“It’s a long story that I can’t disclose,” Longarm told the two curious men. “But if you see that man again, you need to immediately alert the federal authorities. The suspect is probably going to murder a lot more men if he isn’t apprehended as soon as possible.”
“Well, I’ll do that,” the boarder vowed. “I see that ugly jasper, I’ll arrest him myself—if the feds have posted a reward.”
“They haven’t,” Longarm said, “and I would strongly advise you not to brace him under any circumstances.”
“He’s a real killer, huh?”
“He is,” Longarm agreed. “About as bad as you’ll ever find. That’s why I need to know if he said anything about where he was going next.”
“I’m afraid not,” Paulson said with a frown. “But come to think of it, I did happen to notice that there was a lot of dew on the meadow grass this morning.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I could see that a horseman had ridden out and he was heading southwest, in the general direction of Leadville.”
“Thanks,” Longarm told both men, “I appreciate the help and the information.”
“No trouble at all, Marshal,” the boarder said, looking very relieved. “Always happy to be of assistance to the law.”
Longarm managed not to laugh out loud before he turned on his heel and went up to enjoy a good night’s sleep.
Chapter 6
“Howdy,” The Assassin said when he reined up in front of the open-doored blacksmith’s shop and peered inside the dim recesses. “Can you please tell me where I can find a man named Hank Trabert? I understand that he hails from these parts and I’ve ridden quite a distance to find him.”
The blacksmith, a thick, taciturn man, was laboring at his forge. His attention was riveted on the orange- colored horseshoe he was beating into shape across the horn of his anvil. And though the air was cold, his front shirt was unbuttoned almost to his waist and stained dark with perspiration.
Not bothering to look up at the polite stranger sitting astride the bay gelding, he growled, “Stranger, can’t you see I’m busy? You want information, go ask someone that ain’t got anything better to do. Don’t bother me, dammit!”
Jim Smith’s black eyes tightened at the corners with anger as he watched the blacksmith shaping the horseshoe. The man was about his weight, but short and probably more powerful. After a moment of consideration, Smith dismounted and led his horse over to a tie rail. He tied the bay, then loosened his cinch, eyes locked on the unsuspecting blacksmith. Smith’s hat was pulled down low. He wore a blue scarf that rode up high around on his neck so that the angry, crimson-colored flesh that lined his jaw was concealed. His black hair was now very long and shaggy so that no one could see the unpleasant remains of his left ear. With the bandages gone and a thick smear of grime and mud to cover a few other fleshy discolorations, The Assassin didn’t attract all that much attention.
He still moved with the fluid grace of a big cat. His fingers, once nimble enough to handle a deck of cards with the skill of a professional dealer, were now covered with angry red scar tissue, but encased in soft doeskin gloves. Smith didn’t care because he could still handle a gun or a rifle far better than most.
Smith surveyed the town, idly considering how much of a lesson in civility he would need to administer to the blacksmith. Had the fellow been simply indifferent, his manners could have been excused. But instead, this man had been rude and unkind. He had also been insulting, and Smith could not tolerate such treatment. This blacksmith lacked any sensitivity and had no concept of the real meaning of physical pain. He’d probably never lost a wife and a child or known agonies of the mind. He was a brute begging for a hard lesson.
Smith strolled into the blacksmith’s shop. They were alone. No one would interfere. Still, as Smith watched the unsuspecting blacksmith, something inside demanded he give the man one last chance.
“I said that I’d ridden a very long way and that I really must find Hank Trabert. I used the word ‘please.’”
The blacksmith swung around, hammer clenched menacingly in his fist. “And I told you to go to hell! I got work to do here and-“
The blacksmith never finished his sentence because Smith seized his wrist with both hands and shoved the man’s hammer and fist into the fire. The blacksmith screamed and his eyes bugged out. He struggled in agony as the handle of his hammer and the flesh of his fingers seared and smoked.
“Ahhhh!”
Smith felt the fire heating the doeskin leather of his gloves. His lips drew back from his teeth and his scarred face pressed close to the blacksmith, who was trying to break free. Smith held the blacksmith’s hand a moment longer against the coals of the forge, and then released him when the wooden handle caught fire.
The blacksmith collapsed to his knees, his left hand holding his right wrist. His face was suddenly very pale and his entire body shook as he stared at his blistered fingers.
Smith squatted down beside the man, their faces just inches apart. When he spoke to the whimpering blacksmith, his voice was gentle, almost compassionate. “I once read that being burned to death is the most painful way of all to die. I believe that, and I expect that now you do too.”
“Get away from me!” the blacksmith screeched.
“You really are a very, very stupid man,” Smith said, taking a handful of the blacksmith’s hair and then slamming his face twice into the anvil, smashing cheekbones and nose to mushy pulp. The blacksmith momentarily lost consciousness.
Smith stood up and looked around. He saw a can of rust-colored water that the blacksmith used to cool the iron hot off his forge. Smith picked up the can and poured it over the unconscious man’s head until the blacksmith roused again.
