cottonwood tree and marched up to the front door. Banging it hard, he yelled, “Hey, Bill! It’s me, Custis Long!”
Longarm heard the unmistakable cocking of a gun hammer, and he retreated off the porch shouting, “Bill, dammit, it’s Custis Long! You remember me, the federal marshal from Denver that saved your bacon about two years back.”
A moment of silence, and then the door eased open a crack and Wild Bill Riley appeared. Longarm barely recognized the old lawman. Bill was down to skin and bone. He was wearing coveralls without an undershirt, and his bare arms were wasted with hardly any muscle. Only the steadiness of his gun hand was a reminder of the man who had once been sensationalized in a dime novel as “the last of the great gun-totin’ marshals.”
He squinted, waved his six-gun around, and said, “That really you, Custis?”
Longarm relaxed. “Damn right it is! How the hell are you, Wild Bill!”
“Not so wild anymore,” Bill Riley said, a half-smile on his face. “Can barely find and hoist my dick anymore.”
Longarm chuckled. “The next thing I know, you’ll be telling me that you can’t hit the side of a barn with that old six-shooter. But I know that isn’t true.”
“I expect not,” Bill said, “‘cause I can hit what I can hear and my ears still work fine. Come on inside and get outa that damned heat.”
Longarm was only too happy to do that. He followed Bill inside the dim room, noting that the furniture was worn but comfortable.
“Custis, find yourself a chair and tell me what brings you here,” Bill ordered.
Longarm sat down, feeling a pounding in his skull due to the whiskey he’d shared with Rouse. He quickly sketched in what had happened back in Reno, and when he was finished, Bill was grinning like an old fool.
“So you killed Fergus MacDonald, huh?”
“Had no choice.”
“And then you rattled Judge Potter so bad that he had a stroke, huh?”
“Wasn’t anything I set out to do,” Longarm said defensively. “I didn’t have any way of knowing that he had a bad ticker.”
“Jeezus,” the old man chuckled. “You blow into town and are responsible for the deaths of two sonsabitches that I wanted to kill for years! How the hell do you get things done so fast?”
Longarm shook his head. “The last thing I want is trouble, but it has a way of dogging me wherever I go.”
“You draw out the worst in men,” Bill said. “I wouldn’t worry about that too much, though.”
“I don’t.” Longarm looked around the interior of the ranch house. The furniture was worn, but of good quality, and he could see a woman’s touch in the curtains and in the fact that there were pictures on the walls. “Where’s your daughter?”
“I’m just not sure. She had to dress up and go shopping with Mrs. Else Peterson, who has some horses that needed breaking. My daughter hates to wear a dress and try to look like a lady, but I sure enjoy seeing her gussied up once in a while.”
“She was in the millinery store when Fergus came gunning for me. I thought she’d probably have come back here and told you all about it.”
“Nope. Most likely, Megan’s down at Mrs. Peterson’s place, riding fancy horses for that rich old lady. Nothing that Megan would rather do than to be on horseback.”
“I see,” Longarm said, trying to hide his disappointment. “Does she generally come back to cook your meal after she finishes with the horses?”
“Nope,” Bill said, “I cook for her.” He winked. “Do you still want to stay for supper?”
“I guess so.”
“Good! I’ve got a pot of beans and soda bread I’m heating up for tonight.”
“Sounds delicious,” Longarm said, mustering up every last bit of enthusiasm.
Bill hobbled over to the couch and removed a cushion, then stuck his skinny arm down inside the overstuffed piece of furniture. When he pulled it free, he was holding a full bottle of whiskey.
“This is what sounds delicious,” Bill corrected. “And it’s what will make my beans and soda bread edible.”
Longarm really didn’t feet like he needed anything more to drink this day. In fact, he was just starting to sober up good, but it didn’t seem very neighborly to decline to drink with Old Wild Bill Riley, so he took his glass and they toasted.
“To blood and bullets,” Bill crowed.
“To blood and bullets,” Longarm repeated before touching the glass to his lips.
Two hours later, the beans and the bread were scorched and burned and Megan waltzed in the door wearing a man’s shirt and pants. She was dressed like a bronc buster with boots and spurs, and her face was covered with grit and her pretty hair was pulled back tight.
“Well, hello, darlin’!” Bill called.
Megan’s blue eyes went icy as she studied her father, then Longarm. After a moment of silence, she said, “Marshal, everyone in Reno is talking about you. Some say you caused the death of old Judge Potter, some say not. Which is it?”
“I guess I got him pretty upset and nature did the rest,” Longarm replied, trying very hard not to look pleased with himself.
