234 - Longarm and the Renegade Assassins

“I suppose so.”

“We deal with a different class of criminal from what you do, old friend. One learns to be practical about which laws you enforce and what you just let slide. This one …” Browne shrugged and gave Longarm a look that was not especially apologetic. It was simply the way things were. Longarm was glad he was a federal peace officer, not a local copper.

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Browne toasted Longarm with a salute of his beer stein, then drained off nearly half the foamy liquid in a single pull. Longarm returned the favor with the tumbler of whiskey he’d been given—no picayune shot glasses here, thank you—and was reminded anew of how good the rye was at Finch’s. If only everyone served whiskey this smooth, the world would be a better place.

“What’s your interest in Beamon, Longarm?”

“He was the footman on the carriage when Billy and those others were killed. I wanted to talk to him to find out if he saw anything that would be helpful.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Beamon was standing right beside the door when somebody tossed that bomb into the carriage. He must have seen something. Must have.”

“Too late now to ask him,” Thad said sympathetically. “I guess he didn’t tell the official investigators anything, though, or you wouldn’t be here now.”

“That’s right.” There seemed no point in mentioning that as far as Longarm knew, no official investigators had ever tried to speak with Beamon. “I take it you already know that I’m not on the case. Officially, that is.”

“Word does get around, you know. Not that I can say I agree with the decisions that are being made over there. I can see the logic, I suppose. But I disagree with the conclusions. It’s all a matter of inexperience, I presume.”

“I s’pose,” Longarm said.

“But unofficially?”

“I expect you know the answer to that.”

“Billy was a fine man. The best,” Browne said. “It won’t be easy to replace him.”

“No,” Longarm agreed. It was hard as hell keeping his mouth shut about the truth. Dammit, they could trust Thad. Longarm would have bet his life on that. But who might Thad let it slip to if he knew Billy and the others were still alive? And could that unknown third party be trusted? That was the problem. There just wasn’t any choice about it. Longarm had to keep his mouth shut. And apologize to Thad later, when it would be safe to tell the rest of the truth.

“Will you apply for the job?”

“Not me, Thad. I’m not no administrator.”

“I was thinking I might dip a toe into the water, see if a fish rises to it.”

“Go ahead,” Longarm said.

Browne grinned. “You’d have a helluva time if I was your boss, Deputy Long. Might have to work for a living and everything.”

“I’d hate that,” Longarm said. “It’d be kinda different, though, wouldn’t it.”

Thad laughed.

“Anything else you can tell me about Carl Beamon?”

“Not really. Nothing special anyway.”

“Was he a drinking man?”

“No, not really.”

“But he’d been drinking some that evening, had he?”

“He’d had a few, I’m told. I don’t think he was drunk if that’s what you mean.”

“Did he live alone? Have a wife? Anyone he might’ve talked to about the bombing before he died?”

“He had a girlfriend, I think. Look, why don’t we go back to my office after lunch. I’ll pull the reports on this and you can look them over. Anything my officers found out will be in there. I’m particular about the paperwork, you know.”

“Which is why you make a good administrator an’ why I wouldn’t,” Longarm said.

“Ah. It looks like our lunch is ready. Get out your purse, my friend. I intend to have another beer. Maybe two or three.”

“Good. The drunker you get, Browne, the more I can pry outa YOU.”

“Hell, I’m willing.”

Longarm chuckled. And ordered another rye whiskey. He pretty much had to if he wanted to keep pace with his friend. And it would have been damn-all rude to do otherwise.

Chapter 31

BethAnne Mobley wasn’t home when Longarm first called at her apartment looking for her. “She works days, mister, and is gone most nights too,” the next-door neighbor told him. “Try again about supper time. You might could catch her then.”

Rather than going all the way back to Denver and then returning to Aurora in the evening, Longarm marked time in a billiards parlor until shortly before six, then once more went to the home of Carl Beamon’s reputed girlfriend.

This time his knock was answered by a pale, very thin girl with huge eyes and a vapid, vacant expression. “Who do you want? Carl? He isn’t here, mister. Carl is dead.”

“I know that, miss. It’s you I wanted to talk with. About him.”

“Me? What for?”

“Could I come inside, miss? I think it would be best if we didn’t stand in the hallway discussing this.”

The girl shrugged and backed away from the door, allowing Longarm inside.

Her apartment was shabby, the furnishings cheap to begin with, and not helped any by having been in service years longer than they should have been. The place was unkempt, soiled clothing littering practically every flat surface in the place and a sour smell coming from the tiny alcove that served as a kitchen. Longarm had seen dog kennels he would rather have lived in. BethAnne did not seem to notice, certainly did not offer any apologies.

“Who’d you say you are, mister?” she asked.

He repeated the introduction and said, “I want to talk with you about Carl Beamon. He was your boyfriend, is that correct?”

BethAnne snorted. “That’s what he told people anyhow. Wasn’t true, though. I wasn’t his girlfriend. Not like you’d think. We spent some time together. Carl was generous. You know?” She fashioned a bright, wide, and patently phony smile. “Are you generous, mister? Are you gonna buy me some of my medicine? Carl always did. Would you, please?”

BethAnne did not look particularly sick. “What medicine would that be, miss?”

“Delphium’s Elixir is what I take, mister. For my pains. Female troubles is what it is. Delphium’s helps. Carl always brought me Delphium’s whenever he came to visit.”

“We’ll talk first,” Longarm told her. “Then I’ll get you some medicine.” Delphium’s Elixir was not a name he was familiar with, but he pretty much knew what to expect. The stuff would be one of those shady excuses for indulgence under the guise of medication. In truth it would be either alcohol under a fancy name or, worse, one of the opium derivatives. Either way, the object of taking it would be to dull, not simple pain, but the discomfort of a poor existence. Longarm had seen it often enough before. BethAnne Mobley was not the first he’d encountered who was addicted to her magic potion of choice, and he doubted she would be the last.

“You’re just telling me that,” she said. “If I tell you what you want, you won’t really get me my medicine.”

“I will. I promise.”

“For sure? You promise?”

He nodded. Hell, why not. The quack products weren’t illegal. And if buying this vapid young woman some would help him find out more about the bombing, well, that was a small price to pay. He meant what he said.

BethAnne smiled then and fingered the buttons at the front of her dress. Quickly, before the stupid little cunt had time to offer more than conversation in return for her drug, Longarm said, “I want you to tell me everything Carl Beamon told you about the bombing he was involved in last week.”

The girl frowned. “Oh, yeah. That. I remember he did say something about that. But I … it’s all sort of fuzzy in my mind. You know?”

“Try to remember, please. It’s important.”

“You’ll really and truly buy me a bottle of Delphium’s, mister?”

“I promise. Maybe two bottles.”

That got her attention all right. BethAnne sat up straighter on the torn, worn-out upholstery of the chair she’d settled on. She smiled again. Her teeth were small and white and perfect.

“Carl got himself killed. Did I tell you that?”

“Yes, I heard. But what did he say about the bombing?”

“He said … let me think now.”

Longarm was pretty sure he knew what she was thinking. BethAnne was trying to work out what she thought he wanted to hear. Whatever she decided that would be, that was what she would tell him.

“Just the truth, BethAnne. That’s important. I’ll buy you the Delphium’s even if what you say isn’t important. But I want you to understand that it is very important that you tell me the truth. If you do that, then I promise to get you the Delphium’s. All right?”

“Sure, mister. Okay.”

“Do you remember what it was that Carl told you after the bombing?” He wasn’t sure this girl was consistently capable of remembering her own name. But he had to try. BethAnne might well be the only avenue he would ever have into Carl Beamon’s memories of that day. He had to ask her.

“I think … look, mister, this don’t sound like much. Okay?”

“It’s all right no matter what it is, just so long as it is true. I promise.”

“Yeah, well, all I remember Carl saying … I mean, he didn’t come here to talk, really. He was sweet on me, you know? He practically loved me. That’s why he always told people he was my boyfriend. I mean, he knew better. But he liked to sort of believe it himself and he told everybody that. I guess I shoulda been mad at him but I wasn’t. I thought it was kinda cute. You know?”

“Sure. So what was it he said?”

“He came by like he usually did after he’d got some work. He didn’t have work every day, you know. When he did, he’d buy me my Delphium’s and bring some by and then we’d spend a little time together and then he’d go home. So anyway, this one night he came by and he gave me my Delphium’s like always, but this one night, he wasn’t interested in … you know, the usual stuff. I mean, he didn’t even try to do anything. I don’t know that he could have done it if he’d tried, he was that upset. He just brought me my bottle and fixed me some tea with the elixir in it, and then he wanted to just kinda sit and talk. Except he wasn’t making much sense. It was more like he was talking to himself than to me. You know what I mean, mister?”

“Sure, BethAnne. It’s like that sometimes. D’you remember what it was Carl was saying to himself that night?”

“It didn’t make no sense.”

“That’s all right. Tell me anyway, please.”

“Well, first off he kept saying over and over, ‘Why’d she do that? Why’d she go and do that?’ Something like that.

“And then?”

“Then later on he said … a couple different times, I guess it was … he said, ‘She was so pretty. Who would of thought a pretty girl like that would go and do something like she done.’”

“BethAnne frowned as if in concentration. “Does that make sense to you, mister?”

“No,” he admitted. “I can’t say that it does.”

“Not to me neither.”

“Was there anything else?”

BethAnne shook her head. “That was the last time I talked to Carl. No, it wasn’t. No, sir, it wasn’t for a fact. That was the last time Carl came to visit me. But a couple days after that, I think it was, I ran into him at the pharmacy where I get my medicine. Another gentleman was nice enough to give me money so I could buy myself some Delphium’s and I’d gone to the store to do that, and I ran into Carl there. I thought he was there to buy me some Delphium’s, that he’d be by to see me that night. I asked him if he was coming over, but he said no, he wouldn’t be able to do that, that he had to meet a couple fellas that wanted to talk to him.” She frowned again. “What else did he say? There was something … oh, yeah. Now I remember. He said after he talked to these two men he would have lots of money. He said he could buy me a whole case of Delphium’s then if I wanted. Of course I didn’t believe him. But it was kinda sweet of him to say so anyhow. Carl wasn’t usually a tease like that. I don’t know why he would of said any such thing that time.”

“But he didn’t come by again?” Longarm asked.

“No, of course not. That was the same day he was killed. That same afternoon. I’m pretty sure it was.”

It was Longarm’s turn to frown. “You’re sure he said he was going to meet two men?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said. Two of them.”

“He didn’t say who they were or what they wanted?”

“No. Just that he was going to meet these two men and then he’d have lots of money and he’d buy me a bunch of my medicine and him and me could have a real long party. He wanted me to go off somewhere with him. He’d mentioned that a bunch of times before, but he’d never had money enough to make good on it. He said he would this time.” She sighed. “But I never saw him again after that afternoon. Look, mister, you aren’t gonna forget what you promised, are you?”

“No.” Longarm smiled and stood up, reaching for his Stetson. “I tell you what, BethAnne. Show me where you get your medicine and I’ll get it for you now. Would that be all right?”

She gave him another of those bright, perfect, utterly insincere smiles. “Would you like to have a little party first, mister? I wouldn’t mind. Honest. You’re handsome and you look clean. And I don’t look like so much, but I can move it real good, and that’s the natural truth.”

“Thanks, BethAnne. You’re a mighty pretty girl, and I’m awful tempted,” he lied. “But it’s against the law for me to mess with a witness. I could lose my job if I did anything like you say, and the both of us might go to jail.”

“Oh, gosh, mister. They wouldn’t give me my medicine if I was in jail, would they?”

“No, I don’t think they’d allow Delphium’s Elixir in the jail, BethAnne.”

The overlarge smile flickered and was replaced by one that was not quite so big but that at least looked sincere this time. “Can we go get that medicine now, please?”

“Sure, BethAnne. Show me where, and I’ll buy it for YOU.”

Chapter 32

Longarm was so tired he felt like he might fall over sideways at any moment. And if he did he would likely start to snore and not wake up until tomorrow morning. What with the visit to Deborah last night, and then going out to see Billy with his very own eyes, he hadn’t gotten a wink. And he was damn sure starting to feel it. He had to get some sleep soon or his eyeballs might drop clean out of his face. They already felt gritty and burned like a pair of coals in a dying fire.

But, dammit, he wasn’t done there in Aurora yet. He still knew too damn little about Carl Beamon and what the man might have seen that day the bomb went off.

BethAnne Mobley had been a help. More so than she realized. But surely there was more to it than BethAnne’s confused and muddied mind was able to recall.

Then Longarm had a stroke of genius—if he did say so his own damn self—and headed for the boardinghouse where Beamon had lived.

“Ma’am,” Longarm said to the tall, rather hefty woman who opened the door to his knock. “Could I put up here for a single night?”

“My rate is four dollars for the week.”

“I only need the one night.”

“I don’t run a hotel here, young man. I offer rooms by the week or by the month. No exceptions.”

“I could pay a dollar and a half for the one night, ma’am. You do include board, don’t you?”

She sniffed. “You could put up at the hotel over on Main for half that.”

“But they wouldn’t have meals as good as what I’ve heard you serve.”

“Who told you that, young man?”

It had been a hell of a long time since he’d been called that.

“Fella name of … let me think … Beamon? Something like that.”

“He boarded with me, that’s true enough. Are you a friend of his?”

“An acquaintance is all,” Longarm said, “but he spoke highly of you. That’s why I thought of you when I discovered I have to stay over tonight. Your people haven’t finished with supper yet, have they?”

“A dollar and a half, you say. Cash money?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I would have to wash the sheets after only one night’s use, you know.”

“I could go as high as a dollar seventy-five. My boss won’t reimburse me for anything more than that.”

“You’re a businessman, Mister …?”

“Long,” Longarm told her with a smile. “Custis Long.”

“My name is Willets. Missus Willets, if you please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You don’t have luggage, Mr. Long?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t expect to be staying over.”

“Yes, well, you seem a nice man, Mr. Long. I am willing to make an exception for you. Come inside. Supper will be served in twenty minutes. There is a pump and wash basin on the back porch, clean towels in the pantry. One towel and one change of linen each week. Not that that applies to you, of course.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his Stetson and went inside to join the men who had been Carl Beamon’s friends. Or so, at least, he hoped.

Chapter 33

It was no wonder Mrs. Willets was so impressed by a compliment to her food that she agreed to make an exception to her rules for the man who gave it. Longarm was fairly sure the poor soul had never before received any compliments on her cooking. If only because none were warranted.

The food was, to be charitable, lousy. Bland and cheap, without even the saving grace of being greasy. And all of it pretty much the same pale gray color, boiled meat included. A man had to be mighty hungry in order to force the shit into his face. Fortunately Longarm was plenty hungry. He finished his first plateful and, to Mrs. Willets’s obvious approval, asked for seconds. None of the other fellows at the table competed with him in a scramble for refills.

“Save room for dessert, Mr. Long,” Mrs. Willets helpfully advised.

“Oh, I’ll surely do that, ma’am, thank you.” He smiled at the old battle-ax and had some more lumpy mashed potatoes swimming in an off-white liquid that was either gravy or library paste, he wasn’t quite sure which.

Dessert turned out to be bread pudding lightly laced with small black lumps that he almost desperately hoped were raisins. They must have been, he concluded, because the other boarders, who should already be wise to the potential dangers of Mrs. Willets’s table, all dug into the bread pudding without restraint, although several of them had passed up certain of the earlier courses.

When he was done filling the aching void that had been in his stomach, Longarm pushed back from the table, thumped the flat of his belly, and asked, “Anybody care to join me in a cigar after dinner? I have enough to spare.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer, mister,” one man said.

“Me too.”

“You may smoke on the front porch, Mr. Long,” Mrs. Willets announced firmly. “Please do not light up until you are outside.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, docile as a lamb and twice as innocent.

The two smokers in the crowd led the way from the dining room onto the porch, Longarm following close behind. Once outside, Longarm’s excellent cheroots in hand and streaming wisps of pale smoke, the men introduced themselves. Thomas Carey and Bernard Hicks, they said they were. The names meant nothing to Longarm. Apparently there had been no reason to mention either of them in the report Thad Browne’s coppers had prepared in the wake of the accident that killed Carl Beamon.

“What brings you to Aurora, Mr. Long?”

“Where are you from?”

Longarm smiled at the two and told them, “Business, Mr. Hicks. And I’m from real far away.” He blew a smoke ring. “All the way from Denver.” He laughed. “Had to stay overnight and picked this place on the recommendation of a fella I met once. Carl Beamon? Either of you know him?”

“We did,” Hicks said.

“Did? What’d he do, move out?”

“He’s dead,” Tom Carey informed the newcomer.

“No shit,” Longarm said with feigned surprise. “What happened?”

“Just an accident,” Carey said.

“Bullshit,” Hicks disagreed. “Carl was murdered, and that’s a fact.”

“Murdered?” Longarm prompted.

“He was.”

“Mr. Long, don’t believe that. Beamon died in an accident. Just a runaway wagon.”

“He was murdered,” Hicks insisted. “It was an accident.”

“What makes you think it was murder, Mr. Hicks?”

“I don’t think it was, I know it was. Carl—I knew him better than anyone else here—Carl told me he was going to come into some big money. He was supposed to meet two men that evening, see. He knew something important, and these men he was meeting, they were going to pay him to tell them about it. But only them. That was the deal. They wanted him to tell them everything he knew, but agree to not tell anyone else.”

“Did he tell you what it was that he knew, what it was that was so important?”

Hicks shook his head. “He said he couldn’t. Not if he wanted the money.”

“Mr. Long, my friend Bernie here has a real vivid imagination. Don’t believe any of this. Beamon was killed in an ordinary, everyday kind of accident. That’s what the police said, and who would know better than them?”

That was a question Longarm was not inclined to get into at the moment. If he ever did, though, Tom Carey might be in for some rude awakenings.

“So who were these two men?” Longarm asked. “Did he meet with them before he was killed? Did he have money on him when he died?”

Carey scowled and said, “I don’t want to be rude, mister, but I don’t want to listen to any more of this. Good night, the both of you.” Carey went back inside the boardinghouse, leaving Longarm and Hicks alone on the porch. Longarm settled into a rocking chair and motioned for Hicks to join him in a companion chair nearby.

“You really believe Beamon was murdered, don’t you?”

“I do, sir. Like I said, I knew Carl better than anyone else here. He was genuinely excited about his good fortune, about coming into some money. I don’t know how much these men had talked about paying him, but it must have been some hundreds of dollars anyway. That would have been very big money indeed for someone like Carl. Or for that matter for someone like me. I know I’ve never made more than eight dollars in one week, not in my whole life. I doubt Carl ever made that much even.”

“Who were these men? Police? Reporters? Something like that?” The men who spoke with Boatwright had introduced themselves as reporters. Two of them. Longarm’s experience, though, was that genuine reporters seldom traveled in pairs. Generally they were loners interested in being the first to get the news, competing even with others working for the same newspaper or magazine. Two men had talked to Boatwright. Two men were supposed to talk with Beamon. Longarm placed scant faith in coincidence at the best of times, and he saw no reason to suspend that skepticism now.

“I don’t know,” Hicks said. “Carl never told me that.”

“Do you know where they were to meet him?”

“Yes, he did tell me that. They were meeting him at the Lone Tree Saloon.”

That was interesting, Longarm thought. It was outside the Lone Tree that Beamon had died. And these two men, whoever they were, knew to expect Beamon to be at that place, presumably at that time. It would have been no particular trick to fake a runaway and deliberately run someone down in the street. It was the sort of thing that could be done in plain sight of half the town’s population and no one would know it was no accident.

“Did Carl mention anything to you about a girl?” Longarm asked. “A pretty girl? Something that had to do with the bombing he escaped a few days before he died?” That clue was one BethAnne Mobley had unknowingly given him. A pretty girl who Beamon had talked about, a pretty girl who had done something. Longarm had seen Commissioner Troutman’s wife. No one in his right mind would have termed her a pretty girl. Probably not even when she’d been young enough to qualify as a girl, and that had been one hell of a long time back.

“No, he didn’t. He never said anything like that. I’m sure of it.”

“How about an Indian girl?” Longarm asked. “He never said anything to you about a pretty Indian girl?” The official line still maintained that the Utes were behind the bombing. If the bomb was thrown by a girl—one Longarm suspected Beamon might have seen and been talking about—he supposed it would not have been impossible that the girl was a Ute.

“An Indian? Absolutely not. Carl wouldn’t have called Pocahontas a pretty girl. And if he’d seen an Indian he would surely have mentioned it. He was petrified of all Indians. Hated them too, but mostly he was scared of them. He couldn’t stand to be near one. Not any Indian.”

“Oh?”

“When he was a kid, eight, ten years old, something like that, his family was traveling overland from Ohio. They’d stopped beside some creek. He didn’t know where. Kansas maybe, or Nebraska. I suppose it didn’t really matter. Carl wandered off with some dough balls and a hand line to see if he could catch some fish. He hadn’t hardly gotten out of sight from the camp than some Indians attacked. They killed everybody in his family. His father, his brothers, his mother and sister. Carl heard it happening. He hid in the brush. Stayed there for days, I guess, even after the Indians were long gone. It must’ve been terrible what they did to his mother and sister. He said afterward he wasn’t sure which body was which, just that two of the bodies were female.

“He never knew what tribe it was that killed his people. Didn’t matter to him. He was afraid of all Indians after that. Right to this day—that is, to the day he died, I guess. Scared to death of them. No, mister, if he saw an Indian, Carl never would have referred to her as being pretty.”

Longarm grunted and sat back in the rocker, digesting both the meal that lay heavy in his stomach and the information Bernie Hicks was telling him.

“I wish I knew what it was he was going to tell those two men,” Longarm mused out loud.

“You aren’t a businessman from Denver, are you, mister?”

Longarm smiled and confessed his occupation.

“That’s all right then. I expect you have the right to know in that case.”

“You’ve been a big help, Mr. Hicks. Thank you.”

“I wish I could give you the rest of the answers, Marshal.”

“I wish you could too. But don’t worry. We’ll find out sooner or later. One way or some-damn-other. This is one murder that won’t go unpunished. That’s a promise. If you think of anything else that might be helpful …”

Hicks nodded. “I’ll let you know.”

“Good. An’ now, sir, I think I better get upstairs to bed before I fall asleep right here in this chair an’ don’t wake again until breakfast.” Longarm stood, yawning. “Good night, Mr. Hicks.”

“Good night, Marshal.”

Chapter 34

A girl. The stinking sonuvabitch of a bomb was thrown by a girl, and a pretty girl at that. Not an Indian girl. Black hair or a black wig. Longarm had seen that for himself that day. Not seen. Exactly. It was more like an impression than any sight he could call precisely to mind again. But he’d definitely had an impression of black hair underneath the cape and hood of the bomber.

Cape and hood. And it was a damn girl. Shit, she could’ve ducked round a corner and tossed the cape into a trash can, then come right back and joined the crowd of gawking blood-lookers who gathered in the aftermath of every public tragedy.

Longarm could have stood beside her that day and never known the difference. He, everybody, naturally thought of the bomber being a man. For sure it had been a man he’d gone dashing around looking for after the explosion. A man with longish black hair. Likely an Indian. It was no damn wonder he hadn’t seen anybody like that. It was even luckier that there hadn’t been some poor innocent Indian wandering past that day. The Indian would have been strung up from a lamppost and never deserved it. Hell, Longarm or one of the other boys might well have shot him down their own selves and felt righteous about it. And the truth was that it was some damn girl who did this.

Longarm grimaced. He needed to talk to Billy Vail again. That was all there was to it. He had to see Billy, never mind that contact between them was dangerous. Never mind that it might give the game away and alert whoever was behind this that Billy’s boys were onto the lies.

Dammit, it was a chance they would just have to take.

But first there were a couple things Longarm wanted to do, a couple things he needed to set up. Then, dangerous or no, he would pay a call on “Mr. Janus” over at the hospital.

Satisfied that he was doing the right thing, Longarm left the boardinghouse that morning, lighted a cheroot, and went off in search of a hack to take him back to Denver. He had a lot to do, and the quicker he got to it the better it would be for all concerned.

“Do you know that every time I see that stupid hat I think there’s some big-ass bird nesting in your hair.”

Deborah laughed so hard she sprayed bits of bread crust onto her smock. “What are you doing here, Custis?” she asked as she brushed the crumbs off her breast. Longarm would gladly have volunteered to do that for her, but he doubted she would have let him. Not out here in broad daylight where half the doctors and nurses in Denver could see if they were of a mind to be looking. And who in their right mind would not be looking when the prettiest one of them all was sitting there on a shaded bench having her lunch? For certain sure it was a view Longarm enjoyed. Deborah smiled when he told her that. “Thank you. But I notice you haven’t answered my question yet. What brings you here now? And why didn’t you come by last night? I thought we were supposed to have supper at the Windemere.”

Longarm winced. He’d forgotten about that. Hell, it was only idle bed talk that had brought it up to begin with. He’d forgotten about it within seconds of suggesting it. “I was asleep when I told you we’d do that,” he said, trying to wriggle off the hook. “I meant that we’d do it tonight, not last night. Last night I was working. Honest.”

Deborah gave him a deliberately skeptical look, then relented and showed him a welcoming smile. “All right. I forgive you. On condition that you take me out to dinner tonight instead.”

“That’s a deal,” Longarm promised.

“Now about that question I asked you.

“I need a favor,” he said.

“Somehow, Custis, that does not surprise me.”

“I need to get in to see Billy again, Deb. Can you swipe a doctor’s coat and whatever other stuff it will take to make me look like I belong here?”

“Of course. Better yet, I will go with you when you go to his room. A doctor and nurse together won’t seem suspicious, but a strange doctor on the floor might.”

Longarm thought that over and had to agree. Her idea was a good one. “Once we’re inside an’ I can talk with Billy without being overheard, there’s something else I want you to do too. I need to know if there’s any other rooms, on the other floors maybe, with guards outside them. I need to know if there’s other patients who may be being hidden there like Billy is.”

“You think the others might have survived too?”

“Two of them maybe.”

Deborah shook her head. “There were only four people inside the carriage, right?”

“That’s right.”

“The lady was killed, of course. And at least one man. His leg was blown off, and if he didn’t die at the scene he bled to death en route to the hospital. I was on duty that day, Custis. I am sure that he was declared dead on arrival. As for the fourth man—third, I mean, fourth person—I can’t be so certain. But I can find out for you, of course. I’ll take you in to see Billy first. Then I can check on this other man for you.”

“You’re a doll. If we weren’t in public I’d show you how much I appreciate you.”

“Keep that in mind, dear. You can show me tonight.” She smiled. “After dinner.”

“Right. After dinner. It’s a promise.”

Deborah wrapped the remainder of her sandwich in a napkin and tucked it away in the tiny wicker basket she brought her lunch in each day, then stood and brushed her skirt off. “Ready?”

“When you are.”

“Then follow me, Doctor.”

Chapter 35

Billy’s brows furrowed in intense concentration. Frustration too, more than likely. Longarm suspected his boss was having a perfectly awful time staying cooped up in here while there was work to be done out in the rest of the world. “A girl, you say? You think the bomb was thrown by a girl?”

“I can’t prove it, Billy. The fellow who could have was killed in an accident that I’d have to say looks more an’ more suspicious the more I look at it.” Longarm relayed the information he’d learned about Carl Beamon and the two men who’d been expected to make him rich that same night the man was killed.

Billy grunted. “He talked about a girl throwing the bomb?”

“He talked about a girl. A pretty girl. He never exactly said that she’s the one that threw the bomb. But that’s the inference you pretty much have to make when you put the statements together. He told two, three different people that, or something like it. Kept mumbling about a girl. That’s what the driver of the carriage said and the girlfriend”—it seemed kinder to refer to BethAnne as a girlfriend rather than the tawdry little cheap hooker she really was—“and the fellow at the boardinghouse. He told all of them pretty much the same thing, but never got into any detail about it. And in truth he never actually said that this girl, whoever she was, was the one that threw the bomb into your carriage.”

“But why would some girl—not an Indian, but a white girl—why would she want to kill the commissioner?” Billy mused aloud.

“I been wondering that too, Boss. Do you know what I asked myself? On the ride over here I got to thinking. We all been running in pretty much the same direction. We all been thinking in terms of someone that wanted to kill Commissioner Troutman. Billy, we don’t know why somebody threw that bomb any more than we know who.”

“That’s true,” Billy agreed.

“Instead of concentrating on the obvious, Billy, maybe we oughta look at things from some other points of view. Like … is there anybody that might’ve wanted to kill you, for instance, and the commissioner just kinda got caught in the middle? I mean, it was a bomb, after all. Bombs ain’t exactly specific about who they pick out to blow apart. An’ I don’t see it carved in stone anywhere that the thing had to be aimed at Commissioner Troutman. It could as easy have been you they wanted to kill an’ got him by mistake.”

“You’re really sure he is dead, Longarm?”

“Yes, sir. My nurse friend assures me the commissioner was dead when they carried him off that ambulance.”

“But they told me..

“Yeah. I been thinking about that. Attorney Cotton and those politicians did tell you he was still alive. They have to’ve had a pretty good reason for wanting to make you believe that and for keeping you under wraps here all this time.”

“I can’t imagine what that reason could be,” Billy admitted.

“Neither can I just now. But we know there is a reason. Has to be a pretty damn good one too for them to go to all this trouble about it. Now that we know there’s something to look for, I expect we’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I cannot believe those men would engage in a conspiracy to murder anyone,” the marshal declared.

“No, sir. I been thinking about this plenty, as I expect you can imagine. I got to believe the same thing. Colorado politicians can be about as greedy an’ nasty as the rest of ‘em, but murder isn’t usually one of their methods. Devious, sure. Lying, cheating, selfish, grab-with-both hands assholes, yes. But murderers? I don’t think so. So I been kinda leaning toward another conclusion that I got no proof for whatsoever, Billy.”

“Yes?”

“What I’m beginning to think, Boss, is that we got two different things going on here. I think somebody, for what they musta considered good reason, decided to throw that bomb at one or more of the people in that carriage. They wanted to kill somebody. Just exactly which somebody—or somebodies—remains to be seen. Then after they done that, Attorney Cotton and those other men, the state senator an’ congressman and maybe others too, they jumped in with a plan of their own. Again we don’t know why, but we do know that they’re covering up the commissioner’s death. At least to you, they are, though it was in all the newspapers and everywhere public that him and his wife were killed.

“What I got to think, Billy, is that these are two separate things, done for two different reasons, an’ they aren’t necessarily connected except by happenstance.”

Billy pursed his lips and scratched his neck. He hadn’t shaved in two days or more, and he was beginning to look a trifle on the scruffy side. Probably was starting to itch too. “it could be.”

“Damn right it could.”

“I can’t think of anyone who had a reason to kill me,” Billy admitted. “Nothing special anyway.”

“All right. What about Mr. Terrell? Would anyone want him dead?”

“Not more than several hundred, I suppose. All I do is chase them. He is the one who puts them away.”

“Anyone that he mentioned in particular lately?” Longarm asked.

Billy scratched some more. “He did mention one investigation that he intended to take before a special grand jury later this year.”

“Yes?”

“Sedition, that one was. He said a group of anarchists were planning to disrupt the exercise of lawful authority in Colorado and several other Western states and territories.”

“Anarchists?”

“That’s right. Apparently there is a nest of them living on the north side, somewhere in those tenements north of the tenderloin district. Jason said they were mostly Middle Europeans. Serbs and Slavs, some Italians, I believe. We didn’t talk about it too much. He only mentioned it so I could think about providing help with his investigations when the time came. I understand he had his own sources of information, some inside contact who was willing to inform on the others in the—what did he call it?—cell, I believe was the word he used. A cell of anarchists bent on destroying our form of government so they could replace it with what they refer to as ‘man’s natural state of self-reliance.’ Some stupidity like that. You know the kind. No taxes, no controls, free love, all that horseshit. The whole bunch of them are probably lunatics.”

“Fanatical lunatics?” Longarm asked.

“Could be,” Billy said.

“Fanatic enough to throw a bomb that would wipe out not just the government officer who was a direct threat to them but a friend of the president too?”

“It makes sense, in a manner of speaking.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t it.”

“I think you should look into that,” Billy said. “Look in Jason’s files. There should be something there on the progress of his inquiries.”

“All right, Boss. I damn sure will,” Longarm promised. “First thing.”

Which would, of course, be something of a trick since he wasn’t supposed to be there at all, but over in Utah with papers to serve.

Still, it was something that needed to be done. “In the meantime, Boss, whyn’t you give some thought to what we can do to figure out what Cotton and that crowd are up to with this charade of theirs.”

“That I will, Longarm. That I will.”

Longarm checked his watch. He’d told Deborah he would meet her back at the bench where she took her lunch once he was done talking with Billy. He was more anxious than ever now to find out what she’d learned about the possible survival of U.S. Attorney Terrell.

“You take care of yourself, Mr. Janus,” Longarm said. “An’ I’ll be back to check up on your progress later.”

“Do that, Doctor. You just do that,” Billy said with a conspiratorial wink.

Chapter 36

“Pssst! Henry. Over here.”

“Longarm. What are you doing here?”

“Waitin’ for you, actually. I didn’t want to miss YOU.”

Henry glanced nervously down the street in both directions, but no one was paying the least bit of attention to them.

“It’s all right, Henry. Do you have your keys with you?”

“Of course I do. Why do you ask?”

“Because I got to get into the building, that’s why.”

“What building?”

“The Federal Building. What the hell else would I be needing your keys for?”

“You need to get into the office, Longarm?”

Longarm grinned at him. “Not ours. The U.S. attorney’s.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then sit down here on the bench beside me an’ I’ll explain. First, though, do you happen to know if Cotton and his people have closed up an’ gone for the evening?”

Henry snorted. “You won’t find any of that crowd working late. I’m sure they are gone.” Henry seemed to think about that for a moment. Then his eyes got wider. “Longarm! Really. You don’t intend …”

“Maybe you’d best not ask me that question, Henry. You might not wanta know the answer.”

“Or perhaps I should.”

“I saw Billy this afternoon, Henry. Here’s what him and me got to thinking …”

Five minutes later Longarm was on his way the few short blocks to the Federal Building, Henry trudging grim-faced but determined at his side.

“I’m tellin’ you, Henry, you don’t have to get involved with this. I can handle it alone.”

“You mean you can take all the heat yourself if you get caught,” Henry retorted. “May I remind you that two pairs of eyes will get done with the job in half the time? If I am with you there is that much less chance of anyone being found out.”

Longarm nodded. He should have known better than to think Henry would hand the job off to Longarm and walk away. The meek and bookish-appearing clerk had a core made of whang leather and spring steel. All the more so when the issue at hand involved his personal loyalty to Marshal Billy Vail. No, there was no way Henry would allow himself to be kept out of this even if Longarm wanted it. And the truth was that Henry was perfectly right in what he said. Two of them would have twice the chance of success that either one of them would have alone.

Henry used the keys on his ring to open the front door of the Federal Building. He carefully locked it behind them once they were inside.

The gas lamps in the corridors were turned to a low flame, and half of them were extinguished altogether. Longarm thought the dim, shadowy effect was more than a little bit spooky, but Henry did not so much as seem to notice. But then Henry spent a good many evenings alone in the office tending to the mountains of paperwork that kept the place running smoothly. Longarm tended to spend his evenings enjoying a drink, a meal, perhaps a little feminine companionship. He was not used to being in the building when it was empty like this.

Their footsteps rang hollowly on the flooring as they marched past the marshal’s office and on down the hall to the somewhat larger and more nicely appointed suite of offices occupied by the U.S. attorney and his staff.

“I don’t have a key to this door,” Henry whispered.

“That’s all right. I do.”

Henry gave him a quizzical look, which Longarm ignored. Longarm took out his penknife and opened the short, stubby blade. He slipped the slim length of steel between the door and jamb, slid it up and down until he located the lock bar, and jimmied the lock sideways until he could insert the knife blade past the bar. A light tug on the handle and the door swung open.

“I don’t think I could have gotten it open that quickly if I did have the key,” Henry said.

“All it takes is a criminal touch,” Longarm told him. “I think I woulda made one hell of a fine outlaw if I’d wanted to go into that line of work.”

“You may be right.” Henry started to push the door closed behind them.

“Leave it open,” Longarm ordered.

“What if the night watchman comes by?”

Longarm grinned at him. “Hell, son, that’s why I want you to leave it stand open. Whoever is on duty tonight is sure to know us. An’ would we call attention to ourselves if we was up to something we oughtn’t to be?”

“Oh. I see.”

“Good. One more thing. If the watchman does come in to see what we’re up to, don’t tell him anything unless he asks. That’s one of the first things that gives crooks away. They think they’re suspected of something so they start telling lies to cover it over. If you just act like you got a right to be doing whatever it is you’re doing, most often folks—even guards—will think you really do. So if Sam or Charlie or one of them comes in to see who’s in the office late, just tell them hello an’ let it go at that.”

“I wouldn’t have thought of that,” Henry said.

“Yeah, but you don’t have the criminal frame of mind like I do.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to regret the lack.”

Longarm smiled at him, then set about lighting every damn lamp in the place. Hey, they had nothing to hide there. No, sir, not a thing.

“Whyn’t you take the files in the outer office here,” Longarm suggested. “I’ll look in Mr. Terrell’s office. Or Cotton’s, I s’pose it would be now.”

“I wonder whose it is at this point. You did say the U.S. attorney may still be alive, right?”

“That’s right, I … oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong, Longarm?”

Longarm rolled his eyes and shook his head. “That nurse friend of mine who was gonna find out if there is another hideout patient being kept under wraps.”

“Yes?”

“I was s’posed to take her out to dinner tonight. Right about now, as a matter of fact. She is gonna be pissed, I think.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. Too late to worry about it now, so let’s get busy an’ see what Mr. Terrell’s files can tell us.”

Chapter 37

“Are you sure this is the place, Longarm?”

“Pretty sure.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder, then quickly in both directions down the street. “It doesn’t look …”

“Safe?” Longarm suggested.

“That too.”

“You don’t find the sort of people we’re looking for livin’ real high on the hog.”

“I suppose you are right. The only thing I hope is that we find them. Period,” Henry said.

“We will if those reports are correct. Now … oops … act drunk,” Longarm hissed in a low whisper.

Henry did not wait for an explanation. He hiccuped. Loudly. And swayed a little on his feet. Longarm put an arm around him as if helping to support Henry’s weight, then started into the alley where they expected to find the cell of anarchists.

“You. Shtope,” a thick, heavily accented voice said from the darkness.

“Shtope?” Longarm asked.

“Shto … shta … stope.”

“Oh. Stop. You mean you want us to stop? What the hell for? Where’s Bucktooth Annie? Ain’t she working tonight?” Longarm complained loudly. “Why ain’t Annie here? Can’t a fella even get laid around here without a bunch of strangers peeking over his shoulder?” Longarm lurched closer to the man who, he could see now, was seated on a wooden crate smack in the middle of the narrow alley. There was no way to get deeper into the darkness without pushing past him.

“No hoor here, mister. Go ‘way.”

“But my friend an’ me, we’re awful horny. We got money. You wanta see? We got lots o’ money,” Longarm said in a very slightly slurred voice as if he too had been tippling more than a man ought to, at least more than was sensible if he intended to stumble into dark alleys in the middle of the night.

The man leaned forward to see, whether with the intention of grabbing the money or simply from a natural impulse to look when one is told to, Longarm couldn’t know.

What he did know was that the dumb sap had set himself up just right. A solid shot with Longarm’s elbow—harder and less likely to suffer damage than the much more vulnerable knuckles—delivered to the point of the man’s jaw sent his eyes rolling up in their sockets and knocked him cold.

“What was that for?” Henry gasped.

“He’s their lookout,” Longarm explained.

“How did you know he was here? I couldn’t see anything back here.”

“Hell, I couldn’t either,” Longarm admitted. “That’s what ears are for. Mighty useful in the dark, I heard him moving around.”

Henry stepped over the guard and paused. “Now where?”

“There’s light showing behind that cellar door down there. That must be the place.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then don’t shoot nobody. We can always apologize later.”

Henry frowned and dragged a revolver from his pocket. Henry did not normally carry a weapon. It was not that he couldn’t use one. He could, and could use it well when he had to, but it was not his habit. They’d had to stop in Billy Vail’s office after they left the U.S. attorney’s offices so Henry could open the marshal’s safe and arm himself. Longarm drew his own ever-present Colt and edged forward. He wanted to get inside the cellar hideaway before that guard woke up and shouted an alarm.

“Ready?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I hope you are right about this,” Henry said.

“That’s two of us. All right now. Stay with me.” Longarm inched down the stone steps and listened outside the closed door for a moment. He could hear voices inside, but could not make out what was being said.

Longarm raised his leg high, boot heel first, and kicked the door just above the lock.

Wood splintered and gave way, and the door slammed open, flooding the steps and alley with yellow lamplight.

Longarm bounded inside, Colt held at the ready.

The sight that greeted him there was enough to make a man’s blood run cold.

Chapter 38

Why, these good folks—there seemed to be four of them at least, three men and a very pretty young woman—had themselves a dandy little factory set up in this rundown cellar beneath a crumbling tenement.

Not that there was anything wrong with that in itself. Longarm appreciated enterprise as much as the next fellow. The problem was with the product, not the effort. These assholes were making bombs. Lots of bombs.

One sweeping glance around the place showed two kegs of blasting powder and a box of high-grade dynamite. A workbench was hard against one wall. Its surface was covered with bits of this and that, which appeared to be bombs either already built or in the process of being built.

Some of them looked ordinary and innocent. Until Longarm noticed fuse cord poking out of them. There were glass bottles that had been converted into bombs. Plain old red bricks that had been hollowed out and stuffed with gunpowder, again with detonating caps and fuses attached, even two china dolls with bright blue eyes and golden yellow yarn for hair … and their bellies apparently full of death and destruction.

Longarm felt more than half sick when he took it all in. These sons of bitches were planning some serious mayhem, and God knows how many people—perhaps even small children judging from those dolls—were the potential targets of these animals.

“United States deputy marshals!” Longarm announced. “Move, damn you, an’ you’re dead!”

All four obligingly threw their hands up and stopped where they were, which was immediately in front of the workbench.

Behind them, closer to the door where Longarm and Henry now were, he could see several wooden crates partially filled with completed bombs.

All told, he guessed, there must have been forty, fifty bombs either already built or in various stages of assembly. Whatever these people planned, they were damned ambitious about it.

It was the woman who recovered her wits and spoke first. By that time Longarm already noted that Carl Beamon had been right; she was mighty nice-looking, if a bit on the skinny side. She was extraordinarily pale, like she rarely allowed sunlight to reach her, and had huge, liquid eyes. Her hair was black and long and glossy, although this woman—Longarm guessed she had barely reached her twenties—in no other way could ever remind him of Spotted Fawn or any other Indian maiden. The Indian women Longarm had known in the past were earthy, laughing creatures, filled with a zest for life and living that Longarm admired and appreciated.

This one—there was something about her. Something that made him think of vipers and scorpions. Something deadly and evil. He doubted she knew how to laugh or how to enjoy life. Take it perhaps, but not appreciate or enjoy it.

She turned and said something to her companions in a language Longarm neither knew nor recognized.

“I said don’t move,” Longarm told them firmly.

“Don’t say nothing either. You’re all under arrest on a charge of murder and-“

“You have no authority to arrest us,” the young woman said in a cool, perfectly controlled voice.

“I’m a United States deputy marshal and-“

“We do not recognize the United States or any other government,” she said.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to, honey. I reckon it’ll be enough that the government recognizes you.”

“Do not call me by any of your disgusting pet names. May we put our hands down now? It is tiring to stand so long like this.” She continued to look at Longarm, but said something more in her own language, and the men began to fidget and shift from foot to foot.

“Stay just like you are, each of you,” Longarm told them.

The woman barked out a sharp command, but none of the men moved. She repeated it, whatever it was, and looked plenty annoyed that they weren’t doing whatever it was she told them.

“Longarm, I think we better put these people in manacles, then call for the local police to take them off our hands. We need to inventory everything here and start the paperwork on them,” Henry told him.

“Yeah, I s’pose. Look, Henry, you go back out in the alley. Put some cuffs on that guy up there to make sure he don’t cause any trouble, then go see if you can scare up some Denver cops to help us clean this mess up.”

“Are you sure you won’t need me?”

“None of us here is goin’ anyplace until you get back,” Longarm told him.

“I won’t be long.”

Longarm heard Henry take the steps two at a time behind him. Then he used his left hand to reach into his pocket for a cheroot. The Colt revolver in his right hand did not waver. “I want the four of you to move just a couple feet to my right. Over there by that wall, please.” He gestured with the barrel of the .44 to enforce the suggestion. “But slow, please. Everybody go nice an’ slow an’ nobody will have to get hurt.”

The man on the right moved obediently in the direction Longarm wanted.

“That’s fine. Now you.” Longarm motioned with his revolver again and the second man, a young fella with greasy hair and a scrawny, wispy little excuse for a mustache, began sidling away from the workbench too.

“You’re next, lady. Slow an’ easy if you please.”

The woman said something and seemed to stumble, then in a blur of motion grabbed at one of the lamps hung on the wall beside the work bench.

“Oh, shit,” Longarm had time to mutter.

The woman had the lamp in one hand and a brick in the other, except the brick was no innocent chunk of fired red clay, but a completed bomb. Longarm could see the fuse cord dangling limp out of one end of it.

And he could imagine the sort of damage a bomb like that would do when it went off. Not only would there be the force of the explosion to contend with, there would also be a virtual storm of shards of brick flying in all directions, as deadly effective as the splinters of steel shrapnel from an artillery shell. Anyone within probably ten yards or so was sure to be injured at the very least, and anyone close to the blast would surely be killed.

“I don’t know what you think you’re gonna accomplish with that thing, lady, but let me tell you something. If you think you can bluff me …”

“Bluff, lawman? I do not bluff, never,” the woman hissed.

One of the men said something to her, and she gave him a short, sneering answer. The man went pale.

“She will kill us all,” the third man, who was standing immediately beside her, yelped in a high-pitched, overly shrill voice. The man sounded scared half out of his britches. Not that Longarm could blame him. The woman was holding the brick so the end of the fuse hung mighty damn close to the flame of the lamp in her other hand. “Leave us, mister, please, or she will blow us all up.”

“Now that’s kinda funny when you think about it,” Longarm said. “You got no proper hostages so you think you can get me to back off by taking yourselves hostage? Bullshit. If you assholes wanta blow yourselves up, be my guests. Light that fuse an’ be damned for all I care.” He jammed the end of his cheroot between his teeth and glared at them.

Then Longarm’s eyes widened in complete and unfeigned surprise as the crazy female did just about the last thing in the world he ever would have expected.

The idiot did light the fuse.

And boldly, unflinchingly, held the bomb high so it could complete its destructive work with maximum efficiency.

Jesus, Longarm had time to think as he threw himself backward toward the doorway.

Chapter 39

Henry still looked sick. Not that Longarm could blame him. Who would have thought that much blood could come out of such few people? It was positively amazing.

And at that the damage hadn’t been nearly as bad as it might have been. Luckily only a few of the bombs on the worktable had gone off along with the one the young woman had deliberately exploded. Had all the explosive material in that cellar gone up, it would have brought the tenement down and probably half the other buildings in the block too.

As it was, there was one hell of a mess for the Denver police to clean up. And plenty of explanations that would have to be made later. At a more convenient time.

“Are you all right, Henry? You look kinda pale.”

Henry swallowed and shivered a little, but all he said was, “I’m fine.”

“You look like shit.”

“Thank you. May I say the same for you?” While Henry was pale and sickly-looking in the bright light of late morning, Longarm was still half covered with dust and grime thrown up in clouds by the explosion. He had not yet had time to change clothes or clean up. There had been a meeting to hold and briefings to be given.

But that was earlier. Now they were in a hansom cab on their way across town.

“You’d feel better if we stopped an’ got you something to eat,” Longarm said. “We got time if you want.”

The suggestion turned Henry a rather interesting shade of yellowish green. Henry had long since lost last night’s supper, and he had not been willing to replace it this morning with any breakfast, settling for a few sips of sweet tea while Longarm had filled up with a hearty breakfast earlier.

“No, thank you,” the clerk said.

“You’d feel better.”

“Longarm, you are well and truly pissing me off.”

“Sorry.” Longarm settled back on the worn upholstery of the public conveyance and smoked a cigar in silence the rest of the way.

The cab delivered them outside the hospital, and Henry paid the driver, then followed Longarm inside and up to the third floor.

There was a different guard sitting outside Billy’s door. “Sorry. No admittance, gents. The man inside is in protective custody,” the guard told them.

“Is that so?” Longarm asked with a smile. Then, not in any mood to suffer horseshit from the likes of this asshole, he inserted the muzzle of his Colt about a quarter inch into the guard’s left nostril.

The man’s eyes went wide, and Henry leaned down and relieved him of his revolver, then said, “We are United States deputy marshals here on official business. Who would you happen to be?”

“I, uh … I …”

“Speak up now. Don’t be shy.”

“I, um, I’m just doing what I was told. You know? Protective custody. Really.”

“Under whose protection?” Longarm asked, withdrawing the .44, but not very far.

“West Colorado Stockmen’s Association,” the unhappy guard told them.

“You have special law-enforcement powers under state law, is that right?” Henry asked. If so it was news to Longarm, but then he didn’t pay all that much attention to stuff that did not directly concern him.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“Let me tell you something, friend,” Henry said. “Your authority does not exceed ours. So stay well out of our way and maybe you will not have to go to jail.”

“Jail? Me? Marshal, I ain’t done nothing but what I was told. An’ that’s the natural truth.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it is,” Longarm said. He jammed his Colt back into its holster and turned away, Henry following close behind. The guard vacated his chair at the earliest possible instant, and went tearing off down the hospital corridor like his life depended on it.

Longarm and Henry entered Billy Vail’s room without knocking. Henry, Longarm saw without comment, looked close to tears when he saw the boss alive and well and lying in the narrow hospital bed there.

“Should be pretty much over with by now,” Longarm said, pulling his watch out and checking the time. “The rest of the boys should’ve had time by now to pretty much round all of them up. The ones we know about anyway. Likely there’s more, but we’ll find out about all that when we’ve had a chance to talk to the big boys.”

Before Billy could answer there was a commotion at the door, and Acting U.S. Attorney Cotton came bustling in. “You two had better have a good explanation for this or you will find yourselves out of work, I can assure you. You are interfering with an ongoing investigation.”

“Is that so?” Longarm asked.

“Yes, it most certainly is. I just hope you have not destroyed all our work thus far. Hasn’t Marshal Vail told you? He is here on an entirely voluntary basis, at the specific request of the president of the United States. We have good reasons for all this, reasons which you are in no position to understand, yet the two of you come charging in here like a pair of bulls in the proverbial china shop. You threaten one of my special deputies with a gun. You expose your own employer to danger. I … I don’t know what other harm you may have caused.”

Cotton marched into the center of the room with two handsomely dressed young men behind him. Two men, Longarm noticed, who pretty much fit the description that John Boatwright had given him for the two men who claimed to be newspaper reporters. Perhaps also the two men Carl Beamon was supposed to meet the night he was killed? Longarm wouldn’t have been surprised if that were so also.

“I’m sure my people didn’t mean to interfere with your investigations, J.B.,” Billy said.

“Perhaps not, Marshal, but you never know what damage they may have caused. Why, those Indians have sympathizers everywhere. You don’t know who you can trust.”

“The Indians that are responsible for the bombing that killed Mrs. Troutman?” Longarm asked.

“That’s right. The Ute tribe. We have definitive proof now that they were behind the attack. The problem is that we do not yet know which misguided whites may be supporting them.”

“Now ain’t that interesting,” Longarm drawled. “You have proof, eh?”

“That’s right, we do, and-“

“Commissioner Troutman knows all about it?” Longarm asked.

“Of course he does, and believe me, Marshal, the commissioner will be most upset when he learns that your people are not cooperating.”

“You’ve seen Commissioner Troutman, J.B.?” Billy asked.

“As recently as last night,” Cotton declared. “We had dinner together and talked about the results our people are obtaining.”

“Now that’s extra fascinating,” Longarm said, “because the way I understand it, Commissioner Troutman was killed in that bomb blast. Him an’ his lady too.”

“That is what we wanted the public to believe,” Cotton said smoothly. “The marshal here is in on the real truth. Has been all along. Tell him, Vail. Tell your man what you know.”

“What I know, J.B., is that I haven’t seen either the commissioner or the United States attorney. I’ve only seen you and the senator and the congressman. And of course Longarm here.”

Cotton sniffed. “Yes. Longarm. Did he tell you that he is supposed to be on assignment elsewhere? Did he mention that he is neglecting his official duties while he charges around interfering in plans decided upon by wiser minds than his?”

“He did mention that to me, J.B. As a matter of fact, he did.”

“I think a reprimand is in order at the very least, Marshal. I intend to recommend that. In writing, if you wish.”

“Recommend anything you damn please, J.B. Although I don’t know your recommendation will carry much weight. Not coming from a jail cell.”

“Jail cell? Whatever are you talking about, Vail?”

“You made a lot of mistakes, J.B. One of the lesser ones was allowing me to lie around here with nothing much to do but think. Once Longarm brought me information to work with, I began trying to deduce just why you and your friends in the cattle industry would do a stupid thing like pretend the commissioner was still alive and why you would keep me here in this hospital. Do you know what I came up with, J.B.?”

Hell, Longarm wanted to hear the answer to that one, whether Cotton did or not. He knew they would get it eventually from the people that Smiley and Dutch and the rest of the boys were busy putting in handcuffs this morning. But it wasn’t anything Longarm had quite worked out himself yet. He thought he had a part of it. But not everything.

“I know, of course, that the bombing was not done by the Utes,” Vail went on. “My people cleared that up this morning when they found the anarchists’ headquarters, complete with a stockpile of explosives, bomb-making equipment, and what have you. Those anarchists now are all either dead or in the custody of the Denver police.”

Longarm thought J.B. Cotton looked a mite pale upon receiving that unwelcome news.

“The bombing was unrelated to the plot you and your cronies developed. That had to be a spur-of-the-moment thing, of course. You had no time to plan it in advance, and in truth, J.B., you didn’t do a particularly good job with the little time you had available.

“The thing is, you and your friends wanted so badly to take control of those free grazing lands from the Utes that you were willing to lie, to deceive even the president of the United States, to achieve your ends.”

“That is preposterous. You cannot believe …”

“Oh, but I do believe it, J.B. And we will prove it. Commissioner Troutman was killed in that explosion. He did not survive, as you so often assured me since. I have reliable witnesses who will swear to the timing of his death. Yet you went to a great deal of trouble to convince me that he was still alive. I had to wonder why you would take that risk. Your reasons come down to something as common and as tawdry as simple greed. Your friends, and therefore you, expect to make a great deal of profit if they can steal grazing rights from the rightful owners, the Ute nation. But the commissioner, or any honest replacement who might be sent out here by the president, was certain to report back in the Utes’ favor. You did not want that.

“So you—you personally and whoever else was in on this behind you—came up with this lame scheme. You could inform the president that his friend Troutman was still alive but operating in secret as a means to protect himself against further attempts on his life. By doing that you could send false reports to the president and assure that the Utes would be stripped of their grazing rights in favor of you and your cronies. You had to keep me in the dark so I would corroborate your claims. Besides, you are thieves, but not murderers. You did not want to kill any of us who did not die in the bomb blast. You only wanted to make use of us. As for what you would do once your purposes were achieved, I suppose your intention has been to fake the commissioner’s death, probably placing the blame for that on the Utes also. It almost has to be something on that order since you cannot come up with a live commissioner, not when the man has been dead all this time. But as long as the president believed him to be alive, you could get away with falsifying reports critical of the Utes and supportive of the cattlemen.”

“You cannot possibly believe that,” Cotton said.

“I not only believe it, J.B., I am sure the interrogations that are under way this very moment in other parts of the city will confirm it. You see, my people were summoned back from their assignments—assignments you gave them to keep them out of the way—yesterday. They gathered this morning to receive new assignments, and by now most of your friends should already be in custody, J.B. As you are yourself now. It is my distinct pleasure, Mr. Cotton, to place you under arrest.”

“On what charge?” Cotton demanded.

“Murder,” Longarm put in before Billy could respond.

“Murder? Don’t be absurd, Long. Even if the marshal were right, which I deny totally, he said himself that murder was not part of the plan.”

“Maybe not, but it happened.”

“The bombing was an act of murder, yes, but I had nothing to do with that. Nothing.”

“Oh, I believe you about that,” Longarm said agreeably. “The murder I was talking about was Carl Beamon.”

Cotton seemed genuinely puzzled. “Who?”

“Oh, nobody important. Just a fella that worked for the carriage-hire company. He saw something, knew something, maybe guessed something. Those boys standing behind you killed him to make sure he couldn’t tell it an’ point any fingers where they didn’t belong.”

“No, I …”

“But they did, Cotton. Didn’t they bother tellin’ you what they done? They killed that fella Beamon. An’ being part of your conspiracy, the fact that they killed him for you an’ your pals, in the eyes of the law, Cotton, makes you as guilty of murder as they are.” Longarm smiled. “Check it out with a lawyer if you happen to know a good one.”

“No!” the acting U.S. attorney shouted. “They couldn’t. They can’t have.” He spun to face the two. “You idiots. Don’t you know any better than to-“

The bodyguards, or whoever the hell they were, apparently had no intention of standing there while their own boss gave them away.

The one nearer the door grabbed his gun. The other wrapped an arm around J. B. Cotton’s neck and held the lawyer in front of him like a shield.

“Look, dammit, we aren’t going to swing for the likes of him and his friends,” the one holding Cotton said. “We’re going to back out of here nice and slow. Nobody has to get hurt. All we want is gone. Okay?”

“Not okay at all,” Longarm said. “You move, mister, I’ll shoot this man.”

“All right, shoot him,” Longarm agreed.

“I’m not bluffing. I will shoot him.”

“Mister, I’m not bluffing either. Go right ahead an’ do whatever you think is best.”

The one who did not have a human shield apparently did not much care for the direction the conversation was taking. He already had his gun in hand, and he leveled it at Longarm. Or tried to.

Before he could cock the single-action Colt, Longarm’s gun filled the hospital room with thunder and with the stink of burnt gunpowder. The bodyguard took a slug in the chest and reeled backward, turning and falling headlong into the doorway, where he lay unmoving.

Cotton tried to pull away from the second man. He twisted and dropped to his knees, giving Longarm a clear shot.

The second killer was no quicker nor better than his partner had been. He went down with three bullets in him as Longarm, Henry, and Billy Vail fired almost simultaneously, knocking him off his feet and onto his back with blood gushing from a set of wounds in his chest and belly.

J.B. Cotton looked at his bodyguard and began to vomit.

“I didn’t know about the murder,” Billy said.

“Hell, Boss, there’s lots of details we got to work out yet. But I’m sure Mr. Cotton an’ his friends will be willin’ to cooperate once they see the choice is between that or the gallows.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised. But what about Jason Terrell? Did he really survive the bombing too or was that just more of their lies?”

“The U.S. attorney is fine, Billy. He’s down on the first floor, kept there just like you been. A nurse friend tells me he’s got a busted eardrum an’ likely won’t ever hear as good as he used to, but apart from that, he’s just fine.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Ready to get back to work now, Billy?”

“Damn right I am. Just as soon as I personally put handcuffs on Mr. Cotton here.”