Longarm was especially pissed because the man had risked killing a kid in his eagerness to get Longarm. It wasn’t like he considered U.S. deputy marshals to be fair game. But there was something especially reprehensible about any man who would shoot with a young’un in the line of fire. It took someone who was really sick or really determined to fire under those conditions. And Longarm had no idea, none, who in Cargyle might carry that virulent a hatred for him. It was something to think about, he reflected.
He returned the lantern to the cafe owner, then drifted past Clete Terry’s saloon. The place was dark and shuttered, the padlock still in place on the front door.
Good. Longarm wasn’t forgetting about that SOB and what he’d done to Angela Fulton. One way or another, he was determined, Terry was going to pay restitution. In full, by damn.
As he walked into the canyon and onto company land, he wondered if Cletus Terry might be the motivating force behind the shooting tonight. It was possible, of course. When you are dealing with incomprehensible, impossible, illogical—and sometimes just plain crazy as hell—human beings, there are no guarantees. Some people will do just damn near anything.
Even so, Longarm didn’t much like Terry as a suspect in this thing. It seemed simply … too much.
There wasn’t that much at stake here, after all. A few hundred bucks’ restitution. That was what Longarm had in mind. That and a public apology. Was that worth killing for? More to the point, was that worth dying for? Cletus Terry was an idiot. But surely he wasn’t that big a fool.
Of course Longarm could be wrong about that, he conceded. But his gut reaction was that he shouldn’t blame this on Clete Terry. Not without some pretty good evidence to the contrary. Which left him with … shit, that’s what it left him with. He kinda wished Terry was the man behind the gun. At least that would be quick and clean and soon done with. In the meantime …
“You again,” Longarm observed with a grin.
The coal miner shrugged and grinned back. “Do a fella a favor, willya, mate? Gimme a drink of water, eh?”
It was the same prisoner Longarm had seen in here two days earlier. The man looked like he hadn’t changed so much as his socks in that time. Certainly he hadn’t bathed. Or, apparently, learned anything.
“I’m looking for Chief Bolt,” Longarm said.
“Still?”
“Again.”
The prisoner shrugged. “Look, are you gonna be a pal and give me a dipper of water or not?”
“Sure,” Longarm said, relenting this time if only because the cantankerous so-and-so hadn’t been willing to spill any information before unless Longarm showed cooperation first.
“There’s a bucket behind the desk there. And while you’re right there anyhow …”
“I know. Your tobacco box is in the drawer.”
The prisoner beamed. “You remember.”
“You’re a hard man to forget. Though I expect I can manage if I set my mind to it.”
The man laughed. And cheerfully accepted both the metal dipper of tepid water Longarm handed him and the twist of tobacco.
“I believe you were saying something about Harry Bolt?”
“Uh-huh. He’s in town. Likely over at that saloon he owns.”
“Which one would that be?”
The miner frowned in thoughtful concentration. “Y’know,” he said after a moment, “if it has a name I don’t b’lieve I’ve ever heard what it is. It’s the biggest down there anyhow. Guy name of Terry runs it for him. Clete Terry.”
Longarm rolled his eyes. Son of a bitch! Clete Terry was a hired hand. And for that asshole Harry Bolt at that. Shee-it! Double shee-it. With honey and walnuts on top.
“You don’t happen to know if there’s living quarters or anything of the like in the back of that saloon, do you?”
“You’re right, mister. I wouldn’t happen to know that. But there’s rooms for the girls to use. I wouldn’t know about the private parts of the place.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would. Look, thanks for the help.”
“Anytime.” The prisoner grinned. “I’m in residence fairly often.”
“Yeah, so I gathered.” Longarm touched the brim of his hat and turned to leave.
He was halfway out the door before something occurred to him, and he turned back inside the Cargyle jail.
“Say, friend.”
“umm?”
“Where’s the other prisoner that’s supposed to be here tonight?”
“That fella with the short hair and the rock-pile sunburn?”
“That’s the one.”
“Bolt turned him loose right after supper.”
