and a fifteen-dollar pony. The stubby-legged killer must not have felt up to chasing the horse he rid in on. So he helped hisself to the cow pony and lit out of town, crowing like a rooster and shooting at the stars. Old Clovis is mad as hell. Aside from losing his show-off saddle, he has to pay for the pony the X Slash X let him ride to town. Them’s the rules, when you lose your employer’s stock.”
Longarm said he knew that and asked what the more recently stolen horseflesh looked like. Old Jeff replied, “Scrub buckskin with no blazes and a black mane and tail. Branded X Slash X, of course. The saddle would be easier to I.D. from a distance. It’s a black double-rig Vadelia, mounted with what Clovis says is silver. He wouldn’t know real silver from German-silver, but then, neither would I from a dozen yards off. By now the little fool as stole it could be showing it off most anywhere.”
“I hope not. I’ve reason to suspect he’s riding the old Overland Trail on a lunatic’s quest. The big question is whether he means to leave it east of the South Pass and head north to get lynched some more, or follow the trail west to Salt Lake City and put flowers on his own grave.”
Old Jeff said, “What you just said might make sense to you, old son, but it sounds sort of silly to me, unless I missed something.”
Longarm said, “That’s fair. Black Jack Junior has been thinking mighty silly. But, either way, he’d have to follow the old trail, some.”
“Well, he has a good lead on you, but it’s a good week or ten days’ ride to the south pass country, and that long-legged army mount he left here looks a lot faster than the scrub buckskin he swapped it for,” Jeff observed. “So if you want to impound it as your own federal evidence…”
“No thanks,” Longarm cut in. “The iron horse is even faster. As I read the timetable, I can catch a midnight combo up as far as Bonneville Junction and get there by morning. There’s a mountain local from there as far south as Saint Stephens, where the tracks and me begin to disagree as to where we’re headed. If I beg, borrow, or buy a mount there, I can follow Beaver Creek an easy two days’ ride and beat the little rascal to the South Pass with so much time to spare I’ll likely wind up bored as hell before it gets exciting.”
Old Jeff thought and said, “That sure sounds boring, it’s true. Why not just take the U.P. transcontinental and get off where it crosses the South Pass?”
“It does and it doesn’t. What everyone today thinks of as the South Pass ain’t what that colored mountain man, Sublette, mapped out when he was the first to find that way over the Divide. Some Indians showed him how flat their Shining Mountains got just south of Atlantic Peak. So he followed their trail and dubbed it the South Pass because it was south of the way Lewis and Clark had said they’d found the only passage. It took a spell for others to notice that whole stretch of mountains was more like rolling prairie for a good hundred miles north and south. Meanwhile, all sorts of folk had followed Sublette’s map and left wagon ruts where the map said the official South Pass was. It’s still the best wagon trace, if you got plenty of time, and like to stick close to water and firewood off the slopes to the north. The railroad was in more of a hurry and ran its line way south of the trail laid out by Sublette, Brigham Young, and such. The Overland coaches followed the older, longer route. Atlantic City and South Pass City, whilst hardly cities, are still in business, even if Overland Express ain’t. I figure a lunatic who thinks he’s a hired gun for Overland Express will follow their old route. If I took the railroad and got off, say, in Bitter Creek, I’d have to ride farther to cut him off, see?”
Old Jeff said, “I’m sure glad you ain’t trailing me. It ain’t fixing to be midnight for quite a spell, and Lord knows what the Northern Division of the U.P. will be serving as food and drink by the time she shows up, with all the ice long melted. So what say we cross the street to treat our bellies better?”
“I could sure do with some ham and eggs. But what about the prisoners back there in your tank, Jeff?” Longarm asked.
The older lawman said, “Let ‘em get their own grub. None of ‘em are in for anything more serious than acting drunk and disgusting, anyway. Do they all escape, it’ll save the judge the tiresome chore of cussing ‘em out and letting ‘em go in the morning.”
Longarm allowed it was old Jeff’s town and they went across to the saloon. The boss there said he never argued with the law but asked them if they’d mind eating in the kitchen lest the others out front want some, too.
They agreed and were seated at a kitchen table, finishing up with apple pie washed down with beer, when it got sort of noisy out front. So they got up to go see what the fuss was all about.
A young cowhand was orating from one end of the bar, upon which sat a black and silver mounted Vadelia show saddle. They joined him and made him start all over again. He didn’t seem to mind. He struck a heroic pose and declared, “I was riding in off the Circle H when a pack of growlsome coyotes spooked my pony. As I got him back down outten the stars I seen something glinting at me from the dark, about fifty yards offen the wagon trace. I knew it had to be a coyote’s eye. So I shot it. When it never even blinked I shot it again and, when it was still there, I knew either me or my saddle gun had to be wrong. So I got down and moved in on it for a closer look-see.”
He paused for dramatic effect and another swig of beer before he continued. “it was the silver horn of this here saddle I was trying to shoot for a coyote and, lucky for Clovis Sinclair, I’d only grazed it once. It was still cinched to that buckskin Clovis lost right out front the other night. Someone had shot it in the head and buried it under tumbleweed to make it look like a big old clump of brush against a bobwire fence. I had to laugh as I thought about how the posse must have rid right past it more than once.”
Old Jeff said, “You always did talk fresh to your elders. The critter was doubtless hid a lot better before them coyotes got to nosing the tumbleweed aside to get the stale meat, as coyotes tend to do. But I reckon that you’re entitled to your brag. For you just saved Longarm, here, a needless as well as long train ride.”
Longarm shook his head. “Not hardly. I see no need to change my plans worth mention.”
Old Jeff frowned up at him and asked, “How come? Young Slade could hardly be meaning to follow the old Overland Trail aboard that buckskin, if he shot and hid it right outside of town.”
“Sure he could. He established by his earlier actions that night that he didn’t like to walk far. He knew the well-known mount he grabbed for a hasty exit was easier than many a pony to recognize at a distance. So, having cleared the city limits, he got rid of it.”
Old Jeff said, “Anyone can see that, now. What did he do then, start walking in his flappy chaps?”
“Not hardly. He moves around too good on them stubby legs for a walking man. You boys would have caught him if he’d been that crazy. He rode out to where he’d left another mount tied up, likely to that same bobwire fence.” there was a collective gasp of admiration from the crowd. Old Jeff warned them, “Don’t never try to get away from this old boy.” But then he asked Longarm, “What kind of other horse are we talking about? The only mount stole this side of the county line was the buckskin he shot and left for the coyotes, close.”
