to surrender? Does a crazy man even understand what it means to surrender? If you have a man doing something wrong, but he doesn’t think it’s wrong, how do you appeal to his sense of guilt? You can’t say, “Stop doing that, it’s wrong. I’ve come to arrest you.” It was a perplexing question that he wasn’t sure he’d ever faced before. Always before, the men he’d gone up against had known what they were doing. They were outlaws, they were criminals, they were killers, they were robbers. But the man who was now only a few yards away from him thought that what he was doing was perfectly right. However, that was not going to make it any less dangerous to try to arrest him rather than kill him. The easiest thing would be to kill the man outright, but Longarm couldn’t bring himself to do that. He was going to have to somehow talk the man into disarming himself. It was going to be quite a little problem. He did not want to shoot unless he was forced to. To him it would be like killing a child.
He had worked his way as close as he could without making a move. He heard the rifle boom one more time, sounding like a cannon at such close quarters. He stepped out from behind the boulder and said, “Well, don’t you think that’s enough?” In the faint moonlight, the figure turned and Longarm almost stepped back in surprise.
It was Clell Martin.
In his hands was a long Springfield .58-caliber cap-and-ball percussion rifle. He had just fired it. It was now empty and it would take it thirty seconds to reload.
In spite of himself, Longarm said, “Mr. Martin. My God, sir. What are you doing?”
The old man peered into the dimness, and even though Longarm was standing only a few feet away, it took him some time to recognize the marshal. He said, “Be that you, Mr. Long?”
Longarm said “Yes.” He slowly brought his own rifle up to bear. “Clell, put that rifle down. I know it’s not loaded anymore. I know it’s a single-shot, but put it down anyway.”
Clell Martin looked puzzled. He said, “What’s all the fuss about? Damn carpetbaggers are a-ruinin’ this country. What you wanna stop me for? Ain’t it about time they went back up north?”
Longarm said softly, “Clell, Reconstruction has been over for years. Those are just garrison troops training for the Indian wars west of here, out in New Mexico.”
Clell Martin was still holding the Springfield. He squinted his eyes. He said, “Why, you sonofabitch. You’ve been a spy right along, ain’t you? You’ve been a-spying on me for them bastards. Don’t you know, boy, that Reconstruction is ruining the South? We’ll never come back as long as we leave them sonofabitches down here. Ain’t it enough they whipped us in the war? Do they have to humiliate us the rest of our lives?”
Longarm took a slow step forward. He said, “Clell, have you been shooting those soldiers along the road?”
Clell Martin gave him a defiant look. “You ain’t never been in a war, have ya, boy? I bet you never, ever seen a calvary charge, have ya, boy?”
Longarm nodded. “I have. But right here and now is not the time or place to talk about it. Let’s you and me go on down, maybe go over to your cabin and discuss it. Right now, I want you to put that rifle down. I note that you have a revolver stuck in your waistband. I want you to get rid of that too.”
Clell Martin said, “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ with you, you scalawag. You’re a damn … I don’t know if you’re a scalawag or a carpetbagger. You come along and cozy up to me and try to make friends, and all the time you was a spying on me, wasn’t you? You were scouting me out, weren’t you? By God, you’re from that fort, ain’t ya? You know, seems to me that I noticed you went out to that fort more than several times. And you had you that story about them horses. Just who are you, mister?”
Longarm tapped the badge. He knew it was hard to see in the light. “Clell, I’m a deputy United States marshal and I am going to have to get you to come off the top of this butte with me so we can sit down and have a talk. Now, put your weapon down now.”
Without making a threat of it, he raised his rifle and brought it to bear on Clell’s chest. He said, “Let’s don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Mr. Martin.”
At that instant he heard a wild yell, a sound he had heard before. As a heavy figure struck him from behind and above, he fell, trying to remember where. As his face ground into the gritty dirt of the butte top, he remembered that it had been in the parlor of the Castle house. He could feel Virgil’s strong arms grappling around him, pinning his own arms. He fought him as best as he could.
As he fell, he could hear Martin yelling, “Get him, Injun. Get him, Injun, get him.”
He jabbed backward with an elbow and felt the grip around his neck loosen. He kicked out, connecting solidly with a shin, and felt the grip loosen even more. But then he felt a hand near his sidearm and he whirled, trying to get his right side to the ground, trying to keep his revolver from being taken from him. Now he had Virgil almost in front of him. He was surprised just how incredibly strong the slimly built young man was, but then he supposed that if a man spent his life bounding across the pastures and bounding up and down the buttes, he probably got made into rawhide and barbed wire.
Virgil went for his throat hold again, but Longarm knocked his hands loose and then got his own hand under Virgil’s chin and shoved. Then he was able to draw his right leg up and catch the man in the midsection with his boot heel. Virgil gave a grunt. Longarm shoved and sent him sprawling. Longarm came struggling to his feet moving as rapidly as he could, but he was too late.
Virgil had landed a few feet away, but Martin was standing solidly planted in front of Longarm, an old Colt revolver steady in his right hand. The old man said, “Just you hold it right there, mister, just hold it right there. Don’t you make no sudden moves.”
Longarm was winded from his struggles with Virgil. He let his right arm drift past his holster. He could tell that his revolver had been dislodged, and of course he had lost his rifle in the struggle. Now, except for the derringer, he was disarmed.
Virgil had gotten to his feet. He was wearing his breechcloth, and his long stringy hair was wild and dirty. His face bore a childish imitation of war paint. In his right hand, he now held a long skinning knife.
Martin said, “That Injun got ya, didn’t he? Mr. Deputy Marshal carpetbaggin’ sonofabitch. How’d ya like that Injun getting ya? You wasn’t expectin’ that, was ya?”
Longarm said calmly, “Mr. Martin, he’s not an Indian. His name is Virgil Castle. He is the son of a white man. He’s a white man.”
Virgil Castle spoke. “Long knives take my daddy. Clell, this long knife? He long knife? He no got blue-belly
