Longarm and the Racy Ladies

LONGARM AND THE RACY LADIES

By Tabor Evans

Synopsis:

U.S. Deputy Marshall Custis Long is on the trail of a gang of counterfeiters who seem to be tied in with a professional horse-racing circuit. The owners of one of the racehorses are a pair of young, female, identical twins who seem just a little too friendly. But are one or both of them mixed up in the counterfeiting gang? The twins, a U.S. senator, his personal assistant and a surly jockey round out Longarm’s list of suspects. 214th novel in the “Longarm” series, 1996.

Jove Books New York Copyright (C) 1996 by Jove Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-515-11956-3

Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

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JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications, Inc.

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Printing history Jove edition / October 1996

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him … the Gunsmith.

LONGARM by Tabor Evans The popular long-running series about U.S. Deputy Marshal Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

SLOCUM by Jake Logan Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

Chapter 1

Longarm lowered the newspaper to his lap and used the left sleeve of his brown tweed coat to wipe away the fine beads of sweat that had popped out on his forehead. He told himself he was sweating because the lobby of the hotel was hot tonight. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock, and the heat from a summer afternoon in New Mexico wouldn’t completely fade away until after midnight. So it couldn’t be a case of nerves making him sweat. Surely not. The big federal lawman was sitting in the lobby of one of the best hotels in Albuquerque. He had ridden down on the train from Denver earlier in the day and met the man he was supposed to contact this evening. Jim Harrelson was a United States deputy marshal, too. At the moment, Harrelson was sitting on the other side of the lobby, wearing a derby hat and a suit with a loud, garish check. He looked like the whiskey drummer he was pretending to be, right down to the reddish nose of a man who too often sampled the wares he was supposed to be selling. That wasn’t a clever bit of camouflage, Longarm knew; Harrelson really did drink too much. But he had to be a good man; otherwise he wouldn’t have been assigned to this case.

Longarm lifted the newspaper again and rattled it a little as he turned a page. Across the lobby, Harrelson joined in the raucous laughter of the men with him, who actually were traveling salesmen of various stripes.

From the corner of his eye, Longarm looked through the big plate-glass front window of the hotel and saw the two men sitting on the porch. Saw the backs of their heads, actually, since they were facing the street. They looked like drifting cowhands, but in truth they were lawmen too. Longarm knew their names: Bud Seeley and Horace Truelove. Ol’ Horace’s handle had brought a smile to Longarm’s face when Jim Harrelson had pointed them out to him earlier in the evening. There would be time enough later, after the job that had brought them all here was done, for proper introductions.

It was getting on toward time for Nowlan to make his appearance, Longarm thought.

Longarm wasn’t often partnered with other deputies. Chief Marshal Billy Vail knew quite well his top man’s preference for working alone. But in a case like this, Vail hadn’t been willing to take a chance. Uncle Sam had been after Edward Nowlan for more than a year, and after receiving a tip that the master counterfeiter was in Albuquerque, four deputies, including Longarm, had converged on the city at Vail’s orders. The word was that Nowlan had a big operation here in New Mexico.

It was about to be shut down.

Longarm turned another page in the newspaper. He wasn’t reading the words printed there. The paper was just a prop so that folks wouldn’t think there was anything odd about the way he was lingering here in the hotel lobby. Harrelson had ingratiated himself with the drummers for the same reason. Seeley and Truelove could loiter as long as they wanted on the porch, since people did that all the time. All four of them were ready to move at the appropriate moment.

Longarm hoped that would be damned soon. He was getting tired of waiting.

A footstep on the stairs made him glance over the top of the newspaper. A tall, thin man in a town suit was coming down the stairs. Longarm recognized the man’s spindly build, the narrow face, the lank, fair hair under the hat. It was Edward Nowlan, right enough, and from the way he moved briskly across the lobby and out the front door, he was on his way to do some business.

As Nowlan turned right and strode off down the boardwalk, Bud Seeley and Horace Truelove stood up, stretched casually, and sauntered in the same direction. A few moments later, Jim Harrelson made his excuses to his new-found cronies and left the lobby as well, pausing just outside the door of the hotel to light a cigar before moving on. Longarm saw the signal over the top edge of the newspaper.

He waited a couple of minutes, then closed and folded the paper, leaving it on the overstuffed armchair as he stood up and straightened the brim of his snuff-brown Stetson. His hand went underneath his coat to his vest pocket and brought out a slim, black cheroot. Without lighting it, he put the cheroot in his mouth and went over to the desk.

The clerk on duty, a young man with pomaded hair, hadn’t paid any attention to the comings and goings in the lobby. He was absorbed instead in a yellow-backed dime novel, but he looked up when Longarm cleared his throat.

“Where’s the best place to get a drink around here, old son?” asked Longarm.

“Well, the closest place is the Paris Saloon, just down the street,” the desk clerk said.

“I asked for the best place, not the closest.”

“Why, the Paris is just fine, mister. You won’t find colder beer or better whiskey in Albuquerque.”

Longarm wondered just how much the proprietor of the Paris Saloon paid the clerk to steer customers his way. Probably not much, maybe just a free drink now and then. But the question had served its purpose, so Longarm didn’t argue. He just nodded, said, “Thanks,” and left the hotel lobby.

The street outside still had quite a bit of traffic on it despite the late hour. Wagons and buggies rolled along on the paving stones, riders guided their mounts between the vehicles, and pedestrians strolled on the boardwalks. Albuquerque was a bustling place, located as it was not only on the Rio Grande River but also at the intersection of two major trails, one running north and south, the other east and west. The city was ringed with snow-capped mountains on three sides, giving it a picturesque appearance, but the basin in which it lay trapped the heat and made the coolness of the surrounding peaks that much more appealing by contrast. Longarm had been to Albuquerque many times before and liked the town. He wasn’t on a sight-seeing trip tonight, however. He turned to his right, spotted Jim Harrelson loitering underneath a street lamp about four blocks away, and started toward him.

The other deputy must have seen Longarm too, because he resumed his walk along the street. All four of the lawmen were on the trail of Nowlan, one of them sticking close, the other three coming along behind at a distance so they would be less likely to be noticed. A man as cunning as Nowlan might have somebody watching his back.

Nowlan had to be pretty smart, or he wouldn’t have been able to avoid capture for as long as he had, Longarm thought. But nearly every crook slipped up sooner or later, and when they did, Longarm or some other star-packer was usually waiting to slap the cuffs on them—or ventilate them, if need be.

Longarm hoped it wouldn’t come to that tonight, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it did. The counterfeiting gang wasn’t likely to come along peaceable-like. Not with a pile of phony money at stake, not to mention the engraving plates, which were even more valuable.

Longarm’s strong white teeth clenched on the cheroot as he walked along the street, trailing Harrelson. He caught glimpses of the deputy in the derby hat and checked suit as Harrelson moved in and out of the light coming through the windows of the buildings he passed. Harrelson paused at a corner, then turned right, out of Longarm’s sight.

When Longarm reached the same corner, he turned too, and walked a little faster. He couldn’t see Harrelson up ahead. Within a couple of blocks, the street and the boardwalk were a lot darker. Now that he was away from the saloon, and restaurants, Longarm saw that most of the businesses along here were already closed for the night. He knew he wasn’t far from the railroad yards. Large, darkened warehouses began bulking up out of the night around him.

A hand came out of the shadows and touched his arm. Longarm reacted instinctively, pivoting sharply and reaching across his body to snag the walnut grips of the Colt .44 in the cross-draw rig on his left hip. The gun came out smoothly, with the faintest whisper of steel on leather, and Longarm’s finger was tense and ready on the trigger.

“Hold it, Long!” a familiar voice whispered urgently from the darkness of a recessed doorway. “It’s just us, damn it!”

Longarm took a deep breath and tried not to growl in exasperation. “Blast it, Harrelson,” he breathed. “Do you know how close I came to shooting you?”

“Too close. Sorry about that, Long. I just didn’t want you blundering in on Nowlan and warning him that we’re on to him.”

Longarm holstered the .44 and said, “Where is he?”

One of the other men with Harrelson said, “He went into that warehouse right up yonder. I reckon that’s where the gang’s meetin’.” The man stuck out his hand in the gloom. “I’m Bud Seeley.”

“Custis Long,” said Longarm as he shook hands with the man. It looked like there were going to be introductions after all. “Glad to meet you.” He turned to the third man. “You’d be Truelove.”

“Yeah, and I don’t want to hear any comments about it,” the man said in a surly voice.

“Don’t reckon I blame you,” Longarm said mildly. “Would you rather I call you Horace?”

“Can we get on with this?” Harrelson asked before Truelove could answer Longarm’s question. “I’m itching to get my hands on Nowlan.”

“Sure. How do you want to do this?” asked Seeley.

Harrelson glanced at Longarm. This was Harrelson’s bailiwick, and since all four men were deputy marshals, he should have been in charge. But all of them knew Longarm’s reputation as the big skookum he-wolf from Billy Vail’s office, and they were willing to defer to him, although it might be grudgingly.

Longarm took the cheroot out of his mouth and said quietly to Harrelson, “You know the ground better than any of the rest of us, Jim. What do you say?”

Harrelson seemed relieved that Longarm wasn’t going to try to boss the operation. He said, “There’s only one back door out of that place. I figured we’d put one man back there and three in front, and then we’ll all come in at the same time.”

“They’re bound to have some guards out,” Truelove said. “What about them?”

“Well, I reckon we’ll have to spot ‘em and put ‘em out of commission.”

Longarm knew that was going to be more difficult than it sounded, but it didn’t necessarily make the plan a bad one.

Seeley rubbed his jaw in thought, then nodded. “I guess we can do that,” he said. “Who takes the back?”

“Any volunteers?” asked Harrelson.

“I’ll do it,” Longarm said. Coming in from the back would be just as dangerous as busting into the warehouse from the front, so he didn’t feel like he was ducking a bad job. If anything, he would be in even more danger than the others, because he wouldn’t have anybody to watch his back. He would be on his own.

Of course, that was the way he liked it.

Harrelson nodded. “All right. Long goes in the back, the rest of us take the front. In … what, ten minutes?”

“Ought to be enough time,” Longarm said. “where’s the back door?”

“Far left-hand corner of the building,” Harrelson replied. “You can go down the next alley and get to the lane that runs behind the warehouse.”

Longarm nodded. He had already figured out that much, since the warehouse where Nowlan had gone was on the same side of the street as the doorway where this clandestine meeting was taking place.

“Best check your watch,” Harrelson added.

Longarm slipped the timepiece out of his vest pocket and opened the case. On the other end of the watch chain was a two-shot, .44-caliber derringer instead of a fob. The little gun had saved Longarm’s bacon more times than he liked to think about over his years of service as a deputy marshal. Harrelson was still smoking the cigar, so he leaned closer to Longarm and drew on the tightly rolled cylinder of tobacco, making the tip glow a bright red. By that faint light, Longarm saw that the time was twenty minutes past ten.

“I’ll come in at ten-thirty,” Longarm said as he snapped the watch closed and put it away.

“Good enough,” Harrelson said. “We’ll wait until then to make our move. If you run into any guards—and you likely will—dispose of ‘em as quiet-like as you can.”

No, thought Longarm, I figured I’d have a brass band playing while I clout the son of a bitch over the head with the butt of my pistol.

He kept the sarcasm to himself and simply nodded again. Then he slid out of the shadows of the doorway and moved along the boardwalk, staying close to the building. When he reached the alley, he stepped down from the walk and moved into its even deeper shadows.

Longarm kept his left hand on the wall of the next building, using it as a guide in the stygian blackness. His right hand was on the butt of his gun. A part of his brain was counting off the seconds as he cat-footed along the alley. By the time he got to six hundred, he needed to be in position by the rear door of the warehouse.

Less than a minute had passed when he reached the lane that ran along behind the warehouses. It was narrow and filthy—what he could see of it in the dim light that came from a quarter-moon and a sprinkling of stars in the heavens overhead. He would have to be careful as he made his way along it, lest he knock over some of the trash that had accumulated back there.

He moved out of the alley mouth and started toward the back of the warehouse. It was two buildings away, and as he drew closer, he paused and listened intently, hoping that if any sentries were around, they would do something to give away their position. The little voice in the back of his head continued counting.

The tally was at two hundred when Longarm suddenly heard a soft cough from up ahead of him somewhere. He listened some more, and heard a faint scuff of feet, saw a subtle shifting in the shadows next to the back of the warehouse.

Would the gang have put more than one guard on the back door? That was the question Longarm had to answer, and he had to do it quickly. The count was at two-fifty.

He slid along the wall, using every bit of skill he had picked up over the years from various red men who had been kind enough to teach a clumsy-footed white man how to walk without making quite as much noise as a silver-tip grizzly drunk on fermented berries. As a matter of fact, Longarm wasn’t making much sound at all as he approached the warehouse. Even the whisper of his gun coming out of its holster couldn’t have been heard more than a foot away.

So the counterfeiter on guard duty back here was more than likely surprised as all hell when Longarm tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Howdy.”

The man turned instinctively toward the sound, and as his head came around, the butt of Longarm’s .44 came crashing down. The blow dented the crown of the man’s hat, which softened the impact a little. Longarm had to hit him again before the man slumped forward into his arms, out cold.

“Five hundred,” Longarm said aloud. He was there with more than a minute and a half to spare.

That was when all hell broke loose inside the warehouse.

At the sound of the first gunshot, Longarm said, “Shit!” dropped the unconscious gent he had been lowering to the ground, and drove the heel of his boot into the door just below the lock. The wood around it splintered, but it took another kick before the door sprang open and hit the inside wall with a bang.

Longarm went through the opening fast, in a crouching run. There was a short, narrow corridor inside, with another door at the end of it. One kick was enough to open that one, and then he was in the warehouse proper, a huge room with a ceiling two stories high. There were stacks of crates around the walls, and more crates had been used to form partitions in the room, creating several smaller areas. Gunshots and shouted curses came from behind some of those crates. The bullets and the profanity weren’t directed at Longarm, however, but rather at the front of the building, where Harrelson, Seeley, and Truelove had found some dubious shelter behind a pair of desks. They were returning the fire.

Despite the fact that he was in a better position than his fellow deputies, Longarm didn’t have a clear shot at any of the men behind the crates. The sound of their shots seemed to have drowned out the noise he’d made busting into the place, because no one was shooting at him yet. He went to his left, hoping to get behind the gang before he was spotted.

So far there had been no time to worry about why the raid had been launched early, and that trend continued. Longarm heard a yell of alarm, and one of the pistol barrels behind the crates swiveled toward him. He threw himself to the side as death winked orange from the muzzle of the gun.

Longarm’s left shoulder landed hard on the sawdust-littered floor, sending pain shooting through him. He bit back a curse and scrambled behind another stack of crates, snapping a shot toward the gang as he did so. When he reached the shelter of the big wooden boxes, he knelt there and tried to catch his breath.

This place was like a damned maze, he saw now as he looked around. Paths twisted and turned between the stacks of crates, and the handful of lanterns that were lit didn’t provide enough light. There were shadows everywhere. Things had probably been set up that way on purpose, Longarm thought. Anybody who looked inside the warehouse from the street would be unable to see the printing press set up in the center of the big room.

But Longarm had gotten a glimpse of it, and he knew it would be important to the counterfeiters because the plates were probably still locked into it. He had to hope they were, anyway, because while he couldn’t get a clear shot at any of the gang from where he was, he thought he might be able to put some slugs into the press.

He sprawled on the floor and edged his head past the corner of the crate. Through a narrow opening, he caught a glimpse of the heavy metal contraption that spewed out the false currency. He triggered three times, fast, and was rewarded by the clang of a bullet striking the press.

“No!” someone cried. That was probably Nowlan, Longarm thought. “Somebody stop him before he ruins everything!”

That was obliging of the fella. Longarm was sure now the plates were still in the press. He sent the final shot in his .44 toward the narrow gap, and then hunkered behind the crates again as bullets chewed bites from the wood and searched like angry hornets through the air around him. He took a box of cartridges from his coat pocket and calmly reloaded the .44. At least, he tried to stay calm. He was sweating again. Damn New Mexico heat.

Longarm could tell from the sound of the shots that Harrelson, Seeley, and Truelove had renewed their attack. Some of the pressure was off them now that more members of the gang were concentrating their fire on Longarm’s hiding place. In fact, after a moment the fusillade from the other lawmen increased even more.

That, in turn, took some of the heat off Longarm, and he was able to stand up without worrying too much about getting a bullet through the head. He peeked around the crates and saw how the stacks were lined up. The aisles between them were narrow, so narrow in places that a broad-shouldered man—like Custis Long—might have had to turn sideways to get through them.

He holstered his gun as a plan formed in his mind. Placing his hands against the top crate and flattening his body against the lower boxes in the stack, he started to push.

He wasn’t sure what was inside the crates. Considering what was going on in this warehouse, bundles of phony money were the most likely possibility. Whatever was inside the crates, they were heavy enough so that Longarm had to grunt and strain for a long moment before the stack began to tilt.

But when the crates fell, they fell hard, and they landed on more crates, knocking them over, and then those crates fell on others.

It was just like little kids playing with dominos, Longarm thought as he stepped back hurriedly and drew his gun again. The falling of the crates continued toward the center of the warehouse, where the gang was holed up. The crashing grew so loud it was deafening.

Dust rose along with the startled shouts of the gang, clogging the air so that it was hard to see. The counterfeiters broke out of hiding abruptly, going all directions at once. Longarm spotted a couple of them coming toward him, guns in their hands.

“Throw down those pistols!” Longarm bellowed. “This is the law!”

The counterfeiters ignored the order and jerked their guns upward.

That was exactly the reaction Longarm had expected. His .44 was already leveled, and he fired twice before either of the men could get off a shot. The slugs bored into their chests, throwing them back so that they disappeared into the clouds of dust again.

The next man came shooting, and Longarm had to dive forward onto his belly. He triggered once as bullets whined over his head. The counterfeiter spun around and tumbled off his feet.

“There goes Nowlan!” a voice shouted urgently. Longarm recognized it as Jim Harrelson’s.

The deputies’ orders were to take Edward Nowlan alive if possible. A quick death wasn’t punishment enough for a man who had made the federal government look like a pack of monkeys for more than a year. The powers that be wanted him behind bars where he could suffer properly. Besides, the theory was that despite being a master engraver, Nowlan wasn’t the head of this operation. Someone had backed him. The law wanted to know who.

But sometimes wanting to take a prisoner alive was one thing, and being able to do it was something else entirely. In this case, as Longarm scrambled quickly to his right to intercept the fleeing Edward Nowlan, the counterfeiter pointed the gun in his hand at the deputy and started blazing away.

Nowlan was no gunfighter. None of the bullets struck Longarm. But one of them came close enough to take a hunk out of the brim of his hat, and another practically kissed his ear as it whipped by. Longarm’s instincts made him return the fire. He aimed low, however, hoping to cripple Nowlan without mortally wounding him.

That might have been possible if Nowlan’s feet hadn’t slid on the sawdust on the floor. His legs went out from under him, and he fell as Longarm triggered twice. The first bullet missed, but the second one entered Nowlan’s mouth as the man yelped in alarm. The slug tore through Nowlan’s throat and out the back of his head, taking the lower third of his brain with it. He was dead, his limbs jerking crazily, by the time he landed on the floor.

“Hell!” Longarm said fervently.

The shots were dying away, and they came to a stop as Longarm strode angrily toward Nowlan’s body. “Long!” Harrelson shouted. “Are you all right, Long?”

“Over here,” Longarm called in return. “I got Nowlan.”

The dust was settling, and Longarm saw Harrelson’s bulky shape coming toward him through the thinning clouds. Harrelson stopped beside Nowlan’s body and looked down at the corpse with a frown. “We were supposed to take him alive,” he said.

“We were supposed to hit the front and back at the same time too,” snapped Longarm. “What happened?”

Harrelson’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “We made more noise taking care of the guards out front than I intended. Figured we had already tipped off anybody inside that something was happening, so we decided to get on in here while we could.”

That was reasonable enough, Longarm supposed, although he thought that after warning him to be quiet, Harrelson should have taken a little more care himself. Still, what was done was done, and the dead would stay dead.

There had been seven men in the warehouse besides Nowlan, and five of them had been killed in the fighting. The other two were badly wounded but might live. Truelove was sent outside to check on the unconscious guards. Bud Seeley had caught a slug in the fleshy part of his right arm, but the wound wasn’t serious. Harrelson reported this to Longarm as the rangy deputy from Denver knelt next to Nowlan’s body.

“I don’t reckon we’ll get anything really useful from the ones still alive,” Harrelson went on. “They’re just flunkies. Nowlan ran things. You finding anything?”

Longarm was going through Nowlan’s pockets. He pulled out a cheap watch, a handful of coins, a receipt from a Chinese laundry, a ticket to a horse race, and a wallet bulging with folded bills. Longarm slid the money out part of the way and riffled the edges of the bills.

“Queer, more than likely,” Harrelson said as he looked down at the money.

“No, I think it’s the real thing,” Longarm said. “From everything we’ve been told, Nowlan didn’t pass the stuff. He just printed it.”

“Well, we’ll let somebody else sort it out.”

Longarm tucked Nowlan’s wallet back into the dead man’s coat and stood up. His long-legged stride carried him through the rubble of the fallen crates toward the printing press, which appeared to be unharmed except for a silver streak on one side of it that had probably been left by Longarm’s bullet ricocheting off it.

This wasn’t the first counterfeiting operation Longarm had helped bust up. He knew how to take the plates from the press, and within minutes, he had removed them and wrapped them up in a piece of paper torn from a massive roll of the stuff, so that he wouldn’t get ink all over his hands. He hefted the little package, which was heavy for its size, and said, “These’ll have to go back to Denver.”

Harrelson nodded. “Damn right. We can post guards over what’s in these crates until somebody figures out what to do with so much phony money, but those plates ought to be with us at all times.”

Horace Truelove had come up in time to hear the last comment. He said, “The next train back to Denver isn’t until tomorrow evening. What’ll we do until then?”

Longarm looked down at the paper-wrapped bundle in his hand and grinned humorlessly. “Looks like we’re going to be doing some baby-sitting, boys,” he said.

Chapter 2

The Albuquerque police had been told of the planned raid, so when they arrived at the warehouse a few minutes later in response to reports of gunfire, they were prepared for what they found. The guards outside had managed to run off during the shootout, but the two wounded counterfeiters remaining were loaded into a wagon and taken to the hospital, where some of the local star-packers would stand guard over them. The bodies were carted off to the undertaker’s. Bud Seeley’s arm wound had already been roughly bandaged by Horace Truelove, and the two deputies departed to seek out a doctor who could take a look at the injury. That left Longarm and Jim Harrelson to protect the plates.

Longarm didn’t say anything to the police about those valuable little items. He already had them stowed away in a small valise he had found underneath one of the desks where the other deputies had taken cover during the shootout. It wasn’t that Longarm didn’t trust the local authorities; he just didn’t want to place any temptation in their way.

Those plates would be worth a fortune to the right people. They were literally a license to print money.

Despite the weariness that gripped him as midnight came and went, Longarm knew that the counterfeit bills in the crates had to be counted. He and Harrelson and a police captain named Bishop worked on that chore until two o’clock in the morning. When they were finished, Harrelson sighed and shook his head. “Nearly two million dollars worth of the stuff,” he said. “Damn, this is some haul!”

“You can count on us to protect it,” Captain Bishop declared. “I’ll assign my best men to the job.”

“You do that, Captain,” Longarm said dryly. “Just make sure none of ‘em have sticky fingers.”

Bishop gave him a cool stare. “If I didn’t know you were just doing your job, Marshal, I might be offended by that statement.”

“No offense meant,” Longarm assured him. He hefted the valise containing the printing plates. “I reckon Marshal Harrelson and I will be going back to the hotel now.”

Bishop gestured at the valise. “Do you mind telling me what’s in there?”

“Evidence,” Harrelson answered curtly. “This is federal business, Captain, not local.”

This time Bishop was offended, and he didn’t bother hiding it. But he didn’t ask any more questions, and Longarm and Harrelson were able to leave the warehouse and head back to the hotel.

Longarm lit a cheroot and took a deep draw on it as he and Harrelson walked back to the main street. Harrelson said, “I don’t know about you, Long, but I could use a drink.”

“Some Maryland rye would go down mighty nice right about now,” Longarm agreed, “but I reckon we’d better keep our heads clear until we get back to Denver and turn those plates over to Billy Vail.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Harrelson didn’t sound completely convinced, though, and Longarm suspected the man would sneak a swig or two from the flask he carried as soon as he got the chance. Longarm hoped that wasn’t going to cause a problem before he got the plates back to Denver.

He blew out a cloud of smoke and said, “We’d better stay in the same room tonight, but don’t worry, old son. I ain’t getting sweet on you.”

Harrelson let out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t figure you were. You don’t want to leave one man alone with those plates, do you, Long?”

“I trust you, Jim,” Longarm said, “and I damn sure trust myself. But I think we’ll both be more trustworthy when we’re together. Same goes for Bud and Horace.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Harrelson said with a nod. “Losing two million has got to hurt, but with those plates and a printing press, a fella could have that much again and more in a matter of a few days.” He let out a low whistle. “Most men would say a chance like that was worth almost anything. It’d even be worth killing for.”

That was what Longarm was afraid of.

The peskiest thing in the world, Longarm thought the next morning, was to have something buzzing around in the back of your head, an idea that wouldn’t quite come into focus, yet persisted in prodding your brain.

It was just because he was tired, he told himself. After going on the raid and then staying up all night to guard the plates with Jim Harrelson, he was naturally groggy. That was the reason he kept thinking he had seen something the night before that wasn’t quite right.

When he and Harrelson got back to the hotel, they had arranged for Seeley and Truelove to have the connecting room next to theirs, so when morning came, Longarm carried the valise into that room and dumped it on the dresser.

“There you go, boys,” he said to the two deputies, who were just getting up. “You can keep an eye on this while Jim and me get some sleep.”

“When does that northbound come through here?” asked Seeley, whose wounded arm bore a more professional bandage now.

“Five o’clock, if my recollection of the schedule is right,” Longarm replied.

“I’ll be glad to be on it and headed back to Denver,” Truelove said.

“You and me both,” Longarm said. With a wave, he went back through the connecting door. Harrelson was already snoring from his side of the bed. Longarm had never cared for having to share a bunk with another fella, but he was too worn out to be real particular at the moment. He took off his boots, vest, and gunbelt and crawled between the sheets. He was asleep a minute after his head hit the pillow.

“A horse race?” Harrelson said with a frown. “You’re going to a horse race?”

It was early afternoon, and Longarm had slept for six hours, long enough to refresh him without leaving him groggy. He was standing in front of the mirror above the room’s dressing table, adjusting the string tie around his neck. Harelson was still in bed, sitting up with his graying hair sticking up in spikes from sleep.

“Don’t worry, Jim, I’ll be back in plenty of time to catch that train,” Longarm said. “I just can’t pass up a good horse race.”

Harrelson grunted. “Want to get a bet down on one of the nags, is that it?”

“Nope. I just like to see the ponies run.” Longarm shrugged into his coat and picked up his hat. He stepped over to the bed and clapped a hand on Harrelson’s shoulder. “See you later, Jim. Why don’t you step over next door with Bud and Horace while I’m gone, help ‘em keep an eye on those plates?”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s what I’ll do,” Harrelson said sourly. “While you’re off enjoying yourself,” he added.

Longarm just grinned. “Get yourself something to eat first. I did.”

In fact, it had been while he was sitting in the hotel dining room downstairs that he had picked up a newspaper and read about the race being held this afternoon at Albuquerque’s spanking-new track. Horses from all over, even from as far away as Kentucky, had been brought in for this event. Albuquerque was now part of the western racing circuit, along with El Paso, Tucson, Carson City, Reno, Cheyenne, and Denver. According to the article Longarm read while waiting for the food he had ordered, the horses and their owners and trainers would spend the summer traveling from city to city, taking part in races at each stop. It all sounded pretty interesting to Longarm, and he was going to take in the race in Albuquerque while he had the chance.

He left Harrelson in the hotel room and went back downstairs. One of the porters in the lobby told him where to find the race track and also where he could rent a buggy, since the track was out on the western edge of town, too far to walk.

By the time Longarm reached the racetrack, quite a few people were already there. Buggies and more elaborate carriages were parked in the field next to the track, along with buckboards and ranch wagons. Saddle horses were tied to long hitch racks. Obviously, this race was drawing spectators not only from town but also from most of the ranches in the surrounding area. Some of the spreads were so far out that the families who lived there had probably started into Albuquerque the day before.

Longarm found a place to park the rented buggy and tied the horse to a post. He could see the grandstands on both sides of the track, and they were quickly filling up. He was glad he hadn’t waited until later to come out here. The race had generated a lot of interest, and it was clear the stands were going to be full. Longarm lit a cheroot and let his long legs carry him toward the closest grandstand.

He gave his ticket to a fellow in a little building next to the gate and strolled inside with the rest of the crowd. Just as he had thought, there was a wide variety of folks in attendance. He saw townies in store-bought suits and their ladies in fine gowns that had to be stifling hot under the blistering sun, as well as cowboys in range clothes and wide-brimmed Stetsons. Ranchers and their wives, in their Sunday-go-to-meeting best, rubbed shoulders with fancy-suited dudes who were most likely professional gamblers. That was one of the things Longarm liked about any sizable gathering here on the frontier. You were liable to see just about every kind of people there was.

He wasn’t prepared, however, for the two individuals who caught his eye as he found a seat and settled down onto the bench.

Two young women were walking along the concourse between the stands and the track. One wore a riding skirt, an open-throated man’s shirt, and a flat-crowned brown hat with waves of blond hair sweeping out from under it. The other was attired in a sky-blue gown with a tiny, matching hat perched on an elaborate upsweep of blond curls. The differences between them began and ended with their clothes. Other than that, they seemed to be identical.

For an instant, Longarm wondered if the strain of the past twenty-four hours had him seeing double. Even at a distance, he could tell that there wasn’t a dime’s worth of difference between the lovely features of the two young women. Even their figures, slender but amply curved in the right places, were the same. Identical twins, Longarm thought. That wasn’t something you saw every day.

And you sure as hell didn’t run into twins as beautiful as these two very often.

Longarm watched as the two women went over to one of the horses that had been brought out in preparation for the race. A rider in a bright red shirt and tight white pants was on the animal’s back, controlling it with a taut rein as it tried to prance around nervously. The blonde in the riding skirt came up to the horse and patted it on the shoulder as she spoke directly to it, rather than to the rider. The horse calmed down a little. It was clear to Longarm from what he observed that the horse was very familiar with the young woman.

The other twin was talking to the rider, evidently either offering encouragement or issuing commands, judging from the way the man kept nodding his head. Longarm couldn’t help but wonder about the two young women. What was their connection with a fine-looking chestnut racehorse?

Such speculation wasn’t what had brought him here today, of course. Maybe when the race was over, he would wander down to the paddock and introduce himself to the ladies, he decided.

“Marshal Long? Is that you?”

The man’s voice calling his name so unexpectedly made Longarm look around in surprise. He saw a tall, broad-shouldered man approaching him through the grandstand, trailed by a smaller individual. The man who had called out was rather beefy and florid-faced, with graying dark hair under an expensive felt hat. He wore a dark gray suit. Longarm recognized him right away and stood up to shake the hand the man extended toward him.

“Good to see you again, Senator Padgett,” Longarm greeted the man. “What brings you down here?”

Senator Miles Padgett, the junior senator from the great state of Colorado, grinned and said, “I could ask the same thing of you, Marshal, except that I doubt you’d answer me. Billy Vail’s probably got you assigned to some secret mission, hasn’t he?”

The politician’s guess hit a little too close to home, but Longarm didn’t reveal that by his expression as he chuckled and said, “No, I’m just here to take in a horse race.”

“So am I,” said Padgett. “I daresay I’ve got a slightly bigger stake in the outcome than you do, however. That’s my horse down there.” He waved toward a rangy blood bay that was being walked back and forth beside the track by its rider.

Longarm quirked an eyebrow, then nodded. “Didn’t know you owned a racehorse, Senator.”

“It’s a recent investment,” Padgett explained. “In fact, this will be the first race he’s run since I bought him. Why don’t you come down to my box and watch the race with us? You’ll get a better view than you will up here.”

“Thanks,” Longarm said with a smile. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“I’m glad I spotted you,” Padgett said as he began to lead the way down to the reserved boxes closer to the track. As an afterthought, he indicated the man with him and said, “You remember Leon Mercer, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Longarm said with a friendly nod to the man, who was rather nondescript in a tan suit and brown derby. Longarm recalled that Mercer was just about bald under that derby, despite the fact that he was only about forty. Mercer had been Padgett’s assistant and secretary for as long as Longarm had known the senator.

As much as Longarm was around the Federal Building in Denver, it was inevitable that he would make the acquaintance of various politicians, and Miles Padgett was one of them. As a rule, Longarm didn’t care much for such gents, but Padgett wasn’t bad for somebody who spent so much time in Washington. He was a little pompous and a bit of a glad-hander, but what politico wasn’t?

Congress had recessed for the summer, Longarm recalled, and he supposed that was why Padgett was back here in the West. For the sound of it, the senator had bought his way into the racing circuit.

Which meant that he might know who those twin blond lovelies were, Longarm mused.

He and Padgett and Leon Mercer settled themselves down in the seats in the senator’s box, and Longarm had to admit that not only was the view much better, the seats were more comfortable than a grandstand bench. He looked for the twins and didn’t see them on the concourse; then, as he craned his neck to check out the other boxes, he spotted them sitting nearby. They were alone in their box, although plenty of the male spectators were paying more attention to them than to the horses on the track being brought to the starting line.

The race was about to get underway, so Longarm puffed on his cheroot and turned his eyes back toward the track. The grandstands had been loud with talk and laughter and the music from a brass band at the far end of the track, but now a comparative silence settled down and an air of tense anticipation gripped the crowd. The horses were ready at the starting line, and the starter, a man in a frock coat and top hat, climbed onto a small platform next to the track. He lifted a pistol in his right hand and called out a warning to the riders, letting them know that the race was about to start. A moment later, the pistol cracked as its blank load was fired, and the horses surged forward, galloping for all they were worth.

Senator Padgett came to his feet, and in a voice that had set the walls of Congress to ringing on more than one occasion bellowed, “Come on, Caesar, come on!”

Longarm stood up too. That was the only way to see what was going on. Despite his lack of any real interest in the outcome of the race, he found himself leaning forward, caught up in the emotions running through the crowd. Padgett continued shouting encouragement to his horse, and even his assistant, Leon Mercer, looked excited. Longarm couldn’t ever recall seeing anything except a bland, placid expression on Mercer’s face. There was something compelling about a horse race, Longarm supposed, that just couldn’t be denied.

He took his eyes off the horses long enough to glance over at the box where the two young women were sitting. Of course, they weren’t actually sitting anymore. They were standing like everybody else. In fact, they were bouncing up and down in excitement, and Longarm noted with appreciation the effect that motion had on the bosom of the twin wearing the man’s shirt. Evidently there wasn’t much under that shirt except female flesh, and her breasts were bobbing around invitingly. Once again, Longarm wondered if he could wangle an introduction to them from the senator.

“Run, you bastard, run!” Padgett urged his horse at the top of his lungs. Longarm turned his attention back to the galloping animals and saw that Padgett’s blood bay was near the center of the pack. So was the chestnut that the twins had taken an interest in earlier. Neither horse appeared about to make a move to break out of the bunch, but on the other hand, they weren’t falling back either.

Longarm leaned over to Padgett and raised his voice to ask, “How long is this race, Senator?”

“A mile and a half!” Padgett replied without taking his eyes off the horses. “Three times around the track!”

The horses had already been around once, and they were nearing the starting line for the second time. As they flashed across in front of the grandstand, Longarm thought that the next time they came back to where they had started, it would be the finish line. He followed the progress of the animals as they swept around the course. The pounding of hooves blended with the shouts of the crowd in a powerful, primitive rhythm. Longarm felt his own pulse speeding up. It was difficult, if not impossible, to keep the enthusiasm of the situation from sweeping him along.

The noise of the crowd grew louder and louder as the horses came toward the finish line, until it was as deafening as the thunder of a thousand storms. The chestnut stallion made a move at the last minute, just enough to break him out of the pack and bring him up into third place as the horses bolted across the line. Senator Padgett’s blood bay finished sixth, as far as Longarm could tell. The chestnut’s showing was good enough to make the twin blondes jump up and down even harder as they clutched each other in excitement. Padgett just looked mildly disappointed.

“I’m sure Caesar will do better next time, Senator,” Mercer said.

“Thank you, Leon. I certainly hope so.” Padgett turned to Longarm. “And I hope you didn’t have any money down on my horse, Marshal.”

Longarm shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, Senator, this was just an exhibition, not a competition. I didn’t do any wagering.”

“Well, I did,” muttered Padgett. “I didn’t lose my shirt, though.” He started out of the box. “Come on. I suppose I should go congratulate the winning owner, and then I want to buy you a drink, Marshal.”

That sounded all right to Longarm, so he followed Padgett out of the box. Mercer came along too, of course. The three men made their way through the crowd to a gate that led down to the concourse. They reached the opening at the same time as the two young women who looked so much alike.

That was a stroke of luck, Longarm thought. Padgett tipped his hat and stepped back so that the women could precede him. “After you, ladies,” he said gallantly.

The one in the sky-blue dress smiled at him, dimpling prettily. “Why, thank you, Senator,” she said, her voice lightly touched with a honey-sweet Southern drawl.

“Come on, Janice,” the other twin said, her tones crisper and more businesslike. “I want to see how Matador is doing.”

Longarm had doffed his hat too. The young woman called Janice looked over at him and smiled as she followed her sister down the steps to the concourse. Longarm returned the smile, then put his hat on again and stepped up next to Padgett. “Those are mighty nice-looking young ladies,” he said to the politician. “You know ‘em?”

“You mean the Cassidy sisters?” asked Padgett. “Indeed I do. Not well, of course, since we only met recently. They own that chestnut horse that finished third, the one Miss Julie called Matador.”

That came as something of a surprise to Longarm. He had figured the chestnut was owned by the father of the young women, or perhaps by the husband or gentleman friend of one of them.

“Miss Julie trained the horse herself,” Padgett went on. “They have a horse breeding farm in Missouri, I believe. Very exceptional young ladies.”

“I reckon so,” Longarm said.

Padgett grinned. “And as you noticed, quite striking as well, and both unmarried. I’ll introduce you to them.”

That was exactly what Longarm wanted. He nodded to the senator and said, “Thanks. I’d like that.”

Padgett led the way down onto the concourse and over to the spot where the blood bay was blowing heavily. The horse’s rider, who wore a green shirt and white pants, had already slipped down from the saddle and was stroking the bay’s flanks. The young man looked back over his shoulder nervously as he saw Padgett coming.

“I’m sorry, Senator,” he said quickly before Padgett could say anything. “I did the best I could. We were just packed in there too tight.”

“I understand, Cy,” Padgett said. “Don’t worry about it. You did fine.”

The rider looked surprised. “Are you sure? I mean, I know how much you wanted to win, Senator.”

Padgett answered with a casual wave of a hand. “Don’t give it another thought. Just ride a good race next time.”

Cy bobbed his head. “Yes, sir. I sure will, you can count on that.”

Longarm wondered if the boy was in for a bawling out later in private. Cy had certainly looked like he expected Padgett to be angry with him for not winning. Longarm recalled that Padgett had been elected to the Senate on his first run at public office, and he had successfully staved off every challenger since then. Padgett was a man accustomed to winning, and winning big. Losing even something like a horse race probably galled him.

Padgett turned to Longarm and said, “Come along, Marshal. I want you to meet the Cassidy sisters now.”

Longarm wanted that too, so he followed Padgett without complaint. They strode over to the spot where the two blondes were still fussing over their horse.

“Congratulations, ladies,” Padgett said to them. “Matador ran a gallant race.”

“He should have won,” Julie Cassidy said.

“Perhaps next time he will,” Janice added. Again she smiled at Longarm. “Who’s your handsome friend, Senator?”

Padgett chuckled. “I brought him over here to introduce him to you, but perhaps I shouldn’t, Miss Janice. You never flirt with me like that.”

Janice Cassidy turned her dazzling smile on him. “Why, I do so!” she said as she lifted a gloved hand to the senator’s cheek. “I flirt shamelessly with you every time I see you, you old dear.”

Padgett basked in the glow of her attention for a second, then somewhat grudgingly said, “This is Custis Long. He’s a United States deputy marshal from the Denver office.”

“A deputy marshal!” Janice exclaimed. “How exciting.”

“It’s just another job, ma’am,” Longarm told her as he took the hand she extended to him. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to kiss the back of it or not, but since he didn’t often go in for such fancy greetings, he just shook it instead.

There was no question that was what Julie Cassidy expected. She shook hands forthrightly, like a man, and her grip was strong and firm. “Pleased to meet you, Marshal,” she said.

Julie turned back to the chestnut stallion and issued orders for him to be taken back to the paddock and rubbed down properly. In the meantime, Janice sidled closer to Longarm and linked her arm with his without being invited to do so. “I know I’m being quite bold, Marshal,” she said, “but would you like to have a drink with us in the clubhouse? I believe Matador’s strong finish calls for some champagne.”

Longarm had never cared much for French bubbly water, but he wasn’t in the habit of turning down invitations from women as beautiful—and friendly—as Janice Cassidy. “I’d be pleased and honored to join you, ma’am,” he said.

“Come along then.” Janice looked over at Padgett. “You’ll join us too, won’t you, Senator?”

“Of course,” replied Padgett. “You’re a lucky man, Marshal. Miss Janice seems to have taken a shine to you.”

“Go on with you!” Janice said to him. “Why, Marshal Long and I are just friends. Isn’t that right, Marshal?”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” Longarm hoped the grin on his face didn’t look too self-satisfied. Janice was overdoing the flirtatiousness, of course, but that seemed to be her personality. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her to stop.

They started strolling toward the clubhouse at the other end of the grandstands. Senator Padgett and Julie Cassidy followed behind them, trailed by Leon Mercer. Janice leaned her head closer to Longarm’s and asked in a low voice so that the others couldn’t overhear, “Did Senator Padgett tell you my sister and I have a horse farm in Missouri?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe he mentioned that,” Longarm replied.

“Well, you’re going to have to visit us there sometime, Marshal. We’d love to have you.” Janice’s voice became even huskier as she went on. “You see, my sister and I do everything together, if you know what I mean, even entertaining company. I’m sure you’d never forget a visit to our place.”

There was no mistaking the meaning in her voice and in her eyes. Longarm had to swallow hard before he could say, “No, ma’am, I don’t imagine I would.”

He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find at the racetrack today … but the Cassidy sisters certainly weren’t it!

Chapter 3

Jim Harrelson lifted the flask to his lips and took a long swig of the whiskey inside it. The liquor made his insides glow warmly all the way down, and then lit a fire in his belly. Damn Custis Long anyway.

Longarm was a good lawman, there was no doubt about that. If he hadn’t been along on that raid the night before, Nowlan might have gotten away. Those oh-so-valuable printing plates might not have been recovered. But that didn’t give Longarm any right to act like he was the chief marshal or something, giving orders about no drinking. He was just a badge-toter for Uncle Sam, like the rest of them.

Harrelson capped the flask, stowed it away inside his coat, and stepped out of the little room down the hall from the room where Bud Seeley and Horace Truelove were playing cards as they stood guard over the plates. This hotel was the only one in Albuquerque with that newfangled indoor plumbing, and Harrelson was thankful for it. Stepping just down the hall for a quick trip was a lot easier than having to pay a visit to the outhouse behind the hotel. Smelled better too.

Bud and Horace probably thought he had the trots, he told himself with a chuckle as he walked down the deserted hall, his steps only a trifle unsteady. He had gone down the hall quite a few times this afternoon.

But he had a right! Hell, Longarm had ducked out and gone to a horse race, of all things! If Longarm was out enjoying himself, then there was nothing wrong with him having a drink or two—or six—Harrelson thought.

A man appeared at the far end of the second-floor corridor, at the head of the staircase. Harrelson didn’t pay much attention to him, even though the man started along the hallway toward him. They were going to pass each other just before Harrelson reached the door to the room shared by the other two deputies.

The man stopped, however, and asked, “Do you know where Room Seven is, pard?”

Harrelson still only glanced at the gent, seeing a man in well-kept range clothes. The lawman half-turned and gestured with his thumb toward a door down the hall. “Down there,” he grunted.

Suddenly, before he could turn back, an arm shot around his neck and a hand on his shoulder gave him a rough shove. He was jerked around so that the man who had stopped him was behind him. Harrelson tried to open his mouth to yell, but an inexorable pressure forced his chin up, keeping his lips closed and drawing his neck tight. Something that was cold and hot at the same time slid across the front of his throat. A warm, sticky flood splashed onto his chest, and he heard a horrible gurgling sound that he knew somehow was coming from him, even though his mouth was still closed.

Those were the last things Jim Harrelson ever knew. He was dead before the man who had just killed him had time to lower his body to the carpet runner in the center of the hall. Within seconds, that carpet had quite a bloodstain on it.

The killer stepped diagonally across the hall to another door and rapped softly on it. The door was opened, and the man inside looked out calmly at the carnage in the corridor. He nodded, made a motion with his hand, and he and several other men hurried out of the room.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and the hotel was hot and quiet as the stifling heat of the day built up.

“Beat that,” Bud Seeley said as he laid his cards down on the table inside the hotel room. Horace Truelove looked glumly at the full house, jacks over nines, and shook his head as he threw in his own cards. “Can’t,” he said simply.

Seeley chuckled as he raked in the pile of matches in the center of the table. “That’s thirty-seven thousand dollars you owe me, Horace. Considerin’ the wages that Uncle Sam gives us, you ought to be able to pay me off … in a hundred years or so.”

Truelove lifted his head and turned his face toward the door. A frown creased his brow. “You hear something a minute ago?” he asked.

“Like what?”

Truelove’s frown deepened. “I’m not right sure. It was strange, though, I know that.”

“Only thing strange around here is the run of luck I’m havin’,” said Seeley. He gathered up the deck and started to shuffle. “Here we go again.”

A knock sounded on the door.

Both deputies tensed. The door was locked, of course, and if Harrelson had gotten back from the facilities, he wouldn’t have knocked. He would have just called out for the two men inside to let him in.

“Could be somebody from the hotel,” Seeley suggested.

“Yeah, or Long’s got back early.” Truelove stood up. “I’ll see who it is.” He went over to the door, standing carefully to one side as he called out, “Who’s there?”

A man’s voice asked, “Mister, you got a friend name of Harrelson?”

Truelove glanced at Seeley, who shook his head and shrugged. Neither of them recognized the voice. Truelove turned back to the door and said, “What’s it to you?”

“Not a damn thing. But I just came along the hall, and there’s a man out here lying on the floor who’s powerful sick. He says his name is Harrelson and that he knows somebody in this room.”

The glance that Truelove directed toward Seeley this time was full of disgust. He didn’t believe for a second that Harrelson was really sick. All afternoon, Harrelson had been sneaking off for a drink, and he seemed to actually think that the other two deputies didn’t know what he was doing. Seeley grinned coldly and pantomimed a drinking motion. Truelove just nodded. They would have to drag Harrelson in from the hall and try to sober him up, or there might be trouble when Longarm got back.

“Just a minute,” Truelove said as he took a key from his shirt pocket, thrust it into the door lock, and turned it. As he opened the door, he asked, “Where is he?”

A ray of sunlight coming through the window at the end of the hallway glittered for a second on polished steel. Truelove saw that, realized what it meant, and reached desperately for the gun on his hip.

He was too late.

“It’s getting late,” said Longarm. “I’d better head back to the hotel.”

“Late?” Janice Cassidy echoed as she leaned closer to Longarm. The soft thrust of her breast pressed against his arm. “Why, it’s only the middle of the afternoon!”

Longarm glanced at the clock on the wall of the bar in the racetrack clubhouse. It was a banjo clock, much like the one in Billy Vail’s office in the Denver Federal Building. As a rule, they kept good time, and this one said that the hour was rapidly approaching four o’clock.

“Maybe so, ma’am, but I’ve got a train to catch,” Longarm explained. “I have to be on the five o’clock northbound.”

Janice pouted prettily. “So you’d rather be sitting in some smoky, uncomfortable train car than drinking champagne with me?”

“Not hardly! Can’t neglect my duty, though.”

“You men and your duties,” Janice said disgustedly. “Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Longarm replied fervently. “We sure do.”

He had been thinking a lot of things during the past hour as he shared a bottle of champagne with the Cassidy sisters and Senator Miles Padgett in the luxuriously appointed clubhouse. The place was all dark wood and low lighting, just the sort of atmosphere to put ideas into a fella’s head when he was sitting across a table from an obviously wanton young lovely such as Janice Cassidy.

Julie was not without her own charms either. She was every bit as beautiful as her sister, only more reserved. Still, several times Longarm had noticed her watching him with a strange glow in her eyes, and he couldn’t help but recall what Janice had said about the two of them doing everything together.

The image that conjured up in his head was enough to make any man perk up.

Unfortunately, Longarm had never been the sort to forget about his other responsibilities. He had to deliver those counterfeiting plates back to Denver, and the Cassidy sisters would be moving on with the racing circuit. The next stop was El Paso, and then the circuit would head west to Arizona. There was a good chance Longarm would never see Janice and Julie again unless fate happened to take him somewhere near their horse farm in Missouri.

At the moment, he was alone at the table with Janice. Julie and Padgett had gone to the bar to get another bottle of champagne. The senator was thoroughly enjoying himself this afternoon. He seemed to have gotten over his disappointment at his horse’s showing in the race. Leon Mercer had wandered off somewhere and was probably waiting for Padgett outside.

Although Longarm wouldn’t have thought it was possible, Janice moved even closer to him, the legs of her chair scraping a little on the hardwood floor. Her right thigh was pressed warmly against his left leg now. She smiled at him and said, “Well, Custis, if you’re so determined to leave, I suppose I’m just going to have to give you something to remember me by.”

Her hand touched his thigh, slid over it into his lap.

He had spent the last hour half-erect to start with from Janice’s provocative comments and glances. The touch of her soft, warm fingers, even through the fabric of his trousers, completed the job. His shaft sprang to full, rather uncomfortable attention.

“Wait just a second there, ma’am,” Longarm said hurriedly as Janice caressed him. “We’re in sort of a public place.”

“No one can see what I’m doing under the table,” Janice replied sweetly. “It’s too dim in here for that. Besides, I don’t care.” She ran her hand along the length of him and went on. “My goodness, you certainly are an impressive man, Marshal Long!”

“Ma’am-“

“Please don’t call me that. I think our friendship has grown much too close for such formality, don’t you?”

Considering how enthusiastically she was squeezing his pecker, Longarm supposed she was right.

“Now, where are those buttons…” murmured Janice.

“Ma’am—Janice—you can’t be thinking of-“

“Ah, there they are! Now, don’t make a scene, Marshal. Just sit still, and I’ll take care of everything.”

That was what Longarm was afraid of.

He glanced toward the bar. Senator Padgett and Julie Cassidy were deep in conversation with several men standing there—other horse owners, Longarm guessed. They weren’t paying any attention to what was going on at the table they had left. Nor did anyone else in the room seem to be looking in the direction of Longarm and Janice.

She was opening the buttons of his fly with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time she had reached into a fella’s pants, Longarm thought. Then he was beyond thinking much of anything as her nimble fingers freed his organ and closed around the throbbing, rock-hard pole of flesh.

Janice’s tongue darted out of her mouth and licked over her lips. “Nice, very nice,” she whispered in his ear. I’d dearly love to have that big ol’ thing inside me right now, Custis. I suppose we’ll just have to make do, though.” Her palm slid up and down his shaft with maddening slowness.

Longarm tried not to gulp. “You’d best be careful,” he managed to say, “or you’re liable to get more than you expect, ma’am. I mean Janice.”

She purred like a cat and said, “Oh, I expect it, all right. In fact, I crave it, Custis. You just go ahead and give it to me any time you’re ready.”

“Lordy!” he muttered. He had run across some brazen women in his time, but Janice Cassidy took the cake. He couldn’t believe what she was doing to him … just like he couldn’t believe he was letting her do it in the middle of this racetrack clubhouse.

He felt his climax approaching inexorably. Janice must have felt it too, because with her other hand she plucked a lacy handkerchief from the bosom of her dress, and got it under the table without any wasted motions. Yep, definitely not the first time she had done this, Longarm decided. He put the palms of his hands on the table and pressed down hard as spasms rippled through him. Janice had the handkerchief in place to catch his seed as it jetted out. Longarm drew a deep, ragged breath as she used the cloth to wipe him clean and squeeze the last of his juice from him. She had sure as hell drained him. A pulse was hammering in his skull, and he was light-headed.

Janice tucked him back into his pants and said with a smile, “See, I told you you’d remember me.”

“I don’t reckon I could ever forget that,” Longarm gasped out.

“Button yourself up discreetly, Custis,” she said as she put the handkerchief away in her bag.

“Yes, ma’am.” He was a tiny bit annoyed with her superior attitude. She probably thought that she had him right where she wanted him now. It would be mighty nice, he told himself, to get this sweet little honey onto a soft mattress between some cool sheets and bring her to a screaming, shuddering climax Maybe one of these days … If not for those damned counterfeiting plates!

He sighed. “I’ve really got to be going now. I’m sorry, Janice.”

“No, that’s all right,” she told him. “You go ahead and do your duty, Custis. I’m not sure what it is, mind you, but I’m certain it’s important.”

“It’d have to be,” he muttered as he finished fastening his pants. He pushed himself to his feet.

“Remember what I told you about coming to see us.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean Janice.”

Senator Padgett turned away from the bar and started toward the table, Julie Cassidy on his arm. They increased their pace a bit when they saw Longarm standing up.

“Leaving us so soon, Marshal?” asked Padgett as he and Julie returned to the table.

“Got to catch a train,” Longarm said. He shook hands with Padgett and then smiled and nodded at Julie. “Be seeing you, Miss Julie.”

“I hope so,” she said, and he caught the undertone of desire in her voice. She might be a lot cooler on the outside than her sister, but Longarm had the feeling that the fire burned just as hot inside.

He gave the senator and the twins a smile and a casual wave and started toward the door of the clubhouse, fishing out a cheroot as he went. His teeth clamped down on the cylinder of tobacco as he stepped out of the cool dimness of the building into the late afternoon heat.

Leon Mercer was walking toward him, pausing every couple of steps to drag his shoe on the ground. The man was frowning darkly and muttering. Longarm grinned as Mercer came up to him. “Step in something, Leon?”

“This is a racetrack, Marshal,” Mercer said. “There are horses all over the place. How could one help but step in something occasionally?”

“That’s mighty true,” agreed Longarm. “That’s why it pays to watch where you’re going.”

“Indeed.” Mercer gestured at the clubhouse. “Is the senator still inside?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Some journalists want to talk to him about the tariff bill Congress will be considering in the fall. I’ll get him.”

“Good luck dragging him away from those Cassidy sisters,” Longarm said dryly.

For the first time, Longarm saw a faint smile on Mercer’s face. “Oh, he’ll come along. It’s a rare politician who can resist the lure of the press.”

Longarm chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “I reckon you’re right about that too. So long, Leon.”

He walked quickly back to where he had left the rented buggy as Mercer disappeared into the clubhouse in search of Senator Padgett. The afternoon had been surprising in more ways than one, Longarm thought as he untied the team from the hitching post and stepped up into the buggy. Whether it had been meaningful or not was something he just couldn’t say as yet.

He turned the buggy back toward the hotel.

As soon as he stepped into the lobby of the hotel after returning the buggy to the stable, he knew something was wrong.

Damned wrong.

Captain Bishop of the Albuquerque police was standing next to the desk, talking to the clerk on duty. The clerk’s face was pale and haggard, and his forehead had a sheen of sweat on it that Longarm sensed had little to do with the heat. The man’s eyes widened as he glanced over and saw Longarm coming into the lobby. He raised his arm and pointed at the lawman.

Bishop turned to face him, and the local badge-toter’s expression was grim. Longarm frowned as he walked quickly over to the desk. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“I’ve been wondering where you were, Marshal,” Bishop said without answering Longarm’s question. “Nobody around here seemed to know.”

“I went to the horse race,” Longarm said. “Anything wrong with that?”

“Did you place any bets?” asked Bishop.

Longarm’s frown deepened. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“You should have,” Bishop said coolly. “You were obviously running a string of good luck this afternoon. You’re still alive, and your friends aren’t.”

Longarm didn’t want to start cussing a fellow lawman in public like this, but he was getting mighty exasperated with Bishop. His jaw taut with anger, he asked, “What happened to them?”

“Come upstairs and see for yourself.” Bishop inclined his head toward the staircase on the other side of the lobby.

There were a couple of blue-uniformed officers at the top of the stairs, Longarm saw as he and Bishop started up to the second floor. He noticed now too that the lobby was empty of hotel guests. Clearly, the police had taken the place over and Clamped the lid on tight. Worry gnawed on Longarm’s brain. Bishop had said that the other three deputy marshals were dead, and Longarm had a pretty good idea what that meant. He didn’t expect to find those printing plates upstairs when he got there.

The two policemen stepped aside to let Longarm and Bishop pass. The first thing Longarm noticed as he and the captain started down the hallway was the huge bloodstain on the carpet runner, about halfway down the corridor. Right outside the door of the room where Bud Seeley and Horace Truelove were supposed to be standing guard over the plates, in fact.

Longarm’s insides twisted. Nobody lost that much blood and lived to talk about it. There was no corpse in the hallway, though. He said, “Where are they?”

Bishop grunted. “Inside the room. One of the other guests found that pool of blood and ran downstairs screaming. The clerk and one of the porters came up here and found the bodies inside. The clerk used his key to get in when he noticed more blood running out from under the door.”

Longarm’s face was frozen into a bleak grimace by now. He said, “I reckon they sent for you then.”

“The clerk had already sent another porter for the law. We got here a few minutes later.” Bishop had reached the door of the marshals’ room. He was careful not to step in the blood as he reached for the doorknob. The blood was mostly dry by now, but it would still be sticky. “You ready for this?”

Longarm took a deep breath and wished he hadn’t. The sharp, sheared-copper smell of spilled blood filled his nostrils. He managed to nod.

Bishop turned the knob and swung the door back. Through the opening, Longarm saw the bodies sprawled on the floor of the room. He steeled himself and stepped inside.

Jim Harrelson was the closest to the door. His throat had been cut so deeply that his head seemed to be barely hanging on to his shoulders. Horace Truelove was next. He looked like he had been stabbed at least a dozen times in the chest, and his throat was slashed as well. At first glance, Bud Seeley, who lay curled up beside the bed, didn’t seem to be injured at all. But then Longarm saw the wound in the side of his neck where a knife had gone in.

“All of them were killed quick and quiet,” Bishop said, “by somebody who knew how to use a knife. Looking at it, the blood out in the hall seems to have come from Harrelson. Most of it in here came from Truelove.”

“Son of a bitch,” Longarm muttered. Nobody deserved to come to an end like this, slaughtered like some sort of animal.

He forced his gaze away from the horrible tableau and looked around the room. There was no sign of the valise which had held the counterfeiting plates. That came as no surprise to him. He stepped over to the dresser, checked quickly through its drawers, then opened the doors of the wardrobe that stood against one wall. The meager traveling gear belonging to the federal lawmen was there, but no valise, no package of any sort that could have contained the plates.

“What are you looking for, Marshal?” Bishop asked sharply. “The ‘evidence’ you and Harrelson took out of that warehouse early this morning?”

Longarm didn’t see any point in keeping it a secret any longer. “The printing plates,” he said. “The ones Edward Nowlan used to make that two million in phony currency.”

Bishop let out a low whistle. “I thought it might be something like that. Didn’t you trust us, Marshal?”

“We were just trying to cut down on the chances of something like this happening,” Longarm said with a curt wave at the carnage around them.

Bishop bristled at that comment. “Are you saying you thought my men couldn’t be trusted? You think one of them had something to do with this?”

“No offense, Captain, but when something as valuable as those plates is involved, I don’t trust myself overmuch, let alone anybody else. And I was right to be worried. Somebody knew about those plates and had a pretty good idea where to find them.”

Without saying anything else, he strode over to the connecting door and opened it, stepping into the room he and Harrelson had shared. Bishop trailed him as he searched the room quickly but thoroughly, not turning up a damned thing.

Longarm sighed. “I thought maybe there was a chance one of the boys had put the plates in here. Didn’t think it was very likely, though, and I was sure enough right about that part of it.”

Bishop jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the bodies of the federal men. “Now that you’ve seen everything, is it all right if I get some of my men in here and have those bodies taken out?”

Longarm nodded and said, “Sure. I reckon those poor bastards are long past being able to tell us anything about who did this to ‘em.”

He lit a fresh cheroot to help cover up the smell of the blood and told himself not to feel guilty because he was alive and Harrelson, Seeley, and Truelove were dead. Going to the horse race had been giving in to an impulse, that was all. He’d had no way of knowing that his fellow lawmen would be murdered while he was gone.

Yet a part of him insisted that he should have been here, should have done something to prevent this massacre. He hadn’t known the three dead men very well, but they had all carried a badge. In that sense, they were all his brothers.

Bishop came back from issuing orders to his men and found Longarm smoking gloomily and peering out the window of the hotel room, his back to the corpses. “What are you going to do now, Marshal?” asked the local lawman.

“Don’t have much choice,” Longarm said without looking around. “I was supposed to catch the five o’clock train for Denver, but there wouldn’t be any point to it now. I was supposed to deliver those printing plates to my boss, but they’re long gone.” He rolled the cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other. “Reckon I’ll just have to find ‘em—and the sons o’ bitches who did this.”

“I hope you do,” Bishop said quietly.

Longarm sighed and turned away from the window, still not looking at the corpses. “Guess I’d better send a wire to my boss and let him know what happened. I’d sure hate to be Henry in a little while.”

“Who’s Henry?” Bishop asked with a confused frown.

“The young fella who plays the typewriter in Billy Vail’s front office. He’s the one who’ll have to carry in the telegraph message I’m going to send.”

“Oh.” Bishop seemed to understand now.

Longarm started toward the door, then paused abruptly. Something on the floor had caught his attention. There were plenty of bloodstains, of course, but this seemed to be some other sort of stain.

The door opened and several burly policemen came into the room carrying canvas tarpaulins. Longarm knew why they were there, and he stepped aside so that they could get started on their grim task of rolling up the bodies in the canvas and carrying them out of here. The next stop for Harrelson, Seeley, and Truelove would be the undertaker’s.

Bishop put a hand on Longarm’s shoulder. “Come on, Marshal. Let’s get out of here.”

Longarm nodded. There was nothing more he could do here now. The dead men were far beyond any help he could muster for them.

But as far as vengeance went, once he caught up to the men who had done this … well, that was another story entirely. Longarm figured he could handle that just fine.

Chapter 4

Being a lawman wasn’t all gunfights with sneering desperados and rescuing beautiful damsels in distress, like those dime novel scribblers back East had it. A lot of the work that went with packing a badge consisted of trudging from place to place and asking the same questions over and over again. That was what Longarm did for the rest of the afternoon. Bishop and the local officers could have probably handled this part of the investigation just fine, and truth to tell, they’d likely cover the same ground whether Longarm did or not, but he felt like he had to give it a try. He owed the three dead marshals that much. Not that his legwork did any good. By late that evening, he had talked to all the guests and employees of the hotel, plus everyone he could find in the other businesses along the block. No one had seen or heard anything—or anyone—suspicious coming from the second floor of the hotel that afternoon. The hotel was one of Albuquerque’s best, so there were usually quite a few people coming and going. A few more wouldn’t be noticed unless there was something odd about them. Longarm considered that and decided at least one of the killers must have changed clothes before leaving the hotel. With all the blood that had been spilled, some of it was bound to have splattered on the man or men who had wielded the knife. Plus the killers would have had the valise containing the counterfeiting plates. But who in blazes would find anything strange, or memorable, about several men leaving a hotel and carrying bags? It happened all the time, every day.

Longarm moved to another room, this one on the third floor of the hotel. The murderers had no reason to come back and try for him—they had gotten what they wanted, after all—but it was the sort of precaution he automatically took. That careful nature had kept him alive for a long time in a dangerous business.

As he sprawled out on the bed wearing only the bottom half of a pair of summer-weight long underwear and puffing on a cheroot, he thought about everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. It had been an eventful period, packed with violence and death. There were moments when Longarm thought he was getting too old and too tired for this sort of life. This was one of those times.

But he sure couldn’t go back to cowboying, and he hadn’t done much else with his life since drifting out to the frontier from West-by-God Virginia after the Late Unpleasantness had come to a close at Appomattox Courthouse. Packing a badge was all he knew, and he figured he’d keep at it until his luck finally ran out and he died in some dark back alley or dingy hotel room or smoky saloon.

With his mind drifting like that, something tried to prod its way forward in his brain and call attention to itself. He frowned and reached out mentally to grasp it, but it abruptly slid away from him, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t quite manage to recall it. Finally, he shook his head in frustration, butted out the cheroot, rolled over, and surprised himself by falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

There was a message waiting for Longarm when he came downstairs the next morning. The clerk called his name and held up a piece of paper as Longarm started across the lobby.

Longarm went over to the desk, and the man behind it said, “I was about to send a boy up to your room with this, Marshal. It was just delivered a moment ago.”

“Thanks.” Longarm took the message and dropped a coin onto the counter. The coin disappeared with amazing alacrity. Longarm unfolded the paper and read:

MARSHAL LONG, PLEASE MEET ME AT THE RACETRACK SOMETIME THIS MORNING. YRS TRULY, MILES PADGETT.

Longarm frowned. What did the senator want with him? Although the message had been phrased as a request, Longarm knew it was more in the nature of a command. He sighed, then brightened a little. He had woken up this morning with a nebulous plan in his head, and a visit to the racetrack would fit right in with what he had in mind. In fact, this might work out for the best.

He folded the paper again and slipped it into his vest pocket, then nodded his thanks once more to the clerk before heading for the dining room. He wasn’t going to drop everything and rush out to the track just because Padgett had requested his presence. First he wanted some breakfast, and then there were a few more errands he needed to run. He wasn’t sure what Padgett wanted, but he planned to cooperate with the senator as much as possible … within reason. When you came right down to it, though, Padgett wasn’t Longarm’s boss, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Three cups of strong coffee, a stack of flapjacks swimming in syrup and melted butter, half a dozen thick strips of bacon, and a mound of scrambled eggs later, Longarm felt almost like a new man.

He left the hotel and headed for the Western Union office.

The senator’s rangy blood bay—Caesar, Longarm remembered the horse was called—was loping easily around the track when Longarm arrived. Padgett was leaning against the railing around the track, watching the horse exercise. He turned and lifted a hand in greeting as Longarm called, “Good morning, Senator.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Padgett’s face was set in a concerned frown. “I heard about the trouble you had at the hotel yesterday.”

Longarm grimaced. The story of the murders hadn’t been in the newspaper this morning, other than the fact that there had been an unspecified disturbance at the hotel. Bishop had promised to try to keep it quiet, and Longarm had thought the local badge had been successful in that effort.

“Pardon my asking, Senator, but what exactly have you heard?”

“About the murders of your fellow lawmen and the theft of some sort of valuable evidence. I’m not completely clear on that part, but I’m hoping you’ll shed some light on the subject.”

“How did you hear about it?”

Padgett waved away the question. “I have my sources. Well, Marshal?”

Longarm drew a deep breath that, given the surroundings, inevitably smelled a little like horseshit. He said, “Begging your pardon again, Senator, but I’m afraid it’s not any of your damned business.”

The politician’s cheeks grew even more florid than usual, and for a second Longarm worried that he might have a stroke right then and there. Then Padgett’s features relaxed slightly, and a moment later he even chuckled. “Sorry, Marshal,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not accustomed to being spoken to in that manner. But I must say, I rather admire it. You’re right, of course. This matter has to do with official business of the United States marshal’s office, not the Senate. I’m pretty much a civilian where you’re concerned.”

“Well, maybe not quite the same as a civilian,” said Longarm. There was no point in going out of his way right now to antagonize the man. “I can tell you that what you heard is pretty much right. Three deputy marshals were killed yesterday afternoon, and all four of us were here in Albuquerque on a case. We were supposed to go back to Denver yesterday, like I said in the clubhouse. Now I’m sort of at loose ends.”

“But you’re going to pursue the killers, aren’t you?”

Longarm nodded. “I reckon so. I’m waiting for official word from Billy Vail, though.”

“It sounds like a terrible, terrible tragedy,” Padgett said with a shake of his head. “Did any of the dead men have families?”

Longarm frowned. He didn’t know—and that just made him feel worse about the situation. “If they did, Marshal Vail will contact them and break the bad news.”

“Terrible,” Padgett said again. He sighed. “But life must go on, I suppose.” He gestured toward the track. “What do you think of Caesar this morning?”

Longarm looked at the horse and saw that it was running smoothly and easily along the track. “Same as yesterday. That’s a fine-looking animal you’ve got there, Senator.”

“I think so too. I have to admit, though, I was certainly disappointed in the outcome of the race. Perhaps we’ll do better in El Paso.”

“When are you leaving?” asked Longarm, thinking of the Cassidy sisters, among other things. It would be nice to see Janice and Julie again. He felt a stirring inside him at the memory of what the brazen Janice had done to him in the clubhouse the day before.

“The southbound train will be here tonight, and we’ll get into El Paso first thing in the morning. The race is scheduled for three days from now, so Cy will have time to get himself and Caesar accustomed to the course.” Padgett nodded toward the track as horse and rider swept by once again. “I wanted Caesar to have a little exercise this morning before he’s taken back to the stable and then loaded onto a train car tonight.”

Longarm nodded. “Good idea. Wouldn’t want him to stiffen up.”

Padgett turned to rest his arms on the fence as he leaned on it again. “Well, I appreciate you coming out here, Marshal,” he said as Longarm joined him at the fence. “I just wanted to find out the truth of the rumors I’d heard. Is there anything I can do to help you in your investigation?”

“Can’t think of a thing, Senator, but I’m much obliged that you asked.” Longarm turned his head toward the grandstand and saw a man standing underneath the benches, at the edge of the shadow cast by the grandstand. Even though it wasn’t yet noon, the sun was high enough in the sky, and bright enough, so that the line between light and shadow was a sharply defined border. Longarm couldn’t see the face of the man standing there except as a dim blur.

But he could sure as hell see the gun in the man’s hand as it rose.

“Get down!” Longarm yelled as he threw himself at Padgett. His left hand caught hold of the politician’s arm and hauled him roughly to the side. At the same time, Longarm’s right hand was flashing across his body to the butt of the Colt in the cross-draw rig. He went to one knee as he gave Padgett a hard shove that sent the startled senator sprawling on his ass. Longarm heard the crack of a gun, and splinters leaped from the wooden railing above his head as a bullet chewed a hunk from it.

“What … what …” sputtered Padgett. Then, as the would-be assassin’s gun boomed again, he yelped, “Oh, my God!”

Longarm twisted around and triggered a shot of his own, grimacing as the bullet went high and thudded into the underside of the grandstand. The gunman fired a third and final time, the slug kicking up dust several feet to Longarm’s right; then he whirled around and dashed back deeper into the shadows underneath the benches.

Biting back a curse, Longarm reached out with his left hand and pushed Padgett back to the ground as the senator struggled to get up. “Stay down, damn it!” Longarm barked at him, then surged to his feet. He ran toward the grandstand, the Colt held ready in his hand.

He darted around one of the thick wooden beams that supported the stands and found himself half-blinded by the sudden change from brilliant sunlight to thick shadows. He was confused even more by the narrow shafts of light that slanted down through openings between the benches, not to mention the veritable forest of beams that formed the structural skeleton of the grandstand. If he went running along full-blast before his vision adjusted, he’d be liable to dash his brains out in a collision with one of the support beams.

However, as long as he stood here at the edge of the light, he was a perfect target for the fleeing gunman. A bullet slammed into the beam next to Longarm to punctuate that thought. He crouched and went forward at a slow run, veering from beam to beam.

Unwilling to fire again until he had a good, clear shot, Longarm waited several moments, then triggered his Colt. The bullet whined off to one side of the dimly seen running shape ahead of him. The bushwhacker obviously intended to stay underneath the grandstand until he reached the other end of it.

So far, despite all the powder that had been burned, none of the bullets had hit anything except dirt and wood. That situation didn’t change as Longarm’s next shot went into the ground behind the darting figure. This was getting downright tiresome, he thought.

The next moment, the ambusher emerged from the shadows into the sunshine. He stumbled a little, and Longarm knew he had to be squinting hard against the glare. Longarm came to a stop, leveled his gun, and squeezed off another shot as the gunman abruptly veered to the side. Longarm’s bullet smacked into one of the support beams.

The running figure disappeared, only to be replaced an instant later by a much larger one. The pounding of hoofbeats came to Longarm’s ears, echoing underneath the stands. The would-be assassin had had a horse waiting for him.

When Longarm ran out from under the grandstand a moment later, he shielded his eyes with his hand and saw the man riding hard away from the racetrack, already with a good lead. Longarm had come out here this morning in a rented buggy, just as he’d done the day before, and the closest saddle horse was probably Caesar, out on the track itself. There might be other mounts around the paddock area, but it was all the way at the other end of the track. He watched the dwindling figure of the rider, then slid his Colt back into its holster. That gunman wasn’t going to be caught today.

“Marshal! Marshal Long!” The agitated voice of Senator Padgett came from behind him.

Longarm turned sharply and saw Padgett hurrying toward him through the alternating bands of light and shadow. “Blast it!” Longarm snapped, ignoring for the moment the fact that the other man was a powerful politician. “I thought I told you to stay out of harm’s way!”

Padgett drew to a stop. “I heard more shooting and wanted to make sure you hadn’t been hit,” he said. “Are you all right, Marshal?”

“Not even a scratch,” Longarm said. “How about you, Senator?”

Padgett brushed some of the dust from his coat and trousers. “I don’t seem to be hurt, just shocked that such a thing could happen in broad daylight. Was that man trying to kill you?”

“He was aiming at you,” Longarm said with certainty. “I saw that much before I knocked you out of the way.”

Padgett shook his head, but he wasn’t denying what Longarm had said. “Why?” he asked. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”

“You’re a senator,” Longarm reminded him. “Politicians always have plenty of enemies.”

“Oh, certainly,” Padgett said with a wave of his hand, “men whose bills I’ve opposed, or who opposed bills of mine, but no one who would … would try to murder me! Some cutting comments or a spate of angry rhetoric on the floor of the Senate are as far as they would go.”

“You sure about that? I’m not saying one of your fellow senators would come to Albuquerque and take a shot at you himself, but he could hire it done easy enough.”

Padgett shook his head again, and this time the motion was a denial. “Impossible. I don’t believe it.”

The sound of running footsteps and an anxious voice calling, “Senator! Senator, are you all right?” made Longarm and Padgett both turn around. Cy, the diminutive rider who had been putting Caesar through his paces, was hurrying toward them.

“I’m fine, Cy,” Padgett assured the man as Cy came up to them.

“But I heard shots!”

“There was some gunfire,” Padgett admitted, “but Marshal Long here frightened off the man who was shooting at us.”

Cy gulped. “Lordy! You mean somebody tried to assassinate you, Senator, like that actor fella did to old Abe?”

Padgett grimaced in irritation. “No, I’m certain it was nothing like that,” he said. “You go back and tend to Caesar, Cy. You didn’t leave him just standing on the track in the sun, did you?”

“Well … when I heard the shooting, I figured I’d better see what was going on.”

“Damn it, man,” Padgett barked, his face flushing angrily. “You can’t just leave a fine horse like Caesar standing there when he’s hot and sweaty. Get him back to the stable and rub him down, for God’s sake!”

Cy nodded jerkily as the harsh words lashed at him. “Yes, sir, Senator. Right away.” He turned and practically sprinted back toward the track.

Padgett sighed wearily and turned toward Longarm. “I suppose we’ll have to report this incident to the authorities.” His angry reprimand of Caesar’s rider seemed to be already forgotten.

“Yep, the Albuquerque police will have to know about it,” Longarm said. “I reckon I ought to send a wire to Billy Vail and let him know what happened too.”

“Is that really necessary ?”

Longarm chuckled humorlessly. “You know Billy, Senator. He won’t take it kindly if he hears that one of his deputies was mixed up in a shooting with somebody who tried to assassinate a United States senator and said deputy didn’t report it his own self.”

Padgett frowned and said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I don’t much like that word ‘assassinate,’ though.”

“You’re a public figure, Senator. Like it or not, that’s what happened here today.”

“Very well. You’ll take care of notifying Marshal Vail and the local authorities before you get started on your own mission once again?”

“Sure,” Longarm said with a nod. “I’ll get a wire off to Denver first thing. Then I’ll go see that Captain Bishop. I’ll bet he’s getting a mite tired of seeing me, since there’s always some sort of trouble involved when he does.”

“That’s his job,” Padgett said curtly. “He’s paid to handle trouble.”

“Yes, Sir,” agreed Longarm. “He sure is.”

And so was a United States deputy marshal.

“Son of a bitch!” Longarm said as he slapped the open palm of his left hand on the counter in the hotel lobby. His right hand slightly crumpled the yellow telegraph flimsy the clerk had just given him.

The desk clerk swallowed and worked up the nerve to ask, “Bad news, Marshal?”

“You could say that,” Longarm replied. He fished his watch out of his vest pocket, flipped it open, and checked the time. It was almost six o’clock. “When does the southbound train for El Paso pull out?”

“Why, six-thirty, I believe. If it’s on schedule, and it usually is.”

“Get my bill ready,” muttered Longarm. “I’m leaving.”

He jammed the telegram into his coat pocket and turned toward the stairs. When he reached his third-floor room, he began packing. That didn’t take long, since all he had was a few spare clothes, which he stuffed in his war bag, and his Winchester. He had the bag slung over one shoulder and the rifle canted over the other when he came downstairs again. Paying the bill prepared by the clerk took only a moment, and then Longarm strode out of the hotel and headed for the railroad station.

It was only six-fifteen when he got there. The sun was still up, although it rode low enough in the western sky so that its light had taken on a rosy hue. Smoke puffed from the diamond stack of the big locomotive as porters loaded baggage and passengers boarded. As he looked down the line of cars, Longarm saw that ramps had been lowered from several of them to the ground alongside the tracks. Those were the cars where the racehorses, including Senator Padgett’s Caesar and the Cassidy sisters’ Matador, would be loaded for the trip to El Paso and the next stop on the racing circuit.

Longarm walked through the station lobby and onto the platform, looking for Padgett. He spotted the senator climbing the steps to one of the passenger cars, followed by his assistant, Leon Mercer. Longarm’s hands were full, since he was carrying both his war bag and the Winchester, so he settled for calling out, “Senator!”

Padgett stepped up onto the platform at the rear of the car and looked back to see who was hailing him. A look of surprise appeared on his face as he recognized Longarm.

The rangy lawman’s long legs carried him across the station platform and up the steps of the railroad car. Padgett said, “What are you doing here, Marshal? I didn’t think you were leaving Albuquerque just yet.”

“Neither did I,” Longarm said curtly. He set his war bag on the car’s platform and pulled the telegram from his coat pocket. “But that was before I got this.” He held out the yellow flimsy to Padgett. The politico took the message and read it:

IN LIGHT OF ATTEMPT ON SENATOR PADGETT’S LIFE NEW ORDERS ARE AS FOLLOWS STOP YOU ARE ASSIGNED TO SENATOR AS BODYGUARD UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE STOP PROTECT LIFE AT ALL COSTS STOP VAIL U.S. MARSHAL DENVER.

Padgett looked up at Longarm with a confused frown on his face and asked, “What does this mean?”

Longarm figured Padgett knew what it meant just as well as he did. “It means I’m going with you to El Paso, and then on to Tucson and Carson City and wherever the hell else that racing circuit you’ve joined up with is going. Unless and until Billy Vail decides otherwise, that is.”

“But … but I thought you were going after those men who murdered your fellow marshals.”

“So did I,” Longarm said grimly. “I thought about sending a wire back to Vail and telling him I wasn’t going to do it, but I knew if I did, I might as well go ahead and take my badge off for good.” He shook his head. “After I thought about it for a while, I figured I wasn’t ready to do that.”

“Well, this is patently unfair. You want to go after the men who killed your friends, and I don’t blame you. Besides, there’s no real reason for me to have a bodyguard.”

“Someone did try to kill you earlier today, Senator,” Leon Mercer pointed out. His tone was rather offended as he went on. “You see, I told you you shouldn’t have insisted that I stay at the hotel while you went to the racetrack this morning.”

Padgett’s frown turned to one of irritation. “Damn it, I’m still not convinced that gunman wasn’t shooting at you, Marshal Long. I’d think a lawman would be much more likely to have violent enemies than a mere politician.”

“Maybe so, but that ain’t always the way it is,” Longarm said. “Like it or not, Senator, it looks like we’re stuck with each other, for a while anyway.”

Padgett nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Well, I for one will be very happy to have the marshal with us,” Mercer put in. “I didn’t relish the idea of continuing on through the West with bullets whizzing around our heads.”

“It wouldn’t have come to that-” Padgett began.

He was interrupted by a voice that still seemed soft and sweet as honeysuckle, despite the fact that it had been raised to call out, “Why, Marshal Long, what are you doing here? Did you come to see us off?”

Longarm turned his head and saw Janice and Julie Cassidy standing beside the next car in line. Both young women were wearing simple yet elegant traveling outfits, and they were as lovely today as they had been the day before. Longarm lifted a hand in greeting as Janice hurried down the station platform toward him, followed by Julie.

Janice gathered her skirt and came up the steps at the rear of the car, joining Longarm, Padgett, and Mercer. The relatively small area was getting crowded, but Longarm managed to lift a hand to the brim of his hat as he nodded and said, “Nice to see you again, Miss Janice. Looks like I’m going to be traveling with the senator for a while.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” exclaimed Janice. “How did this happen to come about?”

Longarm shot a glance at Padgett and read a warning in the politician’s eyes. There had been no witnesses to the attempt on Padgett’s life at the racetrack except for Longarm, Cy, and the mysterious gunman himself, of course. Nor would there be any mention of it in the newspaper the next day, so the word wouldn’t get out. Longarm had seen to that. He understood what Padgett was trying to tell him: The senator didn’t want someone as flighty as Janice Cassidy knowing about what had happened. She would be bound to gossip about it. Longarm agreed with that reasoning.

“My boss has decided I ought to stick close to the senator,” Longarm said easily. “Important fellas like him have to have somebody around to look out for them.” That was close enough to the truth.

“That sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” Julie put in from the station platform. “Come on, Janice, we have to get settled.”

Sure enough, as soon as the words were out of Julie’s mouth, the conductor came along the station platform, bawling out the traditional “‘Boooarrdd! All aboard!”

Janice leaned toward Longarm and brushed her lips across his cheek in a quick kiss. “I’m so glad you’re traveling with us, Custis,” she murmured throatily. “We’re going to have so much fun!”

Longarm refrained from pointing out that he was actually traveling with Senator Padgett, not with Janice and her sister. And he suspected that the second part of her statement was incorrect as well. Given the lusty nature of Janice Cassidy and the hinted-at sensuousness of Julie, this journey around the racing circuit might well have its entertaining moments.

But if he found what he was looking for, it wasn’t going to be fun, thought Longarm. No, sir, not much fun at all …

Chapter 5

The train was slightly behind schedule as it pulled out on the run from Albuquerque to El Paso. Senator Padgett had a private compartment, befitting his status as an important man, and Longarm intended to share it with him despite the fact that it might get a little crowded with three gents in it. Leon Mercer, of course, was staying close to the senator, although Longarm doubted that the assistant would be much help in case of trouble. Not that Longarm expected another assassination attempt, at least not right away.

Once they had settled down in the compartment, Padgett gave Longarm a cigar, and they both lit up. “Havana,” Padgett said, exhaling and wreathing his head in the blue-gray smoke. “Fine, don’t you think, Marshal?”

“Well, it’s different from those three-for-a-nickel cheroots I usually chew on,” allowed Longarm. “Much obliged, Senator.”

“Why don’t you call me Miles?”

The jovial offer of familiarity had a hollow ring to it, Longarm decided. Like most politicians, Padgett liked to fancy himself a man of the people, just one of the boys, but he actually enjoyed the respect and deference that came with his office. “I reckon Billy Vail would rather I kept things more businesslike between us, Senator—but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the smoke.”

Padgett chuckled. “That’s all right, Marshal. Whatever you think is best.”

Longarm and Padgett were facing each other across the compartment. Mercer sat beside Longarm on the padded bench seat. He had a small valise perched on his lap, and he opened it now to withdraw a sheaf of papers. “I really think you should go over these reports, Senator,” he said. “The bills to which they pertain will be coming up for a vote shortly after Congress convenes again in the fall.”

Padgett waved the hand holding the Havana cigar, leaving a trail of smoke in the air. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later, Leon. Marshal Long, do you really think there’s a chance someone will try to kill me again?”

Longarm shook his head and said, “Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what Marshal Vail thinks that’s important.”

“Yes, but you must have an opinion,” Padgett pressed.

“Anytime a fella takes a shot at somebody and misses, there’s always a chance he’ll try again. Of course, there’s also a chance that the one time will be the only one he can work up enough gumption for. All I know, Senator, is that you being around all these crowded racetracks will give the fella plenty of opportunity to try again if that’s what he wants.”

Padgett nodded solemnly. “You’re saying that I ought to stop traveling the racing circuit.”

Longarm shrugged and said, “It’s a thought. You might be safer holed up somewhere.”

A bark of contemptuous laughter came from the senator. “Not likely! A man can’t be timid in my line of work, just as he can’t afford to be timid in yours, Marshal. I have to be out there in front, taking care of my business for all the world to see. Otherwise how can I expect the voters to trust me to take care of the government’s business?”

Longarm inclined his head in acknowledgment of Padgett’s argument. “So you intend to follow the circuit the whole way?”

“All the way to Denver,” confirmed Padgett. He puffed on the cigar. “And I intend for Caesar to win some of the races along the way too.”

“It might help if Cy paid more attention to his job,” muttered Leon Mercer.

Longarm and Padgett both looked at him in surprise. “Why, Leon,” said Padgett, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak ill of anyone. What have you got against Cy?”

“Nothing really, Senator,” Mercer replied quickly. “I’m just not sure he’s as devoted to winning as you are. I’ve no doubt he’s back in one of the baggage cars with the other jockeys right now, drinking and gambling.”

“A man’s got a right to associate with his cronies,” Padgett said.

Mercer sniffed. “I suppose so. But it seems to me he could devote more time to his job.”

“Cy likes to gamble and knock back a drink or two, eh?” said Longarm.

Mercer held up his hands, palms out, and said, “I shouldn’t say any more. This … this horse-racing business is none of my concern anyway. I’ve never understood the appeal of watching horses run around and around a track.”

Padgett gave another burst of gravelly laughter. “You’re just not a competitor, Leon.”

“No, sir, I suppose not. Except when it comes to winning elections.”

Longarm had the fancy cigar smoked down to a butt. He put it out in the little keg of sand underneath the compartment’s window and looked out at the night. There wasn’t much to see from here. He stood, stretching his muscles, and said, “Think I’ll take a pass up and down a couple of these cars, just to make sure everything’s quiet. Lock the door behind me, Senator, and don’t open it to anybody except me. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

Padgett nodded. “All right, Marshal. Don’t worry, though. If there is any trouble, I think we can handle it.”

With that, he dropped one eyelid in a wink and pulled his coat back a little. Longarm saw the little pistol hanging in a shoulder rig under the senator’s left arm. The lawman rubbed his nose to hide the grimace that played quickly across his face. A gun in the hands of a politician was enough to make a fella uneasy. They shot themselves in the foot with their mouths all the time; hard to imagine what damage they might do with an actual firearm.

Longarm nodded and left the compartment. There was nothing else he could do. He was certain he wouldn’t be able to talk Padgett into giving up the gun. But it was highly unlikely anything was going to happen, at least tonight.

The senator’s private compartment was at one end of a passenger car. Longarm moved down the aisle of the rest of the car, heading toward the rear of the train. The lamps had been turned down, and some of the passengers were already asleep, swaying slightly on the benches from the gentle rocking of the train.

Longarm reached the door at the other end of the car and stepped out onto the platform. Fresh, cool air buffeted his face. This car was far enough back from the engine so that cinders and smoke weren’t too bothersome. Longarm inhaled deeply.

The tracks ran just west of the Rio Grande along this stretch. From time to time, the train passed a little cluster of lights that marked one of the farming communities populated mostly by Mexicans. As Longarm stood there enjoying the night air, the tracks began to climb to the pass between the Gallinas Mountains to the west and Gran Quivera to the east. He could see the peaks bulking up darkly in the moonlight. New Mexico wasn’t his favorite place in the world, but it did have a certain appeal to it, especially on a night like this with silvery illumination from the moon and stars washing down over the starkly beautiful terrain. It was almost enough to make him forget about the bloody failure of his mission back in Albuquerque.

The door to the next car opened, and Longarm turned his head. A woman’s voice said, “My, it’s lovely out here, isn’t it?”

Longarm’s fingers ticked the brim of his hat. “Miss Janice,” he said by way of greeting. “Or is it Miss Julie?” To tell the truth, he wasn’t sure which of the Cassidy twins had just joined him on the platform, and he didn’t see any point in lying about it.

The lovely young woman, whoever she was, laughed softly and closed the door to the other car. She moved over to the platform railing beside Longarm. “It’s Julie,” she said. “How are you, Marshal Long?”

“Just fine, I reckon. Getting a breath of fresh air.”

“That’s what I’m doing too. Those train compartments get a little stuffy.”

“You and your sister have a private compartment?” One of Longarm’s eyebrows lifted in speculation, but it was unlikely Julie would see that in the shadows.

“Janice doesn’t particularly like to travel with what she’d call the rabble,” Julie said.

“But you don’t mind.”

She shrugged prettily. “I get along with all sorts of people. In fact, I’d rather spend my time with horse trainers than some of the society types Janice tends to cultivate.”

Longarm leaned on the railing and chuckled. “I reckon I’d fall into the category of rabble.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t stop Janice from liking you, Marshal.” Julie touched his arm lightly. “When it comes to tall, handsome men, Janice is positively egalitarian.”

“I grew up hard-shell Baptist myself.”

She laughed and linked her arm with his. “I just meant she doesn’t care what a man does for a living as long as she’s attracted to him.”

Longarm didn’t bother explaining that he had known what she meant. He was a frequent visitor to the Denver Public Library and did quite a bit of reading—especially toward the end of the month when his funds were running low and more expensive pastimes had to wait until he got paid again. He said, “I don’t know that your sister’s that attracted to me. I reckon she was just being polite.”

“I’d say what she did to you in the clubhouse at the racetrack was very polite.”

Longarm stiffened in surprise. “Told you about that, did she?”

“We’re very close. We always have been. There are no secrets between us, Marshal.”

She was very close to him at the moment too. Close enough so that he could feel the warmth of her thigh through their clothes as she pressed against him. Close enough so that when she turned a little, the softness of her breast prodded his arm. She reached across her body with her left arm, since her right was still linked with his left, and boldly rubbed the palm of her hand over the front of his trousers.

The memory of what Janice had done to him had already started his manhood to swelling. Julie’s brazen caress sent even more blood flowing to it. Her hand slid up and down, making a shiver of pleasure go through him. After a couple of infinitely tantalizing moments of that, her fingers began searching for the buttons of his fly.

“Now, hold on a minute, ma’am,” Longarm said.

Deftly, she flipped two of the buttons open, relieving some of the pressure on him. “I intend to hold on,” she said huskily as she found two more buttons and unfastened them. That allowed her to reach inside and free his shaft, which sprang boldly erect as the cold night air washed over it. Julie’s fingers closed around it, feeling even warmer because of the contrast than they might have otherwise.

What the hell was this, a contest? One of the Cassidy sisters had fiddled with him until he came in her hand, so now the other one had to try? Lordy, maybe Julie intended to time him!

He cast a glance at each of the doors leading to the train cars and said, “This is mighty pleasurable, but I ain’t sure it’s such a good idea, Miss Julie. Folks could walk out here on this platform any time-“

“I don’t mind the risk if you don’t, Marshal.”

Janice and Julie were a lot alike, all right, thought Longarm. The chance of being discovered seemed to increase Julie’s excitement, just as it had with Janice. Her breath was coming fast in her throat as she slid her palm maddeningly along the length of his pole. Longarm turned to face her so that at least what she was doing would be shielded from view by their bodies if anybody else stepped out onto the platform.

Then, to his shock, she began sinking in front of him.

She was getting down on her knees, he realized, and he said hurriedly, “Wait a minute, Miss Julie, you’re going to get that nice dress of yours dirty!”

“I don’t care,” she murmured. “I can’t let you think that Janice is the only one who’s attracted to you.”

He felt the hot tickle of her breath against the knob at the end of his shaft, and then the searing heat of her lips as she kissed it. She slid her hand down to the base of his stalk and held on to it tightly as her mouth opened and wetly engulfed the head. Longarm closed his eyes and groaned, his hips twitching as he instinctively delved deeper into the hot cavern of her mouth.

This was a competition, no doubt about it. Janice had brought him to a climax with her hand, and now Julie was bound and determined to do that same thing with her lips and tongue. She was well on the way to accomplishing her end too. Longarm’s shaft was throbbing and swelling already. Julie’s tongue circled him, swiping wetly all around the head of his pole, greedily lapping up the moisture that seeped from him. He shuddered, put one hand on the railing to steady himself, the other hand on her shoulder. He moved it up to her neck, caressing the soft skin under her ear, feeling the slight tickle of strands of hair that had escaped from the arrangement of curls under her hat. One of her hands still held him at the base of his shaft, while the other reached inside his trousers to fondle his sac. Her tight grip had delayed his climax, but he was getting to the point now so that it would take an earthquake to make him hold back—and even that might not do the trick.

Her tongue darted against his opening again in a series of butterfly-light strokes, and that was it. Longarm cupped her chin as his seed boiled up the long tunnel of flesh and erupted from it. He felt the muscles of her throat working against the back of his hand as she swallowed, keeping pace with the flood of juices that came from him. Longarm grunted deeply in pleasure, and a moan came from deep within Julie’s throat as well. She shuddered as her own climax thundered through her.

Longarm gasped for breath and then blew it out in a deep sigh. His legs were about as shaky as a newborn colt’s. Julie licked him clean, her tongue flicking daintily; then, as she buttoned him up again, she said, “My, that was nice, Marshal Long.”

“I reckon you … ought to call me … Custis, Miss Julie.”

“Of course. Help me up, Custis.”

He took hold of her arms and easily lifted her. She tilted her head back to look into his eyes and smiled at him, then came up on her toes and brushed a kiss across his cheek.

“I hope you won’t think I’m completely shameless, Custis. I’m … not in the habit of doing things like this.”

He cupped her chin again, ran his thumb over the tiny dimple there. “No, ma’am,” he said. “I think just as highly of you as I ever did. Never have understood why some folks think that being a mite frisky is something to be ashamed of.”

She laughed. “A mite frisky?” she repeated. “Like a fine mare?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Well, then, I’ll take it as a compliment.” Abruptly, her mood grew serious. “Why are you really traveling with the senator, Custis? Has there been some sort of trouble?”

The unexpected questions had him off balance for a second, but he recovered his wits quickly. Maybe he had been wrong about Julie’s motivation for what she had done. Maybe she figured that while he was still grateful for the French lesson she’d given him, she could get some information from him in return.

But why? Surely she didn’t have anything to do with the job that had brought him aboard this train.

Nothing was impossible, Longarm reminded himself. Unlikely sometimes, but not impossible.

Those thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant, so there was only a slight hesitation before he answered, “Trouble? Not that I know of. I reckon that’s why I’m here, just to make sure there ain’t any.”

“Well, I feel much better knowing that you’ll be traveling with us for a while.” Her smile was dazzling in the moonlight. “I think I’m really going to enjoy your company.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Miss Julie,” he assured her.

“I have to be getting back to our compartment now. Janice is probably wondering why I’ve been gone so long.” She laughed again. “She’d certainly be surprised if she knew what that breath of fresh air I went out for turned into. Surprised—and disappointed. She’d wish that she could have been here too.”

The image that conjured up had Longarm’s legs feeling a little shaky again. He gave Julie Cassidy a quick hug, then stood there on the platform and watched her go back into the other car. They were damned lucky no one had interrupted them a few minutes earlier. That would have made for a mighty awkward situation, he thought.

He fished a cheroot from the pocket of his vest and chewed on it as he considered the questions Julie had asked him. He had tried to keep the attempt on Senator Padgett’s life as quiet as he could, but it was possible Julie had heard something about it. She wouldn’t know the whole story, though, which would explain why she had tried to pump him. But what business was it of hers if somebody took a few potshots at a politician?

Maybe Julie wasn’t thinking of Padgett as a politician at all, but rather as a rival racehorse owner. That could explain her interest.

Plenty of questions but no real answers yet … Longarm was used to that, maddening though it could be at times. He was just going to have to wait and see what happened.

In the meantime, something that Leon Mercer had said earlier still interested him. Longarm made his way back through the train, heading for the baggage cars. He wanted to see if Mercer had been right about the jockeys.

“Three beautiful little ladies, boys,” Cy was saying as Longarm opened the door to the baggage car. “That means the pot’s mine again.” He leaned forward to rake in the bills and coins piled in the center of the blanket that had been spread out on the floor of the car.

There was an open space in the center of the car with a narrow aisle leading to it. The rest of the room was taken up by the bags of the passengers. A dozen men were crowded around the blanket, but only half of them were playing cards; the others were just watching. Like Cy, all the other men were short and slender. The biggest of them would only make about two thirds of Longarm.

That made him feel rather large and gawky as he came up to them and nodded pleasantly. “Howdy, fellas,” he said. “I heard there was a game back here.”

“No room for any outsiders,” Cy said curtly. He took a flask from inside his coat, uncorked it, and swallowed a healthy swig of whatever was inside. After wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he glared up at Longarm and went on. “You big galoots think you can just bull your way in anywhere, don’t you?”

“No call to get riled,” Longarm told him, making an effort to keep his own tone mild. He could tell that Cy was drunk. “I ain’t one to push in where I ain’t wanted.”

“It’s not that we don’t want you to play, Marshal,” said one of the other jockeys. “There’s just not room.”

“And if there’s not enough room for us short-growed little runts,” added Cy, “there’s sure as hell no place for a big bastard like you.”

Longarm’s jaw clenched a little. Surrounded by his fellow jockeys, with a few slugs of Who-Hit-John inside him, Cy was completely different from the way he had been at the racetrack. Longarm could see it plainly on Cy’s young face: The jockey was feeling that while he might have to put up with his employer’s bullying, he didn’t have to take shit from anybody else.

Longarm held up his hands, palm out. “Didn’t mean to cause a ruckus. I’ll just back on out of here, boys-“

“Boys!” Cy came to his feet as he angrily repeated Longarm’s word. “We’re not boys! We’re grown men, no matter how little you think we are.”

“You’re looking for trouble where there ain’t none, Cy,” Longarm told him. “I already said that if you fellas don’t want me here, I’ll go on about my business.”

Truth to tell, the other jockeys didn’t seem that disturbed by Longarm’s presence. Cy was the only one so far in his cups, though. He came toward Longarm, the constant motion of the train making him stumble slightly. With an easy, athletic grace that seemed unaffected by the liquor he had drunk, he caught his balance.

“I’m mighty damned tired of you gents who think you’re better’n me just because you’re taller and weigh more. What do you think of that, Mr. High-and-Mighty Marshal?” Cy was close enough now to prod Longarm in the chest with a finger.

Longarm had been accosted by drunks before, often enough to know that such hombres were usually more annoying than dangerous. A percentage of the time, however, it was unwise to ignore their potential threat, and that percentage was large enough to make Longarm alert. As far as he could tell, Cy wasn’t armed; none of the jockeys seemed to be, unless they had hideout guns or knives. Nor was Longarm worried about Cy taking a swing at him. But if all twelve of the jockeys jumped him, that fracas could get a mite tricky.

Luckily, most of the men didn’t seem inclined to share Cy’s belligerence. In fact, only a couple of them had tensed and leaned forward, as if they intended to jump into the fight if one broke out. Longarm muttered, “The hell with this. I ain’t got time for it.” He turned, intending to leave the baggage car and make his way back to Senator Padgett’s compartment.

Behind him, Cy let out a whoop. The jockey leaped on Longarm’s back, wrapping his legs around the lawman’s waist. He circled Longarm’s neck with his left arm and began pounding his right fist against the side of Longarm’s head. “I’ll show you!” Cy shouted. “I’m not scared of you just because you’re bigger!”

Longarm felt a wave of disgust that the situation had gotten out of hand, along with a pain in his ear where Cy had clouted him. All he had wanted to accomplish by coming back here was to see if Leon Mercer had been right about Cy. It appeared that Mercer had been, in spades.

Reaching behind him, Longarm got hold of Cy’s coat. He bent at the waist and heaved at the same time, and Cy flew over his head with a startled yelp. The jockey sailed through the air for a few feet, then crashed into a pile of baggage.

“Get him!” yelled someone from behind Longarm.

He turned quickly and saw one of the other jockeys launching a punch at him. Longarm reached out, put his hand on the fella’s head, and shoved him away, holding him at arm’s length. The man flailed punches at him, none of them reaching their intended target. “Stop it!” Longarm snapped. “I don’t want to fight you!”

Something hit the back of his knees, and his legs folded up. As he twisted around, he saw it was Cy who had tackled him. Cy had recovered from being thrown into the pile of baggage quicker than Longarm had expected him to. A hard punch connected with Longarm’s jaw, and a second later a kick caught him in the side.

These jockeys might be small, but they were strong and tough. Just as he had expected, he had his hands full with Cy and the other two. Luckily, the rest of the group was hanging back, watching the scuffle with keen interest but showing no signs of joining in. Longarm drove an elbow into the belly of one man, then backhanded another as he came up onto his knees. Lurching to his feet, Longarm set himself just as Cy drove in again. Longarm met him with a straight right that sent him spinning off his feet. When he checked on the other two, he saw that the fight had gone out of them.

Cy was stunned, but as he blinked up at Longarm, his eyes cleared a little and he said spitefully, “Makes you feel good, don’t it, beating up on somebody smaller than you?”

Longarm spat on the floor. “Shit! You want it both ways, don’t you? You act like a jackass and start a fight, then figure I ought to feel guilty for winning just because I’m bigger’n you!” He picked up his hat, pushed the crown back into its normal shape, and clapped it on his head. “I’m done here.”

One of the other jockeys chuckled. “Maybe you ought to pick your fights better, Cy. This one doesn’t seem to have worked out very well.”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Cy as he sat up and rubbed his aching jaw. Longarm cast a hard look in his direction and turned to walk out of the baggage car.

This time nobody jumped him.

His blood had stopped pumping so hard and his anger had died down a little by the time he reached the platform where he and Julie had had their passionate interlude a while earlier. He was still a little sore at Cy, though, so he paused to take a couple of deep breaths and think about what he had learned. He put both hands on the railing and leaned forward.

The train had come down from the pass and was approaching the high trestle that spanned the canyon of the Rio Grande. The tracks would cross over to the eastern side of the river and stay there until they reached El Paso.

Cy liked to drink, and from the sound of what had been going on when Longarm entered the baggage car, he was quite a gambler too. That didn’t have to mean a damned thing; plenty of men liked to play cards and take a little nip now and then. But Cy was evidently filled with a lot of anger and resentment too, and that whole combination could be explosive. Such a man could be ripe for exploitation by someone with deeper, darker motives.

That thought was going through Longarm’s mind when he heard a door open behind him. He didn’t have time to turn and see who had come onto the platform, nor from which car they had emerged. All he had time for was to hear the sudden rush of air as something came toward his head.

Then what felt like a two-by-four slammed into his skull, driving him forward against the railing around the platform. He was barely conscious of the hard shove that lifted his feet into the air and sent him flipping over the rail into nothingness.

Chapter 6

He might have passed out for a second or two; Longarm was never really sure about that. But the feeling of empty air all around him woke him up in a hurry, and instinct made him reach out desperately. Both hands closed around the top of the iron railing around the platform. With a jerk that nearly wrenched his shoulders from their sockets and brought a cry of pain from his mouth, his weight hit his arms. Somehow he managed to hang on.

His hat was gone, and the wind of the train’s passage caught his thick brown hair and whipped it into his eyes. He could see well enough as he looked up, though, to spot the shadowy figure of a man on the platform. The hombre had some sort of club in his upraised hands. Longarm’s thinking was more than a little addled by the unexpected attack and the impact of the blow to his head, but the part of his brain responsible for survival was screaming at the rest of him that the man was about to bring that club down on his clutching fingers.

Longarm’s feet dangled loosely. They would have anyway, since the platform was high enough that his feet wouldn’t touch the ground while he was hanging from the railing like this. But the echoing clatter of the train’s progress told him that they were on the trestle now. There was nothing between him and the Rio Grande far below except a lot of empty space.

The club whipped down, and Longarm jerked the fingers of his right hand away just in time to avoid the blow. But that put all his weight on his left hand, and the muscles and bones in the fingers of that hand cried out in agony. The attacker lifted the club again.

Longarm’s right hand closed over his watch chain and jerked the derringer from the pocket of his vest. He grabbed the little gun and lifted it, cocking it as he did so. The derringer cracked spitefully. Over the roar and clatter of the train’s wheels, Longarm heard a whine that told him the bullet had missed and had ricocheted off into the night from the iron of the platform.

The crack and flash of the shot was enough to spook his assailant, however. The man turned and plunged back through the door of the car, leaving Longarm hanging alone from the railing. Thankful for small favors, the marshal dropped the derringer and let it dangle at the end of the watch chain. He slapped that hand against the railing again and hung on tightly. Slowly but surely, the muscles in his shoulders bunching and rippling, he began to pull himself up.

He kept his eyes open, in case the attacker showed up again and made another try at knocking him off the train, but no one came onto the platform. Longarm kicked a leg up and managed to get a foothold. He lifted himself higher, gave another heave, and rolled over the railing to sprawl on the thick planks of the platform itself. His pulse was hammering wildly in his head, and his chest rose and fell hugely as he dragged air back into his lungs.

The train was off the trestle by now and was rolling across flat fields alongside the river. After a couple of minutes, Longarm was able to stand up. Recalling another job that had almost been the death of him, he said fervently, “Damn, I hate hanging off trains!”

He climbed rather unsteadily to his feet and looked around the platform for his hat. It was gone, of course, just as he had expected. No doubt it had sailed off into the Rio Grande. He hoped that the farmer who would no doubt fish it out of the river would enjoy having a snuff-brown, flat-crowned Stetson. It would be a lot worse for wear, by then, more than likely.

Longarm ran his fingers through his wind-tangled hair and took a couple more deep breaths. He tucked away the derringer in his vest pocket. He supposed he looked presentable enough. He went into the passenger car and headed for the senator’s compartment. Along the way, he looked at the passengers riding on the bench seats. Some were asleep, some read by the dim light of the lamps, others sat and smoked or simply sat. None of them gave him any more attention than an idle glance, and no one made his job any easier by jumping up and confessing to the attempt on his life. That came as no surprise.

Leon Mercer was alone in the compartment when Longarm tried the knob and found it unlocked, despite what he had told Padgett earlier. Mercer had several documents spread out on his lap. He looked up distractedly from his work and said, “Oh, it’s you, Marshal.”

“Damn right it’s me,” said Longarm. “Where’s the senator?”

“He went to use the, ah, facilities. He said he wouldn’t be gone long.”

Longarm bit back a curse. “I thought I told him to stay here in the compartment.”

Mercer shrugged and said mildly, “I gather that he didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

“All right, blast it. Which way did he go?”

“I believe it’s just at the near end of the next car.”

Longarm was still in the doorway of the compartment. He turned and started toward the door leading to the next car. It was only a few steps away, but before he could reach it, the door opened and Senator Padgett came bustling through. He stopped short when he saw Longarm standing there, an angry frown on his face.

“Hello, Marshal,” Padgett said.

“Thought I told you to stay in the compartment until I got back.” Longarm didn’t bother concealing his bad temper. His voice was curt.

Padgett began to frown as well. “I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me, sir,” he said. “I didn’t see any harm in answering the call of nature.” He put a hand to his stomach. “My digestion is not what it once was. One of the curses of advancing age, I suppose.”

“Maybe so, but I still wish you’d waited.”

“Well, no harm done. I’m fine. No one tried to kill me.”

“This time,” muttered Longarm.

“Granted.” Padgett seemed to notice for the first time that Longarm’s hat was gone. “You look a bit disheveled, Marshal. Is something wrong?”

Longarm shook his head. “I lost my hat while I was standing out on the platform,” he said. “Wind whipped it right off when we were going over that trestle. Last I saw of it, it was headed for the Rio Grande.”

Padgett chuckled, but said, “I’m sorry about your loss. I suppose you’ll be able to replace the hat in El Paso, though.”

“I reckon.” Longarm summoned up a rueful grin. “Wonder if Billy Vail would accept an expense voucher for the cost of a new one.”

“Knowing Marshal Vail as I do, I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Me neither. I suppose if all I lose is a hat, I’ll have come out all right.”

“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

Longarm had kept the senator jawing out here in the aisle long enough. He opened the door of the compartment again and stood aside. Padgett preceded him into the little room. Longarm stepped inside long enough to say, “These seats only make out into two bunks, so I’ll sleep outside on that bench right across from the door. Like I told you before, keep the door locked. Nobody’s going to bother you.”

“Your confidence makes my mind rest much easier, Marshal.” Longarm couldn’t tell if Padgett was being sarcastic or not. He thought the senator was sincere, but when a fella shaded the truth for a living, like most politicians did, it was hard to be sure about anything.

Once the door was closed and Longarm had heard the lock snap shut, he settled down on the bench he had pointed out to Padgett and Mercer. Since he had it to himself, he was able to partially stretch his legs out and put his head back. He wished he still had his hat so that he could tip it down over his eyes.

That wasn’t all he thought about. He replayed the attack in his head. Could Cy have followed him, clouted him over the head with something, then tried to push him off the train? It was possible, Longarm supposed. He hadn’t gotten a good enough look at his assailant in the darkness to know for sure how big the fella had been.

But there was someone else whose whereabouts were unaccounted for at the time of the attack, Longarm realized. With the door to the senator’s compartment closed, Miles Padgett could have turned the other direction after telling Mercer he was going to visit the facilities in the next car. Padgett could have stepped out there on that rear platform, seen Longarm standing there, and walloped him one. The question was—why would the senator do such a thing?

Considering why Longarm was on this train, he wasn’t going to rule out anything.

Sleep claimed him while he was pondering.

The night passed without further incident. Longarm slept fitfully, and when he stood up as the train was pulling into El Paso not long after dawn, his muscles were stiff and sore and he was almost as tired as when he had first dozed off. Still, he had spent worse nights on the trail in the past. A few cups of strong, hot coffee, some bacon and flapjacks, and he’d start feeling human again, he knew.

Senator Padgett and Leon Mercer seemed well rested. Padgett was his usual bluff and hearty self as he and his assistant stepped down to the platform of the El Paso depot followed by Longarm. “What a glorious morning!” Padgett exclaimed.

That was true enough, Longarm supposed. The air was clear and cool here in this pocket among the mountains where El Paso was nestled alongside the winding Rio Grande. It would be hot as blazes later in the day, but right now the temperature was downright pleasant. The craggy heights of Mount Franklin loomed to the north of town. Once El Paso had been known as Franklin, and Billy Vail had served with the Ranger company that had been headquartered here in those days. Longarm had heard his boss spin many a yarn about the adventures he’d had in the Rangers with his old pard, Roaring Bill McDowell. Wild times, Longarm thought.

But these days could be pretty wild too.

“You go on and register us at the hotel, Leon,” Padgett told his assistant. “I’m going out to the track with Caesar.”

“I’m sure Cy could handle that, Senator,” Mercer said.

Padgett shook his head. “I want to see that Caesar’s settled in for myself.” He smiled. “I know you think I can’t manage anything without you, Leon, but I assure you I’ll be all right. Marshal Long will be with me, won’t you, Marshal?”

“That’s right,” Longarm said. “After everything that’s happened, I don’t plan to let you out of my sight very often, Senator.”

And Padgett could take that any way he wanted to.

“Good morning, gentlemen!”

The lilting greeting made Longarm, Padgett, and Mercer all turn. They saw the Cassidy sisters coming down the platform toward them. Even this early in the morning, after a night spent in a cramped train compartment, they both looked elegant. Janice was dressed in a dark gray traveling gown and matching hat, while Julie wore a denim riding skirt and a short jacket over a white shirt. Longarm wondered idly if the twins ever wore each other’s clothes, switching identities, as it were. Given the differences in their personalities, he doubted it—but as he had told himself the night before, anything was possible.

He also wondered if Julie had told her sister about what she and Longarm had done on the platform that had later on nearly turned into a death trap for him.

Padgett tipped his hat as the young women came up to them, as did Mercer. Longarm didn’t have a hat to tip, so he settled for nodding and saying, “Mornin’, ladies. Did you have a pleasant night?”

“Very pleasant,” Julie said, and Longarm saw the faint twinkle in her eyes.

“I slept very well,” added Janice.

“I’m on my way out to the racetrack to see that Caesar is suitably ensconced in the paddock,” Padgett said. “Would you ladies care to share a buggy with me?”

“That’s very kind of you, Senator,” Janice replied, “but all I want to see now is a hotel room. Freshening up on a train just isn’t satisfactory.”

“You look lovely, my dear,” Padgett said. “No one would ever know you just disembarked.”

“That’s very kind of you, Senator, but I’m still going to the hotel.”

Julie said, “I’m not. I have to tend to Matador, so I’ll be glad to accept your kind offer, Senator.”

Padgett beamed. “Excellent! Leon, see about engaging a buggy for us, will you?”

“Of course, Senator,” Mercer said. He hurried away, disappearing into the depot lobby.

Longarm cast a glance along the train. To the rear, the horses were being unloaded from the stable cars. There were a dozen animals on the circuit, so the area just to the north of the station where the unloading was taking place was busy. Hooves clattered on ramps as trainers led the animals down from the cars. The jockeys were bustling around as well. Longarm spotted Cy, who had a bruise on his jaw where Longarm’s fist had landed. Longarm wondered if Cy was going to say anything to Senator Padgett about the fracas in the baggage car the night before. He doubted it; Cy was already in the senator’s doghouse for losing the race in Albuquerque, and admitting that he’d been brawling with a federal lawman would just make things worse for him. If Cy didn’t say anything about it, Longarm didn’t intend to either.

Padgett turned to Longarm and asked, “Will you be coming with us, Marshal?”

Before he could answer, Janice took his arm. “Or would you rather help me get settled in at the hotel, Custis?”

Longarm had to grin as he gently disengaged his arm from her grasp. “An offer like that’s mighty hard to refuse, ma’am … but I reckon I’d better stick with the senator for now.”

Janice sighed dramatically and said, “You men! Always worried about something that’s not even going to happen! Why, no one would bother the senator. He’s too important for that.”

“Just a matter of policy, Miss Janice. Fella like the senator’s got to have somebody looking after him.”

“Damn it, you don’t have to make it sound like you’re my nursemaid, Marshal,” snapped Padgett.

“No offense, Senator. Didn’t mean it like that.”

Padgett was a little mollified. He nodded and said, “Here comes Leon. That must mean he’s found a buggy and a driver for us.”

Sure enough, Mercer had engaged an open buggy and a gent named Juan to handle the team. The party went through the depot lobby, and Padgett, Julie, and Longarm climbed into the buggy. Nearby, the bags belonging to Padgett and Mercer, along with Longarm’s war bag and Winchester, were being loaded into a flatbed wagon by a couple of porters. Mercer would take the baggage to the hotel and register, as Padgett had ordered. He turned to Janice, tipped his hat again, and asked, “Would you like to have me take care of your bags as well, Miss Cassidy?”

“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Mercer,” replied Janice as she favored him with a dazzling smile. “In fact, I’ll even ride to the hotel with you on the wagon.”

Mercer’s eyes widened in surprise, and he stammered, “Th-that’s not necessary, ma’am. I’m s-sure you’d be more comfortable in a carriage.”

“Nonsense.” Janice linked her arm with his. “I’ll be glad to join you. I’ve always thought you were such a dear man.”

Mercer blushed a bright pink to the roots of what sparse hair he had left. Longarm had to swallow a laugh at the stricken look on the man’s face. Mercer obviously wasn’t accustomed to much female attention, especially from a female as lovely as Janice Cassidy.

As Janice led Mercer away, Padgett leaned over toward Longarm and asked in a half-whisper, “Do you think Leon will be safe?”

“I don’t reckon Miss Janice will get too frisky in broad daylight, in the middle of downtown El Paso.”

But at the same time, given the lady’s history, he couldn’t completely count on that.

Within a quarter of an hour, the racehorses had all been saddled and their jockeys were aboard for the ride out to the track. The horses were trailed by buggies carrying their owners, trainers, and assorted hangers-on. Longarm supposed he would fall into that last category. They made quite a procession as they followed the road that ran roughly parallel to the border river. On the other side of the river were the shanties of Juarez town, and behind them rose hills and mountains that were in Mexico. The caravan of racehorses and buggies headed northwest, toward the corner where Texas, New Mexico, and Mexico all butted up against each other. The big racetrack was located on the outskirts of El Paso, still in Texas, just across the borders from its neighbors.

Longarm rode in the buggy’s rear seat, while Senator Padgett shared the front seat with Julie Cassidy. If Longarm hadn’t been here to work, he would have preferred being up there with Julie. As it was, he caught several glances she threw over her shoulder at him, and from the smoldering looks she gave him, he knew they were both thinking about the same thing.

Not that cavorting with the beautiful Miss Cassidy was the only thing on his mind. He hadn’t forgotten about the attempt on his life the night before. The ache in his hands, arms, and shoulders wouldn’t let him forget.

The only thing he could be sure of was that whoever had tried to kill him wasn’t the same fella who had taken those shots at Senator Padgett back in Albuquerque. His primary suspect was Cy, or perhaps one of the other jockeys who had come out on the short end—so to speak—of that fight. But Padgett had been unaccounted for at the same time, and that fact gnawed at Longarm’s brain. Padgett had understood that he was supposed to remain in the compartment. He must have had a compelling reason to ignore what Longarm had told him. Needing to pay a visit to the facilities could be pretty compelling, all right.

But so was murder.

Longarm was still puzzling over it when the racetrack came into view. The track itself was the same size as the one in Albuquerque, but the grandstands were larger and more impressive. Longarm estimated that they might hold twice as many people as the stands at the other track. That could make it more difficult for him to keep up with everybody he wanted to watch, but he would just have to make the best of it. At this point, there was nobody he trusted enough to bring in on the job with him.

For the next hour, Longarm tagged along behind Padgett as the senator oversaw Caesar going through a brief exercise run, then being settled in one of the stalls in the paddock. Cy avoided meeting Longarm’s eyes anytime the jockey was around him. By the time Padgett was satisfied that everything had been taken care of properly, Longarm’s stomach was growling. He was still waiting for that coffee, bacon, and flapjacks. He hoped the hotel dining room would still be serving breakfast by the time they got there.

“Come along, Cy,” Padgett said to the jockey, motioning for him to follow along to the buggy. “You can ride with Marshal Long and me back to town.”

Cy stiffened and looked at Longarm, who lifted his shoulders in a little shrug. Padgett didn’t seem to have noticed the bruise on Cy’s jaw; if he had seen it, he had chosen not to say anything about it. “Sure,” Cy responded after a second’s hesitation. “Thanks, Senator.”

Longarm climbed into the front seat beside Padgett this time, and Cy settled himself in the back. The serape-and sombrero-clad driver picked up the reins and got the buggy’s two-horse team moving. The trip back to downtown El Paso did not take as long as the one out to the racetrack.

“What about Miss Cassidy?” asked Longarm as they rolled toward the center of the sprawling border settlement. “Won’t she need a ride back to town too?”

“Julie won’t have any trouble getting to the hotel. But she’ll be at the track most of the day. She really hates to leave that horse. I think she cares more about Matador than anyone else.”

“What about her sister?”

“All Janice cares about is winning. Oh, I see what you mean. You’re asking if Julie cares more about her sister than she does about Matador. Well, of course. The Cassidy sisters are devoted to each other. They’re close, very close.” Padgett chuckled, and a hint of a leer appeared on his face as he said conspiratorially, “In fact, some of the stories I’ve heard about those two-“

“Are probably just cheap gossip,” Longarm finished for him before Padgett could go on.

Padgett glanced at him, clearly puzzled by Longarm’s reaction and unsure whether or not he should be offended by the lawman’s tone. Evidently he decided it wasn’t worth it, because he merely grunted and leaned back against the buggy seat.

Longarm was a mite puzzled by the sharp words that had come from his mouth too. Julie and Janice didn’t need him to defend them. They were both outspoken enough to take up for themselves if the need arose. Besides, given the lusty nature of both young women, there might well be some truth to what Padgett had implied.

But it had just sounded so damned sordid coming from the senator, Longarm decided. That was why he’d reacted as he had.

The incident seemed to be forgotten by the time the buggy reached the Camino Real Hotel a few minutes later. The place had the best accommodations in town, which came as no surprise to Longarm. Someone like Miles Padgett would stay in only the best hotels. The Cassidy sisters and the other horse owners were staying there as well. Longarm hoped there would be room for him too. If not, he would simply have to make room.

But it was a good thing that Uncle Sam would ultimately wind up paying for this, Longarm thought with a grin as he followed Padgett into the fancy lobby. He could never afford to stay in a place like this on a deputy marshal’s wages.

Leon Mercer was waiting for them inside, and explained that he and the senator had adjoining rooms on the second floor. “I got you the room across the hall, Marshal, he said to Longarm. “That was the best I could do.”

“Not quite,” said Longarm. “You’ll take the room across the hall, and I’ll bunk in the one next to the senator.”

“Impossible. I have to be on hand to assist Senator Padgett-“

“It’s all right, Leon,” Padgett told him. “You’ll be right across the hall if I need you.”

Mercer sniffed. “Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose the arrangement will have to do.”

“How was your ride with Miss Janice?” asked Longarm, unable to resist needling the stuffy assistant a bit.

Another flush spread across Mercer’s features. “Miss Cassidy is quite … quite a lovely young lady.”

“She sure is,” agreed Longarm. He was willing to bet that Janice had flirted with Mercer every foot of the way and had enjoyed every minute of it.

Longarm’s war bag and repeater had already been taken up to the room. He checked on them, moved the bag and rifle across the hall to the room adjoining Senator Padgett’s, then carried Mercer’s bags over to the other room. Mercer watched with poorly concealed resentment. He had to feel as if Longarm was poaching on his territory, namely the senator. Mercer would just have to get over it, though. This assignment of Longarm’s wouldn’t last forever, only until he found out what he needed to know.

The hotel dining room was indeed still serving breakfast. Longarm sat down with Padgett and Mercer and proceeded to put himself on the outside of everything he had thought about earlier, plus a small army of fried potatoes. Just as he had expected, he felt like a new man when the meal was finished—a well-stuffed, drowsy man.

But there was work to do, and a last cup of coffee—spiked with a healthy dollop of Maryland rye from a bottle that the waiter brought in from the bar next to the dining room—perked up Longarm enough so that he thought he could make it through the day.

He started by asking Senator Padgett what his plans were. “I’m going to take it easy today,” Padgett replied as he fired up one of those Havana cigars. He didn’t offer one to Longarm this time. “Tomorrow I’m supposed to make a courtesy call on the mayor of El Paso, but today I intend to rest.”

That sounded good to Longarm too, but he didn’t have time for it. “Go to it,” he told Padgett. “Just lock your door and don’t go wandering around.”

“What will you be doing, Marshal?”

“Thought I’d look up an old friend or two whilst we’re here. Don’t worry, Senator. I can almost guarantee that nobody will take a shot at you again.”

“Almost guarantee? What do you mean by that?”

“I think that fella from Albuquerque is long gone. He didn’t expect anybody to shoot back at him. I could tell he was mighty spooked when I returned his fire. Could be he ain’t even stopped running yet.”

Padgett laughed. “I sincerely hope you’re right, Marshal. Very well, I’ll be in my room if you need me. I assume Mercer is allowed to work with me?”

“Sure,” Longarm said with a casual wave of his hand. “I don’t think it’s very likely he’s the one out to kill you.”

The senator looked pained for a second, as if he wished Longarm hadn’t reminded him that he was targeted for death. But then the familiar cocky grin reappeared on his face, and he headed upstairs with Leon Mercer trailing him. The assistant was already talking about those legislative reports the two of them needed to go over.

Longarm needed some information too, but not the kind he could get from a report prepared by some fella like Mercer who practically had to be dragged away across the Potomac. What Longarm needed was to find out where the high-stakes card games were held in this town.

But as he turned toward the front entrance of the hotel, he saw Cy slipping out the back. There was definitely something furtive about the jockey’s movements.

A grin spread across Longarm’s face. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go in search of the information he wanted.

Maybe Cy would lead him right to it.

Chapter 7

Longarm gave Cy time to get a little lead on him, then walked quickly through the hotel bar to the rear entrance. He stepped out onto a side street and looked in both directions. It was a little difficult to pick out Cy’s figure among the pedestrians along the busy street, since for the most part the Mexican inhabitants of El Paso were both shorter and more slender than the whites. Longarm spotted the checked shirt Cy was wearing, though, about a block and a half away. He walked after the jockey, not hurrying now. He didn’t want to get too close.

Cy turned right at the corner, which took him straight toward the Rio Grande. Maybe he was going over to Juarez, Longarm thought. That brought a frown to his face. He had been to Juarez several times in the past, and he’d been shot at there more than once. Not only that, but he’d never gotten along very well with the Mexican authorities either, probably because of the times when circumstances had led him to give a hand to various groups rebelling against the dictatorship of Porfirio Diaz. The common folks on the other side of the border liked Longarm and called him Brazo Largo; more than one lawman over there would have been happy to see him in front of a firing squad.

As it turned out, Cy wasn’t bound for Mexico after all. He stopped at a three-story frame building that housed a saloon and brothel. Longarm recognized the structure. He’d been there before, when it had been called the Antelope Saloon. Obviously it had changed hands since then, because now it was the Crystal Star.

As Longarm headed toward the big saloon, he cast a glance at a shop he passed. Displayed in the window were several Stetsons, including one like the hat he’d lost on the train. But he couldn’t stop long enough to buy a replacement now. He had to make sure Cy wasn’t just ducking through the Crystal Star in order to throw anybody who was following him off the trail.

That wasn’t the case at all, Longarm saw a few moments later as he paused just outside the establishment’s batwing doors. Cy was at the bar, lifting a mug of beer to his mouth.

A good-sized saloon in a border town never really closed. Drinkers would be at the bar twenty-four hours a day, and the roulette wheels, the poker tables, and the faro layouts would never shut down. There would be a nearly steady stream of traffic up and down the stairs leading to the second and third floors where the bar girls plied their other occupation. But there were slack times, and this mid-morning hour was one of them. There were less than a dozen men at the bar, and only half the tables were occupied. That would make Longarm more conspicuous if he went inside, he realized. It might be better for him to keep an eye on Cy from out here on the boardwalk in front of the saloon.

Cy downed the mug of beer hurriedly and asked for another. A drink juggler in a wrinkled vest, limp tie, and soiled shirt drew the beer, cut the foamy head off with a paddle, and shoved the mug across the bar to Cy. The jockey seemed content to nurse this one along, and since the place was not busy at the moment, the bartender was content to let him do just that.

After a few minutes, though, Cy motioned for the bartender to come closer, and he leaned across the bar to speak quietly to the man. It was difficult for Longarm to judge expressions in the dim light, but he thought the bartender looked skeptical at first. Then whatever Cy was saying convinced the man, because he nodded and jerked a thumb toward a door at the end of the bar.

Hallelujah, thought Longarm. It was about time he got a break in this case.

Carrying the mug of beer, Cy went to the door, knocked on it, then spoke to whoever called out to him from the other side. The door swung open, just wide enough for Cy to slip through, then closed behind him.

Mighty interesting, Longarm told himself. The rangy lawman pushed through the batwings and ambled toward the bar.

The bartender saw him without really seeing him. Longarm was just another nameless, faceless drinker to the man. “What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Beer,” said Longarm. “Is it cold?”

“Coldest in El Paso,” the bartender replied listlessly, obviously not believing the testimonial and not caring if Longarm believed it either. He drew the beer, cut off the head, and pushed the mug across the bar. “Six bits.”

Longarm dropped a silver dollar on the bar and watched it disappear like magic. No change was forthcoming, nor had he expected any. Longarm lifted the mug to his lips and took a swallow. The beer was middling cool and not too bitter.

Not wanting to hurry things along too much, Longarm let the bartender drift away to wait on other customers while he sipped the beer. Eventually, the bartender worked his way back along the hardwood, and as Longarm drained the mug, the man asked, “Another?”

“Believe I will. Thanks.” Longarm waited until the mug had been refilled and paid for, then said idly, “Is there anywhere around here a man can sit in on a game of cards?”

The bartender frowned at him for a second, then laughed. “Hell, mister, look around the room. There’s a couple of games going on right behind you.”

Longarm shook his head without looking around. “I ain’t talking about some cowpokes playing penny-ante. I’m looking for a real game.”

“Kind of early in the day for that, isn’t it?”

“The gents I’m talking about don’t rightly care if it’s day or night, so long as the cards are being shuffled and dealt.” Longarm took a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket and casually tapped it against the edge of the bar. “You know the sort of fellas I mean.”

The bartender grunted. “Yeah, maybe,” he allowed. “Anybody in particular tell you to come here?”

Longarm didn’t want to risk coming up with a phony name. The bartender would likely see right through that. He said, “Nope. I just heard talk around town that the Crystal Star usually has a good game going on.”

“Could be.” The man’s eyes licked over the gold piece in Longarm’s hand like the tongue of a thirsty man in the desert when he spots a water hole.

Longarm slid the coin across the bar. “I’d admire to know for sure.”

The drink juggler’s fingers covered the gold piece as he inclined his head toward the door at the end of the bar. “Down there. Knock and tell ‘em Casey said it was all right.”

“Much obliged,” Longarm said with a smile. Carrying his mug of beer, as Cy had before him, he sidled along the bar toward the door.

A man’s voice answered his knock. “Yeah?”

Longarm put his head close to the door and said, “Casey sent me back here.”

The panel opened, and the guard inside said, “Big ‘un, ain’t you?”

“Back home they called me a runt,” Longarm replied, grinning, as he stepped through the door. The guard shut it behind him.

This man was definitely not a runt. He stood a couple of inches taller than Longarm, and his shoulders were even broader than the lawman’s. His bullet-shaped head was covered with very close-cropped gray hair. The thick ridge above his bushy eyebrows and the misshapen ears told Longarm the guard had spent a considerable amount of time in a prizefight ring. The dullness that glazed the eyes of many such men was missing in this fella, however. His gaze was sharp and surprisingly intelligent as he ran it over Longarm.

After a second, he pointed to another door at the end of a short hall. “Go through there. It’ll cost you a hundred to buy in.”

“No problem,” Longarm assured him. He had a hundred dollars in his pockets—barely. It was expense money intended to last him the whole assignment. Billy Vail would pitch a fit if Longarm lost the whole wad and had to wire him for more. But Longarm didn’t plan on that happening.

He went to the other door, opened it, and stepped into a smoky, windowless room lit by a single lamp hanging over the center of a baize-covered table. It could have been high noon or black midnight outside, and in here no one would ever know the difference. Five men sat around the table. None of them looked up from the cards in their hands, even when Longarm eased the door shut behind him with a click. Cy sat to Longarm’s left. There was an empty chair directly in front of Longarm; then Cy was ensconced in the first chair going around the table clockwise. To Cy’s left was a youngster dressed in cowhand garb who was sweating heavily. Across the table from the empty chair was a man in the frock coat and silk hat of a professional gambler. To his left sat two men in dusty black suits who might have looked like preachers had they not been staring at the cards in their hands and clenching cigars between their teeth.

“I call,” said the young cowpoke. He tossed coins into the pot and laid down his cards. “Three tens.”

The gambler laughed and tossed in his hand. “Beats me, kid.

The men in black shook their heads and threw in their cards. That left Cy, who laughed and said, “Sorry. Three ladies.” He laid down the queens. The cowboy grimaced and shook his head. The pot wasn’t too sizable, but his eyes still followed it with longing and regret as Cy raked it in.

Longarm said, “Looks like Lady Luck’s riding with you, friend. Mind if I buy into the game?”

Cy glanced up at him, and it took all of his poker-playing skill to keep his face impassive, Longarm figured. Recognition and fear flickered for an instant in Cy’s eyes; then he shrugged and said, “I’ll be glad to take your money too, mister.”

Clearly, he didn’t want Longarm revealing that they knew each other. From the looks of the piles of coins and bills in front of each man, Cy had been winning steadily ever since he had joined the game. Since he was already winning, why would he care if the other players knew that he and Longarm were acquainted? The two of them couldn’t be accused of working together to cheat when Longarm hadn’t even been there.

Maybe there was some connection between Cy and one of the other men that he didn’t want Longarm to know about. Maybe Cy was working for one of those black-suited gents and this was his way of getting his payoff. Come to think of it, there was something familiar about both of those soberly dressed gentlemen. Longarm gave them a friendly nod as he sat down in the empty chair. “Howdy, boys,” he said. He didn’t offer his name.

He didn’t have to, because one of the men suddenly gasped, “Shit! It’s Longarm!” and went for his gun.

Longarm knew what it meant when the man’s hand darted underneath his coat. The other man in black was following suit. Longarm came up out of the chair, moving so fast that the seat overturned behind him. His fingers wrapped around the butt of the .44 and slid it smoothly from the cross-draw rig. The room abruptly reverberated with the deafening thunder of gunshots.

Longarm’s first round went into the chest of the man who had recognized him, knocking him backward over the chair from which he had risen in a half-crouch. He died without getting a shot off. The second man fired, but he rushed his aim and the slug whipped harmlessly past Longarm’s ear to thud into the wall behind the lawman. Longarm aimed for the fella’s right shoulder, hoping to wing him and take him prisoner so that he could find out what this was all about. But the man darted to the side just as Longarm squeezed the trigger, and the bullet caught him at the base of the throat. He staggered back but stayed on his feet somehow as blood fountained from the wound. The gun in his hand started to come up again for another shot. His hand shook wildly—but in these close quarters, even a wild shot could be deadly.

With a curse, Longarm fired again. The bullet bored into the man’s forehead and drove him backward against the wall. He dropped the gun and pitched forward onto his face, dead.

Cy, the young cowboy, and the gambler had all gone diving for cover when the guns came out. The jockey was the first one to lift himself from behind the table, and from the corner of his eye Longarm saw that Cy had a little pistol clutched in his hand. Longarm didn’t wait to find out what Cy intended to do with the gun. He took a half-step that brought him within arm’s reach of the jockey and swatted him with a sweeping backhand. The blow knocked Cy completely off his feet and flung him against the other wall. As he bounced off, Longarm plucked the little pistol from his fingers. Cy would have fallen had he not caught hold of the back of a chair to prop himself up.

“That’s it!” snapped Longarm. “Everybody just hold it! The shooting’s over!”

“Whatever you say, mister,” came the voice of the cowboy. He peeked over the edge of the card-littered table.

“That goes double for me, sir,” added the gambler. He didn’t even show his head.

Longarm stepped back against the door into the room. As long as he couldn’t see the cowboy and the gambler, he didn’t fully trust them not to have guns in their hands. “Show yourselves, both of you!” he barked.

They stood up slowly, empty hands held where he could see them. Cy was still holding on to the back of the chair, head down as he shook it groggily.

With no warning, the door slammed against Longarm’s back, knocking him toward the table. He sprawled half onto it, scattering cards and coins and greenbacks. As he tried to roll over and get back to his feet, he cursed himself for forgetting about the guard right outside in the hall. The big man had heard the shooting, of course, and had come busting in to see what was going on. Longarm rolled onto his back and saw the bruiser leaning toward him, a snarl on his face, ham-like hands outstretched toward Longarm’s neck. Obviously the guard intended to bounce him around a little, then sort everything out later.

And Cy, who had recovered his wits, intended to take advantage of the opportunity to get out of there. He straightened and darted toward the now-open door.

Longarm brought his leg up and dug the toe of his boot into the guard’s groin. He had a near-perfect angle for such a blow. The kick landed solidly, and the guard howled in pain, forgetting all about reaching for Longarm’s throat. His hands dropped to his crotch instead.

However, the momentum of his charge still carried him forward, and he sprawled heavily on top of the table—and on top of Longarm as well. The legs of the table gave out, snapping and splintering under the weight. The whole shebang crashed to the floor.

Longarm had the breath knocked out of him, and he was pinned down by the guard. Cursing raggedly as he gasped for air, Longarm grabbed the man’s shoulders and rolled him to the side, grunting with the effort required to do so. He stumbled to his feet and heard the door at the other end of the hall slamming open. That would be Cy leaving, Longarm knew.

Somehow Longarm had managed to hang on to his gun, so he didn’t have to look for it amid the wreckage of the table. He ran out of the room, and a couple of long strides took him through the hall to the other door. He plunged through it.

The shooting in the back room must have sounded like a war breaking out. It had sure as hell cleared the main room of the saloon. Only the bartender remained, and he was crouched behind the bar. The batwings were swinging back and forth violently. Longarm figured that Cy had just batted them aside on his way out.

“Did you see which way that little fella turned when he ran out?” Longarm flung at the bartender.

The man raised up from behind the bar just enough to wave an arm to the left. “That way! Toward the river!”

Longarm bit back another curse. If Cy reached Juarez, he could easily lose himself in that rat’s nest of streets over there.

Longarm slapped through the batwings and turned left. He heard several startled shouts ahead of him and saw that Cy had knocked a couple of people down in his headlong flight. Longarm gave chase and said, “Sorry, ma’am,” as he passed an angry mamacita who had been knocked off her feet by the fleeing jockey. The woman shook a pudgy fist at Longarm’s back and threw a string of fluent TexMex curses at him.

Cy had a lead, and he was fast, no doubt about it. But he was accustomed to running his races on horseback, not on foot. Not only that, but each of Longarm’s strides made two of Cy’s, and the marshal’s low-heeled boots didn’t slow him down any. Steadily, he closed the gap between them. It helped that Cy was clearing a path for Longarm too.

Cy threw several frightened glances over his shoulder and saw Longarm closing in on him. They were now less than a block from the long wooden bridge over the Rio Grande. Cy put on an extra burst of speed, but it wasn’t enough. Longarm reached out, snagged his collar, and hauled back. Cy stumbled, slowing down abruptly, and Longarm practically trampled him. They wound up with Cy sprawled in the dust of the street and Longarm straddling him. Longarm reached down, got hold of Cy’s shirt with both hands, and lifted him easily. After shaking him like a terrier for a second, Longarm shoved him back toward the Crystal Star. “Come on,” growled Longarm. “Let’s go straighten this mess out.”

The local law was waiting inside the saloon by the time Longarm and Cy got there. As Longarm prodded the jockey inside, the bartender pointed at him and said excitedly, “There he is! That’s him!”

The two men who had been talking to the bartender swung around to face Longarm. They wore town suits, and each of them held a shotgun. They looked as if they knew how to use the Greeners. Each man had a star pinned to the lapel of his coat.

Longarm had holstered his Colt and was glad of that fact; he didn’t want any trigger-happy local badge blazing away at him with a scattergun. Before either of the men could say anything, he told them, “Take it easy, boys, we’re on the same side. I’m a deputy United States marshal. Name’s Custis Long, and I’ll be glad to let you see my bona fides if you won’t shoot me when I go to reaching for ‘em.”

“Federal man, eh?” grunted one of the El Paso star-packers. “Guess we’d better see that identification, Long.”

Longarm took the wallet containing his badge and papers from inside his coat and handed it to the man. After looking inside the wallet, the man handed it back to Longarm and said, “I reckon you’re who you say you are. What the hell was this all about, Marshal Long? And who’s this?” He gestured at Cy.

“This fella’s my prisoner, at least for the time being,” Longarm said.

“I didn’t do anything,” whined Cy. “Marshal Long’s just out to get me!”

“Shut up,” said the local lawman. “I’m waiting, Marshal.”

“Here’s how it was,” Longarm began. “I was keeping an eye on this fella here, and when he bought into a high-stakes poker game in the back room yonder, I did too. But a couple of the other players knew me from somewhere, and they had to be nursing a grudge against me for some reason. They hauled out their hog-legs and started shooting at me.” Longarm shook his head regretfully. “I tried to take the second fella alive, but I wound up having to kill him too.”

“You didn’t recognize either of them?”

“Not right offhand. But they sure knew me.”

“Let’s take a look. My name’s Tom Bolt, by the way. I’m the city marshal here. This is my deputy, Dave Singletary.”

“Pleased to meet you both.” Longarm kept a hand fastened firmly on Cy’s collar as the little group started toward the back room. “Come on.”

“I tell you, I didn’t do anything-“

A jerk from Longarm silenced the jockey for the moment.

Longarm was debating how much to tell Bolt and Singletary about the job that had brought him here. He didn’t want to get Senator Padgett mixed up with the local law if it could be avoided. Longarm preferred to play a lone hand until he discovered what he was looking for. Then he could call in reinforcements if it was necessary. He had already admitted that he was keeping tabs on Cy, but he wouldn’t go into any details about why. If the local lawmen pressed him, he could say truthfully that it was a federal matter.

The door to the hall leading to the back room was open. Before Longarm and the others reached it, the burly guard came out, walking gingerly and bending over a little. When he saw Longarm, he straightened, his aching family jewels evidently forgotten in the rage that swept through him. “You!” he growled.

Marshal Bolt lifted his shotgun as the guard started forward, fists clenched. “You won’t do a damned thing except stand there and behave yourself, Oscar,” Bolt said. “That fella you want to pound on is a federal lawman.”

“I don’t care if he’s Queen Victoria’s illegitimate son,” Oscar said, holding himself back with a visible effort. “The son of a bitch kicked me in the balls!”

Longarm said, “I might not have done that, old son, if you hadn’t acted like you wanted to tear my arms off and whale me over the head with ‘em.”

“I heard shootin’ back there-“

“And you didn’t stop to find out what had happened,” Longarm broke in. “You just came busting in there ready to beat the hell out of anybody you could lay your hands on.”

Oscar glowered at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well … maybe. It’s my job to keep things peaceful back there, and the quickest way to stop a ruckus is to bang a few heads together.”

“There won’t be any more of that,” Bolt said. “Now, let’s take a look at those dead men.”

They all filed into the back room, Cy still dragging his feet so that Longarm had to shove him along. There was no sign of the cowboy or the gambler, which came as no surprise to Longarm. They must have cleared out right after he’d gone in pursuit of Cy, well before the arrival of the local badges. Neither of them would have wanted to get mixed up in the aftermath of this corpse-and-cartridge session, which after all had had very little to do with them.

The bodies of the two black-suited men were still sprawled on the floor, the one Longarm had shot in the throat lying in a pool of drying blood. The other man’s shirt and vest were stained crimson, but that was all. Using the toe of his boot, Bolt rolled over the corpse that was lying on its face. He studied the features of both men for a moment, then said, “I don’t think I know ‘em. How about you, Dave?”

“Might have seen ‘em around town, Marshal, but I don’t know their names or why they’d try to gun down Uncle Sam here,” replied Singletary.

“Guess I’d better check their pockets for identification,” said Bolt with a sigh. That was going to be a bloody job.

“No need,” said Longarm. He had been staring at the faces of the dead men, and a couple of names had popped into his head. He dredged up the rest of the memories that went with the names. “That one’s Ned Collier.” He pointed at the man who had first recognized him. “And the other one’s Ash Benson. They robbed a trunk full of negotiable government securities off a stagecoach up in Colorado a couple of years ago. The securities were being carried on the stage so that anybody who was after ‘em would be thrown off the trail, seeing as how such things usually go by train with an official courier. Nobody counted on the stage being held up by a couple of second-rate road agents like Ned and Ash here. That was the start of a string of good luck for those boys. I chased ‘em for six months and never got close enough to lay hands on ‘em.” Longarm shook his head. “Their luck ran out, though. Still, they’d cleaned themselves up a heap, and I might not have recognized them if they hadn’t gone to shooting at me.”

“You’re sure about this?” asked Bolt.

“Damn sure. You can wire Chief Marshal Billy Vail in Denver, and he’ll confirm everything I’ve told you. The case against these two was still open.”

Singletary laughed and said, “Looks to me like you slammed it shut, Marshal.”

“Yeah, I reckon. Am I free to go?”

Bolt nodded. “I suppose so. Will you be in town for a while?”

“Three days,” Longarm said. “I’m staying at the Camino Real.”

The city marshal quirked an eyebrow at that, but he didn’t question why a fellow lawman—surely underpaid, as all lawmen were—was staying at the town’s fanciest hotel.

“We’ll be in touch if we need to talk to you again.”

Longarm nodded and tugged on Cy’s collar. “Come on, old son. You and me got to have a talk.”

Chapter 8

“You can let go of me now,” Cy complained when they reached the street. “I’m not going to run off again. I know I can’t get away from a long-legged galoot like you.”

“You know, I could’ve just shot you instead of chasing you down,” Longarm pointed out. “When you ran out of that saloon, you became a federal fugitive.”

“I haven’t broken any laws, damn it! Why are you persecuting me, Long?” He let out a groan. “As soon as I saw you sit down at the table, I knew you’d come there to make life miserable for me. I was hoping you’d just pretend that you didn’t know me!”

“Take it easy,” Longarm said coldly. “I ain’t going to argue with you here on the street.” He released Cy’s collar. “I’d rather just have the answers to some questions.”

The jockey sighed. “Go ahead and ask whatever you want. I don’t want you to start beating on me again.”

Longarm’s jaw clenched as he reined in his temper. “I don’t recall ever hitting you without a damned good reason, mister. Were you planning to shoot me when you pulled the gun back there in the Crystal Star?”

Cy shook his head and said, “Of course not. I just wanted to be able to protect myself in case you tried to shoot me. I know you’ve got it in for me.”

“Maybe with damned good reason. Somebody clouted me on the head last night and tried to push me off that train as it was crossing the Rio. Happened right after that fracas I had with you and your pards in the baggage car.”

Cy stopped short and stared at Longarm, appearing thunderstruck. “You think I tried to kill you last night?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” Longarm replied dryly as he motioned Cy into the doorway of an empty store so that they would be out of the way of the pedestrians passing along the boardwalk. “You strike me as the sort of fella who holds a grudge.”

Cy shook his head again, more vehemently this time. “I swear I didn’t do it, Marshal. I didn’t follow you out of the baggage car. You can ask any of the other jockeys.”

“What about one of them? There were a few of ‘em who sided you and got knocked around for their trouble.”

“No, it couldn’t have been any of us. We all stayed in the baggage car and started up the poker game again. You can ask ‘em.”

Longarm grunted. “You saying they wouldn’t shade the truth a mite to protect you?”

“Some of those guys aren’t that friendly with me. In fact, some of them might like to see me get into trouble so that I couldn’t ride against them for a while.” Cy’s chest inflated with pride. “I’m a pretty good rider, even if I do say so myself.”

“Maybe. Senator Padgett didn’t seem to think so.”

Cy shrugged. “The senator’s new at the racing game. He doesn’t always understand how these things go.”

“You can’t like the way he treats you sometimes, though.” Longarm rubbed his jaw. “I wonder what I’d find out if I was to start looking into your movements in Albuquerque, Cy. I wouldn’t mind knowing where you went and who you talked to before that trouble yesterday morning.”

Cy’s eyes widened in horror. “You think I had something to do with that assassination attempt on the senator!” he burst out.

Longarm didn’t think that at all—but he was willing to let Cy believe that he did. “You tell me,” he said coolly. “Did you?”

Cy clutched at the sleeve of Longarm’s coat. He seemed to be truly afraid now. “You have to believe me, Marshal! I wouldn’t do a thing like that. I couldn’t! I didn’t have anything to do with that fella who shot at the senator!”

“Keep your voice down,” snapped Longarm. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because it’s the truth!”

“Gents who like to drink too much and get mixed up in high-stakes poker games have been known to lie too,” Longarm pointed out. “What were you doing back there at the Crystal Star? Did you figure to make a bet against Caesar and then throw the race so you could clean up? That’d go a long way toward making it easier to put up with Padgett chewing on your ass like he does.”

Cy was shaking his head so violently that he got dizzy and had to put a hand against the wall of the building to steady himself. “I would never do anything like that,” he declared. “Sure, I don’t much like the senator, but I give him an honest ride every time.” He grimaced. “Maybe I do like to knock back a few and play cards, but that’s no crime. I swear, Marshal, you’ve got me all wrong!”

This had gone on long enough, Longarm decided. “All right,” he said curtly. “I ain’t saying that I believe you, but I reckon I can give you the benefit of the doubt … for now. You’d damned well better walk the straight and narrow from here on out, though. Stay away from the cards and the booze.”

“I … I can do that.” Cy swallowed hard. “Are you going to tell Senator Padgett about what happened back there at the saloon?”

“That shootout?” Longarm shook his head. “That was just a matter of pure-dee bad luck, I reckon. If those gents hadn’t recognized me and grabbed their guns, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“I never saw either of them before today. I can swear to that too.”

“As for you pulling a gun on me …”

Cy licked dry lips as he waited for Longarm to finish.

“We’ll keep that between us too.”

“Thank you, Marshal. I need this job riding for the senator.”

“Like I said, you walk the straight and narrow, and there won’t be any more trouble.”

“You’ve got my word on it,” vowed Cy.

Longarm figured he meant the pledge. If Cy had been telling the truth about everything that had happened, and if he kept his word about not causing any more ruckuses, then that would be one less distraction for Longarm, one less false trail to follow.

But Cy could have been telling the truth about everything else and still not be completely innocent. Longarm was going to have to keep that in mind.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “Let’s get back to the hotel. You and me both have things to do.”

Longarm made one stop along the way, at the store where he had seen a hat like the one he’d lost displayed in the window. Since he hadn’t managed to play a single hand in that poker game before all hell broke loose, he still had his expense money. He spent some of it and came out of the store feeling fully dressed again, the Stetson sitting squarely on his head. It would take a few days for it to adjust to his head and fit perfectly, but Longarm already felt a lot better.

He had let Cy go on to the hotel alone. Though the jockey wasn’t cleared in Longarm’s mind, he was no longer a prime suspect either.

Which was unfortunate in a way, because it left Longarm right back where he had started the day before.

There was nothing like nearly getting shot to give a man an appetite, Longarm mused as he entered the hotel. He went through the lobby and turned right into the dining room, which was beginning to get busy with the lunch crowd. Longarm planned to sit at a stool along the counter, but a female voice called, “Custis! Over here, darling!”

Longarm saw Janice and Julie Cassidy sitting at a table. Janice was the one who had called out to him, and as he ambled up to the table, Julie gave her sister a long look and repeated coolly, “Darling?”

“Well, he is, don’t you think?” demanded Janice.

Julie gave Longarm a sultry smile. “I certainly do. You’ll join us, won’t you, Marshal?”

Longarm took off his new hat and hung it on the back of the chair he pulled out from the table. “Like I said before, I never turn down an invitation from a pair of beautiful ladies.”

Janice leaned closer to him and said quietly, “Then you’ll come to our room this evening after dinner. It’s on the third floor. Number Twelve.”

Longarm looked from sister to sister. When his gaze met Julie’s, she nodded almost imperceptibly. Longarm scraped a thumbnail along the line of his jaw and sat back in the chair. “That’s a mighty nice suggestion, ladies, but I’m afraid I’ll have to think on it.”

“You do that, Custis,” said Janice. “You think on it.”

“Think long and hard,” Julie said.

Longarm swallowed, unsure what to say next or even whether or not he could get his mouth working properly again. He was saved from the necessity of an immediate reply by the hand that fell on his shoulder and the bluff, hearty voice that said, “There you are, Marshal! I was wondering what had happened to you. I see these lovely young ladies have stolen you away from me again.”

Longarm looked up at Senator Miles Padgett. He grinned and said, “They’re sort of what you’d call an irresistible force, Senator.”

“And we poor men are hardly immovable objects.” Padgett reached for one of the empty chairs at the table. “Mind if I join you?”

“By all means, please do,” said Janice. “We can talk about the race.”

Padgett sat down. A waiter appeared, and the senator ordered a bottle of wine.

The meal passed pleasantly, with most of the discussion concerning the race that would be run in a couple of days. While there was a definite edge of rivalry between the senator and the Cassidy sisters, they got along well.

After a while, Longarm asked Padgett where his assistant was. Padgett laughed and said, “He’s still up in the room working. Only Leon would be writing a speech for a session of Congress that won’t even convene for a couple of months yet!”

“Sounds like another dedicated federal employee,” Longarm said. “Shoot, I think Billy Vail’d be thrilled if I’d think two days ahead, let alone two months.”

“There’s something to be said for living for the moment,” Janice commented. “Wouldn’t you say so, Julie?”

“Oh, definitely. The pleasures of the moment shouldn’t be underestimated. We don’t have any way of knowing what tomorrow’s going to bring.”

Longarm wasn’t in much of a mood for philosophy. He was more interested in the cups of coffee and the decanter of brandy that the waiter brought to the table to finish up the meal.

The Cassidy sisters excused themselves, Janice saying, “We’ll leave you men here to smoke cigars and tell bawdy stories.”

“We’re in the middle of a public dining room, my dear,” Padgett said as he and Longarm stood up. “It wouldn’t be very proper for the marshal and me to tell bawdy stories in such a place, now would it?”

“All right,” Janice said with her dazzling smile. “You can just think about them instead.”

Longarm knew what he was thinking about: He was remembering the invitation to join Janice and Julie in their room that evening. As if to reinforce that image in his mind, Julie paused beside him as the sisters left the table. “Don’t forget what we were talking about earlier,” she said softly to him.

“Not very likely, ma’am,” Longarm assured her.

When the Cassidy sisters were gone and Longarm and Padgett had settled back down in their seats to smoke and finish off the brandy, the senator shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and said, “What was that about?”

“What was what about?” Longarm asked blandly.

“What Julie said about you not forgetting what you talked about earlier.”

Longarm shook his head. “Nothing important. They want to buy me a drink at the clubhouse after the race.”

“Oh.” Padgett seemed rather disappointed. “I thought you might be making some romantic progress with one of the ladies … or perhaps both of them.”

“I don’t need to remind you, Senator, that a gentleman doesn’t discuss such things.”

“Of course not. Are you a Southerner, Marshal Long?”