“Even vowed to go to Denver and see him swing,” the driver said. “And she’s fiery enough to do it!”
“She sounds,” Longarm said, “as if she’s got plenty of reason to hate Oakley, but hatred generally poisons people. I hope, after Oakley swings, that Miss Bean is satisfied and will get on with her life.”
“She’s got money, good looks, and brains,” the guard said. “But she’s pure poison to men. All men.”
“That ain’t true,” the driver declared. “Miss Bean likes old men. I even seen her passin’ out candy to ‘em a few times.”
“The only reason she likes old men,” Ray argued, “is because she knows they ain’t out to screw her.”
Longarm had heard enough of this drivel. “Well, gents,” he said, “I’ll be seeing you the day after tomorrow, bright and early.”
The two stagecoach employees exchanged worried glances, but neither of them dared to make another objection, and Longarm left them to mutter and fret. He sauntered down the street with his Winchester in his left hand and his bag in his right hand. Both men and women gave him a second look. Longarm was worthy of a second glance because he cut such a fine figure. He wore a snuff-brown Stetson with the crown telescoped flat on top, a brown tweed suit and a vest, a blue gray shirt with a shoestring tie, and low-heeled boots of cordovan leather. Tall and athletic, Longarm moved with easy grace. His brown hair matched both his mustache and deeply tanned face. Men stepped out of his path, and Longarm seemed not even to notice them as he came to Marshal Wheeler’s tiny office and threw open the door.
“Howdy,” he said, taking in the old marshal, his dandified deputy, and the big, hulking man pacing back and forth in the cell at the rear of the room.
“Who the Hell are you?” Deputy Trout demanded, jumping to his feet.
“I’m United States Deputy Marshal Custis Long.” Longarm dropped his bags and leaned his rifle up against the wall. “And right here,” he added, digging into his pockets, “is a letter from my regional office authorizing me to take custody of your prisoner and deliver him to Denver where he is to stand trial for murder and robbery.”
“Hot damn!” Trout exclaimed, jumping forward to snatch the letter of authorization from Longarm’s hands. “The federal marshal has finally arrived!”
“I hope you have our reward money,” Marshal Wheeler said, coming to his feet.
“Wheeler, you’ve been in this business long enough to realize that reward money isn’t paid until I deliver the prisoner to the authorities who issued the reward.”
“That’s pure bullshit!” the deputy exclaimed.
Longarm turned to regard Deputy Rick Trout with unconcealed contempt. Trout was a pretty boy with a starched silk shirt, three or four rings on his fingers, and a red silk bandanna knotted around his neck for no other reason than to look showy. And despite the beautiful ivory-handled Colt six-shooter strapped to the deputy’s narrow hip, Trout reminded Longarm of a French pimp.
“It’s the way the law works, sonny,” Longarm said.
“Well gawddamn!” Trout cried, glancing at the town marshal for support. “You may be with the federal government, but that doesn’t give you the right to lay down dumb rules! Ford Oakley is our prisoner. We captured and jailed him and now we expect to get paid!”
“Marshal,” Longarm drawled, eyes flickering to the older man, “either you order your pup to shut up, or I’ll shut him up. It’s your decision.”
“You big sonofabitch!” Rick Trout hissed, hand shading the butt of his pretty gun. “Marshal Long, I’ll shoot your balls off if you-“
Longarm took two steps, and then the back of his hand smashed into Trout’s face, crushing the deputy’s lips and turning them into bloody pulp. The foolish deputy staggered, hand clawing at his six-gun. Longarm backhanded him a second time, and Trout crashed over a desk and landed hard on the floor. Before the deputy could recover, Longarm planted his boot on Trout’s wrist.
“Owww!” Trout screeched. “Get off my arm! You’re breaking it!”
Longarm ignored the plea. He reached down and extracted the deputy’s sidearm. Then he unloaded it, scattering bullets across the hardwood floor.
“Here,” he said, returning the gun. “And if you ever get mouthy with me again, or go for that pretty gun, I’ll feed it to you … butt first. Do you understand me?”
Trout choked something through his mashed lips, and then he got up and scuttled out the door.
“Where in the Hell did you find something like that?” Longarm demanded. “Is that the best that you could hire?”
“He’s got a temper, but he’s not going to run on me when there’s trouble,” the town marshal said.
“He’s a menace,” Longarm argued.
“You didn’t need to hurt him like that,” Marshal Wheeler complained. “He may be green and mouthy, but he’s still my deputy and deserves some respect.”
“He’s dangerous,” Longarm said. “I’ve seen too many of his kind and they always end up doing something bad. Marshal Wheeler, get rid of him before he fouls your waters.”
“I’ll kill the sonofabitch first chance I get!” Oakley shouted from between the bars of his cell. “Mark my words, I’ll kill him!”
“Shut up!” Wheeler yelled. Oakley laughed.
Wheeler picked up the stub of a cigar and took his time lighting it. When he peered through the blue smoke, he said, “Marshal Long, my deputy and I were expecting that reward money now.”
“That’s just too bad,” Longarm said, collecting his authorization paper and refolding it before slipping it back into his coat pocket. “You’re plenty old enough to know the rules.”
Wheeler blushed with anger. “All right, if you insist on playing by the rules, let me see your badge and your papers. If the papers aren’t in order
…”
“They are in order,” Longarm said, showing the man his badge and then the papers issued by the Denver court.
Wheeler made a big show of reading the federal orders very carefully. Finally, though, he handed them back and said, “I guess you’ve got us over a barrel, Marshal Long.”
“I’m sorry you choose to look at it that way. Usually, I get a lot of cooperation from the local authorities.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Wheeler spat. “This is nothing but a bad deal.”
“Because, if you don’t deliver our prisoner to Denver, Rick and I don’t get a cent of the reward money. Furthermore, Oakley will return and we’ll have to watch our backs every minute.”
“You got that right, Wheeler!” Oakley called from his cell. “I’m comin’ back and I’m sending you and your deputy straight to Hell on a slab.”
“Shut up!” Wheeler cried, his face turning red with anger.
Oakley laughed and said, “You and Trout know damn good and well that I’ll come back here and call you both out. And when you do come out, I’ll gun you down in an open, stand-up fight so that no one can ever say that the best man didn’t win.”
“You’re not going to do anything of the kind,” Longarm pledged as he walked over to the cell and regarded his notorious prisoner.
Ford Oakley was a big, rough-hewn man. He wore baggy gray pants and a thick leather belt with an empty holster. His hands were immense and his nose had been busted and pushed off-center. He wore a turquoise necklace around his chest, and his shirt was almost completely unbuttoned. One eyebrow was badly scarred, and he was missing his right earlobe. He and Longarm were about the same size and weight. The main difference between them was that Oakley wore a thick mat of dark brown beard and there was an undeniable craziness in his eyes. Or perhaps it was simply a wild, unfettered recklessness. Longarm had observed that same look in other men’s eyes, but not often. When he saw it, Longarm knew that he was facing a very dangerous and ruthless enemy. The kind that would rather die than submit to the law or to another man. The kind that would spit in the eye of the devil and never take a back step, even in the face of certain destruction. Men like Ford Oakley were few and far between because they usually died young and hard. They feared nothing, and that was why they were the most dangerous things on earth.