Longarm and the Deadly Thaw

And at very close range.

ignoring the hay that filtered maddeningly into his shirt collar, and ignoring as well the sudden hubbub of noise as the other men in the shed sat up in angry consternation, Longarm tried to recall the minuscule details of the sound that had so jarred him.

Sharp and biting, that was obvious on the surface of it. But … left. It had come from his left. He frowned, realizing that of course it had come from his left. He was sleeping at the front of the shed, dammit. Everything else was to his left as he lay with his head toward the end wall and his feet to the passage into the central part of the stage line’s mule barn. No, he thought. The fact that the noise had came from his left was useful after all. It meant the gun was fired by someone among his sleeping companions in this side of the barn. Someone coming in from the other hay shed, say, or from outside somewhere would have fired from the passageway. And that sound would have come from below Longarm’s feet when he lay sleeping. So it was instructive after all to remember that the sound was to his left.

Apart from that … apart from that he couldn’t remember shit. Dammit.

“Who’s got a match?” the engineer’s voice called out.

Longarm was a good dozen feet away, but someone else responded. The other engineer, it proved to be. The man struck a match and applied the flame to his friend’s candle, bathing the hay shed in dim yellow light.

As far as Longarm could tell, every bastard in the place was lying—or by now for the most part sitting—in exactly the same places they’d been after the previous excitement.

Everyone, that is, except for himself. He had moved half a dozen feet or so toward the end wall after the others went to sleep. He couldn’t help but wonder now …

While the others were asking themselves the same questions over and over again—and coming up with the predictable if uninformed responses—Longarm shoved his Colt into his waistband and knee-walked through the soft hay to the place where he’d been bedded before and where his coat and Stetson still lay.

“Do me a favor, friend, an’ hold that light so’s I can see here, willya?”

The engineer did as he was asked, and Longarm grunted. Not with satisfaction, exactly, but at least now the noises were commencing to make some sense.

He was no believer in the likelihood of coincidence, and three small-caliber reports in the vicinity of one person seemed just a wee bit much to swallow.

And there was the proof of the pudding. There was a set of small holes marring the sides and back of his coat. The coat that, thankfully enough, had been lying folded on the hay and not wrapped tight around him while he slept.

The point, however, was that some son of a mangy bitch tried to shoot him dead.

And tried it, it now would seem, three damn times before the intended victim so much as caught on to the notion that some asshole was shooting at him.

Longarm was feeling a mite peeved over that. The bastard had gone and made three good tries before Longarm even knew he was being shot at.

You could make a case for the sonuvabitch being awfully damn good. Or simply plenty lucky.

Longarm, on the other hand, couldn’t much bring himself to admire the unknown fellow’s efforts.

And that, of course, was the most important question of all now that Longarm had satisfied himself that he knew why these noises kept happening. Oh, finding out the why of it would be nice to learn too. But mostly, yes, mostly by damn, he wanted to find out who!

Well, the list of possibilities was short.

Tyler Overton, Delmer Jelk, the two engineers, and the dandy.

Longarm looked at each of them.

Far as he could read the deal, there was only one who knew him well enough to work up a reason to want him dead.

After all, Jelk seemed a simple enough traveling salesman with no possible motive. And the three northbound passengers not only could not have known they would run into a federal lawman, once they did—even if they had reason to hate and fear federal lawmen in general or Custis Long in particular—the only thing any of them would have had to do to get away from him was to sit down, shut up, and wait. As soon as the mud either dried or froze, Longarm would be on his way south and they would be headed just as quickly to the north.

Tyler Overton on the other hand …

Shit, Longarm didn’t know of any motive the lawyer might have to stop him from possibly helping Gary Lee Bell escape the hangman’s noose.

But he could think of a fair number of possibilities if he wanted to. Maybe none of them true. But who the hell could say?

For instance, Gary and Madelyn Bell were convinced her father’s mine at Talking Water was pretty well worthless. But what if their lawyer knew something about the mine that they didn’t? And wanted Bell dead and Maddy up to her pretty ears in debt to ensure that the mine would become Overton’s property by and by.

Or to run out another possible motive, maybe Overton and the pregnant soon-to-be widow were putting on a big act about wanting Gary Lee Bell saved but really wanted him dead, by the law’s cold hand and not theirs, so Overton could dump his mousy wife and take up permanent residence in Maddy’s overheated bed.

Or it could be that the tipster from the Medicine Bows was right and Windy Williams was down there alive and well and full of piss. It could be that Overton was being paid something under the counter by Williams so the old curmudgeon—which he damn sure was—could rid his daughter of a husband Windy did not approve of.

Or … or, hell, there could be a hundred other “or” possibilities.

And maybe not a one of them that Longarm could think of was true, but then maybe there was some other explanation, crazy to everyone else but perfectly logical and inescapable in the mind of Attorney Tyler Overton, that was in hiding needing only to be identified.

Longarm sighed. He could fret about the “why” of it all at leisure some other time.

Right now he was mostly interested in seeing to the “who” of it—which he sure as shit figured he had—and making damn sure there was no fourth, and perhaps successful, attempt on his life. Damn it anyway, though … “Tyler?”

“Yes, Long?”

“I’d be obliged if you would hold your hands kinda out t’ the side where I can keep an eye on ‘em. An’ you, mister. Hold that candle nice an’ steady. It wouldn’t much do for anybody t’ get confused and excited just now.”

“What the …”

Longarm ignored the engineer, his attention closely focused on Overton instead.

The lawyer, he had to admit, acted innocent as a duck in the henhouse. Which didn’t mean a damn thing.

“Keep ‘em right where I can see them, Tyler, while I shake your tree an’ see what kind of shooting irons fall out.”

Chapter 29

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Longarm complained.

“I think I am beginning to agree with you,” the engineer with the candle—the one who used to have a candle, that is, for the stub had long since burned away and the search had continued by the growing daylight—put in. “Are you going to finish soon so we can go have breakfast?”

“You’ll go when I say you can go, goddammit,” Longarm snapped.

But then his sleep had been twice interrupted too. And for a much more personal reason than any of these others.

The engineer saw the tight-kept fury lingering at the back of Longarm’s glare and shut his mouth.

The problem was that after stripping Tyler Overton buckass naked and searching every stitch of thread the man had been wearing, Longarm had not been able to locate so much as a sniff of the pistol that had been fired at him.

After searching Overton himself Longarm had searched through the hay in the vicinity of Overton’s makeshift bed.

At that point Longarm had figured he could fully appreciate the implications of the old saying about looking for needles in haystacks.

Which had not, of course, kept him from continuing the search.

He’d inspected first the man, then the bedding, and finally all the loose hay, the nooks and crannies, every possible place where a pistol could be tossed in the darkness by a man lying where Tyler Overton had chosen to make his bed.

He had not found shit. Yet.

“All right, dammit, someone has it. Let’s see about the rest of you. Delmer? Strip.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want your clothes.”

“But …”

“Look, either I inspect your clothes after you hand ‘em to me or I do it while you’re wearing ‘em. An’ if you make me go over there an’ play with your balls, Delmer, I’m gonna be even more pissed off than I already am. I might not be real gentle about it. You see what I mean?”

“Uh, yeah, I think I do.” Jelk began hastily pulling off his shirt and trousers.

After a few moments the others did too.

In light of Longarm’s cold anger the others did not object. Not even the dandy.

As before, though, there was no sign of any small-caliber handgun.

Jelk had his English .455 bulldog. One of the engineers was carrying a pocket-model Colt, one of the short-barreled guard models with no sights and no ram for shell ejection, but a full .45 caliber in spite of its small size. And the little fellow with the cane had a positively wicked folding penknife with gold handles and a rusting blade. Those were the only weapons Longarm could find in the crowd.

There was no damned gun! Except … except someone had fired at him. With a gun.

Three damn times. There had to be an explanation. Of course there was. There was always an explanation. The only trick was finding out what the hell that explanation might be.

And in this case Longarm was beginning to think that the explanation, however logical and simple it might really be, was somewhere way over his head.

Maybe he was more tired than he realized. Not thinking straight. Or something.

“Aren’t you guys done in there yet?” George, the coach jehu, called from the doorway for probably the twelfth time. “Miz Burdick is getting upset about breakfast going so cold and her with still so many to feed.”

Longarm sighed. “Tell her we’re on our way, George.”

Hell, they might as well go eat. He wasn’t accomplishing anything in here.

“We can go now?” one of the engineers said.

“Yeah,” Longarm said in a low, defeated voice. “Everybody can go now.”

The men finished buttoning and tucking and made their way swiftly out of the hay shed and on to the station building, where their meal had long since been waiting. The men who’d slept in the other hay shed were probably finished eating by now and the food was no doubt as cold as a new-caught trout.

The only one of the other men who did not make a rush for the table, oddly, was Tyler Overton. He hung back.

“Yes? What d’you want?” Longarm demanded.

“I just wanted … I wanted to tell you that I harbor no grudge here. I understand.”

“You do?”

“You haven’t exactly been forthcoming about why you did all that, Long, but it doesn’t take any genius to work it out. Someone shot at you. And since I am the only one who really knows you, and knows why you are here and the mission you are embarked on, it’s only natural that I would be your prime suspect. Well, I just wanted to say that I understand. I’m sure I would come to the same conclusions if our situations were reversed. I don’t blame you and I don’t resent the search. And I … I’m not sure how you will take this, Long, but I mean it sincerely. If I can help in any way …”

Longarm gave the Talking Water lawyer a long, searching look. Then he scowled, as much in confusion as for any other reason. “Yeah. Thanks, Tyler.” He managed a weak smile. “I think.”

Overton nodded. “Like I say, Long. The offer is sincere. Any time. Any way I reasonably can.”

Longarm chuckled. “Now there’s a lawyer for you, all right. Even an offer like that you’re careful t’ qualify. Anything you reasonably can, huh?”

Overton laughed. “Really, Long. You can’t expect me to ignore years of careful training surely.”

“No. But if you weren’t the one shooting at me…”

“Then who could it have been? And why? Am I right?”

“Afraid so, Tyler. I reckon I’m ‘feared that you are.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Yeah, shoot.” Longarm grinned. “Figuratively speakin’, that is.”

“Let’s ponder those questions after breakfast, shall we? I for one am damned well hungry.” He patted his more than ample belly as a reminder that he was a trencherman of no small consequence.

“Yeah,” Longarm reluctantly agreed. “Reckon we ought to.”

Innate caution, though, made him hold back so Overton could take the lead on the way to the station building. Longarm had just established beyond any shred of doubt that the lawyer was unarmed. Even so …

Chapter 30

By the time Longarm and the lawyer joined the others inside the station building, everybody in the place knew about the gunshots that had, presumably, been directed at the deputy U.S. marshal during the night.

That was not the way Longarm would have preferred it. There are times—in fact, most of the time—when it is better to listen than to talk, he figured. And generally speaking, he would prefer to be the one to make any announcements or declarations concerning … well, concerning just about anything affecting him personally or the conduct of his job. He tried to be pleasant and friendly enough with anyone who would allow it. But he wasn’t much when it came to blabbing every thought that passed through his head.

It was damn sure too late for that here. As soon as he walked in he was greeted with sympathetic comments from some and by big-eyed looks from the rest of the folks who were stranded at Burdick’s station.

Howard Burdick himself was apologetic as hell about the whole thing.

“Hell, Howard, it ain’t your fault. And you didn’t do nothing. I know that. It was somebody sleeping in that same room with me that did the shooting. That leaves you and your missus out of it. And these ladies here an’ half the rest o’ the menfolk on hand.”

Telling that to Burdick was enough to remind himself of it. And remind him as well that the fact of the shootings being common knowledge among the others should have no ill effect. After all, the shooter—whoever the sonuvabitch was—knew that Longarm was alerted now. The futile search for the pistol in the hay shed had made sure the shooter was warned.

So probably there was no harm done if the rest of the crowd knew about it too.

Still, Longarm was one who liked to keep his own counsel and not give out any information without a good and specific reason.

Longarm made a point of sitting beside Tyler Overton during breakfast. After all, if everyone knew about the shootings they would also know that Overton had been Longarm’s first suspect as the assassin. Better to avoid forcing any labels onto the lawyer by making a show of friendship with him now.

What the onlookers wouldn’t be able to tell, of course, was that Overton was still Longarm’s primary suspect for being the nighttime shooter.

But a clever one.

Where in hell had he—or, okay, who-the-hell-ever—hidden that pistol?

It hadn’t been on his person. Longarm would swear to that. Hadn’t been on him or any of the other men who’d been in that hay shed.

And the damn thing almost certainly hadn’t been hidden anywhere in there either.

Longarm had practically examined the hay stems one by one in that whole huge stack. And even though there hadn’t been time enough for anyone to shoot, cross the room, and then get back to his bed before the others stirred and started striking matches, Longarm had gone so far as to pry up the lid of each and every grain barrel and feel around inside them too.

The gun wasn’t anyplace. That he could find. Except, dammit, everything has to be someplace.

If a gun existed—and a gun for sure did exist—then it naturally had to be somewhere. If only Longarm could find it.

“The boys have been telling us about the excitement over there last night and your search for the weapon. We’ll go out after breakfast,” Burdick offered, “and move all that hay out of the room. I can close off a couple stalls in the barn and move it in there. Take everything out to the bare walls and floor. Could be your man buried it or something like that. If we take all the hay out and sweep the floor, we’ll be able to see if anyone dug a hole or found a crack in the wall boards or the like.”

“That’s mighty nice o’ you, Howard. It’s a lot o’ work, I know.”

“It’s important,” Burdick said. “The line will do it gladly. Any volunteers to help?” he added in a slightly louder voice.

“George and me,” Jesse offered. “We’ll pitch in.” He looked around. “So will Roy and Charlie.” This appeared to come as something of a surprise to the crew of the northbound coach, but they did not seem inclined to argue the point with the take-charge driver of the other coach.

“Anyone else?” Burdick asked.

Leonard Groble fidgeted a little but stopped short of speaking up. The cowhand looked away, an expression of mild embarrassment on his face and a hint of flush creeping into his earlobes. All the rest of the gents put on frozen expressions and acted like the suggestion couldn’t possibly have anything to do with them.

Longarm was disappointed. When this subject came up he had hoped that the shooter would be quick to jump in with an offer to help, acting on the theory that he couldn’t be thought guilty if he was so eager to assist.

It looked like the sonuvabitch was too smart to identify himself that easy. Dammit.

As it turned out, though, the only men willing to help with the work were coach line employees. And all of them had been sleeping elsewhere when the shootings occurred. If Longarm wanted a break here he was going to have to find it elsewhere.

“Is that it?” Burdick asked. “All right then, boys. We’ll head over to the barn straightaway when we’re finished with our coffee.”

“Mighty kind o’ you,” Longarm told them. And meant it. Inwardly, of course, he was grumbling that the shooter hadn’t tripped himself up.

But then a man can’t have everything. And under the circumstances, Longarm figured he should be pleased that he’d had an opportunity this morning just to wake up. That right there was a good enough start to any day, he figured. Especially when there was someone around who wanted to make contrary arrangements.

“Two … no, make that three … more o’ those fine flannelcakes,” Longarm said, “an’ I’ll be right with you.” He gave Jean Burdick a smile of appreciation and reached for the platter of light, fluffy cakes and the crockery jug of corn syrup to sluice over them.

Chapter 31

“Marshal.” The voice was a barely heard whisper.

“Hub? What?” He looked around. But could not figure out at first who it was who had spoken. The only person close by was the mystery woman in the blue gown and heavy veil. And she was looking away, not seeming to pay the least bit of attention to him.

“Not so loudly, please,” the voice said.

He looked in both directions and concluded that, all right, it pretty much had to be the woman in blue who was doing the whispering. But what …?

“Do not look at me, please. I must speak with you, Marshal. The information I have to give is vital, yes?”

“I, uh, yeah I reckon we can talk, ma’am.”

“Please, Marshal. Softly. No one must overhear. No one must suspect I talk with you.” There was, Longarm thought, a faint hint of accent in her voice. Something Slavic maybe. But he was not sure of that. Hell, he could barely hear her at all, much less figure her out from her speech.

“How d’ you figure us t’ talk if …”

“Outside. The people here, they expect you to follow Mister Burdick and the men. Out to the barn, they said. You leave now. But you do not go to the barn, no. You go out back. Into the rest house that is set aside for the ladies. In few minutes I will go out. Into the rest house. You wait for me there. When we are finished speaking I will leave first, make sure no one watches. Then I will tap on door and you will know it is safe to follow, yes?”

“Sounds all right t’ me, I reckon,” he whispered back while looking in another direction entirely.

The deception seemed silly as hell. But then he didn’t know what the whole deal was here. The time to scoff would be after he had all the facts, not before.

Taking his time about it, Longarm fired up one of Howard Burdick’s good panatelas and sat there for several moments letting the smoke wreathe his head while he savored the taste of the tobacco. Then he rose and left the table, stopping at the front door to slip into a pair of the cold and clammy rubber boots before going outside.

Across the muddy yard he could hear the sound of voices inside the barn where Burdick and the others were working to move the hay.

Longarm felt bad about letting them do all the work, but he didn’t see that he had much choice. If the woman in blue knew something about the man who wanted to gun him, well, that was information he wanted pretty bad. He turned away from the barn and headed around back toward the outhouses.

He passed by the men’s outhouse with the tiny hole in the side wall from where the first attempt had been made on Longarm’s life. And him not so much as recognizing the shooting for what it was, dammit. He went on by, and hesitated when he got to the door of the ladies’ outhouse.

It just purely wasn’t in him to go waltzing in there without knocking. Shit, he’d be embarrassed half out of his mind if he walked in and found even one of the whores perched on the pot. And if he intruded on Mrs. Burdick? There weren’t words enough in the English language to explain away a blunder like that. He tapped lightly on the door and asked, “Anyone there? I say, is anyone in there, please?”

There was no response, and after another moment’s hesitation he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The shitter was empty. He was fascinated to discover, though, that it didn’t smell at all like the men’s two-holer. This one smelled almost … nice.

Then he saw the reason why. Beside the bin where the wiping paper was stored someone had put a little shelf. On it there was a bottle of patent toilet water—right well named in this instance, he thought—with a lantern wick jammed into the mouth of the bottle. The damp wick allowed the fragrance, lilac according to the label on the fancy little bottle, to escape slowly into the air, covering over much of the natural odor of such a facility and making the whole thing a much more pleasant place for a lady to drop her drawers.

Longarm sat down to wait—no need to fret here about an errant aim splattering piss on the toilet seat—and smoke his cigar.

“You will allow me?” the woman in the blue gown asked as, without waiting for a response, she reached up and plucked the cigar out of Longarm’s mouth.

He let her take it without quarrel. Hell, he’d run into women more than once in the past who rebelled against the social restriction imposed upon the weaker sex and who in private might enjoy the taste of tobacco. Or other things generally forbidden to them.

He figured this woman was another one like that, and if she wanted a drag on his cigar, then … “Hey!”

His yelp came too late, and with horror he watched her drop the fine, pale panatela into the open maw of the dump hole. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“I am very sensitive to the smoke, no? You must not smoke in these close quarters. My lungs are delicate. But of course if you want your filthy thing back again, Marshal, I will attempt to retrieve it for you.” There was a sound from behind the veil that might have been muted laughter. “Of course you must first promise me that you will smoke the rest of it. Then I will be sure to recover it for you, no?”

“Thank you so much,” he said in a dry tone.

“You do not want it now? So sad. It would have been amusing for us both, I think.”

“Not for us both,” he said. “Look, inside the station you told me you know something ‘bout this bird that wants to perforate my belly.”

“I did? I really said a thing like that?”

“That’s what I took you t’ mean.”

“But non, mon cher, that is not quite what I mean to say.

“Then what …?”

“I tell you I have information that is vital. But it is not about the man who would shoot you. Of that I know nothing. I would tell you if I knew. But I do not.”

“If not that, then …?”

“The country. This country. It is in very great danger, marshal. And you, as a representative of the government of this country, you are one to whom I can deliver my warning, yes?”

He gave her a questioning look. Information vital to the country? What the hell was this broad talking about?

“You wish to know what I have to say?”

“Well … yeah. Uh, yeah, I’m sure I do.” If he happened to have reservations about that, well, he’d keep those to himself. For now.

“First you must do three things, Marshal,” the woman said.

“Three?”

“Yah, three.” First he’d thought the hint of accent was Slavic, and then maybe French, and now it sounded more like low German, or it could be Polish. Weird.

“So tell me-“

“Three things, Marshal. First you must promise absolute secrecy. No one must know from whom you obtain this information. You do promise?”

“I reckon. I’ll keep your name outa it so far as I can.” He smiled. “Which oughta be pretty easy since I have no idea what your name is or what you look like.”

If she smiled back at him he couldn’t tell it because of the thick veil that shielded her features from view.

“The next thing, Marshal, is that your government must agree to pay me for this information. Twenty—no, we make it twenty-five thousand dollar. Is this agreed?”

“Ma’am, I don’t know what it is you expect from me, but I’m just a deputy marshal. I got no authority to commit the government to payin’ rewards or anything like that.”

“But you will agree to tell your government what I ask? You will do that much?”

“I reckon I can promise that. I’ll bring it up if I think your information warrants it. I just won’t make you no promises that I can’t be sure will be kept.”

“Yes, that is honest. I respect this. It is good enough, I think.”

“And the third thing?” Longarm asked.

“This is the third request, it is a matter of some delicacy. Very personal. This I do not want to talk about until everything is done.”

“I can’t very well make you promises without knowin’ what it is you want.”

“I will trust your integrity, Marshal.”

He shrugged. “If you’re willin’, ma’am, I reckon I am too. So, uh, what is it you want t’ tell me?”

She leaned forward, glancing over her shoulder as if to see there was no one eavesdropping even though the two of them were standing belly to belly inside a one-holer with barely room enough to turn around. And then only if the other was careful to stand clear.

The woman in blue put her mouth close to Longarm’s ear. He could feel the brush of rough mesh against his flesh and the heat of her breath coming through the veil.

She whispered hoarsely. Longarm blanched a pale, shocked white.

Without thinking of what he was doing he balled his right hand into a fist and sent it wrist-deep into the veiled woman’s gut.

As she doubled over in agony he shoved her down onto the toilet seat so as to get her the hell out of his way and bulled past her into the clean air outside.

The door hadn’t more than had time to slap shut behind him when he heard the woman begin to laugh, the sound of it like a donkey’s braying in the morning stillness.

“You’re sick. You know that? Sick,” he threw over his shoulder as he stormed out of the shitter.

He turned, intending to say more to the stupid cunt in blue, but was rudely interrupted by the sharp bark of a small-bore gunshot and the virtually simultaneous slap of a bullet striking the left side of his chest.

Longarm reeled back against the outhouse door.

Chapter 32

Slumped against the door to a women’s crapper was not his idea of a properly dignified place for a man to die. If, that is, any place could be so considered. But even so … He frowned. Dignified or not, if he was standing here dying why was it taking so long? And for that matter, why didn’t it hurt where he’d been shot?

After all, he had been known to take lead before. And it sure hadn’t felt like this ever before.

Was that because this wound was mortal and those others had been picayune in comparison?

That could be, he supposed, but shit, this time it didn’t even hurt.

Oh, he’d felt it, all right. But the poke hadn’t been very hard. Something on the order of a playful jab. Or the tap of a kid playing tag. But nothing serious.

Yet a gunshot in the chest, that was just about as serious as things got. Wasn’t it?

Longarm straightened, abandoning the support of the outhouse door he’d been leaning against, and stood upright. He slid a hand inside his coat and felt for the warm, sticky wetness of fresh blood. Or for the pain of an entry wound. Or … something.

All he found inside his coat was his shirt. No longer fresh, but dry and apparently unperforated.

He frowned a little more, this time in puzzlement, however, and not with any trace of disappointment. It came as something of a surprise to him—but definitely not a disagreeable one—to discover that the gunshot seemed to have done no damage.

He felt around a little more and then, comprehension commencing to dawn, pulled his wallet out.

There was a small hole in the front of his coat and a corresponding hole in the leather of his wallet. But no holes through the inside liner of the coat nor, most importantly, through Longarm himself.

When he opened the wallet it was to disclose his badge, the shape of the metal slightly altered from behind, a small bulge as it were. And when he unpinned the badge from the leather flap inside his wallet, a small, flattened lead projectile dropped into his palm.

Sheeit, he mumbled softly to himself. And then, aloud, he said, “Stay inside there, lady. Don’t come out.”

“Are you all right, Marshal? Did I hear-?”

“I said you’re to stay inside an’ I mean it. If you poke your head out I might go an’ misunderstand what’s happening an’ put a .44 slug through the bridge o’ your nose. You understand me?”

“Was that a shot that I heard, Marshal?”

“D’ you understand me?” Longarm insisted.

“Yes, of course, but …”

He was no longer paying attention to the bitch in blue. She could wait.

Right now he had other things to think about. He palmed his Colt and began a slow drift in the direction the gunshot had come from.

Chapter 33

The back wall of Burdick’s station was windowless. Plain and blank and with no defensive firing slits or other openings where a gun and gunman might be concealed. Which meant whoever had fired the shot that hit with deadly accuracy—albeit with fortuitous result for Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—had to have been hiding at one corner or the other of the longish structure.

As close as Longarm could recall when he tried to bring the exact sound of the shot back to mind, the would-be assassin must have been on the south or right-hand side of the place.

Staying well clear of the building on the theory that the guy had had an aimed shot from rest at a stationary target, but that he couldn’t be that accurate again if his quarry was at a distance and at the same time was in motion, Longarm skirted wide around the back of the place until he could get an unobstructed view of that side of the building. As he pretty well expected, there was no one in sight.

Once again his small-bore attacker had made a swift, single attempt at murder and then … disappeared.

This was the fourth time the same man had taken a crack at him, Longarm reflected sourly, and he had not yet gotten so much as a glimpse of the sonuvabitch.

The man might as well have been a ghost. A will-o-the-wisp. What he most assuredly was not was imaginary.

Longarm had the misshapen lead slug in his pocket to prove that, the bit of distorted metal that had been stopped by the thickness of his leather wallet and the barrier of his badge of office.

Except for those—except for the accuracy of the gunman’s aimed fire—Longarm could well be lying dead or dying at that very moment.

Whoever this bastard was, Longarm acknowledged, he was uncommonly good at his job.

And for him it was a job. Longarm would have willingly bet the farm on that assumption. Who except a paid professional, and a damned good one at that, would keep coming back for repeated tries after the first few failed. Most especially, who but a very confident professional would make this last attempt in broad daylight and from such a distance.

Longarm stopped for a moment to estimate the range from the back corner of the station building—which surely was the spot from which that shot had been fired—to the front door of the ladies’ outhouse. Forty yards? At least that, he decided.

A small-caliber pistol is a short-range firearm. Generally speaking, even in the hands of an expert, a .22 pistol could be considered to have an effective range of not more than fifteen yards. Twenty-five yards tops, and that was if the shooter had a solid rest for his hand.

Most handgun combat is undertaken, Longarm knew perfectly well, at distances of from two to eight yards. And never mind what the dime novels claimed. The people back East who wrote and printed them, Ned Buntline and his ilk, might not know any better, but Longarm and all his fellow peace officers damn sure did. Gunfights are mostly belly-to-belly affairs, and the man who is steady enough to draw a bead and take aimed fire from longer ranges is one mighty rare bird indeed.

This guy, though, had shot from an estimated … no, screw this estimated stuff. Longarm wanted to know for sure. He strode to the back corner of the station and, marching in a straight line, paced off the distance to the outhouse.

Forty-two yards. His guess had been close.

He looked back over his shoulder and reflected on the view of the outhouse he’d had from the ambusher’s place of hiding. There was a square-on view of the door to the women’s shitter, but the wider two-holer assigned to the men sat at a slight angle so that from that south end of the station building there was only an oblique view of the men’s outhouse door. Anyone coming out of that outhouse would be momentarily screened from view by the swing of the wooden door itself, and if the victim then happened to move to his left instead of coming straight on, there would be no good shot at all. In order to be sure of getting a good shot at someone emerging from the men’s outhouse an ambusher would have to set up at the north end of the station. And if he were standing there he would be in view of the men who were working in the barn.

Interesting, Longarm thought as he pondered the facts. Damned well interesting.

He pulled out a panatela—later on if the mud dried enough to be a little less sloppy, perhaps he could walk out to the stranded coach and get some of his own brand of cheroots; the panatelas were nice and he was grateful to have them, but they couldn’t compare with his old favorites—and took his time about lighting the thing.

He puffed on the cigar for a few minutes while he rolled a few things around in his mind.

Then, satisfied, he said, “Reckon the excitement is over. You can come out now.”

“I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” the blue bitch’s voice called from behind the closed outhouse door.

“No chance o’ that,” he assured her.

“Very well then.” The door came open with a faint creaking of the rusty spring, and the veiled woman stepped outside to join Longarm.

“Turn around for a second, if you don’t mind, please.”

“Pardon me?”

“Please.”

With a small shrug of her shoulders the woman turned to face away.

Longarm reached forward and quickly snapped the steel bracelet of a handcuff onto her left wrist, yanked it hard back, and clamped the other cuff securely on her right wrist.

“What the hell are you-?”

“It’s best you should understand that I don’t figure to screw around with you. You set me up, woman. You brought me out here deliberate as hell an’ set me up t’ be murdered in cold blood. Can’t be no other way, as I see it. So don’t expect no sympathy or gentle treatment. Long as you’re in my custody, woman, you toe the line. Otherwise I put leg irons an’ a gag on you too an’ pack you in like a hog being carried to slaughter. And if you really give me trouble, it could happen that you’ll be shot whilst trying escape. Understand?” The last was pure bullshit. But she didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll have your badge for this, damn you.”

“You an’ your boyfriend had your chance t’ get that. Since you can’t take it off my corpse, I reckon you got t’ pay the penalty for failing. Now shut up an’ hold still while I shake you down t’ see if you’re carrying iron.”

Without further preamble he bent down and stuck a hand under the back of her gown. He intended to take no more chances with this murderous bitch and her as yet unknown playmate.

Chapter 34

Shocked scarcely began to describe the expressions of the others stranded at Burdick’s when Longarm brought the blue-gowned woman in wearing handcuffs—and, incidentally, cussing to make a mule skinner blush. The woman sure as hell had a mouth on her.

In a few terse and well-chosen words Longarm explained just why it was he had put her under arrest. “Quick as I can get her before a federal judge,” he concluded, “she’ll be charged with conspiracy to assault a federal officer. Maybe some other stuff if I can get the U.S. attorney t’ go along. Way I see it”—he paused to take a deep, satisfying drag on the cigar—“she’ll do three years at the least, ten if we can finagle the deal so she comes up before old Judge Hardash. Hardass is what most call him behind his back. An’ he owes me a favor besides.”

“But why would this poor woman want to harm you, Marshal?” Jean Burdick asked.

“I’m not real sure ‘bout that, ma’am. My guess is that her boyfriend got her t’ do it. Hell, could be that’s how she makes a living, setting men up for the boyfriend t’ shoot.”

Mrs. Burdick’s hand flew to her throat in horror, and she looked wildly around at the men—all of them strangers to her—who were gathered in her common room.

If what Longarm claimed was true, one of these men was a deliberate, cold-blooded murderer. And likely had been for quite some time past.

“I think,” Mrs. Burdick said, “we should get my husband in here. After all, he is in charge.”

“Yes, ma’am. As you wish.”

Longarm shoved the veiled woman onto a stool in a corner of the big room, being none too gentle about it, and growled, “Sit still if you like, or I can shackle you in place an’ make sure of it. Your choice.”

She said nothing. Because of the veil he could not see her expression. Likely that was a blessing, he decided.

“Long.”

“Yes, Tyler?”

“Do you know who the woman’s, um, alleged accomplice might be?”

Longarm’s only answer was a wolfish grin.

Let the son of a bitch read that and work it out for himself, Longarm thought with grim satisfaction.

Mrs. Burdick was back within moments, Howard and all four other station employees trailing along behind her. Burdick looked concerned. The stagecoach crews looked like spectators gathering for a prizefight. Or perhaps something even more bloodily entertaining.

“What is this, Long? Have you really placed this lady under arrest?”

“Ayuh, I sure as hell have, Howard. Though I think it’s kinda pushing credibility t’ call her a lady.”

Longarm took hold of the brim of her chapeau and gave it a yank, pulling away hat and veil alike.

The woman who was revealed to view had auburn hair and hard features, her cheeks marred by childhood pox scars and her mouth set in a thin, furious scowl. She had pale eyes and uncommonly thick eyebrows.

It took him several moments of searching through his memory to come up with a name to go with those features.

“I’ll be damned.”

“That’s the first true thing you’ve said yet, you son of a bitch,” the woman told him.

“Clementine Bonner, right?”

“Up yours, shithead.”

“Yeah, that’s you, all right.” To the others in the big room he said, “Miss Bonner is on a gracious plenty of wanted posters. Mostly from Nebraska, Missouri, some from Illinois an’ Minnesota, if I remember a’right. The lady’s specialty, y’see, is murder. She’ll spot a mark she thinks has a wad o’ cash on him an’ bat her eyelashes some. Though God knows why anybody’d want t’ make the two-back beast … uh, excuse me, Miz Burdick, I kinda forgot m’self there.”

“Your apology is accepted, Marshal. Please continue.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his Stetson in Mrs. Burdick’s direction, then went on. “Clementine here likes to get a fella drunk an’ take him off somewhere private. Except while he’s busy gettin’ his pants off, she sidles up behind an’ makes like she’s gonna hug him. Least that’s the way we figure it from what’s found afterward. Nobody’s ever survived t’ tell us for sure. Thing is, she gets behind a fella like that an’ slips a loop o’ piano wire over his head. One good tug is all it takes. A garrote, I think the rig is called. It crushes the windpipe. Pull real hard an’ it can practically cut a man’s head off. Though I don’t think she’s ever quite managed t’ accomplish that. Came close a few times, though.” Longarm smiled. “There’s some lawmen I know over east of here that’re gonna be real happy t’ see Clementine sitting in a federal prison where they can file extradition papers on her.”

“You bastard,” she hissed.

“You’d have t’ ask my folks ‘bout that, not me,” Longarm responded.

“Trust me.”

“Yeah, Clementine, I’ll just do that. You bet.”

“But what about the man who shot at you?” Burdick asked. “You say she has been working with someone here?”

“That’s right. Murder for hire would be my guess. Though who would want me dead I really don’t know.” He smiled, although no mirth reached his eyes. “Not anyone in particular, that is. For sure, though, I never seen any of these fellows before this trip here. An’ none of them is on any posters that I know about. So whatever reason someone has for wanting me dead, I’d say it’s a cash transaction an’ our boy is a professional gunman.”

“A gunfighter using a .22 pistol?” Burdick asked, his voice expressing rather obvious disbelief.

“That reminds me, Howard. You an’ the other fellows can quit looking for that gun. I thank you for your effort, but there’s no pistol hidden over there t’ be found.”

“But how-?”

“Right under my damn nose,” Longarm said. “The whole time the gun was right under my nose an’ I never noticed.”

“I don’t understand,” Burdick said.

“None of us did. Which was the whole point o’ this guy’s way o’ doing business. You know how Clementine has her favorite weapon an’ method? Well, so does her boyfriend. An’ I got to say that he’s a kinda clever sonuvabitch. Until you figure it out, that is.”

Longarm dipped two fingers into his vest pocket and pulled out the scrap of misshapen lead that had caught inside his wallet a little while earlier.

“This right here is what gave him away,” he said with a great deal of satisfaction.

At the rear of the crowd that had gathered close around Longarm and his prisoner there was a slight stir. People began edging nervously away in anticipation of more gunplay.

Chapter 35

“Oh, I don’t think you folks got much t’ worry about here. My guess is that our boy would rather take his chances in a court o’ law than standing face to face against me with a six-gun.” Longarm grinned.

“Isn’t that so, little man?” Longarm said to the mild, meek-looking little dandy with the cane and the fancy clothes.

“Me? You would accuse me? But really, sir. You searched me yourself this morning. All these gentlemen saw. I had no revolver then and I have none now.”

“That’s right, mister. You didn’t have no revolver. Nor no pistol o’ any kind. That’s just as true as true can be.”

“Then surely, sir, you cannot think-“

“Oh, but I do. An’ I can prove it easy enough. You think you still got the wool pulled down over my eyes? ‘Fraid not, mister … what is your name anyhow?”

The little man straightened to his full height. Which was at least half a head shorter than Longarm even so. “I, sir, am Herbert Amos Hancock.”

“Called?”

“Mister Hancock to you, sir,” the little man said with a brave show of haughty disdain.

“Yeah, sure, Herbie,” Longarm drawled. “You wanta lay down your gun now, please?”

“I already told you, Marshal. I have no firearm. As you yourself determined not two hours ago.”

“Herbie, lemme put it this way. I can show these folks what I mean after I take the thing off your dead body. Which I will damn sure do—shoot you down, that is—if you don’t lay down the weapon. I can take it that way or else you can hand it over nice an’ quiet, after which time you an’ me will talk about a deal.”

“A deal, sir?”

“Ayuh. The big thing you win is that you get to keep on breathing for a spell. Second thing is that once we chat, an’ you tell me who it is that hired you … and why … then I tell the judge how cooperative you been and-“

“Marshal. Marshal Long? Listen to me.” It was Clementine Bonner. Longarm wasn’t real surprised. If there were favors going to be passed around, Clementine would want to make sure she was first in line and to hell with her erstwhile partner.

“Yes, Clemmie?”

“Now wait just a minute there, Marshal,” Herbert Amos Hancock rushed to say. “It was me you offered the deal to, not that woman.”

Longarm was not exactly amazed. There is damned small sign of loyalty among criminals. They might talk about “honor among thieves,” but the truth of the matter is more “devil take the hindmost” than any sort of honor or decency. But then, hell, why would you expect decency out of criminals anyhow?

“Y’know, Herbie, you’re running it right close t’ the line seeing as how you still haven’t laid down that gun of yours.”

Hancock dropped his cane like the duck-head grip had of a sudden become burning hot.

“What the hell?” someone in the room asked of no one in particular. “That isn’t a gun, is it?”

Longarm was not paying attention at the moment, however, and did not bother to answer. His concentration remained on Herbert Hancock and Clementine Bonner.

The two of them seemed right determined to be the first one to spit out the answers that might help lead to a moderation of their eventual prison sentences.

At virtually the same moment they each spat out the name Longarm wanted. And then glared at each other in obvious fury.

Longarm ignored that too.

He motioned Hancock to move back away from the cane, then went forward and swiftly frisked the man for the second time that morning to make sure there were no weapons that he didn’t know about.

When he was done with that he bent and retrieved the fallen malacca.

“That can’t be …”

“Sure can,” Longarm said. And after a moment he added with some satisfaction, “Not only can be, it is.”

He turned and showed the others what he’d found.

The rubber tip of the cane slipped easily off to disclose the muzzle of a slender rifle barrel.

The heavy grip that was so cunningly shaped to look like a mallard-head grip for an ordinary walking stick was in fact a deceptively simple—and beautifully concealed—single-shot action. A twist and tug on the head cocked the mechanism and dropped a spring-loaded trigger into view. A pair of grooves cut as if by accidental scrape into the wood that sheathed the barrel would no doubt serve as rudimentary sights. Rudimentary, perhaps, but very effective in the hands of someone as thoroughly familiar with his weapon as Herbert Hancock obviously was.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Jesse whispered. Then he quickly added, “Beggin’ your pardon, Miz Burdick.”

“Jesse, I agree with you,” she told him, “although I shouldn’t put it in quite those words.”

“Yes’m.”

“How in the world did you figure that out, Marshal?” Howard Burdick wanted to know.

“Once I had this slug here in hand it wasn’t all that hard. I mean, we all heard the shots. They were sharp and tinny. Sounded for all the world to all of us like a .22 pistol. Which it couldn’t have been. I figured that much when I saw how far away the shooter was from me when he fired outside just a little while ago. I never heard of anybody that could shoot that good with a .22 pistol. Then when I got hold of this little slug an’ took a good look at it—well, see for yourself.” He handed it to George, who looked it over, nodded, and passed it on to the next man.

“The thing is flattened out some but the back end is intact. That isn’t no .22. I’d guess a .32, prob’ly a rimfire like they chamber those little Smiths and the Ivor Johnson breaktops and some other revolvers for. This, o’ course, is out of some gunsmith’s custom shop. Only fires one round at a time, though, and can’t be quick or easy to reload. By the way, Herbie, now that I think about it, you carry the spare cartridges in your tobacco pouch, don’t you?”

“How did you deduce that?”

“It just come to me while we were talking here. When I looked you over this morning you had the pouch in your pocket. But no pipe that I recall, an’ I haven’t seen you smoke. So I figure that must be where you hide your ammunition for this ducky li’l shooting stick here.”

Hancock sighed and tossed the pouch to Longarm. There was no tobacco in it. Just cotton wadding wrapped around a handful of loose .32 rimfire cartridges and four empty shell casings. Hancock was a careful assassin, and obviously hadn’t wanted to point any fingers at himself by leaving unusual brass cases lying about.

“That was another thing I worked out after a spell,” Longarm said. “We all swore we heard a .22 pistol. But then it occurred to me that the report from a short-barreled .22 would be about the same as the noise from a longer-barreled but slightly bigger-size cartridge. I never quite decided if I’d find a .32 or a .38, but I figured it pretty nigh had to be one or the other.”

“Clever,” Burdick said.

“Yeah, just cute as a basket full o’ kittens,” Longarm said dryly, looking square into Herbert Hancock’s eyes while he did so.

“What now?” Burdick asked.

“Now we wait for the mud t’ dry or the ground to freeze, an’ I take my prisoners in for booking an’ arraignment. After that it’ll be up to the U.S. attorney what happens to them.” He grunted and, again looking directly at Hancock first and then at Clementine Bonner, said, “If they don’t give me trouble on the way back, that is. If they do, the United States government will pay the burial expenses. That’s the decent thing t’ do, after all.”

He thought Hancock turned a mite pale at that. Clementine, of course, had already considered it. And come to her own conclusions.

“Herbie, old fellow, I got more cuffs with me, but they’re all in my bag and that’s atop Jesse’s coach up the way a piece. D’you think I can trust you to stay put until I can get you safe in irons? Or would you rather take a chance on the alternative?”

“I can … be quite still, I assure you. You will get no trouble from me. No excuses.”

“That’s kinda a shame, Herbie. If you want t’ change your mind, go ahead. Feel free.” He smiled pleasantly—well, more or less—and lightly stroked the wooden grips on the butt of his .44 Colt.

“No trouble, Marshal. I promise.”

Longarm took a seat where he could keep an eye on both prisoners, and accepted Mrs. Burdick’s offer of coffee while he waited.

George, in the meantime, volunteered to go out to the stranded coach and bring Longarm’s bag back so Hancock could be properly immobilized.

“Would you mind bringing the whole bag back, please, George?”

“Glad to.”

Longarm nodded with considerable satisfaction. After all, Burdick’s panatelas were not bad. But his own cheroots were better by far.

Chapter 36

It was Saturday evening before Longarm, Jesse, and the shotgun messenger, George, walked out into the yard to stand with their heads raised and nostrils flared to the gathering breeze.

“What d’you think, Jesse? It’s your call,” Longarm said.

“Officially,” Jesse agreed, turning his head and spitting a stream of yellow-brown tobacco juice into the dark brown mud at their feet. “You tell us there’s a man’s life hangin’ fire?”

“Yes.”

“Six mules could die if I decide wrong and set out before the ground gets hard enough for us to make it through,” Jesse added.

“That’s true too,” Longarm agreed.

“I do dote on my mules, Marshal. You know that.”

“You treat them good as anybody I’ve ever known,” Longarm said.

“But they ain’t more important than a man,” Jesse said, his voice rather sad at the thought.

“No, they aren’t.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow. “George?”

“I think it’s gonna freeze tonight,” George said. “You can smell it on the air. Almost like before a big snow comes in. Though I don’t look for a snow tonight. Too clear off to the west there. I say we got cold air moving in. Snow behind it, maybe, but by then we’d be well clear to the south. “You think we should try it, George?” Jesse asked his shotgun guard. And friend.

“Yeah, I think we should try it. We won’t ever have the stock any better rested than they are right now. And it was dried enough this afternoon already to get the coach in here, wasn’t it? Well, I say it’s dry enough we can get a start. Slow to begin with. We shouldn’t put too much strain on the stock right off. Let them go slow and easy at first, till the cold comes on and the surface freezes over. After that we should have an easy roll the rest of the way down.”

“Marshal?”

“It isn’t my place to say, Jesse.”

“But if it was?”

“Then you know I’d say we have to try it. That boy will die come dawn Monday if Mr. Overton and me can’t find the proof of his innocence.”

Jesse sighed, and Longarm guessed he was thinking about his beloved mules.

“All right,” the jehu finally said. “George, get the harness laid out ready while I pick the team. Marshal, would you be good enough to tell the passengers that we’ll be rolling out of here in, say, forty minutes.”

“Glad to,” Longarm told him.

“One thing more.”

“Yes?”

“If any of them want to stay over instead of risking the road like it is, the line will house and feed them free until the next southbound comes through. Or they can ride free back north when those boys decide to move.”

“All right.”

“And, um, I wouldn’t want you to put pressure on anybody, Marshal. But I might mention to you that the lighter this coach the better for those of us who are in it. You know?”

Longarm smiled. “I think the only people going south tonight, Jesse, will be the lawyer and me and my two prisoners. Somehow I don’t think anyone else will want to ride out with us.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. I got nothing to do with any of that.”

“No, of course not.” Longarm smiled and touched the brim of his Stetson before turning away and striding—it was dry enough now that he was wearing his own cavalry boots instead of the awkward gum rubber things Howard Burdick provided—back toward the relay station.

Saturday night, he kept thinking. Sunday morning into Bitter Creek. And that was if things went just right the whole rest of the way south. Then hit the rails and get off at Bosler. Then south—somehow; he had no idea how they would manage it—to the new diggings in the Medicine Bows.

After that … well, after that it would be like playing craps. With Gary Lee Bell’s life as the wager lying on the line.

Chapter 37

If Bill Fay couldn’t rightfully be considered one of Longarm’s close friends, then the town marshal at Bosler could certainly be called a damn close acquaintance. The two ace officers had known each other the better part of two years or more, and had been known to share a bottle and to dispute a deck of cards. Longarm not only liked Fay, he trusted the local lawman. Which was more than he could say for a good many men in much more exalted positions.

Bosler was essentially a set of railroad loading chutes with a handful of houses and businesses growing up around them. It was also closer to the Medicine Bow gold diggings than the town of Medicine Bow, a few miles back up the line. That seeming anomaly was due to the fact that the minerals discovery was named for the mountains in which the ores were found, while the town of Medicine Bow was named for … God knows what; it wasn’t anywhere close to the mountains of the same name. A stream, maybe. A legend. Or simply someone’s idea of a joke. Longarm never had quite been sure.

Whatever the answer to that mild imponderable might be, Longarm was relieved enough when the eastbound Union Pacific coach finally squealed and shook its way to a halt at the Bosler platform at 1:32 p.m. on Sunday afternoon.

“We’ll get off here,” Longarm told his traveling companions. “If either of you wants t’ run on ahead, feel free. After all, this might be your lucky day.”

Hancock eyed Longarm’s Colt and seemed disinclined to make a move that could in any way be interpreted as an attempted breakaway. Clementine Bonner’s veil kept Longarm from seeing where her attention lay. But he doubted that the woman had any illusions about gaining her freedom. Since the moment Longarm had gotten his carpetbag back some days ago, her footsteps had been limited to a maximum of nine inches per pace courtesy of a set of long-chain manacles that he’d pressed into service as petite and ladylike leg irons.

“Boy? You there.”

“Yes, sir?”

“D’you know Marshal Fay, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s ten cents in it for you if you find him and tell him Marshal Long needs his help.”

“Marshal Long, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“Ten cents?”

“Uh-huh. The gentleman here will pay you ten … no, make that twenty cents.”

“Twenty?” The kid’s eyes looked like they might cause something to rupture if they got any bigger.

“What do you think, Tyler? Is twenty enough, or should we-“

“Twenty cents, son,” Overton confirmed before Longarm could run it up any higher.

After the swooning kid had raced away in search of Bill Fay, the lawyer gave Longarm a look of feigned disgust, then began to laugh. “Where did I come in on this deal?”

“Hell, everybody knows lawyers are rich, Tyler. You can afford it.”

“And the government can’t?”

“Just trying to be a considerate public servant, Tyler, an’ no squanderer of your tax dollars.”

“Remind me to thank you sometime.”

“I’ll do that, Tyler.” Longarm grinned. “Count on it.”

The suddenly wealthy boy was back within minutes to report that Marshal Fay had been at Sunday dinner and would be along quick as he could get his boots and hat on.

Overton gave the kid a two-bit piece and drew a raised eyebrow from Longarm. After the ecstatic boy disappeared, the lawyer looked at Longarm and shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t have twenty cents in smaller change. All right?”

“Hey, I believe you.”

The kid had not been lying. Bill Fay turned up only a minute or so behind the boy. The town marshal, who had belly enough for several ordinary men, was wheezing and puffing but in good spirits.

“You look like you been running down fleeing felons, Bill,” Longarm said as he pumped the fat man’s hand.

“No felons around Bosler, Longarm. You know they’re all scared of my blinding speed.”

“Yeah, I’d heard that about you. Bill, this is Tyler Overton from Talking Water up in Ross County. Careful what you say where he can hear. He’s a lawyer an’ might try an’ hold you to your word.”

“Howdy, Tyler. Any friend of Longarm here is a man to not turn your back on. And all that kind of stuff.”

“My pleasure,” Overton responded.

“And what do we have here?” Bill Fay asked, eying the parties who were wearing steel.

“This lovely couple, that look like butter wouldn’t melt in neither one of ‘em’s mouth, are a pair o’ backshooters an’ murderers, is what they are. These two you really better not turn your back on. The woman there is the piano-wire garrote woman.”

“My, oh, my. The one from Nebraska?”

“The very same.”

Fay gave Clementine a positively luminous smile. “I’ve read so much about you, ma’am. Pleasure to see you in these, uh, circumstances. And the dandy gent?”

“Oh, he’s a real special guest. Tried four times to kill me.

“Did he?” Fay asked with a straight face.

Longarm chuckled.

“Four times, huh? What’s the matter, Longarm? Are you getting as slow as I am lately?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, me letting a little simp like him make four tries before I could catch him at it. Anyway, both of these will be facing federal charges before we give the states an’ territories a crack at ‘em.”

“And judging from the fact that we are continuing to stand on a railroad platform instead of heading for the comforts of my jail, I take it you want to burden me with their care while you go off and play somewhere?” Fay guessed.

“Something on that order, Bill, yeah. I’ll sign a voucher for you so you can bill the Justice Department for holding ‘em.”

“In that case, since there seems to be something in it for me, I will consider granting your petition for relief.” He winked at Tyler. “Thought I’d throw a little legal-sounding language in there for you, Counselor. We like visitors to Bosler to feel at home while they’re here.”

Overton laughed.

“Seriously, Bill,” Longarm said. “Don’t trust neither of these two. They’re cold killers, the both of them. Keep them locked down no matter how they complain. Me and Tyler won’t be gone long. Don’t take no chances with this pair until we get back.”

“Mind if I ask where you’re off to?”

Longarm explained where they were going. And why.

Fay looked Tyler over rather carefully for a moment, then asked, “I don’t mean to imply anything personal, Mr. Overton, but how are you when it comes to fast horses?”

“Slow,” the lawyer admitted. “But I fall off them pretty good.”

“I kinda thought that might be so. Longarm, you know I’d never butt in where I don’t belong.”

“Leopard changin’ its spots, Bill?”

“… but if you’re interested, I just happen to have bought myself one hellfire fast team and buggy recently. Matched bays built like a pair of snakes with legs on them. Lotta skinny necks and hams no bigger than a decent housecat might have. They’re ugly as sin, both of them. But fast? You’d best tie your hat in place and use a strong cord to do it. Best of all, they got stamina that you won’t believe. They’ll get you to the diggings before nightfall else go ahead and kill them for trying. If they can’t make the run that quick they’re no use to me anyhow.”

Longarm knew better than to believe that. Exactly. But he thoroughly appreciated the generosity that lay behind the statement.

“Damn, Bill, you keep on like this an’ you’re gonna make me feel bad about all the things I’ve said behind your back.”

Marshal Fay threw his head back and roared. “Longarm, let me get these prisoners locked in nice and snug and then we’ll put you fellows on the road south.”

Chapter 38

The team was as good as their owner claimed. Maybe better. It was still daylight when Longarm and Tyler Overton reached Chinaman’s Knob. Still daylight, but barely. There was a pale salmon tint behind the imposing bulk of Medicine Bow Peak to the west, and beyond that lay the Sweetwater Basin and the Red Desert. Here, though, the country was wooded if not wet, and totally unlike the sere, dry plains below.

Chinaman’s Knob was the latest in a succession of mining booms to bring mineral-crazed seekers of wealth flocking into the mountains.

It was said that a Chinaman had indeed made this latest discovery. It was also said that the Knob named in his honor was also the place where he was buried. After all, what right did some yellow-hued Celestial have when it came to staking out a minerals claim on good American soil.

All of that, however, was rumor, and Longarm had neither the time, the inclination, nor the authority to inquire into the truth that might be contained therein.

There was no public livery as such, but he located a feed sales barn with a smithy attached and a corral out back where the farrier’s four-legged customers could wait to be accommodated. For a dollar and a half—in advance, courtesy of Mr. Overton—the smith agreed to grain, water, and house Bill Fay’s team of bays.

“Strikes me as funny somebody would pay that much to take care of a pair as ugly as them things,” the smith offered. After, it should be noted, he accepted the cash payment from Overton.

“You wouldn’t have a team you’d like t’ run against them, would you?” Longarm asked.

“You got to be kidding. Them? My grays would gag those bays with their dust.” He pointed toward a set of stalls where a pair of obviously pampered grays with short, barrel-shaped bodies were munching bright hay.

“We got no time to make you a match, but the next time you get to Bosler you oughta look up Marshal Fay. These are his bays, an’ I think he’d welcome a race. I hear he likes t’ match his horses, but I don’t think he does much against the teams over there. If you think your grays are good …”

The smith grinned, and Longarm guessed Bill would have himself a race in short order.

And in fact Longarm had not lied to the smith. Not a bit of it. The way he understood it, Bill no longer could do much against the competition in and around Bosler. Of course that was because his bays hadn’t yet been beaten and at this point no one else was willing to take them on. Had Longarm neglected to make that clear to the Chinaman’s Knob blacksmith? Gee, he thought it was all clear enough.

“Say, friend, you don’t know a fella hereabouts name of Windy Williams, do you?”

“Williams? No, I don’t recall anyone by that name. But then the camp isn’t that old, and I wouldn’t say I’m on close name-calling basis with more than a handful of fellas yet. I only been here myself a few weeks.”

“The camp goes back to last year sometime, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what they tell me. But then it’s all hearsay to me, don’t you see.”

“Sure, thanks. Uh, what’s your recommendation for a place where a fellow might wet his whistle?”

The smith laughed. “Knock on any door you come to, mister. Likely it’s a saloon. If it isn’t, they’ll pour you a drink anyway if you got cash money to pay for one.”

“Chinaman’s Knob not doing so well lately?”

“Let me put it this way. Since I got here most of my trade has been selling feed to fellas that want their stock strong enough to pull out for someplace else.”

Longarm felt a sinking feeling. Even if Maddy’s father was still alive and really had been spotted here in the Medicine Bows, there was a strong likelihood now that he might already have pulled up stakes and moved on to the next absolute, pure, and positively guaranteed bonanza of a gold strike.

“Thanks for your help, neighbor.”

“Hell, thank you for the dollar and a half. It’s a pleasure doing business with somebody that isn’t dealing in promises. Damn thin, that promise soup.”

“Yeah, I’ve had to eat a tot o’ that my own self. We’ll see you later. Oh, an’ by the way. We might be needin’ to pull out in the middle o’ the night. If we do, we’d kinda appreciate it if you’d make sure who an’ what is happening before you up and shoot at noises in the night. You know?”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Longarm waved a good-bye as he and Overton set out along the deeply rutted main, and only, street of Chinaman’s Knob.

“Do you really think we have a chance to find Williams here?” the lawyer asked.

“Damn small,” Longarm conceded. “But small chance is better than none, I reckon.”

“And if we don’t find him here, then what?”

“Then I expect we wire our regrets t’ the widow.”

“Jesus!” Overton said.

“Naw, no point in that. He’ll already know.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“That looks like a saloon on that side of the street over there.

“Yes, and there’s another just like it over here. Do you know Windy by sight?”

“Of course. He never employed my services, and I hadn’t been in town very long before he disappeared. But Talking Water is a small community. I am sure I would recognize him if I were to see him again.”

“Good. That means we can split up and go through them saloons separately. We’ll cover them twice as fast.”

“And if we don’t find him?”

“Then we by God turn around an’ go back through them all again. Just in case he’s just come in or was in a back room with some whore the first time we looked. We don’t have time to visit any other camp in these mountains, but this is the latest boomtown so we put our money down an’ throw the dice right here, Tyler. This is our best shot, win or lose.”

Overton nodded. “I’ll take this side of the street. You take that one.”

“I’ll meet you at the other end.”

Chapter 39

Longarm groaned and squirmed about just a little. Something was tickling the right side of his neck. Unfortunately, it was not some pretty little thing doing it. He was sure of that much. After a few moments he came awake enough to identify the irritant. A wisp of hay that had invaded his shirt collar, and now was threatening to drive him plumb out of his mind.

He sat up, soft, sweet-smelling hay cascading to his waist from the loose blanket he had made of it, and began brushing himself off. It was coming dawn. Time to wake up anyway.

With a yawn he stood and went over to the back door to take a piss.

Tyler Overton, he was surprised to see, was already awake and about. The lawyer was standing in the corral leaning on a rail and peering off toward the east.

There was not a damn thing out there worth looking at, and for a moment Longarm wondered what Overton was doing. Then he realized. He walked over to the man and stood beside him, putting an elbow on the cracking aspen rail and joining him in staring sightlessly toward the east.

“I’m sorry, Tyler. For whatever it’s worth we did all we could.”

“I suppose we did. But what was that you told the smith about promise soup being so thin? So is cream of regret, Long. Not only thin, it’s bitter as hell.”

Some hundred or more miles to the east in Cheyenne Gary Lee Bell should be mounting the hangman’s scaffold just about this same time, Longarm figured.

Thirteen steps to reach the platform. That was what tradition said, whether it was true or not.

Flanked by the county sheriff on one side—or in this case some designated representative to stand in his place since the Ross County sheriff was back in McCarthy Falls—and a priest or preacher, whichever the prisoner desired, on the other.

Time enough for a few last, hopeless words if he wanted to waste the breath on them.

Then the hood.

Then the noose, its lumpy thirteen-twist knot placed just precisely so behind the ear.

And finally the wooden clunk as down below a lever was pulled by the state’s official hangman. Who, Longarm happened to know, did not wear some bogeyman black costume, but a very neat and businesslike bowler and natty suit.

Longarm wondered what the last sound to reach the prisoner might be. The thump of the platform dropping?

More likely the sound of his own neck snapping as the bulk of the big knot pushed the spine sideways and caused the vertebrae to separate.

It was said to be a quick and painless death.

But who the hell could say that for sure? Nobody who ever went through it was able to tell about it after.

Whatever, it was a bitch of a way to die.

But then, hell, what wouldn’t be?

Longarm sighed. The sun had made its first appearance over the distant horizon now, and was lifting free of the earth.

Official sunrise.

Madelyn Williams Bell should be a widow by now. Shit! Longarm thought. “Tyler.”

“Mm?”

“Reckon we should hitch up the bays an’ head back to Bosler now?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I … if you don’t mind, Longarm, I’ll ride along with you as far as Cheyenne. Someone will have to make arrangements on Maddy’s behalf. I didn’t … I never asked what she wants done now. I mean

…”

“Take him home to her, Tyler. That’s what I’d think.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be best.”

To give credit where it was due, Longarm thought, the defeated lawyer seemed genuinely saddened this morning. No man was that good an actor.

They went back inside, and were in the process of getting the harness sorted out ready to hitch the bay team to Bill Fay’s buggy when Longarm heard the creak of rusty hinges as one half of the big double doors at the front of the feed barn swung open.

“Custis? Are you in there, Custis Long?”

“Who …?”

A graying and withered but broadly grinning old man stepped inside and cheerfully proclaimed, “Somebody told me you was in town and looking for me, Custis. By Godfrey, it’s good to see you again after … what’s it been? Two years? Closer to three?”

Longarm gaped, taken completely aback.

Then his complexion turned a mottled, purplish hue and he barked, “You son of a bitch. You lousy, Judas son of a bitch!”

“Windy?” Tyler Overton exclaimed half a heartbeat behind Longarm’s outburst. “Windy Williams. Jesus!”

Chapter 40

Marshal Bill Fay came out of the Bosler town jail and waddled onto the street, his first concern being to see to the welfare of the fast bay horses and the hell with Custis Long and company. Once assured that his babies were unharmed, he was willing to greet Longarm and Overton.

“And who’s the whiskery gent wearing the handcuffs?” the local lawman asked. “Not another murderer surely.”

“Might as well be,” Longarm explained sourly. “The sonuvabitch damn sure caused the death of another. Though not in any way the law can touch him for. Not that I can see.”

“Then why the handcuffs?” Fay asked.

“Jeez, Bill, there’s gotta be something we can charge him with. Not that me and Tyler have figured out just exactly what yet. But we’ll think o’ something. Count on it.”

“Uh-huh. Kind of looks like in the meantime he’s taken a fall and bruised himself up some. What did he do, fall down five or six times in a row?”

“Yeah, well, some people have lousy balance, don’t they?”

Fay helped Williams down onto the street, and was compassionate enough to stand between the old man and Longarm. “I take it you didn’t have any trouble finding him?”

“Hell, he found us. But not until past dawn this morning. He knew what was happening, damn him. Did it deliberately, he did. He was living there under a false name, and when he was sure Gary Bell was cold meat on the hook, then he stepped out all grins an’ playful. Miserable old son of a bitch.”

“Do you think he planned it all from the beginning?”

“The trial an’ the hanging an’ everything? Oh, hell, no. He couldn’t have seen all that ahead. No, what I think—no point in asking him ‘cause he’d lie like the sonuvabitch he is—what I think is that he just took off one day. The old fart never has been one to accept responsibilities. Things start t’ pile up an’ he heads for the other side o’ the hill. But I think he didn’t like Gary Bell none. I know he wouldn’t care about Bell screwing his daughter. But I think he resented it when the hired man up an’ married the girl an’ took her away from her papa. Windy liked the way it was before, I think. Had all the advantages of Maddy being there to fetch an’ do for him, but none o’ the responsibilities of having a wife. I think he liked having a daughter better than he would’ve a wife. So when Gary Bell married her an’ took her away from him, Windy didn’t like it. An’ when they decided up there that Windy was dead an’ Gary Lee Bell killed him, the old bastard curled up an’ hid on purpose instead o’ stepping in to save the life of his own grandkid’s daddy. That’s low. You know?”

“It is low,” Bill Fay agreed. “But it isn’t fatal.”

“Huh?”

“I did something yesterday that I hope you won’t be mad at me for.”

“What’s that?”

“After you left here, Longarm, I kind of got to thinking. I knew my team would get you to the diggings by sundown, but after that it would take a pure-antee miracle for you to get back here in time to make it to Cheyenne before dawn. Even if you saw this man here the minute you pulled into town, that would’ve been hard because the last scheduled eastbound last night went through at 10:12 p.m. No way you could have gotten back by then. Maybe if the team was fresh-rested for the run, but not on a turnaround. So what I did, Longarm, was to send out a telegram to the governor. It went out yesterday afternoon. I got a wire back earlier this morning.”

“What was-“

“The message I sent, I have to admit, I signed with your name. After all, who the hell am I to butt into other folks’s jurisdiction. On the other hand, I added an endorsement under my own name. The governor and me go back a long ways, you see.”

“And you said …?”

“What I told him was that there was strong evidence Gary Bell wasn’t guilty and that I—meaning you, of course—would be along in a day or two to prove it one way or the other. If anyone ever asks, you didn’t ask for a stay, just for a short postponement.”

“And this morning?”

“You and Mister Overton and this … person here … have until Friday morning to present yourselves before the appropriate authorities in Cheyenne. With or without your proof.” Marshal Fay was grinning ear to ear.

“Shit, Bill. I owe you one. I owe you? Man, Gary Lee Bell owes you. I’ll be sure an’ tell him and his widow so.”

Longarm looked at Windy Williams, then back at Bill Fay. “Let me ask you your best judgment on a legal opinion, Marshal. Me and Tyler have been arguing about it all the way back here from Chinaman’s Knob.”

“What’s that, Longarm?”

“If a man has already been declared dead by a duly seated territorial court o’ law, Marshal Fay, can there be a charge placed against a man for killing that previously dead son of a useless bitch?”

“I think I’ll have to take that under advisement, Longarm.”

“You do that, Bill.” Longarm turned to Tyler. “While me and Bill here take care o’ this bag of sour shit, whyn’t you …”

“Send a wire telling them we’re coming. Right. I’m already on the way.” Overton headed for the railroad depot and telegraph office with a spritely spring in his step.

“All’s well and all that shit, right?” Fay said.

“It remains t’ be seen what’s well and what ain’t. Those kids ain’t exactly outa the woods yet. Maddy’s father turns out to be a true sonuvabitch, which won’t exactly set well in the years to come, I’m sure. And the woman, who ain’t a widow after all, still has t’ tell her husband that she’s pregnant even though he’s been in jail a helluva lot longer than she’s been knocked up. No, I wouldn’t exactly say that everything is turning out peaches here, Bill.” Longarm shrugged and reached for a cheroot. “On the other hand, Gary Bell is alive and is gonna stay that way. They got a chance to make it now. An’ I suppose that’s all any of us can ask for. Life don’t come with guarantees. If we’re given a chance, then I reckon we’re doing pretty good.”

“Come on inside, Longarm. We’ll deposit your prisoner with the rest of the garbage you brought with you, then we’ll go to lunch. There’s time enough before the next eastbound is due in.”

Longarm took Williams by the elbow and dragged him along like he would have led a dog on a leash. And not a particularly well-liked dog at that.

“I don’t s’pose that same little ol’ yellow-haired girl is waiting tables at the cafe beside the … where was that anyhow?” he was asking as they walked. “Was that in the block by the bank or …”

Chapter 41

Longarm was tired. Lordy, but he was. Still, he was not ready to go home. Not quite yet. He had left Tyler Overton and a very unhappy Wind y Williams in Cheyenne, then made the long swing out to Julesburg on the U.P. and then back to Denver. He would be damned glad when the much-talked-about direct line from Denver to Cheyenne was completed. If it ever was.

He had to admit, though, that it was nevertheless better to ride a railroad coach than a stagecoach, so the longer route was better than a direct road without the rails.

Back in Denver he went through the formalities of booking Herbert Hancock and Clementine Bonner into custody awaiting arraignment—he figured he could follow up on that with the U.S. attorney tomorrow—and now wanted to complete the business he’d started, without ever knowing it, some days back.

“Yes, sir? Is there something I can do for you?” The desk clerk gave him a priggish, better-‘n-you look down the length of his delicately patrician nose.

Longarm could understand the reaction, he supposed. After all, he hadn’t taken time to shave in, what, two days now. Something like that. No doubt he looked and possibly even smelled more or less like hell.

He could understand the reaction. That did not mean he approved of it. Or was willing to take it. Not in the mood he was in at the moment.

With a completely neutral expression he reached inside his coat and laid his wallet open on the counter to expose his badge, only slightly misshapen by the bullet that had struck it back at Burdick’s station.

“First thing you can do, huh, is change your attitude an’ get real helpful. Otherwise I will personally drag your prissy ass down to the city jail and dump you in with the drunks and the crazies. An’ if you think I won’t do it …”

“Yes, uh, ahem, is there, um, is there anything I can do for you? Sir?”

“As a matter o’ fact there is. Is Lord Matthew Welpole still in residence?”

“Yes, sir, he is.”

“You can inform his lordship that his presence is requested in the ballroom.”

“The Crystal Room is not open at the moment, sir. Might I suggest …”

“What you can suggest, shit-for-brains, is that the Englishman get his butt downstairs an’ meet me in the ballroom. Which I believe just got open. Right?”

“Uh, yes, sir. As you say, sir.”

The hotel clerk scurried in one direction while a glowering Longarm strode the opposite way.

It was at least a half hour before the ballroom door was opened and Lord Matthew Welpole came in, accompanied by a pair of rather competent-looking gents wearing side arms like they knew what to do with them.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” his lordship said.

“It pleased you well enough t’ hire a gunman to take me down,” Longarm said.

“Did I?” The Englishman seemed not at all perturbed by the accusation.

Longarm paused. And smiled at him. “You figure because I’m standing here your boy Hancock has t’ be dead?

Wrong, old chap. Did I say that right? Old chap? Old chip? Which is it?”

“Chap, actually.” It actually sounded more like “ekchually,” but Longarm could make out what he meant.

“Right. Chap. Should be chip, I’d think. Like in buffalo chip.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t bother. What I was saying is that I think you are a piece o’ shit.

“Is this your means of expressing friendly banter?”

“Not hardly. Y’see, I brought Hancock back alive. Him an’ his girlfriend both. It’s really kinda funny to see the two of them try an’ be first to spill their guts, both of ‘em hoping for a deal with the prosecutors if they help put you in the bag. The charge, by the way, is conspiracy t’ assault a federal officer. We’ll start with that and see what else we can work up to afterward.”

“You cannot possibly be serious.”

“Serious enough t’ place you under arrest, you squat-t’-pee cocksucker.”

Longarm wasn’t sure, but he thought the lord might be suffering an attack of apoplexy. Or something. Well, if the man wanted to drop dead, Longarm supposed he could live with it. He could think of worse things that might happen than that.

“I cannot believe that … that … that … Milton, John … you know your duty. Protect me.”

“Protect you, old chap? I ain’t real sure this is sort o’ protection these boys signed on for.” He smiled. “How ‘bout it, Milt? John? Is that what you’re paid for? Even if you win, you lose. I shoot you today or the law hangs you in a month or two. There’s something t’ look forward to.”

“Sorry, your lordship” said one of them. “He’s right. He’s a deputy U.S. marshal. You know what that means? We can’t drag iron on him.”

“Besides,” the other one put in, “this particular lawman is the one they call Longarm. I seen him shoot once. I’m good, mister. But I’m not that good. I’m out of this one.”

“So am I, your lordship. Sorry.”

“Damn you both for cowards. Milton, give me your gun. Hand it over, if you please.”

“I can’t do that, your lordship. Sorry.”

“At once, damn you. I insist.”

“No, sir.” The bodyguard backed away, hands held wide of his body so Longarm would not misunderstand his intentions. On the other side of the handsome Englishman the other bodyguard was moving aside as well.

Welpole was turned half away from Longarm now, reaching out toward the bodyguard called Milton.

That was not the hand Longarm was paying attention to, though. It was the one that was now hidden from his view that was of concern at this point.

It came as no great surprise, then, when the Englishman turned back to face Longarm. With a stout-barreled Webley in his fist.

Longarm almost regretted what he had to do. Almost, that is, but not in a big way.

The Brit had had his chance to give himself up, and if he wanted now to respond with a revolver … it was his choice.

Longarm’s Colt appeared in his fist with the speed of a magician’s sleight of hand.

The .44 roared, the sound of it shattering in the closed confinement of a room even the size of the hotel ballroom.

The two bodyguards, obviously no strangers to quick mayhem, pushed their hands high into the air and stood stone still.

Lord Matthew Welpole was still also, but only for a few lingering moments.

Then he collapsed. Very slowly, first sagging slightly at the knees, and then the torso doubling forward. Finally he dropped to the floor, the unfired Webley beneath his body.

A bright scarlet pool began to form under him and to spread across the shiny parquet flooring.

“Guess I won’t arrest him after all,” Longarm said.

“We weren’t … I mean …”

“It’s all right. You’re both out of it. You made that clear enough.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell you what you can do now, if you would.”

“Yes?”

“Whyn’t you go tell Dame Edith she’ll have to find a new game to play. She finally lost this one.”

“Lost? Marshal, I guess you don’t understand.”

“How’s that, Milton?”

“Maybe it isn’t my place to say anything, but I been with the party since they came ashore in New York. And a person hears things, you know? Kind of puts things together sometimes?”

“Yes?”

“That woman upstairs, Marshal. She just won the game she was playing.”

“How does that figure?”

“She inherits, Marshal. Everything that poor bastard had is hers now.”

Longarm felt like the bodyguard had just kicked him in the stomach. Or worse.

Milton and the other guard turned and left the Crystal Room, leaving Longarm alone with a dead man. And with his own thoughts.

Dame Edith Fullerton-Welpole, Edy the high-kicking showgirl, won the final deal of the game. And there was not a single damn thing Custis Long could do about it.

Slowly, wearily, he reloaded the one fired chamber in his Colt and shoved the revolver back into his holster. What had he told Bill Fay? There are no guarantees in life. And what a pity that was, eh?

He turned and walked away, through the lobby and onto the street, ignoring the snotty desk clerk whose questions hammered at him.