Longarm sighed and tossed away the butt of his fourth-or-so cigar of the day. He was hot, irritable, and wishing he could get this deal over and done with. Then maybe Billy would let him take a couple days off. He could take a train into the high country. Maybe go up to Fairplay. He knew some folks there who would put out the welcome mat … and perhaps offer some comforts even more hospitable than that. There was a lady named Jane-Ann who …
Best to not be thinking about that, he told himself in no uncertain terms. Not when there was a job to be done. Jane-Ann could be tended to after, not during. And for the time being …
He got up from the sidewalk bench where he’d been idling and ambled down the street toward the one and lonely saloon that the bustling burg of Sorrel Branch had to offer.
Longarm had long since learned there was no regular post office in the town. What there was was a set of pigeonholes and a tiny counter at the back of the mercantile. Not much of a target for a sophisticated band of robbers but all the place had to offer. What Longarm figured to do was hang around and watch—there seemed no point in announcing his presence or his function, either one—while the townsfolk went off to watch the ball game.
If anybody wanted to break into the mercantile, good. Longarm would be willing to nab them.
As for the local law, well, there didn’t seem to be any. Not that he could spot anyhow.
Which was a right fair excuse for a man to get off the hot and dusty street and step inside the cooler confines of a friendly saloon. Right? Damn straight.
He passed through a set of hanging fly beads and paused just inside the doorway for a moment to let his eyes adjust after the bright glare outdoors, then made his way to the bar. Which, he had to admit, was impressive.
The back-bar was made of polished mahogany, carved into intricate patterns and set off with grinning gilt gargoyles and a set of mirrors and delicate latticework so nicely done that the many small mirrors were made to look like one very large one. Clever.
The place was crowded, the level of trade undoubtedly given a sharp boost by the promise of the baseball game that would take place later on. People would have come in from miles around, and every business in town was sure to benefit.
Longarm eased through the happy, chattering drinkers and found a spot within arm’s length of the free lunch display. He snagged a pickled egg and a generous sized hunk of rat cheese and avoided a rebuke from the bartender by calling for a beer. Free lunch platters are for customers only, thank you.
“Anything else for you, mister?” the barman asked as he swept Longarm’s nickel off the counter and into a pocket of his only slightly stained apron.
“Directions would help.”
“Sure thing, friend. Kansas City is east, Denver is west, for Texas you go south.” He smiled. “And there’s not a damn thing of interest anyplace north of here. So what more do you want to know?”
Longarm laughed and said, “I was looking for the law hereabouts. Can’t say that I found any.”
“You aren’t tall enough,” the bartender said.
“Pardon me?”
“We aren’t officially incorporated,” the man explained. “Not that we’d have money enough to hire a marshal if we were. And not that we’d need a marshal if we could afford one. The last major crime we had around here was when Toby James snitched a pair of Widow Moore’s unmentionables and ran them up the flagpole outside the blacksmith’s place.”
“Sounds pretty serious, all right,” Longarm agreed.
“Yeah, we’re hell for excitement around here. Count on it. Anyhow, we do have a county sheriff. See him once every other year when he comes around electioneering. And there’s those who say we see him a mite too often at that. You ready for a refill on that, friend?”
Longarm nodded and dragged another nickel out of his pocket.
“If you really need a deputy you can likely find one at the county seat,” the man said as he tilted a fresh mug beneath his tap and commenced drawing a second draft. “That’s twenty-two and a half miles … more or less … due north from here.”
Longarm grinned. “Due north.”
“Ayuh.”
“Not a thing of value north of here though,” Longarm paraphrased.
“So some say.” The bartender used a wooden paddle to knock the head off Longarm’s beer and set the mug down, exchanging it for the nickel. “If you really need the help of a deputy, friend, we’ll see what we can do.”
“Not really,” Longarm said, not particularly inclined to explain any further than that. He took a swallow of the fresh beer and wished it was cold. Some of the tonier saloons in Denver had taken to keeping their kegs on ice, which made a beer all the more welcome during the heat of summer. It was a damned shame the fad hadn’t extended quite this far.
But then who knew where the nearest artificial ice making plant would be found or the nearest ice cutting and cold storage operation.
“In town for the ball game today?” the friendly barman asked as he wiped at an imaginary puddle on his bar.
“Not this son of a bitch,” a new voice injected from off to Longarm’s left.
Longarm froze, his mug poised just below chin level, and turned his eyes to see a sandy-haired man with a brushy mustache, coldly glittering dark eyes, and the butt of a large Remington revolver showing on his hip. The gun had received much use in the past, so much that there appeared to be no bluing left on the metal.
“The shit-eater is the law himself, Morris. Big man too. Calls himself Longarm. Like he’s the long arm of the damn law, all of it rolled into one tall pile of garbage.” The dark-eyed man glowered. “Isn’t that right, Marshal Long-Big-Damn-Deal-Arm.”
Longarm knew for certain sure that he never ever in his life saw the man before this very moment. But he kinda doubted that the encounter was ended. Not quite.
Slowly and carefully he set his mug down onto the bar and turned to face the belligerent fellow with the big .44 on his hip.
Chapter 35
It was really something to see. Like a first-class magician’s practiced sleight of hand, the crowd around and behind the two men just kind of faded away. It was like ice melting at high speed. One moment there were dozens of laughing, cheerful, pleasant fellows standing around talking and drinking and looking forward to the afternoon’s entertainment. And a blink later, maybe a blink and a half, there was a corridor of empty space stretching smack alongside of the bartop with only Longarm and the sandy-haired man left to face each other.
“Got paper out on you, do you?” Longarm asked conversationally.
“Not a scrap,” the man told him.
“I shot down one of your kin then,” Longarm suggested.
“Nope, nothing like that.”
“Put a pal in jail?”
The fellow shook his head.
“Broke up a gang you was fond of.”
“Huh uh.”
This was becoming damn-all annoying, Longarm decided. Piss on the guy. “All right then, I screwed your wife. Your virgin sister … no, that couldn’t of been it … you’d’ve screwed her first your own self, I’m sure. Okay, I screwed your mother and killed your father in the line of duty.”
The gunman barked out a sound that Longarm assumed was supposed to be a laugh, although it didn’t sound overmuch like one.
“Jeez, man, I must’ve done something to make you this hostile.”
“Not a damn thing,” the fellow assured him. “I just don’t like smart-ass United States deputy marshals.”
“Ah, that old reason. Now I feel better, knowin’ what this here is all about. Mind if I ask you something else?”
“I reckon a man ought to be allowed a last question, same as a condemned man gets a last meal.”
“Who the hell are you?” Longarm asked.
“William Beard. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Mister Beard, I hate to be such a complete disappointment to you, but I never in my life until this very minute heard anything about you, not even your name.”