Mexican-owned shops just south of the fair-sized brick-walled edifice that proclaimed itself a meat packer in big block letters. He'd expected a larger operation. The chandler shop a few doors down was modest as well. But as soon as one studied on it, neither an outfit shipping occasional cargos of cold-storage beef nor a chandler selling ship's stores to a mess of Mexican fishermen had to look as if they belonged in Chicago.
He got down and tethered the team to a hitching rail out front. He went on in to find the chandlery poorly lit, pungent with the odors of hemp, tar, and peppers, and presided over by a big fat Mexican with a pleasant smile and deliberately stupid attitude.
When Longarm introduced himself and allowed he had a rig and mule team belonging to La Bruja outside, the chandler looked confused and said, 'You stole that wagon from some witch, you say, senor? Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but you seem to have me confused with someone else. On the head of my children I know nothing of witches or stolen goods!'
Longarm said patiently, 'They told me the wires were down and I don't want us endangering any kid's head. So what say I just leave that team and rig tied up out front, the way I promised La Bruja I might, and we'll just say no more aboutit.'
The chandler shrugged. 'Is a free country, no? Who am I to say where an Anglo lawman parks his wagon along a public quay?'
Longarm allowed that sounded reasonable and, as long as he was there, offered to buy a box of those Mexican waterproof matches. But the fat chandler told him to just help himself to a box and go with God. So he did, certain he'd left El Bruja's property with someone smart enough to see she got it all back.
He strode over to the main street, a block inland, and asked some kids playing marbles in the still-damp street the way to their town lockup. They directed him to a brick building across from the white-washed Methodist steeple one could see for miles around.
As he strode the plank walk along the shady side of the street, he heard the kids behind him debating his station in life. They seemed divided as to whether he was a Ranger or simply some other pistol-packer with business at the town lockup.
Longarm had been a kid one time. So when one of then announced he'd just ask and jumped up to chase after him, Longarm stopped and turned with an indulgent smile.
But then his smile froze as a distant shot rang out and the kid caught a bullet aimed at Longarm's spine with the back of his poor little head!
Longarm's own gun was out and he was already running as the kid who'd taken a bullet for him beat a heavy mist of blood and brain tissue to the boardwalk with his small dead face. Longarm yelled at the other kids to get down and stay down as he tore past. The dirty white cloud of gunsmoke he'd spotted still hung shoulder-high near the corner he'd just turned. It was easy to see some son of a bitch had trailed him from the more open waterfront and pegged a back-shot down this other street from cover. Before Longarm could run that far he heard the receeding hoofbeats of a rapid mount. But he still caught a glimpse of a roan rump and a rider wearing an ankle- length duster of tan linen under his gray Texas hat as he tore around yet another corner with Longarm bawling after him, 'Stand and fight like a human being, you yellow-bellied baby-butchering back-shooting bastard!'
Then, sick at heart at that butchered kid, Longarm had to turn around and see if there was anything he could do to help.
There wasn't much. A crowd had already gathered and the dead kid's young mother, a care-worn dishwater- blonde, had already dashed from her quarters nearby to cradle her child's shattered skull in her lap, oblivious of the mess it was making of her thin calico dress as she rocked mindlessly on her knees, assuring him it wasn't his fault and nobody was going to give him a licking this time.
Just beyond her, a copper badge and drawn.45 were staring at Longarm thoughtfully. So Longarm lowered his own.44-40 to his side and quickly called out, 'I'm the law too. Federal. We're after a killer in a tan duster and gray Texas hat, mounted on a roan. Last seen headed south along that dirt path past those fishing boats along the lagoon.'
The town law, an older as well as shorter Texican with a walrus mustache, with his badge riding the buttoned black vest over a crisp white shirt and shoestring tie, called back, 'Lucky for you others further down the street at the time tell the same story. So who are you and why was that warmly dressed rascal out to back-shoot you?'
To which Longarm could only reply, 'I'd be U.S. Deputy Marshal Custis Long. I don't know the answers to your other questions yet. But I sure aim to find out.'
CHAPTER 8
A long time passed slowly by as Longarm and the local law did their best to restore some damned law and order in the middle of Escondrijo. They got the dead boy to the undertaker's, and got statements backing Longarm's from the kids he'd been playing marbles with that morning. Constable W.R. Purvis decided, and Longarm was inclined to agree, it might be best in this climate to have the dead kid tidied up and embalmed ahead of any formal findings by the county coroner, who was busy enough with that fever going round.
Purvis had to reason harder before Longarm reluctantly agreed that a posse's chances of tracking a dimly described rider on a public trail would be too slim to justify the excitement. Longarm had already considered the possibility of that bastard discarding the duster and flashy hat before simply holing up on a nearby spread, or even back in town afoot after sending his pony on alone.
It was a trick as old as riding the owlhoot trail for fun and profit with pistol or, hell, rapier. Horses were something like homing pigeons when it came to heading back to a familiar stall, where a critter could laze secure from surprises while being well watered and fed. Horses hated surprises, which was why they could spook over something innocent as a tumbleweed, or run back into a burning stable bewildered by all the excitement and seeking familiar shelter from such a confusing world. And so, as the older town lawman pointed out, that back- shooter and his mount could be most anywhere by now, whether still together or far apart. When Longarm asked how many roan ponies there might be around Escondrijo, old W.R. shrugged and asked, 'Would you like a list of riders alphabetic or numerical, assuming me and all the folks I'd have to check with ain't missed none? This is cattle country, pard. Save for townies and Mex hoe farmers close to town, most everyone for miles around rides some damned sort of horse, and roan ain't an unusual color for a cow pony. Was it a strawberry roan or a blue roan, by the way?'
Longarm grunted, 'Strawberry.'
W.R. was too polite to tell an obvious horseman that that particular mixture of longer white guard hairs over a basic hide of auburn was ten times more likely to occur than the white over black they called a blue roan.
By the time they got down to the reasons Longarm had been headed to see Constable Purvis in the first place,
