He stared wistfully down at the dead gal and asked if the posse had found any sign further west. He wasn’t surprised to hear they hadn’t.
Longarm nodded and said, “I have a plan that might tell us more, whether anyone makes a break for it by rail or not.
He explained what he’d worked out with the pretty owner of the narrow-gauge. Rothstein said it sounded good to him. So they went on up and out to the street, where Rothstein yelled for a kid he knew to go tell Widow Farnsworth to let her combination head down to the outside world in, say, half an hour.
Then the two of them legged it back to the jailhouse, gathering posse members from saloons along the way, and then, mounted on yet another borrowed pony, Longarm led them the same way they’d ridden before.
As they rode, Buck Lewis caught up with Longarm to ask where they were headed and why. When Longarm tersely told him they were fixing to stop the train where that westbound trail left the wagon trace, the Double Seven ramrod laughed and allowed he’d meant to be home for his supper in any case. Longarm didn’t ask whether he preferred to have it served by a naked lady in bed. Mammy Palaver had said he was a tad embarrassed about being a squaw man.
A heap of old boys were. Kit Carson and William Bent had married up properly and lived openly with Indian wives. But more often it was hidden as if it was a secret vice. Old boys who thought nothing of being seen coming out of a whorehouse, whooping drunk, would gun you for asking what they’d been up to in that tipi the other night.
He had time to consider that angle as they lined up across the tracks near that shallow stretch of Mudpuppy Creek. But there was just no way anyone with a lick of sense would want to gun a federal deputy to keep a secret widely known by local gossips. It was simply sad but true that a rider drawing even a ramrod’s pay was never going to do much better than a drab white gal or the sort of pretty Ute Mary. it wouldn’t be a federal crime if old Buck could get at his boss man’s prettier wife.
The Shay locomotive came puffing down their way and, since the engine crew had been warned they’d be stopped a few miles out, they braked the combination smooth as silk to an unscheduled stop as Longarm and Constable Rothstein swung aboard from their ponies, guns drawn, to ask some questions.
The handful of startled passengers had questions of their own to ask. Old Jed Nolan was mad as a wet hen, having been delayed in town for hours, only to be stopped again a few minutes after getting on his goddamn way to Chicago!
Longarm soothed him with a few words about the murdered maid. Nolan allowed he and all these other folks had already heard about the goddamn murder and had to be on their goddamn way.
It didn’t take long to determine Nolan was goddamn right. All his fellow passengers could produce tickets bought with no indecent haste, they all had sensible reasons for wanting to run down to Golden or Denver, and not a one of the sons of bitches made a lick of sense as a suspect.
So they let the combination go on its way, with apologies. As it puffed on south, Buck Lewis and the three Double Seven riders with him wanted to know if they were still possed up.
When Longarm and the new constable allowed they were fresh out of ideas, Buck Lewis laughed boyishly and said he’d been planning on an early supper after all that riding.
It wasn’t easy, but Longarm managed not to mutter, “Kiss her once for me!” as the four of them splashed across the creek for home.
Nate Rothstein asked, “What do we do now, Longarm?”
It was a good question.
Chapter 15
That one cobbler back in John Bull agreed with Longarm that he’d surely shot the heel off someone’s Justin boot. You could tell because it was produced by Joseph Justin in Old Spanish Fort, down Texas way, to standard machine-carved patterns.
The old goat-faced cobbler was the one who pointed out how dumb it would be to have a heel replaced by the only cobbler for miles a few minutes after losing it in a shootout with the law. He said if he’d ever done a thing like that, he’d just get rid of the shot-up boots and put on a new pair.
His words made a heap of sense. Levi jeans, Stetson hats, and Justin boots had gotten common as clay, in that order, between the ‘40s and ‘70s, because each product was well made at affordable prices for the average rider. A few pair of boots would be far less expensive, in the end, than getting caught in the older pair by a federal lawman.
Longarm asked the canny cobbler how many places in John Bull might fix a jasper up with new Justins on short notice. The cobbler shrugged and replied, “Aside from myself? There’d be the saddle shop, the general store and a couple of haberdashers who deck a gent out from head to toe. Why does he have to replace his old pair with the same brand? Have you considered he might have had more than one pair at home to begin with?”
Longarm groaned aloud and said, “This is what I get for asking an expert on shoe leather! Can you tell from that heel what size boot the rascal takes at least?”
The cobbler shook his head and answered, “No. That’s one reason Joe Justin can sell fair boots at store-bought prices. He makes no more than a half-dozen sizes with Goodyear welts on lasts of average width. He hangs on a lot of pre-cut standardized parts. I doubt he needs more than three heel sizes. This one’s medium, meaning your mysterious friend wears anything from a man’s size seven to a twelve.”
Longarm muttered, “Well, shit, I figured he was walking about on natural-looking feet. But I thank you just the same.”
He went next to the fancy tobacco shop near the hotel to show them the cigar ring he’d picked up out in the woods. They sold lots of Gallo Claros from down Cuba way by the box or for two bits apiece. They told him everyone who was anybody bought fine cigars to hand out while announcing births, engagements, or a good business deal. Mild claro cigars were safer to hand out than, say, Parodi Brand, which cost almost as much and upset the womenfolk when you lit one up indoors.
Longarm got out his notebook and explained the situation before he read off his list of suspects or, hell, potential witnesses. But he drew another joker from a mighty tedious deck. Nobody he could name had bought Gallo Claros direct, though anyone might have given anyone else a fistful, intentionally or not, at any number of recent social affairs. That was the trouble with changing times. There were all sorts of real-estate closings, new partnerships, and such to be celebrated. Or mourmed. A businessman who got the better of you in a deal had to show he was a sport by offering you a drink or a smoke.
Longarm allowed that as long as he was taking up their time he’d stock up on his own three-for-a-nickel cheroots. They told him they’d throw in a Gallo Claro if he wanted to spring for a dollar’s worth.
It was tempting. That Cuban cigar Mammy Palaver had been smoking had smelled swell. But his far cheaper cheroots were as bad a habit as he could afford on his wages. So he wistfully declined their kind offer.
It got worse as he was leaving with two bits worth of cheroots. They warned him it would cost way more if he changed his mind and bought a Gallo Claro in any saloon.
As he strode away he reflected on that. Having made a habit of buying his tobacco sober, he’d forgotten how most saloons stocked up on high-priced cigars to be sold at a handsome profit to big spenders after a few rounds.
So that meant he was looking for someone he couldn’t describe, in new or spare boots, smoking a brand he could buy, or be given, most anywhere. That was assuming he hadn’t been given or bought another brand since!
Longarm told himself to quit running in circles, and made a beeline for the Western Union. Once there, he found more answering wires that didn’t seem to answer much, along with a to-the-point-indeed message from his home office. Marshal Billy Vail was back, and not at all pleased to hear that Bunny McNee had been a gal or that the team he’d sent to fetch whatever had been had been replaced by whatever Western Union had deleted. The late Mister Ezra Comell had instructed his Western Union crews not to send anything worse than “son of a bitch” over his wires.