He arrived at the cattle car just as they were unloading the bay and chestnut. He had left the saddle on the gentle bay fifty. Now he took the bridle where it was flung over the saddle, fitted it into her mouth, and cinched up the saddle. He put his saddlebags on the back, tied his valise to the saddlehorn, and climbed aboard. He had the chestnut on lead, and he started in to San Angelo. They had one decent hotel, the Cutler House. He had stayed there before and though it wasn’t much, it was better than any of the boardinghouses or staying out at Fort Concho. He figured to get a suite of rooms and spread himself as much as he could. He had drawn two hundred dollars worth of expense money over Billy Vail’s strong objection, and had brought along another two or three hundred dollars for gambling or horse-trading money. As far as that went, either horse he had was for sale or trade when he no longer had use for them.
San Angelo was a town that, if you took in the shacks that stretched out from the center a couple of miles, had somewhere around seventy-five hundred people in it. How many, he could never figure. There was one long, dusty, main street where most of the commerce was, and then some branching streets that had a few stores and a few shops and places where you could get this or that fixed. On beyond that were more residences and livery stables, and then you got into the shacks, and then you got into the prairie. Why anyone in the world would want to protect the place, especially the United States government, was beyond his knowledge, but then he was just a deputy U.S. marshal and he didn’t have to know the why of things in order to do his job.
San Angelo was famous for one thing—it had one of the biggest whorehouses in west Texas. It was first class in operation and was run by a lady named Mabelle Russell. He’d met her on a couple of occasions, though he doubted that she would remember him. She was a handsome, elegant woman who just happened to be in the whore business. He didn’t know, but he didn’t think that she had come up through the ranks. He figured she was a non-participating owner, and the curious thing about it was that her whorehouse occupied the top floor of the three-story Cutler House. She took up every room on the third floor. Of course, that was with the help and the blessing of the local law, as it was considered illegal in most Texas communities for open prostitution to go on within the city limits. But like most frontier towns, the rules there were whatever the local people cared to make them.
As he went jogging down the main street leading the chestnut, he noticed that the men hadn’t gotten any friendlier-looking and the women hadn’t gotten any prettier. That drew his mind back to the luscious Shirley Dunn —a vision that he was doing his best to keep out of his mind until it was time to go home.
His badge was in his pocket, and it would stay there until such time as he had to take it out. He wasn’t, though it normally was his habit, even going to advise the local sheriff of his presence. As far as anybody knew, or would know, he was just an itinerant gambler who would trade a horse with you or run a horse race with you or take a drink with you. A man of the world and a man on the move—no ties and no intention of being tied. He pulled his horses up in front of the Cutler House, stepped down, dropped the reins of the little bay mare, and went into the hotel.
At the desk, a young man with more mustache than his face would support said, “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
Longarm asked for a suite of rooms, preferably on the first floor. He did not know why, but on this particular occasion, he had the feeling that the time might come when he would want to make an impression. It was a hunch, and he very often followed his hunches without questioning them.
The clerk allowed as to how he did have such a suite. In fact, it was right at the end of the hall, right next to the main bathroom on the floor. He also added that it would be four dollars a day.
For answer, Longarm took out a roll of bills, peeled off a twenty, and flipped it on the desk. “There. That’s for five days,” he said. “Now, I have two horses out in the front. Have somebody take care of them.” He put down another five. “That ought to take care of you and whoever is taking care of the horses. Now, give me my key and point me in the right direction.”
The desk clerk came alive. “Yes, sir,” he said with alacrity. “Yes, sir.” He turned his head and yelled, “Todd! Todd, get out here and take of this gentleman’s horses! Hurry up!” Then he turned to the cubbyholes behind him and took out the key that said 106 and handed it over to Longarm. Then he said, “I want you to enjoy your stay with us, sir. Breakfast is served at six in the morning, dinner at noon, and supper they commence serving at five.”
“Thank you,” Longarm said dryly. “I can’t wait for some of that good dining-room food here at the Cutler House.” He started to turn away and then looked back. “Mabelle Russell still running things up on the third floor?”
The clerk’s face lit up. “Oh, are you acquainted with Miss Russell?”
Longarm said, “I reckon you could say that we know each other. Thank you.”
He turned and walked away, having deliberately left the clerk with the impression that he was someone to be reckoned with. He wanted that word to get around. His intentions were to cause as much stir as he could so that he could draw more people in. That was part of the reason for the flashy roll of money, the suite of rooms, and the question about the madam. To cut a swath, he’d decided, was the way to do it. Attract some attention. Get some people talking. He didn’t want to appear to be a man who would be the slightest bit interested in killing soldiers, and therefore, for that reason, he would most likely hear all about it.
He let himself into his suite. The first room had a dilapidated-looking velveteen settee and a couple of ordinary armchairs around a table. It wasn’t much of a room. The only good feature about it was that it had a big chandelier over the table that had several lanterns. If a man wanted to have a poker game in private, he would have plenty of light to see his cards by.
He walked on into the bedroom. It was large enough, with a bureau and a washbasin and towels on a long table. The bed was of a fair size. He went over and felt it. It was a little lumpy but it wasn’t too soft, so he figured that it would do. There was a chiffonnier to hang some clothes in, and in the corner was an ample zinc bathtub. It appeared that he could shave and have a bath in his room without bothering with the communal bathroom in the hall. He put his saddlebags down on the bed and set his valise on the floor. Then he took out a bottle of whiskey from the saddlebags and took a pull straight from the bottle, even though there was a glass handy on the nightstand just at the head of the bed.
He took out a cheroot and lit it and sat there thinking. He supposed that the first order of business was to go out to the fort, see the commander, and get a line on the killings. But just as he was about to take another pull of whiskey, there was a knock at the door and he yelled, “Come in!”
The outer door opened and a boy of about sixteen came through, carrying his .44-caliber Model 73 Winchester carbine that had been in his saddle boot.
The young man said, “Didn’t figure you wanted this left out in the stable, mister.”
Longarm nodded. “I expected you to bring that in, sonny. I saw you outside and I figured that you were as
