They were served sourdough bisquits and gravy with piss-poor coffee for breakfast, led next door to the courthouse, and allowed to wait a century or more until Judge Hiram Drysdale, a prune-faced old cuss with a beard and black robe that could have used a dusting, came in to hold court and collect some damned money for the township.
Longarm found himself seated too far from Waco McCord to ask how the asshole from the saloon was feeling that morning. But when their case came up, he found himself standing beside the beefy bully in front of the crusty old judge, who got right down to brass tacks by saying he’d read the damned record and they could save themselves the trouble of a tedious trial by just agreeing to shake hands and forking over ten dollars a piece to yonder court clerk.
Longarm said that sounded more than just. But Waco protested he was broke. So the judge said he didn’t have to shake with Longarm, adding, “We got a county road that was just waiting for you, and that’s what you’ll be working on for the next thirty days, young man.”
Waco protested he couldn’t do any thirty days at hard. To which the judge suggested he just do as much of it as he could.
But before they could lead Waco away, Longarm said, “Hold on, Your Honor. If it please the court, I’d be proud to pay old Waco’s fine.”
Chapter 6
Longarm had read somewhere how this cannibal chief had decided to give the missionary’s suggestion about being kind to one’s enemies a try because he figured it would likely drive them crazy.
Judge Drysdale and Waco McCord both regarded him with looks usually reserved for hysterical women and prophets proclaiming the end of the world. But Judge Drysdale gamely asked, “How come you’d like to pay his fine instead of your own, Mr. Crawford? Do you enjoy road work with high summer coming in?”
Longarm explained, “I meant to pay both our fines, Your Honor. That would come to twenty dollars, wouldn’t it?”
Judge Drysdale soberly replied, “It surely would. Are you a man of independent means, Mr. Crawford? They have you down here as an unemployed cowboy.”
Longarm shrugged and said, “I got some back wages saved up, and the fight I had with Waco here was as much my fault as his. I’d hate to have thirty days at hard for anybody on my conscience, no offense, if I’d had anything to say about it.”
The old-timer on the bench shot Longarm a thoughtful look before he decided, “I wouldn’t want McCord and his few friends at feud with me if I was new in these parts either. Case closed and pay the court clerk on your way out.”
Waco McCord never said a word until Hard Pan had them armed and dangerous on the street again. Then the beefy bully looked as if he was fixing to bawl as he blurted out, “God damn your eyes, Buck! I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say! Ain’t nobody ever been nice to me after knocking me cold before!”
Longarm said, “You might try saying thanks. If that’s too big a strain, just don’t start up with me again and we’ll say no more about it. I have to get something more civilized than that jailhouse breakfast in my gut. I found a place last night that wasn’t bad. Let’s go eat.”
Waco sheepishly confessed, “I ain’t got enough on me to grub my gut and get my pony out of the municipal corral. I figured I’d wait till I got back to the Rocking W and have the Chink rustle me up some eggs and onions.”
Longarm insisted, “Come on. I hate to eat alone and I have questions to ask about all the brands in these parts. Might your Rocking W be anywheres near Minnipeta Junction, Waco?”
As they strode side by side in the bright morning sunlight, Waco said, “Just the other side. I come into Florence for serious hell-raising when my Injun blood is up because they told me they’d run me off forever if I ever lost my temper close to the spread again.”
As Longarm pointed out the Chinese place near his hotel, Waco explained there were more north range riders than Texicans around Minnipeta Junction, and they’d established the night before how he usually got on with them.
But as Longarm ordered fried rice and chow nicin for the both of them, Waco cautiously declared, “I reckon I’ll forgive you the way you pancake your fool hat. You’re too open-handed to be a damn Yankee.”
Longarm didn’t rise to the bait. He’d questioned many a suspect in his own time, and he knew how tough it was to keep a false identity consistent when you took to offering any information you didn’t have to about your new self.
Once they were served and Waco dug in, he marveled that the Chinese cook out at the Rocking W never rustled up anything as good. Longarm explained that the many Chinese cooks hired out across the West tended to play it safe. He said, “This Chinese pal I was jawing with told me they don’t even eat chop suey and such back in his old country. When you cook for round-eyed devils who riot against your kind every now and again, you serve ‘em what you hope might soothe their savage breasts. A cook who doled out shark fin soup and black pickled eggs to hungry cowhands could find himself explaining why he’d set out to murder them all. I reckon it’s just as easy for a Son of Han to rustle up biscuits and bacon as it is to serve chop suey, chow mein, and all them other odd dishes he never saw before coming to the Golden Mountain. That’s what they call these United States, the Golden Mountain.”
Then he silently cursed himself when Waco said, “You sure have been all over and seen all the sights for a saddle tramp, Buck, no offense.”
Longarm assured him there was none taken, and felt a tad better about it when Waco slyly added, “I won’t ask which side you rid for or where you served hard time for what no more. It occurred to me as I was sobering up last night with an aching jaw that I had tangled with a serious student of the ferocious arts. I had my eye on your gun hand and that six-gun on your left hip when you threw that left hook my way instead. I was asshole drunk and another asshole might have shot me instead. So … Ah, shit, you know what I mean.”
Longarm shrugged and said, “Assholes lead with their right fists too. I’d have never gotten off with a ten-dollar fine in magistrate’s court if I’d shot anybody last night in a strange town, pard.”
Waco said, “Mebbe not, but I still owe you for not using the excuse to build your rep that way. Folks ain’t as impressed with you for just beating the shit out of somebody, and I’ve often thought it would be keen to kill somebody mean as, say, Lash Flanders instead of just sort of staring him down.”
Longarm didn’t feel it would be wise to say he’d already stared down that other local bully. Another reason Longarm had for feeling disgusted with the breed was the constant childish testing that had to lead, in time, to real trouble when the bully of some dinky town tried his tedious games with some stranger as serious as, say, Clay Allison, John Wesley Hardin, or even the Kid. The graveyards out this way might not be half as crowded if only there hadn’t been as many overgrown bullies.
Longarm let Waco fill in the details of the mythical Buck Crawford to suit his fool self as he changed the subject to Minnipeta Junction and how he was fixing to get there. He explained, “I brung my saddle and possibles from Colorado without no pony. I figured I’d buy me as cheap a trail mount as I could find here in Florence.”
Waco said he was likely to get skinned unless someone they were afraid of went with him. Longarm had been figuring on that and another small but vital detail since he’d been inspired to pay Waco’s fine.
With the help of the local bully and another fifteen dollars, Longarm bought a twelve-year-old paint mare. Waco said it wasn’t far enough to worry about packing trail supplies. By the time Longarm and the livery man had the bill of sale worked out, Waco had fetched his own saddled gelding, a roan, from the nearby municipal corral. So the two of them rode out together before nine.