thought was that the man was a shootist. He wore a black flat-crowned hat and a long midnight blue broadcloth coat, unbuttoned, that went to his knees. He carried a buffalo coat over one arm. The spurs on his black, scuffed and scraped Texas boots rang out with each step. There were twin Colt pistols slung low on either hip like a gunman would wear them.
"Can I help you?" Wynona asked.
"Joe Longtree," he said, turning the lapel over his heart inside out. There was a badge pinned there. "Deputy U.S. Marshal."
"Ah, yes. The Sheriff said you'd be coming."
Longtree smiled. "I'll just bet he did."
Wynona was unsure what was meant by that. Lauters said this federal man would show up and begin nosing about. Lauters also said to beware of him. Longtree, he'd said, was pushy, arrogant, and mouthy. Wynona was expecting the very worst. She had no earthly intention of opposing this man in any way; he was, after all, a federal marshal and carried a certain amount of weight because of it. That and the fact Longtree looked dangerous. His eyes were deep, fathomless blue. Very intense. They were the eyes of a man that killed for a living. Had she been moved by such things, she would have found him exciting.
"I'll be glad to help the law in any way," Wynona told him.
"I'd appreciate that, Miss Spence...you are J. Spence, aren't you?"
"No, unfortunately not. J. Spence was my father, Joshua, dead these past seven years. I'm his daughter, Wynona," she explained in a flat voice. "Do you find it strange for a woman to occupy herself in such a profession?"
Longtree shrugged. "Family business, I guess. Most natural thing in the world for your father to want his kin to carry on things. As long as you're happy with it."
"Oh, I am."
"Then you don't need my approval."
Wynona found herself staring at him, finding him a remarkably enlightened man. It only added to his air of mystery, made him seem exotic somehow. Interesting. Wynona figured she would've fallen in love with him years ago. But not now.
Longtree said, "I don't know what Sheriff Lauters told you, but I can assume it wasn't good. He's taken an instant dislike of me. I'm only here to look into these murders, not take over his job or bully anyone into confessing to the crimes."
Wynona sighed. "Of course not." Longtree had an easy way about him. He seemed well spoken as if he were educated, sincere, honest. He seemed to be the kind of man it would be easy to like, easy to trust. "Would you like to see the body?"
Longtree shook his head, pulling up a chair. "No, I got my fill of that last night. I want to talk about the others."
Wynona sat down. "Very well." She seemed almost disappointed.
Longtree lit a cigar, pulling out a little notebook and pencil.
Wynona watched his every movement, somehow fascinated by him. He was maybe an inch under six feet, muscular without being stocky or massive. His face was clean shaven, rugged, handsome, the skin nearly as dark as that of an Indian, yet the features--long jaw, high cheekbones, aquiline nose--were clearly European in origin. His hair was long, black, a lustrous tinted indigo like that of an Indian. It was pulled back tight and tied with a leather thong.
"My mother was a Crow," Longtree said, reading her thoughts.
Wynona blushed a bit. "My Lord...how did you know I was thinking that?"
"In my profession, mind-reading comes in handy."
Wynona swallowed. "Yes, I imagine it would. So you are an Indian, then?"
Longtree just smiled. "Not too many people ever guess. They think my skin is darker from too much time spent in the sun and wind."
The glow faded from Wynona's cheeks, her skin now sunless again. "No, I don't imagine too many do. The study of physiognomy is something of a hobby of mine. I often try to guess from skin coloration, features and the like where a man's point of origin in the world might be. Do you know, Marshal, that the Indian has dark skin not only because of heredity but because of his lifesytle? If the white race
"Can I help you?" Wynona asked.
"Joe Longtree," he said, turning the lapel over his heart inside out. There was a badge pinned there. "Deputy U.S. Marshal."
"Ah, yes. The Sheriff said you'd be coming."
Longtree smiled. "I'll just bet he did."
Wynona was unsure what was meant by that. Lauters said this federal man would show up and begin nosing about. Lauters also said to beware of him. Longtree, he'd said, was pushy, arrogant, and mouthy. Wynona was expecting the very worst. She had no earthly intention of opposing this man in any way; he was, after all, a federal marshal and carried a certain amount of weight because of it. That and the fact Longtree looked dangerous. His eyes were deep, fathomless blue. Very intense. They were the eyes of a man that killed for a living. Had she been moved by such things, she would have found him exciting.
"I'll be glad to help the law in any way," Wynona told him.
"I'd appreciate that, Miss Spence...you are J. Spence, aren't you?"
"No, unfortunately not. J. Spence was my father, Joshua, dead these past seven years. I'm his daughter, Wynona," she explained in a flat voice. "Do you find it strange for a woman to occupy herself in such a profession?"
Longtree shrugged. "Family business, I guess. Most natural thing in the world for your father to want his kin to carry on things. As long as you're happy with it."
"Oh, I am."
"Then you don't need my approval."
Wynona found herself staring at him, finding him a remarkably enlightened man. It only added to his air of mystery, made him seem exotic somehow. Interesting. Wynona figured she would've fallen in love with him years ago. But not now.
Longtree said, "I don't know what Sheriff Lauters told you, but I can assume it wasn't good. He's taken an instant dislike of me. I'm only here to look into these murders, not take over his job or bully anyone into confessing to the crimes."
Wynona sighed. "Of course not." Longtree had an easy way about him. He seemed well spoken as if he were educated, sincere, honest. He seemed to be the kind of man it would be easy to like, easy to trust. "Would you like to see the body?"
Longtree shook his head, pulling up a chair. "No, I got my fill of that last night. I want to talk about the others."
Wynona sat down. "Very well." She seemed almost disappointed.
Longtree lit a cigar, pulling out a little notebook and pencil.
Wynona watched his every movement, somehow fascinated by him. He was maybe an inch under six feet, muscular without being stocky or massive. His face was clean shaven, rugged, handsome, the skin nearly as dark as that of an Indian, yet the features--long jaw, high cheekbones, aquiline nose--were clearly European in origin. His hair was long, black, a lustrous tinted indigo like that of an Indian. It was pulled back tight and tied with a leather thong.
"My mother was a Crow," Longtree said, reading her thoughts.
Wynona blushed a bit. "My Lord...how did you know I was thinking that?"
"In my profession, mind-reading comes in handy."
Wynona swallowed. "Yes, I imagine it would. So you are an Indian, then?"
Longtree just smiled. "Not too many people ever guess. They think my skin is darker from too much time spent in the sun and wind."
The glow faded from Wynona's cheeks, her skin now sunless again. "No, I don't imagine too many do. The study of physiognomy is something of a hobby of mine. I often try to guess from skin coloration, features and the like where a man's point of origin in the world might be. Do you know, Marshal, that the Indian has dark skin not only because of heredity but because of his lifesytle? If the white race
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