“I need a drink,” Longarm told the saloon keeper as he dropped his bags and leaned his weapons up against the bar. “Whiskey, and make it a double.”
“You just get off the stage from Ash Fork?”
“I did.”
“No sign of that poor young woman, huh?”
“What woman?”
“Why, Miss Hathaway. She, her fiance, and their driver were attacked by Bass and his gang yesterday.”
Longarm took a deep, steadying breath. “And?”
“The driver went for his gun and was shot to death. Our banker, Bernard Potter, he was wounded and ain’t expected to live. And damned if Bass didn’t take Miss Hathaway away. That poor woman hasn’t been seen since!”
Longarm tossed his whiskey down. “What about a posse?”
“Ain’t nobody willing to ride after that gang.”
“Hit me again,” Longarm growled.
When he’d had his second drink, Longarm said, “Has this town hired a new marshal?”
“Can’t find one stupid enough to take the job,” the saloon keeper answered. “Not at any price.”
“So there’s no law whatsoever?”
“Just the law of the gun, same as there is in most towns out west. The dying banker has offered a small dollar reward for the safe return of his fiance. But he’s such a skinflint that a hundred dollars hasn’t generated any takers.”
“A hundred lousy dollars?”
The saloon keeper shrugged. “What the hell does he care since he’s dying?”
“Yeah,” Longarm said, “I guess I see your point.”
Longarm considered what should be done about Miss Victoria Hathaway. He could not just turn his back on her plight and ride down to Wickenburg to help Jimmy Cox. Not until he put this matter to rest and brought Bass and his men to rope justice.
“Where do you think Bass might have taken Miss Hathaway?”
“Who knows? Most think he took her for ransom. Probably waiting for Mr. Potter to offer a whole lot more than one hundred dollars in reward.”
“All right,” Longarm said. “Where can I buy or rent a good saddle horse?”
“You going after that reward?”
“Maybe.”
“Best forget it,” the bartender advised. “A dead man can’t spend no piddling hundred dollars of reward money.”
“Just answer my question.”
“Livery is at the end of the street. Called the Circle Bar Livery. You can’t miss it. The owner, Joe Blue, he won’t try to skin you too bad, but he doesn’t give any thing away either.”
“Thanks,” Longarm said, picking up his bag, the shotgun, and his Winchester.
“You a bounty hunter?” the bartender shouted as Longarm passed outside.
“Nope.”
Several minutes later he was at the livery and talking to Joe Blue, who was slender, as smelly as a billy goat, and about his own age. “Mr. Blue, I need a good horse.”
“To buy, or just to rent?”
Longarm frowned, then suddenly remembered that he was almost dead broke. “Be right back,” he said. “Got some funds that have been wired to the bank.”
“Bank is closed,” Blue said. “on account of Mr. Potter being shot up and lyin’ on his deathbed.”
“When will it reopen?”
“Everybody would sure as hell like to know the answer to that question.”
“But I need the money that was wired there to get a horse! And I need it now.”
“Sorry,” Blue said. “I’m real happy to say that I don’t have nothin’ to do with the bank. I’m smart enough to keep my own money hidden in a tobacco can off somewheres that nobody would ever find.”
Longarm dragged out his billfold and counted the last of his personal funds. “I’ve got … thirty-eight dollars left.”
“Hell, I’ll rent you a horse for that.”
“For how long?”
“Depends on which horse.”
