“I see. Has his bank been reopened?”
“Now that I do not know.”
“Thanks.” Longarm had a big breakfast and then returned to his hotel to say good-bye to Victoria.
“Will you be back soon?” she asked, looking pale and shaken over the news of Bernard’s death.
“I don’t know,” Longarm replied. “But I will return. I’ve still got Hank Bass to catch or kill.”
Victoria lifted up on her toes. “You take good care of yourself.”
“I’ll try,” Longarm told her.
“I’ll be waiting for you to return, Custis. And … and I’ll never be able to repay you for saving me up in that canyon.”
Longarm grinned. “It was my pleasure. Just wish we could have made it a clean sweep. You take care, now.”
“Sure,” she replied.
Longarm left Victoria and went to hunt up Eli. He figured that his best chance of finding the old prospector was in the saloon where he’d left the man last night, and so that was where he began his search. But Eli wasn’t there nor was he in any of the other saloons.
Longarm went hunting in the hotels and even the livery, but Eli was nowhere to be found. At least, not until he heard a man shout and emerge from an alley yelling, “Old Eli is dead! Someone cut his throat!”
Longarm bolted forward and rounded a building on a dead run. He sprinted up the alley and skidded to a halt beside Eli’s stiff corpse. Someone had cut the poor old bugger’s throat from ear to ear.
“Jezus!” a man croaked with revulsion. “Old Eli never had any money. Now, who in the world would do such a terrible thing?!”
“I don’t know,” Longarm said in a hard, flat voice, “but before I leave this country, I damn sure mean to find out.”
Chapter 9
Longarm couldn’t say for certain whether he was connected to Eli’s death or not. All he knew for sure was that the old prospector had met a very sad and violent end while Longarm’s own hopes of unraveling the mystery of Jimmy Cox had taken a major setback.
So what was he to do now? That afternoon, they had a funeral procession down the main street and Longarm followed it out to the cemetery. There weren’t a lot of people in attendance, mostly prospectors and town drunks, but it was clear that they had all been Eli’s good friends. One old codger, tall, proud looking, and in his sixties with a long, flowing white beard, seemed to be especially affected by Eli’s death. When Eli was placed in his grave, it was this man who took a Bible out of his coat pocket, smoothed it in his big hands, and then spoke for everyone.
“As you know,” he began, head bowed and hat in hand, “Eli Jones was my very best friend. I’ve lost two best friends lately, Eli and Jimmy Cox, who we all know is probably deader’n a doornail. And I don’t know how God can have ‘em end up so badly. but I sure do want to ask Him to welcome their departed souls.”
The man took a deep, shuddering breath, then continued, “Ain’t none us nothin’ but terrible sinners, Lord. You know that we all are. But, Lord, we ain’t the kind of son of a bitch that cut poor Eli’s throat or did away with Jimmy. Sure, we’ll whore and get drunk every chance we have, but we ain’t killers and none of us would ever hurt anyone out of spite or pleasure.”
“Amen!” another miner shouted. “Tell it sweet, Preacher Dan!”
“And so, Lord, take poor Eli’s soul to Your bosom and give him comfort in Your heaven. Give him good whiskey and meet, and some gold to fill his pockets. That’s all any one of us could ask of You, Father in heaven. Amen.”
Longarm was just as touched by the short but sincere sermon as anyone in attendance. And when a hat was passed around to cover the cost of Eli’s funeral, he contributed generously from the money he’d found hidden in Bass’s canyon cabin. Afterward, everyone trudged back to Wickenburg and proceeded to get roaring drunk. Everyone, that is, except for Preacher Dan, who lingered at the cemetery.
Not wishing to intrude, Longarm waited until the impressive old preacher returned to town and then intercepted him. “Excuse me, Preacher Dan,” he began, “but I’d like a word with you.”
The preacher stopped, and Longarm could see that his eyes were red from weeping. He had wide shoulders and must have been a fine specimen of manhood in his youth, but now those broad shoulders sagged with defeat and too many hard years.
“What do you want?” the preacher asked in a voice raspy with emotion.
“I need your help,” Longarm said.
“I don’t understand-“
Longarm reached into his pocket and dragged out his federal badge. “I’m a United States deputy marshal and my name is Custis Long. I came all the way from Denver to arrest Hank Bass and to find out what happened to my old friend Jimmy Cox. Last night, I made a bargain with Eli, who agreed to help me find Jimmy.”
The preacher stared at the badge in Longarm’s fist. He took a deep, ragged breath and asked, “What has this to do with me?”
“You said that Jimmy Cox was your other best friend. I thought, given that two of them are gone, you might want to help me find out who killed them. I can’t do it without your help, Preacher.”
The big man had ice-blue eyes, so sad that Longarm wondered what awful suffering he had endured in this world.
“Marshal, I’m very sorry, but I can’t help you,” he finally decided aloud.
