“I’m only a deputy, and I’ve got lots of folks gunning for me. Getting shot at comes with the job.”
He turned from the window to see the dozen-odd men in the saloon lining up along the bar as the bartender poured a long row of drinks. Longarm bellied up to an empty place and called for a shot of Maryland rye as he holstered his .44 and took out a voucher pad. When the barkeep brought his drink, he tossed it back in one throw, grimaced slightly, and explained, “I’m saying I busted fifty dollars worth of window in the line of duty. I can’t write off the booze, of course, but figuring a nickel a shot-“
“Hey, that window came all the way from St. Louis, mister.”
“That’s why I’m saying it was worth fifty instead of the twenty-odd you paid for it. Don’t shit me and I won’t shit you. I’m an expert on busted windows and I owe a certain obligation to the taxpayers.”
“How ‘bout seventy five and I’ll throw in another round of drinks?”
“Nope. I didn’t hurt anybody and I ain’t charging for the interesting diversion added to a dull afternoon, so I figure the boys rate one drink on me for such inconvenience as picking up cards and chips off the floor. If you want to argue about the damages, you are free to sue Uncle Sam for more. And now, having done my Christian duty, I’ll be saying adios.”
Without waiting for a reply, Longarm moved over to the swinging doors, risked a peep out front, and stepped out on the plank walk. Nobody shot at him, so he shrugged and went next door to the cigar store he’d been headed for in the first place.
As he stepped inside the richly scented darkness of the little shop, a female voice snapped, “Freeze right there, you son of a bitch!”
Longarm froze, staring soberly down the barrel of an S&W .45 in the right hand of a big blonde woman wearing the cotton shirt and batwing chaps of a working cowhand. Her face was sort of pretty under the beat-up Stetson she wore cavalry style, dead-center and tipped forward.
Longarm said, “Your servant, ma’am. I’d tip my hat, if you didn’t have the drop on me.”
“What in thunder’s going on out there?” the woman asked.
“I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal and somebody just took a couple of shots at me. Now you know as much as myself.”
The store owner’s bald head appeared above the edge of the low counter he’d been hiding behind and he said, “I sure wish you’d put that gun away, Miss Sally.”
The big blonde hesitated, then shrugged and lowered the muzzle of her revolver. Longarm noticed she hadn’t put it back in the holster riding above her ample hips, so he kept his hands away from his own sides as he put them on the counter and said, “I came in here for some nickel cheroots. Do I save money buying ‘em by the boxful?”
“You want some nice scented cheroots I just got in? They smell sort of lavender when you light up.”
“Not hardly. I only want to smoke, not smell pretty.”
The girl called Sally laughed and said, “He’s been trying to sell them sissy cigars for months. You got a name, Marshal? They call me Roping Sally.”
“Deputy marshal, ma’am. My name is Custis Long. They call me Longarm.”
“I can see why. Custis is a sissy name.”
“I know. My mama was a gal, Miss Sally.”
“Hell, I don’t hold with that ‘Miss Sally’ shit. My friends treat me like I was one of the boys.”
The storekeeper explained, “Roping Sally owns the Lazy W. Her cows are scared of her, too.”
Roping Sally laughed, finally got around to holstering her gun, and said, “My poor sweet cows are waiting to join up with the Blackfoot, too. So give me my plug and I’ll be on my own way, damn it.”
Longarm raised an eyebrow and asked, “Are you the owner Calvin Durler’s been buying beef from, out at the Indian agency?”
“I’m one of ‘em. Got a herd of twenty waiting over in the railroad corral right now. Letting ‘em sort of rest and drink their fill before my boys and me herd ‘em over to the reservation.”
Longarm smiled sardonically and said, “The government pays by weight instead of by the head, huh?”
Her face was innocent, but her voice was mischief-merry as she nodded and replied, “Yep. That’s why I’m watering and feeding ‘em fit to bust before I run ‘em over in the cooler afternoon. As long as that dude’s paying by the pound, I may as well sell him plenty of water and cowshit with the beef. Damned Indians lose ‘em before it’s time to slaughter, anyway.”
He nodded. “So I heard. It’s no federal matter, I suppose, but watered stock is one thing and cow thieving is another. Don’t reckon you have any ideas on who’s been running off some of the reservation herd, huh?”
“It ain’t me. Sometimes I suspicion the Indians just lose cows down a prairie dog hole. Agent out there’s supposed to be making cowhands out of ‘em but he don’t know his ass from his elbow. He keeps buying beef and they keep getting lost, strayed, or stolen. Makes it a good market for the rest of us, though it does take forever to get paid.”
“Well, you don’t sell your best stock to Uncle Sam, do you?”
“Hell, do I look stupid? Prime beef goes east to Chicago for the top price and cash on the barrelhead. I don’t sell them poor redskins really dangerous sick cows, though. Just such runts and cripples as might not make it alive to Chicago’s yards. I shoot critters with anthrax, consumption, and such. Some folks say I have too soft a heart to be in the cattle business, but it wouldn’t be right to feed folks tainted beef.”
“I can see you’re a decent Christian woman—no’ offense intended. I have a dead Indian over at the coroner I’ll be carrying back to the reservation in a little while. I’d be pleasured to ride out with you.”
Roping Sally shook her head and said, “You’d best go on ahead, unless you like to ride right slow. I drive beef at a gentle pace. We’ll likely mosey in about sundown.”
