Longarm had given him a sour look and said, “Billy Vail, you are a blackmailing old son of a bitch and you ought to be ashamed of yourself complaining about a poorly paid public servant for trying to help himself out now and again. Hell, if I had a dime for every dollar you’ve knocked off my expense vouchers I could retire tomorrow.”
But there was one thing to be said for arguing with Billy Vail—you weren’t going to win. He was the boss and he had the years of experience and the scars to prove it. They were good friends except when it came to poker and handing out assignments. Longarm usually got the best of it in the one and the wrong end of the stick in the other.
Now he sagged down at his table and worked on his second drink. He’d left for Mexico City weighing a little over one hundred and ninety-five pounds and standing an inch or two over six feet. The better part of it had been muscle. Now he felt so drawn and gaunt that he didn’t reckon he could stand examination. He figured he had lost ten pounds on the trip and maybe six inches in height. When Combs had seen he was not going to be able to physically escape from Longarm, he had settled into a steady tirade of taunts and abuse and threats. According to Combs, his “friends” would be holding the train up at any mile marker to take him off and make short work of Longarm. Combs had assured the deputy marshal that he would never see the end of the line alive if he didn’t let him, Combs, loose.
And when he wasn’t threatening he was trying to bribe. At one point, he’d offered Longarm half the missing money and his pick of a whorehouse Combs claimed he owned in New Orleans and that he said housed the best-looking collection of women in the world. Longarm doubted the whorehouse and doubted the women, but he didn’t doubt that Combs was the most trouble of any prisoner he had ever handled. As a consequence, he never had a drink in peace, a meal in peace, and certainly no peaceful rest the whole trip.
For some time Longarm had been aware of a man at the bar who kept darting little quick glances his way. The bar was only a couple of yards from his table and the saloon was nearly empty so Longarm had slight doubt that the man was looking at him. He thought it might have something to do with his being a United States deputy marshal, but, as was his custom when he didn’t officially need to wear it, his badge was buttoned inside his shirt pocket. Without seeming to, Longarm gave the man a careful examination. There was nothing outstanding about him. He looked like a merchant or a drummer or even maybe a bank clerk of some kind. Longarm guessed him to be closing on forty years of age. The man was of medium size and was wearing a frock coat with a vest and a string tie. He had on a derby hat and was shod in high-top shoes with patent-leather toes. He appeared to be drinking whiskey with a beer chaser. As best as Longarm could see, the man did not appear to be carrying a weapon, but he had made it a habit to always assume that an apparently unarmed man was sure to be carrying a hidden gun somewhere about his person. In his line of work you didn’t take anything for granted, not if you expected to continue in that line of work for any length of time. And he had, he thought, continued in the line of work longer than anyone with any sense would have done. His body said thirty, but his work-and weather-wearied face said closer to forty. His name was Custis Long officially, but he was known, on both sides of the law, by the name he’d been given when he’d pursued an outlaw over a thousand miles to bring him back to justice: Longarm. He was the “Long Arm of the Law.” It was said that you could run as far as you wanted and dig yourself a hole nearly to China, but just about the time you started getting comfortable, you’d look up and there would be Custis Long standing with his long arm stretched out to drag you back. The general opinion was that Billy Vail had given him the name, but Longarm wasn’t so sure about that. One thing he was sure about, however, was that Billy never failed to use it when it suited his purposes, like the Mexico City trip for instance. “Why,” He’d said, looking as innocent as the rogue he was, “them folks up in Washington, D.C., asked for you special. They done heard all about the famous Longarm and said it wouldn’t do for nobody else to go up and fetch that thief back except for the famous Longarm. No, sir. They won’t hear of nobody else doing it.” Then he’d sighed. “Price of fame, I’d reckon.”
Billy, Longarm thought, was a handy man with salt if there were any wounds needing treatment.
Longarm caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The man at the bar had turned to give him another looking-over. This time Longarm openly stared back. He couldn’t figure the man out. He looked too prosperous to be bumming a drink, but yet he didn’t look flashy enough to be some tinhorn gambler thinking maybe he could lure a weary trail-worn cowpoke into a card game. Longarm could not quite make out what the man’s business was.
The look Longarm had returned seemed to have beckoned as an invitation to the man. He turned from the bar with a glass in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other and crossed over the few feet to Longarm’s table. He stood there, a moderately sized man, looking down at Longarm. He asked, “Mind if I sit a spell, neighbor?”
Longarm shoved a chair out with his boot. He was curious about the man if nothing else. “Why not? Take a chair,” he said.
The man sat down, looking as innocent and nondescript as he had when Longarm had first laid eyes on him. Now the man offered the bottle across the table.
“Fill that drink up for you?” he asked.
Longarm gave his half-filled glass a slight nudge forward. He said, “Why not? Somewhere I heard it never hurts to drink another man’s whiskey.”
The stranger said, “I may go to hell for lying, but I damn sure ain’t ever going to hell for turning down a drink.”
Longarm lifted his glass in a toast. He said, “I’ll drink to that.”
They both took a long pull at their glasses and then set them down almost simultaneously. Longarm asked evenly, “What can I do for you?”
The stranger answered, “You certainly appear to be a man who likes to get right down to business.”
Longarm said, “Well, you’ve pretty well eyed me over. I just can’t figure out what for. I can tell you in advance that you ain’t got nothing to sell that I want to buy, I ain’t looking to play no cards. And if there is any other business that you can think of to keep me from a good night’s sleep, it would have to be damned exciting.”
The stranger laughed slightly. “Well, I don’t know how you feel about making money. Some folks find it kind of exciting,” he said.
Longarm gave the man a level look. “Making money? How?”
The stranger fluttered his hand slightly. He said, “Oh, nothing too illegal. Matter of fact, I don’t reckon that you could call it illegal at all. It’s an easy job.”
“Doing what?” Longarm asked.
The stranger said, “Shouldn’t that be ‘Paying how much?’”
Longarm smiled slightly. He said, “All right. Paying how much?”
The stranger leaned forward and adjusted his frock coat. “A hundred dollars. Spot cash. Gold coins. What do you think of that now?”
Longarm half smiled. He was on the point of telling the man that he very often bet that amount of money on a middling hand of poker, but something stayed his speech. He was curious as to what a stranger would be willing to pay a hundred dollars to another stranger to do. It wasn’t so much the lawman in him that was curious as it was just a man sitting in a saloon. “A hundred dollars? Is that a fact? Say, that’s a pile of money.”
The stranger leaned forward eagerly. He said, “Yep, and it’s all in gold.” With one hand he reached into the pocket of his frock coat and pulled out five twenty-dollar gold pieces. He let them clink down on the table. “Take a look at that. Oro puro. Pure gold. Yellow as butter.” He pushed two of the coins to one side and pulled three back toward himself. He said, “Forty now and sixty when you do the job.”