Longarm and The Branded Beauty

“I will,” she replied, taking the marshal’s arm and heading outside.

“One more question,” Longarm said before leaving the undertaker. “To the best of your recollection, did you see anything unusual about the body?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. A bullet wound or evidence of poisoning?”

“No. Most definitely not,” the man said without hesitation, “but why don’t you ask Dr. Davis?”

“I will,” Longarm promised, heading outside, “but I doubt that he gave the man a thorough examination given all that has gone on in this town and that his main concern was caring for Marshal Walker.”

Longarm was about to say more when he heard a rifle shot. His hand reached for his gun and he was out the door just in time to see Lola collapsing beside Marshal Walker, who was lying in the street. Out of the corner of his eye Longarm saw a flash of movement, and looked up to see a rifleman on the roof of the mercantile building. The man fired again and Walker’s body convulsed as it took the impact of a second bullet.

Longarm opened fire, hoping to wound the rifleman. But his very first bullet struck the man in the chest and his second slug spun him halfway around, causing the ambusher to pitch forward and do a complete somersault before his body slammed down on the boardwalk. It wasn’t necessary for Longarm to go examine the body because he knew that the ambusher was dead.

“Pete!”

Walker was gone. Lola threw her arms around Longarm’s neck and hugged him tightly. “Why!” she wailed. “Why did they have to murder him!”

“I don’t know.”

“He was such a nice man!”

“Yes,” Longarm replied, “and also a damned fine lawman.”

Marshal Jones appeared, gun in hand. He took one look at Pete’s bullet-riddled body and said, “Dammit, what the hell is going on in this town?”

“I can’t answer that either,” Longarm said, “but one way or another, I swear that we’ll find out.”

Chapter 13

Longarm took control of the situation. “Everyone listen up!” he shouted, marching over to the dead ambusher. “This man has just shot down Marshal Walker. Who is he!”

The gathering crowd gawked at the two dead men, but said nothing.

“I asked you to identify this cold-blooded ambusher!” Longarm angrily bellowed. “Is anyone man enough to step forward and help?”

An old, gray-bearded fellow in baggy overalls detached himself from the crowd. “His name was Claude Blanton.”

Longarm hurried over to the man. “Where does he live?”

“Down the railroad line somewhere around Newcastle,” the informant replied. “He rode over here once in a while to trade a horse or raise a little hell. Blanton was a bad one.”

“Who did he work for?”

“I dunno,” the old man replied, shaking his head. “He ran with a tough bunch. Seemed to me that they did a little of everything outside the law including claim jumping and horse stealing. Once in a while, he’d get a job drivin’ freight wagons for the Central Pacific, and I hear he was a good mule skinner. But he never stuck at anything very long.”

“Thanks,” Longarm said. “What’s your name?”

“Fred Potts. I own a little harness repair shop just up the street. I liked Marshal Walker. We were friends for a lot of years. Damn shame that a fine man like him was ambushed by a snake like Claude Blanton.”

“I agree,” Longarm said bitterly. He looked around at the others in the crowd. “Anyone else have anything to say about Blanton?”

“I was in the Rusty Bucket Saloon last night where Blanton was drinking pretty hard,” another man offered.

“So was I,” a smallish fellow with bloodshot blue eyes and a crumpled hat added.

“Yeah, I saw him there too,” Potts said.

“Anyone else see Blanton in the last couple of days?”

Several men raised their hands.

“All right then,” Longarm said. “I’d need to have a few words with all of you as soon as we get things taken care of here. We’ll meet at the marshal’s office.”

Longarm started to turn away, then hesitated. “I’d like to say one last thing. You folks had one of the best marshals I’ve ever known, and you treated him badly even though he was just trying to carry out the law. This town didn’t deserve a man like Pete Walker. But now that you’ve lost him, at least a few of you are trying to set things right by telling me what you know about his murderer.”

Longarm went over and gently pulled Lola to her feet. The young woman was very upset and tears were coursing down her cheeks.

“We’re all going to miss him,” Longarm said. “It’s just a damn rotten shame.”

Lola nodded and leaned against Longarm’s chest. He looked over to Marshal Jones. “Will you take care of things here?”

“Sure,” Jones said, “we’ll get the bodies to the undertaker’s office and I’ll get the names of everyone who spoke up about seeing Blanton.”

“Thanks,” Longarm told the lawman. Then he led Lola away asking, “Where are you staying?”

“At the Central Hotel,” she replied. “It’s just up the street and over a block.”

Longarm escorted Lola to her hotel room. It hurt him to see how hard she was taking Walker’s death. “I wish I could say something that would help,” Longarm said as he stood awkwardly beside her door. “There’s just nothing fair about life, and I don’t have any idea why Blanton killed Pete. But after I interview those people who stepped forward, I’ll be going down to Newcastle to find out who might have hired him.”

“What if he wasn’t hired?” Lola asked. “What if Claude Blanton just had an old grudge against Pete, got drunk, and then decided to ambush him?”

“That’s always a possibility,” Longarm admitted, “but not too likely. My guess is that Blanton was hired to ambush Pete. Maybe he was even hoping to put a bullet in me before he turned and ran. Lola, I just don’t know yet—but I won’t rest until I find out.”

She wiped tears from her face. “Do you know what Pete asked the last time we were alone together?”

“No.”

“He asked me to marry him. Can you imagine? He said he was probably old enough to be my father and that he wasn’t the man he’d once been, but he said he would make me happy. I believed that, Custis. I agreed to marry him. We were going to go away and live quietly. I was going to … to change. Honest to God, I really was!”

“I believe you.”

“Why! Why did this have to happen!”

“I don’t know,” Longarm replied. “Good people often die much too young. At least Pete had a reasonably long life. And for what it’s worth, I think you’ll find someone else who can also make you happy.”

She wiped her eyes dry and took a few hesitant steps forward. “I’d quickly gotten used to the idea of marrying a lawman. Maybe sometime, we

…”

“I’ll be around,” Longarm said quickly as he closed her door behind him.

He wasted no time returning to the marshal’s office, and was relieved to see that everyone who had stepped forward out in the street, plus at least a half dozen more, were waiting outside to help with the investigation.

“I thank you all for coming,” he told them. “This town meant a lot to Pete, and now I am finally starting to understand why. And don’t worry, I’m going to talk to each of you individually and in strict confidence.”

“We ain’t afraid of nothing happening if we talk,” a man said. “Blanton was a hardcase and a troublemaker. We don’t want that kind coming into Auburn and gunning our people down. If he was working with others, we want them brought to justice. Right now, none of us are feeling too proud about the things that have been going on in Auburn.”

“Good,” Longarm said, looking to the old harness maker. “You volunteered first, so you can be the first to come inside and tell me whatever you know.”

Fred Potts nodded, spat tobacco juice on the boardwalk, and followed Longarm inside.

“Have a seat,” Longarm told him, motioning toward Pete’s old desk chair.

“Uh-uh,” Potts said. “I wouldn’t think of sitting in a dead man’s chair. Be terrible luck.”

“Then sit in Deputy Quaid’s. I guess you would consider that to also be bad luck.”

“Yep. You want to sit, fine. I’ll stand.”

“Fair enough,” Longarm said, taking the marshal’s chair. “Just begin at the beginning. Tell me everything you know about Claude Blanton.”

“I’ve known the ornery sonofabitch since he was a shaver. His father was gunned down about ten years ago trying to hold up a stagecoach. Claude was probably there, but no one could prove it. The kid was as bad as his pa and a crack shot, when he was sober.”

Longarm leaned forward intently in the office chair. “Mr. Potts, as far as you know, did Claude have any reason to hate Marshal Walker enough to kill him?”

“That’s real hard to say,” the old man replied, spitting on the floor and then opening a tin of chewing tobacco and stuffing it into the corner of his mouth where his beard was stained the most.

He chewed a minute, then continued. “You see, Pete had to throw Claude in jail a bunch of times. Why, he even had to pistol-whip him once or twice. There was no love lost between them.”

“But was there enough hate to ambush the man in broad daylight?”

Potts scowled. “When Claude was drinking, he got real crazy. So I’d have to say that, yes, he was the kind that might do such a thing no matter what the risks or the hour.”

“Was Blanton drinking with friends last night in the Rusty Bucket Saloon?”

“He had no friends. At least, not unless they were buying the drinks. But after their money was gone, so was he.”

“Did you see anybody buying him drinks last night?”

“Yep.”

“Who?”

“Another entirely ornery sonofabitch. A fella by the name of Art Mead.”

Longarm sat up straight. “And he’d be from Placerville. Right?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Well,” Longarm answered. “it’s just that a few pieces might finally be starting to fall together. Art Mead, as I understand it, is a good friend of Nick Huffington.”

“That’s right,” Potts said. The old man folded his arms across his skinny chest. “Are you thinking that Nick hired Art, who then got Claude drunk enough to ambush the marshal?”

“I think that is a fair possibility,” Longarm answered. “But I’ve no proof to back it up and I doubt that Mead is going to want to talk.”

“He’s a real sidewinder,” Potts cautioned. “You find him, you better be ready for anything. The man wears a hideout derringer up his sleeve, but he’s mighty fast with his six-gun. He and Nick used to spend weeks at a time practicing the draw-and-shoot down by the old lumber mill just east of town. We could hear them from morning to night. They’re each as good a gunny as you’ll likely ever come across.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Longarm said. “Have you got any idea where I can find Art Mead?”

“Nope. But I expect he won’t be hard to track down. Man has a big scar on a face that isn’t easy to forget.”

“Anything else you can tell me?” Longarm said, coming to his feet.

“Afraid not. I’m just damn glad that you plugged Blanton and we don’t have to worry about hanging the sonofabitch. He was a killer and a snake, that’s for certain. I don’t know how many men he might have back-shot in the past, but I’ll bet it was more than a few. You did the town a service by drilling him through the gizzard, Marshal.”

“I was hoping to just wound the man so that I could get some answers from him, but there wasn’t time to take a more careful aim.” Longarm stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Fred. I really appreciate your being the first man to have the guts to step forward.”

“You’re welcome. Maybe one of the others outside can give you something else to go on. But if you ask me, the blood trail will probably pass through Art Mead straight to Nick Huffington and his father. They all crawled out of the same rotten bed of worms.”

After Potts, Longarm carefully interviewed each of the other town members hoping to establish an even stronger link between Blanton, Mead, and Nick Huffington. And while several other witnesses confirmed seeing Mead buying Blanton drinks, no one saw or overheard anything that Longarm could use as evidence of a murder conspiracy. Still, their stories were consistent enough to make Longarm think that he was on the right track.

“Has anyone seen Mead in town today?” he asked the last man he interviewed.

“Art Mead rode out of town late last night. He was pretty drunk and heading back to Placerville.”

“Thanks.”

Longarm waited until Marshal Jones returned to the office after making funeral arrangements. When he told Jones of his plan to go to Placerville, the lawman said, “I should have sent Art Mead either to the undertaker or to prison years ago, but he’s slick and I just never thought that I had a solid case. Besides that, he’s Nick’s friend and I knew that the Huffingtons would hire a real good lawyer.”

“Well,” Longarm said, “we don’t have a case against the man either. But maybe I can rattle him into saying something that will tip his hand.”

“Don’t count on that,” the lawman solemnly warned. “And don’t turn your back on the man or you’ll wind up just as dead as poor old Pete.”

“So I hear.”

“Mead carries a derringer up his sleeve.”

“I know,” Longarm replied, “but I’ve got a few tricks of my own.

“What do you want me to do?” Jones asked.

“Just watch our prisoners and try to keep a lid on things.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Thanks,” Longarm said.

After going to the undertaker’s office to pay his last respects to Marshal Walker, Longarm saddled a horse and headed out for Stella’s cabin. It would be late before he arrived, but he needed to let the woman know what had transpired this morning and where he was going next. Stella would be upset, but then, so was everyone else in Auburn these dangerous days.

Chapter 14

Stella was waiting when Longarm finally rode his horse up to her cabin. It was almost dark and Longarm was dead tired. Furthermore, he wasn’t looking forward to telling Stella that Marshal Jones had been ambushed in the middle of Auburn’s main street.

“You look like you’ve been pulled through a knothole,” Stella said, holding a lantern and coming out to help him put away his horse. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you inside,” Longarm replied as he forked hay to his played-out mount. “You got any hot food ready? My belly is chewin’ on my backbone.”

“I have hot coffee, beans, bacon, and I’ve even managed to make an apple pie,” Stella said. “And after that, I’ll gladly warm your bed.”

He managed a smile. “You’re half the reason I’m so wrung out this evening, Stella. But there’s something else. Marshal Walker was ambushed and killed right before my eyes.”

“Oh, no!” Stella’s expression was stricken, and she had to take a deep breath. “Do you know who did it?”

“Yeah,” Longarm said. “I shot him dead. Didn’t mean to, though. Some of the townspeople, led by an old fella named Fred Potts, stepped forward and identified the killer as a hardcase named Claude Blanton.”

“I know him,” Stella said. “He’s one of Nick’s unsavory friends.”

“Another man named Art Mead was seen the night before priming Blanton with whiskey, probably to do the killing.” Longarm frowned. “Stella, it’s looking more and more likely that Nick is behind Noah’s death. And who knows, maybe even Abe.”

“Nothing would surprise me anymore,” she said. “So what are we going to do now?”

“We are not going to do anything,” Longarm said. “But I mean to go down to Newcastle and see if I can find out more about Claude Blanton. After that, I expect to ride over to Placerville and have a showdown with Art Mead.”

“He’s a dangerous man, Custis. He carries a hideout derringer up his sleeve and he’s-“

“I’ve heard it all before,” Longarm said, placing his fingers over her lips. “But thanks anyway.”

“I want to go with you.”

“It would be better if you didn’t.”

“I can’t just sit around this cabin for the next few days waiting and wondering what happened!”

“I’m afraid that you’ll have to,” Longarm told her. “Besides, you’re supposed to be languishing in some jail cell down in Sacramento, remember?”

Stella shook her head. “Abe and Nick Huffington know better than that by now. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re rushing back up the mountain this very minute trying to figure out their next move.”

“Me neither,” Longarm said. “But if I can get Art Mead to confess, then …”

“But he won’t confess!” Stella argued. “Mead is a hard, vicious man, just like Blanton was. Their kind would rather go down shooting than be sent to the prison … or risk facing the gallows.”

“Well,” Longarm replied, “that will be up to Mead. But one way or another we’ll have our little talk, and I guarantee you that I’ll wring some truth out of him.”

“Or die trying,” Stella said, looking miserable. “But let’s not fret about that now. Come inside and eat, then we’ll get you to bed. I can tell that you’re not going to be worth all that much to me tonight, but I want you rested when you find Art Mead and demand your answers.”

Longarm was glad to sit down and eat his fill. Stella was a very good cook and there was plenty of food to satisfy his appetite. He devoured three quarters of the apple pie, but drank little of the coffee because he needed his sleep.

“Feel better?” she asked when he finally pushed his chair back from his plate.

“Much better.”

“Well, then, let’s get you undressed and to bed.”

Longarm figured he was plenty capable of undressing himself, but Stella had always enjoyed removing his clothes, and tonight, despite the grim circumstances, was no different. When she had him stripped down to his underwear, she threw back the bedcovers.

“Get in while I put a few more sticks of wood in the stove,” she ordered.

Longarm climbed into the bed and watched Stella feed the fire, then quickly strip out of her own clothes. She put on a man’s cotton nightshirt, but it didn’t hide her curves, and when she blew out the lantern and slipped into bed beside him, Longarm quickly realized he wasn’t quite as tired as he had imagined.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Stella asked as he pushed her nightshirt up over her waist and prepared to mount her.

“Yeah,” he said, “but this won’t be any too strenuous.”

“Don’t worry,” she puffed, spreading her legs and receiving his stiff manhood with a sigh of pleasure, “I’ll go easy on you tonight.”

“Just once,” he groaned, feeling her moist heat envelop his pulsing rod. “Just once.”

Stella unbuttoned the top of her nightshirt so he could pay attention to her breasts. “We’ll see,” she murmured as their bodies began to thrust together, “we’ll see.”

Longarm made love to Stella, then dropped off to sleep and did not awaken until sunrise. Stella was folded tightly against him and he breathed deeply, savoring the smell of her body and the lingering scent of their lovemaking. As the light grew stronger in the cabin, he admired its glow on Stella’s hair and wished that he could hold her for an hour or two. But he couldn’t. He had to get up, get dressed, and head for Newcastle.

It was chilly outside and there was a patina of frost on the meadow grass when he caught his horse and threw on his saddle. The animal was cantankerous and tried to buck when Longarm swung his leg over the cantle and planted his boots in both stirrups.

“Cut it out, dammit,” he growled. “I’m no happier than you are to be leaving at this hour.”

The horse set off at a rough trot and, with a last look back, Longarm reined northwest, hoping that the sun would hurry up and lift over the hills to give him some warmth. He rode all morning without a break, and finally intercepted the freighting road that followed the Central Pacific’s railroad tracks. He arrived in Newcastle early that afternoon.

Newcastle wasn’t much of a town, and Longarm was not sure where to begin his investigation. But then he spotted a ramshackle building whose faded sign said that it was the marshal’s office, and decided that it would be best to report in and state his business. Quite often, the local authorities were more trouble than help, and it wasn’t unusual to find them resentful of federal officers, but Longarm hoped that would not be the case today.

When he stepped into the office, a sloppy-looking man with a three-day-old beard and food stains dotting his shirt glanced up from his newspaper.

“Are you the marshal?” Longarm finally asked.

“Might be. What’cha want?”

“I’m United States Deputy Marshal Custis Long. I’m working on a case and need some information on a fella named Claude Blanton. Can you help me?”

“My name is Amos Hackett. Marshal Amos T. Hackett,” the unkempt man said, struggling out of his broken chair and looking Longarm over. “So, you’re a Fed, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“What kind of a ‘case’ would you be working on and what do you want to know about Blanton?”

Longarm could see the suspicion in Hackett’s eyes. All too often when a federal officer arrived, either the local authorities were envious, or else they started looking for a reward or some personal gain. And this man looked hungrier than most. “He ambushed Marshal Walker in Auburn,” Longarm said. “I had to kill him before I could find out why.”

“Claude shot old Pete Walker?”

Longarm saw no sign that Hackett was either surprised or particularly upset by this news. “That’s right. Walker’s dead. I’m trying to find out why Blanton would do such a thing.”

“Claude was mean and he’d probably been drinking,” Hackett answered. “He hated most everyone. I sure never trusted to turn my back on him.”

Longarm frowned. “He was seen drinking with another hardcase named Art Mead. I’m told that they were friends.”

“Not friends,” Hackett corrected. “They were just a couple of sonsabitches that worked together when there was money to be made. Claude Blanton was no damned good, but since he’s dead, what do you want here now?”

“Maybe someone he knows could help me pin a conspiracy on Art Mead and anyone else that might have had a hand in Marshal Walker’s assassination,” Longarm replied. “I don’t know. I just have a feeling that the ambush was more than a simple vendetta between Blanton and Walker. In fact, it’s been reported to me that Mead was buying Blanton all the whiskey he could handle the night before the ambush.”

“I know Mead. I wish you’d have gunned him down along with Blanton.”

“What about Nick Huffington?” Longarm asked. “Could be there was some connection.”

“I doubt that,” the marshal said. “After all, why would anyone with the name of Huffington have anything to do with murdering a marshal?”

“Money,” Longarm said simply. “And it all ties back to the murder of Noah Huffington. Abe Huffington’s favored son.”

“I heard that he was stabbed to death by that woman he took up with. Her name was …”

“Her name is Miss Stella Vacarro,” Longarm said, “and I guarantee you she had nothing to do with Noah’s death.”

“I don’t see how you can be so sure of that,” the marshal said pointedly. “After all, she’d stabbed a man to death before with a stiletto.”

Longarm shook his head. “Did Claude Blanton have any family that I should notify?”

“He lived with a woman and some kids just south of town. Their place is real hard to find and you’ve never seen a sorrier family.”

“Well,” Longarm decided, “sorry or not, I ought to inform them that Claude is dead.”

“You might get your ass shot off for your trouble,” Hackett warned. “The woman is a witch and her boys are going to grow up to be troublemakers … or worse.”

“Why don’t you put on your hat and take me out there?” Longarm suggested.

Hackett shook his head. “Well, I really ought to stay here in town in case there’s trouble.”

“That doesn’t seem too likely,” Longarm replied with growing annoyance. “It’s a real small town and I doubt this little errand would take more than an hour—if we get started right away.”

Hackett didn’t want to be bothered. “I …”

“There might be a reward,” Longarm said, dangling his lure. “Sometimes there is when a lawman is murdered.”

“For what? You already killed Claude.”

Longarm could see that the man wasn’t going to take the bait. He was a discredit to the profession, but not entirely stupid. “All right, I’ll pay you five dollars to take me out to this woman’s house.”

“House?” Hackett scoffed. “Even calling it a shack is an exaggeration. It’s just a collection of rusty tin and broken wood that they stole from the railroad sheds. It’s all held together with chicken wire.”

“Five dollars,” Longarm repeated, pulling a bill out of his pocket and holding it up before the marshal.

“All right,” Hackett said, reaching for the money.

Longarm pulled it away saying, “You’ll get paid when we leave the woman.”

“You ain’t a bit trusting, are you?” Hackett snapped.

“No,” Longarm replied, “I’m not. Let’s get moving.”

“Why don’t you pay me three dollars and I’ll tell that witch the next time she comes into town?” Hackett suggested. “That way, you save yourself two dollars and we don’t go to the bother of riding out there and having to put up with that bunch of trash.”

“No,” Longarm insisted. “The woman lived with Blanton. She at least has the right to hear that he’s never coming back.”

“She’d hear it even if we didn’t tell her.”

“Get your hat and move!” Longarm said, putting steel into his voice.

“All right, all right!”

It took Hackett nearly an hour to get someone to give him the use of a horse. He was so fat that the horse had to be especially stout, and he had a devil of a time getting into the saddle. But at last they rode out of Newcastle and followed the road south for about three miles. Once, the train passed them and a lot of passengers waved from the windows. Longarm was in a sour mood and ignored them, but Hackett had to stop his horse and wave until the train and its passengers were all out of sight.

“I try to be friendly to folks,” Hackett explained as they continued on down the road. “It helps, you know.”

“It also helps to keep yourself fit and clean,” Longarm said.

Hackett bristled. “Just because I work for a little town and they don’t hardly pay me enough to live on is no reason to be insulting.”

“How much further?”

“About two miles. We leave this road and take a trail off to the south. You can start to smell these people about then.”

Longarm didn’t say anything. Hackett didn’t say anything more either, and so they rode in irritable silence all the way to the shack where Claude Blanton’s woman and her kids lived.

“There it is,” Hackett said, pointing through the trees. They got some big, mean hounds, so don’t dismount or they’re likely to chew your leg off.”

Longarm pushed on ahead. Suddenly, a pack of hounds began to howl as they came flying out from under a broken-down wagon. There were six or seven of them, all big and mangy. About the same number of children, ranging from toddlers to kids in their teens, came chasing after the hounds.

“Ain’t it a chillin’ sight,” Hackett said with disgust. “They’re all ornery little beggars. Just stay on your horse and don’t worry about quirting them in the face if they get too close.”

Since Hackett held back, Longarm rode forward, and the dogs swirled in around his horse causing it to have fits. Then the kids arrived and it was a melee, but Longarm kept riding until he drew to within fifty feet of the run-down shack.

Hackett hadn’t been exaggerating when he said it was a sorry sight. There was garbage all over the yard and the shack itself wasn’t fit for human habitation.

“Hello the house!” Longarm shouted.

A woman as wide as the door itself appeared with a shotgun clenched in her fists. She was so obese and filthy that she made Marshal Hackett appear fastidious.

“What the hell you want!” she screamed through a mouth mostly without teeth.

“Ma’am,” Longarm said, “I have something important to tell you, but I won’t say it while you’re holding that shotgun on me and Marshal Hackett.”

“You a lawman too?”

“I’m Marshal Long.”

“I hate lawmen.”

Longarm’s hand eased closer to his pistol and, out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Hackett was sweating profusely.

“What I have to tell you is important, ma’am. Put the shotgun down.”

The woman spat at her bare and dirty feet. She lowered the shotgun and yelled, “Speak your piece and then get outa my sight, you murderin’ maggots!”

Longarm was having second thoughts about this mission, and realized why Hackett had been so reluctant to come out here despite the enticement of money. But second-guessing wasn’t going to help, so he just drew his six-gun and shouted, “Claude is dead. He ambushed Marshal Walker in Auburn and I had no choice but to kill him or he would have killed me too.”

The woman’s jaw dropped. Her chins quivered, and Longarm was sure she was going to try and kill him, but instead, she threw back her head and howled with joy, then began to cackle.

“I told you that she was a damned witch,” Hackett said, mopping his greasy face with a dirty handkerchief. “Crazier than a loon.”

Longarm was willing to agree, but mostly he was just glad that he wasn’t going to have to use his pistol.

“Ma’am? Ma’am,” he said when the laughter finally started to die. “I’d like to know what’s so funny.”

The woman had started to cough, and when she could catch her breath, she looked up and said, “What’s funny is that I’d made up my mind to kill Claude. The sonofabitch was cheatin’ on me!”

“Let’s get out of here,” Hackett muttered. “Maybe whatever ails her is contagious.”

But Longarm shook his head. “Ma’am, did he ever tell you that he was going to try and kill Marshal Walker?”

The woman was red in the face, but she managed to nod her head and say, “Not exactly. Not the marshal anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was supposed to kill Noah Huffington with a stiletto. Did he do it?”

Longarm took a deep breath. “Are you saying that he was talking about murdering Noah Huffington?”

“Yeah. With Art Mead and Nick Huffington. I got some of Claude’s money after they all got drunk! Stole it right out of Claude’s pockets! He promised to give me more, but he spent it on some whore. That’s why I was going to kill the cheatin’ sonofabitch!”

Longarm knew that he finally had the evidence he needed to arrest Mead and Nick Huffington—if this harridan would testify in court and if she could be believed by a judge or jury, which was doubtful.

“Ma’am,” Longarm said, digging into his pockets but not trusting the hounds enough to dismount. “Here is twenty dollars. Buy yourself a dress and some shoes.”

The woman just stared at him. “Why?”

“You’re going to testify to what you heard in a court of law.”

“Not for no twenty dollars, I’m not!”

“All right,” Longarm said, “then it could be a lot more.”

“You payin’ me?”

“No, but I promise that you and your kids will be generously helped, if you just tell the truth and repeat the conversation that you overheard between Claude, Mead, and Huffington.”

“You want me to say they plotted to murder that rich Auburn preacher?”

“That’s right.”

The woman gazed out at her kids, her dirty face reflecting powerful emotions. “We got it real hard here, Mr. Lawman. I reckon you can see how hard my kids got it. Everyone else in these parts looks down their damn snotty noses at my family.”

“You can leave this behind and start over,” Longarm said, knowing he would have to worry about the money later. Stella would no doubt help. She had the money and the heart of gold. She’d help, all right.

“Maybe a real house for us,” the woman said quietly. “Nothing fancy, mind you. Just a real house with a roof that didn’t leak and walls that kept out the winter wind.”

“You deserve that much,” Longarm assured her.

“Maybe I don’t, but my kids do. Claude wasn’t good to ‘em. The youngest are his, but he treated them like dirt. I hated Claude. He wasn’t much of a man anymore, not around here and not even in bed.”

“You could go away and start over fresh,” Longarm said. “There’s nothing here worth staying for.”

Hackett hissed, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

“I’ll be back,” Longarm promised the woman.

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’ll just kill Art and Nick like you did Claude. If you kill ‘em, you wouldn’t need me, would you.”

“Here’s twenty dollars,” Longarm said, handing the money to one of the grubby children. “There will be more.”

And then, with Hackett close on his heels, Longarm rode away.

Chapter 15

“Hey!” Marshal Hackett shouted, flogging his horse in an attempt to overtake Longarm. “Wait up, dammit!”

Longarm reined in for a moment to let Hackett catch him. He had a strong dislike for the man because he was only interested in a personal reward rather than in seeking justice.

“What is it now?” Longarm asked impatiently.

“You offered that witch money!”

“That’s right.”

“Where’s my five dollars for bringing you out here?”

“Sorry, that twenty was all that I had.”

“Dammit, why’d you give her my money?”

“Because I never saw a family that needed it more and I have a friend who has been falsely accused of murdering Noah Huffington. I’m sure that she’ll be more than happy to show her appreciation for any testimony that woman can provide.”

“I’ll testify to what I heard her say! You can count on me, Marshal Long.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“We got ‘em!” Hackett said excitedly. “Ain’t no doubt about that now!”

“Yes, there is,” Longarm countered. “That woman could be lying.”

“Hell, she’s telling the truth! Why, even a blind man could see that.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Longarm said. “It’s very clear that she hated Claude Blanton and his friends. Hated them enough to say most anything out of spite.”

“I suppose. But we could probably twist a few of them dirty little arms and also get them older kids to back up whatever their mother says.”

Longarm gave the man a look of disgust. “You’ve no scruples at all, have you.”

“No what?”

“Never mind,” Longarm snapped. “But we’re not going to force testimony out of anyone—big or small.”

“Just an idea,” Hackett grumbled. “No reason to get all huffy about it. So what are we going to do now? Ride over to Placerville and arrest Art Mead?”

“That’s the general idea,” Longarm replied. “Given his bad reputation, the man shouldn’t be very hard to find.”

“I’ll be ready to back you up.”

“I think,” Longarm said slowly, “that you don’t need to bother. I work best alone.”

“Oh, no! If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t ever have found that witch, let alone got her to tie Nick Huffington and Art Mead into the murder.”

“I’d have found her, with or without you,” Longarm said. “When we get back to Newcastle, return to your office and stay there where you belong.”

Hackett’s jaw sagged. “And let you take all the credit and reward! Ha! I’m-“

Longarm had more than enough of this reprehensible character. He reached out and backhanded Hackett across the side of his fat face so hard that he rocked the pathetic lawman back in his saddle.

“Owww!” Hackett bawled, dropping his reins and cradling his head in his hands. “What’d you do that for!”

“I did it because I resent you thinking that we’re both out here for the same selfish reasons. We’re not! You want a cash reward. I want justice and to clear the name of my friend.”

“You mean that fancy whore named …”

Before Longarm could belt Hackett again, the man spurred off toward Newcastle.

“Good riddance,” Longarm grumbled, anxious to find the first road that would take him to Placerville and Art Mead.

Placerville was located about twenty miles southeast of Auburn. According to a sign posted just outside town, in 1848 Placerville had been the site of a big gold discovery by three prospectors who quickly excavated almost twenty thousand dollars. The following year, thousands of miners had staked out every gulch and hillside and dubbed the settlement “Dry Diggings,” but then they changed that name after a series of highly popular lynchings to “Hangtown.”

Longarm read that more than fifty million dollars worth of gold had already been mined from the surrounding hills, and that the famous Central Pacific Railroad tycoons Mark Hopkins and Collis P. Huntington had both gotten their start as Placerville merchants.

“Hey there!” Longarm called to a passing horseman. “Can you give me some information?”

The man reined in his mount. He was young, and Longarm noticed that he warily kept his right hand close to his gun. “What kind of information, stranger?”

“I’m looking for Art Mead. Do you know where I can find him?”

“Probably in the Big Pine Saloon.” The young man studied Longarm with suspicion. “Are you a friend?”

“Nope.”

“Well,” the rider said, “if you’re an enemy, I wish you all the luck because you’ll need it in order to stay alive. Mead is dangerous, especially when he’s had a few drinks—which is most of the time.”

“If he’s as dangerous and troublesome as everyone tells me, then why doesn’t the town marshal step in and do something about him?”

“Because Art Mead has already gunned him down.”

“Oh. Well, that explains it then. And thanks for the warning.”

“You take my advice, you forget about whatever trouble you have with Art Mead. Write it off to experience. That’s better than getting killed.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Longarm said, nodding his appreciation for the man’s time before he continued on down the road and into Placerville.

The town was impressive. The sign had also said that the early settlements of Dry Diggings and Hangtown had repeatedly been razed by fire, and so now all of Placerville’s buildings were constructed of rock and brick. The settlement’s most notable structures were its fine City Hall, the Zeisz Brewery, a handsome Victorian mansion offering rooms on Cedar Street, and the Episcopal church, built in the shape of an inverted ship’s hull.

Many of the downtown businesses, however, were closed and boarded up, telling Longarm that Placerville was now in a period of slow economic decline. No doubt its rich deposits of ore were playing out, despite the evidence of hydraulic mining which had left the nearby western Sierra slopes as bare and bleeding as open ulcers.

The Big Pine Saloon was situated almost in the center of town, and so Longarm tied his horse to the nearest empty hitching rail and checked his six-gun. At times like this, he never gave his quarry advance warning by wearing his badge. Instead, he kept it out of sight until it was really needed. Longarm reminded himself that Mead had that derringer hidden up his sleeve and that the man had a reputation for being very quick and very deadly.

Well, he thought, I will take no unnecessary chances, but I do want a confession from this man and for that I need him alive.

The Big Pine Saloon looked like a thousand other watering holes in the West. It had bars across the front windows and bat-wing doors that were about to drop off their hinges. The building was poorly constructed with dirty, tobacco-stained sawdust spread across a floor that reeked of urine and vomit. The place was dim and the smoke was thick.

Longarm stood just inside the door for a few moments until his eyes adjusted. Then he began to survey the room, chiding himself for not having a much better physical description of Art Mead. All he knew was that the man had a big scar on his face and was a gunfighter, which therefore meant he would be wearing a fast-draw rig.

Three men at the bar, their backs turned to Longarm, fit Art Mead’s general description, but two of them were drinking together. Longarm decided that the loner was probably his man. Unbuttoning his coat, he pushed it back a little so that the butt of his gun was in easy reach. Longarm’s side arm was a double-action .44-40 Colt revolver which he wore on his left hip. Most men preferred to draw from their right side, but Longarm liked the cross-draw and it had served him well enough in the past so that he was not about to change.

As Longarm started across the room toward the loner, he noted that the Big Pine Saloon was packed, which was both good and bad. Good because the crowd obscured his arrival, but bad because there were just too many hard drinkers that might want to get involved in a gunfight. Normally, if bullets started to fly, intelligent and sober men would be smart enough to hit the floor or dive for cover. But in a tough saloon like the Big Pine, you could toss out that theory because there were always a few drunken fools willing to become dead heroes.

Longarm slipped in next to his suspect, but did not look directly at the man. “I’ll have a nickel beer,” he called to a hustling bartender.

“Be right with you!”

Then Longarm looked closer at his most likely suspect, and noted the terrible knife scar across his face. This was Art Mead, all right.

“How’s the beer here?” he asked Mead, trying to sound relaxed and cordial.

“What?”

“The beer? Is it good … or green?”

Mead shook his head, and Longarm could hear the meanness in his voice when he growled, “Stranger, if you ain’t man enough to drink what’s served, then you’d best get your picky ass outa here.”

“I was just askin’,” Longarm said in his most apologetic tone as he extracted a nickel from his pocket and placed it on the bar in front of him. He looked at Mead again and said, “Haven’t we met before?”

“No and we ain’t met now,” Mead hissed. “So shut up and leave me the hell alone.”

“I was just trying to make some social conversation,” Longarm said. “What’s the matter, having a bad day or something?”

The man on the other side of Longarm elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “You better just shut your mouth, mister. Art ain’t one to pester.”

“I’m not pestering him,” Longarm said. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

“Well, don’t,” the man said, looking nervous. “Otherwise, someone might get shot by accident and it might even be me.”

“Oh.”

The bartender brought Longarm his beer and took the nickel. Longarm picked up his mug and tasted his warm beer. He smacked his lips and made a sour face, saying, “It’s green as grass, dammit!”

Mead had a very short fuse and his patience was about to run out, which was just what Longarm intended. Playing the harmless fool, Longarm was attempting to prod Mead into stepping outside with him to fight. That way, he could hope to catch the man off guard and alone so he could be arrested and no one in the crowded saloon would be shot by accident.

“I said that the beer was green,” Longarm repeated to Mead. “If you’d have been helpful enough to warn me of the fact, I’d have tried whiskey instead.”

“You big, stupid bastard!” Mead growled low in his throat. “I’ve had all the lip from you I can stand!”

Longarm pretended to be surprised, hurt, and even a little offended. “Well, I was only …”

Mead didn’t let Longarm finish, but grabbed him by the arm and propelled him toward the bat-wing doors. It was easy enough to let himself be hustled through the crowd, and Longarm suspected that, once outside, Mead would try to beat him to a pulp in order to remind everyone of his toughness.

“Look,” Longarm protested as they both plowed across the saloon. “I don’t know what all this trouble is about. I really didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m going to teach you a lesson you should have learned a long, long time ago,” Mead swore as he balled his fists and shoved Longarm outside. “I’m going to feed you your gawddamn teeth!”

Longarm raised his hands as if to protect himself and then, when Mead threw a haymaker at his face, he ducked the powerful punch and drove an uppercut to Mead’s belly that raised him a good foot off the ground.

Mead’s eyes bugged with pain. He choked and his hand flashed for the fancy ivory-handled Colt at his side. Longarm batted it from his grasp, then unleashed a wicked right cross that snapped Mead’s head around and sent him backpedaling. Rather than give the gunfighter any opportunity to recover, Longarm waded in with both fists and punished Art Mead with one thundering blow after another. He pulped Mead’s nose like a stomped grape, then broke his lips and opened a huge gash over his left eye causing Mead to bleed heavily.

Longarm hit Mead until he slammed up against a storefront wall and tried to pull out the hideout derringer from under his sleeve.

Longarm jumped in and grabbed Mead’s right arm with both hands, then slammed it down across his rising knee. Mead howled. Yanking the gunfighter’s other sleeve up, Longarm disarmed him, then kicked his legs out from under him so that Mead toppled to the dirt.

He grabbed Mead by the shirtfront, dragged him erect, and shook him like a rag doll while yelling into his bloody face, “My name is Federal Deputy Marshal Custis Long and I’m putting you under arrest.”

“What for!”

“For the murder of Noah Huffington and Marshal Pete Walker of Auburn.”

“I didn’t kill them! I got witnesses that’ll say I was right here in Placerville when they both got theirs!”

“Sure,” Longarm growled, “but you got Claude Blanton drunk and talked him into doing your murdering, didn’t you!”

“You’re crazy!” Mead screeched. “Gawdammit, you near broke my arm! You can’t do this to innocent folks!”

“You’re about as innocent as Billy the Kid.” Longarm searched the man for any more weapons. He found a knife and tossed it away saying, “Where’s your horse?”

“What the hell do you want my horse for!”

“I’m taking you to Auburn, where you’ll be tried and almost sure to be found guilty. You might not get the gallows, but you’ll sure as hell grow old in prison for being an accomplice to murder.”

“Oh, yeah? I got friends that will get me a lawyer! You ain’t got nothing on me, Marshal. We’ll have your gawdamn badge for this!”

“We’ll see,” Longarm said through clenched teeth. “We’ll just see.”

Chapter 16

When Longarm returned to Auburn with his prisoner, the townspeople turned out to give him a hearty welcome. They knew Mead, and they were all grinning when they saw that he was handcuffed and headed for jail.

“Congratulations, Marshal Long!” a man said, coming up to slap Longarm on the back. “It sure is good to see that Mead is finally going to get his long-overdue reward in Hell.”

“Well,” Longarm said, dragging his prisoner from his horse and shoving him toward the marshal’s office, “whatever happens to him is up to a judge and a jury.”

Marshal Jones had the door open wide, and he wasted no time in putting Mead in a cell.

“What happened to the other two prisoners?” Longarm asked.

“They were sentenced and hanged yesterday,” Jones answered. “You missed quite a show, but I expect that this one will make up for it when he dances in the wind.”

Mead, his face purple and swollen from the effects of the beating he’d taken from Longarm, shivered but managed to keep up his bravado by hissing, “The Huffingtons ain’t going to let me swing. They’ll get me off.”

“I don’t think so,” Longarm replied, collapsing in Pete Walker’s old office chair and then kicking his boots up on the desk. “We’ve got a witness that will testify that you, Claude Blanton, and Nick Huffington were all in cahoots. That you plotted to murder Noah Huffington and then ambush Marshal Walker. You’ll swing, all right.”

“What witness?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Mead turned around and went over to sit on the cell bunk. He cradled his head in his hands for a moment, then looked up to say, “I need a good lawyer. I want to see Mr. Abe Huffington!”

“If he comes by,” Marshal Jones said, “we’ll pass along the message. But we don’t have time to go hunt up the man.”

“I want a lawyer!”

“You’ll have one,” Longarm promised. “But it won’t change the fact that you’re going to hang.”

Mead’s head almost dropped between his knees, and he muttered something to himself that Longarm could not decipher.

“What’d you say?”

Mead’s head snapped up. “What if … ah, never mind.”

“What if what?” Longarm said, dropping his boots to the floor and going over to stand beside the cell. “Are you thinking about cutting a deal in exchange for your life?”

Mead didn’t look up, but when he spoke, his voice broke. “Maybe.”

Longarm glanced over his shoulder at Marshal Jones, who just shrugged as if he didn’t care much one way or the other. Longarm turned his attention back to the prisoner. “Was Abe Huffington involved in the murder of his son Noah or Marshal Walker?”

“No!” Mead looked up. “But you tell Abe he better come and take care of me!”

“Why?” Longarm said. “He’s a very busy and important man. What if he isn’t interested in your problems?”

“He’d better be!”

“Why?” Longarm repeated.

“‘Cause I ain’t going to no gallows while Nick Huffington goes scot free!”

“So you admit that he was in on the murders.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Not exactly,” Longarm admitted, “but close enough. Where is Nick right now?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think that you probably do.”

Mead shook his head and began to pace back and forth in his cell. Then, he stopped and spun around to point at Longarm. “I know who’s been talking! It’s Agnes!”

“Who is she?”

“Agnes was Claude Blanton’s woman. She lives in that shack outside of Newcastle and she’s got all them damn kids and dogs. She’s the one that opened her big mouth, isn’t she!”

“No,” Longarm lied.

“The hell you say! It has to be Agnes!”

The very last thing that Longarm wanted was for this man to somehow get the word out to Nick Huffington that Agnes had betrayed them. If he did that, then the woman’s life would be in grave danger.

“How about a signed confession right now?” Longarm offered. “In exchange for my recommendation that you be given life in prison instead of the death sentence.”

“Not a chance!” Mead became very agitated. “I want to see Mr. Huffington and I want a good lawyer! I ain’t saying nothing more.”

To emphasize his words, Mead stomped over to flop down on his bunk. He pulled his hat low over his eyes and pretended to go to sleep saying, “Wake me when I have visitors.”

Longarm turned from the cell and motioned for Marshal Jones to follow him outside.

“Trouble?” Jones asked when they were alone and could talk privately.

“I’m afraid so. Mead is no fool. He was right in guessing that Agnes, the Newcastle woman, is the one who told me about the murder plot.”

“I see.” Jones frowned. “But what can Mead do to silence her if he’s in jail?”

“Nothing,” Longarm said. “But if he somehow gets word to Nick Huffington, Agnes is as good as dead. And even worse, Nick might decide to kill her children too so there wouldn’t be any witnesses.”

“Holy shit!” Jones exclaimed. “I see what you mean. What are we going to do if Abe Huffington comes here? Or a lawyer? We can’t legally keep Mead isolated.”

“I know,” Longarm said, thinking hard. “And I have a feeling that Huffington will show up pretty soon. When he does, we’ll just let him visit with Mead. It ought to be an interesting conversation and tell me a great deal about whether or not Abe has been involved in these murders.”

“But what if Mead tells him about Agnes?”

“Then Huffington will have to make a decision. He’ll either allow his only surviving son to go to the gallows exactly as he deserves—or he’ll pass the word along to Nick to head for Newcastle to kill Agnes.”

“And if Abe makes that choice, you’ll be able to arrest him.”

“Exactly!” Longarm went back inside and over to stretch out on Pete Walker’s bunk saying, “Like Mead, I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when we have visitors.”

“Any visitors?”

“Yeah,” Longarm said, closing his eyes. “Anyone at all.”

Longarm didn’t need to be awakened when Abe Huffington stormed in a few hours later. The politician was furious, disheveled, and badly shaken. He was also accompanied by a nattily dressed Sacremento lawyer.

“My client, Mr. Abraham Huffington, demands to talk to your prisoner in strict confidence,” the lawyer announced.

Jones glanced over at Longarm, who sat up sleepily and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He yawned, scratched, and said, “All right. Marshal Jones, open the cell and let these men have their little powwow with the condemned man.”

“I resent that remark!” the lawyer snapped.

“Well, that’s quite a coincidence,” Longarm said, “because I’m already starting to resent you.”

“You’re finished as a federal officer,” Huffington passionately vowed. “You’ve run roughshod over everyone in Auburn and I’m going to do everything in my power to see that …”

“Oh,” Longarm said, coming to his feet. “You mean, if you are elected the governor of California, you will try to get me fired.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Well, Mr. Huffington, let me fill you in on a thing or two. In the first place, your political career is definitely finished. And in the second place, if you had anything to do with these murders, the only career you can look forward to is a life in prison!”

Huffington was well past his physical prime, but he almost attacked Longarm anyway, so great was his fury. But his attorney managed to hold him off and then get him pointed toward the cell.

“We’d like strict privacy here,” the lawyer said, emphasizing the word.

“Well,” Longarm replied, “we’re not leaving this office, if that’s what you have in mind. So I guess that you’ll just have to put your damned heads together and whisper like a bunch of schoolchildren.”

“That man is finished!” Huffington raged. “Finished!”

Longarm grinned. If he could prod Abe Huffington into attacking him, then he would be able to deck the offensive sonofabitch as well as put him under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law. That would suit Longarm right down to the ground.

The lawyer understood this, and was able to calm Huffington until they were both ushered inside Mead’s cell. Longarm took the precaution of locking the cell behind them, and then he went back to sit and wait. Without any preamble, Mead, Huffington, and the lawyer put their heads together and began to confer in frantic whispers.

Longarm jammed an unlit cheroot into his mouth and offered one to Marshal Jones, who declined it. They both watched the huddled group of men with a mixture of amusement and interest. Longarm couldn’t overhear what was being discussed, but he had a pretty good idea. What he did not Yet know was if Abe Huffington had any prior knowledge of the murder of his son or of the ambush of Pete Walker.

“You murdering fool!” Huffington suddenly exploded.

Before anyone could react, the older man attacked the already badly beaten Art Mead. The powerful Huffington sledged his huge fists into Mead’s purple and swollen face, then grabbed the dazed prisoner by the hair and smashed his skull over and over against the cell’s rock wall in a series of sickening thuds.

Bright red blood trickled from Art Mead’s ears and mouth. His body went limp, but Huffington was crazy and kept pounding his head into the stone.

“Marshal!” the lawyer shrieked as he tried vainly to pull Abe Huffington away. “Help!”

It took Longarm a few seconds to get the cell door unlocked. When he did, it required all of his strength to drag Abe Huffington off the unconscious prisoner, then knock him practically senseless, before the big politician was finally subdued.

Ashen-faced, the lawyer bolted out of the cell and began to vomit on the floor. Marshal Jones rushed past Longarm to Art Mead’s side. He felt for a pulse, but it was missing. He placed his ear to Mead’s chest, listened carefully, then shook his head.

“Mead is dead.”

“Well,” Longarm said, studying Abe Huffington, “then we’ve got a new prisoner to charge with murder. Abe, get up!”

Huffington was still on his knees, head bent, now sobbing. Longarm motioned Jones to help him drag Art Mead’s body out of the cell. When that was done, Longarm went back into the cell and stood over Abe Huffington.

“So,” he said, “you weren’t an accomplice to the murders.”

“Hell, no!” Huffington choked. “I loved Noah!”

“But he was going to marry Miss Vacarro and that could have derailed your political career. Maybe you just couldn’t bear that possibility.”

Huffington looked up, and his beefy face was a mask of twisted grief. “I’d never kill my own son!”

“But you just killed Art Mead. And Nick was a part of the plot to murder Noah. Mr. Huffington, you can say goodbye to becoming California’s next governor. Even with a sharp attorney, you’re going to go to prison for a long time and your murdering son Nick is going to the gallows.”

Huffington sobbed again, then pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and blew his nose. “I want Nick to burn in Hell for his role in killing Noah!”

The lawyer shouted, “Don’t say another word, Mr. Huffington! Not a single word!”

“Why?” Huffington cried. “That scum told us everything. I knew Nick was wild and had a mean streak, but I never believed that he would be a part of murdering his own brother! Blanton actually stabbed Noah to death, but they-“

“Mr. Huffington, I beg you!” the lawyer wailed. “Say nothing more!”

“You’d probably better listen to your attorney,” Longarm advised. “But for what it’s worth, there’s no doubt in my mind that you didn’t have anything to do with murdering Marshal Walker—or your son. Instead, you just killed our prisoner, and you’re now under arrest for murder.”

Longarm stepped outside the cell and looked at the attorney. “You want back in there to advise your client?”

“No,” the attorney said in a trembling voice as he gazed vacantly down at his white shirt, now stained with fresh blood and flecks of his own vomit. “There doesn’t seem to be a lot of point in that at the moment, does there.”

“I don’t think so,” Longarm replied. “Do you know where I can find and arrest Nick?”

“No.”

“I do.” Huffington raised his head. He appeared to have aged ten years in the last ten minutes.

“Mr. Huffington, please don’t say anything more!” the attorney begged.

“Nick is on his way to Newcastle.”

Longarm’s blood went cold. “To murder Agnes.”

“I don’t know why he’s going there,” Huffington said. “I just know that’s where he’s gone.”

Longarm shot a glance at Marshal Jones. “How could Mead have gotten word to Nick about our Newcastle witness!”

“I don’t know,” Jones replied, throwing up his hands. “While you were taking a nap, there were no visitors, but Mead did wake up and ask for a paper and pencil. Said he wanted to write down the name of an attorney … or some such thing.”

“An attorney?” Longarm shook his head. “I’ll bet anything he wrote a note to Nick and tossed it through the bars of his cell window. And the note would have told Nick about Agnes being the key to a conviction. That’s why Nick is on his way to Newcastle!”

Longarm sprinted for the door. He had to get to Newcastle in a hurry, or that poor, wretched woman and her children were as good as dead.

Chapter 17

Longarm barreled out the door and grabbed his horse. He swung into the saddle and rode hard for Newcastle. It was only three miles down the line, but he realized that he would have to ride another couple of miles more in order to reach Agnes’s shack.

Longarm blamed himself for taking a short nap. Had he stayed awake, he would have seen through Art Mead’s request for writing materials. Tragically, his mistake just might have cost Agnes and perhaps even her brood of children their lives.

It seemed to take forever to reach Newcastle, and a lot of heads turned as Longarm galloped hard on through town heading west toward the turnoff that would bring him to Agnes’s dilapidated shack.

Longarm could hear the pack of hounds as soon as he turned off the main road and started down the narrow, winding lane toward the woman’s shack. The dogs sounded so mournful that the hair stood up on the back of Longarm’s neck. He forced his exhausted mount down the lane, and when he burst into the clearing, he saw Nick Huffington standing in the middle of the yard. Agnes was sprawled across her porch, lifeless hands clutching her shotgun. Longarm saw dead hounds scattered all over the yard, two of them howling in agony, gut-shot and slowly dying.

He saw no children’s bodies, and realized that they had probably scattered like frightened quail into the forest. Nick was preparing to go hunt them down and kill them too.

“You’re under arrest!” Longarm shouted, drawing his six-gun.

Nick unleashed a bullet that struck Longarm’s horse squarely in the chest. The running animal did a somersault that catapulted Longarm over its head. He hit the ground and tried to roll, but struck a rock. His Colt was knocked flying into the brush.

Nick fired again, and Longarm felt hot lead scorch the side of his head. He almost lost consciousness, and tried to scramble to his feet, but was too dazed. Longarm figured he was probably going to die in the next second or two. Lying on his stomach, he wormed his hand in under his coat and palmed the derringer that was attached to his watch fob and chain. It was a solid brass, twin-barrel .44 and it had saved Longarm’s bacon more than once. He prayed that it would save him again.

“You sonofabitch!” Nick swore as he advanced. “Gawdamn am I glad to see you.”

Longarm raised his head to see Nick standing over him with his gun cocked and ready to blow his brains out. There was no time to think so Longarm just blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Nick, your father knows you had a hand in killing your brother.”

“No!” Nick actually staggered backward.

“Yeah,” Longarm gritted out, raising his chest a little so that he could move the derringer into a better firing position. “And I’ve got some more bad news.”

Nick extended the gun down toward Longarm’s head, his eyes burning with hatred, his lips twisted in a cold, triumphant sneer. “What are you going to say before I put a bullet in your head, Marshal?”

Icy fear prickled Longarm’s skin, but he kept his voice steady. “When your father found everything out, he killed Art Mead. He’s going to go to prison for murder.”

Nick blinked. “My father killed Art? How!”

“He beat his brains out against the jail cell wall. Mead had already told us that you were part of the murder plot.”

“You’re lying!”

“Every lawman in northern California will be looking for you,” Longarm said. “And your father’s money will be tied up forever in court. You’re coming out of this with nothing but a ticket to a hangman’s party.”

“I don’t believe you!” Nick raged, the Colt beginning to shake in his fist.

Longarm knew that he had run out of time, and he didn’t see how on earth he was going to save his life. Still, he could try, and …

The blast of a double-barreled shotgun cut across the clearing like the roar of a Kansas tornado. Longarm saw Nick Huffington take both loads of shot between his shoulder blades and slam forward, dead before he struck the ground. Longarm glanced toward the shack to see a barefoot boy who could not have been more than twelve holding his mother’s smoking shotgun. The boy dropped the smoking weapon and sprinted around the shack and into the woods. Longarm released his derringer and tried to gather his wits. After a few minutes, he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed dizzily over to the shack and collected the still-smoking shotgun. Then, he sat down on the broken porch and rested his head in his hands.

Let me see, he thought. Agnes is dead and so is Nick, Claude Blanton, and Art Mead. The two train robbers were hanged yesterday. I guess that wraps it up. But now what?

“Mister?”

Longarm raised his head, feeling the warm blood trickling down his cheek. A little girl with dusty, tear-stained cheeks was holding a filthy handkerchief out to him.

“Mister,” she said, “you’re awful hurt.”

Longarm took the handkerchief and pressed it to his throbbing scalp wound. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess I am, but I’ll feel better soon.”

“He killed Mommy!” the child wailed, and burst into fresh tears.

Longarm gently placed a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. She threw herself into his arms and cried as if there were no tomorrow. “Your mother was brave,” Longarm told her, “And God took her to heaven.”

“Is he taking us to heaven too?”

“Not yet. Not for a long, long time.”

“Then where are we going to go?”

Longarm stared out at the dead dogs, the dead horse, and that dead sonofabitch Nick. This was no place for kids. Never had been and never would be.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Denver?”

“No.”

“It’s in a state called Colorado. You ever hear of that?”

“No. Is it like heaven?” She sniffled and brightened a little.

“Well, sorta. That’s where we’re all going now.”

“But I don’t have no mommy no more!”

Longarm thought of Stella Vacarro. Stella with the heart of gold and a deep, abiding need to give and receive so much love. “I’ve got someone that will take real good care of you in Denver,” he promised, “someone as good and pretty as an angel.”

His words pleased and reassured the little girl. So much so that she hugged his neck tightly while Longarm watched her brothers and sisters slowly emerge into the yard like frightened forest elves.

“It’s all going to be all right now,” Longarm vowed in a voice that betrayed his powerful emotions. “And that’s a promise.”

_______________________

Jove Books New York Copyright (C) 1998 by Jove Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 0-515-12278-5

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Printing history Jove edition / May, 1998

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