and grain markets work. As I get it, we say wheat’s priced at maybe ten cents a bushel, and you sell ten thousand bushels on the market, only you don’t deliver the grain right then. Is that what you brokers call selling short?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, supposing wheat goes down to a nickel. You buy ten thousand bushels for a nickel, but you sold for a dime, so you’re covered.”

  “Right again.” An amused smile began forming on Stone’s face.