block. Thorp went reluctantly, and he spat curses back over his shoulder at Rainey as the two lawmen led him out.
Longarm felt a little relieved when the cellblock door was closed and locked. Thorp was damned near frothing at the mouth by this time, and Longarm supposed he couldn’t blame him. He and Burley got Thorp settled down in the chair in front of the desk.
Burley looked at Longarm and asked, “What do you think, Long? Is Rainey telling the truth?”
Longarm rubbed a thumbnail along his freshly shaven jaw and then tugged on his right earlobe in thought. “I think he is,” he finally said.
“That’s insane!” Thorp exploded. “He has to be lying!”
“He’s still pretty shook up after that scare he had yesterday,” Longarm said, “and he knows how much trouble he’s in here. If he and Lloyd did have anything to do with your wife’s disappearance, I think he’d lie about it, all right, but he wouldn’t just dummy up like that. His sort usually starts trying to spin some fancy yarn to take them off the hook, and that’s what trips ‘em up. When you’re dealing with owlhoots like Rainey, a good rule of thumb is the simpler the story, the more likely it is to be true.”
Thorp shook his head. “I still don’t believe him.” He glowered at Longarm. “And you’re not going to take him back to Denver when he may be the key to finding my wife either!”
Longarm had done some debating with himself on that very subject. He had been gone from Denver long enough already, and it was time to be getting back with his prisoner. On the other hand, he couldn’t blame Burley and Thorp for wanting to keep Rainey here in Cottonwood Springs until the matter of Emmaline Thorp’s disappearance was settled. He had come up with a compromise, and he said now, “I don’t intend to move on right away, especially since I noticed you’ve got a Western Union office here. I’ll send a wire to my boss to let him know that Lloyd’s dead and Rainey is in custody, but I’ll tell him we’ll be delayed for a few days at the request of the local authorities. That ought to placate Billy … for a while.”
“Thanks, Long,” Burley said. “I’m glad you’re cooperating. I don’t have any desire to get in a ruckus with the U.S. government.”
Thorp stood up. “You two can throw bouquets at each other all you want. I’m going back in there and question that owlhoot some more.”
Before Longarm or Burley could say anything, the door of the marshal’s office opened, and a tall, thin young man in a suit and a stiff collar came in and said, “Mr. Thorp, I think you’d better get over to the bank right away.”
“What the hell’s wrong, Stanley?” Thorp asked, not bothering to conceal his irritation. He kept staring at the cell block door as if he could see something on the other side of it.
The young man swallowed hard and said, “There are some … people there to see you. One of them said to tell you his name was Booth.”
Thorp’s head jerked around. “Booth?” he repeated. “My God, I didn’t expect him so soon.”
Burley said worriedly, “What’s going on here, Mr. Thorp? Who’s this fella Booth?”
Thorp ignored him. He stalked over to the door, seemingly galvanized by the news his assistant had brought. “Thanks, Stanley,” he said. He went out, trailed by the young man.
Longarm and Burley exchanged a glance. Burley didn’t like this, and Longarm’s instincts told him it could be more trouble too. Acting as if with one mind, both men started toward the door.
A crowd had already started gathering in front of the bank, Longarm saw as he and Burley emerged from the marshal’s office. And with good reason, because the people standing on the porch in front of the bank were like nothing the good citizens of Cottonwood Springs had ever seen before.
The man and the woman standing together were normal enough, Longarm saw as he and Burley drew closer. Thorp had already reached the bank and was shaking hands with the man, who wore a fringed buckskin coat, a big cream-colored Stetson, tight brown trousers, and high-topped black boots. It was the sort of outfit one of those Wild West Show impresarios back East would wear, Longarm thought. The gent was tall and lean and had a dark spade beard.
The woman was dressed more elegantly, her gown the height of fashion even though it was a little dusty at the moment, no doubt from riding in one of the wagons that were parked in front of the bank. Longarm put her age around thirty, which made her about fifteen years younger than the man she was with. She had dark red hair under a feathered hat, and she was undeniably beautiful.
Their two companions were the ones attracting most of the attention from the townspeople. One of the men was tall and broad-shouldered and had a turban of some sort that came to a point on top wrapped around his head. His beard stuck out in two tufts, one on each side of his chin, and his face was the color of saddle leather. He wore boots and loose trousers and a tunic with a broad leather sash tied around his waist. Tucked behind that sash was a wicked-looking sword with a wide, curving blade. He was armed as well with a rifle equipped with a sling, which he carried over one shoulder. Longarm didn’t recognize the rifle and wondered if it was of foreign manufacture, because the gent carrying it sure as hell was.
The other man also wore a turban, and his tunic came almost to his knees. He was as dark-skinned as his partner but clean-shaven, and he wasn’t armed as far as Longarm could tell. He was also about half the size of the man standing next to him on the porch of the bank. From Longarm’s reading in the Denver Public Library on those days close to the end of the month when he’d run out of drinking and gambling money, Longarm recognized both of them as being from India or some such Asian country.
The wagons that had evidently brought the foursome to Cottonwood Springs were ordinary, medium-sized vehicles with canvas coverings over their beds, the type of wagons that could be bought or rented at practically any wagon yard. The teams hitched to them were good enough, Longarm saw, running his eyes over them as would any experienced judge of horseflesh, but like the wagons they pulled, they were quite common. It was the people who had arrived in these conveyances who were out of the ordinary.
Burley stepped up onto the porch and asked bluntly, “Who’s this, Mr. Thorp?”
“The man who’s going to find my wife,” Thorp said. “The man who’s going to track down the Brazos Devil and kill it once and for all. Marshal Burley, this is John Booth, Lord Beechmuir, and his wife Lady Beechmuir.”
“How do you do, Marshal?” John Booth said to Burley in a strong British accent. He extended a hand, which the local lawman shook a little dubiously. “It’s quite an honor to be here in your community. Quite an honor indeed to
