“But you still ain’t give me no good reason.”
Longarm uncorked the whiskey bottle. “I ain’t got to give you no good reason. You go along like you were really planning to bring a herd up to sell me. I ain’t seen you before and you ain’t seen me, When you get off the train you go over and get your horse or horses out of the livery stable and tell the stable keeper that you’ve left one for a cattle buyer. That would be me. That’s all you got to do. Just go ahead and get your herd together and then meet me back in Laredo in three or four days. We’ll act like we’re strangers to each other. Fact of the business, I’ll lailygag and you go by the Hamilton and leave a message for me, Mister Long, that you’ve been called out of town suddenly but you’ll be back and I’m to wait.”
Austin Davis shrugged. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.”
Longarm smiled slightly. “If I did, it would be the first time.”
Chapter 4
Once off the train, Longarm killed some time in a nearby saloon and then, when he was sure that Austin Davis was cleared out of town, he took himself to the Hamilton Hotel. The bogus message from Davis was waiting for him, and he got a room and settled himself in with a long drink of whiskey and a slow cigar. By then it was going on for four in the afternoon, the town just waking up from the siesta hours, and he took himself on a tour of the place, between the river and the central part of the town which was mostly built around the big square. Walking toward the river, he was able to see the holding pens for the quarantined cattle and he was a little surprised at their size. He’d expected a big operation, but it was nearly twice what he’d imagined. His view, however, was not the best since he’d held himself back about a quarter of a mile, not being ready as yet to be seen taking an interest in cattle.
He walked around the town with no particular route in mind, but he did have an objective. He was looking for a man. He didn’t know the man’s name or what he looked like or what line of work he was in, but he knew he’d find him. It had been Longarm’s observation that in every Western town he’d ever been in there was always one fellow who was in the know on nearly all matters. He might not necessarily be an important man or hold an important job, but he always seemed to hear the latest, see the newest and be able to tell you where to go if you wanted to find something or somebody.
The hard part was finding that fellow and getting a fix on him bypassing imitators or replicas who claimed to be the real article. Longarm had found that bartenders were the best guide to what he thought of as “telegraph operators.” He’d go from saloon to saloon and, as casually as he could, ask after different matters around town, none of them necessarily having anything to do with the information he was seeking. But that part didn’t matter. The “telegrapher” usually knew a little or a lot about everything, and if one name kept coming up from several sources it was a good bet that Longarm would find his man. It had always amused him that the “telegraph operators” were a mixed lot, seldom having any one common trait from town to town. In one place the “telegrapher” might manage the hotel or run a saloon or even a livery stable. In another town he might be some old man who spent his time in front of the general store whittling and spitting tobacco juice. Of course they were never officials such as judges or mayors or sheriffs. “Telegraphers” couldn’t be in a business where their gathering of information might be viewed as self-serving or done for gain. No, as a general rule they were just townspeople who had big ears and good memories and liked to stay current on events. They weren’t gossips in the sense that they went around telling everything they knew and passing on information just so they could appear important. In fact, the opposite was true. The better the source was at getting the lowdown, the harder it was to pry any of it out of him. Sometimes they would sell what they knew if they figured nobody was going to get hurt, but they were not busybodies or malicious or men who collected information for any other purpose than to simply possess it and watch to see how it all, in the end, came together.
So, for that reason, Longarm spent the last hours of daylight going from saloon to saloon, hunching up to the bar for a beer and striking up a conversation with the barkeep or some of the hangers-on who happened to be there. He started off by wondering aloud who would be a good man to talk to about hiring a half-a-dozen drovers, and worked his way from there to what old head had been around when they first started bringing cattle across the bridge. In a few places he asked for the name of the leading authority on gathering a herd in Mexico, and in others he came closer to the point by wondering if anybody knew any citizen who was in tight with the customs officials.
One name finally began to surface enough that Longarm felt fairly certain he was on to his man. The last bartender had shrugged and said, “If anybody knows about switching sides of the border it would be Jasper White. Don’t know if he’ll have much to say to you, though. You being a stranger and whatnot.”
It was a warning Longarm had heard more than once about other “telegraph operators.” But he had found that cash money would loosen the rustiest tongue. From all accounts the Tejano Cafe and Saloon was Jasper White’s main hangout. It was a small place on the south side of town, near the International Bridge and almost in the center of the border traffic. The bartender said Jasper sometimes sat out front on a bench and sometimes could be found inside drinking coffee, “But that be during the day. Nighttimes he roams around most of the saloons. Don’t drink much and don’t talk much. Listens mostly.”
It was going on for half past six and twilight was fast approaching. In an hour it would be dark. If he was to get to the cafe and have a look at White before the man started his nightly rounds, Longarm would have to move quickly. Since, by now, he’d managed to amble at least half a mile into the town from the river, he had a good walk ahead of him in his high-heeled boots. He wished mightily that he’d taken time to get the horse Austin Davis had arranged for at the stable. Now there was no other way to get down to the bridge except by shank’s mare. Once, Longarm had been caught in a desperate situation and was forced to walk ten miles across the New Mexico desert. He’d promised himself then that he would never, under any circumstances, walk farther than he could shout back to have someone bring him a horse.
Then, in spite of breaking that promise, he still arrived at the Tejano too late to meet up with Jasper White. The proprietor, a light-skinned Mexican with a scar on his upper lip, said that White had left not more than ten minutes past. “He go a leetle early today. But maybe I can help you with your business. What do you require?”
Though the cafe and saloon was small, Longarm could see that it was clean and well run. He hadn’t had his supper and this looked like as good a place as any. He sat down at a table. “Well, right now I’d like a steak and some eggs and some potatoes and whatever kind of vegetable you might have.”
The proprietor was dressed in a suit, obviously to indicate that he wasn’t a waiter. “I meant your business with Senor White,” he said stiffly. “I will send a girl over to bring you food. But you should know that Mister White keeps close counsel with me.”
Longarm gave the slightly built man a look. “Do I look that green?” he asked. “Hell, I ain’t going to put my business around just anywhere. Now, how about that chow?”
The owner went off without expression and, after a wait, a pretty Mexican girl came over to take Longarm’s order. The food did not disappoint his expectations, though he was still slightly mystified at the owner inquiring into his business. That sort of inquisitiveness was not the usual practice along the border. But then maybe Jasper White was more than just a mountain of information; maybe he was in some sort of smuggling racket and the little Mexican was in it with him.