Free The High Rocks by Loren D. Estleman

in the center of the cone. After the dimness of the snow-covered landscape outside, it was some moments before my eyes could discern anything in the gloom that surrounded that crackling brightness. Meanwhile, I occupied myself by listening to the voice that addressed me as soon as I entered.
    â€œYou’re far from home, Page Murdock.” It was a dry voice; something that had been left too close to
the fire so that all the moisture had been allowed to bake away, leaving only the brittle shell. It handled English with less difficulty than Rocking Wolf, which was no surprise. During his fifty-odd years, Chief Two Sisters had learned to speak three languages fluently.
    â€œFarther than you think, Chief,” I said after a moment. I fished my badge out of my breast pocket and held it up in the firelight. “I’m a deputy U.S. marshal operating out of Helena. The man your braves were torturing when they were surprised by Mountain That Walks was my prisoner. He’s the reason I’m here.”
    The fire hissed and belched while Two Sisters digested the information I’d given him. Gradually, I was able to make out the lines and finally the details of a lean figure sitting up on a straw pallet on the other side of the flames, his back supported against one of the sturdy poles and a buffalo robe drawn up to his chest. His eyes were black hollows beneath a high, square brow. The shifting firelight threw his equally square chin and sharp cheekbones into relief against the corrugated parchment of the rest of his face. He had a wide, firm mouth and a nose with a crushed bridge, as if at some time in the distant past it had come up hard against the flat of an enemy tomahawk. His hair was shoulder-length but unbraided, the color of tarnished silver. The term Flathead being a misnomer foisted upon the Montana Salish by the early pioneers, there were no
signs of the artificial flattening of the skull practiced by some western tribes. His breathing, loud in the seclusion of the lodge, was even but careful, as I suppose any man’s would be after he had broken several ribs falling from his horse.
    There was a third party in the lodge, a squat, broad-shouldered brave whose features were impossible to make out as he stood almost completely enveloped in shadow beside his seated chief. His chest was naked and powerful, leathery slabs of muscle glistening beneath the obligatory coating of bear grease. When he moved his head I caught a glimpse of firelight glinting off the buffalo horns of his headdress. That would make him the medicine man. Knowing that, I didn’t have to see his face to guess what he thought of my presence in camp. There isn’t a medicine man west of Buffalo Bill’s show who doesn’t view all white men as a threat to his authority.
    â€œThis man you say you were hunting,” spoke up Two Sisters. “Which of your laws did he break?”
    I told him. His scowl carved deep lines from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth.
    â€œA foolish crime. We Salish beat our squaws when they make us angry, but we do not kill them. What’s to be gained?” He sighed, easing his breath out between his cracked ribs. “It’s a shame that Mountain That Walks arrived when he did to put an end to his suffering. The fate the hunting party
had planned for him was far more fitting. He is the one responsible for your injury?”
    I put a hand to my head, touching the bandage beneath the brim of my hat. The pounding had become so much a part of me that I’d forgotten I was wearing it. I nodded.
    â€œHe had no firearms?”
    â€œHe did after he hit me. I saw no sign of them where he was killed. At the time I assumed Bear Anderson had taken them, but they could just as easily have been picked up by Rocking Wolf and his party.”
    Two Sisters shook his head. “My brother’s son says the only weapons he saw were those that had been carried by the dead braves. Their