those he met going the other way. He set a fair pace for anyone going the same way to overtake. So nobody seemed to. He rode at a trot for an hour, and let both ponies water in the shallows of the Chama and browse some cottonwood leaves as he changed mounts by moving the shaken-out saddle blanket, and then, of course, the saddle, back aboard the cream mare. He took his time to rest them more than to water and browse them. They’d been watered and fed cracked corn before leaving El Rancho Llamas. But it seldom hurt to give a horse more water, and they couldn’t bloat their fool selves on leathery cottonwood leaves. Swamp maple was about the only really dangerous browse a pony would willingly eat too much of, and you hardly ever saw swamp maple in these parts.
He remounted and rode on, making even better time because, just as he’d remembered, that mare was the high-stepper of the pair. The sexless palomino came along willingly, packing nothing, at the quicker pace.
He’d swapped mounts again, more than once, by the time he rode into the sounds of a distant piano and spied pinpoints of light down the road ahead. Loma Blanca, despite its old Spanish handle, had a more Anglo feel to it as Longarm reined in near the black-and-yellow Western Union sign across from a busy-looking saloon.
He tethered his ponies to the hitch rail, and strode in to see if anyone had seen fit to answer any of his earlier wires sent from Vado Seguro by way of that Llamas rider.
There was one answer, from a territorial lawman Longarm knew in Santa Fe. They’d heard of Cyrus Grayson. They had him down, rightly or Wrongly, as one of those pests called “litigious” by lawyers and judges because they enjoyed litigation, or bringing others to law, as much as a hog loved his wallow on a hot day in August. Santa Fe said they’d look into Grayson’s possible abuse of due process, although there Wasn’t much of a mystery as to how you persuaded a cigar-stand notary to witness and stamp your fool signature on most anything. Grayson wasn’t known to have ever pushed one of his many petty feuds to gunplay, however.
Longarm hadn’t told anyone south of Denver what he might be doing down this way, so the lawman hadn’t expressed any opinion about the peculiar activity around La Mesa de los Viejos, or the plans of either the BIA or the Indians in regard to that big Jicarilla drive.
Billy Vail never wasted five cents a word answering progress reports unless he had further orders to give a deputy in the field, of course.
Longarm went back out front and, staying afoot as men just love to do after hours in the saddle, he led his ponies down to the livery they’d told him about at the Western Union, and asked the Mexican night crew if they’d rub down and rest, but just water his riding stock so he could ride on before midnight.
When they said they could, he took his saddle gun and some lighter valuables worth stealing with him to that saloon. He’d eaten plenty of tortillas and beans at Consuela’s for supper and it was still early. But a man sure felt like another beer after pissing along the trail a spell, and you never knew what gossip you’d hear in a trail-town saloon.
He got some thoughtful looks but no unfriendly stares when he passed through the swinging doors to see who might be playing the piano so poorly. The crowd seemed mostly Anglo, with just a few Mexicans playing dominos at a corner table. He saw to his chagrin that the piano was being badly played by a skinny old gent in a striped shirt and brocaded vest. He’d thought for a moment it might be Miss Red Robin, an old pal who played the poorest rendition of “Aura Lee” and gave the best French lessons west of the Mississippi.
But why on earth would a man want to dwell on such country matters after spending all that recent time in a cunt?
He decided it was all the dark-complected company he’d been keeping of late. The two Indian gals had been of different anatomy as well as tribal background, but the henna-rinsed Red Robin was one of those naturally blue-eyed brunettes with skin as creamy as that high-stepping mare down the way. He ordered a needled beer from the politely stone-faced barkeep, and had to grin as he consoled himself with the simple fact he’d never been as loco with his old organ-grinder as some he’d heard about.
When an old drunk standing next to him asked what was so funny, Longarm knew the poor old-timer didn’t really care. But he signaled the barkeep to refill the drunk’s beer schooner anyway as he smiled and explained, “Just thinking about horny riders and the dumb things they can do when they’re hard up.”
As the barkeep drew another for him the old-timer said, “Horny riders are always hard up. That’s why I feel safer around drinking men. But get to the funny part, old son.”
Longarm said, “There was this Prussian cavalry officer I read about, back in the time of old Freddy the Great. Seems he fell in love with this young mare in heat, likely a buckskin, whose rump reminded him of some fat gal back home. So they caught him standing up behind her on a box, humping away with his fancy pants down.”
The barkeep put the second beer before them as he said with a puzzled smile, “They caught a man humping a horse? A full-grown one?”
Longarm sipped some of his own suds and explained. “A mare in heat, with a tendency to pucker down hard. But them Prussian officers felt it was a mighty odd way for a man to behave too. So they court-martialed him for conduct unbecoming a human being, and they were fixing to shoot him when old Freddy the Great got word of it.”
The drunk asked, “You mean King Freddy forgave the cuss for acting so forward with a cavalry mount?”
Longarm shook his head and said, “Not hardly. Freddy the Great agreed the poor simp didn’t belong in the cavalry. So he ordered him transferred to the infantry, and that way, everybody came out all right. I reckon they found a proper stud for the mare, and I understand the Prussian army provides drummer boys for old infantry hands who’ve been away from home a spell.”
The three of them laughed.
A morose-looking young squirt a couple of paces down the bar said, “I don’t think that’s funny, Julesburg,” in a mighty unfriendly tone.
The drunk between them crawfished away from the bar with his free drink as Longarm smiled thoughtfully down the mahogany and asked if anyone was speaking to him under the impression his handle might be Julesburg.
The kid, sporting knee-length chinked chaps and an ivory-gripped Merwin Hulbert over sun-faded denim, sounded sure of himself as he replied, “We figured out who you had to be, Julesburg. A tall rider with his hat telescoped Colorado-style and his Colt worn cross-draw adds up to one such cuss with the sand to stand up to a dozen white men for the money and other favors of a Mex gal. We both know I have the dishonor to be addressing the one and only Julesburg Kid, a mite older but no wiser than when he rode with Black Jack Slade up Julesburg
