Chapter 43
At some point not long before daybreak the P & P train had crossed the state line, carrying the baseball club out of flat, drab, and dreary Kansas and into a piece of Colorado that was … every damn bit as flat and drab and dreary as it’d been back in Kansas.
But at least this was familiarly flat, drab and dreary. Hell, it seemed practically like home after being stuck in Kansas so long. Not that Longarm had anything against Kansas. Far from it. But Colorado was home territory and he was pleased to be back.
He stood in the middle of the main street of Jonesboro—he didn’t exactly have to fret about being run over by the crush of onrushing traffic; at the moment the only thing he could see moving at ground level was a stray cat that emerged from an alley, took one look around and quickly retreated back into the shade of the alley it just came from—and took a deep drag on a cheroot while he peered around.
He’d been in Jonesboro before. Twice if he remembered correctly. And the truth was that it had grown some since the last he saw it.
There still wasn’t a tree to be found for fifteen or twenty miles in any direction, but here lately a forest seemed to’ve been growing anyway.
Windmills. The country had become of a sudden overgrown with brand-new windmills, each one of them busily pumping water into newly dug irrigation ditches. Jonesboro and environs was fast becoming farm country whereas the last time Longarm looked it had been devoted mostly to small-parcel livestock raising, like chickens, pigs, goats, and some sheep raised on a small scale.
Not now. Now everything around had been plowed, disked, dragged, and planted. The place would’ve been a vegetarian’s version of heaven, he was sure.
And somewhere in the unseen distance there was a salesman for the Aeromotor Company who surely must have a permanent smile stitched into both corners of his mouth. The man’s commissions from selling all these windmills would probably keep him in whiskey and women for the rest of his days, long may they be.
Likely too the P and P investors were excited. If only cautiously so. The last he’d heard the P and P had completed track only as far as Lamar, or maybe it was LaJunta, he couldn’t remember which, before they called a “temporary” stop to the construction. Temporary, that is, until they found enough money to build on the rest of the way west to Trinidad where they hoped to connect with General Palmer’s Denver and Rio Grande line and put the narrow gauge Plains and Pacific into a profitable situation.
This new-found growth in farming along the P and P route might be just what they needed. Or it as easily could be a pipe dream that would break a thousand backs and twice that many hearts when the wells ran dry or the locusts came or some other damn thing ruined the farmers who invested their hopes in this dry and unforgiving land.
Longarm wished them luck. And was damned glad that he wasn’t one of them.
He finished his cigar, then ambled off down the street toward a saloon he remembered as being a right nice place to visit.
A drink would help to settle his stomach, he decided, and maybe as well help him to forget how scorching hot the day was becoming.
After that, well, he would poke around a mite, then go back to the boardinghouse and join the rest of the Capitals in catching up on some of that sleep he’d been missing the past couple nights courtesy of the Plains and Pacific.
Chapter 44
“Chet. Mr. Short. Wake up, sir, it’s time to go down to supper.”
Longarm came awake with a groan and a curse. Jerry, his ever eager, always anxious roommate was leaning over him. Longarm gave the kid a scowl to tell him how welcome this wake-up call was.
He sat upright on the edge of the lumpy, boardinghouse bed and made a sour face, which wasn’t a patch on how sour the inside of his mouth tasted. The slime on his tongue tasted kind of like how cow slobbers look.
Worse, his head was pounding and felt like it had been packed in sand.
What was it about trying to sleep in daylight that so often made the cure seem less desirable than the original fatigue. He should have stayed awake through the afternoon. Of course now was a fine time to think about that.
“Are you coming, sir?”
“Yeah, yeah, leave me be, dammit.” Longarm tried to rub some of the sting out of his eyes although they felt like they needed more than a light massage, they felt like they needed to be taken out and thoroughly washed. Put them into a basin of soapy water and scrub them clean, maybe that would take some of the misery off them.
On that cheery thought he climbed onto his hind legs and stumbled over to the washstand where the thunder mug was stored underneath. He pissed in the porcelain mug. It was just too damned far to contemplate going out back right now. Besides, Fancy might be hanging around out there, lurking in ambush for the next poor SOB of a ball player to step outside. Longarm was in no humor for another piece of that. Later, maybe. Not right now.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Yeah, sure,” Longarm lied.
“is there anything I can do to help you?” Jerry offered.
“No, there … wait a minute. You serious about that?”
“Yes, sir, just as serious as I know how.”
“I tell you what then.” Longarm plucked his coat out of the wardrobe and fumbled inside it for a cheroot and some matches. “Tell you what. I’m not feeling so good right now. Would you kinda keep an eye on one of the boys and tell me if he tries to slip out by himself this evening?”
The equipment boy lit up like Longarm had just ignited a set of candles inside his skull, like he was a living, breathing jack-o’-lantern. “You mean one of our own players is a suspect?” Jerry asked with so much excitement it was all he could do to form the words.
“I wouldn’t go so far as t’ say he’s a suspect, exactly. It’s just that I got a few questions I’d like t’ see answered. You know what I mean?”
“Whatever you say, marshal.” Jerry grinned and corrected himself. “I mean, Chet.” The boy chuckled and—Longarm saw him do it and would have sworn to it in a court of law—actually, by-God rubbed his hands together in anticipation of this great excitement. “Who is it, sir? Who do you want me to watch for you?”
“You won’t tell another soul? Swear to God you won’t?”
“No one, marshal. I promise.”
Longarm hesitated only long enough to get his cheroot alight, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s Nat Lewis, son. I want you to let me know if Nat tries to sneak out alone t’night.”
Jerry looked purely fit to bust with the prospect of spying on a teammate before him. Longarm wasn’t sure he had ever seen anyone quite so happy before. About anything.
“Sir?”
“Yeah, kid.”
“We better go down now or we’ll miss supper. And, sir?”
“Uh huh?”
“Don’t you worry about what you asked me to do, sir. I won’t let you down. I promise that I won’t.”
“Why, I trust you to that, son, or I wouldn’t have asked you t’ begin with.”
Jerry beamed with joy and pride. He practically floated down the staircase to the dining room below. Longarm clumped along at a considerably more sedate pace.
The whole team was gathered there for a meal that was long on starches and gravy but short when it came to actual meat. Still, it was hot and filling and there was plenty of it. Afterward most of the men drifted into the parlor where they broke up into small groups, most of them centered around nucleuses of cards and coins.
Longarm got into a penny ante game of stud with the pitching staff.
He had no idea what Nat Lewis and Jerry were up to and took some care not to go looking around for either one of them.
Chapter 45
“Psst! Sir. Mr. Short.”
Longarm looked up to see Jerry standing at the sliding double doors that led out to the entry hall and vestibule. The boy was hissing and beckoning for all he was worth. He might as well have waved a signal lantern and fired off some flares, but what the hell. Nobody cared anyway.