Longarm and the Arizona Ambush

“And that is how you come to turn in your badge? All them years of robbing and shooting come from a curiosity you had.”

Shaw nodded. “Yep. I’d have to say that was true.”

Longarm shook his head slowly. “Well, I guess that explains it a little better.”

“What? Explains what?”

“Oh, the way you are. The way you ain’t got no hesitation about plugging anybody, whether they be your partners or not. I always wondered about you. I always kind of thought you was about as cold-blooded as any hard case I ever run across. I reckon that any man that can turn from town marshal into bank robber just to see what it feels like don’t give anything much thought.” Shaw said, “I don’t know I much like the sound of that. You give some thought to how long I been operating and how few times I been caught. That ought to make it clear that I give plenty of thought and planning to every caper I pull off. I knew that first time was blind luck. It still scares me sometimes when I think about it. That’s why I’m so careful now. You asked me about why I stayed in them mountains so long, jumping from one little range over into another. Well, it’s that kind of thinkin’ has made me successful.”

Longarm looked at him carefully. “I didn’t mean that kind of thought, Jack. I meant thought about what you were doing and the rightness or wrongness of the matter, the consequences.”

Shaw laughed. “Oh, I get it. Like what you was talking about them folks had run judgment on themselves and stepped into a situation where you had to kill ‘em. Well, no, I don’t speculate on them kind of matters for one second. I’ll never let you be my executioner because I feel guilty, Custis.”

Longarm smiled. “You done proved that. Now we better get along. It’s getting late and we ain’t spotted that cabin yet.” Shaw said, “Damn, I am nearly dying for a woman. How about you, Custis?

Could you stand a little?”

Longarm’s thoughts immediately flew to the image of Molly Dowd. He said quickly, “Dammit, don’t start talking like that with us out in the middle of the desert. Just save that talk for another time.”

“You going to let me get to a woman before you turn me in, Custis?”

“Dammit, shut up, I said. I been out in this country as long as you have. So save that talk until it will do some good.”

Shaw laughed. “Aw, hell, Longarm, I’m serious. Who is the best woman you ever knowed?”

“My mother,” Longarm said shortly. “Now shut the hell up.”

“Now Custis, they has got to be one woman that has stood out for you over the years. I know I’ve had two I ain’t ever going to forget.”

“Well, do us both a favor and forget ‘em for the time being.”

“Just tell me if you generally favor darker women—you know, Mexican and such—or do you like ‘em light skinned and blond?”

Longarm rode his horse a little out to the left. “Mostly I like them handy if there is any of this kind of talking to be done. Do you take my point?”

“Well, what was the best you ever had? Can you remember that? I mean, I’ve had a piece off a woman was the best I thought it could get. Then I’ve gone back to that same woman and it wasn’t shucks. How do you explain that?”

Longarm was silent, refusing to be drawn into the debate.

Shaw sighed. “Seems like at times like this the best you ever had was the last one. That’s what I feel right now. I wish to hell I was in bed with them two Mexican women of mine right now.”

Longarm was forced to speak. He could not help himself. “You take ‘em on two at a time?”

“Well, sometimes. You want to hear about it?”

“No,” Longarm said firmly. “It ain’t good manners to talk about women. Now shut your trap. We got to make some miles.”

Chapter 7

He wished to hell Jack Shaw had kept his mouth shut about women. The minute he’d mentioned the subject, Molly Dowd had jumped into Longarm’s mind, and in trying to force her out of his senses Lily Gail had somehow horned in, and you couldn’t get Lily Gail out of your mind, not that easily, not without something else to think about besides the blank prairie and the blazing sun that left you about half light-headed, and not if you’d been without as long as Longarm had.

Lily Gail. She’d had several last names in the short time Longarm had known her. She was always claiming to have just been married, which was why her last name had changed, but her husbands seemed to have recently gotten killed. One of the reasons for that was that she seemed to pick her husbands out of the Gallagher gang, which had terrorized Oklahoma Territory and eastern Arkansas for a good ten years. Longarm had first met Lily Gail when she’d been used as bait to lure him into a trap, and a well-baited trap it was.

Lily Gail was a smallish woman in her mid-twenties, though there was still a lot of the girl about her. She had golden, butter-colored hair that she wore just to her shoulders, usually with a little bow up front. The surprising thing about her hair was that her pubic thatch was just as golden, but it seemed to have an interweaving of strawberry color running through it. Longarm had studied that silken little patch at very close quarters. It grew out of the notch where her white and, oh, so smooth inner thighs met, spreading upward and outward to form an arrowhead as if it were pointing the direction to where the treasure lay, which it was. Then, with her legs up, you could see as the little threads of fuzzy silk ran down and around her vagina on both sides, sort of framing what lay between. It seemed as if the careless little hairs grew more golden red as they came closer to that little pink nest that they were protecting. All Longarm knew was that it made the most exciting maze of colors when you took both of your thumbs and opened up her vagina, seeing it go all pink and seeing the inner lips rise and come toward you, already glistening with moisture and seeming to have an inner pulse that you could feel as you lowered your lips to meet them.

Lily Gail had a vagina like none he’d ever found on any other woman.

She could seem to open it so you almost felt you could get your head inside. But then she could constrict it so that she could close down on your member and rhythmically milk it and massage it while you wanted to go out of your mind with a pleasure that was so intense it was almost painful.

For a small girl she had surprisingly big breasts. But they didn’t droop. Instead they stood firm and erect, her nipples big as cherries almost pointing upward. She liked those sucked. She liked to hold your head in her hands and move you back and forth from one to the other, all the time moaning and jerking her hips. Then she liked to take your head and move you down her stomach, down through the forest of golden hair that carpeted the fat, little mound at the bottom of her belly, down through that to where she could suddenly drop your head with her hands and, so quick it seemed they’d already been there, swing her little legs up and catch you in a grip and hold you there. Then she would thrust at your mouth and tongue, thrust and writhe and gasp and pull at your hair.

Longarm never talked about his women. And he knew that, even if he did, he could never talk about Lily Gail because he didn’t have the words to describe her. He didn’t know how to say, “She never gets enough,” with sufficient impact so his listener would understand that he was saying, “I mean, SHE NEVER GETS ENOUGH!” So he had never tried.

He had simply run Lily Gail through his mind in slow sequences the way you sometimes saw things so clearly and so easily in a gunfight. The other man is reaching for his gun and you can see it, almost to where the blue is worn off around the cylinders, can see it as he has the gun half out of the holster, can see it as the revolver keeps on being drawn. But you are not worried because you know that you are still comfortably ahead of the man, know that you have already cleared leather and are starting to bring your gun up while he is not yet clear. You can see him now starting up, but you know he is too late.

You almost feel sorry for the man, do in fact have the time to feel sorry for him, for your arm is already out and you are pointing where you are looking and squeezing the trigger and dust is suddenly popping out of his shirt where the bullet has hit and the man is going backwards even as he is still trying to bring his revolver up.

Longarm could see Lily Gail like that, but he couldn’t describe it. He couldn’t describe her mouth, for instance, which was constantly kissing or sucking or licking. Once she got close enough, she fastened onto you with that mouth, perhaps onto your own mouth, and after that she had some part of you in it, even if it was just a finger or your knee, whatever she could reach.

She seemed to almost melt into you, seeming somehow to get inside you and at the same time wrap herself around you. She had a thin little layer of what Longarm thought of as baby fat, and maybe that was what made her feel so soft and pliable, so enterable. He could remember the first time, when he’d been chained to a post in the barn, waiting for the Gallaghers to come and kill him, and she’d come out in the late night and, by lantern light, had teased him as she’d taken off her clothes. Then she’d gotten on her hands and knees and backed toward him, with that beautiful round moon of what seemed like a single buttock except it was slashed with the pink ribbon through the middle. She had backed up to him as he’d waited on his knees, with orders not to move his hands off his head, and she had somehow, without his hands or hers as guides, reached up and pulled him into her, and then kept backing and backing until he could not believe he was so deep inside her, and still she kept backing until he almost felt like she was inside him.

Then, without using her hips or allowing him to move, she had worked him and worked him with just that muscle inside her until he had exploded so big and so hard he’d almost knocked her down. But she’d held him by his member with that muscle, still working him, still milking him, until he had collapsed and fallen to the barn floor.

But not only could Lily Gail never seem to get enough, she didn’t seem to figure you should either. More than once Longarm had looked into that pink mouth, either one, and worried about when he would get out because she could and would hold you until she was ready to let you go.

If he exploded in her vagina, she would just clamp that muscle a little tighter and keep going. If it was her mouth, she would somehow harden and tighten the rim of her lips and hold him and massage him back to life with her tongue and slowly bring him back up again. She had once made him ejaculate four times in the span of an hour, and would have gone for more if Longarm hadn’t pinned her down and lain on top of her until he could get the strength back to get out of bed and put his clothes on. It made sweat start on his forehead to even think about it.

He was lifting his sleeve to wipe his forehead when he heard, “Custis!

Custis! Longarm!”

He came back to himself to see Jack Shaw looking back at him and pointing. Shaw said, “Ain’t that a cabin off yonder?”

Looking where Shaw pointed, Longarm was able to see the top half of a windmill and some of what looked to be a small cabin. It was about a half a mile south and east of them. It seemed to be in a little depression in the prairie, low enough that they could have missed it if they had been much further north. Longarm, still trying to come back to himself, said, “I hope to hell they have kept that windmill in good repair. These horses may not need water right now, but they damn sure will tomorrow. Especially if we are going to make any distance.”

They rode slowly on toward the cabin. As they neared, Longarm felt pretty sure that it was not in use. There was no livestock in the small corral in the back, and no other sign of occupancy. The front door stood open, though the windows on both sides appeared to De boarded up against the blowing sand. This cabin, unlike the one they had used the day before, had a small roof that extended out from the front of the house, making a little porch even though the bottom was just dirt. Longarm could see an old, cane-bottomed straight-backed chair lying on its side. As they neared he could see that the blades of the windmill were turning slowly, though it was too far to tell if it was pumping water.

Shaw said, “Looks like we won’t have to turn nobody out.”

“Or pay rent.”

They rode past the house and circled around to the back of the pen.

The gate to the corral was closed. Longarm bade Shaw get down and open it while he waited. The outlaw dismounted with his hands manacled, walked over to the gate, slid a wooden bar back, and then pulled the gate outward. When it was open wide enough, the gate drooped in the sand and stuck. Shaw walked out, took his horse by the headband, and led him inside the corral, the three ponies on lead ropes following. Longarm waited until they were all inside, then rode over, took the gate in his left hand, and rode his horse into the corral, pulling the gate closed behind him. He dismounted, shoved the wooden bar home into its locked position, and turned around. Shaw was busy unbridling his horse and throwing the bridle over the fence.

Longarm was gratified to see that there was water. instead of a deep barrel, there was a long, wooden trough made out of planks. It was leaking and it was shallow, but there was water in it and all of the horses were crowding around, eager to drink. Longarm let Shaw get his saddle and saddle blanket off his horse and drape them over the fence before he said, “Jack, I reckon you better duck through the fence and walk on out there on the prairie about fifty or a hundred yards while I get the rest of these horses set up and make some kind of camp.”

Shaw pulled a frown. “Aw, hell, Longarm, why can’t I wait inside the cabin? It is hot as hell. I need to get in the shade. Hell, I’m about wore out. I ain’t had a hell of a lot more rest than you have. Let me go in the cabin.”

Longarm shook his head. “I don’t know what is in the cabin. And I wouldn’t be able to see you. You go on out yonder on the prairie and I’ll hurry as fast as I can. Won’t be long. Get you a fresh drink if you want to before you go. Or here … “—He turned around, dug in his saddlebag, and came out with half a quart of his Maryland whiskey. “You can bite off a chunk of this while you wait.” He pitched the bottle over. Shaw caught it and started through the fence.

Shaw said, “Well, hurry up. I’m starvin’. And hot. And about to go to prison. And ain’t had a woman in-“

“Shut up!” Longarm commanded. “Now, get on!”

He watched as Shaw walked south a distance. Finally the man stopped, turned around, and squatted down. Longarm could see him uncork the whiskey and tilt the bottle. It made Longarm’s mouth pucker a little. He’d be glad to get settled down and drink some whiskey in peace. The last week seemed to have been so rushed he hadn’t been able to do anything at rest or at his own pace. Shaw had called the pace. Up until now. Now Longarm would call it for a while.

He glanced toward the sun. It was hanging low in the sky, but it was still hot enough to keep the turkey buzzards circling so high that they were mere dots. He turned to his work of getting the horses tended to and making some kind of camp.

The inside of this cabin was much like the other. The only furniture was the chair lying under the porch roof. There was a door and a window in the back, and with the ones in the front they let in enough light that he could see the place. There was a fireplace, and he delighted to see a bundle of kindling and a few pieces of split cordwood. A fire would not only take some of the night’s chill off the cabin, but it also meant they could have coffee. Longarm hadn’t had any coffee since he’d left the train and headed into the mountains.

But tonight he was going to drink coffee, have some kind of hot meal, smoke a cigar and drink whiskey, and get in more than a fitful two or three hours’ sleep. He didn’t expect Shaw to be trouble, not this early. As they got nearer and nearer to the law in New Mexico and further away from the threat of the Arizona Rangers, then yes, he might go to cutting up. But Longarm didn’t figure Shaw had had much more rest and nourishment than he’ had had. Shaw might have gotten a little more whiskey drunk and a few more cigars smoked, but he had been moving just as fast to stay ahead as Longarm had trying to catch up. And Longarm hadn’t had to slow himself up by murdering six of his gang either.

He went out into the corral, noting that Shaw was still squatting on the prairie, and got Shaw’s bedroll and his saddlebags as well as his own. It made quite a little bundle. He also brought in his saddle blanket to use as a groundcloth. It was starting to turn into dusk. The twilight held for a long time on the high plains, but he figured he’d better get Shaw in before he got lost in the dark. He whistled and waved with his arm, signaling Shaw to come in. He watched while the outlaw stood up and came walking forward, his arms looking awkward not swinging by his side, being positioned by his hands being manacled a foot apart. The bottle of whiskey swung from one of his hands.

Longarm opened the gate for him so he wouldn’t have to climb through the fence. As he came into the corral Longarm said there was firewood and they could make coffee.

“Firewood,” Shaw said. “Must have been left over since last winter. Damn sure don’t see any trees around here. Yeah, coffee sounds about right. I hope you got some grub with you. I was kind of talking big about how much I had left to eat.”

“I figured you might have been,” Longarm said.

They went into the cabin and Longarm stacked some twigs into the little fireplace and topped that with some kindling. He struck a match on his big, square thumbnail and got the fire started. Shaw said, holding out his hands, “I reckon I’m gonna have to wear these?”

Longarm stepped back from the fireplace. He said, smiling slightly, “What would you do, Jack, if you had you for a prisoner?”

Shaw pulled a face. “I reckon I’d truss me up like a Rig and keep a cocked revolver in my hand and never close an eye.”

Longarm said, “It don’t have to be quite that severe, Jack, but I reckon you will have to wear that iron. You and me both know you make up the rules as you go along.”

Shaw laughed without humor. “Never heard it put quite like that, but I reckon you are right.”

The firelight was starting to throw dancing lights around the room. Longarm knelt over his bedroll, which he used as a pack as well. He came out with a two-quart, gray, well-chipped and scorched enamel coffeepot. He handed it to Shaw. “Why don’t you step on outside and fill that up with water. I’ll find us some tin cups and stuff and we’ll see about getting some supper on.”

After the coffee water was on to boil and as the fire was simmering down, Longarm got two cans of beans out of his pack, opened them with his broad-bladed pocketknife, and put them, along with a can of tomatoes, into a small, cast-iron skillet. He took what was left of Shaw’s dried beef, cut it into small pieces, added it to the beans, and then set the skillet on the hearth near the fire to warm. Before they ate, he wanted at least one cup of coffee sweetened with an equal amount of Maryland whiskey.

Shaw sat down in front of the fireplace and watched him work. He said, “You’re right handy around the kitchen, Miss Custis.”

Longarm didn’t look up. “You still got them two women you was telling me about down in Durango, Jack?”

“Yup. Wish to hell they were here right now. You wouldn’t care to make a short detour, would you?”

Longarm looked up. “To where?”

Shaw shrugged. He gave a little laugh. “I was kind of kidding. Wouldn’t be such a short detour.”

Longarm looked at him steadily, but didn’t say anything. Just then the coffee boiled over, grounds running onto the hot stones of the hearth.

Longarm hooked the pot by the handle with his knife blade and pulled it back to cool some and let the grounds settle.

Shaw said, “That ought to taste pretty good.” Longarm said, “Funny how a man gets used to a few comforts. He can stand damn near anything if they are handy. Like a cup of coffee at the right time.”

Shaw said abruptly, “Longarm, tell me about prison. You talked like I might have seen the inside of one when I was a lawman. I never did.”

“Never delivered no prisoners to the walls?”

Shaw shook his head. “Never was called upon to do so. Just never worked out to be my job. So I ain’t got the slightest idea what prison might be like.”

Longarm looked into the fire. He said slowly, “Well, they ain’t trying to pleasure you none, Jack, I can tell you that for sure.” He looked over at his prisoner. “But then they don’t send you there for singing too-loud in church. So it ain’t meant to be no picnic.”

“Yeah, but how close do they herd you? I mean, how close are you pent up?”

Longarm frowned. He didn’t want to say too much too soon. He didn’t want to spook Shaw and make him harder to handle than he knew he was going to be. He said, “Well, they work you, Jack. It’s hard work too. Breaking rocks, mostly. But I hear they feed you pretty good.”

“Naw, that ain’t what I meant. I’ve heard they have prison cells like we had jail cells. They got them?”

Longarm nodded. “Yeah, that’s where you are when you ain’t doing hard labor. Why?”

“How big are they, Longarm, them cells? They bigger than a jail cell?”

“No,” Longarm said reluctantly.

“They all bars like a jail cell?”

Longarm stared into the fire. He really didn’t want to answer. Shaw had already made it clear how he felt about being restricted. Even as he asked the questions Longarm could hear him breathing like he was short of breath. Longarm said, “You really want me to tell you, Jack?” He turned and looked at the outlaw.

Shaw looked nervous. He spat toward the door, which was just to his right. Then he said, shivering a little, “Getting kinda cool in here. Going to be a cold night.”

Longarm was wearing a canvas ducking jacket that he’d put on after the sun had gone down. He didn’t think Shaw was cold, but he said, “You got a coat in your bedroll? I’ll fetch it.”

Shaw shook his head. “Naw, never mind. I’m all right.”

Longarm took his bandanna off to use to hold the hot handle of the coffeepot. He put two tin cups down and poured both two-thirds full of the steaming coffee. He put a little sugar in his own, something he tried not to be without, and looked questioningly at Shaw. Shaw shook his head and said, “Just that sugar that comes in a bottle. They don’t let you have that in prison, do they?”

Longarm was about to raise the steaming cup to his lips. He lowered it and laughed. “Well, Jack, how’d you like to have to deal with about a thousand murderers and thieves if they was drunk?”

“I can hold my liquor,” Shaw said stiffly.

“Yeah, but that ain’t the point.” Longarm took a deep slurp of the whiskey-loaded coffee. The whiskey had cooled it off just enough where it wouldn’t burn his lips but was still plenty warm enough. He said, “Aaah!

Damn, seems like I been waiting about a hundred years for that. No, Jack, the point is everybody can’t hold their liquor. Besides, you got to keep it in your mind that they are aiming to punish you for what you done. Giving you whiskey ain’t exactly punishment.”

“I thought the idea was to lock you up where you couldn’t get up to no more devilment.”

Longarm shook his head. “Naw, naw. That’s partly true, but it ain’t all of it. When somebody comes out of prison they want to be sure he passes the word around that it is best to walk the straight and narrow rather than pack a six-by-eight cell.”

Shaw was on the words instantly. “Six-foot-by-eight-foot? Is that how big they are? Or how small? Hell, that’s a damn closet. I ain’t sure I could stand that. Imagine being crowded in like that. Can you talk to the hombres on either side of you?”

Longarm sighed. He had not wanted to get into this with his prisoner.

He said, “Not ‘less you yell, Jack. The walls is pretty thick.”

“Walls? You mean you’re hemmed in on two sides, three sides, by walls?”

Longarm grimaced. He would have the truth. He said, “Four sides, Jack. All you got in the door is a little eyehole for the guard to look through.”

Shaw was staring at him, his eyes looking strange. “And you’re all jammed up in there?”

Longarm nodded. “Yeah, you and the man that shares the cell with you. Unless you’re in a four-man cell. They always make the men in the cells even numbers so, say, two men can’t gang up on one.”

Shaw swallowed, hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His hand had started shaking so that he had to set his cup down on the dirt floor. He said, breathing rapidly, “I don’t think I could take that, Custis, I don’t think so at all.”

Longarm looked at him, wondering if he were going to suddenly explode. He hoped not. He would surely like to have a meal in peace and finish it with whiskey and a cigar. He said soothingly, “Hell, Jack, you’re a long ways from that. I get you to New Mexico, I’ll try and find you the dumbest sheriff I can. Then you got to be tried. That can take months. Lot of chances to escape in there, going to and from the courthouse. Get you a good lawyer. I’d imagine you got some money in a bank somewhere. Don’t go to thinking about it now. Hell, you just managed to get away from them Arizona Rangers.”

Shaw looked down at his cup, and then lifted it and drank swiftly. When it was down he said, “I ain’t so sure that was the best idea.”

Longarm gave him a look. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He’d pushed the skillet up closer to the fire as it had burned down, and now he could see that the beans were starting to bubble. He didn’t have but one tin plate and Shaw had none. “We didn’t plan to set up housekeepin’,” Shaw had explained when Longarm had asked him how there couldn’t be a single pan or cup or tin plate among the robbers. “If you couldn’t eat it out of your hand, it was takin’ up too much room. Besides, we was in kind of a hurry.”

So, with a big spoon, Longarm split the beans and tomatoes and beef into two parts, putting half in the tin plate and eating out of the skillet himself. He gave Shaw the only fork he had and used the spoon. It was a little hot working out of the skillet, but Longarm made himself take it slowly, even as hungry as he was. Through a mouthful of hot beans he said, “I wish we had some light bread.”

Shaw smiled with a glimmer in his eyes. “I wish I had your gun and a fast horse and you had a feather up your ass. Then we’d both be tickled.”

Longarm was glad to see him coming out of his shaky-looking mood. He said, pointing at the manacles, “Those wouldn’t be no hindrance to you?” Shaw said, “Hell, Custis, you can’t have everything. Didn’t you know that?”

“I did. But the rate at which you been robbing folks, I wasn’t sure you did.”

Shaw laughed. “That’s the trouble with easy money. It goes out just as easy as it goes in. You got to act big, set up drinks for the house. Bet big so you don’t look like no tinhorn. Bet big long enough, you lose big.” Longarm said thoughtfully, “I’m glad to hear you figured that out.”

Shaw raised his hands and jangled the chain between the cuffs. “You mean this? I didn’t feel like I was gambling this last job, Custis. You was the wild card in the deck I hadn’t counted on. Hadn’t been you was on my trail, I’d still be back there in the cabin waiting for a dark night.” He leaned back a little so he could see out the door of the cabin. “Moon is already starting to wane. Probably tomorrow night would have been ideal. Cross maybe an hour before dawn. Would have been black as the inside of a cow. You know this country, you know how dark it can get.”

Longarm nodded. “Without a campfire you can walk ten steps from your bedroll to take a leak and never find it until morning.”

“So this ain’t luck. This is Custis Long.”

“You asked me if I hated your guts. I reckon I ought to ask you the same thing.”

“You wouldn’t care either way.”

Longarm shrugged. “I don’t know. I never thought about it before. Most of the bandits I take in ain’t as good company as you are, Jack. Most of ‘em is so bone mean, and have been all their life, they ain’t had a thought for nobody but themselves in all that time. That kind of folk makes damn poor visiting company. Generally you can’t wait to drop them off at the nearest jail and wash the smell of them out of your hair.”

“Well, if there was a question in there, no, I don’t hate your guts. I hate it that you have to be so damn good at your job, but I ain’t got nothing against you personally. Back there at the other cabin I would have killed you if I’d of had the chance. And you would have killed me.”

Longarm nodded and took a sip of coffee. His cup was nearly empty. He said, “Yeah, this is kind of a rough game we have selected to play. Got some hard rules.”

Supper was long over. Shaw had washed up their utensils, with Longarm watching from the door, and now they were sitting in front of the fireplace finishing up the coffee and both smoking cigars. Shaw had put on a leather jacket Longarm had gotten him out of his bedroll.

When he’d gotten it Longarm had been glad to see that Shaw carried two blankets in addition to his canvas groundcloth. He was going to have to make his prisoner sleep outside. There was nothing in the cabin to manacle him to. The only choices were the two posts that held up the porch roof or the fence posts in the corral. Longarm wasn’t too sure about the fence posts, though, as they didn’t look as sturdy as the ones at the other cabin. He reckoned he’d just have to bed Shaw down under the porch roof with his arms around one of the posts. He knew the man would much rather be cuddling up to something other than a roof post, but then so would he. But he’d been too careless with Shaw already. When he’d let him unlock his manacles so he could put his leather jacket on, Longarm had stood too close. He’d seen Shaw measuring him, the manacles swinging from one hand as he’d adjusted the jacket. Longarm had casually, but immediately, taken a step backwards. Shaw had smiled mockingly, and then, giving Longarm the same smile, had put his free wrist back in the cuff and clicked it into place. He hadn’t said anything, but then he didn’t have to.

Now Longarm told him where he was going to have to sleep. He added, “I’ll get you a saddle blanket if you like. Put it down between you and your groundcloth.”

Shaw shook his head. Naw. It won’t be that cold. Besides, it won’t be no colder out there than it will be in here. Not unless a wind comes up, and I doubt one will.”

Longarm finished his coffee and carefully tamped out what was left of his cigar. He said, “Then I reckon we better get on with it. I think we had ought to make a early start. I’d like to get away from here by dawn if we can. Little before would be even better. Get some traveling done before the heat takes it out of the horses.”

Shaw stood up. There was still enough light from the fire that it lit up the recesses of the cabin. He said, “I’ll get my bedroll and put it down. Then you can tuck me in when you’re a mind.”

Longarm laid out his own bedroll against the back wall of the cabin. He put his saddle blanket down, unfolding it until it was stretched out to its four-foot-by-six-foot length. Over that he put the tarp that he rolled his blankets and the rest of his gear in. Most folks put the tarp down first and then the saddle blanket, but Longarm had never cared to lay on the salt-soaked saddle blanket, and certainly didn’t want to smell it all night long. He put his two blankets down, doubling the inside one. Lastly, he set his saddle at the head to give him a sort of pillow. He could tell how cold it was the instant he got very far from the fire. There was enough split cordwood left that he could have gotten the cabin pretty warm, but it wouldn’t have done Shaw any good and he didn’t think it would be fair otherwise. When he was finished, he walked over to the door of the cabin. Shaw had made his bed by the eastern roof post. Longarm could see he intended to sleep on his right side with his back to the cabin. Once he was manacled around the post there wouldn’t be room for him to turn over. Shaw was standing by his bedroll. He looked around as Longarm came to the door. About eight feet separated them. Longarm said, “You ‘bout settled in?” Shaw said, “I reckon.”

“You want a jug of whiskey to keep you company? You got a couple bottles of your own left.”

Shaw shook his head. “Naw. I’ve had enough. I don’t know which feels worse, getting shot or riding in this sun with a head aching from whiskey. I think I’d rather be shot.”

Longarm looked surprised. “I didn’t know you’d been shot.”

Shaw nodded. “Yeah. Wasn’t a hell of a long time before I ran into you down there in Mexico.” He made a little crooked smile. “It was kind of like this deal here. Only we’d robbed a bank and I didn’t quite get my last partner killed. I thought the sonofabitch was dead and was walking away, and he raised up and shot me in the back.

Longarm shook his head. “Gettin’ to where you can’t trust nobody no more. I reckon it must not have been fatal.

“I got lucky.” He dropped to his knees on his blanket, and then turned and sat down while he took his boots off. He was still wearing the leather jacket, and the combination of that and the manacles made the task of removing his boots awkward. Longarm made no move to help. It would have brought them too close. Shaw said, “I bent over to pick something up—the money, I think it was—when he fired. Bullet went in just above my shoulder blade and come out by my right collarbone. Never hit nothing serious. But don’t never let nobody tell you that getting a hole bored in you is funny. Ain’t a damn thing funny about it. It hurts going in and coming out and hurts while you are getting well. It was a full year before I had what I considered the natural use of my right arm and hand. I could use them, but they was just a kind of little hitch in it. That scar tissue, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Longarm said slowly. “I’m not much of a one for getting shot myself. Though I’d rather have it hurt than not feel anything.”

Shaw laughed. “Yeah, I know about that. No, I reckon I can wait for that sensation.”

“Or the lack of it.”

“Yeah.”

“You need anything else? You going to sleep in that jacket?”

“I reckon to.”

“Well, you won’t be movin’ around much, so I don’t reckon it will bind you. Look here.”

Longarm took a step toward Shaw and pitched the key to him. Shaw caught it in the air, and Longarm watched as he unlocked one of the manacles and then passed the end around the post. Longarm took another step toward Shaw, and leaned to watch the outlaw put the cuff around his left wrist. Longarm said, “You ain’t got to make it pinch, Jack, but I want to see that cuff snugged up and hear it click at least twice.”

Shaw smiled slightly. “I ain’t likely to break these.” Still on his knees he raised both his hands, the chain encircling the post. “You want to check them?”

“Naw,” Longarm said. “I imagine you’d like for me to forget to ask for the key back, but I believe you just put it into your jacket pocket.”

Shaw faked an astonished look. “Why, my goodness, did I do that?” He swiveled his body around until he could reach into the side pocket of his jacket. He came out holding a key so Longarm could see it.

Longarm said, “Pitch it as best you can toward the end of your blankets.”

In an awkward move, with his hands restricted by the manacles, Shaw transferred the key to his left hand and then pitched it toward Longarm. It landed at the foot of the blankets. Longarm bent down, watching Shaw, and retrieved the key.

Shaw laughed. “You looked like you thought I was gonna jump you. Hell, Longarm, I ain’t much of a threat to nobody.”

“Can you get in your bed all right?”

“Yeah,” Shaw said. While Longarm watched, he pawed around with his stocking feet and worked them under his two blankets, gradually easing his body down under his covers. Shaw said, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Longarm turned. “You holler at me if you’re first awake. I don’t reckon you got any more interest than I do hanging around in these parts.”

“If it hadn’t of been for the horses and the water situation, I’d of been willing to of kept on riding.”

Longarm sat down on his bedroll inside the cabin and took off his boots. The fire was down now so that it just provided a little glow in the room. But there was still good moonlight, and enough streamed in through the two doors and three windows that the interior of the cabin was clear enough. Longarm had placed his bedding so that he could see through the door and see most of Shaw. He didn’t reckon the man was going anywhere, but still, he never slept too well in the company of bandits, even when they were manacled to part of the house.

Before he settled down, he took his rifle and hid it under the blankets between himself and the wall. He pulled his gunbelt off, withdrew his revolver, and snuggled it up under his saddle. For anyone to get at his weapons they would have to disturb him. There were the other weapons, still together with the rest of Shaw’s stuff, but they were all unloaded and the ammunition hidden in Shaw’s saddlebags. Longarm would have hidden them in his own, but his bags were full. It didn’t make much difference. If Shaw somehow got loose while Longarm was sleeping, the outlaw could brain him with a length of cordwood. He could then arm himself at leisure.

Longarm shucked off his canvas jacket and threw it over his bed against the wall. Finally, now feeling the cold, he loosened his belt, took his hat off, and slipped down between his blankets. He’d placed a bottle of whiskey to hand, and he had a good pull off of that before he got all the way laid out with just part of his head resting on his saddle. It felt good to be stretched out and warm. It felt good after all the hard, anxious going to know that the chase was finally coming to an end. If they rode hard they should be in New Mexico Territory by the next evening. Whether or not they’d be close enough to a town big enough for him to surrender Shaw in, Longarm couldn’t say. He’d need to look at a map or ask someone.

He was not ordinarily a man who had much trouble going to sleep, but this night his mind wouldn’t settle down. He knew he’d played the Rangers false by not leaving them any kind of sign, but he’d told Shaw if he’d surrender he’d take him to New Mexico. With the conditions as they were and the position he was in, he didn’t see where he had had any choice. He hadn’t known for certain when the Rangers were coming, and he sure as hell hadn’t known how long he could hold out. So he’d made the best deal he could, and part of that deal had been to keep his word about taking Shaw to New Mexico Territory. And he couldn’t have done that if he’d left the Rangers clear sign. It was, he reckoned, a kind of moral and legal standoff.

With that straight in his mind, he shut his eyes and began to relax. In a few moments he was deeply asleep.

Chapter 8

Longarm came awake to the sound of his name being called from someplace near and the light tapping of something hard against his forehead. He opened his eyes slowly, but moved no other part of him.

When he could focus, he saw Jack Shaw squatting on the cabin floor right at his head with a revolver in his hand. He took care to note that the pistol was cocked but Shaw didn’t have his finger resting on the trigger.

Shaw said, “You better get up, Longarm. My bells, but you can sleep. Somebody is gonna slip up on you in the night and do you a harm you keep on sleeping that deep. Sleeping like a dead man, and for a damn good reason.”

Longarm said, still not moving, “You want me to sit up or just prezactly what?”

Shaw stood up and moved back, keeping the muzzle of the pistol covering Longarm. He said, “Yeah, sit up and sling the blankets back.”

Longarm did so, being careful to make his movements slow and deliberate. Right then he had a lot of questions, but he didn’t reckon it was the time to ask them. He could see that the inside of the cabin was bright. At first, when he’d opened his eyes, he’d thought it was because dawn had come. But he could see now that Shaw had built up a pretty good fire in the cabin.

Longarm could see through the front door that it was almost black dark outside, which meant that the moon was down and dawn wasn’t far off.

He glanced toward the fireplace. He could see that the coffeepot had been used and was sitting back from the fire a little. It looked as if it had been placed to keep the contents hot, but not to boil over. He said, “What now?”

Shaw chuckled. “You seem to understand this business pretty well, Custis. What do you reckon is the next step?”

Longarm thought, probably walk me out in the dark and put a bullet in my head. But he didn’t voice the thought or give Shaw any other ideas.

He said, “I don’t know. It’s dealer’s choice and you got the cards.”

He was studying the revolver in Shaw’s hand. It wasn’t one of his. It had ivory grips. He’d never cared for a gun with white on it. Unhandy in the dark. It might not give you away, but why take the chance.

That meant that, maybe, Shaw hadn’t found his gun under the saddle.

Shaw said, “I’m going to let you take my place on the front porch. Unfortunately, I done took my blankets up so you’ll be sitting in the dust.”

Now he could see that Shaw had the set of manacles in his left hand.

They’d been dangling down by his leg, out of sight. He could see that both jaws were open. He didn’t know how, but Shaw had somehow managed to open the cuffs. Maybe Longarm had been careless in checking and Shaw hadn’t really closed the cuffs around his wrists. But no, if he’d simply left them too loose so he could slip his hands out, then the jaws wouldn’t be open. No, they had been unlocked. But how or by who, Longarm couldn’t understand.

“You mind if I put my boots on?”

Shaw laughed. “I reckon we’ll hold up on the boots for a bit. You seem to know a good deal about boots and pistols. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had one in your boot. I’ll check them when I get you settled down and pitch them to you if they are all right. Move on out there now. It’ll be cold at first, but dawn ain’t far off. I got to get moving. So I would appreciate it if you would move along pretty fast. I seen you eyeing that coffee and I’ll fetch you some. Yeah, I’ve had time to make coffee and build a fire. Like I say, Longarm, I’m surprised you’re alive the way you sleep.” Longarm said grimly, “Me too.”

He walked carefully out into the cold dark and stopped at the eastern porch post. A rectangle of light was cast out the front door onto the dirt of the porch floor. The right-hand corner of it illuminated the post. Longarm stopped and looked back at Shaw. “What next?”

“Either sit down or get down on yore knees. You are gonna cuff yourself to that post. You ought to be familiar with how that works.”

Longarm sat down. He could feel the short hairs at the back of his neck bristling. Shaw was a killer, a man who would put a bullet in your brain on a whim. If Longarm was going to get shot, he’d rather not have it from the back with his hands manacled. He looked around at the outlaw. “Jack,” he said, “if you’re a mind to shoot me, I’d druther take it in the chest standing up.”

Shaw laughed. “Hell, don’t tell me the great Longarm is afraid. I thought you was supposed to be copper-plated and bullet-proof. Hell! You mean you put your boots on just like the rest of us?”

He gave Jack Shaw a level, hard look. “I can’t stop you from shooting me, Jack, but I don’t need your mouth all over it.”

Shaw gave a bark of laughter. “Hell, Longarm, I ain’t gonna kill you. You might die here, but I ain’t gonna put a bullet in you. You played square with me, and I ain’t gonna put a hole in you for your troubles. You would have been within yore rights back yonder yesterday in sayin’ it was no deal when I couldn’t produce the money. But you didn’t. You kept your end up. I have friendly feelings for you, Custis, believe it or not. That is mighty unusual for me. I hope you don’t come to no harm. Now here. Catch this.”

Longarm caught the manacles by the chain as they flew toward him. He was sitting with his legs under him facing the post. He put one of the open jaws over his right wrist and closed it, hearing the ratcheting sound as it closed up. It was still loose on his wrist.

Shaw said, grinning, “I want to hear them clicks, Custis. You know how to do that thing. I want to see you shove that ratchet home. I believe that cuff on your right wrist needs about one more click. She looks a mite loose. Might chafe you and we can’t have that.”

Longarm took his left hand and squeezed the cuff until the ratchet was pushed into the lock one more notch. The click was audible.

“Now yore left hand,” Shaw said. “Get a move on, Longarm.”

With his right hand he encircled his left wrist with the opened cuff, and then closed it down until he could feel it all the way around on his wrist. He said, “That satisfy you?”

“Yeah,” Shaw said. He shoved his revolver home into its holster. For the first time Longarm noticed that Shaw had his gunbelt on. He’d never seen the man wearing it because Longarm had had him drop it before he was allowed to come out of the cabin when he surrendered.

Shaw was also wearing his leather coat. The outlaw said, “Custis, I’ll bring you some coffee and a bottle of whiskey, but I got to know where your revolver and your rifle are. I ain’t going to shoot you, but I ain’t going to leave it so you’ll shoot me either. I’ve got the rest of the guns and gear nearly packed up. I don’t want to have to search the cabin, Custis, so don’t make nothing out of this.”

Longarm spat. His mouth was dry from breathing the high plains air all night. He said, “My revolver is in my saddlebag, the one facing the head of my bed. My rifle is under my blankets up close to the wall. And I’d appreciate some water if you can manage it.”

Shaw said, “This ought to not take long. When I’m done I’ll have a cup of coffee with you and then I’ll be on the trail.”

He was back quickly with one of the water bags. It had better than a gallon of water in it, and it was awkward for Longarm to get the top up to his mouth. Shaw reached out a hand and helped him.

“You got it?”

“Yeah,” Longarm said. “I can manage it.”

“I got to get ready.”

Shaw disappeared back into the cabin while Longarm drank. When he was finished, he lowered the bag carefully and screwed the cap back onto the bag. The cap was attached to the bag by a little chain so it wouldn’t get lost. He glanced toward the doorway, listening to Shaw rustling around. Half bemused, he wondered if Shaw knew Longarm had two revolvers and that one was hidden under his saddle and the other, the one with the nine-inch barrel, was in his saddlebag. It really wasn’t anything to speculate about, not so long as he was chained to the post. He wondered if Shaw was going to tell him how he’d gotten out of the manacles. Longarm felt that he would. He knew that Shaw considered himself just a touch smarter than everyone else, and he didn’t think the man could pass up a chance to gloat. Whatever he had done had been slick because Longarm couldn’t think of a single way out of the manacles. Shaw didn’t have hands as big as his, but he still didn’t slip them out. Longarm tried pushing up against the ratchet with his thumbs, but he might as well have been trying to move a mountain with a mule. The manacles were solid.

Shaw came back out. He was carrying a cup of steaming coffee in either hand and had a bottle of whiskey under his arm. He set one tin cup on the ground where Longarm could reach it and stood the bottle of whiskey next to it.

“There,” he said, “that ought to be some comfort.”

“Thanks,” Longarm said. He unplugged the bottle of whiskey and poured a little in his cup. He didn’t want too much. As Shaw had said, having a whisky head under a hot sun was not very pleasant. Longarm lifted his cup and took a sip. “Aaaah,” he said, “ain’t nothing like a cup of coffee when you have just lost your prisoner and are sitting in his handcuffs.”

Shaw laughed. He had gone and fetched the chair that had been lying on its side and brought it back and set it a few feet from Longarm. He said, “Yeah, Custis, you may wish I’d of shot you. This ain’t gonna look too good back at marshal headquarters, wherever that might be. Denver, ain’t it?”

Longarm nodded. “I guess you are going to make me ask you and then you might not answer, but I’d give a pretty penny to know how you got out of these cuffs.”

Shaw smiled, enjoyment dancing in his eyes. He said, “I reckon you would, Custis. But would you tell if you was me? Ain’t that what you’re always askin’ me?”

Longarm shrugged. “It don’t matter. Probably something simple I just overlooked. You having been a town marshal, you probably had a good deal more experience with these things than me, Saturday night drunks and such. I don’t reckon I’ve used these damn things a half-dozen times since I got ‘em. Don’t usually need them.”

Shaw looked indignant at the idea that his law work had mainly involved taking town drunks to jail. He said, “I don’t know a damn bit about them that you don’t know yourself! And I reckon I handled a few rough customers that wasn’t drunk myself.” Longarm said, protesting, “Hell, Jack, it don’t matter. I was curious is all.”

Shaw took a drink of his coffee. “I’m going to tell you.” He slapped his knee and let out a bark of laughter.

“Because I want to see the look on your face. It was slick, Custis, mighty slick.”

“I would reckon it was if you pulled it off.”

Shaw leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Custis, it was a piece of luck beyond what I could imagine. Back when I was in law I carried a set of manacles just like you, in my saddlebags. And carried the key in my right-hand pants pocket. You know the size of them things. They ain’t so big they bother you, but you are aware of them there in your pocket.” Longarm said dryly, “Keeps you from getting confused about which is your right and which is your left.”

“You want to hear this or not?”

Longarm smiled and sipped at his coffee.

“Anyway, over the eight, nine years I got used to carrying that key in my pocket. It was like it was a good-luck piece or something. Besides, I wasn’t sure but it might not come in handy someday. You ever notice that a key will open more than one set? Especially when they get older?”

Longarm didn’t say anything, just sipped at his coffee.

“Well, when they get older and the notches get the edge off them, you can damn near open a pair with the head of a horseshoe nail. You remember back at the other cabin how I kept carrying on, asking you how you was going to truss me up? Was you going to bind me, tie my hands together? I said I couldn’t stand it. Well, that part is true. I can’t stand having my hands tied behind me. I can’t stand to be constrained.”

Longarm nodded. “So you used your key to open them. Hell, I couldn’t have seen that coming. I searched you, but for weapons.” He shrugged. “My mistake.”

“Naw, naw, naw. That wasn’t the way of it at all. After I’d surrendered and you’d thrown me them manacles to put on, my heart sank. Hell, they looked brand-new, like they hadn’t been used. And now you tell me they was.

Or at least very seldom used. Well, that scared me to death. My whole plan had been that I’d be able to unlock your manacles when you chained me up for the night. I knew you was as wore out as I was and that you wouldn’t be sleeping so light.”

“Wait a minute,” Longarm said. “What if I hadn’t been going to manacle you? What if I’d had to bind your hands?”

Shaw shook his head. “Then I’d of never surrendered. I’d of waited until I saw them Rangers coming, and then I would have taken my chances with a break on a horse. I know what kind of shot you are, Longarm, and I know odds would have been against me, but that would have been a choice over the way them Rangers would have treated me. I’d of waited as long as I could, letting you get whipped down by that sun and lack of water. Then I’d of bunched the horses and tried it that way in one bolt.”

Longarm frowned. “Then where in hell did you get the key if you didn’t use the one you had?”

“Let me tell this my own way. Last night, when you got my leather coat and let me get it on, I managed to get my key out of my pants pocket and into the right-hand pocket of my coat. Last night, when you brought me out here to chain me up to the post, you pitched me the key so I could unlock my left manacle and get my arms around the post. I made a big business out of making it look like I was being cute and hiding the key in my pocket. I wasn’t. I was switching keys. The key I throwed back to you was mine. You went to bed leaving me with the key to those there manacles in easy reach in my coat pocket.

Longarm nodded unhappily. “Well, congratulation, Jack, you made a damn fool out of me. I reckon this is what comes of breaking regulations like I done. Saying I would take you to New Mexico when I should have held you for the Rangers.”

“Aw, hell, Longarm. Don’t take on about it. With your record, what is one little mistake going to amount to?”

Longarm said grimly, “Quite a bit.” He motioned with his head. “Up here where I am supposed to do my thinking.”

“By the way, I reckon you better stand up. Set your coffee down, this won’t take a minute.” Shaw stood up, took his revolver out of the holster, and laid it on the seat of his chair. He came at Longarm from the back as the marshal stood up. First he patted Longarm’s pants pockets, and then the pockets in his shirt. He found the cartridges in Longarm’s right-hand shirt pocket. He said, “What’s this? Ammunition? Longarm, that ain’t going to do you much good.” He dug down into the pocket, pulled out the bullets, and threw them off into the prairie.

It was still too dark for Longarm to see where they went.

Shaw said, “Where is that other key, Longarm?”

Longarm jerked his head toward the cabin. “In my saddlebags. I forget which side.” He said the lie easily and smoothly.

“I didn’t see it when I went looking. for your revolver.”

Longarm shrugged. “That’s where I always put it. Look around on the floor beside them. I might have missed the mouth. I never carry nothing in my pockets besides that jackknife which is in by the fireplace. Stuff bothers me in my front pockets. Pants legs are too tight.” Shaw said, stepping back, “Well, it don’t really matter.” He picked up his revolver and sat back down, shoving the pistol home in its holster.

“I ain’t leaving you a gun even if you could get loose. Besides, I’ll be long gone.”

“Where you headed, Jack? Mexico?”

“By and by. First I’m going to notch back by the cabin and pick up my winnings from that train.”

Longarm gave him a quick glance. “Cabin?”

Shaw gave a small laugh. “Did I say cabin? meant canyon. Canyon, like I told you. In that pile of rocks.

Longarm kept his eyes on the face of the outlaw. He felt pretty sure that he himself wasn’t the only one doing some hard and fast lying. He said, “I’d figure you wouldn’t head toward that part of the country. Liable to be working alive with Arizona Rangers.”

Shaw shook his head. “I don’t reckon now. I reckon they would have found no sign from you, other than them two dead horses, and headed due south in hot pursuit figuring me to be running for the border. Why would they hang around there?”

“You talking about the canyon or the cabin?”

Shaw frowned. “Why, either one. Besides, what difference does it make if I run across them. I’ll be coming from the southeast. They won’t be looking for me.”

Longarm nodded toward Shaw’s face. “There is that birthmark, Jack. It’s a dead giveaway.”

Shaw touched his face. “Hell, I figure whiskers is hiding that cursed thing by now. I ain’t shaved in a week. Can you see it?”

“It’s too dark to tell. Besides, I know it’s there.” He changed the subject. “Let me ask you something, Jack. You claim if I hadn’t been going to manacle you that you’d of never surrendered. Now, truth be told, wasn’t you gettin’ a little pent up in that cabin? Way you tell it, you don’t like to be crowded, and I had you where you couldn’t go out the back or the front.”

Shaw reached up and rubbed the whiskers on his neck as he thought. He finally said, “Yeah, they is some truth to that. I can’t stand that feeling, and you was pressing me pretty close. But I think I’d of broke for it before I surrendered. I was balanced on a knife blade anyways. But I figured on a two-day ride after you made the offer about New Mexico. I figured I’d have a chance to get loose from you. I know your reputation and all, but I was counting on that key.”

“So it wasn’t just the thought of the Rangers made you decide to surrender.”

Shaw nodded. “Not altogether. I never figured to see the inside of prison if that is what you are asking. But now let me ask you something.”

“What?”

Shaw hesitated for a moment. By the light of the fire still coming through the door Longarm could see something in Shaw’s face he couldn’t identify. It looked a little like uncertainty, and a little like fear.

But Shaw didn’t have any reason to feel either of those. Finally Shaw said, “You talked about men you’d brought to bay running at your gun. Are you talking about men that knew you?”

“What do you mean, knew me?”

“Aw, hell, Custis, you know damn good and well what I mean. Did they know it was you, the famous damn Longarm? The dead shot? Quit acting modest. Did they charge at you with any hope of overcoming you or getting past you?

In other words, did they know it was a sure thing they was going to get killed?”

“You mean, was they executing themselves after passing judgment? Yeah. I’d have to say they knew what was going to happen. As to that famous stuff and the dead shot, I don’t know. They didn’t stop to give me their opinions on the matter. What the hell are you so interested for? Ain’t got a damn thing to do with you. Last time you felt guilty was when you had to pay a whore full price.” Longarm suddenly shivered.

“What’s the matter with you? You feel somebody walk over your grave?”

“Hell, Jack, it’s cold. Or ain’t you noticed?”

“You want me to get your jacket?” Longarm said quickly, “No!” Then, realizing that Shaw might have read something into his quick refusal, he said, “Can’t get the damn jacket on without taking off the cuffs, and then I’d be stuck in it when the sun commences to blaze. You might hang one of my blankets over my shoulders. I’d be obliged for that.”

He turned his head and watched Shaw go into the cabin. He didn’t want Shaw going anywhere near the jacket with the key in the pocket. It was the wrong key, but it was the only key he had. And besides, may be Shaw was right. Maybe one key fit more than one set of manacles.

Shaw came back and threw the blanket over Longarm’s shoulders. He said, “Well, ol’ partner, I reckon this is where we fork trails. It is getting on for dawn and I better get to moving.”

Longarm said, “I can’t believe you are heading back in the direction of them Rangers.”

“Believe it. Believe it about sixty thousand dollars worth.”

“I think you lied to me, Jack. I think that money was there at the cabin all the time. Though I’m damned if I know where unless you buried it, but I didn’t see no shovel.”

Shaw said, “Look at it this way, Custis. All in all, what the hell difference does it make to you?”

Longarm shrugged. “None, I reckon. Except I always had a natural curiosity.”

“It didn’t kill you this time. But I’d try and keep it in check was I you.” Shaw came over and dropped two cigars and a half-dozen matches. He said, “I wish you good luck, Custis. I’m leaving two horses in the corral. I’m even leaving your saddle and gear. They’d just slow me up.” Longarm said, “You know, Jack, if somebody don’t come along I ain’t going to last long like this. Two, maybe three or four days.”

Shaw nodded. “I know it. Tell you what. When I get where I’m going I’ll wire the nearest sheriff where you are. Maybe they’ll get to you in time and maybe they won’t.”

“I don’t hold it against you, Jack. We both know how the game is played. You are on the run. I’m just amazed you didn’t put a bullet in my ear.”

“I would have if I hadn’t had no other choice. But I think this will slow you up long enough for me to get my business done. I’ll be taking off now, Custis. I hope we don’t see each other again. Not where business is concerned. Maybe you’ll take another vacation in Mexico and we’ll meet up.”

“You take it easy, Jack.”

“Yeah, and you.”

After a while Longarm heard the muffled sounds of hoofbeats, softened by the sand, receiding into the distance. Only then did he realize how tightly he’d been holding himself. He slowly relaxed down on to the ground. “Damn!” he said aloud. “Boy, howdy!”

Given the situation, he would have never believed that Jack Shaw would have ridden off and left him alive. He’d been expecting a bullet with every word, with every move, with every second. But then, what made a man like Jack Shaw so dangerous was his unpredictability. As a last gesture Shaw had brought the coffeepot out, still half full, before he left. With an awkward hand, because of the manacles, Longarm poured his cup half full and then added a little of the whiskey. The coffee would be weak, second grounds, since Shaw had just added water to what was left in the pot and let it simmer some more. But that was all right. It was good and warm and felt good going down his gullet. He hadn’t been afraid as much as he had dreaded the thought of being shot while manacled to a post. And then to be found like that. It wasn’t the way he wanted to go at all. Not that he’d ever selected a good way, or a way he thought would be best. There was no best, just a few ways that were better than it being clear he had been taken off his guard and manacled with his own cuffs and then killed. It wouldn’t have looked good on his record, he thought wryly to himself.

He wasn’t at all certain how he was going to get out of the manacles. He had some hope for the key he hoped still resided in his jacket pocket, but he had to find some way of getting loose from the post before he could worry about the key. And until it got lighter he wasn’t going to be able to examine the situation very well. The fire from inside was dying out and casting less and less light and less and less warmth. He was grateful for the blanket over his shoulders. It didn’t help all of him, but it at least kept his back warm.

The whiskey and coffee kept his insides in good shape, though he had no plans to drink much of the whiskey. He settled down to wait for dawn, not sure himself how far off it was.

As it had before, it came light all of a sudden. Longarm thought he would never cease to be amazed by the sunrises and sunsets in the high plains. There was something about them that clearly let you know a mighty hand was in charge, and if not a hand, then a design that was intended to let you know just about how small you were, no matter what size shirt you wore.

He guessed Shaw might have been gone an hour, but no more, maybe even less. As soon as he could see, Longarm began the task of freeing himself by examining the roof post he was chained to. It appeared to be a piece of mountain cedar, some six inches in thickness. He thumped it up and down with his knuckles, and pretty well convinced himself the post was solid and likely to remain so for another hundred years or so.

To study the base he pulled his hands down, got down on his knees, and put his face close to the end of the post. If it was buried in the ground, he didn’t have much chance. But as near as he could tell, and from what he could see by scraping away at the rock-hard dirt around the bottom of the post, it was just sitting on the ground and not buried. Next, he looked up to the end of the post where it supported the roof. The end was against the beam that ran all the way across at the edge of the porch. Longarm could not see a single nail or screw or even a piece of wire holding the post and the barn together. The post was simply held in place by the weight of the roof and the post kept the roof supported. It was not a lash-up that was intended for the fancy. It was only intended as a place for a cowboy to sit of a hot afternoon and look out over the prairie from the shade.

He looked the roof over. It was made up of fairly heavy sawn beams that formed a framework that had then been covered with tin. The back end of the roof was held to the face of the building by what looked to Longarm, glancing upward and leaning as far back as he could, like tin straps that had somehow been secured to the rock face, maybe by long screws into the mortar between the stones.

He sat down and took his boot off. It was a hard job working with the manacles on. His plan was to try and lift the post and then, while he held it an inch off the ground, slide his boot tip in under it. Then, with the base of the post held off the ground enough for the chain to pass under, he’d get down on the ground, slide the chain under until he got to his boot tip, and then yank himself free. He had no idea if it would work or not.

He rested a few minutes, thinking about it, and then stood up and got himself in position. He hugged the post to him and carefully curled his arms around the wood. He could feel how slick it was, how the weather and the sand had smoothed it down. Once, probably, it had had bark on it, but that was long since worn away. The post was a little bent, but the kink was too high up for him to make use of. He had to get hold of it around his belt or a little below to bring his powerful back and leg muscles into play. Nobody was going to lift the post and that part of the roof with just arm muscles.

He set himself, feeling for his grip. He could feel his heart beating. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He tightened his hands and then his arms around the post, pulling it to him, to his chest, locking it solid. Slowly he began to lift. He could feel the post start to come, feel it part with the dirt. He strained harder and harder, his teeth gritted, his eyes closed, the sweat popping out on his forehead. Then, just as he thought the post was about to come up some more, his hands began to slip. Frantically he hugged the post harder and harder, desperately trying to force it to rise.

Then, all of a sudden, he gave out. He collapsed to his knees, panting, his breath coming in gasps. For a long few moments he stayed that way. Finally he straightened up and sat down heavily. He looked up at the underside of the roof. It appeared to him that the top of the post had moved slightly from its centered position on the end beam.

He didn’t know what that meant, but at least something had happened besides him almost ruining his back.

He stayed down on the ground, studying the post, studying the roof, trying to think of some way to get a piece of chain through a solid piece of wood. He even eyed the matches Shaw had left him, wondering if he could somehow set the wood framework on fire and burn the thing down. But the roofing was tin and the boards of the framework were too far apart to burn. If the roof had been shingled with wood shakes, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.

Finally he looked at the chair Shaw had been sitting in and then up at the roof. The front edge of the roof was low. He’d noticed, going and coming under it, that he’d had to duck his head when he was wearing his hat. He stood up and looked at a beam running from the wall to the front edge of the roof. It looked to be a two-by-six plank. It was the beam the top of the post was abutted against. When he stood up, it was only some six to eight inches over his head. He glanced again at the chair, which he reckoned to be about thirty-four or thirty-six inches high at the seat. It was, he thought, worth a try.

He sat down again, and then lay down and wiggled and squirmed on his back toward the chair, until he could just reach one of the legs with the toes of his stocking foot. He curled his big toe around the leg, and then slowly and carefully dragged it toward him. The chair came until he could get his whole foot behind the leg, and he gave a jerk and the chair came flying to him.

Slowly he worked his way back up to a sitting position, and then circled the post until he was out from under the roof. He pulled the chair up until the seat was just touching the post on the cabin side.

He worked his way back around and, with some difficulty, picked up his blanket, folded it, and then refolded it and then folded it again until it was a good pad some six inches thick. With both hands he carefully placed it over his right shoulder and across his neck. It would accomplish two things; it would give him some added height and it would serve as a pad between his shoulder and back and the hard two-by-six.

Before he did anything else, he sat down in the chair and carefully drew his boot back on his right foot. The extra two inches in height might make the difference.

Now was the test, and if it didn’t work he didn’t know what he was going to do. He stood up and put one boot on the edge of the chair.

It was a cane-bottomed chair, so he couldn’t use the middle. But the back and the frame were made out of the same tough mountain cedar as the post, and he figured it would stand the strain. Holding on to the post with both hands, he positioned his right foot on the right-hand edge of the chair and slowly stepped up, putting his left boot on the other side of the seat. He was moving cautiously so as not to dislodge the blanket over his shoulder.

As he stood up slowly he felt his back and shoulder come into contact with the roof beam with his body still not straight. He calculated that, if he could and if the chair didn’t break, he ought to be able to raise the roof at least two or three inches. If he had the strength.

But at least he’d be using his biggest muscles, in his back and in his legs.

He gave himself a moment to get positioned, feeling around for the most comfortable position for his shoulder against the beam. He moved his boots around, trying to get them as near the legs as possible. He figured he had about one try. The chair could break and give way, he could hurt himself trying to lift such a load, or the nails in the roof could give. If any of those events happened he was finished.

When he was ready, he took hold of the post with both his hands, bent his knees as he slowly straightened his body, and made firm contact with the beam across his shoulder and the top of his back. He closed his eyes and concentrated all his attention into straightening his legs. If the roof cleared the post by a fraction of an inch he would whip his hands up and pull the chain through the opening.

He put a strain on his legs, letting it gradually run up his body to his shoulder. Nothing moved. It felt like he was pushing against solid rock. He willed his legs to push harder. And then harder still.

He heard the chair creak alarmingly. Still there was no movement. He could feel the sweat pop out all over his face. His teeth were gritted so hard they must surely crack. He could feel the blood rushing to his face. Still he pushed harder. The chair gave an agonizing shriek as if it were being tortured. His feet felt as if they were going flat in his boots.

The roof moved.

It was very slight, but he had felt it give a little. He summoned every last desperate ounce of strength he had. The roof moved slightly more. His eyes were squinted so that he couldn’t quite see the separation between the post and the beam. With a last gasp he surged upwards against the roof in a desperate attempt to be free.

He suddenly felt pressure against the chain. The post was starting to fall outwards. If he didn’t quickly get his hands up and pull the chain through, the post would fall outward but stay hung against his chain, and then, for added trouble, the roof would fall on him as he tried to get down.

With his body starting to fail, with his legs trembling, with his neck and back screaming with pain, he made one swift, desperate move, through some kind of opening. He couldn’t see it. His eyes felt as if they were filled with blood. And then part of the chair broke with a loud crack and the next thing Longarm knew he was falling backwards. As he fell he saw the porch roof following him. He tried, desperately, in midair, to turn so that he wouldn’t land full on his back. But then he hit; the breath jolted out of his lungs as he landed hard. Before he went unconscious as his head hit the hard dirt of the porch floor, he had a view of the porch roof continuing to descend, threatening to drop a ton of wood and tin and nails and dust on top of his aching, challenged body.

Chapter 9

How long he was out, he had no idea. All he knew was that he came to with a splitting headache and the sight of the right half of the porch roof hanging down within a yard of the ground. The post that had formerly held it up was lying out in the yard where it had fallen.

For a long few moments he lay still without moving, trying to feel his body, wondering if anything was broken. This was no country to break a leg or a hip or anything else that would leave you unable to mount a horse, much less catch one and saddle it.

He gazed along the length of his body and saw his bottle of whiskey lying overturned. So was the coffeepot. Further on, the chair lay on its side. The right leg appeared to have broken at a knot halfway down its length. He thought, inanely, that he was getting good at making three-legged chairs. He’d been in two line cabins and he’d made three-legged chairs out of all the available furniture. Come fall, the returning line riders were going to wonder who’d been assaulting their sitting material.

The roof gave a groan and seemed to settle a little more. It brought Longarm alert. Ignoring his body’s aches and complaints, he quickly reached in and grabbed his coffeepot and cup and the bottle of whiskey, and then scuttled backwards into the doorway of the cabin. Surprisingly enough, the blanket was still on his shoulder, though it was now draped like a serape. He knew he hurt, but he wouldn’t let his mind think about it. He uncorked the whiskey and had a long, medicinal pull. He gasped when he took the bottle away from his mouth. He didn’t normally take that much down at a time, but he knew he was going to need it to oil up his joints and shoulder and back, which he was pretty sure was broken.

He looked down at the manacles on his wrists. If he had to he could operate while wearing them, but he was hopeful that the key in his canvas jacket pocket would unlock them. If not, he’d have to find a town with a blacksmith and get the smith to just cut the chain. It would be inconvenient, but he could do his work.

He sat there. He felt a swelling desire to get on Shaw’s trail, take after him while the scent was still hot, but he couldn’t make himself move. He looked up at the porch roof. Fully half of it was now drooping down, the right corner no more than a foot off the ground. He was amazed at what he had lifted. Individually the parts didn’t weigh much, but connected, they came to a sizeable amount. He shook his head and shuddered, very glad to be free from the post. He didn’t stop to think what he would have done if he hadn’t gotten loose. He didn’t want to think about that. As near as he could tell, the remote cabin wasn’t on the way to anywhere, and he could have been there until he cured in the sun. Shaw had said he would telegraph back to a sheriff, but whether he would have or not was open to question. As was whether or not some sheriff would have ridden fifty miles on the dubious validity of a telegram.

He was about to get up, dreading it, when he happened to glance down at the right side of his right boot. It had split. Where the leather of the boot was sewn to the sole, the stitching had broken. He could see little tufts of it sticking up from his sole. He could wiggle his right toe and see it move through the split. “Damn!” he said aloud.

There was nothing for it but to get up and see if the key fit. If it didn’t, then it was saddle a horse and take off with his hands a foot apart. He rolled over and came to his feet. For a second he swayed and little white spots danced in front of his eyes. He stayed still, willing all the parts of his body to take control. After a second the dizziness passed. He took a step and felt like his hips were breaking.

“Damn!” he said aloud, driving the word through his gritted teeth.

The next step wasn’t any easier, nor the next. He said aloud, “Hell, I feel two inches shorter. Maybe three. Maybe four.”

He could feel the pain as a constant, beginning in his right shoulder, jumping over to his backbone, and then spreading downward all the way through his hips, then down to his knees, and finally to his ankles and feet. “What a job,” he said wearily. “But it shore beats working.”

He made it to his blankets, and then eased himself to the ground. For a moment he sat very still, letting the pain do its best, letting the pain just go ahead and consume him as he relaxed his body into it. He had learned a long time ago that you only made matters worse if you tried to fight pain. If you tried that, all you did was stiffen up and make your muscles rigid, and wear yourself out in the fight. And it was a useless fight because the pain was going to win no matter what you did. The best way to handle it was to sit back and let it come, accommodate yourself to it. That way, after a while, it got to be a part of you so that you didn’t notice it so much anymore. But you had to be willing to be patient and sit there and relax and get used to it.

It didn’t make it hurt any less, but after a while you got so you didn’t notice it so much.

He took another hard hit off the bottle, but did it slowly and resolutely. He was very conscious that had many hours ahead of him with the sun beating down on his head. That, at least, was a good thing. The sun might not do him any other good, but it would at least bake some of the hurt out of his bones and muscles and joints.

Finally he reached back over his blankets, got his canvas jacket, and dragged it to him. The key was still in the right-hand pocket. It was a round steel key with teeth on the end and little wings to turn it with. It was about the size of a pistol cartridge. In the dim light he could see numbers die-stamped on the side of the key. He looked for a matching set on the manacles. There was a set of numbers, but they didn’t match those on the key. He contemplated the keyhole in his left manacle. It was a round little hole with notches that hopefully matched the teeth on the round little key. Hopefully he stuck the key into the hole. It fit. He tried turning the key to the left. Nothing happened. He frowned. With not much optimisum he turned the key to the right. It went halfway around and he felt something click inside the manacle releasing the ratchets. He felt the cuff come loose.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. He opened the cuff and removed his left hand. To the inside of the little cabin he said, “What the hell they put numbers on ‘em for if they all fit the same?”

With confidence he transferred the key to his left hand and tried the right cuff. The key went into the hole with no trouble, but nothing happened no matter which way he turned it. “Aw, hell!” he said aloud. “Now what the hell am I supposed to think. Damn it!”

He kept jiggling the key back and forth in the hole, turning it left and right, trying it in different positions. Nothing seemed to work.

For a moment he stared at a far corner of the cabin. He was damn near better off cuffed than like this. He’d have two feet of cold steel swinging off the end of his right wrist. That ought to make for some exciting times, trying to saddle a horse or use a revolver.

He got up and went over to the fireplace. His jackknife was there. He opened it, but the blade was too thick and not sharp-pointed enough to go in the hole. He was on the point of giving up when he saw the fork lying in the tin plate that Shaw had used. He picked it up. By tilting it sideways he could get two of the tines deep inside the lock.

He prodded and pushed the fork into the hole, slowly working it around the circle. Nothing happened. Sometimes when he would press with the fork a certain way he’d feel something give, like it was being pushed into place. He kept up the poking and pushing, circling and circling the keyhole. All at once the cuff released. He felt the ratchet bar that encircled the bottom of his wrist come loose. He said, “Well, now I will be damned. Any prisoners I take from now on are going to eat with a spoon.”

He took the manacles off his wrist, stood up, and walked over to his saddlebags. He dropped the manacles. He’d pack them later. Right then there was something he was much more interested in. He leaned down, with his hips protesting, and lifted up his saddle. His revolver lay where he’d hidden it the night before. It was the one with the six-inch barrel that he normally carried. The pistol with the nine-inch barrel had been in his saddlebags. That was the one that Jack Shaw had found and taken with him. Longarm reached down, picked up his gunbelt, and strapped it on. Then he opened the gate of the cartridge cylinder and spun it. There were five shells in the revolver, and more lying out in the desert, if he could find them. He shoved the gun into the holster. It was time to get packed up and get to making tracks. Shaw already had a three-or four-hour lead, but Longarm felt like he knew where the outlaw was headed. He might not be, but if Longarm could pick up a little sign, he felt sure he would, sooner or later, come upon the man. He wondered what Shaw had left in the corral.

It had taken him over a half an hour to get packed up, get a horse saddled, and put a second horse on lead. Every move had hurt him, and consequently, everything had seemed to take twice as long to do. He had been correct in assuming that Shaw was going to leave him the worst of the horses. Shaw had even taken the bay that Longarm had been riding. He hadn’t thought so much of it the day before until Longarm had picked it out, but now he seemed to have changed his mind. The two horses he’d left were not much to begin with, and they’d been given hard usage and damn little feed. Longarm couldn’t do anything about the feed for the time being. They’d just have to travel like they had full bellies. At least they’d been well watered the last few days.

So far as food went, the horses weren’t the only ones getting shorted.

Shaw had not left Longarm so much as a can of tomatoes. He’d also taken a bottle of Longarm’s precious Maryland whiskey. Longarm was left with barely half a quart. But that was all right. If matters went as he hoped, he expected to be in a town the following night.

Once back to civilization, he could get fresh ammunition and some food and feed for the horses.

One thing that had surprised him was that he’d had two hundred dollars in folding money in his saddlebags, stuffed into the pocket of a clean shirt. Either Shaw had missed it or it was too little for him to bother with. The man, Longarm thought, was a killer but not a thief. That was a fine situation for you.

By two o’clock the prairie felt like a furnace, and he didn’t reckon he’d covered half the distance to the original line cabin. Shaw had gone to no trouble to try and hide his sign, even if he could have in the loose dirt of the country. The tracks of three horses were as plain as day. A half an hour after he’d last looked at his watch, he found an empty tomato can where Shaw had obviously dropped it. The man had just punched a hole in it with his knife and then sucked all the juice out of it.

Longarm felt sure that Shaw was heading for the line cabin. That, Longarm knew, was where the money had been hidden. He didn’t for a second believe that nonsense about some canyon. There was probably a canyon, all right, but it was a very small one that Shaw had dug somewhere around the cabin, though where that was, Longarm had no idea.

If he succeeded in catching Shaw, the first thing he was going to ask him was where he’d hidden the money. If he wouldn’t tell, Longarm was going to try and beat it out of him, and failing that, offer to let him go in exchange for the truth. Things like that ate at Longarm’s vitals. He couldn’t stand to be fooled like that. He’d known the day before that the money was at the cabin, but he just couldn’t figure out where. It hadn’t made any sense that Shaw would have hidden that amount of cash up in the mountains somewhere. Too many things could happen to it. Hell, squirrels could come along and chew it up to make a nest. Anybody could accidentally find it. No, you didn’t rob that much money and then walk away without having it near your side.

It was a long day. Longarm had plenty of water out of the canvas bag Shaw had left for him, but nothing besides that except half a cigar, and water and cigar smoke weren’t all that filling. The horses were looking gaunt, and there was no reason for them not to be. Being an outlaw’s mount was not a good job in the general scheme of horse business. There were better jobs, like working as a carriage horse for a banker, or maybe being a lady’s pleasure horse and working every other Sunday. There was the hardship of the sidesaddle, but ladies didn’t weigh very much and you had plenty of time to stand around in the pasture and eat and get your strength up.

Longarm did not ordinarily dwell on such matters as what job was best for a horse. He figured maybe the sun was getting to him. But then, anything was better than thinking about the report he’d have to write if he didn’t recapture Shaw. As it was, he’d been on sticky ground about transporting a prisoner from one territory to another, but that part could be made understandable with the culprit in hand and given the circumstances. But if he lost both the prisoner and the stolen money, it was going to put a far different perspective on the situation. And he wasn’t just talking about handing Billy Vail a good laugh for his mistakes. This was serious business and might well lead to a reprimand or worse. Anyway you looked at it, it wasn’t going to look good on either his record or his reputation. There’d be no excuses either. He’d had the prisoner in hand. His only job, besides recovering the money had been to get Shaw behind bars. He’d failed at that. Shaw had outsmarted him, and that was a matter no lawman could have against him.

He had the faint hope that Shaw really had hidden the stolen money in a canyon in the last foothills he’d traveled through before reaching the high prairie. If that was the case, Longarm would be in an ideal spot to cut the outlaw off after he had retrieved the money and turned south again toward Mexico. But it was becoming clearer and clearer, as the day wore out and the tracks of the three horses headed relentlessly west, that Shaw was heading for the cabin. Had he been going north toward his canyon, he would have bent off to the right some time back.

It got hotter. Longarm had planned to ride one horse half of the distance and then switch. But he had further decided, at the pace he was making, that he’d wait and ride the other animal the next day.

They were both about equal, with nothing outstanding to choose between them. The horse he was on was a little bigger, but he was also a little fatter than the tough-looking pony that Longarm had on a lead rope. But not fat enough. The lard was rapidly melting off him under the desert sun. The horse had been standing in somebody’s barn or feed lot for too long. He was soft and not used to such work. Longarm was taking it especially slow because he couldn’t afford to have the horse quit on him. The only thing worse than having two such horses in such country was having only one.

By his watch it was closing on four o’clock when he sighted the cabin. He didn’t have to look for it. If he’d kept his head down and done nothing more than watch the tracks of Shaw’s horses, he would have run right into the thing. As best he could figure, he was about three or four hours behind Shaw, maybe more. But he had no intention of setting in to chase the outlaw. For one thing, the horses wouldn’t have lasted, and for another, he was pretty sure he knew where Shaw was heading. After the horses had rested and drunk some water, he’d reconnoiter. He felt sure he’d find Shaw heading in exactly the direction he expected him to be.

There was a dead horse in the corral behind the cabin. It was the muscled-up dun that Shaw had been riding. There wasn’t a mark on him.

It was clear he had just gone sour from the work and the pace Shaw had set. Probably Shaw had let all three of his hot, worn-out horses drink their fill at the barrel, and the horse least likely to stand it had foundered and rolled over and died.

The reason Shaw hadn’t waited and let his animals cool out before allowing them to drink was quickly clear to Longarm’s eyes. What he saw made him want to jump up and down and gnash his teeth and bang his head against the stone wall of the cabin.

The big five-foot-high barrel was lying on its side. Longarm could see several bullet holes through it about midway up. Apparently the barrel had been too heavy to tip over when it was brimful of water, so Shaw had drained it by knocking some holes in it with .44 slugs. Longarm stood on the wet, muddy ground and shook his head, cursing himself.

The money, mostly gold, had been at the bottom of the barrel. Hell, he’d drunk from the pipe coming from the windmill that had flowed into the barrel. Now, with the barrel on its side, the water was spilling out of the pipe in a thin stream onto the ground. Longarm righted the barrel and looked down to its bottom. No doubt Shaw had had some kind of oilskin covering he could wrap the money in, maybe his slicker. But it really didn’t make much difference. It wasn’t going to hurt the gold at all, and all it would do to paper currency was get it wet, even if Shaw had just dropped it into the barrel in the original canvas bags it had come in.

Longarm shook his head. His horses were standing outside the corral, nickering to get in and get at the water. He moved the big barrel back under the stream. It wouldn’t fill back up again because of the holes halfway up its sides, but it didn’t matter. The water would be close to three feet deep, and that would be plenty good enough for his horses.

While he waited for the barrel to fill, Longarm took a walk south of the cabin, cutting a wide circle. The first set of tracks he came across were headed due south. But there were way too many of them, at least twelve to fifteen horses as near as he could figure. That, of course, would be the Arizona Rangers heading dead straight for the border just as Shaw had predicted they would. Still on foot, he completed his circuit around the cabin, and was surprised to find no more tracks leaving, not in any direction. it puzzled him for a time, but then he smiled to himself and went to see to watering his horses.

It was dark by half past six. Longarm had spent the last half hour of light tearing what wood he could off the fence. Since it was all board, he was able to get a surprising amount of wood and still leave the fence intact. Shaw had, either on purpose or through forgetfulness, left Longarm’s coffee intact. Even the sugar was still there, though the little bag was almost empty. He figured to have a pot of coffee before supper and then one afterwards. For supper he would smoke a cigar. But he had a more pressing need for the coffee than just for himself. Just before he went to bed he would brew up a pot, making it very strong. The next morning he would give it to both of his horses. Coffee sometimes gave him an extra burst of energy, and it would do the same for his horses. He had used the trick many times in the past and it had always worked, though it was dangerous because it caused a worn-out horse to do more than he naturally would. You didn’t want to do it to the same horse very often, and you didn’t want to do it to a valuable animal because it could cause a mount to not give you the clues he normally would when he was playing out. The first you’d know about it was when your horse was keeling over. Longarm’s two dead horses were still where they’d fallen, except the buzzards had been at them, as well as coyotes, and they were pretty well stripped down.

That night, a little before eight, he built up a fire, made a pot of coffee, and then sat in front of the blaze drinking coffee and whiskey and smoking a cigar.

After his horses had watered, he saddled the horse he’d ridden that day, a roan, and rode out in a line parallel to the Arizona Rangers’ tracks. He rode on the eastern side of the chewed-up ground. Sure enough, as he had thought, he had not gone more than a mile when he found a set of tracks, what appeared to be two horses with one bearing more of a load than the other, branching off to the southeast. It made Longarm smile. It was such a simple trick he was amazed that Shaw would even bother with it. But then, he must have figured it would take such a little effort that it was worth doing. When Shaw had left the cabin, sometime earlier that day after he’d retrieved his money, he had disguised his direction by riding over the tracks of the posse, going far enough to hide his real intentions, but not so far as to cause himself any real inconvenience. It only served to confirm to Longarm what he’d already been thinking, what Shaw’s final destination was. Looking at the tracks, Longarm knew, with a sense of satisfaction, that he and the outlaw were going to meet again and in the not-too-distant future.

Back at the cabin he sat, smoking and thinking and staring into the fire. It went back to when he and Shaw had met up by accident in Durango, when Longarm was taking some leave and had gone down to kick up his heels. They had been in a whorehouse discussing the relative merits of the Mexican putas. Shaw had said he didn’t know why he bothered with such as he had two girls that he kept at his ranch that would put anything they had seen to shame. Longarm had been amazed. He’d said, “Ranch? Ranch? You got a ranch, Jack?

I got a hard time seeing you messing with cattle. Or even raising horses. I’d guess you to be too busy on the owlhoot trail to take time for such.”

Shaw had laughed and admitted that he really wasn’t much of a rancher.

He’d said, “I guess it is kind of stretching it for me to call the place a ranch, since I don’t keep no cattle and shore as hell don’t raise no horses. Too easy to steal.” He’d said that what animals were on the place belonged to the Mexicans he kept there to look after things. He’d said, “Mostly what I like about it is it’s on the flat-ass prairie and you can see anybody coming for miles. I don’t like being snuck up on if you take my meaning.”

He had not identified the whereabouts of the ranch, but he had made several references to a town called Douglas. The only Douglas that Longarm knew about was in the extreme southeastern corner of the Arizona Territory, very close to the New Mexico line and right on the border with Mexico. The Mexican town across from Douglas was Aqua Prieta, and Shaw had mentioned it several times, mostly complaining about the lack of trade goods in the primitive place and the necessity of crossing into Arizona if you wanted to find good whiskey or cigars or cartridges. Longarm was satisfied that Shaw lived on a hacienda someplace outside of Aqua Prieta. If he did, Longarm was sure to the point of certainty that he could locate the ranch.

But that, of course, was only half the battle. The other half would be taking Shaw in, and that was no small chore. Jack Shaw, as far as Longarm was concerned, was no ordinary outlaw. Fortunately. If they were all as smart as Shaw, he reflected, his job would be a good deal harder.

As the night came on, so did the cold. Looking up at the sky, Longarm noticed that the moon was definitely on the wane. Outside, there was much less light than there had been. It was coming on to the phase of the moon that Shaw had been waiting for. Longarm calculated it to be at least a two-day ride to Douglas, and that on good horses. Probably, Longarm thought, Shaw had been able to make fifteen or twenty miles after picking up the money sometime that morning. He’d be camped somewhere along the route to Benson, which was directly on the way to Douglas and Aqua Prieta. If Shaw pushed it, the next day he could be camping close enough to the border to cross over in the dark the following morning. Longarm knew he had no hope of catching the man. He only wanted to stay close enough behind him to take him while he was at his ranch relaxing with his two women after the labors of the trail. Longarm knew he could not push the two horses. Neither one of them could take it. He had some hopes of buying another when he reached Benson, which he calculated was twenty-five miles away. He hoped to buy a good horse, but since the money would be coming out of his pocket, he had to be able to buy a horse for a good enough price that he could hope to trade it or sell it later.

Which was one irritating feature about his job. Since a federal marshal could requisition a horse or horses from any federal installation, including the cavalry, the government took the position that any horses a marshal might be forced to buy on his own were his problem. It was all well and good to say you could recquisition horses, but when you were in the middle of a place where there weren’t any government installations and you needed a horse, what in hell were you supposed to do? Billy Vail had said that that came under the heading of the fourteenth paragraph of the federal marshals’ directive, which said that a marshal should be resourceful and conserving of government property and expense. That a marshal should use his intelligence in all cases that proved to be the exception to ordinary situations, and take prudent actions to bring matters back to where they could be managed by approved and regulated methods. Longarm had wanted to know what in hell that meant. Billy Vail had said, “It means you ain’t supposed to let yourself get afoot unless you are near a government facility where you can get a remount.” Longarm had still wanted to know what you were supposed to do if you were afoot and there was no government facility available. Billy Vail had growled and said, “Then you better be a helluva horse trader or you are gonna be money out of pocket.”

It made Longarm smile to himself. He wished to hell he was back in Denver, sitting with Billy, eating a big steak and perhaps looking forward to a visit that night with that lady who ran the dress shop.

Now she was a woman he could have used to distract himself the night he was lying in the little wash. But he stopped himself. He still had too much trail left before he could let himself start thinking like that.

He was hungry that night. He calculated he’d eaten exactly two meals in the past three or four days, and neither of them had been much to get excited about. Outside, in the corral, the horses nickered occasionally. He knew they weren’t calling to other horses; probably asking where the groceries were. Longarm wondered the same thing himself. He’d made his bed in front of the fireplace, and it was still burning enough to throw rosy glows against the walls of the cabin.

Longarm had set his mind to wake up in about four or five hours. Since he knew where he was headed, he could travel in the dark. it would be a lot easier on the horses. With any luck he could reach Benson and get them some feed not too long after daylight.

Chapter 10

In the end he had to feed the coffee to the horses out of his hat. It didn’t much matter since the hat was pretty well gone anyway. But it did irritate him that he’d have to spend a few minutes and use one of his shirts to wipe the thing out after the horses got through drooling and slopping around inside the crown.

Fortunately, both horses liked the coffee. He gave them each about a quart. By the time he was ready to break trail, they both seemed to have a good deal more energy. As he was saddling up he had to smile, remembering the young deputy marshal he’d told about the coffee trick.

The young man had come back to him a few weeks later as reproachful as a Sunday School teacher. He’d told Longarm that just because he was young and inexperienced wasn’t any reason to play such a mean prank on him. Longarm had been puzzled until the young deputy had said, “Hell, Longarm, that damn horse spit and spewed coffee all over me. Like to have burned a brand-new five-dollar shirt off my back, to say nothin’ of what it done to my bare skin.”

Longarm had stared at him a long time, too dumbfounded to say a word. He could not believe that the young man had tried to give hot coffee to his horse. When he’d finally asked about it, the young deputy had said, “Why, hell, yes. That’s the way I take it. What’d you want me to do, saucer and blow it fer him?”

As Longarm finally set out, both horses were feeling lively from the cold night weather. He figured they’d have different thoughts once the sun began its work. He’d saddled the smaller horse, a black with two white stocking feet. It was not quite four o’clock when he got them headed toward the southwest, steering by different stars he knew but didn’t know the names of. The only one he could ever recall was the North Star.

By the time dawn arrived, he didn’t know how far they’d come—maybe ten miles—but the little black was surprising him by his endurance. He’d expected the horse to play out fairly quickly, but the animal moved right along. Still, to be certain and to play it safe, he switched horses about seven o’clock and rode the roan the rest of the way into Benson.

It was a slow trip. It took them six hours to make what he guessed was about twenty-five miles. Still, he arrived with both horses.

Benson was an ugly little weatherbeaten town with a population of around two thousand and five times as many saloons as churches. Half the town appeared to be Mexican, and there was only one discernible street, though there were wagon-track trails leading off in every direction. The downtown buildings were mostly frame, looking worn and colorless as a result of the sun and the sand and the wind. Longarm had been conscious that the land was descending gradually all the way from the line cabin. By the time he reached the border at Douglas, it should have dropped two or three thousand feet in elevation. It made for easier breathing by both man and beast.

He rode into the town on the main street, noting with satisfaction that they had at least two cafes. There was also a ramshackle hotel and a few boardinghouses and, he was glad to see, a livery stable. Most of the residences, either in town or on the outskirts looked to be adobe, with only the bigger ones being constructed of lumber or brick. He turned in at the livery stable and had both horses seen to. He was desperate to get himself to a cafe and get some food in his own belly, but he stayed at the stable and supervised the graining of his horses. He wanted to make sure the horses got their fill, but he didn’t want them eating too much at one time. Even though he was into Benson early enough to rest up and then push on, he saw no real reason for hurry. Shaw was where he was going if that was where he was going. Hurry now was pointless. He and the horses could both use a rest before he pushed on for the last fifty miles to Douglas. He had harbored some hope that there was a railroad line to Douglas, but that was not the case. There was an east-west track through town, but not one running north-south. A train went west to Tucson and east into New Mexico, but nothing was going where he wanted to go.

When he was satisfied his horses had been attended to, he took himself down to the nearest cafe and ordered steak and eggs. The steak was stringy and tough, and the eggs weren’t cooked the way he liked them, with the yokes liquid, but he cleaned his plate and then ordered the same thing again. While he waited, he ate a half a dozen biscuits with butter and honey and drank three cups of coffee, putting as much sugar in it as he liked.

Finally, feeling as if he had regained some lost ground, he left the cafe and went looking for the sheriff’s office. The sheriff, an older, grizzled man with a drooping mustache, stared at him in some amazement.

He said, “Marshal, do I hear you right? You are askin’ me if I seen a stranger, a white man, passin’ through who woulda been ridin’ one horse an’ leadin’ a extry? That right?”

Longarm nodded.

The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Not more’n half a dozen. “Less he was wearin’ spangles or pink tights, I can’t he’p you a bit. And no, ‘bout the other question, I don’t know no Jack Shaw. Heered of him, but never met the sucker, I’m right glad to say.”

Longarm thanked the sheriff, and then went down and got a room at the run-down-looking hotel. He was going to have a sleep in a real bed even if it didn’t amount to much more than a nap.

After that he went looking around the livery stable to see what kind of horses they had for sale. He didn’t see anything that looked much better than what he had. The man at the livery stable told him there was a horse trader out a mile, but Longarm decided he’d save that for later.

Right then he wanted a drink and he wanted it in a glass and in a saloon. He also wanted a couple of beers to go with it. He wanted to sit in a cool, dim saloon for about two hours and have a few quiet drinks and rest his spirit as best he could. It had been a hard assignment that had taken longer than he’d thought, and was not having anywhere near as good a result as he’d expected.

He stopped in at a general mercantile store and considered buying another rifle. In the end all he purchased was a box of cartridges for his pistol. Jack Shaw had his rifle, and he intended on getting it back. He was used to that rifle, and it was a weapon that had seen him through some tight places. He was damned if he was going to lay out forty-five dollars for another one when his was only half a hundred miles from him. Besides, he didn’t think the showdown with Shaw was going to take place at long range. He wanted the man alive, and that didn’t call for rifle work. What he wanted the most was to get close enough to get his hands on Shaw. The man had caused him considerable trouble, and he had every intention of beating the billy blue hell out of him.

Longarm went to bed at about two o’clock in the afternoon, and slept until eight that night. He got up and ate a big supper at the same cafe, and then came back and went to sleep again, and slept until a little after one in the morning. Sitting, yawning, and still groggy, he forced himself to his feet and went sleepily down to the livery stable, his saddlebags over his shoulder. He woke the night man, who helped him rig up, and then was on his way by two o’clock in the morning. He would have at least five hours of cool traveling during the night before the blazing sun got up enough to do real damage.

Fortunately, there was a stage and wagon road to Douglas, so he didn’t have to go cross-country over the rough, barren terrain which seemed capable only of supporting sand and rocks and where every growing thing seemed compelled to armor itself in stickers or thorns.

He was riding the roan and leading the little black. He had not been satisfied with any trade he could make, either with the quality of the horseflesh or the price of the animal. In the end he’d decided to try to make it on the two he had left. Both seemed to have benefitted by the day of rest and the feed.

It wasn’t as cold as it had been up on the high prairie. Still, Longarm could see his breath and the breath of the horses as he left the dark town behind and set out on his trip.

He figured to travel for six hours and then look for a place to lay up during the hottest part of the day. After that, if the horses were up to it, he intended to push on for Douglas, hoping to arrive sometime in the early night hours. The biggest problem was that there was no water on the way. He was carrying enough for himself, of course, but the horses would have to make it through again dry. As weakened as they were, it was not a situation he much relished. The livery man had said he might get lucky and run across a freighter who’d have a barrel of water for his own stock and who might let Longarm refresh his stock for a price. Other than that, he’d found no way to carry water that wouldn’t defeat its own purpose by being more of a load than it was worth. Most riders heading to Douglas were riding fresh, rested, and well-fed animals who were strong enough for the task, and the travelers pushed straight on through, making the fifty-mile jump in one stretch.

And a man could do that if he had a horse capable of sustaining seven or eight miles an hour, but Longarm was afraid to push his mounts at a pace much faster than a man could walk.

At least there was the road. As the moon commenced to get down and it got darker and darker, Longarm was more and more grateful for the rough but recognizable road. He would have hated to be traveling without one across such rough country in such darkness. It was a quick way to break a horse’s leg.

He had restocked his whiskey and cigars, and as he rode along he would, from time to time, turn in the saddle and fetch out a bottle of whiskey. Of course he hadn’t been able to find any of his Maryland whiskey in such an outpost as Benson, but the pop-skull he’d obtained would make you just as drunk and leave you with just as bad a head the next morning. But he was drinking purely for medicinal purposes, to ward off the cold.

As he rode, he deliberately did not let himself dwell on Jack Shaw, or try and imagine what the situation might be that he would have to face when he finally ran the man to ground. He’d learned the hard way not to scale mountains or swim rivers until you got to them. You could visualize what a situation was going to be, make plans to overcome it, and then find out all your imagination had been for naught when you finally got to the scene and found it was nothing like you’d expected.

He’d just handle the situation, whatever it might be, when he got to it.

Dawn took a long time to arrive, and Longarm was thoroughly tired of the unchanging dark as they plodded through it. He wondered if Shaw was using the night cover to cross over from the U.S. to his ranch in Mexico. Maybe he’d already made the crossing. Longarm didn’t know and didn’t care. All of that could wait until they met. At least now, he wouldn’t be burdened by trying to find out where Shaw had hidden the money. But in many ways, he wished he hadn’t found out. It made him feel like a damn fool. He remembered with a twinge how Shaw had been so eager to fill the water bags from the pipe and fill the coffeepot. He hadn’t wanted Longarm anywhere near that barrel. And yet Longarm had drunk from that pipe, but he’d never thought to poke around in the dark water of the barrel. Well, it was all just as well. Longarm had been needing a good bringing down for some time, and Shaw was doing a good job of handling the task.

Finally it was good daylight. The road ahead and behind was empty.

Longarm would have to wait for several hours if he was to have any hope of meeting a wagoneer who might have extra water to sell. He could see, by looking behind him, that the terrain was continuin to slope downwards the further south he went. It was ugly, bleak country, even less inviting than the high prairie, which at least grew greasewood and bunchgrass. Nothing appeared to grow in this desolate country except snakes and sagebrush and spiders and cactus. Off to his left he could see a small range of mountains, but he knew the jagged crests were at least fifty miles away, if not further. He figured they were probably part of the Sierra Madre range in northern Mexico.

It got to be eight in the morning. Since the sun had been up good, Longarm had begun looking around for someplace to shelter during the heat of the day. The only thing he’d seen had been some cactus about four feet tall. There was no sign of a tree, much less a grove of trees. Naturally, there was no sign of any kind of building. Why would anyone build a dwelling or a barn or any other sort of structure in such a place? You couldn’t grow a crop in such a place, so you didn’t need a farmhouse. And you damn sure couldn’t raise cattle or horses or even goats, so you didn’t need a ranch headquarters. He’d been an idiot to have expected to find shelter in such a terrain and country. He should have let the horses rest all night and started about noon. That way they would have only gotten six or seven hours of the worst of the sun and he could have pushed on at night. But it was too late for such thinking.

He kept on until nine and then ten, going slower and slower. He could tell by the saliva flecking around the bit of the roan that the horse badly needed water. Dry spit was a bad sign in a horse.

An hour later, with no sign of shelter and no sign of a wagon, either coming or going, Longarm had about reached the decision to stop and rest the horses, shade or no shade, when he felt the first tremor between his legs. He did not hesitate. He immediately pulled the roan to a halt and leapt to the ground. But even in that short a time the horse was already beginning to shake all over. Longarm had seen it before, and it was a sight he hated. As quickly as he could, he undid the saddle cinch and let it swing free below the horse’s belly. By now the horse had spraddled out his legs in an effort to stay erect.

Longarm took his pocketknife out and opened it. He felt for the vein at the front of the horse’s neck, and then made a quick slash with his knife.

He had tried it only once before and it hadn’t worked then, but he was willing to make any effort because, if he didn’t, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. The theory was that opening a vein and allowing the horse to bleed a little cooled the animal down. At least that was what the old-timers said. He stood back, watching the blood running down the animal’s neck and dripping on the ground. The smell frightened the black, and he started running back and forth at the end of his lead rope, neighing uncertainly.

Longarm watched. For a second he thought the roan might be getting better, but then the horse started staggering sideways—the blind staggers, they called it—and then he seemed to sigh and sink down by the hindquarters. Before it could get caught under the collapsing horse, Longarm reached out, grabbed his saddle, and jerked it off the animal’s back. He stepped aside as the horse slowly crumpled to the ground, landing on his belly as Longarm’s foundered animal had. He didn’t stay backside-up long. Little by little he leaned over until he toppled onto his left side. He twitched once, and then was still.

Longarm cursed. He cursed for two or three minutes straight. He’d ridden other horses to death, and would probably ride others to death in the future, but he’d always hated it and would continue to hate it even though, in all cases, he’d never really had much choice. This horse had been misused, by himself and by others before him. The poor animal had never had a chance to recover from the nearly two weeks of bad treatment and hard usage he’d undergone. It was criminal to take horses into country where they couldn’t get feed and water, but unfortunately, the men Longarm was usually chasing were already criminals, and a horse here or there didn’t make a damn bit of difference to them.

In the end there was nothing left to do except take his bridle off the roan and put it on the black. He could see that the black had a mouth full of dry spittle also. He wouldn’t last long if Longarm kept riding.

The roan had fallen off the road. As Longarm saddled the black and adjusted his saddlebags and tied them in place, he looked down at the animal. Overhead the buzzards were already starting to circle. At least the horse wouldn’t be a complete waste. The buzzards and coyotes would see to that.

It made no sense to stop. It was just as hot standing as it was moving. But Longarm figured he could at least spare the black the extra effort of his weight. He took one of the two water bags he had, poured as much in his hat as he could, and let the horse drink what he could get down. It wasn’t much, and he spilled as much as he drank.

Longarm had about two gallons of water, and a horse could sweat five gallons in an hour, more under such a sun. A horse couldn’t really carry enough water on his back to satisfy his own needs. It was an odd thing to think about, but it was true. Longarm had seen the proof of it many times.

It was warm work, walking down the uneven road in his high-heeled boots. But there was no help for it. The next time he lost a horse he would be afoot. Even not riding, he glanced back anxiously from time to time to see how the black was doing. The horse was covered with lines of dried sweat all over his glistening black hide. The glistening was caused by fresh sweat and not good health. But at least, Longarm reflected, he still had enough water in him to sweat.

Longarm didn’t know how far he had walked, but he knew it was approaching one o’clock when he and the horse topped a little rise in the road and he saw, in the distance, a small line of three wagons. He stopped and shaded his eyes, peering through the shimmering heat waves.

It was a long moment before he was able to discern that the wagons were heading his way. Only then did he allow himself a drink of water.

Once again he filled the crown of his hat with the liquid and let the black snuffle around in it. He said to the horse, “Maybe, when them wagons get here, we can get some of this stuff in your belly.”

He rode into Douglas at a little past seven o’clock. He had made the trip in one day even though it had cost him a horse. When they arrived it was difficult to say who was the most tired, Longarm or his remaining horse. He went straight to a livery stable and had the black put up in a stall with strict instructions on his watering and feeding.

He wanted the horse to eat hay before he ate anything else such as grain, and he made it clear to the stable hands that he was fond of the animal and that he was a federal marshal, and that it would be in their best interests to give the animal the best care they knew how. He didn’t come out and say it, but he conveyed the impression the best he could that he would arrest the lot of them if anything happened to the horse.

After that, he went down to a hotel and got a room and ordered up a bath. When it came he sat in the tub, ordering the Mexican boys who were fetching the hot water to “keep it coming and make damn sure it’s hot.” After he had washed for a while, he fetched a basin over to the tub and shaved while he was soaking in the hot water. The parts of him that weren’t still sore from lifting the roof were tired and sore from walking the two or three miles he’d trod along in his high-heeled boots. His feet felt like they had blisters all over them, but fortunately, the unaccustomed activity hadn’t gone on long enough to produce any serious harm. His feet were just sore.

Once he’d seen the wagons, he and the black had stood there by the side of the road and let the freighters come to them. They had had water for his horse, and had even sold him some grain mixed with shelled corn to give the animal something solid for his stomach. The feed and the water had revived the black enough so that they had stepped along and made Douglas without camping. Longarm was starting to have a real respect for the tough little animal. He hadn’t looked like much, but he was proving to have a lot of bottom.

Once he’d gotten about four layers of dirt and a week’s worth of whiskers off him, Longarm rustled around in his saddlebags and found a clean shirt and socks, and even a pair of jeans he’d only worn for two or three days—and that had been in town. They were nearly as good as new. After he’d changed clothes and combed his hair, despairing of his hat, he went downstairs and ate in the hotel dining room. Douglas was a border town and border towns, Longarm knew, were pretty much the same from the tip of Texas all the way up the line to California. In a border town you were neither in the United States or Mexico. You were in a border town, and there wasn’t any other way to describe it.

He had beef stew and biscuits for supper that night, and he ate until he was full. After that he sought out the best of the saloons, and drank some brandy and played a little poker. He’d put his badge in his pocket, so the other players treated him like an ordinary citizen and managed to win twenty dollars off him. He didn’t much care. It was pleasant to sit and do something besides chase bandits over barren country. He had no intention of keeping on to Aqua Prieta that night, even though it was only about a half mile away. Shaw could wait. Either he’d be there the next day or he wouldn’t. All Longarm knew was that he was going to sleep all night in a bed. He went down and checked on the black, and then he went to his hotel room. He’d bought a bottle of brandy, and he intended to bite off a piece of that and then wear the bed out.

The next morning he had breakfast, and then mounted the black and rode on over to Aqua Prieta. It was difficult to tell when you passed from the U.S. into Mexico since the country didn’t change at all and Aqua Prieta just looked like a poor section of Douglas. The only marker was a shack with a uniformed guard slumped inside, drinking something out of a bottle. There was a post with a sign on it that said, “Bienvenudos a Mexico.”

“Welcome to Mexico.” That, Longarm thought, was a laugh. The only thing welcome in Mexico was your dollars, and they’d have been just as happy if you’d mailed the money across or wrapped it around a rock and chunked it. Still, Longarm in the main liked Mexico. He liked the peones, the campesinos, the vaqueros, the working people of the country. He found them, even as poor as Job’s turkey, to be serious, dignified, and courteous to a fault. They were a proud people, even in their poverty, and strictly honest. It was said in Mexico that you could leave a roasted pig in the middle of a plaza and unless a rico, a rich man, or a politico, which was one and the same, came by, the pig would be there the next day. Longarm had always thought it was a good story, but he’d doubted he’d much care for pig, roasted or not, after it had been sitting out in the Mexican sun for a couple of days.

Once into Aqua Prieta, he tied his horse in front of a cantina and got a beer and began in his poor Spanish, asking about the ranchero of el pistolero gringo. The third man he asked knew, or seemed to know, who he was talking about. The man said he was a farmer, a campesino, and described Jack Shaw even to the birthmark. Longarm’s informant, who was a sun-dried little peon wearing white pants tied at the ankle and a wool poncho over his white shirt, said that Shaw lived on a large hacienda about two miles to the west and south of town. Longarm asked the man if he would be willing to show him to the hacienda in return for a little gift for his family, a little gift of money. You never, Longarm knew, wanted to insult a proud man, no matter how poor he was, by trying to give him money for an errand he would consider a duty and an honor to do for a stranger.

It was all right, however, to offer the gift of money for his family, his wife and nifios. That was a perfectly acceptable gesture.

The man rode a small mule without a saddle. Longarm had to slow the black to his pace. A little way out of town Longarm could see immediately what Shaw had meant about being able to spot anyone coming from a long way off. Except for groves of ash and mountain pine and mesquite that were sparsely scattered about, the land was flat and mainly uninhabited, though a few small farms were struggling to grow little patches of corn.

Longarm was almost certain he recognized Shaw’s place even before the little Mexican said anything. He pulled up the black and pointed at a big adobe building at least a mile in the distance but looking closer because of the thin air. “Es este por el senor gringo del pistoles?”

“Does this belong to the American with the pistols?”

“Si.”

“Seguro?”

“For sure?”

“Si.”

Longarm dismounted and stood behind the black. He reached into his near saddlebag and took out his telescope. With the naked eye he could see a few figures moving around the hacienda, but he couldn’t make out who or what they were. With the campesino watching him curiously, he extended the telescope and put it to his eye. The scene instantly jumped much closer. He could see that the big adobe ranch house had once been whitewashed, but sand and wind had combined to turn it into a very pale tan. It looked to be a residence of at least six rooms. Longarm was able to get a fair idea of its inside size by the number of round ceiling beams that stuck out through the outer walls. It had a roof made of red clay tiles. There was a front courtyard that was bounded by a low wall. Behind the house were several small frame buildings that Longarm took to be a stable and two or three sheds that were most likely used for storage. He turned his glass one after another on the several figures. There were two behind the house, working around the sheds, and one man just outside the front of the dwelling standing in the courtyard who was cut off at the hips by the low wall. The two figures in the back were clearly Mexican laborers. As near as Longarm could see they were not wearing guns. He swung the glass around to the man in the front. As he brought the figure into focus the man turned and took a step back onto the front patio and then disappeared.

Longarm had only gotten a quick look, but there was no mistaking that appearance. It was Shaw, all right. Nobody else could look quite as cocky just standing in their front yard as Jack Shaw.

Longarm closed the spyglass and put it thoughtfully back into his saddlebag. The house was going to be very difficult to approach.

There were no bars on the windows, but the house was surrounded by flat, cleared land on all sides for a distance of at least two hundred yards. Anybody either trying to walk up or ride up to that house was going to be exposed for a long time and a long way. For a moment Longarm leaned his arms on the dish of his saddle and stared across the way at the hacienda. There was a small grove of mountain pine on the side toward the road, the side that Longarm was viewing the house from. The pines wern’t very tall, no more than ten or twelve feet, but they were thick and the copse was a good forty yards wide. A man could ride down the road past the house and then, with the pines blocking the view from the house, make a dash into the little grove and hide. The only problem with that was that it still left you four hundred yards from the hacienda. If Shaw had a guard posted, anyone trying to slip up to the place would be spotted whether the guard was any good or not. But then, Longarm thought, why should Shaw post a guard? He was in Mexico. He was safe. The danger was north, in Arizona Territory. He had nothing to fear from the gringo law. They couldn’t operate in Mexico.

No, they couldn’t. Not if they played by the rules. But then, Longarm had no intention of playing by the rules. He had just seen the man who had damaged his reputation with the Marshals Service, and he did not intend that Shaw would get away with it.

He mounted and turned his horse for Aqua Prieta. The little campesino was looking at him questioningly. “Esta bueno?” Longarm shook his head. He said, “Es no mi amigo. Es un otro hombre.”

“It is not my friend. It is some other man.”

“Aaah,” the campesino said. “Es malo suerte.”

“Si,” Longarm said in agreement. It was bad luck, but he didn’t say for whom.

As they rode back Longarm studied the problem, turning it over and over in his mind. If he had any sense he’d simply set up watch on the place and bide his time until Shaw ventured out to town or someplace else. Then he’d be easy to take. Find a hiding place on his route and jump out and throw down on him.

Except Longarm wasn’t in a waiting mood. He’d been on the trail too long. He’d been sleepy and thirsty and hungry for a lot longer than he cared for. Besides, there were several lady friends of his that he had been depriving too long. No, he was going to settle Jack Shaw within twenty-four hours or know the reason why.

He had, of course, lied to the campesino about it being the wrong man at the wrong ranch. Even though he wasn’t wearing his badge, he didn’t want it getting about that there was a gringo looking for the pistolero gringo. This way no one was the wiser. Longarm gave the little Mexican a five-dollar gold piece, which made the man’s eyes get big in his head. Probably it was the most money he had ever held in his hand at one time. Jack Shaw had finally been a benefactor to a community that he lived in. That five dollars would buy an awful lot of beans and tortillas and fill a lot of empty bellies. Longarm wanted to be sure and remember to tell Shaw what good works he’d caused to be done in his name. Longarm had the feeling, though, that Shaw wasn’t going to be all that interested.

When they got back to town, Longarm put his horse back in the stable, and then found a sort of cafe where he had a meal of huevos rancheros: eggs with chili sauce and cheese. It was not eaten with a utensil but with a rolled-up flour tortilla that you used as a kind of scoop. He thought it was the best meal he’d had since he’d left Denver. After he’d eaten, he went to a kind of little inn and rented a room. He intended to sleep through the afternoon, and then arise about six and go to making his preparations for that night.

Chapter 11

In the evening he bought a striped, many-colored wool poncho that would go over his head and hang off his shoulders nearly to his knees. It was too heavy to wear during the day, although he saw plenty of the Mexicans wearing ponchos, but it would be welcome during the long, cold night. He also bought a very wide-brimmed straw sombrero with a conical crown. The sombrero was not for comfort but for deception. He also went to the livery stable and arranged to rent a mule along with one of the uncomfortable wooden saddles that they used.

When it was about eight o’clock, he went back to the little cafe and had some beans, rice, and corn tortillas and drank some more of the green beer. It was so bad he finally decided that the fault must lie with him. No one could make something that bad and expect the public to buy it. He’d heard of “shotgun whiskey,” moonshine that was so bad you had to hire a man to hold a shotgun on you to force you to drink it, but the only thing to recommend the beer was how cheap it was, about a penny a glass. Still, even at that price, Longarm didn’t think it was much of a bargain.

He was diverting himself with different thoughts, a method he often used to keep himself from getting worked up too soon about a particularly important piece of business.

After supper he strolled around in the night air, wearing his poncho, taking in the sights of the town. Except for one cantina where it sounded as if things were getting pretty lively, the town was dead quiet. There was an establishment that Longarm felt pretty sure was a whorehouse. He gave it some thought, but decided that it might take a little of his edge off and he figured to need all the alertness he could get. At about ten o’clock he went to the little inn and turned in fully clothed. He knew, with the nap he’d taken that afternoon, that he was not likely to sleep more than four or five hours.

It was about four in the morning when he went down to the livery and got the mule, already saddled and bridled. He gave the night boy five pesos to thank him for his trouble, and then swung into the wooden saddle. The thing was as uncomfortable as it looked. It had been made for someone about half his size and weight. The mule turned out to be a tough, cold-jawed little brute who did not want to do night work.

Longarm had to battle him around the town a couple of circuits before the mule finally got it into his head that only one of them was going to decide which direction they went and when.

When he finally had the mule lined out, Longarm started them south for the edge of town and the fork in the road that ran west and would take him by Shaw’s place. It was a very dark night, one that Longarm thought that Shaw would have appreciated. He reckoned it to be not much more than an hour before dawn. He calculated he wouldn’t have too long a wait.

They reached the fork in the road, and Longarm turned the mule west. He was riding with his legs hanging down, not using the stirrups. He had his straw sombrero on, tilted forward as he had seen the Mexicans wear theirs. He was wearing his poncho, and he was riding slumped in the saddle to minimize his size. Of course a close observer would have seen his high-heeled boots and figured him not to be a Mexican, but he didn’t think there were any close observers out that night. All he wanted to do was blend in as best he could with the country, not cause any notice to anyone who might have been up at that hour.

In the darkness ahead he could see the grove of pines. It was about forty or fifty yards off the road, on the left. Longarm aimed the mule slightly off the road, heading toward the edge of the copse. As he came near it, as it slowly grew in size and began to block out the hacienda, Longarm slowly pulled the mule up. The pine grove was about ten yards to his left. He was hidden from view by the trees. He raised his right leg over the mule’s neck and vaulted out of the saddle and to the ground. The mule paused, but Longarm gave him a slap on the rump and the animal started and went off, switching his tail, making it plain he was irritated. He was a stable mule, spoiled like stable horses. Longarm watched while the mule went on down the road a few hundred yards. Then, as if he’d suddenly realized he wasn’t being ridden any longer, the mule stopped. He looked over his shoulder. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew it was to his advantage.

Longarm saw the mule turn and then head back down the road at a trot. He was heading back to his stable, the warm place where they kept the hay and the feed. Longarm watched until the mule disappeared into the darkness, and then carefully entered the grove.

He squatted at the south side of the copse, carefully watching the ranch house and waiting for signs of light. He had not wanted to keep the mule with him in the trees for fear the animal might start calling to horses at Shaw’s place. Mules were a good deal smarter than horses, and demons for causing trouble when none was called for. He’d been pretty certain that the mule would head back to the stable, but it hadn’t much mattered to him if it did or not. So far as getting back to town was concerned, Longarm figured that Jack Shaw would lend him a horse. Either that or he wasn’t going to need one. Longarm had no illusions that Shaw would be an easy target. But he was determined that the man was going to be his prisoner or a corpse in a short while.

He did not intend to give Shaw any sort of a chance. Ideally, he would like to catch Shaw as Shaw had him, in bed and asleep. But he doubted that would be the case. Longarm didn’t want to work in the dark in strange country, and he expected that once the sun was up, Shaw would be too.

He could see that there were three windows on the side of the house facing his way. He intended to head for a space between the second and third window. More than likely, if Shaw slept on that side of the house, his bedroom would be in the back.

it was cold. Longarm had his arms huddled inside the poncho, hugging himself. He had his revolver stuck down in his waistband, not wanting to wear his gunbelt. You didn’t often see a campesino wearing a gunbelt, much less boots, and that was what Longarm was trying to pass as, at least in a bad light.

And then he saw a little flush of pink begin in the eastern sky. He didn’t hesitate. In one motion he was on his feet and moving toward the house. He kept his arms inside the poncho, his right hand on the butt of his revolver. He walked unsteadily, which was not difficult in high-heeled boots over the rough ground, trying to give the impression of a drunk just staggering home.

From under the brim of the big sombrero he saw the base of the house loom up. He lifted his head just enough to make sure of his direction, and staggered on. Within a few steps he was at the side of Shaw’s ranch house. He dropped down, closer to the third window than the second. He hoped they would light candles or kerosene lamps inside. It would be a sign to him that people were up and moving around. He doubted he’d be able to hear through the thick walls if they just started talking to each other.

As the sun began to get up and light slowly drove off the last gray of dawn, he looked down the line at the outbuildings. What he’d taken for a stable was obviously a bunkhouse of some kind because it had a chimney sticking up and, even as Longarm watched, a thin wisp of smoke began to rise. There was no one moving around, at least not yet, but he knew it was only a matter of moments and he knew how exposed he was.

He was taking a terrible gamble that the men on Shaw’s place were just peones and not pistoleros. But then, he couldn’t see what Shaw would want with Mexican gunmen. Mexico was his refuge, his hideout. He wouldn’t need men on the place to protect it and him.

To his right he saw a glow from the second window. He was on the point of crawling that way when he heard a voice to his right, from the third window. He turned back. Almost as he did, a light began casting shadows through the window on the ground. He turned back and inched his way up to the window, taking off his hat as he did. He edged an eye over the window sill and looked in. The room was alight with rays from a kerosene lantern. As he got a view of the room he saw that it was a bedroom, and then he saw the bed, and then he saw Shaw sitting up in the bed. Shaw had his legs under the covers, but Longarm could see that he was wearing the bottoms of a set of long underwear. He was bare-chested. Longarm could see that the outlaw was talking to someone across the room out of view of the window. Then, as Longarm looked, a beautiful naked Mexican girl came into his line of sight. She walked to the edge of Shaw’s bed, put her hand on the foot-post of the bed, and listened to something Shaw was saying. Longarm judged her to be about twenty or twenty-one, and he could see that Shaw hadn’t lied about her looks if she was one of the two he’d been talking about.

But he had no time to look at the girl. He suddenly realized he couldn’t let her get any closer to Shaw. If she got in bed with him or sat down beside him, she’d interfere with his field of fire. He knew he was going to have to act immediately. There were no curtains on the window, and for that Longarm was thankful. The window was split into four panes, separated by pieces of wood. Longarm didn’t hesitate. He drew back his arm and smashed out the bottom two panes with his pistol.

As quick as he could he shoved his hand and arm into the room, cocking the hammer of his revolver. He yelled, “Shaw! Freeze! Don’t move, dammit!”

He saw Shaw react instantly, sliding sideways off the bed and disappearing out of sight. The girl had looked Longarm’s way, and was staring at him with big, dark, luminous eyes. He yelled again. “Shaw! Give up!”

Just beyond the girl he could see another window on the other side of the room. At the instant he was expecting Shaw to come up from beside the bed with a gun in his hand, the outlaw came up behind the girl.

Longarm searched for a shot. He yelled, “Shaw, give up, dammit! You can’t get out!”

Then he heard the sound of glass breaking and saw legs and feet as Shaw dove through the broken window. Longarm got up, cursing, and ran to the end of the house. He didn’t know if Shaw had armed himself or not. He hesitated for a second, and then peered around the back corner of the house. He saw Shaw suddenly come running out through some door or gate at the back of a kind of courtyard. Longarm yelled, “Shaw!” He stepped out into the open. But before he could fire, Shaw suddenly jerked open the door to a small shed and jumped inside. Longarm had not seen a gun in his hand, but he’d had only a fraction of a second before Shaw had disappeared. Crouched, his gun forward and still cocked, Longarm advanced toward the little shed. He figured for certain that Shaw must have gone in the hut to get a gun of some kind. He wished there was more shelter.

Out of the corner of his right eye he saw a face and head poke out the door of what he’d decided was someone’s living quarters or a bunkhouse of some kind. He turned his revolver in that direction and the head disappeared.

He stopped about five yards short of the shed. He crouched down and said, “Jack, you are in there and I know it. I can see all around that little chicken coop. Now you come out or I am gonna go to testing that wood you are hiding behind and see how thick it is. I don’t think it will stop a bullet, Jack.”

For a moment he didn’t think he was going to get a response, but then Shaw said, “Longarm? What in hell are you doing here? This is Mexico!”

“I know that, Jack. I came to get you. Figured you got lost somehow.”

Shaw’s voice was bewildered. “You can’t take me, Longarm. This is Mexico. What the hell is the matter with you?”

“I know it’s Mexico, Jack. And you know it IS. And you can complain to the authorities when I take you back to Arizona. They might turn you loose.”

There was a half a moment of silence. Shaw said finally, “Aw, hell, Longarm, why don’t you forget about me. Let it go.”

“You know that ain’t gonna happen, Jack. And this time I’m going to have to get the money and take it back.”

Shaw laughed. “That’s still got your back up, don’t it, Custis. That I lied to you about the money.”

“Jack, you better come on out. One of these Mexicans is liable to get brave and you wouldn’t want that on your conscience.”

“According to you I ain’t got one. What you got in mind, Longarm?”

“I got Arizona in mind.”

“I thought we was going to New Mexico.”

“I done tried that. You didn’t want to go to New Mexico. You run off.”

There was a silence. “Longarm, they liable to hang me in Arizona.”

“That ain’t none of my affair, Jack. Like I say, I just catch ‘em.”

“I hear they tie your hands behind your back when they hang you. I couldn’t stand that.” Longarm said, “I understand you ain’t got long to worry about it, Jack. Now listen, I’m getting worried about you out in this cold with nothing on but the bottoms to your long handles. I reckon I’m going to have to test those walls, Jack.” He got up and eased around to his left so he could see what was behind the shed. There was nothing. He took a few steps to his right. The shed was a dead end if you were inside.

Shaw said, “I hear they hold you pretty tight when you are waiting to be hung. I hear they pen you up pretty good in a tight little cell.”

“You ought not to pay so much attention to what you hear, Jack. You coming out or not?”

There was a pause. “No deal on New Mexico, Longarm? It ain’t ten miles to the territory line.”

“Not again, Jack. Naw, I reckon it’ll have to be Arizona.”

Shaw laughed. “I don’t reckon you’d put them same manacles back on me, would you, Custis?”

“Never can tell. Got about another half minute, Jack. I’m getting nervous.”

A few beats passed, and then the door of the shed flew open and Jack Shaw came charging straight for Longarm. He had something black in his right hand. Longarm yelled, “Stop! Hands up!”

Shaw did not pause. He kept coming. In an instant he was within two strides of Longarm. Almost sorrowfully, Longarm aimed and pulled the trigger. His revolver boomed and Shaw stopped as if grabbed by a giant hand and then went backwards; he staggered and then fell on his back.

Longarm walked cautiously to his side, cocking his revolver as he did. Shaw looked up. There was a slight grin on his face. He lifted his right hand. He was holding a piece of kindling wood, blackened from a fire. Shaw said, as the stick fell out of his hand, “Fooled you, Custis. Made you shoot.”

Longarm knelt by him. There was a hole on the right side of his chest. Little bubbles of pink froth churned around it. He was lung-shot.

Longarm grimaced. He said, “I thought you said you wouldn’t do it this way, Jack. When I was telling you about it, you said it wasn’t for you.” Shaw coughed. He said, his voice growing faint and hoarse, “Wasn’t no guilt involved, Custis. Want you to un’nerstan’ that. No guilt. Couldn’t take the idea of bein’ pent up, Custis. Un’erstan’?”

“I guess so, Jack.”

“Ain’t ‘bout guilt or no guilty conscience.”

“If you say so, Jack.”

“You’d of had to bound my hands ‘hind my back, Custis. Wouldn’t you?”

Shaw’s voice was getting weaker and he was starting to slur his words.

Longarm said, “I reckon so, Jack.”

Shaw grinned. He said faintly, “I fooled you, Custis.” He opened his mouth to say something else; instead he coughed up a great gout of blood. His body suddenly jerked and heaved. His eyes glazed over. He opened his mouth again and then shut it. His body settled back.

Longarm reached over and closed his eyes. Then he stood up. As he turned toward the house he saw the two Mexican women standing there. They had wrapped themselves in blankets. Their eyes followed Longarm as he walked past them and into the house. He had to find the money. That was his next job.

It was two nights later, and Longarm was sitting in a hotel room trying to finish his report. In the morning he was going to take a train that would get him into Phoenix. There he was going to turn over to Arizona authorities the money he had recovered, along with a copy of his report that would give an account of what had happened since the robbery. He had written it pretty much as it had happened, including his deal with Jack Shaw to take the outlaw to New Mexico Territory. The Arizona authorities could make of that what they wanted. It was how it had happened and the way Longarm had seen to play it for the best. If they wanted to judge him, that was their business. He was damned if he would lie for anyone.

Except he couldn’t finish the report. He had written everything up to where Shaw had come out of the shed. He had written, “Culprit had taken refuge in a small shed, refusing to surrender. Federal officer had warned culprit shots would be fired through the thin walls of shed. Culprit had thrown open door and charged officer. Culprit …”

He had stopped at that point. He didn’t want to write that Shaw had charged him with a little burnt stick in his hand, forcing Longarm to shoot him in that instant of uncertainty. Jack Shaw was a lot of things, had been a lot of things, but he hadn’t been a coward. He just couldn’t stand the idea of being pent up and killed by people he didn’t know. He’d asked Longarm to do the job. And maybe, even though he’d denied it, there had been some repentance about what he’d done with his life, about some of the meanness he’d shown. Hell, there was no use telling all of Jack’s secrets. He couldn’t do any more harm. Might as well let him get away with his last little trick.

Longarm inked his pen and then wrote, “Culprit charged federal officer, forcing officer to defend himself. Culprit Jack Shaw was killed by a single bullet to the chest. He had no last words.”

Longarm put down the pen and took up his glass of whiskey. He had a drink, and then looked out the window at the dark. Jack might have made a friend if he hadn’t gotten confused, Longarm thought. But he at least deserved to go out the way he wanted to. Longarm yawned. He was tired and weary. He would be ready to get back to Denver and take it easy for a while. Seemed like the rough life got harder every year.

He shook his head and finished his whiskey. He was going to sleep that night.