lovemaking and that she’d have likely burped all night at him anyway.
It was even hotter by the time he and the morning sun had made it to El Paso. The border town stood almost as high above sea level as Denver, and both seemed to be suffering from the same late summer heat wave. El Paso was smaller than Denver if one counted city size by population, but the buildings were more spread out, and most of the streets were still paved with mighty dusty dirt. After he checked into Hotel International and hung his heavy frock coat and shoe-string tie in the closet, Longarm hired a cab for himself and his McClellan saddle. He told the Mex driver to put up the damned top and drive him out to the army remount station at nearby Fort Bliss.
It didn’t take long, and for once he got no argument when he showed his credentials to the remount officer and explained his reasons for needing to borrow a government mount for government business. They even let him pick the one he wanted—a chestnut gelding with a black mane and white blaze—and, even better, the critter didn’t try to throw him when he saddled and mounted it. So he waved adios and headed back the way he’d just come. It felt good to be aboard a decent mount in his shirt sleeves and vest, and to hell with the picky dress regulations of old Rutherford Hayes and his first lady, Lemonade Lucy. The Texas Rangers didn’t have to dress sissy, even when their boss was watching.
A lizard darted across the wagon-trace ahead, and though Longarm braced himself for it, the chestnut didn’t shy. He patted its neck with his free hand and said, “We’re getting along fine, so far. I sure hope your placid nature don’t indicate a lack of enthusiasm if we have to go someplace sudden.”
He tried a quarter-mile lope to see about that. The army mount didn’t argue, and even led with its off forehoof, the way it was supposed to. He reined it to a walk, saying, “I don’t know how it happened, but for once the yellow-legs issued me a decent pony to ride. I could tell you tales, old son.”
He didn’t, of course—a man sounded foolish holding long conversations with a critter. But Longarm was thinking back to another time and another good mount, the chosen favorite of an army officer’s spoiled wife who, in the end, had offered a fine ride herself, as he recalled. Her name had been Cynthia, but she’d asked him to call her Sin. He frowned and said, half aloud, “Now that’s odd I just now remembered that. The redhead in Denver makes it two sinful Cynthias I could count coup on if I was a kiss-and-teller. But what the hell, I’ve lost count of the Pats and Billies. I wonder if there’s something about naming a girl-child Pat or Billie that predisposes her to grow up sort of passionate.”
He decided it was just as likely a man met more Pats and Billies than say Cynthias or Victorias. It seemed natural enough that a gal snippy enough to insist on being called Patricia might not be as good a sport as a good old Pat, and he decided to let the Billies worry about themselves until he met another one. He figured he wouldn’t even be thinking about any infernal females this early in the day if that damned brunette hadn’t insisted on getting off at Trinidad last night. He’d been sent down here to chase owlhoots, not women, he told himself, so he rode the rest of the way back to town in a more serious mood.
The post office that had been robbed was near the railroad depot and not too far from the ford across the Rio Bravo, as the Mexicans insisted on calling it. Since it was their north border, he figured they had the right.
He dismounted, tethered his mount in such shade as there was out front, and went in to see what they had to say about all the money they seemed to be missing.
A pretty ash-blonde secretary gal who looked spunky enough to put up a good fight or a great lay, depending on how she felt about a gent, led Longarm to the back office. An ugly old man waved Longarm to a bentwood chair between his desk and their big old Mosler safe, painted mailbox-green, and said that while he’d be only too proud to help, he didn’t really know beans about the case. He added, “I was at home, having dessert, when word came that we’d been robbed. By the time I got here, poor Bob McArdle had breathed his last. They found him on the floor, just about where you’re sitting. Seems he’d been sitting in your chair, going over some figures from your side of this desk, when they popped in on him.”
Longarm said, “There was something in the report I read about your assistant going for a gun in a desk drawer?”
The branch manager nodded, slid open a drawer on his side, and produced a big Walker-Colt conversion. He placed it on the green blotter between them and said, “This is it. Naturally, he never got to it. They must have sensed his intent and-“
“it was cold-blooded or trigger-happy,” Longarm cut in. “Your man was gut-shot, not back-shot. They might have got him on the rise, but it’s more likely they just told him to stand still while they worked on the safe. Then, as they was leaving, one of ‘em gunned him. I’ll ask ‘em when I catch ‘em whether McArdle was a hero or whether they just figured dead men tell no tales.”
The branch manager gulped and said, “You paint a grim picture either way. But Bob didn’t die right away and-“
“You’re lucky he didn’t,” Longarm interrupted. “A while back I worked on another post office robbery, up near Long’s Peak, where the owlhoots failed to open a somewhat smaller edition of that same good brand of safe. In that case, the missing money had been pocketed by a crooked postmistress, after they’d given up and lit out.
The older man blanched and gasped, “See here, are you accusing me or one of our employees?”
“Nope. Your dying assistant had no call to lie and he was able to say, or at least gasp, that the ones as shot him opened the safe and took out the money. How much money are we talking, by the way?”
The branch manager looked relieved and said, “Twenty thousand in cash and about five hundred dollars worth of stamps.”
Longarm grimaced and said, “The Great Costello must like to write lots of letters. Is there an easy way to cash sheets of stamps without nobody noticing?”
The older man shrugged and said, “A sheet at a time, maybe. You’re as good as they said you were. I’d have never thought of that angle.”
“You likely know more than me about running a post office, when it ain’t getting robbed. The trick is not to jump to conclusions. The report I read concluded that the gang surprised a man working late, after hours, and gunned him so’s they could open the safe; that don’t Work. The same report says that the town law was just up the street, breaking up a fight, when they heard one gunshot, came running, and found Mister McArdle dying on this floor with the back door open.”
“So?”
“So how in thunder would you open a safe, clean it out, and clear the premises that sudden, even if you knew the combination?”
