Up ahead, Megan was riding like a Comanche Indian. Like she had been born in the saddle. She had long, shapely legs and a firm, round little bottom that rocked back and forth in the saddle in a most attractive and eye-catching way. Because of that enticing view, Longarm held his gelding back so he could let his imagination run wild.
And so, despite the early hour and Wild Bill’s ominous threats, Longarm couldn’t help but smile as they began to gallop toward the Washoe Valley and Carson City just beyond.
Named after Kit Carson and founded in 1858, Carson City had become the state’s capital back in 1864. With its impressive silver dome, big granite courthouse, and legislative offices, the town enjoyed a refinement and civility that was entirely lacking in most Western communities. Carson City had never enjoyed the status of a boom town, like Reno when the Union Pacific had come through or when gold had been discovered at Virginia City or Gold Hill. Instead, Carson City had always been content to retain a quiet dignity befitting its role as the seat of Nevada politics. Its wide streets were tree-lined and very inviting to strollers even on the warmest days of summer. Its saloons and the impressive Ormsby House, where the politicians stayed and dined during the annual legislative sessions, were almost sedate by frontier standards, and no one was allowed inside without a clean shirt and shoes. Longarm liked Carson City when he wanted to relax and catch up on his sleep. “Megan?”
“Yeah?”
“We could stop here for the night,” he said, removing his black Stetson to wipe sweat from his brow. “It’s starting to get pretty hot.”
“Don’t be silly,” Megan said. “It’s only a little past noon. We’ve got another seven hours of daylight.”
“Just thinking of your horses,” Longarm lied. “We don’t want to wear them down to a nubbin.”
“We won’t,” she said. “We’ll take it slower on down to Topaz Lake at the state line.”
Longarm had ridden a stagecoach into Bodie a good many years earlier and, if recollection served him correctly, there was quite a long ways yet to go in order to reach Topaz Lake. It would be a lot more, he thought, than a slow afternoon ride through searing summer heat.
“How much farther is that?”
“Oh,” Megan hedged, seeming to read his concern, “we ought to be there by nightfall, if we move along steadily. We can trot more and gallop less.”
Longarm didn’t like the trot. In fact, he hated the trot. He was a good, but not a fine or graceful rider like Megan, and quite frankly, he was a little out of shape for this grueling journey on horseback. Lately Longarm had been traveling overland by train or, when necessity demanded, by stagecoach. Even a buckboard would be preferable at the moment, he figured.
He was still thinking this several hours later as the temperature topped a hundred degrees and they trotted through the sleepy town of Genoa, the oldest settlement in Nevada. Originally founded by the Mormons, it had reluctantly been abandoned by those hardy people when they were called back to Salt Lake City by their leader, Brigham Young. It was no idle fable that said the departing Mormons, made bitter when they were unable to sell their fine and productive farms for more than a few cents on the dollar, had put a curse on Genoa and the surrounding Carson Valley. They’d cursed it with wind, rain, and snow. And sure enough, every time Longarm had ridden through this part of the country a stiff wind was blowing, and just about as often the weather was foul.
“Megan, these horses are starting to get played out,” Longarm said.
“Ha! The way I see it, the only one who is getting played out is you, Marshal Long.”
He grinned sheepishly because it was the truth. The horses, though tired and sweaty, were in superb shape, and Megan looked as fresh as cool apple cider.
It was a very long, very hot, tiring afternoon ride, and by the time they neared the California border, Longarm wasn’t grinning about anything. He was saddle-sore and ill-tempered. “There’s grass and water here at the lake and this is as far as I’m riding today,” he announced in a firm tone of voice.
“All right,” Megan said, as agreeably as possible. “We’ll camp out here by the side of the lake. My horses hobble well and won’t wander. We’ve got grain for them and food for us. It’ll be just fine.”
“Glad you agree,” Longarm said, only slightly mollified.
“Why don’t you gather some driftwood for the fire and I’ll lay out things.”
“Sounds good.”
Longarm wandered over to the edge of the lake. It was big, but not very scenic because most of the surrounding trees had been chopped down by travelers. Topaz Lake was ringed by barren, sagebrush hills, and nestled at the base of the imposing Sierra Nevadas. A late afternoon wind had risen, and it was coming off the mountains cooler and refreshing. The blue surface of the water was marked by whitecaps, and Longarm saw plenty of driftwood for the fire. He began to gather up an armful, and when he had all that he could carry, he trudged on back to their camp.
“That’ll do nicely,” Megan said. “I’ll get a fire going and we’ll see if we can get ourselves fed before sundown.”
“That would be great,” he said, flopping down on his back with a groan of contentment.
“Are you tired or something?” she asked with a half smile.
“Tired? Megan, tired isn’t a big enough word for how I feel right now. My butt is on fire and I feel as if I’ve ridden to hell and back.”
“Tsk, tsk,” she clucked. “Apparently, you’ve been spending way too much time in an office chair and not enough in the saddle.”
“They don’t pay me to ride a horse all over creation,” he snapped.
“Then why is it so important that you go down and try to sort things out with Marshal Ivan Kane? I mean, it’s not what you are paid to do, is it?”
Longarm sat down cross-legged, facing what was shaping up to be a rather spectacular sunset. “No,” he admitted after a moment of deliberation, “it’s not what I am paid, as a deputy United States marshal, to do.”
“Then, why-“
“Ivan Kane was once a United States federal officer. He was once a federal prisoner. He’s been a lot of things, including an inspiration to some of us in the profession. You see, Megan, he’s a man who had to overcome a lot of bad things in his life to become a legend.”
“But now that the legend is crumbling,” Megan ventured, “it’s ever so important to restore its luster or … or else take care of the problem. Is that it?”
“Sort of.” Longarm extracted a half-smoked cheroot from his vest pocket. “Kane saved my boss’s life once. He saved three other lawmen by busting up an ambush.”
“Oh. So that’s it. Your boss owes a debt and he’s asking you to repay it for him.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way exactly,” Longarm said, scowling as he lit his smoke. “I’d just say that Ivan Kane is a man greatly admired by some of us. If he’s in trouble, I want to be the one that helps him.”
“But what if, as the telegraph operator said, he’s just plain dishonest? That he’s been in the job so long that he’s tossed out the law books and become a law unto himself’?”
Longarm watched as the clouds begin to turn salmon and the sun exploded against the highest Sierra peaks. He smoked for a minute, and then he said, “I’ll just have to do whatever is necessary. I can’t see into the future.”
“I can,” Megan said, starting to prepare their spartan meal of beef and beans. “And I see big trouble.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“I’m not,” she said.
Longarm thought about that all through dinner. Sundown was as brilliant as a bouquet of pink roses. It was nice to sit and watch the sky go through those spectacular changes and then see the first evening stars appear. The heat was swept away in the cool, stiff wind and Longarm, despite his aches and pains, almost felt restored.