Stamping Ground by Loren D. Estleman

told he had retired to the Standing Rock reservation. Also Broken Jaw, a Cheyenne warrior, and Blood on His Lance, who was a sub-chief under the great Oglala Crazy Horse. The others I do not know.”
    â€œThat’s all right. That’s enough.”
    â€œSo what do we do?” repeated the marshal.
    â€œWhy ask me?” I swung the glass back to him. The movement startled him. He jumped, then grabbed the instrument with both hands. “You’re the ramrod in this outfit.”
    â€œYou’ve fought injuns. I never been closer to one than a cigar store.”
    â€œI shot at a few. That’s not the same as fighting them.”
    â€œIt’s close enough for me.”
    â€œWhile we are arguing,” Pere Jac put in, “I suggest that we get down behind this hill before they see us against the horizon.”
    â€œCongratulations,” I told him. “You just became our new Indian expert.”
    We wheeled our horses and withdrew below the crest of the rise. There we dismounted and squatted to confer, holding onto the animals’ reins in the absence of a place to tether them. We kept our voices low, which was ridiculous, considering the distance that separated us from the Indians at the mission. Fear does strange things to people.
    â€œIt is obvious that one of us must go back for the soldiers while the rest remain here to keep an eye on the Indians.” Jac took out his stubby pipe and sucked air throughit noisily. “The question is, which of us shall it be?”
    We exchanged glances for a while, but no one seemed inclined to volunteer. There was no telling what kind of reception awaited the one who returned to the fort alone. Ghost Shirt, however, was something on which we could count. At length the métis shrugged and plucked a handful of stiff new grass from the ground at his feet. He spent some time sorting through the blades, decided on three, discarded the others, then made a show of clearing his throat, like the foreman of a jury milking his moment in the sun before delivering the verdict.
    â€œWe will draw straws. The holder of the short straw will go.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t like it.”
    â€œWhy not?” Hudspeth demanded. “It seems fair enough.”
    â€œThat’s why I don’t like it.”
    Jac shuffled the bits of stubble in such a way that we couldn’t see what he was doing, and held out a fist from the top of which the ends barely protruded.
    Hudspeth selected the first one and held it up. It was about two inches long. His breath came out in a sigh.
    I stared at the two remaining until the breed began to show signs of impatience—which, taking into account his natural stoic disposition, should give some idea of how long I stalled. I took a deep breath and plucked out the one on the right. It fell just short of an inch.
    We looked at Jac. He was enjoying his role. He kept us in suspense for as long as was prudent, and when Hudspeth’s nose began to flush he opened his fist. A straw an inch and a half long lay in the hollow of his palm.
    â€œI told you I didn’t like it.” I threw down the evidence and got up to remount. “I’ll be back when I can.” The bay grunted in protest when I swung a leg over its back, as if it knew where we were going.
    â€œJust a minute.” Hudspeth took hold of the bit chain. “If you bring the army and they help us catch Ghost Shirt,how are we going to get him away from them to hang in Bismarck?”
    I leaned forward and, taking his wrist between thumb and forefinger, removed his hand from the bit. “You worry too much,” I said. “We’ll never live to see Bismarck again anyway.”
    â€œGood luck, Page.” Pere Jac’s expression was blank.
    I could see he really meant it, so I choked back the response I had all set, nodded curtly, and laid down tracks east.
    The rain in Dakota, I learned, doesn’t stop during the