“Boy,” Longarm said, “that is high. Where does this Mr. Laird get his stuff?”
“I expect that he bought a lot of it from the Wetherills when they were hauling it out in the early years. But every time I’ve been in that museum, there’s new stuff, so he just might have a new supplier.”
“Maybe he’s making fake pottery,” Longarm offered.
“Nope. It’s real. Them two scientists working up there always stop in at the museum, and they say that it’s all real stuff. Hell, they ought to know, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do,” Longarm said. “But I wonder if someone else is excavating up there that no one knows about.”
“That’s possible. It’s also possible that some rancher has found an excavation site, an old Indian burial or building ground, and is digging it up on his own land.”
“I see. I’ve also heard that there have been killings and shootings over the artifacts.”
Dudley eyed Longarm closely. “You’ve heard quite a bit for a total stranger.”
“I like to know what I’m getting into,” Longarm said with a shrug. “After all, a man wouldn’t want to take his wife up someplace where their might be danger.”
“That’s true enough. And there have been a couple of people shot up on the mesa as well as out near the Hovenweep ruins farther west. Some say there is a ring of thieves that work the cliff dwellings, and that is why several people have disappeared. But most of us think they were killed by the Utes, who consider Mesa Verde and them ruins as sacred ground.”
“Has anyone spoken to the Utes?”
“Naw. Most of them have been wiped out, and what is left is just small bands here and there. They keep on the move, but I expect that they’re the real killers.”
“Do you know a Miss Candice Mason?”
“Sure! Candice owns the Bull’s Eye Ranch about ten miles west of here not far from Hovenweep, where some of the trouble has been going on. Miss Mason’s mother died when she was just a kid, and her father and brother were murdered about two years ago when they were bringing some cattle money back from Utah. Candice has several hundred head of cattle and some pretty good grazing land. She don’t like or trust men. No one can work for her for very long. She’s got skin thicker than rawhide, but she’s a handsome gal.”
“She live alone?”
“Naw, she’s got a small crew of old geezers that couldn’t find work on any other spread and probably ought to be riding rocking chairs. She’s got some of the biggest, most ferocious damned dogs that you ever seen. And she can shoot the eye out of a gawddamn mosquito at a hundred yards.”
“She sounds like a real hellion.”
“You got that right. Because she’s pretty and pretty women are as scarce as hen’s teeth in these parts, she has had a lot of young bucks that have tried to soften up her heart. But she ain’t got a heart. Just a stone where her heart ought to be, and since her father and brother were murdered, she’s turned meaner than a rattlesnake.”
“I see.” Longarm frowned. It was now obvious that his boss, Billy Vail, hadn’t told him half the story about Candice Mason.
“You want another beer?” the cowboy asked, rifling his pockets but coming up empty.
“No,” Longarm said, “but I’ll buy you another before I leave.”
“Why, you are a gentleman of the highest order!” Dudley exclaimed.
Longarm bought the cowboy another beer, knowing he’d gained some very valuable information but that Dudley probably couldn’t tell him anything else of value. It was time to go visit another saloon.
The Red Goose Saloon was loud and tough. Most of the customers were drunk, and the place didn’t serve anything but bad whiskey at a nickel a shot. Longarm had one shot and damn near doubled over in pain.
“Damn!” he complained, making a face. “what’s in this crap! Rat poison?”
“Naw,” the bartender said with a comforting grin. “But the boys that come in here want to get drunk fast, and so we have a special brew made for just that purpose. You drink three shots and you’re feeling like you can whip the world. You drink five shots and you’ll think that you are the world. Seven shots will put you to sleep for two days, and ten will probably kill you. I dunno because no one has ever got past eight.”
“Well,” Longarm said, “I sure won’t be the first. I’m new in town and headed up to Mesa Verde. Have you been up there before?”
“A time or two,” the bartender said. “But to be honest with you, it gives me the creeps.”
“What about you?” Longarm asked the man at his right elbow.
“You ever been up there?”
The man just stared at him with unfocused eyes. When he tried to say something, his words made no sense at all. Longarm turned to the man on his left, who at least seemed conscious.
“You ever been up to Mesa Verde and seen the old Indian cliff dwellings?”
“Sure! A couple of times. Gawdamm interesting, if you ask me.”
“Well,” Longarm said, playing the tourist, “my wife and I are going up there on our honeymoon.”
“Huh?”
“Our honeymoon.”
“You’re goin’ up to them old Indian ruins on your honeymoon?”
“Yeah.”
“Jaysus,” the man said, shaking his head, “that’s sure not very romantic!”
Longarm had the feeling that this man wasn’t going to do anything but get argumentative, so he ordered another of the poison whiskeys and moved on down the bar, looking to talk to a few more people in the hope that someone could tell him a little more about the grave robbers who were supposed to be over at Four Corners, or about Mr. Laird or Mountain Packers.
He did find several more people who knew about those things and were willing to share their knowledge for the price of a drink or two. But by midnight, Longarm figured that he was about played out, and he was ready to go back to the Concord Hotel, climb into bed with Miranda, and go to sleep. Longarm was bone-weary, and he sure hoped that Miranda would forgive him for just wanting to sleep.
“Howdy,” a big, smiling man said as Longarm stepped out of the saloon. “I understand that you are looking for a guide to take you and your wife up to Mesa Verde.”
Longarm nodded. The man was his size and age, big in the shoulders and heavy in the chest. “That’s right,” he answered, “but I have chosen Matt Horn.”
“I’m better than Horn and I won’t charge you as much. What is he asking?”
“I don’t know,” Longarm said. “We haven’t talked yet.”
“Why don’t you forget about Horn,” the man said. “You won’t find a better guide than me.”
“I like a man with confidence, but I think I’ll talk to Horn anyway. However, if we can’t come to terms, I’d be happy to talk to you. What is your name?”
“John. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Longarm didn’t think so. He was a pretty good judge of character, and he didn’t like this man’s challenging and rather arrogant attitude. So he turned and started across the street toward the Concord Hotel. The next thing he knew, he heard the blast of a rifle and felt a slug whip past his cheek. Longarm threw himself down, rolled, and came up with his gun in his hand. He looked for a target, but there was none. The street was empty. The big man named John had vanished, but then Longarm wasn’t a bit sure that he had been the one that had opened fire. He was even less sure when a wooden shingle from a rooftop across the street fell to the sidewalk.
Longarm dashed across the street and ran down the dark corridor between the buildings, then skidded to a halt in a dark alley. He heard the pounding of boots, and took off after them, but crashed blindly into an old rain barrel, knocking it over and landing in mud.
“Dammit!” he raged, scrambling to his feet, then groping his way back out onto the main street. “Dammit anyway!”