The miner was a little drunk, but the cowboy, being more sober, had more sense. “Come on, Clem. Let’s go inside and have us another round.”
“Excellent advice,” Longarm said as he pulled his arm free and started to go inside himself.
But the miner tried to grab Longarm again and, this time, bash him in the side of the face. Longarm brought his right fist up in a short, powerful arc that connected against the side of the miner’s jaw and dropped him to the sidewalk.
“Hey!” the cowboy shouted, jumping back and raising his open hands. “I ain’t interested in trying to finish what this fool tried to start.”
Longarm rubbed his knuckles and said, “Why don’t you drag him into an alley where the fool can sleep it off. Then come on inside and I’ll buy you a beer to show that I’ve no hard feelings.”
“Why, that would be real nice of you, mister!” the cowboy said, grinning broadly. “It sure would!”
Longarm went into the saloon. The place was packed with boisterous workingmen, and the floor was covered with sawdust. There was a piano player, but no one could hear his music because of the shouting and laughter. The bar itself was nothing but a long, flat plank laid across whiskey barrels. Not a novel creation in this part of the country by any means.
“What will it be?” the bartender asked as Longarm shouldered between some laughing men and made himself a little room.
“Couple of beers.”
“Comin’ up!”
The beers came just as the cowboy returned, slightly out of breath. “Name is Dudley,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Custis. Have you lived in these parts very long?”
“About ten years now. I work for the Cross X Ranch. It’s a good outfit and they pay on a regular basis, most of the time.”
Longarm raised his glass in salute, and Dudley did the same. After they had a long swallow, Longarm said, “You ever work for an outfit called Mountain Packers?”
“Nope. But I’ve heard about ‘em. They operate out of Durango and pack in supplies for the tourists and other people going up to Mesa Verde. Why do you ask?”
“Oh,” Longarm said, “I was just curious. Do they take supplies in on wagons or-“
“on pack animals,” Dudley answered. “There’s no road up to the mesa-top. It’s a pretty steep climb and rugged.”
“I see.”
“But you can find local people here that will take you and your bride up to Mesa Verde.”
“I think I’m going to use a man named Matt Horn.”
“Matt is one of the best around and he’ll take care of you,” Dudley said, nodding with approval.
“We’re hoping to find some old Indian pottery, bones, or like that as souvenirs.”
“They passed a law against doing that.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“If you want some good stuff, you ought to see Mr. Laird. He owns the museum and I hear that he sells things on the side. They’re not cheap, though. I know a fella that bought an Anasazi pot that was all in one piece, and he paid a fortune for the damned thing. Over fifty dollars!”
“Boy,” Longarm said, “that is high. Where does this Mr. Laird get his stuff?”
“I expect that he bought a lot of it from the Wetherills when they were hauling it out in the early years. But every time I’ve been in that museum, there’s new stuff, so he just might have a new supplier.”
“Maybe he’s making fake pottery,” Longarm offered.
“Nope. It’s real. Them two scientists working up there always stop in at the museum, and they say that it’s all real stuff. Hell, they ought to know, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do,” Longarm said. “But I wonder if someone else is excavating up there that no one knows about.”
“That’s possible. It’s also possible that some rancher has found an excavation site, an old Indian burial or building ground, and is digging it up on his own land.”
“I see. I’ve also heard that there have been killings and shootings over the artifacts.”
Dudley eyed Longarm closely. “You’ve heard quite a bit for a total stranger.”
“I like to know what I’m getting into,” Longarm said with a shrug. “After all, a man wouldn’t want to take his wife up someplace where their might be danger.”
“That’s true enough. And there have been a couple of people shot up on the mesa as well as out near the Hovenweep ruins farther west. Some say there is a ring of thieves that work the cliff dwellings, and that is why several people have disappeared. But most of us think they were killed by the Utes, who consider Mesa Verde and them ruins as sacred ground.”
“Has anyone spoken to the Utes?”
“Naw. Most of them have been wiped out, and what is left is just small bands here and there. They keep on the move, but I expect that they’re the real killers.”
