“You figured out who I am, huh? You’re pretty sharp, Longarm.”
Longarm cursed himself for offering a digression and insisted, “Who did it? It ain’t like you owe him loyalty.”
“He must have thought I was on your side. We rode in…”
And then the old man was gone. Longarm cursed and got back to his feet, gazing about for sign. It was getting too dark to track, and the two tame geldings told him no strangers were about. They knew him as well as they had known their dead master. He’d noticed they were shy of others.
Longarm circled back to where he’d left his own mount. The body would keep for now in the chill night air and it might be sort of interesting to keep the others in the dark for now. Nobody but the one who’d killed the man who’d called himself du Val knew who he was, or where, right now.
Despite the roundabout path the old man had taken, it was only a short ride back to Crooked Lance. The sun was down by now but the sky was still lavender with one or two bright stars as Longarm rode in. The settlement was crowded with shadowy figures, mounted or afoot, and as Longarm passed a knot of horsemen he heard a voice mutter, “That’s the one who licked old Jimbo.”
Ignoring them, Longarm rode to the log jail, meaning to have a discussion about the bearded mystery man with the prisoner. But he didn’t. A quartet of cowhands stood or squatted by the doorway, and as Longarm dismounted, one of them waved his rifle barrel wildly and said, “No you don’t, stranger. Our orders are to hold Cotton Younger tight as a tick and that’s what we aim to do.”
“Hell, I wasn’t fixing to eat him. Just wanted to ask him some more questions.”
“You ask your questions of the Vigilance Committee, hear? Go along now, friend. Windy, here, was tellin’ us a funny story and you’re spoiling the ending.”
Longarm led his bay by the reins to the livery, peeled off the McClellan and bridle, and rubbed the horses brown hide dry with a handful of straw before bedding it for the night in a stall. He went around to the hotel where he found the others in the so-called dining room, pinned to the back of the general store. The table was crowded but Sheriff Weed made room for him on one of the bench seats, asking softly, “Find anything?”
“Read some sign. The old man’s gone,” Longarm replied. He counted noses, saw that the other lawmen and the Hankses were at the table, and asked, “Where’s Timberline and the gal?”
“Likely spooning. Saw Kim Stover talking to some hands around the jailhouse just before they rang the dinner bell. I hope you ain’t hungry. Considering we’re paying two bits a day for room and board, this grub is…”
Someone dropped a tin plate in front of Longarm. He glanced up and saw it was one of the storekeeper’s womenfolk. It was either his wife or his daughter. It hardly mattered. Both were silent little sparrows. The storekeeper himself wasn’t at the table. Longarm put a cautious spoonful of beans between his lips and saw why. He helped himself to some coffee from the community pot, to wash the beans down. With plenty of sugar and a generous lacing of Creamed milk it was just possible to drink the coffee.
The others were hungrier, or maybe didn’t have spare food in their bed rolls, so they ate silently, as people who live outdoors a lot tend to do. The only conversation at the table was Mabel Hanks, down at the far end. She was buttering up Captain Walthers. She’d likely sized him up, as Longarm had, as a man with an eye for the ladies. Her midget husband ignored her play, spooning his beans more directly to his mouth, since his head rode lower above the table. A picture of the two of them in bed rose unbidden to Longarm’s mind and he looked away, shocked a bit at his own dirty imagination.
One of the sparrowlike Stover women brought an apple pie in from the kitchen next door and when Longarm smiled at her she blushed and scooted out. He decided she was the daughter. They were both ugly, had heads shaped like onions, buck teeth, and mousy brown hair rolled up in tight buns. The best way to tell them apart was by their print dresses. The mother wore white polkadot on blue and her daughter’s print was white on green. The older mountain woman had likely given birth at sixteen or so, because there wasn’t a great gap in their ages. They both looked forty and driven into the ground.
Longarm gagged down half the beans and helped himself to a slice of pie, which turned out to be another mistake. He was glad he had packed some pemmican and baker’s chocolate. Glad he wasn’t a big eater, too.
He saw that the railroad dick was getting up from the table, either in disgust or to relieve himself outside. Longarm pushed himself away from the table to follow, catching up with the detective near the outhouse.
“Call of nature?” grinned the railroad dick, holding the door of the four-holer politely. Longarm said, “social call. Go ahead and do whatsoever. I want to talk to you.”
The detective stepped back outside, saying, “It’ll keep. What’s on your mind, Longarm?”
“Got a deal for you. You got any papers on a Missouri owlhoot called Sailor Brown?”
“Hell yes, I do! He rode with James and Younger when they robbed the Glendale train!”
“Good reward on him?”
“A thousand or more. You know where he is, Longarm?”
“Yep. The reward is dead or alive, ain’t it?”
“Of course. What’s the play?”
“I’m sending you into Bitter Creek with his body, which I’m giving you as a gift in exchange.”
“Exchange for what? You say his… body?”
“Yeah. That old man calling himself du Val was really Sailor Brown. He likely heard they had a friend of his here and rode in with that fool tale to see if he could bust the boy out. I got him on ice for you in a place we’ll discuss if you’re willing.”
“Willing to what?”
“Drop out of this game. You must know your chance of taking Cotton Younger away from the vigilantes and us other real lawmen ain’t so good. On the other hand, you’ve come a long way, so you’ve been waiting, hoping for a break. All right, I’m giving you one. You carry Sailor Brown to the U.P. line and telegraph at Bitter Creek and collect the bounty on him. How does that strike you?”
