He kept on for two hours, figuring he’d covered at the very least twelve miles and maybe more. Finally, he struck a little rocky butte thrusting up for no reason in the middle of the dried-up plains, and he pulled his horse into what little shade the butte cast to let the animal blow a bit and to take some nourishment for himself. He dismounted, rummaged through his saddlebags, and then stood there, eating cheese and beef and biscuits and taking an occasional nip of whiskey. When he was finished, he lit a cheroot and looked toward the south wondering, thinking about what he might run into, what was the best approach, what was the best way.
Nothing came to mind. There seemed to be no other way to handle the matter except to walk up, pull out the wanted poster he had folded up in his hip pocket, and say, “I’M the man who’s wanted in this poster. Who the hell are you to be putting it out?” And then he reckoned that if anybody set out to try and claim a reward, he would take out his six-gun and start shooting. He didn’t think there was any cute way to do the thing; there wasn’t a sly way to approach it. So far as he could tell, it was one problem that didn’t have a back door. The only thing he could do was get up right in their faces and ask, “What the hell is going on and where is Ross Henderson?”
As he was thinking, his eyes were constantly roving over the landscape. Just slightly to his right, heading south, something caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a chalky rock or something like that, but the more he stared at it, the more he was convinced that it was nothing of Mother Nature’s doing. Without further ado, he buckled up the saddlebags, cinched his horse back up, and climbed aboard. He was going ahead for the white spot.
As he rode, the white spot got bigger and bigger, and within another mile began to turn into a house—a house as big as a hotel.
In another fifteen minutes, he swept under an archway built of concrete and stones and painted white. The legend carved into the top said “White’s Ranch.” It puzzled the hell out of him. If the people’s names were Nelson, why did they name their hotel White’s and why did they name their ranch White’s? It didn’t make any sense.
There was a road leading to the big house in the distance, perhaps a quarter mile off. The road was whitewashed. It left Longarm shaking his head. He had never seen such a thing.
But there was no denying that someone had created an oasis in the middle of the desert. For acres and acres around, the land was green and luxurious with grass and trees and ponds. He could see windmills working, and he could even see an artesian well blowing water straight up into the air. The house was not quite as big as the hotel—he could see that as he neared—but it was a close second. Beyond the house were several outbuildings, all painted white. There were corrals holding cattle and horses. He could see fields of good alfalfa hay, all irrigated by the water flowing from the artesian wells and pumped by the windmills. Somebody had gone through a hell of a lot of trouble to create something really magnificent in the middle of Hell. It was as if someone had made great big mud pies and then stuck a real cherry right in the middle of them.
Then, as he looked over the pastures, a sight caught his eyes that caused him to pull his horse up. He could see now that the pastures were fenced, probably with new barbed wire. And there were animals within those fences that he had never seen before. The only things he had ever seen wearing horns were either antelopes, deer, or elk. Some of these animals didn’t look anything like those. He also saw some of the strangest-looking cattle that he had ever seen. They looked like cattle, and then again they didn’t. They were black, and they had high curving horns, and they were big. He heard a sound, a roar, that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He had never heard anything like it before. He didn’t know what was going on, but he thought he had just heard a tiger or a lion roar, and if he had, he was expecting at any minute to see an elephant. But he had no time for that. He had other business. Apparently, these men had imported some wildlife from Africa to remind themselves of it, and if they wanted to do that, that was their business and none of his. He was after something else, and it had two legs and a deputy marshal’s badge on the front. That was the first order of business. The second order of business was the poster.
He put spurs to his horse and then rode directly to the front of the house. There was a long hitching rail there, and he dismounted and tied his horse. It was Lee Gray’s horse, and he didn’t know if the animal would ground-rein or not and didn’t want to take the chance.
He stood for a second, looking the house over. There was a low porch made of stone and tile that ran some twenty yards across the front. It was about ten yards wide. Then there were the big double wooden doors that were obviously the front entrance. There were also windows, but he couldn’t see through them. The architecture of the house was like nothing else he had ever seen in New Mexico, Arizona, or any other part of the Southwest. It wasn’t Spanish and it wasn’t frontier; it was like the hotel in Santa Rosa, just big and square.
He loosened his revolver in his holster, walked up the stone steps and across the stone porch, and took up the brass knocker on the door and pounded loudly. Almost as if his presence was expected or had been watched for, the door was suddenly opened by a small Mexican man in a starched white coat.
Longarm said, “I’m here to see the Nelsons.” He did not give his name.
The mezzo, or servant, turned without a word and padded softly down the long entrance hall, which was floored with tiles. He disappeared around the corner. Longarm stepped through the door and shut it behind him, but then just stood, uncertain as to what he should do or what was coming next. He did not have long to wait. In a moment, the little Mexican man was back standing at the end of the hall and waving him forward. Longarm strode down, walking across the red tiles, his spurs jingling hollowly in the long passageway. When he reached the end, Longarm saw that it opened into a big receiving or living room. It was sunk below the level of the entrance hall and had a huge fireplace on one side.
But that wasn’t what took Longarm’s eye immediately. A man was coming toward him. He was wearing a white silk shirt and tan gabardine pants. The man was tall and spare and his hair was graying, but in spite of the signs of aging, he had a youthful look about him in the way he walked. He came toward Longarm with his hand outstretched.
He said, “Well, hello. I’m Asher Nelson. Whom do I have the honor of greeting?”
Longarm descended the two steps down to the level of the living room. He put his hand out and shook Asher Nelson’s hand. The man’s grip was firm and quick. Longarm said, “My name is Deputy United States Marshal Custis Long, and I’m here to see you and your two brothers. I’ve got a few questions to ask you.”
“Well, this indeed is an honor for us—Marshal Long, did you say it was?”
Longarm looked at the man narrowly. He wondered if the man was acting. “Yes, Custis Long, though some people know me by my nickname, Longarm.”
Asher Nelson said, “Well, come in, Marshal. Sit down and I’ll send for some refreshments. Will you take wine, brandy, coffee, or something cool?”