to one side and gingerly raised the sash of the other, unbroken window. Nothing happened, so he risked another peek. Then he swore.
The street was filled with people now, and a burly figure with a tin star pinned to his chest was clumping right toward him, gun in hand, and shouting, “Hey, Morg! You all right in there, son?”
Longarm got to his feet and stood in a shaft of light from outside, holstering his own gun as the door burst open. What was obviously the missing deputy’s superior officer froze, in the doorway, his gun pointed at Longarm, and asked, “You have a tale to tell me, Mister?”
“Deputy Morgan and me are friends, Marshal. He’s out trying to get behind somebody who just busted your window. He should be back directly.”
“I heard shots and come running. What’s it all about?”
“Don’t know. Them who did the shooting never said. By the way, your young sidekick’s pretty good. He had the light out before they’d fired twice. Sounded like they was after us with a.30-30.”
“Old Morg’s good enough, I reckon. How’d you get so good at reading gunshots, Mister? I disremember who you said you was.”
Longarm introduced himself and brought the town marshal up to date. By the time he’d finished, the marshal had put his gun away and Deputy Morgan had crossed the street to rejoin them.
Morgan nodded to his boss and said to Longarm, long gone, but you figured right about that alleyway. Way I read the signs, it was one feller with a rifle. Had on high-heel, maybe Mexican, boots.”
The deputy held out a palm with two spent cartridges as he added, “Looks like he packs a bolt-action.30- 30. Funny thing to use in a gun fight, ain’t it?”
Longarm shrugged and said, “I’d say he was out for sniping, not fighting. The heel marks over there say much about the size and weight of anybody?”
“Wasn’t anybody very big or very small. I’d say, aside from the fancy boots and deer rifle, most any hand for miles around could be made to fit. Dirt in the alleyway was packed hard. Feller in army boots like yours wouldn’t have left any sign at all.”
The older Bitter Creek lawman said, “Whoever it was has likely packed it in for now. The whole town’s looking for him. Morg, you’d best start cleaning up this mess in here. I’ll mosey around town and see if anybody spied the cuss. They’d remember a stranger in Mexican heels.”
Longarm asked, “What if one of your local town men walked past in three-inch heels, maybe with a rifle in hand?”
“Don’t think so. Folks don’t take much notice of folks they know.”
“I’d say you’re right. How many men in town would you say could fit the bill?”
“Hell, at least a baker’s dozen. Lots of riders wear Mexican heels and half the men in town own deer rifles. But I’ll ask around, anyway. There’s always a chance, ain’t there?”
Longarm nodded, but he didn’t think the chances were good. By now, if anyone in Bitter Creek had any suspicion of who’d shot out their own town marshal’s window, they’d have come forward. Unless, of course, they knew, but didn’t aim to say.
The clerk at the Western Union office gave Longarm much the same tale about the line to Crooked Lance as the deputy had. Longarm took advantage of the visit to wire a terse report to Marshal Vail in Denver. He brought his superior up to date and added that the big frog in the Crooked Lance puddle seemed to be a very tall rider called Timberline. It was the only information Vail might not have about the murky situation. They knew in Denver that Kincaid had gotten this far. At a nickel a word it was pointless to verify it.
Leaving the Western Union office, Longarm headed for the hotel the hard way. The sniper with the.30-30 could have been after the local law, but he doubted it. if someone was trying to keep him from getting to Crooked Lance, it meant they knew who he was. If they knew who he was, they might know he was staying at the hotel.
So Longarm followed the cinder path between the railroad tracks and the dark, deserted cattle pens until he was beyond the hotel entrance on Main Street. He found a dark side street aimed the right way and followed it, crossing Main Street beyond the last lamppost’s feeble puddle of kerosene light. He explored his way to the alley he remembered as running through the hotel’s block, then, gun drawn, moved along it to the hotel’s rear entrance.
The alley door was unlocked. Longarm took a deep breath and opened it, stepping in swiftly and sliding his back along the wall to avoid being outlined against the feeble skyglow of the alley. He eased the door shut and moved along the pantryway to the foot of the stairs. Beyond, the shabby lobby was deserted, bathed in the flickering orange glow of a night lamp. The room clerk was likely in his quarters, since there’d be little point in tending the desk before the next train stopped a few blocks away.
Longarm climbed the stairs silently on the balls of his feet and let himself into his rented room with the hotel key he’d insisted on holding on to. He struck a match with his thumbnail and lit the candle stub on the dressing table. There was no need to fret about the window shade. He’d chosen a side room facing the blank wall of the building next door and had pulled the shade before going out. But a man in his line of work had to consider everything, so he picked up the candlestick and placed it on the floor below the window. There was no chance, now, of its dim light casting his shadow on the shade, no matter how he moved about the room.
The room was tiny, even for a frontier hotel. The bed was one of those funny contraptions that folded up into the wall. Longarm opened the swinging doors and pulled the bed down, sitting on it to consider his next move.
His keen ears picked up the sound of voices from the head of the fold-down bed. The widow and little Cedric were in the next room and the partition between the folding beds was a single sheet of plywood. Be interesting, Longarm thought, to stay in this hotel when honeymooners were bedded down next door. The widow was talking low to her son, likely telling him a bedtime story. When one of them moved he could hear their bedsprings creak.
