“His who?”
“The reporter who was killed.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, my advice would be to give that young greenhorn all the shooting lessons you can before we get to Durango and then trust that the Good Lord will give him enough wisdom not to insult the wrong people.”
That evening they stopped at a high mountain lodge, where a couple named Phil and Lola Jemson put on a good feed and clean bedding for the passengers at a reasonable price. Longarm took Trent outside, where they could talk privately, and then told him about the conversation that he’d had with Charley.
“Holy smoke!” Trent cried. “The editor in Durango never bothered to mention that the fella I was replacing had been gunned down!”
“Well, he was,” Longarm said. “So be careful.”
“You think that I ought to get a new pistol?”
“Yes. A cartridge revolver as well as a shotgun. Keep the shotgun in your room. It will give you and your pretty young wife some valuable peace of mind.”
“Why a shotgun?”
“Because it’s so much easier to hit what you aim for at close range.”
Trent couldn’t hide his nervousness. “Marshal, please don’t mention this conversation to Esther. If she knew what we were talking about, she’d become hysterical.”
“I understand.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d help me pick out a derringer and shotgun in Durango.”
“There’s a real fine gunsmith that I know there and he’ll give us a good deal. Don’t worry,” Longarm said, “I’m sure that you’ll never have to defend yourself, but it’s wise to be prepared for the worst.”
“I’m starting to think that we should have stayed in Denver where it’s more civilized,” Trent fretted.
“Give it a chance,” Longarm suggested. “If you are honest and not trying to print lies, I’m sure that you will do just fine.”
“They never told me that this kind of thing happened when I was studying journalism.”
“I’m sure that they didn’t,” Longarm said, “but it does happen in the Wild West.”
Longarm offered Trent more instructions on how to handle a six-shooter. Actually, the kid was surprisingly good for someone who had never even fired a pistol. “If you practice you’ll soon be better than most,” Longarm told the young Easterner. “You’ve plenty of natural ability.”
“Don’t tell that to my wife,” Trent replied. “I guarantee you that she will not be reassured.”
“All right.”
The closer they got to Durango, the more nervous everyone on the stage became. On their last stop, they stayed in a stone house that had been built by an early ranching family that had been massacred by the Ute Indians over twenty years before. The couple who were running the station were Mr. and Mrs. Bert and Adele Trabert, an elderly couple who were neither gracious nor friendly. They set a poor table, and Charley bawled them out for being stingy.
“You folks get paid every month by the stage company just to keep up a hospitable stage station! And here you are skimpin’ on everything from the bread to the potatoes! We’re hungry, dammit! Now, I want a huge breakfast waiting for us all at daybreak or there is going to be hell to pay!”
The next morning, they did have a good breakfast, but Charley was still irritated. “You folks had damn sure better start changin’ the sheets and airin’ out them old mattresses. They’re loaded with ticks and fleas!”
The couple nodded submissively, and although Longarm was scratching like a dog and bitten in a dozen places, he almost felt sorry for them.
“Charley, you were pretty hard on those old folks,” he said before they rolled out of the station.
“Well, they were hard on us,” Charley complained. “And if I’m going to get killed today, I want it to happen on a full stomach. Is that so much to ask?”
“No,” Longarm said, taking his rifle and climbing up beside the driver, “I guess it isn’t.”
“The thing of it is,” Charley said, “I ain’t afraid of dying, but I’d rather be counted among the living.”
“I guess most everyone would agree on that.”
“I’m sixty-three years old,” Charley confided in him, “and I’ve had my share of troubles, but all in all, it’s been a good and an interesting life. Why, I remember-“
The rifle shot exploded from the rocks about fifty yards off to their left, and Charley reached up and slapped his forehead as if he were swatting a mosquito. His eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward with blood pouring from the hole in his skull.
Longarm dove for the reins, but he was too late, and the excited team of horses began to run. Drawing his gun, he looked in vain for a target. He could hear Miranda, Trent, and Esther shouting down in the coach.
A volley of rifle shots sent Longarm ducking for cover as the stage accelerated down the mountain road. Longarm took a deep breath, then pushed the dead driver out of the way and made a grab for the lines, but they were far out of his reach. He glanced back and saw five horsemen appear from the rocks and take up chase.
“Miranda! Trent!” Longarm shouted. “They’re coming after us, so get ready to shoot!”
Longarm looked up ahead, and saw that the road bent to the right and then disappeared down a Mountainside. He couldn’t see what lay ahead past that, but he didn’t think it looked very good. Most likely, they were going to
