Inside, a sweaty fat boy seated near the door told Longarm the sheriff had just stepped out, but that he’d be back. When he asked if there was anything they could do for him Longarm said, “Yeah, I’d like to talk to your county clerk, if he’s still here.”
The fat boy gave him the room number and added that, whether the boss was in or not, his secretary gal was, since he’d just fetched her some coffee.
Longarm moved down the musty corridor, wishing someone had had the sense to open a window, even though he couldn’t see any window. He got to the office of the county clerk. It was a lot cooler inside, because the redhead seated at the desk had been smart enough to open the window behind her, and to hell with the miller moth that was fluttering around the hanging lamp above her. She wore specs and had a pencil stuck in the bun of her up-swept carrot top. As she smiled up at him, he cursed himself for being so hasty in a strange town. She was downright lovely, and her bodice wasn’t hiding as much of her shape as she might have thought.
She asked what she could do for him. He introduced himself, told her who he was after, and explained, “if the young lunatic we’re after thinks he’s old Black Jack Slade, it might help me to know more about his mentor. Penny dreadfuls just guess about a lot of things he done and, more important, run. I know it was before your time, ma’am. It was even before my time. But if you have any county records at all, written by folks as was there instead of guessing, back East or further…”
She jumped up and said, “As a matter of fact, I did notice some old county records about the famous gunslick, as I was filing something else a spell back. I hope I remember where I saw them.”
He hoped so, too, and feared she might not, by the time she finally hauled a dusty folder from a drawer, blew on it as if that might help, and offered him the use of her desk to spread the folder open on. She said she was going to get some more coffee, asked if he’d like some, and when he took her up on it she said she’d be right back and left him alone with the one and original Black Jack Slade. She didn’t fool him. He knew she was taking advantage of his interest as an excuse to get up and about for a spell.
There was a picture of the old-time killer. It looked not a thing like Slade had on that magazine cover. But then, had anyone back East thought to look at real Pictures and records, they wouldn’t put out such silly versions.
The picture was a woodcut. If it had been made freehand, the artist had likely been pretty bad. If it had been made from an old tin-type, Black Jack had been sort of odd-looking. He was posed sideways, but one could see his eyes were glaring mean at someone off to the side. He looked about forty, with his black hair thinning at the temples but thick and wavy everywhere else. He had a big nose, thin tight lips, and a weak chin. He was smooth- shaven, but the woodcut artist had covered his whole face with fine lines as if to show he had some awful skin condition or more likely to show how dark his skin had been.
Longarm had already known that, and he never expected to meet the real Black Jack in any case. He put it aside and began to scan the old court records. For a man who’d started working for the outfit that owned Julesburg, he’d sure spent a lot of time in court.
Most of his troubles were for disturbing the peace or hurting someone less than mortal, of course. The bestial slow killing of Jules Belle had earned him a good scolding by the county coroner, but nobody seemed to have the balls to swear out a warrant on him for what could only be described as the cold-blooded torture and murder of a bound and helpless victim, no matter how mad a man had the right to be at Belle for their earlier shootout. Longarm was mildly surprised to learn that Slade’s wife had in fact been named Virginia. He guessed a lady named Virginia had a right to visit Virginia City, when you studied on it. The reason they’d left for there, according to the county, was twofold. Someone had finally got up the gumption to swear out a warrant charging Slade with assaulting a Julesburg citizen with intent to kill. About the same time, Slade had gotten into a fuss with an officer out at Fort Halleck and shot the post up without killing anybody. The younger killer’s bite was worse than that of the man he so admired.
Longarm made a mental note that both warrants had been sworn out by the State of Colorado, even though the one misdeed had taken place on army property. The army hadn’t always had fools like Colonel Walthers running its military police.
There was a follow-up report by the posse who’d chased Black Jack and even his wife out of their jurisdiction. The fugitive couple had followed the main branch of the Overland Trail due west through a corner of Nebraska and a lot more of Wyoming by the time the posse decided they were stretching the doctrine of hot pursuit past common sense and dropped back across the Colorado line. It said, here, they assumed he’d been headed for the south pass when last they’d cut his sign. With the advantage of hindsight, Longarm knew they’d turned north this side of the great divide and gone north so the Montana vigilantes could take care of the dumb brute. There wasn’t a thing to suggest the model of Black Jack Junior had ever done anything slick and sneaky. He’d just run loose like a mad dog until somebody killed him. He hadn’t even changed his name when he got to Montana. He’d bragged about all the things he’d done in other parts until they’d strung him up. The only mysterious thing the real Black Jack had done was to get buried way out in Salt Lake on his way to get buried in Illinois. There wasn’t anything in the old Sedgwick County records about that. One got the distinct impression Sedgwick County had never wanted to see Black Jack again and, since they’d had their way, Longarm closed their file and just sat there, stumped, as he pondered what he might do next if he was playing Black Jack Slade.
The pretty redhead came back in with a couple of mugs of coffee, saying, “I forgot to ask if you took cream and sugar. I like mine black. It keeps me peppy at night.”
He rose to give back her seat and take his cup as he told her he liked to stay peppy, too. “If you was crazy and had your choice between heading for Utah or Montana, which way would you go, ma’am?” he asked.
“Call me Rita. At this time of the year I’d go up to Montana and hope it was cooler. If it was winter I’d head for Utah, where it doesn’t snow so hard. What are we talking about, Deputy Long?”
He smiled. “Call me Custis, Miss Rita. We are trying to figure the mind of a kid whose mind, so far, seems sort of scrambled. He thinks he’s reliving the life of a long-dead killer and, to give him his due, so far he’s been acting even worse. As of the moment, he’s got James Butler Hickock beat, and he’s been at it no more than forty- eight hours.”
“I heard them talking about the killings out at Fort Halleck. But surely you’re joking about Wild Bill?”
He inhaled some of the black bitter brew and said, “Unlike some reporters, or old Jim himself, coroner’s juries don’t count pistol whippings or even wingings as killings. Jim never aimed to kill when he was sober, and his aim wasn’t so good when he was drunk. He was wild enough, but despite all the fights he got into, or said he had, he was only recorded as the direct cause of a death four or five times. It took him over fifteen years to kill that many, solo and serious. Black Jack has gunned more gents than that in just a few days. So you tell me who’s been acting wild around here.”
She said, “Another time, perhaps. I can’t get out of here until I finish a mess of deed recordings, and I sure want to get out of here this evening.”
