The man on the left shrugged. He was a little smaller than his chum and a few pounds lighter, but didn’t look any brighter. Or cleaner, for that matter. Both of them were in serious need of a bath and a shave before they would fit in among polite company.
“Let me show you a couple things before you decide how bad you want the money,” Longarm suggested.
Without waiting for an answer he first took hold of the butt of his Colt. He didn’t draw the gun. But then he didn’t figure he would have to.
“That’s one,” he said. “An’ the other.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out the wallet he sometimes carried there, flipping it open to display the badge identifying him as a United States deputy marshal. He gave the boys a glimpse but not reading privileges, closing the wallet and returning it to his pocket quickly. “What I’m doin’ here, fellas, is official business. If you wanta press your luck far enough to interfere with that business, feel free. You’re all grown up now, an’ you can do whatever you think best. But I oughta tell you. I ain’t in no mood to be fooled with. The very least you’d get out of it would be jail an’ a trip to Denver for prosecution in federal court. Prob’ly a sentence of one to three years in a federal pen. With time off for good behavior you won’t likely have to serve more’n nine, ten months actual behind-bars time. That’s if things go good for you. At the worst, like if I feel things are gettin’ outa hand, I shoot an’ call it self-defense. But like I said, you boys feel free to do whatever you’re of a mind to. I’ll be right here waitin’ if you want to go talk it over between you.”
“Mister, uh, there ain’t no need for that,” the one on the left said.
“Clete, he’s only offering drinks,” the other one put in. “I never yet had that much of a thirst on me.”
“I appreciate your point of view,” Longarm said.
“No hard feelings, mister?”
“None on my end,” Longarm assured them.
The would-be bullyboys went back across the room, whispered briefly between themselves, and concluded they might be more comfortable buying their after-shift drinks somewhere else.
Longarm’s gut was rumbling in protest of the shoddy treatment he was imposing on it. Hell, here it was past the evening dinner hour and he hadn’t yet had lunch. He was hungry, and if he didn’t go take a leak pretty soon his bladder was going to bust wide open.
Still, his presence was having the desired effect. Clete Terry was about to go out of his goddamn mind at the brooding, silently ominous presence that was disrupting business.
Oh, there were plenty of people in the saloon this evening, that was for sure. The place was crowded. But nobody was saying much and nobody was drinking much. The awning tables stood empty and quiet, and the whores were staying out of sight. The entertainment of the evening was Custis Long. And the reaction Clete Terry was having to him. It was a good thing Longarm didn’t mind being stared at.
“Thank God,” Terry blurted aloud, along toward half past seven. The saloon keeper’s expression broke into smiling relief, and he rushed across the crowded room to greet his savior at the door.
Longarm would have been able to guess without looking that Harry Bolt was on hand. The only question was what had kept Harry away this long. Still, although he didn’t show it, Longarm was almost as glad to have Bolt finally arrive as Terry obviously was. Although in truth Longarm’s reason was somewhat different from Terry’s. Clete Terry wanted his asshole buddy Harry to take care of the problem for him. What Longarm wanted was for Terry to find out that he didn’t have the threat of Harry Bolt’s badge to prop him up. This one Terry would have to work out by himself. He just didn’t know that yet.
Terry looked quickly around, but he and Bolt were the objects of the attention of virtually every man in the place. They wouldn’t be able to whisper a damn thing without at least one eavesdropper hearing what it was. And spreading it to everyone else.
The saloon keeper took Harry Bolt by the sleeve and tugged him off into the back room where they could talk in private. Bolt, Longarm was pleased to notice, saw who it was who was causing the problem before his pal Terry got him out of sight. Clete Terry might not like it—and for that matter neither would Harry Bolt—but Harry would know that there wouldn’t be any getting around it. If Longarm wanted to claim he was sitting there under the authority of official business, there was nothing Bolt’s local jurisdiction could do about it.
Not really. Not when Harry’s bosses at Great Western Coal and Coke depended on federal mining leases to make their profits. If there was anybody the mining companies did not want to piss off it was the federal government. And there wasn’t any employee, not Harry Bolt or anybody else, valuable enough to make the big mining companies forget their own self-interest.
If push ever turned to shove, it would be Bolt who would be getting pushed. And Harry would understand that right good and well.
Longarm didn’t like the son of a bitch one iota. But he knew that, unlike Cletus Terry, Harry was smart enough to test the direction of the wind before he started pissing into it.
Longarm sat right where he was. And wished to hell his bladder wouldn’t hurt so much. Lordy, but he did have to take a leak. And his mouth felt cotton dry from being so thirsty, yet if he got himself something to drink now, that would only add to the other discomforts.
He continued to sit there, silent and without words, while the saloon filled with a soft, buzzing drone of low voices.
The night bartender almost jumped out of his skin when the back room door opened and Cargyle Police Chief Harry Bolt came out, his always ruddy complexion almost purple with anger now. Harry glowered at the men who were waiting for a chance to see a flurry of raw, sudden violence. Then stalked out of the place without a word to anyone.
Behind him Clete Terry came into view and stepped up onto an overturned box to loudly address Longarm and every other man in the room.
“We’re closed, boys. Closed for the night. I’m sorry, but that man over there is looking for trouble. He wants to gun somebody down and pretend it’s legal. And he won’t even say why. Well, we aren’t going to put up with it. Chief Bolt tells me the sensible thing to do here is to shut down and just not give him no excuses to fly off the handle, so that’s what we are going to do. We’re closed for the night now, boys. Sorry. But I want you all to go home now. Go on. Everybody out.” Terry motioned to the bartender, who immediately began extinguishing the lamps he’d lighted only minutes earlier.
There was a murmuring among the men. Then the crowd began to disperse as they realized there would be no violence tonight. And no other form of fun either. Bar and tables alike were, and would remain, closed.
Once the flow toward the door began, the place quickly emptied, leaving Longarm alone with just the bartender for company. Clete Terry had already disappeared into the back of his saloon again.
Longarm sat a moment longer, quietly smiling to himself while he reached for the cheroot he’d been craving for at least the past five hours.
Chapter 22
Then he stood, his knees creaking after the long hours of immobility, and stretched. He let out a resounding fart, yawned, and scratched himself.
First stop, he figured, would be into the nearest outhouse to relieve himself. Then something, anything, wet to pour down his gullet. Hell, even water would do. He was that desperate. From there … from there he’d work it out.
“Good night,” he called pleasantly to the bartender as he left the gapingly empty saloon at what should have been its busiest hour.
Angela Fulton looked like shit. To be more accurate about it, she looked like a piece of raw meat. Her face was swollen and discolored to the point that it didn’t overmuch look like a human face anymore. On the other hand, she was alive, she was conscious, and she was needing her strength.