Longarm on the Border

Tabor Evans

Longarm on the Border

Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long is dispatched to El Paso to extradite a prisoner from Mexico-and winds up target practice for some angry polecats.

Chapter 1

Even before he opened his eyes, in that instant between sleep and wakefulness, Longarm knew it had snowed during the night. Like the hunter whose senses guide him to prey, like the hunted whose senses keep him from becoming prey, Longarm was attuned to the subtlest changes in his surroundings. The light that struck his closed eyelids wasn't the usual soft gray that brightens the sky just before dawn. It had the harsh brilliance that comes only from the pre-sunrise skyglow being reflected from snow-covered ground.

Opening his eyes only confirmed what Longarm already knew. He didn't see much point in walking across the ice-cold room to raise a shade at one of the twin windows. The light seeping around the edges of the opaque shades had that cold, hard quality he'd sensed when he'd snapped awake.

Longarm swore, then grunted. He didn't believe in cussing the weather, or anything else he was powerless to change. He was a man who believed that swearing just wasted energy unless it served some purpose besides relieving his own dissatisfaction.

Last night, when he'd swung off the narrow-gauge after a long, slow, swaying trip up from Santa Fe to Denver, he'd noted the nip in the air, but his usually reliable weather sense hadn't warned him it might snow. For one thing, it was just too early in the year. It was only the first day of September, and the Rocky Mountains' winter was still a couple of months away.

Longarm hadn't been thinking too much about the weather last night, though. All that had been in his mind was getting to his room, taking a nightcap from the bottle of Maryland rye that stood waiting on his dresser, and falling into bed. On another night, he'd probably have followed his habit of dropping in at the Black Cat or one of the other saloons on his way home, to buck the faro bank for a few turns until he relaxed. He'd started to cut across the freightyard to Colfax instead of taking the easier way along Wynekoop Street. What he'd seen happen in New Mexico Territory had left a sour taste in his mouth that the three or four drinks he'd downed on the train couldn't wash away.

There was little light in the freightyard. The acetylene flares mounted on standards here and there created small pools of brightness, but intensified the darkness between them. Longarm was spacing his steps economically as he crossed the maze of tracks, sighting along the wheel-polished surface of the rails to orient himself, when he sensed rather than saw the man off to his left. He couldn't see much of anything in the gloom, just the interruption of the light reflected on the rail along which he was sighting.

"Casey?" Longarm called.

He didn't think it was Casey, who was the night yard super, and more likely to be in his office, but if it was one of Casey's yard bulls patrolling, the fact that he'd called the boss's name would alert the man that Longarm wasn't a freight car thief.

A shot was his answer, a muzzle flash following the whistle of lead uncomfortably close to his guts. Longarm drew as he was dropping and snapshotted as he rolled, throwing his own lead at the place where he'd seen the orange blast. He didn't know whether or not he'd connected. He hadn't had a target; his shot was the equivalent to the buzz a rattlesnake gives when a foot comes too near its coils.

Faintly, the sound of running footsteps gritting on cinders gave him the answer. Whoever'd tried to bushwhack him wasn't going to hang around and argue. For several seconds, Longarm lay on the rough earth, sniffing coal dust, trying to stab through the dark with his eyes, straining his ears to hear some giveaway sound that would spot a target for him. Except for the distant chugging of a yard mule cutting cars at the shunt, there was nothing to hear.

Longarm didn't waste time trying to prowl the yard. Being the target of a grudge shot from the dark wasn't anything new to him, or to any of the other men serving as deputy U.S. marshals in the unreconstructed West of the 1880s. Longarm guessed that whoever'd been responsible for the drygulch try had been skulking in another car of the narrow-gauge on the trip up from New Mexico. God knows, he'd stepped on enough toes during his month there to have become a prime target for any one of a half-dozen merciless, powerful men. Any of them could've sent a gunslick to trail him to Denver and waylay him. The attack had to have originated in New Mexico Territory, he decided. Nobody in Denver had known when he'd be arriving.

Brushing himself off, Longarm had hurried on across the freightyard and to his room. He'd hit the sack without lighting a lamp, dropping his clothes to the floor as he shed them, bone-tired.

On the dresser, the half-full bottle of Maryland rye gleamed in the light trickling around the windowshade. Its invitation was more attractive than the idea of staying in the warm bed. Longarm swung his bare feet to the floor, crossed the worn gray carpet in two long strides, and let a trickle of warmth slip down his throat. As he stood there, the tarnished mirror over the dresser showed his tanned skin tightening in goosebumps raised by the room's chill air.

Crossing the room to its inside corner, Longarm pulled aside a sagging curtain. He grabbed a cleaner shirt than the one he'd taken off, and a pair of britches that hadn't been grimed with coal dust from the cinders he'd rolled in last night at the freightyard.

He wasted no time in dressing. The cold air encouraged speed. Longjohns and flannel shirt, britches, wool socks, and he was ready to stomp into his stovepipe cavalry boots. Another short snort from the bottle and he turned to check his tools. From its usual night resting place, hanging by its belt from the bedpost on the left above his pillow, Longarm took his .44-40 Colt double-action out of its open-toed holster. Quickly and methodically, his fingers working with blurring speed, he swung out the Colt's cylinder, dumped its cartridges on the bed, and strapped on the gunbelt.

He returned the unloaded pistol to the holster and drew three or four times, triggering the revolver with each draw, but always catching the hammer with his thumb instead of letting it snap on an empty chamber and perhaps break the firing pin. Each time he drew, when Longarm had returned the Colt to the holster he made the tiny adjustments that were needed to put the waxed, heat-hardened leather at the precise angle and position he wanted it to ride, just above his left hip.

Satisfied at last, he dripped a bit of oil on a square of flannel and swabbed the Colt down before reloading. He checked each cartridge as carefully as he did the fresh round he put into the cylinder to replace the one he'd fired last night. Then he checked out the .44-caliber derringer soldered to the chain that held his pocket watch on its other end. He put on his vest, dropped the watch into its left breast pocket, the derringer into the right-hand pocket. Longarm always anticipated that trouble might look him up, as it had in the freightyard. If it did, he aimed to be ready.

Longarm's stomach was growling by now. He quieted it temporarily with a short sip of rye before completing his methodical preparations to leave his room for the day. These were simple and routine, but it was a routine he never varied while in civilized surroundings. Black string tie in place, frock coat settled on his broad shoulders, Stetson in its forward-canted angle on his close-cropped head, he picked up his necessaries from the top of the bureau and stowed them into their accustomed pockets. Change went into one britches pocket and jackknife in the other; his wallet with the silver federal badge pinned in its fold was slid into an inner breast pocket. Extra cartridges went into his right-hand coat pocket, handcuffs and a small bundle of waterproofed wooden matches in the pocket on the left.

As he went out of the room, Longarm kicked ahead of him the soiled clothing that still lay on the floor. Hoh Quah, his Chinese laundryman, would pick it up and bring it back clean that evening. He closed the door and between door and jamb inserted a broken matchstick at about the level of his belt. His landlady wasn't due to clean up his room until Thursday, and Longarm wanted to know the instant he came home if an uninvited stranger might be waiting inside — somebody, for instance, like the unknown shadow who'd failed to pick him off last night. Anybody who knew his name was Custis Long could find out where Longarm lived.

Not only the rooming house, but the entire section of the unfashionable side of Cherry Creek where it stood was still asleep, Longarm decided when he stood on the narrow veranda looking over the street. The night's unexpected snowfall, though only an inch or less, made it easy for him to see whether anyone had been prowling around. He took a cheroot from his breast pocket and chomped it between his teeth, but didn't light it, while studying the white surface.

There was only one set of tracks visible. They came from the house across the street, and the toes were pointed in the safe direction — for Longarm — away from the house, toward the Cherry Creek Bridge. Just the same, Longarm didn't step off the porch until he'd flicked his gunmetal-blue eyes into the long, slanting shadows between the houses. He didn't really expect to see anyone. The kind of gunhand who'd picked the safety of darkness once for his attack would be likely to wait for the gloomy cover of hoot-owl time before making a second try.

His booted feet cut through the thin soft snow and crunched on the cinder pathway as Longarm walked unhurriedly to the Colfax Avenue Bridge. He turned east on the avenue. Ahead, the golden dome of the Colorado Capitol Building was just picking up the first rays of the rising sun.

George Masters's barbershop wasn't open yet, and Longarm needed food more than he did a shave. He didn't fancy the cold, free lunch he knew he'd find at any of the saloons close by, so he went on past the barbershop another block and stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall cafe for hotcakes, fried eggs, ham, and coffee. The cheroot went into his pocket while he ate. The longer he held off lighting it, the easier it'd be to keep from lighting the next one.

Leaving the restaurant twenty-five cents poorer but with a satisfactorily full stomach, Longarm squinted at the sun. Plenty of time for a shave before reporting in at the office. He walked at ease along the avenue, which was just coming to life. The day might not be so bad in spite of the weather, he decided, feeling the warmth from his breakfast spreading through his lean, sinewy body. He grinned at the bright sun, glowing golden in a crystal sky. Deliberately, he took a match from the bundle in his pocket, flicked it into flame with a thumbnail, and lighted the cheroot.

* * *

Smelling of bay rum, his overnight stubble removed and his brown mustache now combed to the angle and spread of the horns on a Texas steer, Longarm walked into Marshal Billy Vail's office before eight o'clock. It gave him a virtuous feeling to be the first one to show up; even Vail's pink- cheeked, citified clerk-stenographer wasn't at the outside desk to challenge him. The chief marshal was already on the job, of course, fighting the ever-losing battle he waged with the paperwork that came from Washington in an ever-mounting flood.

Vail looked pointedly at the banjo clock on the wall. "This'll be the day the world ends," he growled. "What in hell happened to get you here on time for once?"

Longarm didn't bother answering. He was used to Vail's bitching. He felt his chief was entitled, bound as he was now to a desk and swivel chair, going bald and getting lardy. Deskwork, after an active career in the field, seemed to bring out the granny in a man, and Longarm decided he might bitch about life, too, under the same circumstances.

Vail shoved a pile of telegraph flimsies across the desk. "I guess you know you raised a real shit-stink down in New Mexico. You better have a good story to back up the play you made there. I've got wires here from everybody except President Hayes."

"Don't go feeling lonesome," Longarm replied mildly. "Chances are the word ain't got to him yet. Maybe you'll get one from him, too, before the day's out. You want me to tell you how it was?"

"No. In fact, I'm not sure I want a long report in the file telling exactly what happened. Think you can write one like you handed in after that Short Creek fracas a few years back?"

Vail was referring to a report Longarm had turned in about his handling of another political hot potato that had consumed a month of time, resulted in eight deaths, and upset a hundred square miles of Idaho Territory. The report had read simply, "Assigned to case May 23. Completed assignment and closed case July 1."

"Don't see why not," Longarm considered for a moment before he went on. "I figured things might be hottening up down around Santa Fe, at the capital. Some gunslick tried to bushwhack me when I got off the narrow-gauge last night."

"Hell you say." Vail's tone held no surprise. "You get him?"

"Too dark. He ran before I could sight on him."

"Well. Keep your report short, so I won't have to explain things I don't know about. Besides, I want you out of this office before that pot down there boils over clear to Washington."

"Suits me, Chief, right to a tee. There's snow on the ground and more in the air, and you know how I feel about that damned white stuff."

"If it'll cheer you up any, the place you'll be going to is just a little cooler than the hinges of hell, this time of year." Vail pawed through the untidy stacks of documents on his desk until he uncovered the papers he was after. "Texas is yelling for us to give them a hand. So is the army."

"Seems to me like they both got enough hands so they wouldn't need to come running to us. What's wrong with the Rangers? They gone to pot these days?"

Vail bristled. As a one-time Texas Ranger, he automatically resented any hint that his old outfit wasn't up to snuff. Huffily, he said, "The Rangers got more sense than to bust into something that might stir up trouble with Mexico. Here's what Bert Matthews wrote me from Austin." He read from one of the papers he'd uncovered. "He says, 'You see what a bind we're in on this one, Billy. If one of my boys sets foot across the border and gets crossways of Diaz's rurales, we'd risk starting another war with them. Whoever goes looking for Nate Webster's got to have federal authority back of him and can't be tied to Texas. That's why I'm looking to you to give us a hand.' "

Longarm rubbed his freshly shaved chin and nodded slowly, "I hadn't looked at it thataway. Makes sense, I s'pose. Who's this Nate Webster fellow and what'd he do?"

"He's a Ranger, and as far as Bert knows he didn't do anything except drop out of sight somewhere on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande. Bert don't think it was by accident, because just a little while afterward two black troopers who deserted from the 1 Oth Cavalry and the captain of their outfit, who went looking for 'em, all three disappeared across the river, too."

"Wait a minute now. That Rio Grande's a damn long river," Longarm observed. "It's goin' t'take a while to prowl it all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico. I got to have some place to start looking from."

"You have, so simmer down. I wouldn't be apt to send you if it wasn't that all four of them men disappeared from the same place. Little town called Los Perros. Dogtown, I guess that'd translate into. You ever hear of it? I sure as hell never did, but it's been a spell since I left Texas."

Longarm shook his head. "Name don't ring a bell with me, but you know about the only time I was in Texas, how long I spent there, and all. Where's this Los Perros place at, in general?"

"It's supposed to be about where the Pecos River goes into the Rio Grande."

"Rough country, in that part," Longarm said thoughtfully. "If it's there, though, I reckon I can find it. Only, I aim to take the long way gettin' there. I better circle around New Mexico instead of going the straightest way. I show my face in old Senator Abeyeta's country before the old man wears his mad off, I'd have to fight my way from Santa Fe clear to El Paso."

"You steer clear of New Mexico Territory, and that's an order, " Vail agreed. "You've stirred up trouble enough there to last awhile."

"Now, don't get your bowels riled up, Chief. I'll figure me out a route. Just let me think a minute." He leaned back in the red morocco leather chair, the most comfortable piece of furniture in the marshal's office, and began thinking aloud. "Let's see, now. I take the Kansas Pacific outa here tonight and switch to the Missouri Pacific at Pueblo. That gets me to Wichita, and I make a connection there with the Indiana-Great Northern or the Southern Pacific to San Antonio. Pick me up a horse and some army field rations at the quartermaster depot there, ride to Fort Stockton, or whichever other fort's nearer to Los Perros. That'll beat jarring my ass on the Butterfield stage, and it'll get me to spittin' distance of the border a lot faster."

"Tell my clerk," Vail said impatiently. "He'll write your travel vouchers and requisition your expense money. Here. Take these letters and read 'em on the train. They'll give you the whole story as good as I can. Now get the hell outa this office before I get a wire from the attorney general or the president telling me to suspend you or fire you outright."

"Which you can't do, if I ain't here," Longarm grinned. "All right, Chief. By the time I close this case and get back, things ought've cooled down enough to get me off the political shit list."

* * *

During the three train changes and four days and nights it took Longarm to reach his jumping-off place deep in Texas, he spent his time catching up on lost sleep and studying the letters Marshal Vail had gotten from the Texas Rangers captain and those sent to Ranger headquarters by the post adjutant at Fort Stockton. He was looking for some sort of connection that might tie the four disappearances together, but there didn't seem to be any.

Ranger Nate Webster had been working on a fresh outbreak of wholesale rustling involving what had come to be called the "Laredo Loop" along the Texas border. Cattle stolen from central Texas ranches were hustled across the Rio Grande's northern stretches, their brands altered, and bills of sale forged to show that the steers had been Mexican-bred and bought from legitimate ranchers in the Mexican states of Chihuahua, Cohuila, or Nuevo Leon. Then, driven south through Mexico, the rustled herds were brought back across the river at Laredo and sold there to buyers. As Laredo was the only point on the border except El Paso, nearly a thousand miles north, where a railroad crossed the Rio Grande, it had long been a center for livestock sales. Even with Mexican cattle selling well below the market price for Texas beef, the profits were huge. Nate Webster's investigation had led him to Los Perros. He'd been heading there when he'd last reported to ranger headquarters in Austin. That had been early in July, and he hadn't been heard from since.

Soon after the Ranger made his last report, the two troopers from the all-black 10th Cavalry, the "buffalo soldiers," as they'd been named by the Indians, who saw in the blacks' hair a resemblance to buffalo manes, had deserted from Fort Lancaster. This small outpost was one of a string of almost a dozen forts, a day's ride apart, that had been built paralleling the Rio Grande to forestall the threat of invasion during the U.S.-Mexican War in 1846. The two men had left a frail that the Cimarron scout summoned from Fort Stockton had had no trouble following. He'd followed it to Los Perros. Captain John Hill, the Charley Troop commander, had gone with the scout. Hill had sent the Cimarron back to report and had himself followed the deserters' frail across the Rio Grande. Like Webster, like the deserting troopers, Hill had vanished on the Mexican side of the river after leaving Los Perros.

"Dogtown," Longarm muttered to himself, drawing on four-year-old memories of the last case that had taken him to Texas. "Los Perros. Mouth of the Pecos. Wild country. Big enough and rough enough to swallow up four hundred men, let alone just four, without a trace being left. I better start trying to remember what little bit of the local lingo I learned."

Then, because it was his philosophy that a man couldn't cross rivers before he tested them to see how deep and cold they ran, Longarm ratcheted back the rubbed plush daycoach seat, leaned back and went to sleep again, the smell of old and acrid coal dust in his nostrils. A little stored up shut-eye might come in handy when he hit the long frail on horseback from San Antonio to the Rio Grande.

At the I-GN depot in San Antonio, Longarm swung off the daycoach and walked up to the baggage car to claim his gear. He'd left everything except his rifle to the baggage handlers; it would have been tempting fate to leave a finely tuned Winchester .44-40 unwatched in a baggage car or on a depot platform between trains. The rifle had ridden beside him all the way from Denver, leaning between the coach seat and the wall.

As always, he was traveling light. He swung the bedroll that contained spare clothing as well as a blanket and groundcloth over one shoulder, draped his saddlebags over the other, and picked up his well-worn McClellan saddle in his left hand to balance the rifle in his right. Then he set out to find a hack to carry him from the depot to the quartermaster station.

"All the way to the quartermaster depot?" the hackman echoed when Longarm asked how much the fare would be. "That's a long ride, mister. Cost you fifteen cents to go way out there. It's plumb on the other side of town and out in the country."

"We got to go by Market Plaza to get there, don't we?" Longarm asked. When the hackman nodded, he went on, "I'll pay the fare, even if it does seem a mite high, provided you'll stop there long enough for me to eat a bowl of chili. I got to get rid of the taste of them stale butcher-boy sandwiches I been eating the last few days."

"Hop in," the hackman said. "It's my dinnertime, too. Won't charge you nothing extra for the stop."

Counting time taken for eating, the ride down Commerce Street and then north on Broadway to the army installation took just over an hour. The place was buzzing with activity. After more than five years of debating, the high brass in Washington had finally decided to turn the quartermaster depot into a large permanent cantonment, and everywhere Longarm looked there were men at work. Masons were erecting thick walls of quarry stone to serve as offices; others were busy with red bricks, putting up quarters for the officers. A few carpenters were building barracks for the enlisted men on a flat area beyond the stables, where the hackman had pulled up at Longarm's instructions.

Not until he'd been watching the scene for several minutes did Longarm realize what had struck him as odd. There was only a handful of soldiers working around the quadrangle the buildings would enclose when all of them were completed. The hackie lifted Longarm's saddle and saddlebags out of the front of the carriage; Longarm got out and paid the man. He stood with his gear on the ground around his feet until the hack drove off. Then he slung his saddlebags and bedroll over his shoulders, picked up the saddle, and started for the nearest uniforms he could see, a clump of soldiers gathered around a smithy's forge a few yards from the stable buildings.

Longarm singled out the highest-ranking of the group, a tall lantern-jawed sergeant. "I'm looking for the remount duty noncom, " he told the man.

"You found him, mister. That's me. Name's Flanders." "Mine's Long, Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, out of the Denver office. I need to requisition a good saddle horse for a case I'm here on."

"Be glad to oblige, Marshal. Soon as you show me a badge or something to prove you're who you say you are."

Wordlessly, Longarm took his wallet from the pocket of his Prince Albert coat and flipped it open. The sergeant studied the silver badge pinned in the fold for a moment, then nodded. He measured Longarm's muscular body with his eyes.

"How far you going to be traveling?"

"To the border."

"You're a sizable man, Marshal Long. You plan to pack much more gear than what you've got here?"

"Nope. This is all the horse'll have to carry."

"Follow along, then. I guess we can fix you up."

Longarm followed the sergeant around the stable to a small corral where a dozen or so horses were milling. The rat-a-tat of carpenters' hammers nearby was obviously making some of the animals nervous, for they were walking around the corral's inner perimeter. The others stood in a fairly compact group near the center of the enclosure. Most of them were roans and chestnuts, but there was one dappled gray a hand taller than the rest. It stood out like a peacock among sparrows.

"Don't try to palm off any of them walking nags on me," Longarm cautioned the sergeant. "Last thing I need's a nervous mount."

"Maybe you'd rather do your own picking," the man suggested.

"Maybe I better, if it's all the same to you."

Longarm was still carrying his Winchester. He lilted the muzzle skyward, levered a shell into the chamber, and fired in the air before the sergeant knew what he intended to do. Two of the horses at the corral's center reared, three others bolted for the fence. Most of those that had been fence walking either shied or bucked. The gray was among the handful that did not react to the shot. Longarm studied the dapple through slitted eyes. A light-coated horse made a man stand out, more than a roan or chestnut would, but he told himself that could be good as well as bad. He pointed to the animal.

"I'll take the gray, if he stands up to a closer look. Bring him over here and let me check him out," he told the sergeant.

"Now, I'm real sorry, Marshal Long. That's the only one I can't let you have."

"Mind saying why? Is he an officer's private property?"

"Well, yes and no."

"Make up your mind, Flanders. Either he is or he ain't."

"He ain't an officer's private property, Mr. Long. Thing is, Miz Stanley, that's Lieutenant Stanley's lady, she's took a liking to Tordo, there. Rides him just about every afternoon. She'd be mighty riled if I was to~"

Longarm interrupted. "This lieutenant don't own the horse?"

"No, sir. Except, we was going to ship Tordo up to Leaven-worth for their bandsmen, seeing we got no band here, and the lieutenant stopped us because his lady'd took a shine to the nag."

"I suppose Miz Stanley'd be just as well off if she took her exercise on another horse, wouldn't she?"

"No, sir. Begging your pardon, Mr. Long, she'd want Tordo."

"Happens I want him, too. He's the best-looking of that bunch out there. Now, bring him here and let me check him over. You can give the lieutenant's lady my regrets next time she wants to ride."

Longarm's tone carried an authority the sergeant was quick to recognize. He opened his mouth once, as though to argue further, but the deputy's blued-steel eyes were narrowed now, and the soldier knew he was looking at a man whose mind was made up. Reluctantly, the sergeant walked over to the gray and put a hand on its army-style clipped mane. He started back to where Longarm waited. The horse, obedient to the light pressure of the man's hand on its neck, walked step for step with the sergeant.

"Seems to be real biddable," Longarm commented.

"Tordo's a good horse, Mr. Long. Can't say I blame you for picking him out."

Longarm checked the gelding with an expert's quick, seemingly casual glances and finger touches. Teeth, eyes, spine, cannons, hooves, were all sound.

His inspection lasted barely three minutes, but when it was finished Longarm was satisfied with his choice.

"He'll do, Sergeant. Make out the form for me to sign while I saddle him. Or is this the kind of post where commissioned men do all the paperwork?"

"No, sir. Most of the officers are out on a field exercise, anyhow. I've got the forms over yonder in the stable. I'll have 'em ready by the time you're fixed to ride. If you don't want to bother saddling him yourself, I'll call a trooper to do it for you."

"Thanks, but I'd as soon do it myself, Flanders. You go on and take care of the forms."

Longarm saddled the dapple with the same economy of motion that marked all his actions. He'd finished cinching the girth, had sheathed his Winchester in the scabbard that angled back from the right-hand saddle fender, and was knotting the last rawhide saddle string around his bedroll when a woman's voice spoke behind him.

"I don't know who you are, but that's my horse you're saddling. "

Without turning around, Longarm replied, "No, ma'am. It's the U.S. Government's horse."

"Don't be insolent! Now, take that saddle off at once and find yourself another mount! I'm ready for my afternoon canter."

Longarm finished knotting the saddle string and turned around. He doffed his Stetson as he spoke. "Beg pardon, ma'am, but I ain't about to do that. I need this one in my work."

"Really? Just who are you? And what sort of work do you do?"

"I'm Custis Long, ma'am. Deputy U.S. marshal from Denver. And I'm on a case, which is all I need to say, I guess." Longarm realized he was speaking arbitrarily, which wasn't his usual way with a woman, but this one was being just too damned high-handed.

His abrupt manner surprised and puzzled her, that was clear from the expression on her face. Longarm took the moment of silence to inspect her. He wondered if she kept one full black eyebrow higher than the other when she wasn't angry. He couldn't give her a good mark for beauty, he decided, her features were a mite too irregular. Her nose arched abruptly from the full brows down to wide nostrils now flared with displeasure. Her lips were compressed, but that didn't hide the fact that they were on the full side. Her chin was thrust out aggressively. Her eyes were dark, and her hair was dark, too. It was caught up in a bunch of ringlets that dropped down the back of her neck to her shoulders.

She was wearing a cavalry trooper's regulation campaign hat, though it didn't have the regulation four dents in the crown. A soft, plain white blouse was pulled tightly over upthrust breasts. Her feet, in gloss-polished riding boots, were spread apart to show she had on a split skirt that dropped nearly to her ankles. Her hands were planted on her hips, and from one wrist a riding crop dangled by its looped thong.

Longarm's unconcealed inspection didn't cause the woman to drop her eyes, or even seem to embarrass her. When she found her voice, she said firmly, "Mr. Long, there are ten or fifteen other horses over there in the corral. One of them will be just as satisfactory as Tordo for your use."

"I'm sorry if it makes you mad, ma'am, but the plain fact of it is, where I'm heading for, my life might depend on my having the best horse I can throw my saddle on."

As though he hadn't spoken, she went on, "I'll find Sergeant Flanders and tell him to get you another horse. Meanwhile, you will take that saddle off Tordo at once!"

"I ain't about to do that, ma'am. Let's see, you'd be Lieutenant Stanley's wife, I guess?"

"What difference does that make?"

"Not one bit, Miz Stanley. Except it ain't going to do you no good to call the sergeant. He told me you'd be mad, after I'd made up my mind which horse I wanted. It didn't matter to me then, and it don't matter to me now."

She stamped a booted foot. "Mr. Long, if you don't take that saddle off Tordo right this minute, I'll~"

"You'll do what?" Longarm had held his temper, but he was getting angry, too, now. "I need this gray for my business. You just want him for funnin'. It's a government horse, and I figure my claim's a lot better'n yours is. Now, I can't waste my time arguin' with you. I got my job to tend to."

As Longarm turned to mount the gray, she moved cat-quick, raising the riding crop to slash at him. As fast as she acted, Longarm reacted faster. He caught her arm as it came down and held it firmly while he took the crop off her wrist and tossed it to the ground. She brought up her free hand to slap his face, but Longarm grasped it before the blow landed. For a moment they stood there with arms locked, anger flowing between them like an electric current where flesh touched flesh. Then she relaxed, and Longarm released her.

They were still glaring, eye to eye, when Sergeant Flanders came hurrying up. His arrival broke the tension. He said, "Now, let's don't you and the marshal go having words, Miz Stanley. I hope you won't blame me, but Marshal Long can carry his claim for whatever he needs clear up to Colonel Tompkins. I told him~"

"It's all right, Sergeant," she broke in. "Mr. Long's explained to me that you told him I always rode Tordo."

"Looks like I've convinced the lady I need him more'n she does, Sergeant," Longarm said. "Now, if you'll give me that form you got, I'll sign it and be on my way." He took the requisition Flanders had in his hand, rested it on the saddle skirt, and scrawled his name on the proper lines. Handing the form back to the sergeant, he said, "Now, if you'll show me where the commissary's at, I'll swing by there and pick up some rations and be on my way."

Flanders pointed to a sprawling warehouse-like building a short distance away. Longarm nodded and swung into the saddle. Touching his hat brim to the woman, he rode off, leaving them looking at his back as he made his way to the commissary. He didn't turn to look at them.

Chapter 2

While waiting for the rations he'd drawn to be assembled, Longarm had gotten directions to help him find the road he'd take out of San Antonio. After he'd reached the end of the town, he'd have to rely on the army ordnance maps he'd picked up at the same time. He rode due west from the quartermaster depot. The houses of San Antonio lay to his left; the city was just changing the direction of its expansion from west to north. The line of closely settled streets stopped nearly two miles from the depot, though there were a few scattered dwellings, mostly small truck farms, between the body of the town and the military installation.

Longarm was taking his time, getting acquainted with the habits of the gray horse. Tordo had been trained well. The animal responded to the pressure of a knee and the touch of a boot toe with as much readiness as it did to the rein. For the most part, after he'd satisfied himself that the dapple could be trusted, Longarm let the horse pick its own way across the grassy, tree-dotted, saucerlike plain that sloped gently to the banks of the San Antonio River, which now lay just ahead.

He'd reached the riverbank and was looking for signs of a ford when thudding hoofbeats caught his attention and he turned to look behind him. Mrs. Stanley, mounted on a roan that must have been her second choice of the horses in the corral, was overtaking him fast. Subconsciously, Longarm noted that she sat the horse well, holding easily to the saddle as the roan loped toward him. He reined in and waited. She drew alongside and brought her mount to a halt.

"If you're looking for a ford, the best one's only about two hundred yards upstream," she said. "If you don't mind company, I'll ride with you a little way."

"You'll be wasting your time, if you're scheming to talk me into swapping horses," Longarm warned her. "Otherwise, I'll be right pleased to have you ride alongside me for a spell, Miz Stanley."

"I promise that I won't try to persuade you." She seemed to have gotten over her fit of anger; her voice was light and pleasant. "I really rode after you to apologize for the way I acted back at the corral. I don't usually behave so thoughtlessly."

"Wasn't no need to come apologizing, ma'am. I don't hold grudges over things that don't amount to a hill of beans."

"Just the same, it was childish of me. I understand why you'd need the best horse you can find, in your job. It must be a dangerous one."

"I reckon it is, sometimes." Longarm wasn't given to dwelling on the danger of his work. In his book a job was a job, and a man did it according to his best lights.

"Here's the ford," she said, pointing to the spot where the river's olive green water took on a lighter hue as the stream spread to run wide and shallow over a pebble-covered underwater limestone shelf. Turning their horses, they splashed through water only inches deep and rode up the shallow bank on the opposite side.

"Guess you must ride this way pretty often," he suggested after they'd covered a few hundred feet on the west bank of the river.

"Almost every day. Riding's about the only relaxation I have in this dull little town. Especially now, when my husband's away on a training exercise."

"Funny. I never figured San Antone was so dull."

"I don't suppose it would be, for a man. You've got the gambling places and dance halls and saloons. But all I've got is the company of other army wives, and we get bored with one another after a few gossipy afternoon teas. At home, now, it's a different thing."

"Where's home to you, Miz Stanley?"

"New York. It's never dull there. We have the Broadway shows — musicals or dramas — tea dances at the big hotels, receptions, opera, always something interesting."

"I can see it'd be different. Can't rightly say much about New York; I never visited back there, myself."

"You should, sometime. It's a different world." She pointed to a thickly wooded area that lay just ahead of them, where trees in closely spaced groves dotted a wide stretch of grassland that ended on their right, at the foot of a high white bluff. "Of course, you won't see things like that in New York. The nearest thing to open country there is Central Park. Somehow, that area ahead reminds me of it; perhaps that's why it makes me feel at home when I see it."

"Seems like I recall this place from when I was in San Antonio before. San Pedro Springs, they call it, don't they?"

"Yes. It's one of my favorite spots. On Sundays and holidays it's overrun with families having picnics, but on days like today it's as deserted as the Forest of Arden."

"Can't say I been there, either. Matter of fact, I never got out to San Pedro Springs but once, when I was here last time."

Mrs. Stanley seemed compelled to talk. "Sometimes I bring my lunch out here and stay all day. I've found arrowheads and pieces of old Mexican army equipment from the Texas-Mexican war of fifty years ago."

"You interested in history, then, Miz Stanley?"

"Not especially. But it gives me something besides garrison gossip to think about."

They were approaching an especially large grove of hackberry and pinoak frees bordered by a heavy growth of low-branched chinaberry frees that formed a wide, dense belt around the taller growth. Longarm kneed the dapple to turn it and skirt the edge of the grove, but the lieutenant's wife was reining in.

"There's the most beautiful spring in the middle of this grove," she said. "I just can't pass by it without stopping for a sip of water."

Longarm thought the excuse was flimsy, almost as thin as her story of having ridden after him to apologize. His work took him to army posts quite regularly and he'd met bored, restless army wives before. Almost from the time they'd crossed the river he'd been getting the groin twitches he felt whenever he was with an attractive woman who was obviously making herself available to him. He pulled rein and swung out of his saddle before she was quite ready to dismount.

"I'm pretty thirsty myself," he told her. "We'll just go get some of that spring water together."

He moved to help her from her horse. She was riding sidesaddle, with her right leg hooked over the horn, and had to swing the leg high over the pommel to free it. Longarm caught her booted foot in one hand and steadied her to the ground. His free arm passed up the backs of her thighs, over the soft bulge of her buttocks to her waist. She was beginning to tremble before both her feet were on the ground. The trembling increased as he pulled her to himself and sought her lips. They locked together, tongues entwined. Longarm felt himself growing erect as she rubbed her hips against him.

She felt the swelling beneath his britches, pulled away, and panted, "Hurry! Let's go into the grove! I want you right now, this minute!"

Taking him by the hand, she pulled him into the shelter of the brush. They'd taken only a few steps into the screening growth when she stopped and began fumbling with the buttons of her riding habit. The thought flashed through Longarm's mind that this was going to be clumsy and uncomfortable, but the woman had other ideas. She let the skirt fall, slid her drawers down to follow the skirt, and went to her knees on the soft, cushioning grass.

"From behind!" she urged. "Like a horse mounts a mare! Be my stud! Now, right now!"

She dropped to her elbows. Her inviting, round, white buttocks gave speed to Longarm's fingers as he worked the buttons of his fly free and knelt behind her. He penetrated deeply, to his full length, withdrew until he almost lost her, then slammed fiercely to her again. The novelty of the situation was almost as exciting to him as it seemed to be to the woman. He thrust lustily, ramming hard, not trying to tease her or hold back. She whimpered deep in her throat, a sound like the whinnying of the mare she was pretending to be. The whimpers became moans and the moans changed to groans of pleasure. Longarm grasped her with a hand on each side of her hips, callused fingers digging into soft flesh. Her buttocks writhed against him as he drove fiercely into her, stroke following quick, full stroke. Then, in a sudden, gasping crescendo of quick, sharp cries, he felt her body sag and grow limp. Longarm held her up as he pounded home the few thrusts he needed, and pulled her firmly against him until his own climax pulsed and passed.

He lowered her gently to the turf. She lay on her side for a moment, ribs heaving. When she rolled over on her back to look up at him, kneeling there by her, she saw his frock coat gaping open to show the holstered Colt above his left hip.

"That's the first time I've been made love to by a man wearing a pistol and a long coat," she grinned. "But I loved it!"

"Me, too," he agreed. "Maybe it was a mite hasty, but it was sure fine."

"Damn it, I couldn't wait. The minute I felt your hands touching me when you helped me dismount, I started itching for you."

"We won't be in a hurry, next time," he promised. "You get out of that tangle of clothes you're in. I'll go get my bedroll, and we can stretch out and be comfortable together."

When he'd tethered the horses and returned with the bedroll, Longarm found Mrs. Stanley standing a little deeper in the shelter of the trees, in a clearing where a spring bubbled gently to form a small, grass-edged pool. Except for her boots, the lieutenant's wife was naked. Her clothes were hung neatly over the bottom branch of a spreading pinoak.

"I couldn't get my boots off," she told him. "You'll have to help me."

"I'll be pleased to help you do just about anything, ma'am."

"Start out by calling me anything but 'ma'am,' then."

"I damn sure ain't going to call you Miz Stanley, not now. But that's all of your name I know."

"It is, isn't it? My name's Cynthia. My best friends call me Cyn, which tells you something about me, I suppose."

"Unless I disremember, I told you my name when you was giving me hell back at the corral."

"Yes. Custis. Custis Long," she sighed happily. "And I'll admit, you're long where it counts the most."

They spread the bedroll and Cynthia sat down while Longarm yanked off her boots. He hung his coat and vest on the pinoak beside Cynthia's garments, and deposited his holstered pistol within easy reach, at the edge of the spread blankets. Then he worked his own stovepipe boots free and sat beside her. She offered her lips, and when the first clinging kiss exhausted their breath, Longarm began moving his mouth and tongue across her shoulders and down to her full, upthrust breasts, seeking the dark puckering aureoles that were thrusting up at him. She stopped him with a hand under his chin.

"Not fair, Custis. You've still got most of your clothes on. Here, I'll help you undress. That'll be part of my pleasure."

His undressing was prolonged, interrupted by kisses that started as soon as Cynthia had helped him shed his shirt and pulled down the top of his longjohns. At once she sank her teeth like a cannibal into his shoulder, biting almost hard enough to draw blood. Longarm's callused hands caressed her breasts roughly. She began to moan again. Cynthia fumbled loose the strained buttons of his fly to release the erection she'd been helping along by passing a squeezing hand along its swelling length. He kicked off his longjohns and britches and rolled on top of her. She spread herself to receive him, legs raised high, hips rolling and rising to meet his slow, deliberate thrusting. Longarm was not hurrying now, but prolonging the sensation. Twice when he felt her nearing climax he slowed to a stop, plunging full into her hot, wet depth, holding her tightly and pushing hard, but without motion. Each time after her breathing eased and her moans slackened to silence he began thrusting again, controlling himself, until the third time she began to cry and quiver. He knew she was ready now, and speeded his tempo, bringing her up with him until they exploded together in the long, dazed bursting of ultimate sensation that left them both limp and motionless.

After they'd begun to breathe normally, she whispered, "If you think I'm a shameless bitch, you're right, Custis. But not with everybody. It takes a certain kind of man to bring out the bitchiness in me, and you're that kind."

"Can't say I'm sorry, Cyn. You're some armful of woman. But I reckon you know that."

"I like for you to tell me." Her hand, exploring his chest, hesitated and stopped at a puckered scar. She sat up, looked, and said with a gasp of surprise, "My God! What kind of life do you lead?"

"About a normal one, for a man in my line of work. But we don't need to talk about them souvenirs. Let's just lay back and rest awhile. We've got plenty of time."

Cuddled together, they grew warm and dozed, sprawling languidly as the shade from the towering trees that surrounded the clearing and hid them crept across the grass.

Cynthia awoke first. Longarm became aware of hands moving warmly over his skin, exploring his body, of the moist tip of her tongue tracing his eyelids and ears and trailing along his cheek, before it slid into his mouth. Her busy hands had already brought him to a half-erection before he was awake, and when he became aware of her soft stroking the erection peaked. He rolled to face her, his movement pinning one of her legs under him. She brought the other leg high up on his ribs and guided him into her, squirming with sensuous pleasure as he entered slowly and went deep deliberately. When he began to move his hips, she clamped her legs tightly around him to stop him from moving.

"No," Cynthia said. "Not for a while yet. I just want to feel you in me — all of you. Just to hold you here without moving, while you kiss and fondle me."

"I always try to oblige a lady."

"You still think I'm a lady, Custis?"

"Sure. Only you're a woman, too. Ain't often you'll find both of 'em together."

He lay still as she'd requested, except for the movements of his hands over her breasts and belly and along her hips and down them, to knead and squeeze her soft cheeks. The caresses she gave him in return, long deep kisses, sharp nips on shoulders and chest, had their effect. Longarm could feel himself building to a tremendous orgasm. He moved his hips experimentally, questioningly. She relaxed the grip of her thighs enough to let him make a few short beginning thrusts. He moved to rise on top of her, but she pushed her hand against his chest.

"Please, Custis. The way we did the first time. Be my stallion again while I'm your mare. Only slower, take longer."

Cynthia went to her hands and knees again and Longarm mounted her as she had asked him to. He went in fast, with one single, brutal stab. She whimpered and shuddered and came almost at once, but Longarm was in full control of himself now, and so of her. His back arched over her quivering body and he gave her no time to relax from her first quick orgasm, but set a rhythm, easy at first, pounding home hard, neither slowing nor stopping, until her limp muscles tightened and she came to life again beneath him. He felt no urge to hurry; she'd asked him to take longer. Even when Cynthia began moaning, her juices flowing freely, running down his thighs as well as hers, he neither hurried nor stopped. He was holding her tightly, as he had the first time, a hand clamped on each hip, but when she started to whimper again, deep in her throat, he leaned forward and grabbed her full breasts, using them like reins to ride her hard, to pull her back against him. Groans began to pulse from her throat, and Longarm felt himself getting close. Cynthia's writhing stopped, her body tensed under his, and now he went faster for a few tremendous lunges, before his own spasm took him, lifting him out of awareness of anything but the woman under him and the flow he was gushing deep inside her.

Awareness returned as they lay curled together, spoon fashion, on the rough blanket, her back to him. The sun was red and low, and could be seen only through the treetops now as it neared the horizon.

"If you're going to get home tonight, we better be stirring," Longarm said. "It'll be dark in another little while."

"What're you going to do, Custis? Travel on tonight?"

"Nope. I aim to camp right here and start fresh at daybreak."

"Then I'll stay with you. If you'd like for me to, that is. All I've got to go home to is an empty house and a lonesome bed."

"I'll be real proud if you want to stay. It'll be a dark camp, though — no fire, and hardtack and jerky for supper."

"Who cares about food? We'll be too busy to miss supper."

Cynthia proved as good as her word. They slept when they'd exhausted one another, and awoke to come together again in the bright silver light of the full moon. The night passed quickly. When false dawn showed, Longarm got up, leaving Cynthia asleep, and groped into his clothes in the half-light. His movements woke her, and when he came back from the edge of the grove, where he'd gone to check the horses and relieve the pressure on his night-filled bladder, he found her lying on her back, gazing at the sky.

"Why didn't you wake me up one last time?" she asked.

"Figured it'd be better if I didn't. It's time I left."

Cynthia sighed. "I guess I knew you'd say something like that. Damn you men, anyhow. You've always got some kind of duty that spoils a woman's pleasure."

"It's how the world was made. Nobody's been able to change it."

"Will you be coming back this way?" Cynthia stood up and walked to the tree where her clothes hung. "And when?"

"Can't say to either one. When I do come back, I'll find you."

"No good-byes, now, Custis. You go ahead. No kisses, no last waving. Look back at me if you want to, but that's all. I'm superstitious about saying good-bye."

While they talked, Longarm had been folding and rolling his bedding, a tight, neat roll of blankets protected by a waterproof ground cloth with his slicker on the outside, where it'd be handy. He stood up and threw the roll over his shoulder. At the edge of the clearing, he turned once to look back. Cynthia stood with her shoulders squared, breasts high and proud in the dawn light. He smiled, and she smiled in return. Then Longarm turned and pushed through the high, whipping growth of chinaberries to where the dapple stood, saddled and ready to ride.

Tordo was feisty with morning freshness, and Longarm let the animal trot, stepping high, until he'd settled down to the day's work, and slowed to a walk. The sun grew warm on Longarm's back and sent the shadows of man and horse in long black streaks ahead of them. They moved across the rising lip of the saucerlike depression in which San Antonio lay. The long, hot days in the saddle that lay ahead were as far as Longarm planned. There seemed no use in making schemes until he got to Los Perros, the town that was still a mystery to him, and found out more about the border jumpers.

Chapter 3

Dusk found Longarm a long ten miles from the Butterfield stagecoach station at the Medina River, where he'd planned to spend the night. He hadn't wanted to push Tordo on his first day out, and the big dapple was still stepping high when Longarm decided to make a dry camp instead of stumbling through the dark until moonrise to reach the river. In rattlesnake country, he'd learned it wasn't a good idea to choose a sleeping place in pitch-blackness, and he'd seen plenty of big rattlers sunning themselves that day. He scouted around to make sure there weren't any rattler dens close by before hobbling the gray and spreading his bedroll.

After he'd fed Tordo, he sat Indian style on his blankets while he chewed leathery jerky and crumbly hardtack and washed it down with a few sips of water. While he puffed the one cigar he was allowing himself every day, he used the last remnants of light to read the ordnance map, memorizing his route and studying the area of the Rio Grande where he was going. Before turning in, Longarm changed the plan he'd framed in Denver. Instead of going to Fort Stockton and backtracking from there, he'd bear farther south and go directly to the outpost from which the soldiers had departed — Fort Lancaster. Satisfied that he was on the frail at last, Longarm crawled under the top blanket. At least, he told himself as he dozed off, he wouldn't have to fight bedbugs all night, as he'd probably have done in one of the bunks at the stage station.

Midmorning breakfast at the Butterfield station on the bank of the Medina, and a good ration of grain for the dapple, set Longarm and Tordo back on the frail in high spirits. He pushed the horse into a lope for a mile or two, then nudged it into a run, testing its gait and wind and responsiveness to his commands. This was something he hadn't taken time to do the day before, while he was still getting acquainted with the animal. When he'd re-affirmed his opinion that he didn't have to worry about the gray, Longarm slowed their pace to a walk. He got to the Sabinal stage depot in time for a twilight supper, and pushed on across the stream before stopping for the night.

On familiar ground now, thanks to intensive study of his map, Longarm began cutting his time by leaving the road when it made curves and zigzags and pushing across country. In this way he could beat the time the stagecoaches made. The vehicles had to swerve to avoid hills and valleys; he could cross them. On the afternoon of the third day, with the Frio River behind him and the Edwards Plateau looming against the skyline to the northwest, Longarm rode into Uvalde. As he'd suspected it would be, the sheriff's office was in the back of the courthouse. He walked in and introduced himself to Sheriff Frank Purdom.

"I know your backyard don't exactly reach to the border," he told the sheriff, "but I was wondering if you'd heard anything about a little town right on the Rio Grande, somewheres close to the mouth of the Pecos. It's called Los Perros."

Purdom stroked his sideburns. "Los Perros? Can't say I recall it, but that don't signify much. There's plenty of squatter towns along the river that don't have names anybody's ever heard of, ten miles away from 'em."

"Figures," Longarm nodded. "Figures, too, if the place had a bad reputation, you'd likely have heard it mentioned."

"I imagine so," Purdom agreed. Then he added, "I'll tell you something, though, Marshal Long. We got enough mischief to handle right here in our own county, so we don't reach out for trouble."

"Sensible. That mischief — would it include a fresh rash of rustling?"

"There's always a certain amount of cattle thieving, you know that. I will say that here lately there's been bigger herds than usual drove off. Why? You onto something I oughta know about?"

"No. I was just wondering if you might've got an idea the old Laredo Loop's at work again."

His question surprised the sheriff. "Where'd you hear about the Laredo Loop? You never said you was from Texas, and I know all the old boys in the marshal's force around here."

"Now, I don't lay claim to knowing anything. Far as being from Texas, the only time I was here was on a gold smuggling case a few years back, but that was way south of here. I was just curious. I heard about the Laredo Loop then, and I got to wondering about it."

"I see." Purdom shook his head. "I just don't know. We don't work the Mexican side anymore. Back in old Juarez's day, us and the rurales got along pretty good. With that bastard Diaz running things there now, it's all changed."

"So I've heard." Longarm stood up. "Well, I still got riding to do between here and dark. Anything special to watch out for between here and the border?"

"Nothing that comes to mind." Purdom surveyed his visitor's well-worn boots and skintight britches, his eyes stopping for a moment at the slight bulge made by the holstered pistol in the left side of his frock coat. "You look like you can handle yourself. If I was you, I'd shed that coat, though. You say you're strange to these parts, so just keep in mind you're going into right dry country, when you head west. Don't pass by any good water without letting your horse drink, and topping off your canteen. Do that, and you'll make it."

As he rode out of Uvalde, Longarm discovered the sheriff had neglected to tell him that besides being dry, the country was also about ten degrees hotter than hell's hinges. Even though he'd taken time before leaving the town to fold his coat and tie it neatly inside his slicker, he'd been on the road only a short-time before sweat began welling out. The sun was like a bright gold coin that had been heated in a furnace until it was almost at the melting point. The character of the land changed suddenly. Grass and bright green foliage gave way to bare, stony earth, olive-hued mesquite, and gray green cactus. The sparse plants looked as though the beating sun had bleached out all their color. The month might well have been July instead of September.

He looked at the baked countryside, at the low humps of the Edwards Mountains to his right, and wondered why they were named on his ordnance map as mountains. Nobody who'd ever seen the Rockies could call those little chunks mountains, he was sure of that. He rode on after fishing his bandanna from his pocket and folding it into a triangle, which he tied loosely around his neck to catch the drops of sweat that trickled off his chin. The heat leached out his energy, and when he reached the Nueces River just as the sun was turning to bright orange above the horizon's jagged rim, Longarm decided to stop for the night. The map told him this would be his last sure water before he reached Fort Lancaster, still eighty miles ahead.

"Tordo," he told the dapple as he tethered the horse by the rock-strewn riverbank, "you better drink good tonight and before we hit the frail in the morning. We got two damn dry days ahead."

Dry they were, indeed. The autumn rains hadn't started yet, and the only watercourse shown on Longarm's map was Sycamore Creek, which had neither sycamores along its bank nor water in its bed. Longarm had expected that, because the map also bore the notation, dry in summer. He poured water from the canteen into his cupped palm and sloshed it into Tordo's mouth, let the horse rest a short while, then kept pushing on at a carefully measured, energy-saving gait that brought him in sight of Fort Lancaster late in the afternoon of the third day out of Uvalde.

"You men are sure as hell out in the middle of nowhere, here," Longarm remarked to the fresh-faced young lieutenant who'd found himself in command of the fort when Captain Hill had disappeared.

"It's desolate, all right," Lieutenant Bryant agreed. His eyes followed those of his visitor in scanning the bare, beaten earth of the parade ground outside the orderly room window. Distorted by heat shimmer from the earth, the U.S. flag hung limp on the flag-pole, its thirty-eight stars hidden in its folds. On both sides of the hoof-pocked center area, on worn adobe walls of the narrow barracks buildings, the sun picked out seams and water-cut runnels that had turned the hardened clay into a jigsaw puzzle of lines, like those on the faces of very old men. A few troopers, with the sleeves of their gray flannel field shirts rolled high, lounged in the scant shadows at the ends of the structures.

"If a man was stuck here long at a time, I'd bet he'd get right randy," Longarm suggested. "Want to go find himself a woman."

"It happens. Makes problems for us when it does."

"Like them two that skipped?"

"I'll tell you something odd, Marshal. Those are the only two outright desertions we've had during the two years I've been here. Oh, there've been some who wandered off without authorization — overnight, a day or two. Most of them are men who go looking for a woman in one of the shanty towns along the river, or maybe at the Apache resettlement camp south of here."

"Only them two didn't come back, and when your captain went looking for 'em, he disappeared, too."

"You're certainly not suggesting that Captain Hill deserted?" Lieutenant Bryant sounded horrified.

"Don't get miffed, son. I didn't mean it that way." Longarm judged that this was the time to ask the question that had been puzzling him since he'd been assigned to search for the missing cavalrymen. "You got any ideas why them two troopers took off like they did? And wasn't it sort of funny your captain felt like those two men were important enough for him to go chasing himself? "

Lieutenant Bryant thought for a long time before he replied, "I'm sure you need to know this, Marshal, but I hope you'll keep it confidential. Captain Hill didn't want to cause any scandal, or do anything that'd harm the way the ranchers feel about our troopers."

"Go ahead and spill it, Lieutenant. If you knew me at all, you'd know I don't flapjaw. It's my business to find things out. If you don't tell me what you're trying to set on, I'll just go dig it up anyways."

"Yes, I suppose you will. Well, Captain Hill felt he had to bring those men back to face court martial. The troopers deserted because they'd raped a rancher's wife."

"White woman, of course?" When Bryant nodded, Longarm went on, "And I bet down here in Texas, your black buffalo soldiers ain't exactly what you'd call popular."

Bryant retorted sharply, "They're damned good soldiers, Long. I don't care what civilians might say or think about them."

"Nobody said they wasn't. And rape ain't exactly something that comes with the color of a man's skin. But I can see you got a real problem. Don't worry. I don't aim to make it worse."

"Thanks. Now, how can I help you, Marshal?"

"About the biggest help you can give me is to trot out that Cimarron scout that went down to the border with the captain."

"Sorry, sir. He was called back to Fort Stockton. By now, he's out in the field somewhere."

"Well, hell!" Longarm didn't try to hide his disgust. "How'm I going to find out what Captain Hill was aiming to do when he went border jumping? He must've had some idea in his head about where them two troopers was heading for."

"He did. I can help you there. Tinker reported to me — Tinker's the Cimarron's name — when he came back from Los Perros alone. He said the captain had found out, I don't know how, that the troopers were going south into Mexico until they got far enough from the border to feel safe. I suppose they thought we wouldn't follow them or try to bring them back, with conditions as they are now in Mexico."

"Urn. How'd the captain find all this out?"

"From asking around Los Perros, Tinker said."

"It's for sure all three of 'em dropped out of sight after they left Los Perros, then?" Longarm rubbed his face. The sweat was making his stubble itchy. He reminded himself that he'd have to find out if there was a barber at the fort, and, he remembered, if the sutler there had his kind of cheroots; he was down to three. He said, "I guess that's my next stop, then. What d'you know about the place, Lieutenant?"

"Los Perros?" Bryant shook his head. "Not much. I've stopped there a few times, when a patrol took me close to it. Captain Hill didn't like the men to go there, so I tried to set an example."

"Suppose you tell me as much as you can. Whatever you seen's pretty certain to be a help to me. I like to know what's in a hole before I jump in."

"There's not much to tell, Marshal Long. The place isn't really a town, just a bunch of shanties. Jacales, they call them around here. Shacks made out of scrap wood and tree limbs and tin, whatever the people can pick up, I suppose. Two or three houses built of good solid lumber. A saloon, of course, with gambling tables."

"Whorehouse upstairs?" Longarm broke in to ask.

"Strangely enough, no. I think there was at one time, but when Captain Hill started discouraging the troopers from going to the town, the girls scattered out."

"I've traveled around some," Longarm observed, "and I've found out it's got to be a real piss-poor town that can't support a whorehouse."

"That's Los Perros," Bryant smiled thinly. "As far as I can see, it doesn't support anything except the saloon. No stores, nothing."

"How big a place is it, then?"

"Not big at all. Only perhaps twenty or twenty-five Americans and a couple of hundred Mexicans and border breeds."

Longarm nodded. He'd seen a few border settlements such as the one the lieutenant had described when he was breaking the gold-smuggling case. He said, "That really ain't what I'm after. What kind of people are they? They go by the law, or what? And this fellow I heard runs things, what's he like?"

Bryant thought for a moment. "Marshal, I can't tell you a lot about the people. Some of them have little truck gardens, not big enough to be farms. They sell produce to the ranches and to the fort, here. Some have little goat herds or they keep chickens. They scrape out a living, somehow. And I don't know what the Americans do, if they don't work at the saloon or for the sheriff."

"That's one I'm interested in. He's the big boss, ain't he?"

"Yes. Tucker's his name, Ed Tucker. And I don't think he was ever elected sheriff, he just took over the job."

"Got any idea where he's from?"

"I'd guess from the South, judging by the way he talks."

"Is he old enough to've fought in the war?"

"Oh, yes. I'd guess he's pushing fifty, maybe past that."

"Mean, or easygoing?"

Again the young officer hesitated before answering. "Maybe not mean, but he's sure not easygoing. I mentioned that Captain Hill unofficially discourages our men from going there. Since the captain began doing that, anybody in an army uniform gets a cool reception."

"How many men has he got backing him?"

Bryant shook his head. "That's something I can't tell you, Marshal. I've only seen Tucker two or three times. I'd say he's got a lot of curiosity, or maybe it's suspiciousness."

"How's that?"

"Well, I went to Los Perros once looking for the Mexican who supplies the fort with eggs. Tucker stopped me, asked what I was doing, and when I told him, he tagged along with me until I left. The next time, I was in the saloon. It was a hot day, and getting late, and I was going to bivouac my patrol a little way out of town. I thought if I let them stop for a beer or two, they wouldn't be so tempted to sneak back at night for a drink." Bryant looked earnestly at Longarm. "It wasn't exactly according to the captain's ideas, but there weren't any official standing orders~"

"I understand about the army, Lieutenant," Longarm broke in. "Go ahead."

"Tucker came into the saloon while we were there. He came up to me and said I'd better keep my men on a tight rein, that their uniforms wouldn't keep them out of his jail if they made trouble. That was about all."

"Damn it, you must've noticed something more, or heard talk. It'd be a big help to me if I knew whether the sheriff had two or three men to back him, or two or three dozen. I'll remind you about something. When I go in to a place, I'm by myself. I don't have a squad of troopers with carbines and sabers to back up my play."

"I wish I could help you more, Marshal Long. The plain fact is, I just don't know any more to tell you."

Longarm sensed the young officer's disappointment. "Guess if you don't know, you don't. It ain't your fault. Wasn't your job to go prying into what goes on in Los Perros. Leastwise, it wasn't the times you was there."

"What're you planning to do, Marshal? About Captain Hill and the deserters?"

"Whatever I got to do to find 'em. And to find me a Texas Ranger that dropped out of sight about the same way they did. Last place he was heard from was Los Perros, too."

"You think there's some kind of connection?"

"Don't know yet, son. Might be, might not be. All I can say right now is about what you told me a minute ago. I just plain don't know. But I sure as hell intend to find out, soon as I can get to Los Perros and start digging."

"If there's anything I can do~"

"Just happens there is." Longarm smiled. "I been eating outa my saddlebags the past few days. I washed as best I could when I made a stop where there was water, but I ain't fond of shaving with cold lather. If you was to offer me some cooked supper and a hot bath in a tub, and maybe dig up one of your troopers who knows how to shave a man without cutting his guzzle in two~"

"Of course. I — I suppose it'd be all right if you stayed in the captain's quarters. His orderly can look after you. And you're more than welcome to join us at our mess, such as it is."

"I'd appreciate that, Lieutenant. Man's going out looking for trouble, he always feels better if he goes clean-shaved and with a full belly. And I can smell trouble waiting for me in Los Perros."

Chapter 4

Longarm reined in at the edge of the sandy draw and looked across the white expanse at Los Perros. Remembering the lieutenant's description, he had to agree that the young officer had been right when he said it wasn't much of a town. The Rio Grande dictated the settlement's shape: long and narrow. Los Perros stood on a sandspit, and Longarm could see that when rains upstream swelled the river, the sandspit would become an island. Now, the sandy wash on the Texas side of the river was dry. Beyond the town, the green current ran in a narrow channel, and Longarm judged it was both deep and swift.

Los Perros stretched out, a long, thin, straggling shamble of houses. Most of them were patchwork jobs, put together from spliced short boards. Some of the planks bore the faded imprint of words: "Silver's Cuban Tobacco Twist," "Aunt Miranda's Dark Molasses," "Winchester Arms Co.," showing that they'd come from salvaged packing cases. Some of the shanties were pole shacks, made by driving tree limbs into the ground in a square and nailing to them sheets of metal made from straightened-out kerosene containers, or the red-painted metal cannisters in which army gunpowder was once shipped. The roofs of most of the houses were rusted sheets of metal that came from only God knew where, to wind up on a sandspit on the Texas border.

A few structures were solidly constructed from planed boards, and even these were in need of paint. Longarm spotted the saloon at once; it was Los Perros's biggest building, two low stories tall, with a false front that made it look higher than it really was. A short distance from the saloon, another solid house rose above the low roofs of the jacales. This one had been painted, though there were patches of bare wood showing now where the paint was peeling off. Another decent house stood on the opposite side of the saloon, and a third could be seen behind the bar's false front. On the near side of the sandspit a new house had been started, though no one was working on it now.

There were no streets that Longarm could see. The houses stood higgledy-piggledy, and sandy trails wound between them. A few people were moving in the town. Most of them seemed headed in the general direction of its center. All but a few were on foot, though the hats of three or four who rode burros or horses could be seen bobbing along at a higher level than the heads of the pedestrians.

Instead of crossing the draw at once, Longarm nudged the dapple with his heel and turned to move along the sandy margin. He wanted a look at the town from one end, and wanted as well to get an unobstructed view of the river channel that divided Mexico from Texas. At the end of the sandspit he reined in and looked back. Now he could see the place from another angle, and decided it was a bit bigger than he'd thought at first; there were houses on the sloping western side that had been invisible from his earlier broadside vantage point.

Sloping ground led to the river. A lone fisherman, his pole propped in a forked stick, sat at the shore's edge. In its channel the Rio Grande rolled smoothly, its water an opaque greenish brown. The surface, unbroken by ripples, told Longarm the water was both deep and swift. The bank on the Mexican side rose sheer from the water. The rough, stone-studded rise was crowned with a thick growth of chamizal, a mixture of scrub mesquite, catsclaw, and broad-leafed pear cactus. It looked tangled, impenetrable, and unfriendly, as scrubby and shabby as the town itself.

"Well, old son," Longarm muttered under his breath. "It sure as hell ain't much to look at, and I don't reckon it'll improve when I get closer."

He angled across the draw to the humped center of the sandspit and rode into Los Perros, moving in the general direction of the saloon. Before he reached the building's tall false front, Longarm entered an open space, not a formal square or plaza typical of so many Southwestern towns; this one had no well-defined perimeter. The buildings that marked its roughly circular area were set askew, at odd angles to one another, giving the enclosure a ragged, unplanned look. The saloon, across from the spot where Longarm sat on Tordo, seemed to be the area's chief focal point; the second was a well, located a bit off-center, and half a dozen yards from the well a single, man-high post a foot in diameter had been set in the hard earth. The plaza, if it could be called that, was obviously about to be the scene of some kind of public occurrence. People kept arriving to join the crowd already stirring within it.

Longarm was less interested in the buildings and other permanent features of the place than he was in the people standing and moving around. Most of them were men, though a handful of women clustered at one side, shrilling at children who darted like so many small, brown, active beetles between the legs of the men. It was not a prosperous-looking group. The men were generally dressed in the loose raw cotton blouses and trousers of borderland peons; their heads were covered with wide-brimmed straw sombreros, their feet stuck sockless into huaraches of braided leather. Black was the predominant color among the women: black dresses that swept the ground and black rebozos that covered the wearers' heads and shaded their faces so that Longarm couldn't tell which were young, which middle-aged, and which old and wrinkled.

Against clothing dominated by monotones, the few men wearing charro outfits stood out like peacocks in a flock of pigeons and crows. The charro suits glistened with gold or silver embroidery on waist-length, fawn-hued jackets and on towering felt sombreros, and along the seams of skintight pants that were tucked into tall, shining, high-heeled boots. Equally conspicuous were the men, fewer in number, who wore the regulation outfits of border ranch hands: tight Levi's faded from indigo to sky blue by repeated washing with lye soap, denim shirts of blue or gray or tan, stitch-traced high-heeled boots, and broad-brimmed Stetsons, creased Texas style, a single deep dent running up the front from brim to crown.

Longarm was suddenly very conscious of his Prince Albert coat and his cavalry-style, forward-tilted Stetson. He was also aware that the eyes of just about everybody in the plaza seemed to be watching him. He looked around for a hitching rail and saw only one, in front of the saloon, and guided Tordo at a slow walk around the edge of the plaza, twitching the reins when necessary to keep the dapple from breaking up a group of people.

He noticed now that here and there around the plaza's rim, tiny threads of smoke were beginning to rise from the improvised stoves of food vendors. Longarm recalled that any event in a settlement along the border drew food stalls to feed the crowds, as well as vendors carrying trays of sweets, buns, and candied cactus and sweet potatoes. It had been a long time since breakfast. Longarm watched for a tray bearer, spotted one, and reined up. For a nickel he got three puffed buns crusted with colored sugar on top, and munched them as a prelude to the lunch he'd look for later. He sat Tordo long enough to finish the last bun after he got to the hitching rail, then dismounted and looped the gray's reins around the crossbar.

He'd taken three or four steps away before he remembered the Winchester in his saddle scabbard. In almost any place except Los Perros, Longarm would have left the gun where it was. Nowhere in the West would a saddled horse or its gear be touched by anybody except its owner. Los Perros impressed Longarm as being a town where normal rules and customs were ignored. He went back, slipped the rifle from its scabbard, and tucked the butt into his armpit. Then he joined the crowd that by now had grown to sizable proportions. The center of interest seemed to be near the well. He dodged his way in that direction and stopped eight or ten paces from the well.

One of the men wearing the clothes that identified him as a ranch hand stood alone, a short distance from where Longarm stopped. The marshal stepped up to him and asked, "What's the fuss about?"

"Everybody's waiting for the whipping to commence."

"Whipping?"

"Sure. Sheriff Tucker's got the right idee. Instead of lockin' a lawbreaker in jail, havin' to feed him and keep him, the of sheriff sees he gits a good whipping, then he's turned loose."

"Who's getting whipped today?"

"Don't recall his name. Some saddle tramp that pulled a knife on one of the sheriff's deputies and cut him a little bit."

"Maybe I'm wrong, but I thought public whipping was outlawed in the United States," Longarm observed. "Seems to me that was done when the slaves got freed."

Turning, the stranger faced Longarm squarely. "Mister, here in Los Perros nobody gives a billy-be-damn for the U.S.A. If you're a Yankee bluenose, this ain't no place for you."

Longarm was more interested in getting information than he was in protesting an implied insult. He let the comment slide by and asked, "I suppose this drifter stood trial, didn't he? And the judge said he was guilty?"

"Sure. It was all handled legal and proper."

"Who was the judge that tried the case?"

"Hell, we ain't got but only one judge in Los Perros — Sheriff Tucker. If you wasn't a stranger here, you'd know that."

"Seeing I am a stranger who don't know beans about your town, maybe you can tell me how come a man can be sheriff and judge all at the same time."

"Maybe you better ask Sheriff Tucker about that. It's just the way things has always been here, I guess."

"I see."

Before Longarm could ask another question there was a stir in the crowd and a murmur of voices. Longarm and the stranger craned their necks to see what was happening. A knot of men was coming around the corner of the saloon building. Their leader was an imposing figure. He stood high and wide in fancy, heeled boots with colored stitching and wore a tall-crowned Stetson creased in a Dakota peak, but his width competed with his height and detracted from his overall appearance. His stomach hung over his trousers top and rolls of fat forced him to wear his gunbelt too low. Even then, the fat crowded the butt of the old-fashioned ivory-handled revolver that dangled in a tooled leather holster. A gold badge was on the big man's left shirt pocket.

Longarm realized he was getting his first look at Sheriff — and apparently, Judge — Ed Tucker, the man who occupied the catbird seat in Los Perros. Longarm would have been more impressed if Tucker had been a bit on the lean side, and if he hadn't reeled ever so slightly as he strode in front of the little group that trailed him. Still, Longarm thought, he'd reserve judgment until he'd had a chance to study Tucker's face, which was concealed by the shadow his broad-brimmed Stetson cast in the noonday sun.

One of the four men walking behind Tucker was obviously the prisoner. He was shirtless, and wore handcuffs that caught the sun and reflected silver. Longarm paid less attention to him than he did to the other three. Each of the two men flanking the prisoner held one of the handcuffed man's arms. The one bringing up the rear carried the whip, a broad leather thong, over his shoulder. All three of the men, who could only be sheriff's deputies, had the cocky walk of hard cases. Longarm knew the breed; he'd seen them and tangled with them before.

Old son, he told himself silently, looks like you're going to be on the short end of the odds, if it comes out them fellows had anything to do with the army men and the Ranger who dropped out of sight.

By now the sheriff and his men were pushing through the suddenly thickened crowd in the center of the plaza. They wasted little time in ceremony when they reached the cleared area around the well and post. The two who'd escorted the prisoner lashed the man's hands high on the post and stepped aside. The sheriff stepped forward.

"Jed Morton," he proclaimed loudly, "you been tried and convicted of attemptin' manslaughter. You been sentenced with mercy, because the man you tried to kill didn't die. Instead of hangin' you up by your neck till you're dead, the court's been good to you. All you're goin' to git is fifty lashes." He nodded to the man holding the whip. "All right, Spud. Go ahead and lay it onto him."

Stepping aside, the sheriff made room for the man carrying the whip to move into position beside the prisoner. He whirled the lash experimentally, the wide leather thong whistling through the still air, then brought it down on the prisoner's back with a loud, flat thwack. The man flinched, but did not cry out.

Though he'd never heard of Jed Morton and didn't know whether the man was innocent or guilty, Longarm twitched in sympathy as the whip fell. He'd heard of fifty-lash whippings in the old days, and knew they usually meant death to the one receiving them. He made no move to protest. He knew any interference he offered might get in the way of carrying out his assignment. He'd reminded himself sternly during the few seconds before the whip wielder began the punishment that this was no business of his.

Again the whip whistled and landed, but as before, Morton did not cry out. The third blow brought a sigh from deep in his throat, though, and the fourth lash, landing on the weals raised by the earlier blows, produced a louder sigh, a moan of pain. Spud, the whipper, continued the punishment. Longarm, his stomach muscles tightening, lost count of the blows after the sixth or seventh had fallen. Morton was moaning steadily now, a throaty monotone that rose only slightly in volume as each new slash cut into his tattered back. His skin had split after the first few lashes, and blood spattered each time the whip swung. The spectators nearest the whipping post pushed back to avoid the flying drops.

There was an unearthly air hanging over the plaza. The crowd was deathly silent. The only sounds heard were the whip's whistling, the wet, flat noise as it splatted home, and the fading moans of the man tied to the stake.

Longarm's gorge was rising. He felt that he'd stood all he could. Morton was almost unconscious now, hanging limply by his bound wrists. Still the wet, ugly splat of new blows sounded with monotonous regularity. In spite of his resolution not to interfere, Longarm had had a bellyful of the spectacle. He elbowed through the packed crowd until he stood in the front rank of spectators. Spud was raising the whip for another cut at Morton's bloodstained back when, without seeming to aim, Longarm fired. The heavy rifle slug ripped into the ground between Spud's feet. Spud leaped back, letting the whip drop from his hand.

"That's enough," Longarm announced. His voice was flat; he did not need to raise it to be heard in the stillness that hung like a shroud over the plaza. "The show's over."

He shifted the rifle, bringing its muzzle high enough to cover Sheriff Tucker and the two deputies beside him. All three men had started forward when the shot rang out. Now, as the Winchester's muzzle stared into their faces with its single menacing, unblinking black eye, they took a step backward.

"Who in hell you think you are?" Tucker called.

"I'm the man who stopped this sorry damned circus," Longarm replied levelly. He raised his voice only a little. "That's all you need to know right now."

"You got no right!" Tucker's throat and jaws worked with repressed fury. "You're interferin' with the law's due process! I can put you in jail for this!"

Still in the same low, level tone, Longarm invited, "Come ahead." He shifted the rifle to swing it in a short arc that menaced the sheriff and his two deputies in turn. "If you're ready to pay what it'll cost you."

None of them moved. Tucker repeated his question: "Just who are you, anyhow?"

"I told you once, that's enough." Longarm still kept his voice at a conversational pitch. He might have been discussing the weather, or the price of steers. Addressing the deputies, he said, "You two. Get that man down off the post."

There was a steeliness in Longarm's tone now that the men recognized as the voice of authority. They neither argued nor made any threatening gestures as they moved to obey. Rather, they very carefully kept their hands in front of them, at chest level, while they walked to the stake and untied Morton. When they'd freed him and were supporting his unconscious form, they looked questioningly at Longarm, waiting further orders.

From the moment the Winchester's blast had shattered the silence of the plaza, the crowd had been frozen and motionless. Now people began to stir, those closest to the whipping post pushing back to widen the circle in which Longarm held the sheriff and his men. The spectators remained silent, though, and now the eerie quiet was making itself felt, stretching the nerves of the little group in the plaza's center.

Longarm felt the tension building and moved to take charge before it broke. He ordered, "Take that poor devil someplace where his back can be tended to."

For the first time, the deputies looked to Tucker for instructions. He said, "I guess the jail's as good a place as any. Haul him over there, boys. Tell Wahonta I said to take care of him."

When the deputies turned to Longarm for confirmation of the sheriff's instructions, he nodded. "Do what he told you to. We're going to be right in back of you, me and the sheriff, to make sure nothing happens to him on the way there."

Spud, the man who'd handled the whip, asked sullenly, "What about me?"

"You come along with us," Longarm replied. "And bring that whip with you." He turned to Tucker. "All right. Let's march. You lead out."

Silently, the crowd parted to make an aisle for the group. The deputies carrying the unconscious Morton led the way, with Spud behind them. Behind the three deputies came the sheriff. Longarm walked just far enough to the rear to keep the muzzle of his Winchester out of Tucker's reach. He didn't want gunplay on the crowded plaza. The deputies in the lead headed for the saloon, and for a moment Longarm wondered if the jail and sheriff's office were part of that building, but they veered around one side of it and went to a smaller structure the saloon building had hidden from view. It was built of the sturdiest timbers Longarm had seen in Los Perros.

As an afterthought, when they started around the saloon, Longarm called to Spud. "You. That gray over at the hitch rail's my horse. Get him and lead him along with us. The rest of you hold up right here till he brings the critter up."

As in most of the towns he'd seen wherever his cases took him, Longarm found that the Los Perros jail also included an outer office for the sheriff and a lean-to or ell for his living quarters. As they entered, Sheriff Tucker let out a bellow.

"Wahonta! Git out here with some hot water and rags! There's a hurt man I want you to tend to!"

Judging by her name and appearance, Longarm placed the girl who responded to the summons as an Apache. She looked surprisingly young, though as was always the case with women of the Southwestern Indian tribes, her age was hard to judge. She had the Apache stockiness of build, short legs, wide hips and shoulders, and the square tribal face that would broaden and flesh out as she grew older. Yet she had about her the bloom of extreme youth as well as the quick, springy step of the very young. Longarm guessed what her relationship with the sheriff was, and made a mental note to confirm his hunch when he had time. Right now there were more important things to do.

He said to the men carrying the prisoner, who was beginning to twitch and moan, but still wasn't fully conscious, "One of you at a time, take off your gunbelts and hang 'em on those pegs on the wall." In sullen silence, the deputies obeyed. Spud wore no gunbelt. "Now all three of you take that fellow back in the jail and put him on a bunk." Tucker, after a moment of indecision, started to follow his men. Longarm said, "Not you, Sheriff. You stand right where you are." To Wahonta he said, "You go in, too. Fix up that man's back as good as you can." The Apache girl looked questioningly at the sheriff, who nodded. Then she followed the men into the first cell.

Longarm swung the Winchester's muzzle in Tucker's general direction. "Lock 'em up."

"Now, wait a minute~" Tucker began.

Longarm cut him short. "Lock 'em up, I said!"

Tucker glared, but took a key ring from the wall peg on which it hung and locked the cell door. It was crowded in the cell, even with Morton stretched out facedown on the cot that was the cubicle's sole piece of furniture. Longarm held out a hand for the key ring. The sheriff handed it over.

"Now, then," Longarm told the thin-lipped Tucker, "let's you and me go in there" — he indicated the door by which Wahonta had entered — "and have us a little private confab."

Chapter 5

Sheriff Tucker pushed his hat back on his head as he and Longarm went into the ell attached to the jail building, and Longarm got his first really close look at the man's face. It wasn't one to inspire confidence. Tucker's eyes were narrow slits set in puffs of fat. His lips were a wide, crooked slash that turned down at the corners above a once-firm chin that was now half-buried in a set of double chins bulging below it. He wore a Burnside beard — a heavy mustache that crept around his cheeks and clean-shaven jaw to merge with full, flowing muttonchop whiskers. His nose veered back and forth between brow and tip, evidence that the sheriff had at one time been a man prone to indulge in fistfighting. Longarm revised Lieutenant Bryant's estimate of Tucker's age. He'd bet the man would never see fifty again, and might well be past fifty-five.

Tucker asked again, "Who in hell are you, to come bustin' into town like you did and get in the way of the law bein' enforced?"

"I might just argue with you about that whipping being according to law," Longarm replied. "Fellow I was talking to before it got started said you're sheriff and judge both, here in Los Perros."

"Well? What if I am? Somebody's got to keep the damn town in line."

"Makes me wonder just whose laws you're talking about, though. Your own, or the state's, or the U.S.'s."

"We don't worry about little things like that around here. We do what we got to, to keep things quiet."

"What kinda things?"

"Damn it, man, you know what I'm talkin' about. Lawlessness in general."

Choosing his words carefully, Longarm said, "The way I look on it, laws made up to suit special cases is worse'n no law at all."

"An expert on the law, are you?" Tucker challenged.

"Nope. Never claimed to be that. Let's just say I got my own ideas. And when push comes to shove, I figure my ideas are as good as the next man's."

"You still ain't told me who you are."

"Name's Custis~"

Before Longarm could finish, the sheriff spoke quickly. "Custis? Now, that's a real fine old Virginia name. Fought on the side of right during the war, I suppose?"

"I suppose." Longarm didn't need to ask which side Tucker meant. The sheriff's Southern accent told him that.

"Who'd you fight under?"

"Depends on when. I rode with more'n one, while I was serving. "

"Did you now? You want to name me names?"

"I disremember things like names, sometimes. Especially when I figure somebody's getting too nosy."

"Look here, Custis, it ain't nothing to be ashamed about, being on the side that lost. Hell, I'm real proud to say I rode with Quantrill, back then."

Tucker's naming of the notorious guerrilla fighter, far more outlaw than soldier, told Longarm perhaps more than the sheriff had intended. It also changed his mind about revealing that he was a deputy U.S. marshal, at least for the time being. Letting Tucker think he was a bullying opportunist with more brass than brains might serve his purpose better. Instead of commenting on the sheriff's revelation of his past history, Longarm merely nodded.

"Now, you might wonder why I told you about myself," Tucker went on. "Fact is, I got a good thing goin' here, have had for a pretty fair spell, and I don't aim to let some owlhoot drifter mess things up for me. Which is what you come close to doin' when you busted up that whippin'."

"Maybe my stomach ain't as strong as it used to be," Longarm offered mildly.

"I don't know about your stomach, but I got to say I like your nerve. Ain't many men'd have enough sand in their craw to call a play the way you did."

"That wasn't much, Sheriff. I didn't look for sensible men to argue with a cocked and loaded Winchester, no matter how fast they might be with a Colt."

"You feel like tellin' me why you showed up in Los Perros?" When Longarm said nothing, but just continued to look at the sheriff with his steel-blue eyes, Tucker asked, "You're on the dodge, ain't you? Law's after you someplace up the line — San Antone, maybe, or El Paso. Fort Worth? Galveston?"

"Now, seeing as you're the law here, or say you are, you don't expect me to answer a fool question like that, do you?" Longarm was curious to find out how far he could prod the sheriff before he'd balk.

"Not unless you got less brains than I give you credit for." Tucker paused, studying Longarm closely. "If it'll make you feel any better, I ain't interested enough to find out. But it's got to be that, or you're lookin' for somebody that's got your dander up, on the prod to gun him down."

"Let's leave it stand that I'm just traveling."

"If that's how you want it." The sheriff frowned thoughtfully. "It could be something else, a-course. You might be carrying a badge. Or you might've been with a bunch that got busted up, and lookin' to make a new connection."

"Like I said, Sheriff, let's say I'm just traveling."

"You'll be plannin' to move on, then." Tucker wasn't asking a question. Longarm understood that, and got the warning message that the statement implied.

"Sooner or later," he said.

"I guess you know you only got two choices."

"Which are what?"

"Move on, or throw in with my boys and me."

"You saying you'd pin a deputy's badge on me, after what I done out there a while ago?"

"Shucks, Custis, I'm a big enough man to overlook that. I was about to tell Spud to hold up, anyhow. It wasn't in my mind to let him kill Morton. Except he had to be give a good lesson to."

"Fellow I was talking to, the one told me about Morton's trouble, he didn't say it wasn't a fair fight that got your deputy hurt."

"That don't signify." Tucker's voice hardened. "Thing is, my man got cut so bad I had t' send him clear down to Laredo for him t' be doctored. Most people in Los Perros, they know they can't hurt one of my boys without they pay for it. Them as don't got t' be reminded. That goes for you, too, Custis."

"Join up or move on? Is that the way of it?"

"Clear as I can say it. You do one, I take good care of you, money and all the rest. You do anything else, then you better keep on travelin'. For your own good."

"Suppose I tell you I'd like to sorta nose around a little bit and see what Los Perros is like before I make up my mind?"

Tucker thought about this for a moment, then nodded slowly. "All right, that's fair enough. You stay around a few days, see what you see. Only don't go pullin' no more stunts like the one I'm lettin' you git away with."

"Now, I didn't come here to get crossways with you, Sheriff. Or with anybody else, far's that goes. I got mighty tender toes, though. I'd imagine you're smart enough to tell them deputies of yours not to step on 'em."

"Don't worry about that. They're my boys, they do what I tell 'em to. Nothing else." Tucker frowned, then added, "Except maybe for Spud. He's been actin' a little bit uppity, now and again. Not enough so I got to whip him into line, but he'd be the only one that might give you a bad time."

"That's my problem, though, ain't it?"

"I'd say so. Don't look for me to take sides, though, Custis. Even if he is my boy, when I tell him to leave you be and he don't, that's his lookout."

Longarm marked down the possible ill feeling between Tucker and Spud as a hole card that might fill a thin hand for him if it was needed. He said, "Looks like we understand how it stands between us, Sheriff. Now let's go see what's happening to that poor devil your man Spud just about beat to death. And I guess all of 'em oughta be glad to get let out of that cell. They'll be getting a mite restless by now."

Longarm's guess was a good one. The Apache girl, Wahonta, was still tending to Jed Morton's back; Morton lay facedown on the cot, groaning now and then. The three deputies were crowding up to the bars, impatient to be released.

"Took you two long enough to settle whatever it was you went to talk private about," Spud grumbled as the sheriff unlocked the cell door.

"Cool off, Spud," Tucker advised. "You wasn't hurt a bit, no more'n Ralston or Lefty." The others grunted, but said nothing. Tucker led them to the office area, where he sat down behind the battered desk and motioned for the others to find seats, too. "Now," he said, "this gentleman here's Mr. Custis. He's made a right handsome apology to us for gittin' hisself crossways of our law, and him and me have settled any differences there might've been."

"Now just a minute~" Spud began.

Tucker cut him short. "You shut up, Spud. If you hadn't been so damn heavy-handed with that whip, this dustup never would've happened."

Spud glowered, but kept quiet.

"Mr. Custis figures to stay in Los Perros for a little while," the sheriff continued. He shifted his eyes from Longarm to Spud as he spoke. "He ain't lookin' for trouble with nobody, and I told him we wasn't goin' to hold no grudges for him buttin' in on us. You all understand what I'm tellin' you?"

All three of the deputies had their gazes fixed on Longarm. He kept his face impassive, meeting their stares without flicking an eyelid.

Tucker concluded, "Now. That's all I got t' say."

When it was clear that none of the deputies was inclined to argue with their boss, Longarm spoke up. "I aim to get along with everybody. Now, if you gentlemen feel like you want to join the sheriff and me, I'm standing the drinks."

* * *

It didn't appear that the general population of Los Perros could afford saloon prices, Longarm thought. Except for Tucker, the deputies, and himself, the cavernous, shabby place was echoingly empty. The scarred floor gave indications that booted feet did walk on it in numbers at times, however, and the array of bottled goods available, as shown by the display in front of the mirror behind the bar, seemed adequate. From inside the building, the exterior outlines of the structure made sense. The bar area covered about two-thirds of the available space. A small enclosed area — offices, maybe storerooms, Longarm thought — filled the rear portion. Above this was a balcony, and though the stairs to it ended in a blind turn, Longarm was sure there were rooms opening onto a corridor over the offices or storage area. He absorbed the layout in one quick, sweeping glance as the group crossed to the bar. An aproned barkeeper appeared from nowhere. Longarm tossed a gold eagle on the scarred pine that in Los Perros substituted for the mahogany or walnut of more civilized places.

"Name your pleasure, gentlemen," he said.

For himself, Longarm ordered his standard Maryland rye, and realized as he sipped it with relish that this was his first drink since he'd gotten off the train in San Antonio just a week ago. He felt for a cheroot to go with the drink, and remembered that the sutler at Fort Lancaster hadn't been able to replenish his dwindling supply. There were only three left in his pocket. It seemed to him the occasion called for celebrating, so he fished out one of them and lighted it. The heavy smoke and sharp tang of the whiskey did a lot to make him feel more at home in the alien surroundings.

Ralston, the deputy standing at Longarm's right, asked, "You going to be around Los Perros for a while, Custis?"

"Awhile. And I aim to stay out of trouble while I'm here."

"Hell, I don't blame you much for butting in today. I was just about sick, listening to that poor son of a bitch groan, and them whacks Spud was dealing with the whip."

"It didn't seem to bother Spud any," Longarm commented, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

"Nothin' like that bothers Spud." Ralston looked down the bar. He was standing on Longarm's right. Lefty, the other deputy, stood on his left, and beyond Lefty was Tucker. Spud, the last man in the line, was engaged in a whispered conversation with the sheriff. Dropping his voice, Ralston said to Longarm, "I'd look behind me when I was out at night, if I was you, Custis. Spud took that deal today right personal. He was saying some pretty ugly things he'd like to do to you while we was all locked up together."

"Thanks, Ralston. I'll remember that. Maybe I can return the favor someday."

"Ah, forget it. I didn't say nothing, anyhow."

Raising his voice, Longarm called, "There's another round or two of drinks to come out of that eagle on the bar. Sing out for refills. "

He thought about Marshal Billy Vail, back in Denver, and could imagine his chief's face changing color if he was to see government expense money being spent on whiskey for a bunch of toughs in Los Perros. His thoughts were interrupted by Sheriff Tucker calling his name.

"Custis! Come on back to the office with me. I just saw Miles Baskin stick his head outa his door. He's a man you'll want to know, if you're goin' to be in town awhile."

Baskin turned out to be a somewhat colorless individual. His lean face was adorned with the walrus mustache that was the trademark of a saloonkeeper, but this was the only outstanding feature of an otherwise nondescript face. His eyes were colorless, his nose unremarkably straight, and what his lips looked like was a secret guarded by the overhanging mustache. As he hadn't been involved in the dispute that had flared in the plaza, Baskin greeted Longarm pleasantly enough.

"I don't know what brings you to Los Perros, Custis, but any new customer's welcome in my place," he said. "Hope you'll drop in often."

"I was hoping I might do better'n drop in. I see you got some rooms upstairs, and I'm going to need a place to sleep. You happen to have one vacant, or are they all full up?"

"I don't keep whores in them, if that's what you're getting at," Baskin said. "You can have your choice for two bits a night. We don't get many travelers stopping off here."

"Fine. I'll pick one out later on. I don't guess there's a livery stable in town, is there? I got a horse that's going to have to be stabled and fed."

"No," the saloonkeeper said. Then, as an afterthought, "Ed, seeing Custis is a friend of yours, why don't you let him put his animal in the corral with your spare ones?"

"Well, I~" Tucker stopped, smiled, and went on, "I guess it'd be all right. One more nag won't work old Joselito to death."

"Looks like I'm all fixed up then," Longarm said. "That calls for a drink, if you gents feel like stepping out to the bar."

"No need for that," Baskin told him. He opened a wall cabinet and took out a bottle. "I keep enough back here to take care of my friends when they drop in. What's your pleasure, Custis?"

"Maryland rye, if you got it handy."

"Just happens I do." The saloonkeeper reached in and brought out a second bottle. He put the bottles and glasses on the table that he used for a desk. "Drink up, gentlemen."

After his first sip, Longarm decided that the quality of Baskin's private stock was a lot better than that of the liquor sold over his bar. He remarked, more to fill the silence than for any other reason, "Looks like business is slack for you today."

"It's quiet," Baskin agreed. "Things will liven up tomorrow, though. Ed'll tell you that."

"Oh? What's the occasion?"

"Why, it's the big Mexican holiday," Tucker said. "Dieciseis de Septiembre, their Independence Day. They'll be swiggin' mescal and pulque and dancin' in the plaza out there till all hours. But my boys'll be on hand to keep things from gittin' too wild."

"Now, wait a minute, Ed," Baskin interjected. "Did you forget~"

Tucker said quickly, "No, damn it, Miles, I ain't forgot. We can talk about that later on."

"If you gents need to talk private business, I'll excuse myself," Longarm offered.

"It's nothin' important," the sheriff assured him. "Just a little somethin' I told Miles I'd give him a hand with." He turned back to the saloonkeeper. "And I'll take care of it, don't worry."

"You go on and settle your business," Longarm told them. "I'll step on back to the bar and finish my drink with your deputies, Sheriff."

Spud, Lefty, and Ralston were standing where he'd left them, and Longarm noticed that the ten-dollar gold piece he'd put on the bar had disappeared. The thought passed through his mind that with bar whiskey a dime a shot, the three must've done some real two-fisted drinking during the few minutes he'd been with Tucker and Baskin, but he didn't say anything. It was worth a lot more than ten dollars to him to wash away the anger the plaza incident had sparked.

He said, "Well, it looks like I'm all fixed up. Room upstairs, a place for my horse in the sheriff's corral. Now, if one of you gentlemen'll just be kind enough to show me where the corral is, I'd better unsaddle him and get settled in."

Ralston, the friendliest of the three, volunteered, "Come on, Custis. It's just a step or two. I'll show you the layout."

"I'd appreciate it."

Longarm followed Ralston out of the saloon and around the building to the sheriff's office. Tordo stood at the hitching rail. Just outside the office door, the Apache girl was wiping out the basin in which she'd brought the water to minister to Jed Morton's back. She paid no attention to the two men.

As he slipped the dapple's reins free of the rail, Longarm asked the girl, "How's the man you were tending to?"

"Him all right." Her eyes, turned to Longarm as she spoke, were jet black and opaque. "Him be sore four, five days. Not hurt bad."

"Thanks for fixing him up, Wa — Wawayna, is it?"

"Wahonta." When she corrected him, Longarm thought the girl almost smiled. She added, "You welcome," and turned to go back into the office.

Ralston warned, "Don't get no ideas about the 'Pache gal. She's private property."

"Yours?"

"No. Times when I get horny, I sorta wish she was. Well, hell, you'll find out soon enough. She's Ed's girl. So be smart and keep outa her way." They started around the building to the corral. Ralston added, "Keep outa Spud's way, too. He holds on to a mad a long time."

"But you and Lefty don't?" Longarm was loosening Tordo's saddle girth. He didn't look up from his job.

"I can't say about Lefty, but I already said I don't hold you no bad feelings because of today."

Longarm set his saddle where some others rested on the top rail of the corral, tossed his bedroll over one shoulder, his saddle-bag over the other. He chalked up his purchase of drinks for the deputies as a wise investment, one that was already paying dividends. The return he was getting from Ralston alone was making it worthwhile. He said, "You mentioned it. Don't worry about Spud. I'll be careful not to let him get behind me. Especially in the dark."

"You've got his style tagged, all right. You take the way he's trying to cut~" Suddenly, the deputy seemed to realize he was letting his mouth run away with his good sense. He stopped short.

Longarm was curious to know what he'd started to say, but decided it'd be better to wait instead of prodding. He could get the man talking again, later on. There was also a growing void in his stomach that was yelling to be filled up. He remembered that he'd had only those three buns at noon, and lunch had slipped his mind in the general ruckus.

"I'll pick up my rifle from inside, and go see about that room," he told Ralston.

"I'll walk on back with you, I guess. Nothing else to do right this minute."

Side by side they walked back to the saloon. Lefty and Spud no longer stood at the bar; except for the aproned barkeeper the place was empty. Longarm said, "Hate to leave you by yourself, Ralston. You been real helpful. I'll remember it. Right now I'm going to see if this place has got such a thing as a bathtub. I need to soak the frail dust off my hide. When I'm dirty, I feel about as mean as your friend Spud acts. See you around town, tonight or maybe tomorrow."

As he went up the stairs, Longarm could feel Ralston's questioning gaze on his back.

Chapter 6

There was still daylight in the western sky when Longarm glanced out the window of the room he'd selected. He felt a lot better now, more like going downstairs in search of food. For a dime, he'd been provided with a big wooden tub of hot water in which he'd soaked and soaped away the travel grime. He'd felt so good that he'd tipped the mozo who'd brought the tub another dime.

Fresh underwear and socks and a clean shirt added to his well-being. The porter who'd attended to the tub had assured Longarm that his wife was "una lavandera maravillosa, " who'd be glad to wash the dirty garments Longarm had removed and return them the next day. After the mozo left, Longarm wasted no time getting ready to seek his supper. He dressed quickly, though not so fast that he neglected his invariable routine of checking his Colt and derringer. He'd had the foresight to bring a bottle of Maryland rye up from the bar; he had enjoyed a few sips while he was soaking, and another as he dried himself, and the whiskey had whetted his growing appetite.

As always, hunger took second place to safety. Longarm paused long enough after locking the door to his room to break a match and wedge half the stick between door and jamb. He didn't want to risk being surprised on his return by Spud or one of the surly deputy's friends.

One look at the free-lunch counter that stood at the end of the saloon's bar only confirmed what his quick glance earlier had hinted. The slices of darkening curled-up bologna, discolored rat cheese, brine scummed pickles, and hard-boiled eggs with chipped shells were enough to stop a man's appetite dead in its tracks. Baskin's free lunch offering not only didn't compare with those of the Windsor Hotel bar or the Black Cat Saloon, but were less appetizing than most of those he'd seen when cases had taken him into the cheap, shoddy bars in Denver's Lowers.

Recalling the food stalls that had been setting up for business at the time he'd first entered the Los Perros plaza, he stepped through the batwings onto the narrow veranda that ran the width of the saloon's front and looked around the almost deserted open area to see if any of the native vendors were still in operation at their stalls.

Old son, he told himself, maybe you're in luck. Looks like you don't have to depend on that slop inside to fill your belly. That grub out there might not be much better, but it'll at least be hot.

Though the plaza wasn't nearly as crowded as it had been when Los Perros's residents were gathering in anticipation of the whipping, there were still a few people around. Taco and tamale vendors stood beside the small charcoal fires that kept their iron pots hot. In addition, a half-dozen stalls — bare planks supported on trestles to make rough counters — dotted the margin of the plaza. People stood at most of them, eating. Longarm stepped to the ground and strolled idly around, going from counter to counter, trying to find the one at which the food looked most appetizing. As he walked, the tang of stewing hot red peppers mingled with the fainter smells of beef and garlic to set his juices running.

All the stalls seemed to be family affairs, operated by women. All of them offered about the same menu: chili con carne, tamales, frijoles, enchiladas, and steaming tortillas, served in thick iron-stone plates that held the heat in the food. While the patrons stood at the counters, the women cooked and served them. The distribution of labor, he noted, was very consistent. The younger girls filled the plates from pots that rested on improvised stoves bent from metal sheets; the older girls served the food; the mothers cooked the tortillas; the grandmothers made them, starting with small balls of moistened cornmeal, slapping the balled meal into thin round sheets, rotating the meal cakes between wrinkled palms until they were paper-thin and ready to be cooked, greaseless, on the top of the metal stove. The very youngest children worked at one side of the serving area, grinding raw dried corn kernels on stone metates into a meal almost as fine as flour.

Approaching darkness was bringing out lanterns on the counters of the stalls before Longarm finished his leisurely inspection tour. He hadn't found anything different at any of the stalls; all he'd succeeded in doing was making himself hungrier by watching others eat. He stopped at a counter where a girl was trying to get a lantern lighted. Darkness had brought a breeze, and every match she struck fizzled out before she could touch it to the wick. Longarm took one of his waterproofed matches from his pocket and thumbnailed it into flame. Cupping the match expertly in his hands, he touched the wick with it. The kerosene-soaked fabric ignited, and he guided the girl's hand in lowering the glass chimney quickly, before the wind whipped the flame out.

"Ay!" the girl breathed. "Muy bueno! Gracias, senor, por su ayudo. "

Longarm scraped up enough of his scanty Spanish to reply, "De nada, senorita. "

"Pues, habla Espanol? " the girl asked, bringing her eyes up to meet his. "Ve que esta extranjero. "

"No hablo mucho, " Longarm replied. "Conoce Ingles? "

"A little bit, I speak," she said. "You are stranger, no?"

"I'm a stranger, yes, and hungry."

"Porque no come? Mira~" she indicated the pots on the stove behind the counter, shook her head, and said, "Excuse, senor, I forget. Look, we got good chili Colorado, chili verde, we got tamales and frijoles, and mi abuela, her tortillas they very fine. So, what you wan' to eat?"

"Everything you just said sounded pretty good. Maybe you can fix me up a plate with a little bit of everything on it?"

"Un poco de todas? Si. I fix you."

She moved back to the stove, almost dancing, Longarm thought, her steps were so light and graceful. Moving with unconscious poise, she ladled food from the pots crowded together, peeled the cornmeal husks from four tamales, and put them on top of the beans and chili con carne swimming on the plate. Finally, she grabbed a stack of smoking tortillas from the cloth-covered platter where they were being laid by the woman cooking them — obviously, Longarm thought, her mother. She laid the tortillas on the other food and danced back to where he waited.

"You eat now," she commanded with a smile that showed flashing white teeth between firm crimson lips. "Is no good when it get cold."

Longarm looked for utensils. There was no fork, no spoon, no knife. He asked, "How'm I going to eat without tools?"

"Tools?" She frowned, then her eyes widened. "Ah, si, cuchara, tenedor. Pues, senor, no tenemos. " Seeing that he didn't understand her, she added, "Here, I show you."

Picking up a tortilla, the girl pulled a strip off one side and folded it between her fingers and thumb to form a scoop. She pushed the edge of the tortilla into the food, lifting meat and beans in it, and held it to his mouth. Longarm was too surprised to do anything but make a single bite of the tortilla strip and the chili and beans it contained.

"You see?" the girl giggled. "Is easy, no?" She handed him the remainder of the tortilla. "You do, now."

Longarm's fingers were as dexterous as any man's, but he had trouble forming the strip he tore off into a scoop of the proper shape. He made a try or two, but the tortilla always opened out and let the food drop back on the plate before he could lift it.

"No, no," she said. "Do like so. Here."

She took his hand in both of hers and bent his fingers into the proper curves to support the thin tortilla while he scooped up a portion of chili and beans and got them in his mouth. Her hands on his were warm and light, and reminded him somehow of a butterfly he'd caught many years ago, when he was a boy in West Virginia. All at once he was aware that the girl was less a girl than a pretty young woman. He became purposely clumsy, so that she had to keep helping him.

"What's your name?" he asked. After being helped to several bites, he'd picked up a tamale and was eating it.

"Lita."

"Let's see, that'd be short for — Adelita, maybe?"

She smiled. "No, senor. Guess some more."

"Carmelita?"

"No, no! Ay, nunca advenirse. Mi nombre completa es Estrellita. "

"Now, that's a right pretty name, I'd say."

"Y usted? Que se llama? "

Longarm remembered how the sheriff had shortened his name in time to reply, "Custis."

"Cos-tees?" she tried, frowning.

"No. Custis." He stressed the "u," which she'd turned into an "o".

"Ah, si! Coos-tees. Is nice."

Lita's mother had been keeping an eye on the pair. From her place at the stove, she called, "Lita! Paradese hablando con el gringo!"

"Collate, mama!" the girl replied. "No daname hablar un poco con un extranjero!"

"Cuidado, chica!" the woman said. "Los gringos quieren so-lamente una cosa de mujeres!"

"No hay que tal!" the girl shot back. "Dejame in paz!"

Longarm's rusty and slight knowledge of Spanish kept him from understanding the exchange, but he caught the woman's warning. He thought, all women are alike wherever a man goes. They see a fellow making up to their daughter, they're damn sure all he wants is to get in her drawers.

Lita didn't seem bothered by the scolding, which stopped as soon as her mother saw she was wasting breath. She went back to cooking tortillas, casting an occasional suspicious look over her shoulder while Lita continued to help Longarm eat his dinner.

He wasn't sure which he enjoyed most, the food or the girl's help in eating. He found Lita a delight to watch. She was at that point when a girl has just become a woman, with a woman's awareness of a man. Lita was small, but fully rounded in all the right places. Her full gathered skirt didn't hide a saucy pair of buttocks when she danced from counter to stove, and her blouse was cut low; its rounded neckline gave Longarm a view of the valley between full breasts each time she leaned toward him across the counter. Her cheeks were high in a face that was neither oval nor triangular, but a blending of the best of both. Dark eyes, full lustrous brows, and dark red pouting lips under a straight flared nose completed his picture of her.

"You like?" she asked, when his plate had been cleaned of the last peppery trace of chili sauce.

"Yep. It was real good. Muy bueno."

"You wan' some more? Is plenty on stove."

"No, thanks, Lita. I'm as fall as any man's got a right to be."

"Maybe you come back, some time?"

"You just bet I will. Now how much do I owe you?"

"Ah, quince centavos, Coos-tees. Like you say, feefteen cents."

"It's worth double that." He dug into his pocket and passed her a half-dollar. "Here. You keep whatever's extra, for helping me."

"Gracias, Coos-tees. I think you a nice man."

"And you're a right pretty girl. I'll be back to eat with you again, real soon. Maybe tomorrow."

"I think I will like that. Vaya con Dios, Coos-tees."

There being no place else to go in Los Perros, Longarm went back to the saloon. The place had lost the deserted look it had had in the afternoon. Poker games were in progress at two of the four felt-covered tables, and there was a respectable lineup along the bar as well as a scattering of men sitting at the round tables that dotted the floor. Most of the men had on the clothes that marked them as ranch hands: faded Levi's, boots, wide-brimmed felt hats. He found a place at the bar at the edge of a knot of men and ordered his usual rye. He sipped it slowly while listening to the backwash of gossip from the group beside him.

To Longarm's disappointment, gossip was all he heard. Much of the chatter consisted of complaints: bedbugs in the bunkhouse, hard beans in the cookshack. He listened until he'd finished his drink, then ordered a refill and wandered over to watch the poker games. So far, he'd heard nothing useful.

Rustling had been mentioned once or twice, but casually, not in terms of a major new outbreak. Nothing had been said about either the army or the Texas Rangers.

That wasn't too unusual. Longarm had worked before at picking up cold trails. He'd learned that as time went by, incidents that were prime conversational fodder when they happened were forgotten. Captain Hill had been missing since June, Nate Webster since July. If their vanishing had been discussed then, it had been forgotten by September. Questioning would refresh memories, but Longarm wasn't quite ready yet to start asking questions.

Standing between the two poker tables that were busy, Longarm watched silently. Spud was in the game at one of the tables, and although he'd seen Longarm, he'd ignored him. The game at the other table was uninteresting, a friendly affair with two-bit antes, bets of fifty to seventy-five cents, and raises about as big as the bets. The game at the table where Spud sat was for blood, and small change wasn't being mentioned by any of the players in it.

There was room for six, and all seats were filled. Spud was at the dealer's left, and after he'd begun paying attention to the game, Longarm thought there was something vaguely familiar about the house man. He couldn't associate him with any case he'd handled, or match his face with the descriptions or pictures on any of the wanted circulars he'd looked at lately. He heard the other players call the man George, but that didn't ring a bell, either.

Three of the other men at the table were ranch hands, judging by their clothes. Two were in their thirties, old enough to have cut their teeth on poker in bunkhouse and trail-ride games. The third was a fresh-faced young cowboy who wore the expression of one who'd been sliding deeper and deeper into the hole that waits for gamblers trying to buck a game out of their depth. The remaining two players were Mexicans, dressed in embroidered charro suits; they played with skill, folding when their cards didn't justify a draw, raising moderately but not extravagantly when they stayed in the pot.

There was no friendly banter or "dealer's choice" about the game these seven played. George, who was banker as well as dealer, stuck to five-card draw, the game that demands the greatest skill and judgment from a player. The house man wasn't a fast-shuffle artist, Longarm decided after he'd watched a few hands, nor did he use the standard gaffs such as rubber- or spring-loaded sleeve holdouts, palmed cards, or other devices professionals use to give themselves an unbeatable edge. As far as Longarm's skilled eyes could tell, it was an honest game, for which he gave Miles Baskin good marks. He hadn't expected a straight game in Los Perros.

During the short time Longarm had been looking on, the pile of chips in front of the young cowhand had shrunk steadily, and the young fellow had been getting nervous in inverse ratio to the diminishing of his stake. Now, as the dealer flicked cards around the table, the youth grabbed each one as it hit the felt in front of him, looked at it quickly, and added it to the fan forming in his hand. He'd begun growing tense after he'd picked up the third card; his nerves tightened visibly after he'd seen the fourth, and then he relaxed after looking at the final card.

"Openers?" the dealer asked the table at large.

Shaking his head, Spud put his cards facedown on the table.

The man to his left, one of the charro-suited Mexicans, also passed. The ranch hand who had the next call opened for a modest dollar. "Just to keep the deal from being wasted," he remarked.

Wordlessly, the second Mexican tossed a white chip into the pot. After a moment's hesitation, but before the play passed him by, he added a second white chip.

"Cost you two dollars, Billy-Bob," George announced. "Spud, if you and Gonzales want in, you better be making up your mind."

"Plenty of time," Spud remarked. "I'll see what Billy-Bob does."

Billy-Bob put in his two whites; so did the other ranch hand in his turn. The dealer followed suit; after he'd fed the pot he riffled the depleted deck and looked questioningly at Spud and Gonzales. Both of them tossed their second white chips into the growing pile in the table's center.

"Who wants cards?" George asked.

"It ain't worth it, but I'll take the two I paid to see," Spud said. He got the cards, looked at them, and stacked them on the table in front of him.

"One," Gonzales requested. He threw his discard on the pile Spud had started before sliding the new card into his hand.

"Two for me," said the ranch hand who'd opened. He tossed out his discards, looked at the new ones without comment or change of expression, and squeezed the fanned-out cards into a stack that he cradled protectively in his hands.

Instead of speaking, the Mexican held up two fingers, tossing his discards out and sweeping the new ones into his hand in a single motion. He laid his cards down, his face bland and unruffled.

"I~ I'll play what I got," Billy-Bob announced. His voice was a bit higher-pitched than usual and he was clenching his cards tightly between pressed palms.

"Luke?" the dealer asked the last man.

"Since I paid for 'em, you better gimme two." He got the requested cards, looked at them, added them to his hand, and tossed all the cards on the discard heap.

"I'm drawing two," George announced. He did so, discarded and stacked the discards neatly, then looked across the table. "You bought the bet when you raised, Gonzales."

"Five." Gonzales tossed a red chip in the pot.

The ranch hand and the second charro followed suit.

"And five," Billy-Bob said as soon as their chips had clattered to the table. He tossed in two reds from the small stack of chips he'd been clicking nervously.

There weren't enough chips in the young fellow's stake to drag the betting out, Longarm thought.

"Ten to me, then, gents," George said. "And you, too, Spud. If you're staying in, that is."

"Oh, I'm in," Spud replied. He threw in the chips, then leaned back in his chair, smiling to show that he hadn't a worry in the world.

George raised his eyebrows at Gonzales, who added another red chip without speaking. Then the dealer's eyes moved to the next player. "Fiddler?"

"Reckon I'll just cut my losses before I get tempted." The ranch hand slid his hand to George, who added it to the deadwood.

"Aleman?" George asked. The Mexican shrugged and fingered his chips for a moment. Impatiently, George repeated, "Aleman?"

"I find myself forced to raise," Aleman announced. "But only a small amount. Five more dollars, senores."

Defiantly, Billy-Bob tossed in the red chip, then added his last blue. "And ten more," he said, making an almost visible effort to keep his voice steady.

Wordlessly, George tapped the tabletop with his five stacked cards and added them to the discards. In equal silence, Spud added a red and a blue chip to the pot. Holding up two fingers, Gonzales dropped a red and two blues in the table's center. Aleman threw in two blues, his face still bland and unreadable.

Longarm hadn't been keeping close track of the betting, but it had registered subconsciously. He estimated that there was something just over a hundred dollars in the pot, three or four months' wages for the young cowhand whose raise had escalated the betting.

"Damn it!" Billy-Bob said. "I wanta raise, but all I got is enough to call!"

On impulse, Longarm flipped a double eagle onto the table in front of Billy-Bob. The youth looked up, startled. He identified Longarm as his unexpected benefactor and said, "Thanks, mister. I'll pay you back outa the pot."

"Win it first," Longarm told him.

Billy-Bob tossed the twenty-dollar gold piece in the pot. "I guess I don't need to buy chips with this." Then he added his last two reds to the growing heap on the table. "And up ten more."

"I got too much in there not to look, now," Spud observed. He fed the pot a pair of blues. "But all I'll do is call."

Gonzales announced regretfully, "That will not be good enough, senor." He put in three blue chips. "The game becomes more costly."

"Si, amigo, " Aleman agreed. "I also raise. Ten more dollars."

"Hell's bells!" Billy-Bob exploded. "You men are freezing me out!" He looked at the house man. "Unless I can play the pot short."

"Not a chance." George shook his head. "There's a house rule against short-played pots. Baskin says they give him too much trouble."

Billy-Bob looked pleadingly at Longarm.

"Sorry, friend," Longarm said. "I kept you in the game once, but that's as far as I go."

"Come look at my hand," Billy-Bob invited.

Longarm shook his head. "Nope. I didn't mean to, but I seen what one of these other men's holding, after I staked you. If I look at your cards now and put up money for your bet, it'd be just like you was playing with a marked deck."

"He's right," George said approvingly. "But there's sure not any house rule that says the rest of you can't make a side pot, if you want to. High hand out of the three'd take the side pot, Billy-Bob's hand would just count in the main pot."

"I won't get sucked into a three-way pot with them two greasers," Spud announced angrily.

Gonzales straightened up at the insulting word, but subsided when Aleman hissed a remark in a voice too low for Longarm to hear.

Gonzales said, "If the caballero"— he made the word sound like the sort of insult Spud had hurled at him as he indicated the deputy — "if the caballero objects, then the joven must find the chips with which to call or raise."

"Damn it, I got too much in that pot to be raised outa it," Billy-Bob protested. He appealed to the man on his left. "Luke, will you stake me? You know I'm good for it, if I happen to lose."

Luke sighed. "I guess it's only money. All right, Billy-Bob. I'll stake you if you promise you won't do nothing but call from here on in. You make any raises, I pull out."

Billy-Bob started to object, but caught Longarm's headshake out of the corner of his eye and settled back into his chair. "We got a deal, Luke. All right. I'll just call any raise that's made."

Somehow, the dispute had shattered the game's mood. Spud glared angrily at the two charros and they glared back. He looked with equal anger at Billy-Bob, who raised his chin defiantly.

George tried to make peace. "Billy-Bob's called your raise, Aleman. Luke, you owe the pot two blues for Billy-Bob. Spud, you're short two blues, and Gonzales is shy one, if you're going to let the call stand."

"I'm damn sure goin' to see what everybody's been bettin'," Spud said. He tossed the chips in.

"That will satisfy me, also," Gonzales said.

Aleman shrugged. "I would not want to be the only one who disagrees." He added a blue chip.

"Show 'em down, then, gents," George ordered.

Gonzales said, "These I would like better if they were in sequence, but with an ace at the top, I think they will get respect." He spread out a heart flush.

"They ain't good," Spud told him. "Not against my four tens."

"Que lastima!" Aleman murmured. "I have put too much trust in three treys and two queens."

As Billy-Bob watched the hands being displayed, the grin on his face grew bigger and bigger. Trying to match the calm of the other players and not quite succeeding, he laid his cards down one by one, all spades, in sequence from the five to the nine.

"I guess I got all of you topped," he said, exhaling gustily.

Spud exploded. He kicked his chair aside and swiveled to face Longarm. "Damn you, Custis! You begun this! If you hadn't staked that little cowpoke, he'd've been froze out and I could've run that pot up to a good one!"

"Cool down, Spud!" George commanded. "The gent didn't do anything that was out of line."

Longarm said nothing, but faced Spud with an expressionless face.

"That's twice today you butted into my business," Spud went on. "And that's just about two times too many!"

Longarm remained silent. He kept his features frozen, his hands still.

George was out of his chair by now, moving between Longarm and Spud, saying, "Hold yourself down, Spud! You know the boss don't like dustups in here!"

Over the house man's shoulder, Spud grated, "This ain't the time to settle with you, Custis. But stay outa my way! You hear?"

"Loud as you're yelling, I'd have to be deaf not to," Longarm replied quietly. When Spud began to sputter, he added, "I judge you ain't got any more to say, so I'll bid all you gents good night."

Deliberately turning his back on Spud, but watching the deputy in the flyspecked bar mirror, Longarm walked away.

Chapter 7

Before Longarm got to the bar, Billy-Bob caught up with him, waving the twenty-dollar gold piece that had gotten him over the hump in betting up the pot he'd just won.

"Mr. — Custis, ain't it? I don't know how to say thanks for helping me out. I'd be right proud to buy you a drink if you'll let me," the young cowhand said, handing Longarm the double eagle.

"You don't need to thank me. It'd be a hell of a sorry world if a man couldn't do something for somebody besides himself, once in a while."

"Just the same, I'd be proud to stand up and drink with you."

"Well, I won't say no to your invitation, Billy-Bob. What's the rest of your name, anyway?"

"Larkin. I work for the Bar Z Bar, down on Devils River."

"That's to the southeast, ain't it?" Billy-Bob nodded and Longarm asked, "Your friends Luke and Fiddler work there, too?"

"No, sir, they're from the next spread south, the Arrowhead."

"You been around here long?" They'd reached the bar; without asking, the barkeep set a bottle of Maryland rye in front of them.

"About two years." Billy-Bob cocked an eye at the bottle's label and asked, "Is this what you always drink, Mr. Custis?"

"Yep. I guess it's what folks call a cultivated taste."

"If it's good enough for you, it'll sure do for me."

The young hand poured the whiskey into the glasses the barman had put beside the bottle.

"Not a lot of ranches down this way, are there?" Longarm asked.

"No, sir. Not too many. The range is so poor, a spread's got to be mighty big around here. The Bar Z Bar foreman says it takes fifty acres to feed a steer."

"You folks bothered by rustlers much?"

"Haven't been since I got here. There's an awful lot going on up to the north, I hear. Up along Howard Creek and the South Concho and the Cemeche country."

"That so?" Longarm sipped thoughtfully before he put the next question. "You heard any talk about the Laredo Loop working again?"

Billy-Bob frowned. "I've heard it mentioned, is all. But didn't the Laredo Loop start someplace up above the Pecos?"

"It all began there." Longarm had been recalling, since he'd left Denver, all the stories he could remember about the across-the-border-and-back operation. "On up north from that place they call Vinagaroon. Then this fellow that's made himself a judge, Roy Bean, moved into Vinagaroon and set up some kind of six-shooter law. I got an idea the Loop's back in business, but it crosses into Mexico quite a way south of where it used to."

"You wouldn't be working for the cattleman's association, would you, Mr. Custis?"

"Nope. That kinda job wouldn't suit me a bit. I'm just sort of curious. Billy-Bob, you can do me a favor, if you will. Keep your ears open, and if you hear any talk about the Loop, or about rustlers, pass it on to me."

"Anything I can do to help you, I sure will," Billy-Bob promised. "Will you have another drink?"

"Guess not, but I thank you." Longarm looked across the room toward the poker tables. George, the house man, was sitting by himself, dealing solitaire.

The two-bit ante game was still going strong, but the men who'd been sitting in the money game had gone. He told the young cowboy, "I need to go talk to George a minute. Then I'm going to turn in. I had a right early start and a busy day."

"I'll look for you next time I'm in town," Billy-Bob promised.

"Maybe I'll hear something that'd help you. And thanks again for staking me."

"You needed it. I don't suppose you've played as much poker as I have, but for what it's worth, I'll tell you something I've found out. Learning the game's just like eating an apple. You take one bite at a time."

"I guess I see what you mean."

"Sure you do. Just remember to chew every bite up good, and don't bite off more'n you can gulp down without choking. I'll see you later on, son."

I'd be a sight better off if I took my own advice about biting and chewing, Longarm thought as he crossed to where George was sitting. For a while there, today, I came close to getting a bigger mouthful than I could swallow.

George looked up at Longarm's approach and said, "If you're looking for a game, this is about all that's going right now."

"Thanks, but poker's not on my mind tonight. I just wanted to say I'm sorry I busted things up for you a while ago."

"I was glad to see Billy-Bob get some help. That game was too rich for him, anyhow. No, I don't blame you a bit. That Spud's got a real hair-trigger temper. If he didn't work for Ed Tucker, I don't think I'd let him sit in on any game I was dealing."

"Well, he's been building up a real mad at me all day."

"I know. I watched you face down him and Ed's bunch in the plaza earlier today. It didn't surprise me when Spud blew up." George frowned and looked closely at Longarm. "Say, don't I know you from somewhere else?"

"You might. I've got around a little bit. Seems like I've seen you someplace, too."

"I move around. Most of us do; it's part of the trade. And we might've run into one another if you've been in Cheyenne or Helena or San Francisco or Denver in the past few years."

Longarm's memory clicked. "Sure. Denver. You ran a faro table at Big Jim Little's place, just down Holiday Street from Jennie Rogers's whorehouse."

"That I did, for damn near a year. I guess that's where I remember you from. But I can't recall your name. You a miner? Cattleman? You don't look like the kind that sits at a desk or stands back of a ribbon counter."

"I'm traveling now as Custis." Longarm knew that in the half-world of the professional gambler he needed only to use this phrase to warn George that he didn't want his identity revealed if the house man should remember him more clearly.

"I see." George nodded understandingly. "Well. Denver. It's a long way from Los Perros. I don't mean to pry, but the way you acted out on the plaza today, you sure didn't seem bashful."

"Now, I didn't say I'm on the dodge, did I? There's other reasons a man might have for changing handles."

"Sure, sure." The gambler dropped his voice. "I'll just tip you that if it's the law you're bothered about, you're safe in Los Perros as long as you stay on Ed Tucker's good side."

"I gather he's all the law there is here. How'd he work that out, you know?"

George shook his head. "I haven't been here all that long. From what I've heard, he just grew into the job. Had a few men behind him, more or less took over the town."

"That's about how I figured," Longarm nodded. "Tucker and your boss get along pretty good, don't they?"

Suddenly, the gambler's face stiffened and he dropped his confidential tone. "I suppose they do. Baskin would have to, wouldn't he, the business he's in?"

"Oh, I wasn't prying," Longarm said hastily. He stood up. "Well, now that I know I was right when I figured I'd seen you before, I'll sleep easier."

"Oh, come on, the night's early. Stay awhile, and we'll hash over Denver, and Big Jim and Jennie and Mattie Silks, and Vesta King, and all the gorgeous girls they had."

"Maybe tomorrow night, or the next. I started riding before sunup, and it's getting on for late."

"Sure. Later on, then, Custis. Sleep good."

"I almost always do."

Longarm made his way across the saloon's main floor, unworried. He wasn't sure George's memory would put a badge on him, but even if it did, the gambler would almost certainly keep quiet unless it came to a hard-rock showdown with Baskin standing beside Tucker. He started up the stairs, being glad that the place didn't have a gaggle of women taking customers up to their rooms through the night. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told George it had been a long day.

Habit kept his feet quiet as he walked along the uncarpeted hall to the door of his room, fishing the key from his pocket as he moved. The habit of walking silently was by now almost an instinct. So was the habit of checking the broken matchstick that he'd wedged between the door and jamb. Longarm looked for the sliver of wood before inserting the key. His hand stopped in midair when he saw the matchstick half was missing. He'd shifted the key to his left hand even before he looked down and saw the splinter of white pine gleaming, a little speck of brightness on the dark wood of the floor.

A half-dozen possibilities flashed through Longarm's mind in as many seconds while he studied the closed door.

It could be Spud, he thought — bushwhacking's about his speed. Or somebody Spud put on me, to do what he don't want to face up to. Tucker, maybe, he'd send a gunslick instead of coming himself.

No, Tucker was doing his damnedest to butter up to me today, as soon as he saw I wasn't going to crawfish.

Might be Tucker's looking for somebody to handle Spud for him — he hinted at that — but Tucker wouldn't wait in my room, he'd wait till we got by ourselves in private, on his grounds.

Spud's still the one it's most likely to be.

One of the corners, I'd say. Or setting on the bed, it's right even with the door. No. That'd put the window in back of him. If he's smart, not the bed.

Me, I'd be along the wall just inside the door, the side it opens along.

Whoever's there, it ain't that big of a shucks, now I know.

Longarm inserted the key delicately, careful not to scrape metal against metal. He recalled that the lock worked easily, and took a full minute, turning the key with infinite patience to engage the wards and pull the lock's square bar out of the strike plate without it scratching. If he made a noise, it was inaudible to his own ears, and he was satisfied that whoever was inside couldn't have been warned.

Leaving the key in the lock, Longarm drew. He turned the knob with his left hand, quickly, and flung the door wide open. As soon as it had swung wide enough to admit him, he dove into his room, rolling when he hit the floor, winding up against the wall away from the bed. His eyes had been sensitized to darkness by his walk down the unlighted hall and his moments of deliberation outside the door. He had no need for the Colt that was ready in his hand. Except for himself, the room was empty.

Well, now, he told himself, leaning against the wall in the darkness, guess I better be glad there wasn't nobody here. Now I'm the only one who knows what a damn fool I looked like, diving in ass over appetite. But it's a hell of a lot better to look foolish than to be dead.

He got to his feet and closed the door, locking it automatically. He started for the dresser in the dark, groping for the bottle of rye. His fingers encountered cloth. In the darkness, he stood laughing silently, thinking, I plumb forgot that I sent out my clothes to be washed; it was that porter come in to deliver 'em while I was gone. He crossed to the window and pulled down the shade before lighting the lamp, then pushed the lamp as far back on the bureau as it would go, resting against the mirror, so it would cast no shadow on the windowshade. Only then did he pick up the bottle and have a nightcap.

Hanging his gunbelt on the bedpost at the left of his pillow, Longarm emptied his pockets quickly, undressed even faster, and was in bed within five minutes from the time he'd entered the room. He went to sleep instantly, and slept like a baby.

* * *

Though he was by nature an early riser, Longarm didn't wake up until the sun was shining yellow against the drawn window shade. He snapped awake instantly and sat up in bed. Though he'd checked the sheets and mattress on moving into the room the day before, he'd learned through unhappy experience that bugs that bite by night have an uncanny way of making themselves invisible during daylight hours; before leaving the room he had spread his own ground cloth and blanket over the bed without turning the linen down. If there'd been any miniature bloodsuckers that his inspection had missed, they hadn't found him to disturb his rest.

Throwing back the blanket, he rolled to his feet and snapped up the shade. He stretched hugely in the sunlight, the solid muscles of his body flexing the last vestiges of drowsiness from his system. Fishing the chamberpot from under the bed, he arced a golden stream until the morning pressure on his bladder was relieved, then padded on bare feet to the dresser for a wake-up shot of rye.

Ten minutes later, his routine of dressing finished, his Colt and derringer checked thoroughly, he strode down the stairway to the bar.

"What does a man do for breakfast here in Los Perros?" he asked the barkeeper. It wasn't the same man who'd been tending bar the night before.

"Help yourself to hard-boiled eggs and whatever else strikes your fancy." The barkeep jerked a thumb at the free lunch table.

Longarm went over and looked at it. The same food he'd seen there the evening before was spread on the same chipped platters.

"Thanks," he told the barkeep. "Maybe later on."

When he stepped through the batwings and looked at the plaza, Longarm was surprised to see an even bigger crowd milling around than had gathered for the whipping yesterday. Then he remembered the sheriff telling him about the fiesta, Mexican Independence Day. He noticed, too, that it wasn't the same quiet, almost sullen crowd he'd seen the day before. Today, the people of Los Perros wore their best and brightest clothes, and were laughing and happy.

A few streamers of colored paper dancing in the light breeze on the far side of the plaza caught Longarm's eye; he wondered if the food stalls might not be setting up early. He started toward them, pushing through the throng. Somewhere close by he heard a mariachi band tuning up. Before he reached the streamers, Longarm thought he saw a remembered figure. He changed direction, and when the crowd in his way no longer blocked his vision, he saw that it was indeed Lita's family, setting up their trestles and counter.

Lita saw him when he was still a yard or so distant. She was wrestling with a plank twice as long as she was tall, and let it rest across one shoulder to greet him. "Coos-tees!" she exclaimed. "You come to eat again, no?"

"If you got something ready, Lita. But I'll give you a hand with that board, first."

"I can do it. I am strong."

"But I'm stronger." He took the plank and settled it into place across the trestles, completing the serving counter. "Now then. I hope you got something besides chili and fiijoles. They're a mite too spicy for breakfast."

"Is not cook yet, the chili. We got bizcochos that Mamacita bake just a little while ago. And we bring hot coffee from our kitchen at la casa, so we don't lose customers who don't wait for it."

"If that's what you got, that's what I'll have."

"You wait, I fix."

In a moment, she'd produced three of the same kind of round, sugar-crusted buns that Longarm had eaten the day before, together with a cup of steaming coffee. Longarm bit into one of the buns. He hadn't paid much attention to those he'd had the previous day, there'd been too much else on his mind. This bun was still hot and moist, and tasted of spices and seasonings strange to him. Accustomed to flat-tasting baked foods — bread, biscuits, and soda crackers — he thought it was odd, but excellent.

"You like Mamacita's bizcochos?" Lita asked.

"They're right tasty. I guess I could stand 'em for breakfast now and again." He sipped the coffee. It was laced heavily with chicory, and reminded him of the French-type brew he had been served when he was in New Orleans.

Mamacita came up to the counter and expressed her disapproval of Lita's attention to Longarm's breakfast needs in rapid-fire Spanish that was beyond his ability to follow. He didn't need a translation, though; the expressions on the faces of both Lita and her mother were easy for him to read. The exchange lasted only a few moments before Mamacita turned away with a disgusted shrug.

Lita said, "I got to work now. You come to the baile tonight, Coos-tees?"

"Sure. It's the only dance in town, ain't it?"

"Maybe I dance with you then, if you ask me."

"Oh, I'll do that." He swallowed the last bite of the last bizcocho, drained his coffee cup, and handed Lita a quarter. "That enough money to pay for breakfast?"

"Is plenty. You pay too much, like last night."

"Well, like I told you then, anything extra's for you." Longarm touched a forefinger to his hat and said, "See you at the dance." Then he started back to the saloon. He wanted his Winchester for the scouting trip he planned to make.

When he went to the corral for Tordo, he avoided the sheriff's office. He didn't want to start the day with a run-in with Spud, and for all he knew the deputy might be on duty. Going directly to the corral, he saddled Tordo and started south along the river channel. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but knowing the lay of the land was often an insurance of survival. Longarm intended to survive.

* * *

By midafternoon, he'd covered the area near Los Perros on the U.S. side of the Rio Grande as well as the bank of the channel along which he'd started. That left the northern, upstream, end of the sandspit. He was forced to ride back almost to the center of town in order to avoid the lagoon formed by the backwater where the sandspit split the river. Going north on the spit, the houses of Los Perros straggled to an occasional lonely shanty more quickly than he'd realized they would. He'd thought there would be dwellings all the way to the northern end of the spit that rose like a whale's humped back above the river; the south end was thickly built up. Beyond the northernmost of the hovels, though, the sandspit stretched for at least two miles. He saw why when he'd left the last of the dwellings behind. High-water marks began to show almost at once.

Longarm continued to the point where the river split. Here, the Rio Grande now ran wide and sluggish at low water, over a sandy bottom. Might even be some quicksand here and there, he thought as he surveyed the point from the height of Tordo's back. He recalled that Texas rivers running in sandy beds were notorious for their quicksand. At the place where he'd pulled up the dapple, there was water on both sides of him: the lagoon on his right, the channel on the left. On the Mexican side of the channel the bank began a steep rise that quickly became a steep bluff; under the bluff the water deepened and the current ran as fast as it did along the downstream end of the sandspit.

Longarm could easily see why Los Perros was a no-man's-land, a place where an unscrupulous pusher like Ed Tucker could set himself up a miniature kingdom. In the rainy season, when the Rio Grande ran in flood, Los Perros stood as an island that could be claimed — or disclaimed — by the U.S. or Mexico. It was, he thought, like places he'd encountered elsewhere in the West. He remembered spots in Indian Territory where there were similar no-man's-lands, created by careless or inexpert surveyors who'd mistaken a natural landmark or guessed at longitude and latitude lines instead of making a star sighting to establish them correctly.

Anyhow, Longarm told himself, there wasn't going to be any argument about which country had jurisdiction when the time came for him to produce his badge, as long as there was dry land on the U.S. side of Los Perros.

Tordo tossed his head and snorted, and Longarm read the message; the horse was thirsty. Stopping to let him drink every time there was a wet spot on the ride from San Antonio had imprinted in the animal's mind the notion that he had to drink every time he saw water. Longarm slacked the reins and touched the dapple's side with his toe to wade him out into the river where he could drink easily. The gray waded out, testing the sand underfoot before each step, his instinct telling him that such bottoms could be treacherous. Tordo stopped in knee-deep water to drink.

There was no current to ripple the surface; the river's rushing water passed to Longarm's left. Idly, he looked over the dapple's bent head and gazed at the bottom, clearly visible through the shallow water. For a moment, he didn't take in what he was seeing. Then it sank home that the sand under the surface was covered with a pattern of dents that could have been caused by only one thing: the hooves of steers being waded across the stream.

Waiting until the dapple had drunk his fill, Longarm nudged the horse ahead. The bottom dropped gradually for a distance of at least two hundred yards. Until it started there to slant, Longarm's stirrups had stayed several inches above the surface. He went on until he felt wavelets slapping his boot soles, then reined in. The water wasn't as clear here, roiled a bit by the current, but he could still make out hoofprints in the sand.

To his left, the Mexican bank of the Rio Grande was low. The upward slope began at a point opposite the sandspit's end. To his right, the calm surface of the lagoon lapped at land that was almost level with the water. There were no hoofprints in the sand that stretched back from the lagoon; its surface rippled in windswept ridges.

To Longarm's trailwise eyes, the story was completely clear. Even a light breeze would smooth the loose, soft sand, and beyond it the baked soil was too hard to take prints. The bank on the Mexican side shelved gently from the water, here. At this one point, there seemed to be no quicksand. Driving a herd of cattle across, even at night, would be no trick at all.

Old son, Longarm told himself as he sat on Tordo's back surrounded by the green sun-dappled water, looks like you just fell headfirst into the place where the new Laredo Loop starts out.

Chapter 8

Standing on the veranda of Baskin's saloon, Longarm looked out across the plaza. Los Perros had turned out in full for the fiesta. He was sure that every man, woman, and child was crowded into the irregular circle that served as the town's public arena.

Music from a mariachi band in front of the saloon almost drowned that from a banda Guadalajara tapatia on the other side. The twanging of the strings and bell-like marimba notes of the mariachis at times clashed sourly against the brasses and cymbals of the Guadalajarenos, but if there were discords where the music blended in the plaza's center, this didn't seem to bother the dancers. They twirled and stomped to the rhythm of the music that was being played closest to them.

"I really do like to see my people having a good time," said a voice at Longarm's elbow.

He turned. Sheriff Tucker had come out of the saloon behind him. Longarm agreed, "They're whooping it up, all right."

"Didn't see you at the barbecue at noon today," Tucker said.

"Maybe that's because I didn't know there was one."

"Well, doggone that Lefty! I told him to make sure you got a special invitation. Man like you, Custis, comin' from outside, don't generally find much t'do in a little place like this."

"Oh, I manage to fill up the time. Tell me something, Sheriff. How many ranches would you say there are in a day's ride to the north, up along the Pecos on both sides?"

Tucker pursed his thin lips. "Not too many, that close. There's such poor range hereabouts that most of the spreads have got to be so big it'd take you a day just to ride across one of' em."

"That's about the way I figured," Longarm nodded. "There sure as hell ain't much grass anyplace I looked at around here so far."

"Sounds like you been sizin' up the range, Custis. You lookin' for anything special?"

"No. Just interested in seeing the lay of the land around these parts, is all."

"You interested in ranchin', then? Funny. I didn't take you for a cattle rancher. Guess I'm goin' to have to change my mind again."

Longarm finally realized that Tucker's sudden expansiveness didn't mean he was getting friendly. The sheriff was drunker than usual. He asked, "How's that? I didn't know you'd made up your mind about me in the first place."

"Well, I did. When you took on Spud and the boys that day you showed up, I put you down in my book as a gunslick on the owlhoot trail. But after I'd thought a bit, that didn't make sense. If you was on the dodge, you'd've laid low, not called no notice to yourself."

Longarm wasn't going to waste the man's loquaciousness. He threw the logical question. "After that, how'd you tab me?"

"I didn't, till now. You had me plumb puzzled. Right now, though, it's popped into my mind you might just be a land agent for one of the big railroads. I keep hearin' there's two or three of'em that wants to run a line down to the Gulf. If you're interested in land, but not in ranchin', that's all the reason I can see."

Longarm wasn't too surprised at Tucker's conclusion. Everywhere in the West, railroads were adding lines to supplement their major routes, and right-of-way agents were thick. Dropping his voice, he said, "I won't say yes or no. But suppose I was, now. Think you might help me pick up some land on the quiet?"

"You're damn right, I can! What I say is law, anywheres inside of a hundred miles of here." Tucker looked around. "Listen, this ain't the place to talk about a deal, Custis. Let's go back to the office. The boys are all out, keepin' an eye on the fiesta. We can talk private there."

* * *

In the sheriff's office, with the outer door closed, Tucker shouted, "Wahonta! Bring the whiskey bottle and some glasses!" When the Apache girl came in with a half-filled bottle and some thick tumblers, he told her brusquely, "Now, go tend to whatever it is you're doin'. We got business to talk."

Longarm's eyes followed the girl as she left. Tucker noticed him watching her. He said, "Maybe she don't look like much to you, but that little 'Pache gal's the sweetest piece of ass I run into in a long time. A-course, I broke her in right. I was the first man ever rode her. She wasn't but only fourteen when I bought her off the resettlement camp south of here, a couple years ago."

"She's a right nice-looking girl," Longarm commented neutrally.

Tucker had poured, now he passed Longarm a glass across the desk. "Now, then. Like I told you, I'm the law here — sheriff, judge, and jury. When I say frog, people jumps. I can get whatever land you're after, Custis, water and mineral rights throwed in. You call the tune, I make 'em play it." He waited for Longarm to take the bait, and when no response followed he added, "Understand, now, I'd look to git a little something for my trouble. A sort of commission, we could call it."

"We could call it that," Longarm agreed. "But I got a better deal than that."

"I'm listenin'."

"Let's just suppose I was after land for a railroad right-of-way. Think you could push the price I'd pay down low enough so I could double what I'd charge the railroad? That way, we'd have a real big piece of cash to split up between us."

Tucker grinned. "That'd be easier'n pissin' in a dishpan. I can set my own price on what land you'd want. And there's ways to fix up deeds and papers so the railroad never would catch on."

"I know all about deeds and papers," Longarm said. "There's one thing that bothers me, though. How about your boys? Spud and Lefty and Ralston, would you have to cut them in on the deal?"

"Hell, no! I let them pick up what they can, cut 'em in on my deals when I feel like it, but you can leave them to me to handle." Tucker splashed more whiskey into his glass.

Longarm said, picking his words carefully, "Meaning no offense, Sheriff, but are you including Spud in that? I guess you heard I had a little run-in with him in the saloon last night, after you told him everything was supposed to be nice and friendly."

"Well, I hadn't heard, but you got to remember, Spud's hotheaded. He's got a real quick temper."

"I noticed that yesterday. Times I wondered if you had him on a real tight halter. He was just about sassing you."

Tucker nodded, his blubbery lips twisted angrily. "I ain't forgot that, Custis." He thought for a moment. "Look here now. You've laid it out straight with me, I'll do the same with you. Spud's been gettin' uppity of late. I got a hunch he's feelin' too big for his britches. Gittin' idees, if you follow me."

Longarm nodded. "Like taking things over, here in Los Perros? "

"Somethin' like that," Tucker agreed unhappily. He drained his glass and refilled it. "Listen, Spud was just a lard-ass boy when I talked Quantrill into lettin' him ride with us. And I put him in as my segundo when I took over here. I made him, and I can bust him."

"Suppose you can't?"

Tucker winked across the desk. "You recall I told you I had you tabbed for a gunslick at first? One reason I let you off so light, let you stick around, is so I could watch and see if you might be a man who could he'p me handle Spud, when the time's right."

Longarm leaned back in his chair. "Well, now. I could handle him, but whether I would handle him, that'd depend." He decided it was time to get on another track. When Tucker sobered up, he'd remember their talk, and might just regret it. He asked, "How'd you get to be boss man here, anyhow? I bet it took some doing."

"Sure it did, and here's how I done it." Tucker slapped the heavy ivory-handled Schneider & Glasswick revolver that hung from his gunbelt. The old-fashioned pistol had caught Longarm's eye the day before. He'd noticed it had been modified to handle cartridge loads, and had wondered why the sheriff still carried such an outdated weapon when new Colts were so cheap and plentiful.

Tucker continued, "I used this as free as I had to, just like I did in the war. This is the same gun Quantrill give me, you know that? Had it worked over, but I still hold to it. Maybe because it's the gun I killed my first man with."

Longarm saw that the sheriff was growing maudlin. It was time to cut off their talk. He said, "You let me think about what you've told me. We'll get down to cases later on."

"Wait a minute! Have we got a deal, or haven't we?"

"Maybe. I got to sleep on it. My tail'd be in a worse crack than yours would, if what we was doing leaked out."

"Don't worry about that." Tucker slapped his holster again. "I can shut up anybody that starts to give us trouble."

"I still want to think about it some. We'll talk some more tomorrow. " Longarm stood up. "You going back to watch the fiesta? "

"No. I think I'll just stay here and lay up with Wahonta for a while." As Longarm went to the door, Tucker said, "One more thing, Custis. If we get in this deal, it wouldn't do for us to act too friendly. Them railroads swing a lot of steam. If they get a hint there's somethin' funny going on, they might even get them damn federal marshals in here to check up on us."

"Sure. I'll keep that in mind." Longarm opened the door and waved. "Enjoy yourself, Sheriff. We'll talk about things tomorrow. "

Walking back to the plaza, Longarm took stock. He was beginning to make tracks to where he wanted to be. He'd found what was pretty sure to be the crossing of the new Laredo Loop, and his hunch was that it would somehow lead him to Nate Webster's frail. He was getting on terms with Tucker that should open the frail leading to information about Captain Hill and the 10th Cavalry deserters. Best of all, just by keeping quiet and letting Tucker's crooked imagination do his work for him, Longarm had repaired the damage done by his impulsive move in stopping the whipping the day he'd arrived in Los Perros. On the bad side, his snap decision to keep his real identity covered might hinder him from asking too many open questions. In a place like Los Perros, there'd be gossip aplenty. Everybody in town probably knew what was going on, and they'd be leery of answering questions put by a man who had no authority to do so. Still, in very little time, he'd made a pretty fair start, good enough for him to take the evening off and spend a little time at the fiesta with Lita. He had mixed feelings about Lita. There were times when she seemed to be little more than a child, and times when a woman showed through. Maybe how he'd act would depend on which side of her showed up strongest when the time came, if it came.

Things had gotten quieter and noisier both, Longarm thought when he entered the plaza. The two bands had reached some kind of truce, and were both playing in the plaza's center, taking turns instead of competing. The sun was low, and the uneven edges of the big open area were already deeply shadowed. Flickering hachones, bottles or funnel-capped cans filled with kerosene into which rag wicks had been inserted, were mounted on poles here and there, turning the plaza into a patchwork of bright spots and shadows.

Longarm started for the stall where he'd had breakfast, thinking he'd probably find Lita somewhere close to it, but before he could push very far through the crowd he was hailed by Lefty, the sheriff's deputy.

"Hey, Custis! I got a bottle in my pocket, come have a drink with me!"

Longarm didn't especially want a drink after the heavy slug he'd downed while talking with Tucker, but he didn't want to do anything that would stretch the taut truce that had been patched up among himself, Lefty, and Ralston. He said, "Don't mind if I do."

Lefty hauled a flask out of his pocket, and Longarm managed to swallow a light swig while appearing to take a heavy one. He gave the bottle back to Lefty, who lilted it and smacked his lips.

"Ah! That's prime stuff!" Lefty pocketed the bottle. "Listen, you don't need to be all by yourself, Custis. Want a partner to dance with? Hell, just ask any of these little greaser gals, they don't care who swings 'em around, long as he's got pants on."

"I'm just walking, Lefty, trying to stay out of trouble. Looks to me like the easiest way to do that is not to horn in on somebody else's girl."

"They ain't goin' to be no trouble," Lefty assured him. "Ed's put the fear o' God in this Los Perros bunch."

"Just the same, I'll walk easy and keep quiet."

"Ah, what's a fiesta, if you don't have a dance or two?" Lefty scanned the crowd, saw a young girl and her escort a few feet away, and waved to them.

"Hey, Luis! You and Tina come here a minute!" As they started to obey, he said to Longarm, "I'll tell the gal to dance with you. Luis won't mind."

"Now, wait a minute~" Longarm began, but before he could go any further the couple had joined them and Lefty was making the arrangements he'd insisted on.

"Luis, this is a friend of mine, Senor Custis. He's a stranger here, wants to dance a round or two. You don't mind if Tina obliges him, do you?"

"If it is her wish," Luis replied. "I do not own her, Senor Lefty."

Lefty turned back to Longarm. "See? It's all fixed. Tina, this senor wants to dance with you a little while."

"Porque no? " the girl shrugged. "A baile is for dancing, no? Come, senor. If you do not know the steps, I show you them."

"Now, hold on," Longarm protested. "When it comes to dancing, I got two left feet. I'm afraid I'd step all over you. But I thank you kindly for offering to show me, Senorita Tina."

"Que pasa? " Tina asked Lefty. "Dice el hombre quiere bailor, ahora el dice no. Que chiste es?"

This time it was the deputy who shrugged. "Por supuesto, es un engano. El me diga quiere bailor."

"Que cosa!" Luis exclaimed. "Bastamente esta tonteria! El gringo insulta mi Tina!"

Longarm caught the gist of this exchange, and said to Luis, "No, amigo. La senorita es~" he sought the word he couldn't remember and finally found it — "es muy linda."

"Cagado!" Luis exclaimed.

Lefty intervened. "Callate, Luis! Hablamos mas tarde. Vete, tu y Tina!"

Muttering, Luis took Tina's arm and led her away. Lefty said to Longarm, "Damn it, Custis, you like to've fixed yourself with that greaser. He was real put out, claimed you insulted his girl-friend. "

"I got the general idea," Longarm said. "Don't blame it all on me, Lefty. I told you, I ain't interested in dancing. Thanks for your trouble, anyhow. Sorry I rubbed your friend the wrong way."

"Ah, he's just a spic I know," Lefty replied. "I guess I was a little too previous. Here, have another swig, and we'll forget it."

To placate him, Longarm took a token swallow, thanked Lefty, and walked on as soon as he could without offending the man further. He was still looking for Lita; the girl Lefty'd tried to get him to dance with couldn't hold a candle to her, he thought as he pushed toward the food stalls. He wondered why the deputy had suddenly become so friendly; the day before, he'd been standoffish, not as hostile as Spud, but a lot less amiable than Ralston. Maybe he'd been told by Tucker to be cooperative, maybe Ralston had talked him around, or maybe he'd just changed his mind by himself, Longarm thought. Whatever the reason, Lefty's solicitude had come as a real surprise.

As he'd half expected her to be, Lita was near the spot where her family's food stall had been earlier in the day. The stall was dismantled now, with trestles, planks, stove, and pots piled up ready to be carried home. A short distance away, Mamacita was gossiping with a group of women who, like her, were draped in black rebozos; two of the younger children had curled up at her feet and were sleeping. Lita stood off to one side, laughing and chattering with a few girls of her own age. She saw Longarm and tripped, light-footed, to greet him.

"Coos-tees! I think maybe you forget we going to dance."

"Don't count on me doing much dancing, Lita. Stomping around to music ain't right in my line."

"Is nothing, to dance. Come on, I show you. You learn real fast." She tucked her arm in Longarm's and led him to a space where there was room to maneuver. "Now. You listen to la musica and look how my feet they go. Then you see is easy."

Lita began to dance, facing Longarm and holding his hands, arms stretched out. To humor her, Longarm began moving his feet, but they kept getting tangled up. It wasn't as much his clumsiness that was to blame as it was the sight of Lita's firm young breasts bouncing unconfined under her thin, scoop-necked blouse. She stopped and stamped a foot in mock anger.

"Coos-tees! You don' look at my feet, you watching my tetas!" she exclaimed. "Is not good you look so here! Mamacita might see."

"I told you I wasn't no dancer," he said. "Why don't we forget about dancing, and find some place where your mama can't watch you?"

"No!" Lita's eyes flashed and her smooth round chin set stubbornly, though she was still smiling at him. "We don' go nowhere till you dance with me! You look, now, I show you mas despacio, slow."

Longarm hadn't lied to either Lita or Tina. Though he'd done a little square dancing as a boy in West Virginia, he'd decided early that dancing was a time-wasting substitute for the real activity it imitated, and a lot less enjoyable. After making up his mind on that point, he'd lost interest in becoming skilled on the dance floor.

He said, "All right, if that's what you want. But you're just wasting your time, trying to turn me into a dancer."

Just as Lita began her second effort to teach him, Longarm saw Tina and Luis dancing their way toward them. Luis was trying to look unconcerned, but Tina's face was cast in a glowering frown. Longarm smelled trouble, and he wasn't disappointed. As soon as the other couple had gotten within a yard or so of him and Lita, Tina broke away from Luis and ran up to Longarm. Without any preliminary scolding, she brought up her hand and slapped his face.

"Gringo cabron! You make insulta to me!" she cried loudly.

Around them, the other dancers stopped to watch. Luis took a step that brought him closer to Longarm. He demanded loudly, "What you do, Tejano zopilote? You wan' to take mi querido away from me? Just because you big gringo, you think you better as me, no?"

Longarm knew better than to respond to Luis's insults either with words or with action. In that particular crowd, whatever he did could be wrong. The people would help Luis if it came to a fight, whether Luis attacked him or he struck the Mexican youth first. He felt a surge of relief when Lefty appeared from nowhere.

"All right!" the deputy called. "Ningunes hace maleza!"

His shout quieted the angry murmurs that were rising, and those nearest shoved back a bit. The spectators in the rear, who hadn't heard Lefty, and knew only that trouble was brewing, kept pushing in, though, trying to see what was going on.

Longarm said quickly, "Look, Lefty, this ain't no fight I picked. All of a sudden, this girl begun yelling, and slapping at me. Said I'd insulted her."

"He call me puta!" Tina said loudly.

Her voice low and angry, Lita spat, "You are puta!"

Longarm thought Lita was even prettier when she got mad than when she was just having fun.

Lefty asked him, "That right, Custis? You call this girl a whore, right here in front of her friends?"

"I never called her anything!"

"Mientrador!" Luis shouted. "I hear him say it! You get out of my way, Lefty! I wan' to fight him!"

"That's a pretty serious thing to do in these parts, Custis, insult a young lady. Looks to me like I got to do what Luis says, git outa the way and leave you two go at it."

Longarm had seen the setup coming. He wasn't worried about a fight with Luis, but he knew what Luis's friends would do — and, he thought, those friends include Lefty. I can put Luis down with a punch or two, but the minute we start mixing it up, his friends start closing in and out come the knives. Then Lefty can play it any way he wants. He can let 'em carve me, or he can shoot me and say he had to do it, or it was an accident while he was trying to break up the mob. And if I draw on this bunch, five shots won't stop 'em.

He said to Lefty, "You guarantee to stand by, see it's a fair fight? Just Luis and me, none of his compadres buttin' in?"

"Don't worry, Custis. You know these Mexicans ain't no good with their fists. I'd say you can put him down with one punch, and that'll be it. But if I don't let him have a chance at you, this crowd's gonna git outa hand. Hell, you can see that yourself."

"All right. I'll take him on."

"You'll have to shed that gunbelt first. They wouldn't figure it was a fair scrap if I let you keep it on."

"Figured I'd have to do that." Longarm opened his frock coat and unbuckled his gunbelt. He handed the belt and holstered Colt to the deputy. "You take care of it for me."

"Sure. I won't let nobody grab it. The fight won't last but a minute anyhow, if you're the man I take you to be."

When Longarm shed his pistol, the tone of the crowd's rumbling changed. It was no longer as angry and threatening as it had been. There was a sudden jostling in the circle that enclosed Longarm and the others. He looked around to see several very sullen-faced men shoving into the front ranks of the onlookers. If Longarm had any doubt left that the deputy had set him up, it vanished at that point.

Oh-oh, he said to himself, here come the knife hands.

Aloud, he said to Lefty, "Guess I better skin out of this monkey coat, too. If I'm going to fight, I'll do it in style."

Slipping out of the sleeves of his Prince Albert, he folded the coat into a neat square. When he pushed it at Lefty, the deputy instinctively held out the hand with which he wasn't holding Longarm's gunbelt. Longarm shoved the coat against Lefty's chest, forcing him without seeming to into bringing up his entire arm to clasp the coat securely.

"What about your vest?" Lefty asked.

"Oh, I'll just keep it on. But I'll ask you to look after my watch. Don't want it to get busted."

He lifted the watch out of its pocket and ran his fingers along the chain to the pocket on the opposite side. Lefty's eyes were caught by the glitter of the watch. He didn't see the derringer until it was in Longarm's hand. Before the deputy could free his own loaded hands, the muzzle of the ugly little double-barreled derringer was pushing, cold and menacing, into his temple.

"There's two .44 slugs in this little thing." Longarm's voice was low, almost a whisper. "One of 'em will blow whatever you use for brains right outa that ugly skull of yours."

"You don't have to shoot me!" Lefty said. "I'll do just what you tell me to!"

"Good." Raising his voice, Longarm said, "Lita! Get over here, quick!" The girl ran to stand beside him. Longarm said, "Take his gun out and hand it to me. Soon as you do that, strap my gunbelt on me."

Lita moved without hesitating to follow instructions. He held out his free hand and she slid Lefty's pistol into it, butt-first. Then she relieved the deputy of Longarm's gunbelt.

Events had moved so swiftly that the crowd hadn't had time to grasp exactly what had happened. Those closest to the action were frozen into silent motionlessness, their eyes trying to follow everything. The angry mutterings from the more distant spectators began to subside as mob instinct transmitted the feeling that something was going on that should be heeded. In the momentary silence, Lita got Longarm's gunbelt around his waist. The pressure of her soft body, the warm scent that wafted up from the valley between her breasts, all registered on Longarm, but he put them out of his mind and concentrated on the job at hand.

He replaced the watch and derringer in their pockets and settled the gunbelt to his liking. He looked at Luis and said, "I don't like people that lie to me, Luis. I know this hombre here put you up to trying to get me. You better tell me about it."

Luis was eager to talk. "Si, senor. It was hees idea. He say so soon you and me start to fight, then my companeros they help out, with they knives."

"About what I figured. You ready to tell the sheriff that?" "Eljefe? Senor Tucker?" Luis hesitated only a moment. "Si. I tell him, just like I say it to you."

"Good." Longarm turned to Lita. "You better come along, too. This crowd's going to be upset. After I'm gone, they might take their mad out on you."

"I go where you say to, with you, Coos-tees."

"Now, then." Longarm looked sternly at Lefty. "You're going to walk in front of me and Lita, and shoo people outa our way. If you got an idea I'm too good to backshoot a man, you're right, but I don't count rats like you as men. Now, march!"

With the deputy leading the way, motioning the onlookers aside, a path opened like magic. Longarm kept Lefty in front, Lita on his right, Luis and Tina on his left, as they moved quickly through the crowd of silent spectators, around the saloon, and into the sheriff's office.

Chapter 9

As Longarm had suspected he would be, Sheriff Tucker was still in bed with Wahonta. Tucker came in from the ell in response to Longarm's call, tugging his trousers up over his longjohns. His eyes snapped open wider than anyone had ever seen them do before when he saw the little group.

"Just what in billy-blue-hell's this all about?" he demanded.

"It ain't very important, Sheriff," Longarm answered. He took his Prince Albert from Lefty and slid his arms into the sleeves as he was talking. "Just figured you might want to explain to this deputy of yours that he can go to jail on charges of attempted murder and stirring up a riot, if I feel like pushing charges on him."

"Lefty?" Tucker was incredulous.

"He's the only deputy of yours I see here."

"Now, damn it, Custis, I let it pass by when you begun a ruckus with my men yesterday. I ain't so sure I'm of a mind to be as easy on you, if you're tryin' the same stunt again."

"Maybe you better listen to what this young fellow here's got to say, before you blame me for starting anything," Longarm suggested.

Tucker glared at the young Mexican. "All right, Luis, what you got to say about all this?"

Luis shuffled his feet, head hanging. "He tell you the true, Senor Jefe. El Senor Lefty, he wan' me and Tina, we make alboroto, and he wan' me I have some toscos ready, they should matarle apunalados so soon we start."

"He tellin' the truth, Lefty?" Tucker demanded. "You put him up to startin' a ruckus with the crowd? And havin' his tough friends ready to knife Custis in the fracas?"

"It wasn't my idea, Ed," Lefty pleaded.

"I don't give a hot-pepper shit whose idee it was! I'm askin' you did you do it the way Luis told me?"

"Yeah, but it was Spud's idea!" Lefty confessed. "After Custis cost him that big pot in the poker game last night, and after he'd made fools outa all of us at the whippin', Spud figured we had a right to git even!"

"So you and Spud framed up this scheme to do it," Tucker nodded. "Well, I'm the one who tells you and Spud what you do and what you don't do! You don't get no wild hairs up your ass and go off on your own! And both of you knows that, by God!"

"What the sheriff's trying to tell you, Lefty," Longarm broke in, "is that we settled whatever differences there might've been between us, when we had a private talk a few hours back."

"Is that right, Ed?" Lefty asked.

"Yes, damn you, it is! And you and Spud come close to~" Tucker caught himself before he'd said too much. He changed the direction of his words. "You boys been with me long enough to know that I'm the one that gives orders who you're to take after or let alone."

Longarm had to compress his lips to keep from laughing. When he was sure his voice wouldn't give him away, he said, "Looks to me like your boys are getting outa hand, Sheriff. I'd say they need a good lesson."

"What'd your idea be of a lesson?"

"Is this one here any good with this gun I had the girl take off him?" Longarm held Lefty's pistol out to the sheriff. "If he is, and you'd want to look the other way, I'm just about mad enough to face off with him."

"Well~" Tucker sounded doubtful. "That'd be a quick way to settle things, I guess. You sound pretty sure you can take him."

"If he can't use this any better'n he can hang on to it, I don't guess I'd have much to worry about." Casually, Longarm nudged aside the lapel of his coat and rested a hand on the butt of his Colt. He had an idea that both Lefty and Tucker would recognize the professional's touch shown by his gunbelt and holster. His guess was correct; Lefty took one look and started shaking his head.

"That's a shooter's rig if I ever seen one, Ed. I'd just the same as suiciding myself if I went up against him."

"Now, you can count on me to see it's a fair and square showdown, " Tucker told the deputy. It was obvious to Longarm that the sheriff was enjoying watching a man squirm, especially since it wasn't costing him anything.

"No, Ed. I ain't fool enough to take on a deal like that."

Tucker's voice showed his disgust. "You're a damn sorry turd, Lefty. Now, in case you'd forgot, you got a job I told you to do tonight. Git the hell outa here and git on it! When you git back, you and me and Spud will set down and have a little private talk ourselves. " He took the pistol that Longarm still held and handed it to Lefty. "Maybe you better practice up with this, just in case you make another mistake like the one you just did."

After Lefty had gone, Longarm told Tucker, "You might as well send these other two kiting." He indicated Luis and Tina. "All they done was what your man told 'em."

"What about the other girl?"

"I'll take care of her."

"I'll just bet you will!" the sheriff chuckled. He waved a hand at Luis and Tina. "Git! Vamoose!" As they left, he took Longarm by the arm and led him to one side, where Lita couldn't overhear. In a half-whisper, he said, "Look here, Custis, Lefty and Spud stepped outa line, but I didn't put 'em up to it. Fact is, you was more'n half right earlier, when you said they was gittin' uppity. After we wind up the deal with your railroad, how'd you like to settle down here and throw in with me?"

"I'd have to think on it, just like I'm still thinking about the other deal." Longarm stared into Tucker's little pig eyes. "I guess you'd look for me to help you get rid of Spud? Maybe Lefty, too?"

"Well, it'd even things up if you was around backin' my play, when the time comes for me to make it."

"We'll talk about it more, later on." Longarm turned to Lita. "Come on. I'll see you get back to where you belong."

When he closed the door of the sheriff's office behind them, Lita said, "I think you a very brave hombre, Coos-tees. I like you, mucho muchissimo! You better kiss me now." When he hesitated, she asked, "You think maybe I'm still nina, leetle girl? You don' look at me like that when my tetas jiggle when I show you the dance, no? All right, I show you more!"

Lita pulled Longarm's head down and her mouth found his. Her lips were soft and firm in turn, pulsing and alive. Her tongue darted into his mouth, hot, seeking, probing. He felt the pressure of her breasts on his chest as she clung to him. Then, before he'd expected her to, Lita broke off the kiss.

"So, what you think now, Coos-tees?"

"I think we oughta find a better place than this. Come on." He led her to the corral. There was a new moon, hanging high; it gave little light, and in three hours, four at most, it would be gone. Still, it was bright enough to see Tordo's gray form in the corral.

"You ride a horse?" he asked.

"No. I don' know about a horse. Better I ride with you."

Longarm didn't waste time cinching on his McClellan. His saddle blanket hung over the corral rail beside the McClellan and his bridle; he took the bridle, ducked through the pole fence, and slid the bit into Tordo's mouth. He led the dapple out of the enclosure, tossed the blanket over his back, and lifted Lita on. He leaped on behind her. He'd never ridden the gray without a saddle before, but he trusted Tordo's instincts. Besides, they weren't going very far.

During the short ride to the sandspit north of Los Perros, far enough beyond the last of the houses to ensure privacy, he held Lita close to him. He left the reins slack, guiding the dapple with the pressure of his knees, while his hands explored her breasts under the thin, low-necked blouse. He bent his head now and then to nuzzle her neck and bare shoulders. There was a smell of spice — cinnamon or cloves, he thought, or perhaps something he couldn't name — that clung to her skin. Her hair, long and black and shining in the moonlight, brushed back across his cheeks as Tordo moved over the last stretch of hard earth before the thudding of his hooves was swallowed by soft sand. They rode almost to the end of the sandspit before Longarm reined in and jumped to the ground.

He reached up and lifted Lita from the dapple's back. His hands spanned her waist, and he felt the quick pulsations of her breathing as he held her briefly while lowering her to the ground. Her head came only to his shoulders; she had to stand on tiptoe to bring her mouth up to meet his. He felt her hands travel across his shoulders, slipping off his coat and vest, then she was fumbling at his gunbelt. He let go her soft buttocks to help her, and eased the gun carefully down to his coat, where it would not touch the sand. Then his hands went back to pull her close to him once more, her soft body nestling close, her hips undulating as she felt him grow hard against her.

"Chingame!" she urged, whispering. "I think I die if you don't!" Her hands became busy with Longarm's britches, freeing his belt, fumbling open the buttons below it. She sensed his hesitation. "Don' worry, Coos-tees, I been with men before." She'd liberated his erection now, and added with a sigh, "But not a man like you!"

Her hands flashed swiftly in the soft moonlight, grasping her full skirt and pulling it high. She wore nothing underneath it. Longarm got a glimpse of her dark pubic hair as she brought a leg up to straddle him, squeezing her thighs around him tightly. Holding him between her moistly warm thighs, she moved her hips gently back and forth. Longarm began to believe that Lita was, as she'd insisted, no longer a little girl.