“But …” The kid glanced unhappily over his shoulder. Not that he could see the dead man lying on the stone doorstep back there. That sight would have been obscured by the bed of the wagon. But what he could not see he could all too readily imagine. And what he could imagine was not pleasant to see.
“Don’t worry about it, son,” Longarm said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Somebody will come along an’ notice before it starts to stink too bad.”
The boy swallowed hard and looked like he might well follow the example of those grown-ups who’d already donated their breakfasts to the weeds. He got a mite pale and sweaty around the forehead, but was able to control the queasiness. “Y-yessir,” he managed. He shook the lines out and wheeled his team back down the canyon toward the gate.
Rick seemed mighty grateful once they reached the saloon and he could get rid of his passenger. Longarm paid him a full dollar for his services—probably it was the hardest money the kid had ever earned—and let him go without the embarrassment of any thanks.
Terry’s saloon, Longarm was fairly surprised to see, was open and, despite the hour, doing a thriving business. Longarm kind of thought if he put his mind to it real extra hard he might be able to work out what had given everybody such a thirst so early in the day.
It occurred to him that he’d forgotten something thus far this morning, so he walked over to the cafe and arranged for the helpful fellow there to carry breakfast to Angela and Buddy Fulton. Then Longarm went back to the saloon and ambled inside.
The buzz of the dozens of separate conversations going on at once all stopped abruptly at his entrance.
“Good morning, gents,” he said pleasantly enough. He looked the crowd over as he made his way to the bar.
Instead of serving up the usual beer and rum crooks, though, the daytime bartender told him, “Mr. Terry would like to talk with you.”
“Oh?”
“The night bartender told him what you said.”
“All right, thanks.”
“He’s in the back. He said if you were to come in …”
“Tell Mr. Terry for me, please, that I’ll be at my usual table. Not that I don’t trust him, of course. But I’m gettin’ kinda tired of being shot at in this town an’ don’t want to take no more chances. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Yes, sir. Do you, um, still want that beer now?”
“No, but I’d take a coffee if you got any.”
“I’ll get it for you right away.”
Longarm dragged a chair into the corner and leaned against the wall there. The bartender brought the coffee to him, and a small plate of cold ham and crackers too, then disappeared into the back of the place. The barman returned after a couple of minutes, and in another couple of minutes Clete Terry came out with Harry Bolt following close on his heels.
The two helped themselves to seats directly in front of Longarm.
“Tim told me you’re wanting—I believe the word he used was ‘restitution,’ Long.”
“That was the word, all right. But it ain’t me that oughta be entitled to the recompense.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you’re expecting me to pay some damn tart like that—whatever the hell her name is—for slapping her around a little?” Terry blurted out.
Longarm smiled at him. And Bolt dug an elbow into his ribs. Cletus Terry coughed into his fist and looked uncomfortable.
“Two hundred,” Terry said abruptly.
Longarm’s original idea had been to extract a decent year’s wage from this asshole. Three hundred sixty dollars, say. That would have been fair payment, he figured. And more than enough for Angela and Buddy to leave Cargyle with if that was what they chose to do.
But now, after this morning, and with the knowledge that whatever amount was finally paid would actually be coming out of Harry Bolt’s pocket …
“Five hundred,” he said without taking time to think over the change.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“If you say so. But it’s what I’ll recommend the lady accept. Not a penny less.”
“Three hundred,” Terry countered.
“Six,” Longarm said.
“Three fifty.”
“Seven fifty.” Longarm’s arms were folded and his eyes half closed.
“You son of a bitch.”
“Eight hundred.”
“Quit dicking around with this, the both of you,” Bolt snarled. “Long, you asked for five hundred to begin with.”
“That’s right, I did.”
“Clete, go get the man five hundred out of the safe.”
“But, Harry …”
“Do it!”
Well, Longarm hadn’t particularly wondered which of them was in charge here.
Cletus Terry didn’t look real happy. But he got up and headed in the direction of the back room.
“Terry,” Longarm called out to him before he’d gone more than a few paces. “That’s five hundred the lady will be wanting. And a public apology, nice an’ loud, that I want to hear.”
Terry looked at Bolt. Who merely nodded.
The saloon keeper cussed some, but kept most of it under his breath. He went on toward the back room, leaving Longarm and Harry Bolt alone.
Before Longarm had time to speak Bolt was already leaning forward to explain. “I owe you an apology, Long. You know that don’t come easy to me, but I do. I bought a sad story is what it is. The son of a bitch convinced me. He had to be free last night to see his daughter and keep her from making a big mistake. That’s what he claimed. He said he’d come here straight from Canon City to find and help his girl. Said he hadn’t seen her in fourteen years. Said that was how long he’d been inside. He sounded so plausible, hell, I should have known better. Anyone should have known better. But I didn’t. I bought it and he left my jail laughing up his sleeve, I’m sure. Said he’d be there when I opened up first thing this morning. After all, it wasn’t much of a charge you had against him. It wasn’t like he’d actually done anything. Just threatened to. You and me have done worse than that to each other every time we’ve seen each other for, what, eight, nine years now and neither one of us has gone to jail over it. I didn’t think there was any harm in letting him go take care of his daughter. If he even had a daughter. Now this morning I hear he tried to kill you. And had a bunch of cash on him when you checked him out. He only had four dollars or so in his pockets when he left my jail yesterday evening. He even asked me for a loan to help him out. I didn’t go that far, of course, but I can tell you he didn’t have much on him then. How much was he carrying this morning?”
Longarm told him.
Bolt shook his head. “Near two hundred. And a whole night to spend part of it. He must have been paid two, maybe two hundred fifty dollars for the job then. I really do owe you an apology. And you have it, Long. I’m sorry. I am deeply, truly sorry that that happened this morning. It’s my fault.”
Longarm was taken completely aback by the apology. There were many things he might have expected this morning from Harry Bolt. An apology wasn’t among them. Hell, an apology wouldn’t have made his long list of the thousand possibilities most likely.
“And if you’re wondering if I might be the one who hired him for the job, well, I can’t blame you for thinking it,” Bolt went on.
“Actually, Harry, that never crossed my mind.”
“No? Shit, Long, I feel practically hurt that you wouldn’t think of me. You know I hate your damn guts.”
“Sure you do, Harry. An’ I hate yours. But what’s that got to do with anything? I never thought of you for the job because it ain’t your style. You’d shoot me yourself—or try to—if you thought it needed doing. I don’t doubt that for a minute. But pay somebody else for the job? I can’t see that, Harry. Shit, it’d cost you almost as much to hire somebody as it woulda cost to pay off Mrs. Fulton. As much as it woulda cost if that imbecile Terry knew how to act human today. An’ then you’d have somebody walkin’ around with knowledge he could hold against you afterward besides. No, Harry, I can’t see you for hiring that fella to come after me. You’re smarter than that.”