He stood and stretched, rising to his full height of six feet and then some. He wasn’t especially impressed by what the others in the Jennison Arms lobby would be seeing when they looked his way. But he wasn’t exactly disappointed to realize that viewers of the female persuasion generally seemed to approve of what they found in him.
The tall deputy known to his friends as Longarm was a lean, brown man. He had dark brown hair—which at the moment could use some trimming—and a huge sweep of matching brown mustache. His features were more rugged than handsome, with weather wrinkles at the corners of eyes and mouth and a permanent deep tan from spending hours and days in the saddle.
He wore black stovepipe boots, corduroy trousers, and a brown leather vest over a checked flannel shirt. A watch chain crossed his flat belly, and slightly below it was a double-action Colt revolver set in a cross-draw holster.
He shivered in anticipation of what was to come, since the hotel lobby was overly warm from a combination of well-stoked stoves and the presence of an overabundance of warm bodies, then went upstairs to his room to retrieve his coat, gloves, and newly purchased fur hat.
Outside, the roar and tumult of windblown snow was unabated, and a thick rime of frost continued to turn the front wall of his room dead white over the bright pattern printed onto the wallpaper.
Helluva lovely day. You bet.
Longarm went downstairs and ventured out into the cold, having to do some fairly serious pushing just to get the front door open against the insistent thrust of the wind. Behind him he could sense a stir and grumble as people in the lobby were treated to a blast of frigid air.
He let the door slap closed, and bent over to force his way onto the street. Visibility was poor, but not quite impossible. He found his way to the U.P. depot and the telegraph office adjacent to it.
“Afternoon, friend. I’m glad to find you at work today,” he told the telegrapher.
“You wouldn’t find me here if I had any say about it.” The man frowned. “This was supposed to be my day off, but the boss sent word he’s sick and couldn’t make it in. Huh! I know the sickness he’s got. Same damn one I’d have if I was the boss and could order some poor working stiff to go out in the cold so’s I wouldn’t have to. But that isn’t your worry, is it. So what can I do for you? The standard message that the railroad will pay for?”
“That should be good enough, I suppose.”
“Just give me your name and the address you want the wire sent to. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Thanks.” Longarm wrote it down for him.
“If it isn’t my pleasure exactly, then it’s at least my job.” The telegrapher smiled. “No problem, uh … He peered at the paper Longarm handed him. “Marshal. You’re really a U.S. marshal?”
“Just a deputy.”
“Huh. That’s all right. And mighty nice of you not to blame me for keeping you here.”
“Oh, I would, believe me, if I thought this storm was your fault.”
“Well, I appreciate your attitude, Marshal. It isn’t one that all the rail passengers share.”
“Been getting a hard time from some of them?” Longarm asked.
“You know how people can be. Pretty unreasonable, some of them.”
“So I’ve heard tell,” Longarm said. “Do I owe you anything for that wire, neighbor?”
“No, sir, not a thing. This first message the railroad will pay for. Any more and the charges are up to you. Which is something not everybody seems to understand today.
“I see. Say, could I ask for your advice?”
“Stock market, politics, or questions of the heart? I have answers for all of those. And worth every penny you’d pay for them.”
Longarm laughed. “Free, I take it.”
“Sure, what else?”
“My question isn’t so difficult. I was wondering where I might find a bottle of good rye whiskey to take back to my room. A hedge against the future, if you see what I mean.”
The telegrapher smiled and nodded. He picked up a pencil and began drawing a rough sketch. “Look here now. You can’t miss it.”
The words struck fear deep into Longarm’s heart. “You can’t miss it” is one of those phrases that often presages disaster.
Still and all …
The Old Heidelberg tavern was doing a bang-up business considering—or perhaps because of—the weather. The place was pretty well packed with customers, some of whom Longarm recognized from the train. There was also a sizable local crowd, identifiable by their rougher clothing and calmer demeanor.
The place was dark and humid, with sawdust on the floor and a wet-dog smell as snow melted off dozens of woolen coats in the heat given off by a pair of large, glowing potbelly stoves.
Longarm made his way to a vacant spot along the bar, and was quickly greeted by one of the two bartenders on duty at the moment.
“Howdy to you, friend. I’d like a double shot of the best rye you stock,” Longarm said.
“Two bits,” the bartender said by way of welcome. “In advance.” So much for the notion that all Kittstown residents were warm and friendly. Longarm dug into his pocket and came up with a quarter, which he showed but did not let go of quite yet. Let the pipsqueak sonuvabitch come up with his side of the bargain. Then he could have the damn quarter.
The bartender served up a generous tot of whiskey, and Longarm released his grip on the two-bit piece. The rye, when he got around to tasting it, was as mellow and fine as the barman was sour. Longarm let the heat of the liquor spread through his belly for a moment before he poured a little more down where the first swallow had gone. The second taste was even better than the first.
“Another?” the bartender asked.
“Another,” Longarm agreed. He was so pleased with the rye that this time he passed his quarter right along.
He took the second glass and turned, leaning on the bar and enjoying looking over the crowd. There were some card games in progress, and a pair of smiling whores wandered through the place flashing tits by way of advertisement.
At a table nearby there was a middle-aged woman, much too nicely dressed to be a whore herself. She had a plate of small, sugar-dusted cookies in front of her and a cup of a pale, hot beverage that Longarm guessed to be tea of some sort. If he had to guess, a woman like that, seen in a place like this, either owned the whole shebang or at least supervised the whores on somebody else’s behalf. And if he had to guess, Longarm would say she probably owned the whole deaclass="underline" the whiskey, the women, and a house cut of whatever gaming took place here.
She happened to be looking in his direction, so he lifted his glass in silent toast to her business skills, and was rewarded with a small smile in return.
Longarm took a small swallow of the excellent rye and went on surveying the customers. His attention was drawn back to the lady at the table a few moments later, however.
“I will thank you to leave me alone, sir.” The words were polite enough, but the voice carried real venom in it. The speech was directed toward a man Longarm was pretty sure he had seen aboard the train yesterday. Of course. It was the same loudmouthed shit-for-brains who’d been arguing with the conductor about pressing forward on schedule. He hadn’t grown up much overnight. But then some people never did seem to manage that most basic of human functions.
“Two dollars, honey, and you don’t even have to get all the way naked,” he said. “Besides, after you been with me, you’ll want to pay me for the privilege.” The fellow—he had to be pretty well drunk to be talking like that—decided he was mighty damn funny, and laughed so hard he should have choked. Except the lady wasn’t that lucky.
“Five dollars,” the man tried again, “if you suck me and my buddy over there. Five dollars, honey.”
Longarm set his empty glass down and took the two strides necessary to place him at the businessman’s elbow. “I think you’ve had about enough, Harry.”