Post to ask how one got a beer served in the lobby. Crawford raised his and said, “You have to carry ‘em out from the taproom. Oh, I’d like you to meet Miss Cynthia Morton from the Kansas City Star.” Then, of course, he had to tell the redhead who Longarm was, and of course she had to say, “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you, Marshal Long! Is it true you once traded shots with Jesse James in the flesh?”
Longarm sighed and replied, “I’m only a deputy marshal, and I warned Ned Buntline what I’d do to him if he ever used my name in one of his wild west magazines again.”
Then he ticked his hat brim at her and added, “I’d best see if they serve needled beer here to junior grade lawmen. Could I fetch you something more seemly from the bar, ma’am?”
She dimpled up at him and said, “No, thanks. As I was just saying to Mr. Crawford, I hate to start early on a night like this.”
“She’s a sob sister,” Crawford explained, with an owlish wink that indicated he didn’t share her reservations about getting drunk early while on deathwatch.
She shot her fellow reporter an annoyed little smile and told Longarm, “I’m no such thing. It’s only natural that my readers expect a reporter of my gender to, well, play up the human interest a bit more.”
Longarm allowed that sounded fair and excused himself to go get that beer. As he approached the taproom doorway Deputy Guilfoyle came out with two schooners, grinned at Longarm, and said, “I figured on meeting you here. You wanna get laid?”
Longarm smiled thinly and replied, “That’s mighty considerate of you, but, no offense, you just ain’t my type.”
Guilfoyle laughed. “I’ve never been that desperate, neither. I’m talking about women. I got me one upstairs too damned pretty to have escaped from the pages of the Police Gazette, and she says she has a friend.”
“Male or female?” asked Longarm, warningly. So the young and somewhat goofy-looking Guilfoyle explained, “They’re staying here at the hotel. Ain’t met both yet. Met the one I’m taking these suds to just a few minutes ago. She said her pal was too shy to drink in public without no escort. When I asked her how shy she might be, she allowed we’d both be more respectable if we got drunk together in her room, so-“
“I know how lonesome ladies lure us into such temptations,” Longarm cut in. “Just make sure you meet me across the street no later than four, and try to get there sober enough to stand up.”
Guilfoyle grinned knowingly and said, “Getting drunk wasn’t exactly the vice I had in mind. You sure you don’t want us to fix you up with her pard, old pard?”
Longarm hesitated, then he shook his head and said, “One of us oughta keep track of the time. What room will I find you in if you don’t?”
“214. I’d best get on up and see how lucky this night turns out for me. No shit, she’s really good looking and, so far, she ain’t mentioned money even once.”
Longarm laughed, told him the night was still young, and let him pass.
The taproom was more crowded than the lobby; the hotel wasn’t big enough to hold that many guests. Longarm recognized some other reporters as well as some of the courthouse gang. It looked as if the Great Costello was going to have quite an audience for his last command performance. But at the rate the boys were drinking to him, this early, it seemed doubtful many of them would be able to report, or care, how well the hanging went.
Longarm elbowed his belly to the bar, and once he caught the barmaid’s eye, ordered a pitcher instead of a schooner. For she was pretty, and knew it, and there was just no telling if and when a man who wasn’t proposing marriage might be able to catch her eye again.
As she filled his awesome order for him a blue-uniformed gent next to Longarm said, “I should have thought of that. It takes so long between drinks tonight that a man can sober up from one afore he gets the next.”
Longarm recognized the badge on the visored cap above the somewhat flushed face. “I take it you just come off duty, across the way?”
The guard said, “Nope. I ain’t reported in yet. That’s how come I’m drinking so serious. Got to hang a man in the morning and I just hate to do that, even drunk.”
“I know the feeling. I’m one of the boys you sent for from the marshal’s office. It would hardly be fair of me to lecture you on the evils of Demon Rum on such an occasion, but are you all right, old son?”
The guard shrugged and answered, “No. I got to hang a man in the morning. But I’ll be there with bells on, if that’s what you mean.”
Longarm didn’t answer. The gent was old enough to vote and it was up to every such man to judge for himself whether he needed a drink, and how often. So Longarm paid for his big drink, tipping the sass more than she was worth, if less than she might think she had coming, and headed back to the lobby.
The redhead was still seated in the corner, but Crawford’s overstuffed chair was empty. When Longarm joined her, Cynthia Morton stared at the pitcher in Longarm’s hand as if she’d never seen one before and said, “Mr. Crawford just left.”
Longarm sat in the vacant chair, saying, “I noticed. Did he say where he was going, ma’am?”
“No. As a matter of fact, he just leaped to his feet and dashed off without a word. Didn’t you see him just now in the taproom?”
Longarm shook his head and said, “The G.A.R. could be holding a parade in there without attracting all that much attention. He must have been feeling poorly—it ain’t like old Crawford to be rude to a lady.”
Then he tipped the pitcher to his face to enjoy a sip of suds over the side, as if it were a big schooner. She repressed a grimace and indicated Crawford’s abandoned as well as daintier container on a nearby table, asking, “Wouldn’t you feel, well, less clumsy, if you poured that beer like almost everyone else I know?”
“Not hardly. I learned one time, down Mexico way, how unwise it could be to drink from the same glass a gent who lit out running had just been drinking from. If my uncouth cowboy ways offend you, ma’am, I’ll just go drink somewhere else and we’ll say no more about it.
