In the time he had left that afternoon, Longarm sent more wires of inquiry about both boys in that root cellar, and made sure his federal prisoner would be served a warm supper from that beanery across from the jail. They took his money before they told him Constable Payne had already been ordering three meals a day for that young outlaw he’d arrested. But Longarm took this like a sport. He was only out four bits, and it was good to hear old Amos Payne was a sport as well. Longarm had always had a low opinion of lawmen who cheated the taxpaying public at the expense of the crooks they were paid to feed.
He’d never planned on more than twenty-four hours in John Bull when he’d left Denver traveling so light. He’d been fibbing when he threatened Bunny McNee with leg irons. He had one set of handcuffs hooked to the back of his gun rig, but after that, he hadn’t even brought along his shaving kit. So he found a barber still open as the shadows lengthened, and sat down to wait his turn. He figured he could manage a good bath at the hotel, and he hadn’t sweated up his shirt, socks, or underpants too bad in this cool dry mountain air, but there was no getting around a stubble too noteworthy to take to a sit-down supper with a high-toned widow woman.
Barbershops tended to be small-town gossip shops as well. As a rule it was best to just listen. But when he spied the oldtimer they called Oregon John just one stool down, he naturally commenced a conversation with the man, who doubtless knew these hills far better than he did. As the barber worked on the customer ahead of them, Longarm got Oregon John off the two dead owlhoot riders to riders in general around John Bull. In a desperately casual tone, Longarm said, “I know they say that old lady, Granny Boggs, is a mite overwrought on the subject of cow thieves, but I know for a fact that an old pal of mine lit out for higher country aboard a mule this very morning. Mention was made of a cross-country trail to the newer gold fields around Holy Cross on the far side of the Divide.”
Oregon John stared dreamily and intoned, “I’ve seen that mystical mountain with a holy cross of summer snow outlined against its dark brooding granite. They say the Rocky Mountain cross-beak bird got its poor bitty beak bent up that way from trying in vain to pull the nails from that big holy cross to free Our Lord from his suffering!”
The barber shot Longarm a knowing look. Longarm said he was sorry as hell about cross-beak birds, but that he’d asked about trails out of these parts with a view to driving stolen cows along them.
Oregon John replied less poetically, “A good drover can drive a cow most anywhere he can ride a horse, I reckon. But where in thunder would he want to drive ‘em up here in the high country?”
Longarm answered flatly, “The mining camp of Holy Cross, a tad south of that interesting mountain. I was over yonder just a spell back, and I know for a fact they’ve been paying top wages and eating prime beef. Some other pals of mine made a handsome profit out of driving a modest herd to Holy Cross. I rode with ‘em and helped just a mite during surly weather. Those cows had all been lawful bought and paid for on this side of the Divide, of course.”
Oregon John said, “Nobody but Granny Boggs says any cows have left this park any way. She’s right about every stock outfit losing heavy to this spring’s thaw. I could show you one hell of a mess of scattered beef bones if you’d care to ride the slopes all about with me. But ain’t nobody been herding cows out of here the hard way. I ain’t saying a dishonest cowboy couldn’t, seeing how it might look to ship beef by rail wearing someone else’s brand. But I have been over those surrounding slopes more than most—searching for color more than cow turds, it’s true—and I regret to say Granny Boggs is an old crazy lady. I’d buy her seeing real men under her bed than this gang of cow thieves she keeps telling the rest of us to watch out for!”
The barber volunteered, “Oregon’s right about the severe spring die-off. I have heaps of customers in the beef industry. They tell me they risk the awful weather up our way because, when it ain’t killing cows, it feeds ‘em much fatter than the warmer but drier High Plains to the east.”
Longarm nodded and said, “Beef critters growing up on greener grass and juicy sedges sell for way more a head and tend to be sold closer to home to local butchers. Meaning we’re talking about fewer head to the smaller mountain herds, and fewer to steal at a higher profit if that temptation should lead you astray. But you gents surely know more than me about your local beef industry.”
The barber said, “Next!” as he spun the man he’d been shaving around to let him up. As the customer rose, Longarm saw it was that gent from the hearing in that snuff-colored suit. As their eyes met the older man nodded and said, “I thought we’d agreed those killers were after you, Deputy Long.”
Longarm shrugged and said, “Like the old hymn says, ‘Farther along we’ll know more about it.’ I’d still like to know where either of those old boys had been hiding out before poor Stanwyk and me seem to have flushed ‘em.”
The snuff suit put his hat back on and grumped out with a remark about being late for supper. Longarm expected Oregon John to go next, but the barber explained the oldtimer just liked to sit and gossip there. So Longarm took a seat in the still-warm barber’s chair and casually asked who that older jasper might have been.
The barber allowed he’d been Mister T.S. Nabors of Colorado Consolidated Holdings. He didn’t know what the T.S. stood for.
Oregon John said, “I can tell you. It stands for Tough Shit. He’s the big hoorah of that holding company that bought out the original English mining outfit. They were all right, but C.C.H. wants to own everything profitable and let anything else wither on the vine.”
As the barber cranked Longarm back and draped him with seersucker he grumbled, “When you’re right you’re right, Oregon John. Them silver-mining Englishmen built everything from that railroad to a handsome company town for their mostly Cornish mining men. But now it’s all headed for hell in a hack. You want a haircut too, Deputy Long?”
Longarm said just a shave. So the barber covered his face with a hot wet towel, complaining, “First they cut wages as the ore body started to go low-grade on ‘em. So naturally a heap of the better and higher-paid miners quit. I mean, I’ve never drilled hardrock for any sort of ore, but it can’t be fair to ask a man to mine more rock for less money, no matter what the infernal rock is worth!”
Longarm was in no position to comment, but Oregon John, bless him, said, “That’s the way they pay mining men. It surely causes a heap of labor agitation. I talked to some of the Cousin Jacks as they were fixing to move on. Longarm there is right about them paying better over in Holy Cross, or even down Leadville way. It’s gotten worse, since that outfit old T.S. runs moved in on us. They’ve cut wages in the ore-stamping plant as well, even though you have to stamp a heap more lead ore than silver ore to show the same profit.
Longarm was bursting to ask. But he didn’t have to when old Oregon John said he’d heard C.C.H. was trying to buy out Widow Farnsworth, doubtless to cut railroad wages and raise fares and freight rates.
The barber said, “I doubt she wants to sell out, though.”
To which Oregon John soberly replied, “Don’t matter what the lady might want. The Carsons didn’t want to sell them water rights they’d dammed on their own land neither. But just the same, they sold ‘em, at T.S. Nabors’ price!”
Chapter 10
Longarm was glad he’d sprung for that shave and asked for extra bay rum as soon as he got back up to the Farnsworth house. For his Junoesque brunette hostess had on a blue satin gown fit to join the President for supper at the White House. They each got to sit at opposite ends of a long table, with the room lit up by bright, expensive, whale-wax candles, and were served by an old confounded-looking gal with a Cornish lilt to her timid voice as she asked whether she’d served enough candied sweet taters with his lamb.