Brown asked, “Do you want to write the letter or not?”
Longarm thought for a moment. “I don’t see what good it would do. If I write the letter to prove I’m alive, what’s to keep you from killing me as soon as you get the letter in hand? Where the hell is the advantage to me in putting anything down on paper, other than to express my feelings about what a sorry son of a bitch you are and what a fool I’ve been. What’s the advantage to me?”
Brown said, “You’ve got it wrong, Marshal Long. I have no desire in me to kill a member of the marshal’s service. I know full well how close you people are and how you protect your own. I think I can do this very easily with that famous badge of yours—the one with the dent in it where it stopped a bullet that would have gone into your heart, the badge that is celebrated throughout the marshal’s service. I think I can do that with your absence and the badge. I think a letter from you would serve to cut down on the time that you are going to be enjoying my hospitality. That’s the only reason I suggest the letter.”
Longarm said, “Why is it, Mr. Brown, that I don’t necessarily feel inclined to believe your every word? Is there something about you that I don’t like other than the fact that you have tricked me, trapped me, and thrown me into this jail cell?”
“Look, Marshal, you can make your custody as easy or as hard as you want. I expect you to try and escape but you won’t be able to. This matter could take a week or six months. Personally, I’m prepared to wait it out. I won’t be here. But I can tell you this, when it comes time to do you some favors, I am leaving orders as to how you are to be treated—the matter regarding a woman, for instance.”
Longarm said, “I don’t reckon I’d screw anything of yours with a mule’s dick.”
Brown laughed. “Oh, I think your tune will change as the days go by.”
“One thing you’re forgetting and that’s this Mr. Jenkins. I was seen with him. It is a known fact that I was in Laredo, and the first place they’ll start looking for me is in Laredo, and somebody is going to tell them that I was seen with this Jenkins fellow. When they find him, they’ll find you. When they find you, they’ll find me. Ever think of that? Might be in your best interest right now to ride away and leave this door open.”
Brown smiled, though Longarm couldn’t see it. He said, “Mr. Jenkins never saw me. He’s not part of my organization. He’s nothing but a down-on-his-luck cardsharper, a small-time confidence man. We used him to catch your interest. He was given a very specific set of instructions to follow. The business about the horse—we thought you would suspect some sort of criminal activity and you’d take the bait. Guess what, Marshal? You took the bait and that’s why you’re here. There never was a horse. By now, Mr. Jenkins is in New Orleans or Phoenix or Tombstone or Kansas City or Houston. Trust me, he’s no longer in Laredo.” Longarm said, “He’s probably six feet under.”
“There’s that consideration, too. Marshal, I’ve talked to you as long as is necessary. I’ll have some writing materials slid under the door. Someone will come and collect the letter. If you don’t write it, that’s your business. You do what you want on that score. You won’t be talking to me for a while, but there will be plenty of people around here to take care of you. I say adios to you now and I’m off.”
Longarm said, “Hey! Wait a minute, damn it! Hold up there, Brown. I’ve still got a few things I want to tell you, you son of a bitch.”
But he could tell from the hollow sound on the other side of the door that Brown had already left. He was alone in the big empty room.
He walked over to the table and poured himself a glass of whiskey and went over to the bed and sat down. He stared at the wall as he sipped at the liquor. For one of the few times in his life, he found himself totally baffled about what to do, what his next step should or even could be. There didn’t seem to be a next step. For a moment, Longarm felt the slightest twinge of desperation, but with an effort he fought it down. This was one time when he was going to have to be at his best and do his best thinking. Brown was dangerous because he was so intelligent. He was deadly because of his intelligence and he didn’t seem to have a conscience. He had willfully captured a United States marshal and was holding him for extortion. That took nerve and a lack of either conscience or good sense. Longarm wasn’t sure which.
Chapter 4
For a long time, Longarm stared down into his glass of whiskey. He wasn’t so sure that he wanted to leave the place alive. It might be for the best if Brown just killed him. He thought he would rather be dead than face Billy Vail and admit to how easily he’d been suckered into such a trap. Whatever had possessed him, he still didn’t understand, except it was his damn curiosity. He had been almost certain that Mr. Jenkins had been up to some crime. Yeah, he had been up to a crime, all right. He was stealing, but what he was stealing was a deputy marshal. The only smuggling he had done was to smuggle him, Longarm, into Mexico and right into the hands of Mr. Brown and his ambitious plan to get the government to give him an embezzler and, thereby, $200,000 of government money. That, Longarm thought, was really going after the golden goose.
After a while, he began to take stock of what he had on hand that he could use in some way to free himself. They had taken his gun but had left him his gunbelt. He slowly unbuckled it, looking ruefully at the big silver concave belt buckle. Normally concealed in the concavity of the buckle would have been a .38-caliber derringer held in place by a steel spring. But on the train trip back from Mexico City, Earl Combs had given him so much trouble wrestling around and cutting up that he had been afraid the small gun would become dislodged and fall out. As a result, he had packed it in his valise. It was still in his valise, but that was back at his hotel in Laredo. Normally, he didn’t carry cartridges in the loops on his belt. They were too heavy and made the whole affair too heavy. But he had eight for some reason in the loops in the belt. He looked at the big .44-caliber cartridges and wondered what good they were. Without a gun to fire them, they were useless. He laid the gunbelt on the bed and then began feeling through his pockets. He had the cash—he got it out and counted it. He had fifty-one dollars. He also had some loose change. Then he had a small pocketknife. Wasn’t much use as a weapon, about all he could do with it was sharpen a pencil or maybe cut a thread off his shirt, but it wouldn’t do in a fight.
He surveyed his assets with a feeling of hopelessness. It didn’t appear he possessed a single weapon that he could use to free himself. He got up and walked around the room, looking for anything he might contrive to use to gain his freedom. The room was bare except for the bed, the two tables, the two chairs, the lamp and a few pictures and a small mirror on the wall. He supposed he could spill the coal oil out and set fire to it, but it damn sure wasn’t going to set the thick plaster walls on fire and the big wooden beams were too heavy to burn even if they did catch on fire. All he would manage to do was to burn himself up. Quite frankly, he viewed the situation as hopeless. He could not remember ever feeling so helpless before in his life.
He sat back down, finished his whiskey, and poured more into his glass. Just as he was taking a drink, he heard a scratching at the door. He glanced over and saw some white pieces of paper along with a pencil being shoved underneath. He got up, padded soundlessly over in his stocking feet—he still hadn’t put his boots back on. There were two sheets of bond paper and the pencil. He leaned down, picked them up, walked back and laid them on the table where he had eaten his supper. He didn’t know if he would write the letter or not, but as Brown had pointed out, it might speed things up, and there was also the chance that he could give whoever might read the letter some
