“It would mean accepting a temporary appointment as a special U.S. deputy marshal and going out on a case unsupervised. Do you think you could handle that?” Longarm asked.
“You aren’t funning me, are you, sir?”
“No, Harris, I’m serious as I can be. I’m sure you understand how busy we all are, what with the marshal and those other folks being blown up by that bomb and everything.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, I would of been at the funeral myself today but I had to get ready to come on duty here tonight.”
“The thing is, I need some help. Can you get off for a few days?”
“Yes, sir,” Harris said instantly. “You just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”
Longarm brought out the warrants he’d gotten from Henry that afternoon and explained to Harris what they were and how—and where—they should be served.
“All the way to Salt Lake City? Wow!”
Longarm had the distinct impression that Lenny Harris had never been that far from home his whole life long. And that he was plenty excited now at the prospect of being sent off on a genuine assignment as a U.S. deputy marshal to such a distant and exotic place.
“You’ll do it?” Longarm asked.
“You bet I will, sir. I mean … Longarm.” If Lenny’s grin got any bigger, Longarm figured his face might break in two.
“Here’s a hundred dollars cash. That should be enough to cover expenses getting there and back for you and the prisoner. Do you have handcuffs?”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“Leg irons?”
“No, I don’t have none of those.”
“Here. I brought a pair. Here’s the keys. I don’t expect you to have any trouble with your prisoner, but don’t take any chances.”
“No, sir, I won’t.”
“Keep your receipts so you can turn them over to me when you get back. Here’s a badge you’ll be authorized to carry.”
Lenny looked so proud, Longarm was afraid the kid might burst plumb open at the seams.
“Now raise your right hand, son, an’ repeat after me.”
The oath—such as it was—Longarm made up as he went along. Whatever the words, they would satisfy Lenny Harris. And Longarm hoped nobody else would ever ask about this. Or so much as know about it—with the possible exception someday of Henry. Longarm might choose to tell him. Or not.
And hell, for all Longarm knew, this deputation business might actually prove to be legal and binding if push ever came to shove. After all, he did have the authority to deputize posse members and the like under certain circumstances. And if he hadn’t inquired too closely about those circumstances and whether this business with young Harris might fit under them, well, that would only be necessary in the unlikely event that something drew official attention to the arrangement.
In the meantime, though—and that was the important thing—in the meantime Deputy Marshal Long was now free to do what he thought properly had to be done.
Chapter 8
Longarm left the Denver & Rio Grande at the Colorado Springs station, and immediately looked for a streetcar to take him over to Colorado City, even though it probably would have been more convenient to hire a horse right there in Colorado Springs and get on with things.
His only reason for doing it the way he did was that he just plain felt more comfortable in Colorado City than he ever managed to do in Colorado Springs. The difference, he supposed, was easy enough to understand. In Colorado Springs there were a reported twenty-odd churches, though he hadn’t actually gone around and counted. And by force of law not one single solitary saloon. The serving of liquor to the great unwashed was strictly illegal in the hoity-toity city where the Eastern swells and the newly rich hung out. Although, as Longarm had reason to know, rich folks got just as drunk as anybody when they were safely in private, with only their own grand kind around to see.
Good old Colorado City, on the other hand, was loud, raunchy, boisterous, and full of both good humor and bad whiskey. Or sometimes the other way around, but that was all right too. Anyway, Longarm’s preference, now and pretty much any time that duty permitted, was to spend his time and do his business with the honest—or mostly so—burghers of Colorado City in preference to their neighbors just a couple miles to the east of that much older community.
He let the horse-drawn car on rails carry him past the bustle of Colorado City’s business district and two blocks on toward Manitou, picked up his saddle and carpetbag, and swung down off the streetcar without bothering to ask for a stop.
The air was crisp there, higher and cooler and cleaner than it was back in Denver, with less smoke and soot and smell in it. It felt good in a man’s lungs, and Longarm always found himself breathing deeper and standing taller when he was outside the stink of the big city. He shouldered his gear and began walking toward a livery he’d done business with several times in the past and where he knew he could count on finding a square deal.
“Two horses, Marshal? How come two?” the hostler asked when Longarm told the man what he required.
“One to fork, Jerry, and one to pack. An’ I’ll need a pack frame and fixings to go on the spare. Cheroot? These are good’uns.” He smiled and held out a pair of the slim, dark smokes. The hostler selected one and Longarm took the other, striking a match and lighting both of the mild and flavorful cigars.
