scuttle a third of the way down and lit his second cheroot before he casually said, “Heard some talk about Apache trouble as I was having supper just now.”
The rusty suit took him up on it to observe in an agreeable tone, “Noticed the cavalry way you wear your hat. You interested in scouting Apache, Mister…?”
“Crawford, Henry Crawford,” Longarm replied easily enough, seeing as Crawford Long had invented painless surgery just in time for the war, and there was that reporter Crawford of the Post who kept writing all that Wild West bullshit about Longarm.
The man in black said he answered to Wesley Jones, and repeated his question about scouting.
Longarm said, “Not hardly. To begin with, the army seems to be out after Victorio along the border way to the south. After that, I’d as soon kiss a sidewinder on the lips as scout Apache. I asked my doubtless foolish question with a view to avoiding Apache. I heard something about some having jumped the Jicarilla reserve, is all. Heard some were hiding out in them canyonlands to the east.”
The man in black exchanged glances with the barkeep before he quietly asked, “You know your way around La Mesa de los Viejos, you say?”
Longarm replied, “No, I don’t. I’ve never been over yonder, and I ain’t sure I’d want to go up one of them canyons with a picnic basket and a pretty gal. Somebody said something about them being haunted, and I try to avoid haunts as well as hostile Indians. When I asked about Apache hiding out over yonder, it was only because I got to ride north betwixt the uncertainties of that haunted mesa and the sure-enough Apache reserve to the west.”
Wesley Jones said, “So you do. You say you have business up in Loma Bianca or Vado Seguro, Henry?”
Longarm shook his head casually and replied, “I’m bound for Chama. The railroad stop called Chama, not that river out front. Got to meet a business associate there. Just want to make sure I won’t run into any other gunplay along the way.”
“You say you’re headed up to Chama with some gunplay in mind?” the barkeep suddenly blurted out despite himself.
Longarm smiled innocently and said, “Is that how what I said came out? Well, that’s one on me. I only meant I had to meet somebody in Chama. A man would have to be a fool to say he was on his way to a gunfight if he was really on his way to a gunfight, wouldn’t he?”
The man in black nodded at the barkeep and said, “Don’t take my invite wrong, Henry, but there’s somebody we’d like you to meet and this saloon ain’t where the real action transpires here in town. It’s only here on the coach road to serve folks just passing through.”
Longarm sipped more suds before he asked with the caution one had to expect from a knock-around rider, “Just what sort of action might you have in mind for this child, Wes?”
Jones, if that was his name, said, “You name it, from faro to fornication, and we’ll likely be able to satisfy your cautious nature. Old Mel here can testify to my being a respectable cuss who ain’t out to rob you or cornhole you, Henry.”
The barkeep nodded soberly and said, “We got our business rep to consider. Old Wes is a gambling man. I’m sorry, Wes, but I got to say it. After that, Mister Crawford, he ain’t a crooked gambling man. The place of which he speaks is owned by the same respectable lady who owns this saloon and the hardware across the street.”
Longarm said that in that case he’d try anything once. So Wesley Jones led him out the back way, past the sign warning them not to pass, and through a maze of back alleyways in the gathering dusk. Then they were in a dimly lit hallway, leading into what looked like the main salon of a steamboat, or the front parlor of a whorehouse.
Then Longarm noticed most of the hired help seemed to be men in suits instead of gals in kimonos, with a rougher-dressed crowd at the bar or around the gaming tables. Jones had been right about the faro. They had crap tables and one of those fancy French wheels of fortune as well. Jones led Longarm over to a red plush sofa and sat him down, saying, “I’ll see about our drinks. Don’t go away.”
Longarm leaned back and lit a cheroot. Jones didn’t seem to be coming back. But after a tedious time another cuss in a black frock coat came over with two gin-and-tonics to ask where Jones was. Seeing as “Henry Crawford” didn’t know, he handed him both stiff drinks.
They let him work on them awhile. Longarm set one aside and nursed the other so long that the same cuss came back to sit down beside him and sadly declare, “You’re getting to where you need glasses, or else I need to lose some weight and shave off this mustache. You really don’t recognize me, do you?”
Longarm had to admit he didn’t. He had a trained eye for faces, and he suspected he knew this routine, having spent some time with a Gypsy fortune-teller who’d really liked it dog-style.
As Longarm stared thoughtfully, the total stranger said, “Come on, who was your best pal in the old outfit?”
Longarm was sure where they were headed now. So he stared hard at his questioner and demanded, “You were in Sibley’s Sixth Minnesota? No offense, but my best pals were Swede Bergen and Chad Spooner, and you don’t look like either.” He took a sip from his glass and added, “Chad got killed later in the Sioux Wars, and you couldn’t even be related to old Swede!”
The too-clever-by-half confidence man laughed and said Longarm had been right the first time, going into a song and dance about the not only late, but also nonexistent Chad Spooner having introduced them during a payday crap game. They both laughed and agreed they’d been young and green to shoot craps on an army blanket. It was easy for Longarm to laugh. He’d never been near the Sixth Minnesota during his real war service. He’d learned the little he knew about the outfit the time Billy Vail had sent him to Santee country to look into other Indian trouble. The silly bastard pumping him by pretending to be an old army pal was taking awesome chances, counting on all soldiers having similar memories about crap games, army grub, and mean sergeant majors. But Longarm went along with the game, smart enough to let a wise-ass play him for a fool. The slicker smugly confided, “I’ve found it wise to change my own name, since I’ve taken up more sporting ways. I was the kid they called Slim in the third platoon, remember?”
It was easy enough to agree. There’d always been some kid called Slim in one platoon or another.
The slicker said, “You and Chad were in the first platoon under old Carlson, right?”
