“What’d you do with all the money you made so far?”
“Pissed it away, just like most men do,” the blacksmith confessed with a wry grin. “You see, I’ve been married three times, all of ‘em to young, pretty women that cleaned me out and then ran off.”
“Maybe you should find an older woman of means,” Longarm suggested. “One with money of her own.”
“I know that,” the blacksmith said, “but them kind are all gray-haired widows and most of ‘em are more wrinkled than I am. I like the young ones better.”
“You’re old enough to know what you’re doing,” Longarm said. “But it seems to me that you’re a hard man to learn a lesson about women.”
The blacksmith chuckled. “I’d wager that you’re just as big a fool over a young and pretty woman as I am. And I’d also wager that you don’t have jack squat saved up in no bank.”
Longarm had to laugh. “Well,” he admitted, “you’d be right on both counts. But I’m fixin’ to start savin’ some money starting next year.”
“Shit!” The blacksmith laughed, spitting tobacco juice. “I said that too, and when I was a lot younger than you are, Marshal. But it never happened. Oh, I’d get up a little money, and then the banker would tell some pretty gold digger and she’d flirt with me and I’d up and marry her. Soon as she cleared out my bank account, she was on her way.”
“Life ain’t fair,” Longarm said. “Never has been, never will be.”
“You got that right,” the blacksmith grunted, hoisting the wheel up and sizing it for the fit.
“Marshal Long?”
Longarm turned to see the deputy coming with a tray of food and coffee. “I got us some steak and potatoes. But it cost you three dollars.”
“Damn,” Longarm swore, taking his plate and eating utensils and balancing them on the edge of the sidewalk as he sat down to enjoy his food. “Everything in this town is higher than a hog’s back!”
“How much they pay a man like you?” the blacksmith asked, looking up from his work.
“Not enough,” Longarm said, cutting his steak. “Not nearly enough.”
“You should go to work for some mining town or company,” the blacksmith said. “They got a couple big companies around here that are always looking for men to guard their gold and silver shipments.”
“Not my kind of work,” Longarm said. “But maybe the deputy here is interested.”
“How much do they pay for guards?” Trout asked.
“About a hundred a month.”
“Damn!” Trout exclaimed. “That’s more’n twice what I make in Gold Mountain working under Marshal Wheeler.”
“But the thing of it is, Deputy,” the blacksmith said, “they go through a lot of guards.”
“They quit and they’re getting that kind of wages?” Trout asked with disbelief.
“Hell, no, they don’t quit!” The blacksmith grunted and slipped the wheel over the greased hub. “Those guards all get ambushed and killed.”
Trout blinked. Longarm grinned around a mouthful of steak and said, “Now maybe you’re thinking that guarding an ore shipment is even more dangerous than guarding Ford Oakley.”
“Maybe,” Trout said, digging into his food.
Longarm ate the rest of his meal in silence as the blacksmith went about his work. The man was good and he was efficient, not wasting a single motion. When the new wheel was set properly, the blacksmith wiped his brow with the back of his hairy arm and squatted down beside Longarm.
“I see you got some cigars in your pocket.”
“That’s right, damn good ones too.”
“I don’t suppose you’d offer me one?”
“I’ll sell you one for a dollar.”
“A dollar!” The blacksmith looked outraged.
“That’s right,” Longarm told him. “Things are high in Lone Pine, remember?”
The blacksmith spat more tobacco juice and found the makings of a cigarette in his shirtfront pocket. He rolled a cigarette and then lit it and smoked a few moments before he said, “I saw the fix you got in with some of the women and the miners awhile ago. I guess you know that Ford Oakley is pretty damn popular in Lone Pine and that you are not.”
“That doesn’t concern me in the least.”
“It should,” the blacksmith told him. “You see, Oakley donated a couple hundred dollars to our local miners’ union. He gave a couple hundred more to their widows’ pension fund, and that really won the folks over to him in a big, big way.”
“He’s a killer, a thief, and a rapist,” Longarm said. “Giving a local union other people’s hard-earned money shouldn’t count for anything.”
“Well, it does,” the blacksmith argued. “And what I’m trying to say is that there are some tough old boys in this town that will probably try and free Oakley.”
“I’d have to take that pretty seriously,” Longarm said. “I’d have to arrest or perhaps even kill them if they stood in the way of the law.”
“Why don’t you just break his legs or arms,” the blacksmith suggested. “Or use my hammer and smash both of Ford’s hands so that he can’t use a pistol ever again. You could cripple or maim him so he’d be nearly harmless and leave him here. That way, you’d not have to worry about being ambushed and justice would still be served. What do you think?”
“There’s a big reward on him,” Trout interjected. “Me and Marshal Wheeler want it.”
“You can’t spend it if you’re dead,” the blacksmith said. “You see, Deputy, a very important lesson in life is that sometimes a man has to take his losses and go on, or else get stubborn and lose even more … maybe even his life.”
Longarm finished his plate and gulped down his coffee. He surveyed the town, feeling a lot of angry eyes directed at him. “You know something,” Longarm said, turning back to the blacksmith and giving him a cigar. “I appreciate your advice. It’s funny how some things look so clear to one man while the other is blind to ‘em.”
“What do you mean?”
“You think I’m a fool not to take your advice and leave Oakley here in Lone Pine. I think you’re a fool if you work your whole life and allow one pretty woman after another to clean out your hard-earned savings.”
The blacksmith shoved the cigar in his mouth. “Yeah, Marshal, but there’s a couple of big, big differences between your foolishness and my foolishness.”
“And that is?”
“I’m havin’ a hell of a good time with them young women while my money lasts, but you’re not having any fun at all hauling Ford Oakley off to some judge. And furthermore, a young thing isn’t going to kill me, but Ford or his friends are damn sure going to kill YOU.”
Longarm set his empty plate and coffee cup down and came to his feet. “Well,” he said, preparing to shake the dust of Lone Pine and be on his way, “you’re about half right.”
The blacksmith’s eyebrows shot up in question as he lit the cigar and inhaled deeply. “Just what does that mean?”
“I think that some pretty young woman will finally be the death of you.”
The blacksmith grinned and blew streams of smoke through his nostrils. Then he laughed and said, “Marshal Long, I sure as hell hope so!”
They both chuckled, and then Longarm picked up his Winchester rifle, climbed back up on the wagon seat, and called, “Deputy Trout?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Get inside with Oakley and shut the door. We’re getting out of this miserable damned town.”
“Yes, sir!”
Longarm waited until he heard the back door slam and then, with the Winchester resting across his lap, he whacked the lines down on the rumps of his wheel horses and the medicine wagon lurched forward.
“Marshal, you’re going to rot in Hell!” a hard case yelled from the door of a saloon.
Longarm kept his eyes restlessly shifting back and forth. He half expected someone to open fire on him from a dim alley or an open doorway or maybe even a rooftop.