have along your wispy fence. But don’t get your bowels in an uproar, Sarge. I am federal, too. Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long. I’m here to look into that shoot-up you had out here last evening.”
The sergeant said, “Oh, you’d best talk to the commander, then,” and led him inside to talk to an overagein-grade first lieutenant. Longarm had to take their word about his rank. The poor red-faced cuss was sitting at his desk in his undershirt with a bottle of sloe gin, half empty, in front of him. He stared up morosely at Longarm. “They wired us some army investigators was on their way to look into the incident. We’re under orders not to discuss army business with anyone else,” he told Longarm.
Longarm said, “I know Colonel Walthers of old. We can work this out two ways. You can let me poke about and talk to any of your men who might have witnessed what went on or you can order me off your post, in writing, signed, so I can offer that as evidence that you refused the help of the Justice Department when it was offered.”
The lieutenant looked even sadder. “I don’t think I want to do that. I was taught my first day in the army to never be first, never be last, and never volunteer. I don’t want trouble with any federal department. Why don’t you just leave quiet?”
Longarm said, “I’ll be glad to, if you order me off your post in writing. I don’t like to be in trouble neither, and my boss is twice as mean as any colonel. He told me to come up here and investigate the shoot-up on this post. Your move.”
The burly sergeant snarled, “You heard what the lieutenant said,” and grabbed Longarm’s arm to haul him outside. Longarm planted a left cross in his face, sending him to the floor. He whipped out his.44-40 and told the man rising on the far side of the desk, “That was not a good move. I know I can’t lick a whole company of engineers, but I got five in this wheel and two more in my belly derringer. You ain’t getting me to leave, alive, without a note to the teacher. So what’s it going to be?”
The lieutenant sank back down, helped himself to an unhealthy belt of gin, and said, “Damn it, you heard me say I didn’t want any trouble. Go over to the canteen and talk to the corporal in charge, if you must. But you’d better leave before Sergeant Fagan, there, wakes up again.”
“Don’t you have any control over him, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know. He’s the bully of the post, and nobody’s ever knocked him out before.”
Longarm holstered his gun and left. He led Blue Boy to the long, and low building with “Post Canteen” painted above its door and tethered his mount on the shady side. He went in and found at least a full platoon lounging about at the camp tables scattered across the sawdusted floor. He bellied up to the smaller than usual bar and told the corporal behind it he wanted a beer and a rundown on the visit of Black Jack Junior, in that order.
The beer was the watery stuff the army allowed on post and the enlisted barkeep said he hadn’t been there, adding, “Grogan, the regular man, here, never knew what hit him. I’m his replacement.”
Longarm turned to brace his elbows on the bar as he asked if anyone there had seen the fight. A tall, skinny private who looked too old to be in the army said, “I was sitting right about here. I wound up in yon corner before the smoke cleared. The son of a bitching civilian kilt the man I was talking to, and two others, before he shot out the lamp and left, yelling like a banshee. Two others was hit, but not as serious.”
Longarm glanced up to see that the shiny brass lamp now hanging from the low rafters was the only thing in the place that looked new. “Did anybody hear what the fuss was about?”
Another, more intelligent-looking soldier said, “Not every word. But as the conversation was short and sharp I suspect I can put it together fair enough. This sawed-off cowboy strode in like he owned the place and demanded a drink. Since this is a pure army canteen it’s safe to assume old Grogan told him he couldn’t serve civilians here. Then Grogan was dead and all hell was busting loose. The cute little rascal had two big.45s and they sure did echo under that low ceiling. I ain’t sure Slim’s right about him leaving with a banshee wail. It sounded more like singing to me.”
“It was,” another man said, “I heard it. It was that mean song the cavalry sings about us engineers. The one that goes, ‘The Engineers has dirty ears, the dirty sons of bitches.’”
There was a murmur of agreement. Longarm nodded. “I can see why the post regulations against serving civilians is not in force right now. You say two of the men he shot was only wounded?”
The barkeep behind him said, “That was after he shot out the lamp. Grogan went down right where I’m standing, with his shirt on fire and his heart blown out his back. Murphy, standing about where you are now, took one through the heart as well. The other two was hit more casual but just as dead.”
Longarm left his own gun holstered but raised his hand to aim at the new lamp with his index finger. “Yeah, the rascal is better, point blank. That couldn’t have been much comfort to the boys he had to aim at. I suspect I know, but could any of you give me a good description of the killer?”
The one called Slim said, “Who could forget him? He was knee-high to a grasshopper, had on a big black hat meant for a bigger skull, and I remember wondering why on earth anyone would want to wear fur chaps in open country in such hot weather.”
“Goat-skin chaps, black and white?” asked Longarm.
“They was black and white and hairy,” Slim said. “I never got to ask him whether he’d skint a goat or not. Oh, he had on big Mex spurs. The kind that jingle.”
“Over high heels or low?”
“High and Texas, as I recall. It didn’t make him all that tall, though, now that I picture him some more.”
Another man offered, “I have a kid brother back home about the same size. He’s twelve. The one as shot all them boys looks a bit older, but not much. I’d say you was looking for a crazy young cowboy about fourteen or sixteen.”
Longarm knew Black Jack Junior was in his twenties, but the description fit the mean little cuss he’d had words with in the Parthenon, and two such critters running loose made no sense at all. So he finished his weak beer, thanked them one and all for their help, and went back outside.
As he was untethering Blue Boy, the burly Sergeant Fagan came around the corner, eyes glaring as well as swelling shut, by now. Longarm nodded pleasantly and said, “Howdy. I’m sorry I had to do that, Sarge. But don’t never lay hands on a grown man unless you mean it.”
