He walked out of the cornfield and then stood for a moment, looking around. Sally had disappeared, and there were no signs of any spies or onlookers. As near as he could tell, they had not been seen. Still, Longarm went through the motions of walking around the big property, looking over the livestock and the buildings, some of which held hundred-pound sacks of sugar. There were bins of shelled corn in others. If he had ever seen an operation set up for making corn whiskey, he felt like he was looking at one. The thought that there were maybe twenty or thirty other such distilleries, probably not as big as this, scattered out among the hills but pouring their produce back into this one locale, almost staggered him. This was no small operation. This was whiskey-making on a grand scale. Hell, he thought to himself, they could probably supply the city of Denver with every drop they needed. Denver, hell, probably Chicago.
After a time, he wandered back to his cabin and went inside. He sat down and poured himself some whiskey, the green clear whiskey, weakened it with some water out of a pitcher, and then sat there sipping and thinking. The entrance of Sally into the picture changed nothing as far as he was concerned. She was a wonderful, lovely, beautiful woman. She was as desirable as any woman that came to his mind, but that was, of course, very often the way. The one he was with at the time was the best, but he did not believe that he had ever seen such a startlingly black thatch of pubic hair against such lovely, creamy skin. The bush had been thick and luxuriant. It was delicate and fine, silken almost. It made his throat feel thick just thinking about it.
All that was beside the point. The job still remained. The least he would settle for would be the purchase of some whiskey from Asa Colton. Once that money changed hands, a federal law had been broken, and he was going to arrest the lot of them. They might not want to be arrested, but he would do it if he had to put a gun to the old man's head and tell the rest of them to lie facedown on the ground and tie each other up. He expected the transaction to take place at the train. If that was the case, he was going to load them, the whiskey, and anything else he thought he might need onto the train and then somehow route that car to Denver, Colorado, where he intended to deliver the entire conglomeration right into the hands of Billy Vail. After that, good old Uncle Billy could sort matters out.
Then the flickering fear about the telegram rode through his mind again. If Frank Carson somehow got word through the bank wire that he was a deputy marshal, Longarm was going to have one hell of a fight on his hands. He planned, the minute he saw Frank Carson coming, to get his back up against the wall and stay there until he could see how matters were going to play out. But as far as that went, the old man had not yet agreed to sell him any whiskey. That had yet to be resolved.
That night, at supper, he sat on Asa Colton's right. Sally was not there. A girl cousin or sister or wife or someone else was in her place. She was a nondescript woman of thirty who looked a great deal like the stringy- haired woman who was in charge of the kitchen. She never spoke to Longarm, but he caught her darting glances his way.
He made an attempt during supper to speak to Asa Colton, but all he got in return was a shake of the dried-up little man's head. It was clear that the Coltons considered table business to be reserved exclusively for eating. Any talking that had to be done mainly consisted of 'Pass the salt,' or 'Pass the biscuits,' or 'Pass the butter.' There was no social talk and obviously, no business talk.
They had roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy and canned beans. As near as Longarm could figure out, they had mashed potatoes and canned beans for every meal. He was halfway expecting them the next day for breakfast. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the meal broke up, and people left the table without a word. It was only Longarm and the old man left. One of the colored women serving the table brought over a gallon jug of the clear, powerful whiskey. She sat a glass in front of Asa Colton. The old man glanced at Longarm. Longarm nodded and then she brought him a glass.
After they had a drink, with Longarm trying not to wince and trying not to let the killer liquid go to his brain, he said, 'Asa, Mr. Colton, I sent for money, but you never had said that you'd sell me whiskey. Can you give me an answer now? If you ain't going to sell me some, there ain't a hell of a lot of use in me sitting around here wasting my time.'
Asa Colton drank down half the big glass, then set it back down on the table without so much as the blink of an eye. He said, 'I'm a-thinkin' on it. Don't be a-rushin' me.'
Longarm said, 'You got any idea when you'll make up your mind?'
'Nope.'
Longarm said, 'What have you got against selling me whiskey? I'm a pretty good old boy. I'm paying your highest price, I already know that, but I don't mind. I think I can take it back to Arizona and by the time I get through taking the rattlesnake out of it, I think I can make a profit.'
Asa Colton's head whipped around and his old eyes fixed on Longarm. He said, 'What'air you be talkin' about, taking the rattlesnake out of it?'
Longarm laughed. He said, 'Well, Mr. Colton, I don't know if you're aware of it or not, but that whiskey you make could damn near blow up a brick schoolhouse. That's the powerfullest whiskey I've ever put in my mouth. Most folks ain't used to that. Most of us drink eighty-proof whiskey and I've been told that this stuff is one hundred sixty and one hundred eighty proof.'
The old man said, 'You can't make two hundred proof. Did you know that? You can't make it all turn into whiskey. Some of it stays water.'
Longarm said, wonderingly, 'No, I didn't know that, Mr. Colton. I actually don't know a whole hell of a lot about whiskey. Like I've told your folks, I've been in the timber, land, and cattle business back in Arizona. Now, I'd like to branch out a little bit and this whiskey looks like a good idea. I'd like to take it back and put it in bottles with labels on them and sell it.'
The old man squinted his eyes. He said, 'Ya ever hear of a federal stamp?'
Longarm nodded. 'Yes, I have.'
'What's you gonna do about that?'
'Once you sell me the whiskey, that'll be my problem, won't it?'
Colton studied him a long moment, then nodded. He said, 'Yeah, it would be. You sayin' that it ain't none of my business?'
'Mr. Colton, I ain't saying that nothing is none of your business. I'm just saying that I know what a federal stamp is and I know that if I don't find a way to get some, I could get in trouble, depending on who I sold the whiskey to. But you got to understand that Arizona is a damn big Place with damn few people and damn little law. We don't have any Treasury agents running around up there, at least none that I've ever seen. Of course, we can't distill whiskey out there like you can. We ain't got the firewood and we ain't got the corn and I wouldn't imagine
