Longarm took Williams by the elbow and dragged him along like he would have led a dog on a leash. And not a particularly well-liked dog at that.
“I don’t s’pose that same little ol’ yellow-haired girl is waiting tables at the cafe beside the … where was that anyhow?” he was asking as they walked. “Was that in the block by the bank or …”
Chapter 41
Longarm was tired. Lordy, but he was. Still, he was not ready to go home. Not quite yet. He had left Tyler Overton and a very unhappy Wind y Williams in Cheyenne, then made the long swing out to Julesburg on the U.P. and then back to Denver. He would be damned glad when the much-talked-about direct line from Denver to Cheyenne was completed. If it ever was.
He had to admit, though, that it was nevertheless better to ride a railroad coach than a stagecoach, so the longer route was better than a direct road without the rails.
Back in Denver he went through the formalities of booking Herbert Hancock and Clementine Bonner into custody awaiting arraignment—he figured he could follow up on that with the U.S. attorney tomorrow—and now wanted to complete the business he’d started, without ever knowing it, some days back.
“Yes, sir? Is there something I can do for you?” The desk clerk gave him a priggish, better-‘n-you look down the length of his delicately patrician nose.
Longarm could understand the reaction, he supposed. After all, he hadn’t taken time to shave in, what, two days now. Something like that. No doubt he looked and possibly even smelled more or less like hell.
He could understand the reaction. That did not mean he approved of it. Or was willing to take it. Not in the mood he was in at the moment.
With a completely neutral expression he reached inside his coat and laid his wallet open on the counter to expose his badge, only slightly misshapen by the bullet that had struck it back at Burdick’s station.
“First thing you can do, huh, is change your attitude an’ get real helpful. Otherwise I will personally drag your prissy ass down to the city jail and dump you in with the drunks and the crazies. An’ if you think I won’t do it …”
“Yes, uh, ahem, is there, um, is there anything I can do for you? Sir?”
“As a matter o’ fact there is. Is Lord Matthew Welpole still in residence?”
“Yes, sir, he is.”
“You can inform his lordship that his presence is requested in the ballroom.”
“The Crystal Room is not open at the moment, sir. Might I suggest …”
“What you can suggest, shit-for-brains, is that the Englishman get his butt downstairs an’ meet me in the ballroom. Which I believe just got open. Right?”
“Uh, yes, sir. As you say, sir.”
The hotel clerk scurried in one direction while a glowering Longarm strode the opposite way.
It was at least a half hour before the ballroom door was opened and Lord Matthew Welpole came in, accompanied by a pair of rather competent-looking gents wearing side arms like they knew what to do with them.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” his lordship said.
“It pleased you well enough t’ hire a gunman to take me down,” Longarm said.
“Did I?” The Englishman seemed not at all perturbed by the accusation.
Longarm paused. And smiled at him. “You figure because I’m standing here your boy Hancock has t’ be dead?
Wrong, old chap. Did I say that right? Old chap? Old chip? Which is it?”
“Chap, actually.” It actually sounded more like “ekchually,” but Longarm could make out what he meant.
“Right. Chap. Should be chip, I’d think. Like in buffalo chip.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t bother. What I was saying is that I think you are a piece o’ shit.
“Is this your means of expressing friendly banter?”
“Not hardly. Y’see, I brought Hancock back alive. Him an’ his girlfriend both. It’s really kinda funny to see the two of them try an’ be first to spill their guts, both of ‘em hoping for a deal with the prosecutors if they help put you in the bag. The charge, by the way, is conspiracy t’ assault a federal officer. We’ll start with that and see what else we can work up to afterward.”
“You cannot possibly be serious.”
“Serious enough t’ place you under arrest, you squat-t’-pee cocksucker.”
Longarm wasn’t sure, but he thought the lord might be suffering an attack of apoplexy. Or something. Well, if the man wanted to drop dead, Longarm supposed he could live with it. He could think of worse things that might happen than that.
“I cannot believe that … that … that … Milton, John … you know your duty. Protect me.”
“Protect you, old chap? I ain’t real sure this is sort o’ protection these boys signed on for.” He smiled. “How ‘bout it, Milt? John? Is that what you’re paid for? Even if you win, you lose. I shoot you today or the law hangs you in a month or two. There’s something t’ look forward to.”
“Sorry, your lordship” said one of them. “He’s right. He’s a deputy U.S. marshal. You know what that means? We can’t drag iron on him.”
“Besides,” the other one put in, “this particular lawman is the one they call Longarm. I seen him shoot once. I’m good, mister. But I’m not that good. I’m out of this one.”
“So am I, your lordship. Sorry.”
“Damn you both for cowards. Milton, give me your gun. Hand it over, if you please.”
“I can’t do that, your lordship. Sorry.”
“At once, damn you. I insist.”
“No, sir.” The bodyguard backed away, hands held wide of his body so Longarm would not misunderstand his intentions. On the other side of the handsome Englishman the other bodyguard was moving aside as well.
Welpole was turned half away from Longarm now, reaching out toward the bodyguard called Milton.
That was not the hand Longarm was paying attention to, though. It was the one that was now hidden from his view that was of concern at this point.
It came as no great surprise, then, when the Englishman turned back to face Longarm. With a stout-barreled Webley in his fist.
Longarm almost regretted what he had to do. Almost, that is, but not in a big way.
The Brit had had his chance to give himself up, and if he wanted now to respond with a revolver … it was his choice.
Longarm’s Colt appeared in his fist with the speed of a magician’s sleight of hand.
The .44 roared, the sound of it shattering in the closed confinement of a room even the size of the hotel ballroom.
The two bodyguards, obviously no strangers to quick mayhem, pushed their hands high into the air and stood stone still.
Lord Matthew Welpole was still also, but only for a few lingering moments.
Then he collapsed. Very slowly, first sagging slightly at the knees, and then the torso doubling forward. Finally he dropped to the floor, the unfired Webley beneath his body.
A bright scarlet pool began to form under him and to spread across the shiny parquet flooring.
“Guess I won’t arrest him after all,” Longarm said.
“We weren’t … I mean …”
“It’s all right. You’re both out of it. You made that clear enough.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell you what you can do now, if you would.”
“Yes?”
“Whyn’t you go tell Dame Edith she’ll have to find a new game to play. She finally lost this one.”
“Lost? Marshal, I guess you don’t understand.”
“How’s that, Milton?”
“Maybe it isn’t my place to say anything, but I been with the party since they came ashore in New York. And a person hears things, you know? Kind of puts things together sometimes?”
“Yes?”
“That woman upstairs, Marshal. She just won the game she was playing.”
“How does that figure?”
“She inherits, Marshal. Everything that poor bastard had is hers now.”