Longarm knew there were thirty-eight states in the Union these days, but his eyes like to keep busy and the marshal wasn’t much to look at.
In his day, Marshal Billy Vail had shot it out with Comanche, Owlhoots, and, to hear him tell it, half of Mexico. Right now he was running to lard and getting that baby-pink political look Longarm associated with the Courthouse Gang. There was something to be said for working in the field, after all. Vail wasn’t more than ten or fifteen years older than Longarm. It was sobering for Longarm to think that he might start looking like that by the turn of the century if he wasn’t careful about his personal habits.
Vail found the papers he was looking for and frowned up at Longarm, saying, “You’ve missed the morning train to Cheyenne, God damn your eyes! What’s your tall tale this time, or did you think this office opened at noon?”
“You know a feller called Bob Jackson supposed to be doing time in Leavenworth?”
“Oh, you heard about his escape, eh? He’s been reported as far west as here and I’ve got Cottin and Bryan looking for him on the street.”
“You can tell ‘em to quit looking. He’s bedded down peaceable in the Denver morgue. I shot him on the way to work.”
“You what? What happened? Where did you spot him?”
“I reckon it’s fair to say he spotted me. He must have taken it personal when I arrested him that time, but I can’t say his brains or gun hand had improved worth mentioning. The Denver P.D.’s doing the paper work for us. What’s this about a train to Cheyenne?”
“Slow down. You’re going to have to make a full report before you leave town on the escaped prisoner you just Caught up with.”
“All right, I’ll jaw with that jasper you have playing the typewriter out front before I leave. Who are we after in Wyoming Territory?”
Vail sighed and said, “I’m sending you to a place called Crooked Lance. Ever hear of it?”
“Cow town, a day’s ride north of the U.P. stop at Bitter Creek? I’ve seen it on the map. I worked out of Bitter Creek during the Shoshone uprising a few years back, remember?”
“That’s the place. Crooked Lance is an unincorporated township on federally owned range in West Wyoming Territory. They’re holding a man with a Federal want on him. His name’s Cotton Younger. Here’s his arrest record.”
Longarm took the sheet of yellow foolscap and scanned it, musing aloud, “Ornery pissant, ain’t he? Says here Queen Victoria has a claim on him for raping and gunning a Red River breed. What are we after him for, the postal clerk he gunned in Nebraska or this thing about deserting the Seventh Cav during Terry’s Rosebud Campaign against the Dakotas?”
“Both. More important, Cotton Younger is reputed to be related to Cole Younger, of the James-Younger Gang. Cole Younger’s salted away for life after the gang made a mess of that bank holdup in Minnesota a couple of years back. Frank and Jesse James are still at large, and wanted for everything but leprosy.”
Longarm hesitated before he nodded and said, “I can see why you’d like to have a talk with this Cotton Younger, Chief, but does picking up and transporting a prisoner rate a deputy with my seniority?”
“I didn’t think so, either, at first. You know Deputy Kincaid, used to work out of the Missouri office?”
“Know him to say howdy. He working this case with me?”
“Not exactly. Like you said, it seemed a simple enough chore for a new hand. So I sent Kincaid up there two weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
“That’s what I want you to find out. I can’t get through to Crooked Lance by wire. Western Union says the line is down in the mountains and both Kincaid and his prisoner are long overdue.”
Longarm consulted his watch and said, “I can catch the afternoon Burlington to Cheyenne, transfer to the transcontinental U.P. and maybe pick up a mount before I get off at Bitter Creek. Who do I report to in Crooked Lance?”
“Wyoming Territory was sort of vague about that. Like I said, the settlement’s in unincorporated territory. Apparently a local vigilance committee caught Cotton Younger riding through with a running iron in his saddle bags and ran him in as a cow thief. They were holding him in some sort of improvised jail when they asked the territorial government for a hanging permit. Wyoming wired us, and from there on you know as much as I do.”
“vigilantes picked him up, you say? He’s lucky he’s still breathing regular. I don’t care all that much for vigilantes. Not many left, these days.”
“I gathered the folks in Crooked Lance are leery of lynch law, too. I’d say their so-called committee is just an ad hoc bunch of local cowmen. The town itself is a handful of shacks around a post office and general store. I don’t know how in the hell Kincaid could have got lost up there.”
Longarm got to his feet and said, “Only one way to find out. If the wire’s up when I get there I’ll let you know what happened. If it ain’t, I won’t. Figure on me being back in about a week. I’ll need some expense vouchers and a railroad pass, too.”
“My secretary will take care of that before you leave. Would you like to take a couple of extra hands with you?”
“I work as well alone, Chief. No sense getting spooked till we find out what happened. Kincaid and his prisoner might well be on their way this very minute and I’d play the fool tearassing in at the head of a posse for no good reason.”
“You handle it as you’ve a mind to, but for God’s sake, be careful. I don’t aim to lose two deputies to… to whatever!”
As Longarm was leaving, Marshal Vail called after him, “Damn it, son, you might have offered me an educated guess to chew on while I’m waiting here!”
