before the last minute.”
“All right,” Miranda said, delicately wiping away a milk mustache. “Let’s go.”
Longarm paid the tab, and they headed up the street toward the stage station. When they arrived, it was deserted except for the stage-line owner, Bill Fieldman, an ex-cowpoke who had been thrown by way too many broncs and who walked with a pronounced limp.
“Well, howdy, Marshal Long,” Bill said, forking some oat hay into a corral full of stout horses. “Real good to see you again.”
“Nice to see you too, Bill. This is my wife Miranda.”
Bill grinned from ear to ear. He was a trim, muscular man in his fifties with a lined and weathered face. “My pleasure, ma’am!”
“How’s business?” Longarm asked.
“To be honest, it’s damn poor since last month when our stagecoach was robbed along with all the passengers.”
“Is that right?”
“y, sure. I thought you feds might even have heard the news up in Denver, but I guess not.”
“No,” Longarm told him. “What happened?”
“There’s a gang of thieves operating in this neck of the country. They’ve robbed us three times in the last three months, and they’ve robbed some other travelers as well.”
“How many are in the gang?”
“Four, and sometimes even five,” Bill said. “They wear bandannas, of course, so no one knows who they are. They hide along the road and then get the drop on our guard and driver real sudden-like. After that, they order ‘em to hand over all their valuables or get shot.”
“Has anyone been killed yet?”
“Last time they robbed my stage, they shot my guard. Didn’t kill him, but he’ll never have the use of his left arm again. I can’t get a replacement because everyone is so scared.”
“What about drivers?”
“I’ve got old Jessie driving the stage over from Durango that’s supposed to arrive today,” Bill said. “He ain’t afraid of no one, but I’m damned worried that he might get mad and pull a gun and get hisself shot.”
“Is there a stage going back to Durango today?”
“I think so. I’ve got a driver—but no shotgun, even though I’ve offered to pay double wages.”
“Who is the westbound driver?”
“A fella named Charley Blue. He’s another crusty old fella that’s been driving stages for too many years to know anything better. Charley is one hell of a reinsman, but he’s cantankerous and he says that he don’t need no shotgun guard.”
“How many passengers are on this trip west?”
“Well,” Bill drawled, looking pained, “that’s what I mean about business being so poor. I only got one other couple willing to ride the coach over to Durango. He’s a newspaperman just hired fresh out of college and his wife is a new schoolteacher. Both are going to jobs in Durango. If it weren’t for that, I doubt that they’d be so anxious to go over the mountains.”
Longarm turned and looked at Miranda. “It might be better if you stayed here. There’s no telling what could happen if this gang decides to hit again.”
“I’m going,” Miranda said, leaving little room for argument. “And I can handle a gun if necessary. Just give me one and I’ll show you.”
Longarm led her out behind the station, and then he handed her his pistol. Bill was with them when Miranda said, “Point me out a target.”
“The barn door,” Longarm said in jest.
“No,” Miranda said, “how about that rusty tin can resting just to the right of the door?”
“You’re going to try and hit that?” Bill asked, looking very skeptical.
“I am,” Miranda said, using a two-handed grip on Longarm’s pistol and taking careful aim. The Colt bucked, and a couple of chickens nearby erupted into squawking flight, but damned if the tin can didn’t skip high up into the air and strike the barn door.
“Well, I’ll be jingoed!” Bill said with amazement. “Of all the luck, she really hit the damned thing!”
“Luck, my ruffled tail feathers,” Miranda said, waiting until the can came to rest and then taking quick aim and neatly drilling it a second time.
Longarm clucked his tongue with admiration. “You never told me you could shoot like that!”
“You never asked, and I didn’t see any point in bringing it up,” Miranda replied, handing Custis his revolver back. “But I learned when I was a girl living on the Kansas prairie in a soddie. My father expected me to bring one rabbit or large bird home for each bullet he gave me. I’ll admit to missing sometimes, but not very often, because we were poor and ammunition was expensive.”
“If she wasn’t a woman,” Bill said, “I’d hire her to be the guard.”
“I’ll be the guard,” Longarm said. “Miranda, can you handle a rifle?”
“You bet I can.”
