“Did Carl mention anything to you about a girl?” Longarm asked. “A pretty girl? Something that had to do with the bombing he escaped a few days before he died?” That clue was one BethAnne Mobley had unknowingly given him. A pretty girl who Beamon had talked about, a pretty girl who had done something. Longarm had seen Commissioner Troutman’s wife. No one in his right mind would have termed her a pretty girl. Probably not even when she’d been young enough to qualify as a girl, and that had been one hell of a long time back.
“No, he didn’t. He never said anything like that. I’m sure of it.”
“How about an Indian girl?” Longarm asked. “He never said anything to you about a pretty Indian girl?” The official line still maintained that the Utes were behind the bombing. If the bomb was thrown by a girl—one Longarm suspected Beamon might have seen and been talking about—he supposed it would not have been impossible that the girl was a Ute.
“An Indian? Absolutely not. Carl wouldn’t have called Pocahontas a pretty girl. And if he’d seen an Indian he would surely have mentioned it. He was petrified of all Indians. Hated them too, but mostly he was scared of them. He couldn’t stand to be near one. Not any Indian.”
“Oh?”
“When he was a kid, eight, ten years old, something like that, his family was traveling overland from Ohio. They’d stopped beside some creek. He didn’t know where. Kansas maybe, or Nebraska. I suppose it didn’t really matter. Carl wandered off with some dough balls and a hand line to see if he could catch some fish. He hadn’t hardly gotten out of sight from the camp than some Indians attacked. They killed everybody in his family. His father, his brothers, his mother and sister. Carl heard it happening. He hid in the brush. Stayed there for days, I guess, even after the Indians were long gone. It must’ve been terrible what they did to his mother and sister. He said afterward he wasn’t sure which body was which, just that two of the bodies were female.
“He never knew what tribe it was that killed his people. Didn’t matter to him. He was afraid of all Indians after that. Right to this day—that is, to the day he died, I guess. Scared to death of them. No, mister, if he saw an Indian, Carl never would have referred to her as being pretty.”
Longarm grunted and sat back in the rocker, digesting both the meal that lay heavy in his stomach and the information Bernie Hicks was telling him.
“I wish I knew what it was he was going to tell those two men,” Longarm mused out loud.
“You aren’t a businessman from Denver, are you, mister?”
Longarm smiled and confessed his occupation.
“That’s all right then. I expect you have the right to know in that case.”
“You’ve been a big help, Mr. Hicks. Thank you.”
“I wish I could give you the rest of the answers, Marshal.”
“I wish you could too. But don’t worry. We’ll find out sooner or later. One way or some-damn-other. This is one murder that won’t go unpunished. That’s a promise. If you think of anything else that might be helpful …”
Hicks nodded. “I’ll let you know.”
“Good. An’ now, sir, I think I better get upstairs to bed before I fall asleep right here in this chair an’ don’t wake again until breakfast.” Longarm stood, yawning. “Good night, Mr. Hicks.”
“Good night, Marshal.”
Chapter 34
A girl. The stinking sonuvabitch of a bomb was thrown by a girl, and a pretty girl at that. Not an Indian girl. Black hair or a black wig. Longarm had seen that for himself that day. Not seen. Exactly. It was more like an impression than any sight he could call precisely to mind again. But he’d definitely had an impression of black hair underneath the cape and hood of the bomber.
Cape and hood. And it was a damn girl. Shit, she could’ve ducked round a corner and tossed the cape into a trash can, then come right back and joined the crowd of gawking blood-lookers who gathered in the aftermath of every public tragedy.
Longarm could have stood beside her that day and never known the difference. He, everybody, naturally thought of the bomber being a man. For sure it had been a man he’d gone dashing around looking for after the explosion. A man with longish black hair. Likely an Indian. It was no damn wonder he hadn’t seen anybody like that. It was even luckier that there hadn’t been some poor innocent Indian wandering past that day. The Indian would have been strung up from a lamppost and never deserved it. Hell, Longarm or one of the other boys might well have shot him down their own selves and felt righteous about it. And the truth was that it was some damn girl who did this.
Longarm grimaced. He needed to talk to Billy Vail again. That was all there was to it. He had to see Billy, never mind that contact between them was dangerous. Never mind that it might give the game away and alert whoever was behind this that Billy’s boys were onto the lies.
Dammit, it was a chance they would just have to take.
But first there were a couple things Longarm wanted to do, a couple things he needed to set up. Then, dangerous or no, he would pay a call on “Mr. Janus” over at the hospital.
Satisfied that he was doing the right thing, Longarm left the boardinghouse that morning, lighted a cheroot, and went off in search of a hack to take him back to Denver. He had a lot to do, and the quicker he got to it the better it would be for all concerned.
“Do you know that every time I see that stupid hat I think there’s some big-ass bird nesting in your hair.”
Deborah laughed so hard she sprayed bits of bread crust onto her smock. “What are you doing here, Custis?” she asked as she brushed the crumbs off her breast. Longarm would gladly have volunteered to do that for her, but he doubted she would have let him. Not out here in broad daylight where half the doctors and nurses in Denver could see if they were of a mind to be looking. And who in their right mind would not be looking when the prettiest one of them all was sitting there on a shaded bench having her lunch? For certain sure it was a view Longarm enjoyed. Deborah smiled when he told her that. “Thank you. But I notice you haven’t answered my question yet. What brings you here now? And why didn’t you come by last night? I thought we were supposed to have supper at the Windemere.”
