Then the wagon rolled on. Longarm reached for a cheroot and, his hand steady when he applied the match, settled back on the unpadded seat while the boy Rick took care of the driving.
Chapter 31
The jail was empty this morning. Not even Longarm’s pal the coal miner was in residence at the moment. Longarm scowled for a moment. Then grunted. “Back this thing up, will you? Right into the doorway there, just as close as you can get it.”
Rick gave him a strange look, but did as Longarm asked. There was no real ditch beside the road to have to negotiate, just a shallow depression that would more or less channel snowmelt and rainwater runoff along the side of the road. The boy swung the wagon away, and backed the team into place with a fair degree of skill.
“That’s good,” Longarm said when the back of the wagon box was very nearly close enough to the stone wall of the jail to bump into it. “Hold ‘em there.”
Again the boy’s look was questioning. But he didn’t voice the questions he so obviously wanted to ask.
While Rick held the horses steady, Longarm unlatched the low tailgate and dropped it. Without ceremony he reached in and took hold of the dead man’s ankle. One good yank and the body slithered out of the wagon and over the edge to fall in a bloody tangle directly in the doorway of the Cargyle jail.
“But …” Rick saw the look in Longarm’s eye and clamped down hard on whatever protest he might have made. The boy looked quickly away. Longarm walked around to the passenger side of the wagon and climbed onto the box. “Let’s go.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. Let’s go. Back down to Cletus Terry’s saloon.” He reached inside his coat for another cheroot.
“But …” The kid glanced unhappily over his shoulder. Not that he could see the dead man lying on the stone doorstep back there. That sight would have been obscured by the bed of the wagon. But what he could not see he could all too readily imagine. And what he could imagine was not pleasant to see.
“Don’t worry about it, son,” Longarm said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Somebody will come along an’ notice before it starts to stink too bad.”
The boy swallowed hard and looked like he might well follow the example of those grown-ups who’d already donated their breakfasts to the weeds. He got a mite pale and sweaty around the forehead, but was able to control the queasiness. “Y-yessir,” he managed. He shook the lines out and wheeled his team back down the canyon toward the gate.
Rick seemed mighty grateful once they reached the saloon and he could get rid of his passenger. Longarm paid him a full dollar for his services—probably it was the hardest money the kid had ever earned—and let him go without the embarrassment of any thanks.
Terry’s saloon, Longarm was fairly surprised to see, was open and, despite the hour, doing a thriving business. Longarm kind of thought if he put his mind to it real extra hard he might be able to work out what had given everybody such a thirst so early in the day.
It occurred to him that he’d forgotten something thus far this morning, so he walked over to the cafe and arranged for the helpful fellow there to carry breakfast to Angela and Buddy Fulton. Then Longarm went back to the saloon and ambled inside.
The buzz of the dozens of separate conversations going on at once all stopped abruptly at his entrance.
“Good morning, gents,” he said pleasantly enough. He looked the crowd over as he made his way to the bar.
Instead of serving up the usual beer and rum crooks, though, the daytime bartender told him, “Mr. Terry would like to talk with you.”
“Oh?”
“The night bartender told him what you said.”
“All right, thanks.”
“He’s in the back. He said if you were to come in …”
“Tell Mr. Terry for me, please, that I’ll be at my usual table. Not that I don’t trust him, of course. But I’m gettin’ kinda tired of being shot at in this town an’ don’t want to take no more chances. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Yes, sir. Do you, um, still want that beer now?”
“No, but I’d take a coffee if you got any.”
“I’ll get it for you right away.”
Longarm dragged a chair into the corner and leaned against the wall there. The bartender brought the coffee to him, and a small plate of cold ham and crackers too, then disappeared into the back of the place. The barman returned after a couple of minutes, and in another couple of minutes Clete Terry came out with Harry Bolt following close on his heels.
The two helped themselves to seats directly in front of Longarm.
“Tim told me you’re wanting—I believe the word he used was ‘restitution,’ Long.”
“That was the word, all right. But it ain’t me that oughta be entitled to the recompense.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you’re expecting me to pay some damn tart like that—whatever the hell her name is—for slapping her around a little?” Terry blurted out.
Longarm smiled at him. And Bolt dug an elbow into his ribs. Cletus Terry coughed into his fist and looked uncomfortable.
“Two hundred,” Terry said abruptly.
