“Ach now, you could’ve told me before that you’re the deputy marshal sent up from Denver, couldn’t ye?”
“If I’d thought it was important. But how’d you find out about it in the last hour or so?”
The shoemaker/tinker grinned. “There aren’t a lot of secrets in a town this size, Marshal. Word traveled just about as quick as the stagecoach did, starting right from the time when you showed a badge instead of buying a ticket down in Bitter Creek.”
“How the hell …?”
“That’s the sort of thing gets talked about, you know. Gossip spreads faster than fire. That’s gospel.” The shopkeeper chuckled. “The only surprise is that I hadn’t got the word on you before you came in earlier. And you in town long enough to have a meal at Fred’s cafe too.”
Longarm shook his head and smiled. There wasn’t much else he could do actually. And anyway, it wasn’t like there was any reason to try and keep his job a secret. Everyone who might have cause to care already knew anyway.
“Since I see I’m right about you being the marshal, can I tell you what you came in here to do?”
Shit, maybe he’d been right about this fortune-teller stuff after all. “Sure, go ahead.”
“Those boots look to be in fine shape, so you didn’t come in for a repair job. And I doubt you have scissors to sharpen. Since Tom Gedrey isn’t the man Ad Brownlee claimed—and before you ask, most of the town knew all about that before you ever thought about coming up here—well, since all that’s the case, you won’t be staying in this god-forsaken little hole in the mountains long enough to send or receive mail. So what I conclude, Marshal, is that you’ve come to send a telegram. To take it one step more, my guess is that you’ll be wanting to report back to your boss that Tom wasn’t your man. That’s so they know to keep on looking someplace else for the fellow.” The man’s smile was positively beatific as he basked in the pleasures of deduction. And of perhaps a smidgen of showing off too.
“I’d say you’re doing right fine, friend,” Longarm allowed. “I’m impressed.” Which was obviously the sort of thing the fellow wanted to hear.
“Always glad to please,” the tinker/telegrapher said. “But I’m afraid that is the only satisfaction you’ll get here today.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, it isn’t my desire to disappoint. Certainly not. But I’m afraid the telegraph line is down somewhere between here and Soda Spring. I can’t even raise McCarthy Falls.”
Longarm frowned.
“Sorry, Marshal, but it’s a common enough problem. The contractor who put in the wire was one of those who cut every corner and shaved flakes of copper off every penny before he’d spend it. He used too fine a wire in the telegraph line, so the tensile strength is not what it should be. That makes the line vulnerable to breakage. What’s worse, every place he could he left the road and strung wire across shortcuts. Through canyons and over ridges and such. He saved the price of some poles and likely a few miles of wire. But he also made it hard for repair crews to follow the line and look for breaks at this time of year. And on top of that, he took the wire through some thick timber, what we call up here black timber, that dense stuff where the big elk hang out. In conditions like this when the snow is wet and heavy, the limbs overload and can break and come down on the wire. And being weak and brittle to begin with, the wire snaps all too easy. We get breaks enough even after a regular snow. In conditions like this I wouldn’t be surprised if there was ten or fifteen different places that will have to be located and spliced before we have telegraph service restored. Could be out a week or even longer, there’s no way to tell.”
“Your knowledge impresses me, friend, but your news disappoints.”
“Sorry, Marshal. I would change it if I could.” He smiled again. “Or if it makes you feel better, I could lie to you. I’m fairly good at that when I want to be.”
Longarm laughed. “Nice o’ you t’ offer but I reckon I’ll pass. Tell you what you could do, though. You could tell me where a man might find a good grade o’ Maryland rye whiskey in this town.” It occurred to Longarm that a man who talked as freely as did this shoemaker must be lonely, so he added, “Better yet, if you have the time you could show me. I’d enjoy the company if you’d join me for a dram or three.”
The sometime telegrapher beamed with a flush of sudden pleasure. “Give me two seconds to close the shop, Marshal, and I’ll show you the best our budding burg has to offer.”
“Sounds good t’ me, friend.”
Chapter 9
Longarm was … mellow. Not drunk. Far from that. But for sure the rough edges had been smoothed out a mite.
It had been a nice afternoon and evening. Tom and A.T. had come by the table. And half-a-dozen other gents after them. Longarm had lost maybe seventy-five cents in an amiable game of stud poker, and won back thirty of it later playing draw, all of it penny-ante, just a friendly way to pass the time.
The whiskey had been good. Not the Maryland distilled product that he favored, but near enough to it in quality. The liquor available here came from Pennsylvania—some town outside Philadelphia, one of the other boys had said—and it was smooth on the tongue and warm in the belly. Definitely better than the bat piss they bottled in New Jersey and sold to an unsuspecting public.
And wonder of wonders, the saloon kept a stock of cigars so pale and plump they shouldn’t be smoked but mounted on walls like the works of art they properly were. Longarm was smoking one of them as he walked slowly to the mule barn where he would be sleeping tonight.
He was in no hurry. The snow had stopped and although it was cold, there was no real bite to the air. The humidity was high so the cold was more soft than stinging. He hadn’t even bothered to button his coat or turn the collar high.
George, the friendly shotgun guard, and his jehu partner, Jesse, were both back at the watering hole Longarm had just left. They’d told him to turn in whenever he wanted, that they would be along later.
At the moment Longarm was pleasantly tired. He hadn’t gotten any sleep to speak of the night before while riding in the jolting stagecoach, and unlike George and the driver, had not spent the afternoon sleeping. He figured to crawl into the sack early tonight and get a good sleep because tomorrow night he would be on the southbound coach run and would get no rest then.
He reached the barn and stopped outside, leaning against the front wall instead of going directly in to find his bed. There are some things a thoughtful man does not do. And walking into another man’s barn with a lighted cigar or pipe is one of them.
And this smoke was much too good to discard half finished. Besides, the evening was a pleasant one, the heavy storm clouds gone now and the stars starkly bright against the black velvet of the night sky above.
Longarm stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned contentedly back against the split aspen wall, crossing his boots at the ankles and enjoying the feel of a gentle breeze against the side of his neck. The moving air was cool but not chilling, almost comforting in the lightness of its touch.
He drew deep on his cigar, held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, and then opened his mouth wide to puff out a string of white, wispy smoke rings. The circles of smoke hung in the air for only moments before they were picked up by the breeze and floated away, their shape elongating and twisting. Longarm watched one ring turn and distort until it took on the appearance of a figure eight. He opened his mouth to blow some more. And froze in place.
A chill swept through him that had nothing to do with the mild air temperature.
Behind him, barely inches away on the other side of the barn wall, he’d heard movement. And it wasn’t a mule that had made the noise either. This had been human. Guaranteed.
A cough? Not really. Nor a suppressed cough. More like a faint, muffled choking sound.