Old Jeff said, “Anyone can see that, now. What did he do then, start walking in his flappy chaps?”
“Not hardly. He moves around too good on them stubby legs for a walking man. You boys would have caught him if he’d been that crazy. He rode out to where he’d left another mount tied up, likely to that same bobwire fence.” there was a collective gasp of admiration from the crowd. Old Jeff warned them, “Don’t never try to get away from this old boy.” But then he asked Longarm, “What kind of other horse are we talking about? The only mount stole this side of the county line was the buckskin he shot and left for the coyotes, close.”
“I wish you hadn’t asked that, Jeff. I like to look smart. But lots of serious travelers travel with two mounts, so’s they can change from one to the other and make better time. Let’s say he was moving that way. He tied his spare mount outside town and rode in on the other to scout the same. He found the smithy open and went in to ask the smith something. Don’t ask me what, A halfway sane man might not be able to offer a guess. The smith was one of us saner gents. So when Black Jack Junior asked him some crazy question the smith might have said it was a crazy question and, however politely put, drove the lunatic even crazier. I have seen the results of his hair-trigger temper before.”
Old Jeff nodded. “All right. I can read her from there. He gunned the smith, lit out aboard the buckskin, and… Hold on. It gets even crazier. Didn’t you say you thought he was trying to follow the old Overland Trail out to some graveyard, Longarm?”
Longarm nodded and the older lawman said, “You’re following him the wrong way. Why would a man headed west along the old trail tether a horse northwest of a town he aimed to scout before riding through to the southeast if he aimed to go west?”
The youth who’d brought in the saddle opined, “He could be lost, if he’s loco,” and there was a murmur of agreement.
Longarm thought. “If there’s one thing that mad killer is keeping track of it’s the Overland Trail. Try her this way. Say he rode in from the southeast, following his shining path where it turns into your main street for a spell. Say he passed the smithy, open late, saw the smith was alone and unarmed at his forge, and then rode on out the far side, tethered his getaway ride, and came back to do his dirty deed?”
Old Jeff gulped. “You mean premeditated? A man he’d never seen before? A man who couldn’t have given him any sane reason to even cuss at?”
Longarm nodded grimly. “Why not? He’s crazy, ain’t he?
Old Jeff swore softly. “That’s pushing past crazy into mad-dog vicious, if you don’t mind saying so.”
Longarm said, “I don’t mind. It’s likely true.”
CHAPTER 10
By the time Longarm got off the freight train he’d managed to hop as far as Saint Stephens after a series of slow rides on even less comfortable rolling stock, Longarm was hungry as a wolf again. He toted his saddle and possibles across the cinder-paved main and only street to a shed advertising itself as a Cafe de Paris. The waitress behind the counter was nice-looking, but after that any possible resemblance to the real Paris evaporated in the thin, dry mountain morning air. She served him greasy hash topped with what smelled like a buzzard’s egg, over-fried, and a mug of coffee that tasted like bile even over-sweetened with sugar and canned cow. He was so hungry he didn’t feel up to wrecking the joint, and the pretty waitress was so relieved, she smiled at him.
He smiled back and after he’d introduced himself he asked her if she knew where he could buy a horse. She nodded and said, “Sure. Livestock is a lot easier to come by up this way than decent coffee. Try Pop Roberts an easy stroll down the tracks. He’s got the corral down that way. Tell him Ruby sent you. That’s me, Ruby Perkins, and I get off at six this evening.”
He assured her he’d keep that in mind and, since he doubted he’d be anywhere near at six, he tipped her a whole quarter, lest she feel he didn’t admire her batty eyelashes.
The awful breakfast made him feel better and, along with the crisp, cool air up here, put more spring in his legs as he toted his riding gear ever onward in hopes of finding something worth putting it on.
Pop Roberts turned out to be a friendly old cuss who agreed young Ruby was a pretty little thing, even if she was sort of stupid, and said he’d be proud to sell the U.S. government a horse, since that was what he raised them for. The conversation got a mite less friendly as they looked over the stock in the corral, and the old man tried to tell Longarm a wall-eyed paint with scarred flanks was just the critter to carry a man his size.
Longarm said, “I can see he’s barrel-chested enough to have fair wind at this altitude. But how come he’s so scarred up from scraping corners, likely moving sudden?”
Pop Roberts looked innocent. “Well, to tell the truth, he don’t see so good. But, as you say you’re going up into the South Pass country, where trees and even fence-posts are few and far between-“
Longarm cut in, “They make me dress like this because I work for an administration that don’t serve hard drinks at the White House no more. But that don’t mean I’m a total dude. I don’t mean to brag, but I have done some riding in my time and, whenever possible, I’ve rid horses, not crow-bait you couldn’t sell to a greenhorn with a lick of common sense.”
Pop soothed, “I can see by your boots and them bullet holes in your Stetson that you’ve been around, old son. How do you feel about that handsome black gelding yonder?”
Longarm said, “I’ve been around more than that. If he ain’t spooky I’m in need of specs. What about that chestnut mare with the blaze and white socks? I like her lines, and she looks steady as well as frisky.”
The sly old horse trader smiled despite himself. “You do know which end of a horse the shit falls from, don’t you? That one will cost you. I’ve been saving her for a serious riding man.”
“What do I look like, a ballerina?” Longarm asked. “I’ll give you a quarter for her.”
Pop said, “No you won’t. That pretty little thing is worth six bits if she’s worth a dollar, and you’re still getting her for a steal because I’m so patriotic. I’d never part with her for less than a flat hundred if you was just another cowhand.”
“Two bits. I just aim to ride her. I don’t aim to make her the mother of my children and the solace of my old age, you know,” Longarm said.
They argued back and forth until they finally settled on forty dollars and a handshake of mutual admiration. Pop Roberts roped the bay and hauled her out for Longarm to bridle and saddle. She didn’t fight them. She looked like she was anxious to get out of there as well.
Once he was properly mounted, Longarm asked for directions to the nearest local law. The old horse trader sent him back the way he’d just come, the harder way. Longarm thanked him and rode back to such center as such a small town could be said to have. He dismounted, tethered the bay, whose name had turned out to be Ramona, and told her, “I like you, too, and I’ll be right back as soon as I pay my dues to this friendly little town.”
He strode into the lockup and town constabulary, and found yet another old gent dozing behind the desk. It seemed one had to be too old to move on, or too young and foolish to know better, if one meant to stay long in Saint Stephens. He introduced himself to the town law and gave him a quick rundown on his reasons for being this high above sea level. The old constable looked worried until Longarm told him, “I doubt Black Jack Junior will come your way. You ain’t on the trail he admires so. But I thought it best to warn you it’s possible, if he gets as smart as me about more modern forms of transportation. You know what he looks like and I want you to take it serious when I add that he’s ten times more dangerous than your average Crooked Lancer on the warpath looks. So if he should come your way, shoot to kill, and then shoot him some more until his tail stops twitching.”