'Yeah, Mr. Long, I'll be passing through.'
'Well, just make sure you don't get into any poker games there. Especially with my twenty-five hundred dollars.'
Frank Carson let a small smile play over his face. He said, 'Mr. Long, you might be surprised to know twenty- five hundred dollars ain't that much money to me.'
'If I give you the money, would you check me out of the hotel and pick up my valise?'
'Yeah, I'd be willing to do that for you.'
Longarm said, 'Things might be scattered around. If there's any socks that look too dirty to pick up, just leave them there.'
Carson said, 'I ain't picking up none of your damned underwear.'
Longarm shook his head. He said, 'Not to worry. I don't wear underwear.'
Carson gave him a look. 'I thought there was something a little strange about you. How come you don't wear underwear?'
Longarm took another small sip of the strong whiskey. He said, 'Mainly because I have so damned many women after me and they are so impatient. I don't get much time to take them off. At their request, I just quit wearing them.'
Carson shook his head slowly. He said, 'I hate to hear a man talk like that. It just plumb worries me about who I'm dealing with.'
Longarm said, 'Also, I've got two bottles of good Maryland aged whiskey in my valise. Might even be a bottle sitting around opened. Bring that, too. Now, since you don't appear to be a man who knows good whiskey when he tastes it, I'm certain that you'll leave it alone and get it here safely to me.'
Carson said, 'Hah!' Then he got up and started for the door. 'I'm going to tend to business. I reckon it'll be all right to walk around where you will, but I wouldn't make a nuisance of myself, if you take my meaning.'
'Oh, I take your meaning, all right.'
That afternoon, Longarm wandered about the place, showing special interest in the big stills and their need for constant attention. He asked a few questions of the workmen, who were either adding mash to the barrels or replenishing the fires or doing any one of several other things Longarm didn't understand. It appeared sometimes they transferred the whiskey at certain stages to other barrels, moving it progressively up the line in big tin buckets. He didn't know why they did it, nor did he get any answers. He got the same results to every one of his questions: a blank stare and nothing else.
Finally, he wandered into a barn and was surprised to see it stocked with a half dozen big, stout, long wagons with broad, iron-rimmed wheels. Walking in farther, he saw pens of oxen and big draft horses. He assumed they were used to pull the wagons. He reckoned that a load of whiskey could be pretty heavy.
As he walked around that day, both in the house and out, he caught Sally Colton staring at him. It made his mouth water and it made his hands get itchy and damp. However, all he did was nod pleasantly at her. She never bothered to nod back or to speak, just looked at him, surveying him from head to toe.
Her bald interest was nothing unusual. It seemed everyone about the place, with the exception of Asa and some of the colored women working in the house, gave him a thorough inspection with no by-your-leave or greeting or even any indication that he was more alive than a rock or a tree they were staring at.
Toward the middle of the afternoon, he was able to get a sheet of paper and a pencil from John Colton, and he went back to the cabin to write out his message. He sat down at the table, wet the tip of the pencil, and thought for a moment before proceeding.
Finally, he began. He headed it simply: 'To Billy Vail, Denver, Colorado.' That was going to be another ticklish part. He couldn't send it to Billy Vail in care of the Federal Marshall's Office, so he had to hope and pray that the telegraph office in Denver would know Billy well enough to deliver it to him, anyway.
He began to write, being careful in his choice of words. The telegram read:
URGENT YOU WIRE ME, IMMEDIATELY, IN CARE OF FIRST ARKANSAS NATIONAL BANK, LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS, $2500. STOP. SEND MONEY IN CARE OF FRANK CARSON. STOP. REPEAT. SEND MONEY IN CARE OF FRANK CARSON. STOP. CANNOT EXPLAIN AT THIS TIME WHY MONEY MUST COME IN NAME OF FRANK CARSON, BUT IT IS NECESSARY THAT NO MENTION OF MY NAME OR OUR BUSINESS BE IN ACCOMPANIMENT OF THIS MONEY. STOP. UNDERSTAND THIS MIGHT BE CONFUSING, BUT IS NECESSARY YOU SIMPLY DO NOTHING MORE THAN SEND $2500 TO THE BANK IN THE NAME OF FRANK CARSON. STOP. WILL EXPLAIN LATER. STOP. MY LIFE COULD WELL DEPEND ON YOUR FOLLOWING THESE INSTRUCTIONS EXACTLY. STOP. I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT THE TREASURER OF OUR COMPANY IS CROOKED. STOP. I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT THE TREASURER AND HIS ASSISTANT ARE IN THIS AREA DOING BUSINESS ON THEIR OWN. STOP. AM HOPEFUL OF RETURNING WITH THE WHISKEY AND LOOKING FORWARD DOING FURTHER BUSINESS WITH THE PEOPLE AT THIS END. STOP.
He sat back for a moment and lit a cigarillo. Once he had it drawing good, he read the telegram message several times. The reference to the Treasury officials he had reason to believe were in the area was a hint that Billy might not get, but he had to include it. The idea that he was trusting his life to Billy Vail was not a happy one, but he had no choice. It was either that or give the job up, and he was unwilling to do that. He read the message again and put the pencil down. It was as good as he could do.
It was getting late in the day, and he sat for a few more minutes, going carefully over in his mind what Frank Carson might find in his hotel room. The only thing that ever really identified him as a deputy marshal was his badge, and he kept it safely buttoned inside the pocket of whatever shirt he was wearing. He had almost been careless the night before. The buckle on his gun belt was a big concave silver affair, as big as a man's hand. Inside, he carried, hidden, a.38-caliber derringer that was held in place by steel springs. As he'd undressed, he'd almost forgotten to slip the derringer out, hiding it with his hand, and get it in his boot. He was pretty sure that Carson hadn't noticed. There was no value in a hideout gun if everyone knew you had it. It had saved his life more than a few times.
There was, so far as he knew, nothing that would identify him as a lawman that Carson would find among his effects or in his room. Of course, there was no real reason to have Carson check him out of the hotel and fetch his clothes except that he didn't fancy wearing the same set of jeans and shirt for a week. Besides, he had left a leather jacket there, and the nights up here in these foothills of the Ozark Mountains tended to turn a little nippy. He took a drink of whiskey and then left the cabin, satisfied that he had done all he could to make progress on the
