Longarm hurled the drummer back into his seat. “But you wouldn’t understand things like that. You’re just a slimy little peddler who wallows in filth and whiskey. You make me sick to my stomach!”
Before Richmond could regain his senses and screech out a defense, Longarm kicked the door back open and leaned out. He climbed up on top of the rolling coach and joined the driver and the shotgun guard.
“Afternoon, gentlemen!” he called. “Hope you don’t mind a little extra company.”
The pair of stagecoach employees turned around and both smiled. “Hell, no!” the shotgun guard yelled. “Ernie and me both agreed that you wouldn’t be able to stand the company of that sorry little drummer all the way to Gold Mountain.”
“Well,” Longarm said, “you both called that one right. Does he ride this stage very often?”
“Once a month, regular as a clock,” the driver said. “He comes over from Elko with a couple of suitcases stuffed with silk underwear, stockings, and all manner of pretty things for the ladies of the night. We haul his miserable ass from one boom town to the next and he sells everything he’s got, then heads back to Reno for more. The ladies hate him, but they can’t wait to see what he’s bringing them next.”
“He brags about making six thousand dollars a year,” Longarm said, making himself as comfortable as possible given the jolting of the stage and the blazing heat from the sky.
“Mr. Richmond does indeed make a lot of money,” the shotgun guard agreed with a shake of his head, “but the little fart spends it faster than you can shuck that six-gun, Marshal.”
“Is that a fact.”
“Yep.” Ernie chuckled. “Half the time our company has to advance Mr. Richmond the money for a ticket so that he can return to Reno. What Richmond don’t drink up, he eats up, and what he don’t either eat or drink, he spends on the whores that are his main customers. They get most of their money right back in services they render to the bastard.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Longarm replied. “A man like that would have to pay for all his pleasures. No woman is going to give it to a fella like him for free.”
“We both expect that Richmond will wind up shot or stabbed to death one of these days,” the driver, whose name was Ray, shouted. “Either a drunken whore will cut Richmond’s throat for silk panties, or else someone will rob and shoot him some dark night when he’s drunk and staggering around with a wallet full of money.”
“I expect that you’re right,” Longarm said.
“Why are you going to a hellhole like Gold Mountain, Marshal?” the shotgun guard asked.
“I’m to take a killer and bank robber named Ford Oakley into custody.”
“Should have guessed,” Ernie said. “Ford got hisself all drunked up, which is why he landed in jail. The marshal of Gold Mountain, Abe Wheeler, found Ford passed out in the whorehouse. Handcuffed and threw him in jail hopin’ for that federal reward, you know.”
“I see,” Longarm said. “What kind of man is he?”
“Ford Oakley, or the town marshal?”
Longarm knew that he’d find out soon enough for himself, but it was always valuable to learn other people’s impressions.
“Both.”
“Ford Oakley is a bad’un,” the guard said, shaking his head. “He’s a big sonofabitch, about your size, Marshal. But he’s mean and when he gets drunk, he’ll kill anyone that’s unfortunate enough to get in his way.”
“And he’s a bank robber,” the driver added over the din of the road. “Everyone in Gold Mountain knew that he was riding off and robbing banks when he wasn’t working his own claim. Hell, the man was always throwing money around.”
“Marshal,” Ernie said, “if you take Ford Oakley out of that jail, you had better figure you’ll have to kill him.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he’s always said that he won’t go to trial. He’s the kind of fella that would rather go down fighting.”
“I see.”
“And another thing you need to understand,” Ray said, “is that we’d sure prefer that you hauled his ornery ass outa Gold Mountain on top of a horse instead of buying him a ticket to jail on this stagecoach.”
“Well,” Longarm said, wanting to be reasonable but needing to be firm, “as a matter of fact I will be taking him back to Elko on this stagecoach. And from there we will board the train and I’ll deliver him to Denver. Ford Oakley murdered a woman in Denver and robbed a federal bank in Colorado, and that’s where he’ll be tried and then hanged.”
“Shit,” the guard said. “I sure don’t want Ford on this coach. He might blame us for his troubles.”
“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. I’ve only lost one prisoner in all my years as a peace officer.”
“How’d that happen, Marshal?” the driver asked.
“He had friends that I thought were my friends. They helped my prisoner escape.”
“Did you ever recapture him?”
“Nope,” Longarm said, “but I did kill him.”
“What about those friends of his?” Ray asked.
“They’re still in prison, last I heard.”
“Well,” the driver yelled, “Ford Oakley hasn’t got many friends, but I still wish that you’d rent a couple of horses and just take him back to Elko by yourself.”
“Sorry,” Longarm said, “but I bought a round-trip ticket over to Gold Mountain and I’ll be taking Oakley back to Elko on this stage.”
“Then maybe,” Ray growled, “I’ll just take a few days off if and when you get Ford.”
“Maybe I will too,” the shotgun guard said. “It ain’t healthy to cross Ford. Ain’t a damn bit healthy.”
“His days are numbered,” Longarm promised. “And once he’s in my custody, he’s on his way to the gallows. It sounds to me like he should have swung from a hangman’s noose a long time ago.”
“He should have for certain,” the driver agreed. “But I tell you something, I’d not only handcuff him, but I’d shackle that man in leg irons, I’d blindfold him, and do every other damn thing I could think of to keep him from breaking loose and cutting my throat.”
Longarm nodded gravely. In truth, he was puzzled by the unexpectedly high level of fear and anxiety that Ford Oakley seemed to instill.
“Marshal, do you have a wife or any kids?” Ernie asked after a long silence.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” the guard said. “That’s all.”
Longarm frowned. “Tell me about the marshal of Gold Mountain.”
“Ain’t a whole lot to tell you except that he’s old and worthless,” the driver answered. “Everyone figured him to retire, but capturing Ford Oakley has changed all that. Right now, he’s an odds-on favorite to get reappointed.”
“It was that big a deal, huh?”
“Biggest thing to happen to Gold Mountain in years,” the driver said. “And maybe the most foolish.”
“Course,” the shotgun guard added, “the marshal has a deputy that was buckin’for his job. The deputy ain’t too happy about Ford Oakley’s capture either.”
“I don’t suppose,” Longarm said.
“Let me tell you this much,” Ray said. “The situation in Gold Mountain is a real pile of horseshit and you’re about to step right smack into the middle of it.” Longarm sleeved his sweating brow and stared over at the tall, green Ruby Mountains. He’d been up in them a time or two and knew that they’d be cool, even in the middle of August. There were springs and streams and fish to catch, and Longarm wished that he was just going fishing instead of to Gold Mountain.
“There she is!” the driver shouted, pointing ahead.
Longarm drew the brim of his Stetson down tighter over his eyes and stared across the long, blurry heat waves. Faintly, very faintly, he could see the makings of a distant mining town. It was nestled up against some low, brown hills.