storekeeper tends the wire for Western Union, when the line’s up. There’s no schoolhouse, no city hall or nothing. It’s just sort of where the stockmen shop a mite and get together to spit and whittle of a quiet afternoon.”
“How come it rates a telegraph office, then?”
“That’s easy. The stockmen have to keep in touch about the price of beef. They ship beef here at Bitter Creek, but they have to know when to herd it down out of the high country.”
“Makes sense. Got any ideas on why that wire’s down?”
“Ain’t got idea one. Some fellers from Western Union rode out a few days ago to fix it. Next night it went out again. Likely high winds. This whole country’s halfwaY to heaven, you know. Hardly a month goes by without at least some snow in the high parts hereabouts.”
“Been having summer blizzards this year?”
“No, not real blizzards. But, as you’ll likely see when YOu study yonder map, there’s some rough country between here and Crooked Lance. Wire could get blowed out a dozen ways in as many stretches of the trail. The valley Crooked Lance sets in is lower and warmer, half the year. But it’s sort of cut off when the weather turns ornery.”
“Telegraph office open here in Bitter Creek?”
“Should be. Doubt you’ll get through to Crooked Lance, though. Feller I know with Western Union says they’ve given up for now. Said they’d wait ‘til the company decides on a full reconstruction job. Figures they’re wasting money fixing a line strung on old poles through such wild country. Said they’d likely get around to it next year or so.”
“I’ll get Western Union’s story. later. You know any names to go with the folks up in Crooked Lance?”
“Let’s see, there’s the Lazy K, the Rocking H, the Seven Bar Seven…”
“Damn it, I ain’t going up there to talk to cows! Who in thunder owns them spreads up there?”
“Folks back east, mostly. The town’s hardly there to mention, but the outfits are big whopping spreads, mostly owned by cattle syndicates from Chicago, Omaha, New York City, and such. I understand the Lazy K belongs to some fellers in Scotland. Ain’t that a bitch?”
“I know about the cattle boom. Let’s try it another way. You say they ship the beef from here. Don’t somebody drive them herds to Bitter Creek?”
“Well, sure. Once, twice a year they run a consolidated herd over the passes to our railroad yards. The buyers from the eastern meat packers bid on ‘em as they’re sorted and tallied in the yards. Easier to cut a herd amongst corrals and loading chutes, so…”
“I know how to tally cows, damn it. Don’t any of the Crooked Lance riders have names?”
“Reckon so. Most folks do. Only one springs to mind is the one they call Timberline. He’s the tally boss. I disremember what the others are called. They mostly go by Billy, Jim, Tex and such.”
“Tally boss is usually a pretty big man in the neighborhood, since the others have to elect him. You know this Timberline’s last name?”
“Nope. But you’re right about him being big. Old Timberline’s nigh seven feet tall in his Justins. Seems to be a good-natured cuss, though. The others hoorah him about having snow on his peak, ask him how the weather is up yonder around his nose and stuff like that, but Timberline never gets testy.”
“But he’s in charge when the Crooked Lance hands are in town?”
“If anybody is, it’s him. He’s the ramrod of the Rocking H, now that I think on it. I think it was Rocking H hands who caught that cow thief of yours.” He paused to think, then nodded, and added, “Yep, it’s comin’ back to me now. They found him holed up in the timber with a running iron on him. Dragged him into town for a necktie party, only some of the folks up there said it wasn’t right to hang a stranger without a trial. From there on you know as much as myself.”
Longarm saw that they were tracking over the same ground again, so he got to his feet and said, “I’ll just have a look at your survey and be on my way, then.”
He strode over to the large, yellowed map nailed to the wall and studied it until he found a dot lettered “Crooked Lance.” It was nowhere near the locations given by the conflicting government surveys, but Longarm figured that the folks here in Bitter Creek had the best chance of being right. He ran a finger along the paper from Bitter Creek to Crooked Lance, noting forks in the trail and at least three mountain passes he’d have to remember. Then he stepped back for an overall view. The sudden movement saved his life.
The window to his right exploded in a cloud of broken glass as what sounded like an angry hornet hummed through the space he’d just occupied to slam into the far wall! As Longarm dropped to the floor, the deputy marshal rolled backwards, bentwood chair and all, and from where he lay on his back, shot out the overhead light as another bullet from outside buzzed in through the broken window. Meanwhile, Longarm had crabbed sideways across the floor to another window, gun in hand.
As he risked a cautious peek over the windowsill the other lawman crawled over to join him, whispering, “See anything?”
“Nope. Everyone outside’s dove for cover. There’s light in the saloon across the street, so they ain’t in there. You move pretty good, Deputy.”
“I’ve been shot at before. You reckon they’re after you or me?”
“I’d say it’s on me, this time. How do you feel about that narrow slit between the east end of the saloon and the blank wall over there?”
“That’s where I’d be, if I was shooting at folks hereabouts. I’ll scoot out the back way and circle in while you mind the store, savvy?”
Longarm considered it before he answered. He was the senior officer and it was his play. On the other hand the local lawman knew the lay of the land and it was pretty dark out there. Longarm said, “Go ahead. I’ll try to make up something interesting to keep ‘em looking this way.”
As the deputy crawled away in the dark and Longarm heard the creak of an invisible door hinge, he moved
