Padgett looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Yes, I know, but I … I could never do such a thing, Marshal. You see, I … I love my wife. I may flirt with other women, but I’ve never been unfaithful to her.”
He was so obviously embarrassed by the admission that Longarm found himself believing it. Of course, that didn’t really change anything, since Longarm could think of only one really good reason for Padgett to want him dead, and the Cassidy sisters had nothing to do with it. Padgett might still be mixed up in that other matter. But there was an equal chance that he was innocent.
“All right,” Longarm said. “Sorry I accused you, Senator.”
“I realize I used very poor judgment in my remarks in that cantina-“
“You sure as blazes did,” Longarm confirmed grimly.
“But I didn’t mean anything by any of it. I really didn’t.”
Again, Longarm found himself believing the politician. That would be a bad habit to get into, he told himself, a downright dangerous habit. He took a deep breath and said, “No harm done. How about one of those cheroots you carry around?”
Padgett smiled and reached for his vest pocket without hesitation. “Of course! There you go, Marshal. I take it that we’re, ah, friends again?”
Longarm wasn’t aware that they had ever been friends, but it seemed important to Padgett, so he nodded and said, “Sure.” Leon Mercer stepped forward and lit the cigar the senator had given Longarm, and after puffing on it for a moment, Longarm asked, “When’s the race here in Tucson?”
“Tomorrow,” replied Padgett. “Then it’s on to Carson City the next day. Our stay here won’t be a long one.”
Longarm nodded. The circuit was about to swing north; then after a couple of stops it would turn east. He only had a certain amount of time to find out what he wanted to know before it was too late.
Those thoroughbreds, Matador and Caesar and the others, weren’t the only ones in a race. Longarm was too.
And the stakes in that match might just turn out to be life and death.
Chapter 10
There were no adjoining rooms in the hotel in Tucson, but Longarm had managed to get three rooms side by side. Senator Padgett was in the middle one, with Longarm and Leon Mercer flanking him. That arrangement was the best Longarm could do without actually bunking with the senator, and he wasn’t willing to do that just to keep up appearances. That evening when he turned in, he left Mercer in Padgett’s room, the two of them sitting at a table huddled together over a welter of papers. “These are the reports from the banking committee, Senator,” Mercer was saying as Longarm stifled a yawn and closed the door.
He went to his own room and glanced at the piece of broken matchstick he had left wedged between the door and the jamb. It was still visible a couple of inches above the floor. Satisfied that no one had gone through the door while he was away from the room, Longarm unlocked it, turned the knob, and stepped inside.
Something came whipping out of the shadows, passing within a couple of inches of his face before it struck the door. His hand was still holding the edge of the door, and he felt the faint shiver of impact through his fingers. Instinct sent him forward and down, diving into the room as he clawed for his gun. As he fell, he saw the thin curtains fluttering in front of the window. That window had been closed when he left, but now it stood open, admitting the night breeze that stirred the curtains. Clearly, it had let in more than a breeze.
Longarm had checked that window earlier and been convinced that no one could climb through it without going to a lot of trouble. There was no balcony outside. But someone had gone to the trouble of getting in that way, and the hombre was still here. Longarm saw his silhouette in front of the window. Flame licked out from the center of that dark shadow as noise filled the room. The sound of the gunshot hammered against Longarm’s ears.
He double-actioned the Colt in his hand, adding to the racket as he squeezed off two shots. A heavy grunt came from the dark figure as it was flung backward by the impact of the slugs. The man’s shape filled the window for an instant, then was suddenly gone. Longarm heard a soggy thump from the street outside as he scrambled to his feet. He lunged to the window and peered out, saw the sprawled shape in the street below the window.
Someone was pounding a fist against the wall of his room. “Marshal!” Padgett called through the wall. “Marshal Long, are you all right in there?”
“I’m fine,” Longarm shouted back. “Stay right there until I get back, Senator!”
Then he turned and hurried out of the room, running down the corridor outside to the staircase. He descended the stairs to the lobby of the hotel in several great bounds. The lobby was empty, but the porch of the hotel seemed to be almost full, he noted through the big glass front windows. As Longarm stepped onto the porch, which was lit by several lanterns hanging from its ceiling, he recognized most of the bystanders as horse owners, trainers, and others connected with the racing circuit, all of whom were staying here at the hotel.
“Step aside there!” he barked. “U.S. marshal coming through.”
A path opened in front of Longarm, and he moved to the edge of the narrow porch. The corpse lay right in front of the porch, and enough light spilled on it for Longarm to recognize the man as one of the Mexicans from the fight in the cantina earlier in the day. The man lay on his back, and Longarm could see the dark bloodstains on the front of the white shirt under the charro jacket. That was pretty good shooting, he noted, even if he did say so himself.
Longarm stepped down from the porch after checking to make sure the man wasn’t still holding a gun. He was fairly certain that the hombre was dead, but he searched for a pulse to verify it. Just as he had thought, there wasn’t one. A six-shooter lay several feet away, Longarm noticed, and he figured the Mexican had dropped it there while falling backward through the window in Longarm’s room.
“What the bloody blue hell is goin’ on here?” demanded a harsh, high-pitched voice.
Longarm looked up and saw a burly figure standing over him. The man wore a tin star pinned to his shirt. “You the town marshal?” Longarm asked.
“Deputy sheriff,” grunted the man. “Hey, I started askin’ questions first!”
Longarm straightened from his crouch next to the body. “I’m United States Deputy Marshal Custis Long.” He nodded toward the corpse. “This fella here just tried to ventilate me up yonder in my hotel room after throwing what I reckon was a knife at my head. He missed both times. I didn’t.”
“I can see that,” the deputy sheriff said. “You got anything provin’ you’re really who you say you are, mister?”
“Sure.” Longarm dug out his identification and handed the folder to the local lawman, who studied the badge and documents intently in the light from the porch. When shadows from the bystanders kept falling over Longarm’s papers, the deputy sheriff twisted his thick neck and snapped, “Everybody clear off! The shootin’s all over.” He glanced back at Longarm and added, “Ain’t it?”
“Far as I’m concerned, it is. Unless somebody starts trying to plug me again,” Longarm qualified.
The local badge returned Longarm’s bona fides as the crowd on the porch began to reluctantly filter back into the hotel. “Name’s Bullfincher,” said the deputy sheriff. “That fella there on the ground leakin’ blood is called Rodriguez. Heard tell he was a pretty bad hombre, but he never caused no real trouble here in town. You know why he’d want to kill you?”
“I had a run-in with him earlier in the day in a cantina,” Longarm said. There was no point in trying to hide that fact. Deputy Bullfincher would have likely been able to turn up witnesses to the fight without too much trouble. “He and another fella took offense at something somebody said.”