Even so, it was mid-afternoon before the rescue party stumbled back to the security of Burdick’s with the northbound team.
Men and mules alike were liberally coated with mud, and Longarm doubted he’d ever been so completely worn out in all his life.
Jesse was happy—the only one of the six men who was—and busied himself with giving orders to Roy and Charlie about how the mules should be cleaned up and tended to once they were safe in the big, low-roofed barn.
Inside the station the southbound group had had a chance to become acquainted with the northbound passengers and all were mingling together. Longarm felt almost like a stranger intruding on someone else’s soiree. He knew the people who had been with him on the southbound coach, but the newcomers were all completely unknown to him, though they now were relaxing in perfect comfort and companionship with the southbound crowd. He definitely felt a little left out.
Apart from the stagecoach crew, with whom Longarm was by now certainly familiar—albeit not particularly impressed—the new group included two men who might have been engineers or surveyors, a burly, hulking brute of a fellow, one slightly built dandy who had somehow made it through that sea of muck while carrying a fancy Malacca cane With a brass mallard-head grip, a man who looked more cowhand than miner, and a woman whose veil kept Longarm from forming any opinion about her based on outward appearances. All he could tell about her was that her traveling gown was a dark, royal blue velveteen with a wide-brimmed hat to match. And of course the veil, very plain and very dark and imparting an aura of some mystery to her presence. “Who’s the lady?” Longarm whispered to the northbound shotgun messenger, Charlie, who seemed slightly more agreeable than his driver friend Roy.
“Damn if I know,” Charlie returned without bothering to moderate his voice in the slightest. “Ain’t seen nothing of her but that veil. Huh! She didn’t even show no ankle when she got in an’ outa the coach, so I figure she must be a sure inuff lady. Hoors don’t keer an’ regular women don’t know how t’ keep covered up that good. Takes a regular lady t’ get in an’ out a Concord an’ not give a fella at least a little something’ t’ look at.”
The words were loud enough for everyone in the place to overhear. Including the woman in the blue gown.
Longarm felt an impulse to look for something he could crawl under. Something real low would have worked just fine.
“Thank you,” he said dryly.
“Any time,” Charlie responded, Longarm’s tone passing him by completely.
“Marshal Long,” Howard Burdick called out from the back of the big room. “Come have some coffee. It will make you feel better.”
“Yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot, Howard.” He walked far wide of the woman in blue on his way to join Burdick. And was pleased to see that the cheerful station keeper had a little something to sweeten the coffee. Something that came in a silver flask and tasted a damn sight better than common bar whiskey would have.
Chapter 24
“Supper. Everyone come to the table now, and don’t be shy. We have plenty enough to eat, folks,” Jean Burdick called out, precipitating a slow and sluggardly drift toward the back of the huge common room.
Longarm, who had been sitting at the front of the station where a little fresh air came through the open door and windows—an indication that the chinook was still very much in effect here; otherwise that breeze would have been chilling rather than pleasant—held back. He had washed up earlier, but still felt gritty after practically bathing in mud and muck twice today. And besides that, he felt a growing urge to take a good, hearty crap. Eating a big meal when he already had to go did not seem a particularly good idea. So instead of joining the others, he slipped his feet into a pair of oversized gum rubber boots and went outside.
There was a rack containing four enameled steel wash basins along the south wall of the building, each with a small pot of soft soap beside it and each with a laundered feed sack hung nearby to serve as a towel.
First, though, he needed to visit the backhouse.
There were a pair of them actually. A two-holer for the gents and a much smaller shitter for the ladies. But then women passing through the station would be relatively rare and there wouldn’t be so much need to accommodate them.
The last glow of sunset was fading behind the jagged ridges to the west as Longarm stepped inside the outhouse and let the door slap closed behind him. Never one to make assumptions he took a moment to strike a match and check the surroundings before he dropped his britches and sat. Lucky that he did too, for some inconsiderate bastard had pissed all over the seat … and recently enough that the wood was still soaking wet. Perching on someone else’s cold, wet urine was not Longarm’s notion of comfort, so he shifted over to the seldom-used second seat off to the side, where it was a long and awkward reach to the paper bin but where things looked considerably cleaner.
No sense wasting a perfectly good match, so he lit up a cheroot and settled in for that most relaxing of life’s tiny pleasures, a nice dump.
Smoke wreathed his head in the stagnant air inside the backhouse, and the heavy but not altogether unpleasant odor of a clean and well-limed outhouse added to his sense of well-being.
Yawning, he finished his principal mission and leaned over to take a handful of the crumpled scrap paper that had been provided by the Burdicks.
Moments after he did so he heard a sharp snapping report from somewhere not far off, and at practically the same instant felt a stinging sensation behind his right ear.
“Whoa, goddammit! There’s somebody in here” he called.
There was no response from outside, not even the sound of footsteps.
Peeved, Longarm felt behind his ear. His hand came away wet, and although it was too dark inside the outhouse for him to see, he knew good and well it was blood he was feeling.
Not much, though. A trickle, no more. He thought he could feel a small object that … “Dammit!” He jumped, but there really was no need. The thing he’d touched pricked his inquiring finger and stung the nape of his neck besides. Probing again, more cautiously this time, he managed to extract a pine splinter about three fourths of an inch long and tapering to a very fine point that had been buried in Longarm’s flesh just above the hairline.
He struck a match to examine the thing, and then used the light to inspect the side of the outhouse where the bullet—it pretty much had to have been a bullet—had come through the flimsy wall.
As nearly always, the inside surface was ripped wide open by the slug. The bullet had gouged a chunk out of the pine about half an inch wide and three or more inches long. But when he leaned close to thoroughly inspect the damage, Longarm could see that the entry hole on the other side of the damaged board was tiny. Perhaps as small as a .22 would have made, although in the soft pine it was impossible to judge that for sure. Longarm lighted the candle that was fixed to the front wall of the outhouse and quickly finished wiping, then pulled his pants up and carried the candle outside with him to get a better look at the bullet hole.
The wood of the outhouse was old and dry and easily shattered, so it was impossible for him to be sure of the size of the slug that had come inside. But he still thought it could have been something as inoffensive as a little .22. Not exactly an ideal weapon of choice for anyone with serious intent, so the incident was no doubt an accident. And someone, no doubt, had been startled as hell by Longarm’s shout when the splinter got his attention.
Still, both shooter and potential innocent victim had been damned lucky. The bullet had come in the side wall of the outhouse and passed directly above the pair of seats. If Longarm had been sitting upright instead of leaning forward to reach for the paper he could have been seriously hurt. And the fact that the shooting was accidental would not have made Longarm’s pain any less.