As he did so, he became aware that there were quite a few people on the streets of Cottonwood Springs, and most of them seemed to be staring at him and his prisoner. The looks on their faces weren’t hostile or anything, just … surprised, Longarm decided after a moment. Like they couldn’t believe a couple of strangers were riding into town, especially from the west.
Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any other pilgrims on the road this afternoon, Longarm realized, and he would have thought that the road to Fort Griffin would be a well-traveled route. An uneasy sensation prickled along his spine again.
There were no boardwalks in Cottonwood Springs, but several of the businesses had elevated porches built onto the front of the buildings. Longarm veered the Appaloosa toward a hotel called the Cottonwood House. As usual for a small town, several elderly men were sitting on cane-bottomed chairs on the hotel’s porch. Longarm brought the horses to a stop by the hitch rack and nodded to the loafers. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “Can one of you tell me whereabouts I might find the local law?”
The old-timers just stared at him and didn’t say anything.
Longarm swallowed his irritation and impatience. “You do have a sheriff or a marshal here in Cottonwood Springs, don’t you?”
One of the men finally said something, even though it wasn’t an answer to either of Longarm’s questions. “You come here from somewhere around the Brazos, stranger?”
“That’s right. The other side of the river, in fact.”
Two more of the old men looked at each other, and one of them said, “He crossed the Brazos.” From the tone of his voice, Longarm might just as well have hopped down to Texas from the moon.
This time Longarm couldn’t contain his reaction. He snapped, “Look, I’m a deputy United States marshal. Have you got any law around here or not?”
The first old-timer who had spoken buffed up and said, “No call to get all peevish, mister. If you were lookin’ for Mal Burley, why didn’t you just say so?”
Longarm gritted his teeth and refrained from pointing out that he had done that very thing a few seconds earlier.
“You’ll find Mal down at the bank,” the old man said, pointing to a substantial brick building about a block away. “I wouldn’t bother him right now, though. He’s talkin’ to Mr. Thorp.”
Longarm didn’t know or care who Mr. Thorp was, but he didn’t waste his time or breath saying so. He just nodded to the codger, grunted “Thanks,” and headed the Appaloosa toward the bank, leading the chestnut behind him.
Before he could reach the bank, Longarm spotted a man wearing a star pinned to his vest emerging from the brick building. In contrast to his name, Mal Burley was short, slender, and narrow-shouldered. Most small-town lawmen relied on brawn to get their jobs done, but Burley wouldn’t have that luxury. On the other hand, Cottonwood Springs looked like the sort of place that was fairly peaceful most of the time, even though for some reason there were a lot of people in town at the moment.
Another man followed Burley out of the bank. He wore a town suit, but his boots and Stetson were those of a rancher. He was medium-sized—which still made him bigger than the local marshal—and had graying dark hair. His clean-shaven face wore a belligerent expression.
Longarm was already within earshot as the local lawman swung around and said to the man following him, “I told you, Mr. Thorp, I’m doing everything I can. You said you wanted reports every day, and it’s not my fault that there’s nothing new to tell you.”
“It’s been three weeks, Mal,” Thorp said. “You can’t blame me for being worried.”
“No, sir, I sure can’t,” agreed Burley. “But I can’t change the way things are either.”
Thorp’s mouth tightened. “Maybe it’s time I made a change.”
For a moment, Burley didn’t say anything. Then he nodded curtly and said, “You do whatever you have to do, Mr. Thorp.”
“I always do.”
This exchange was interesting as all get out, Longarm thought as he reined up in front of the bank, but it didn’t have a damned thing to do with him. He cleared his throat and said, “Marshal Burley?”
Both Burley and Thorp looked up at him in surprise. They had been so wrapped up in their own conversation they hadn’t seen him approaching with his prisoner. Burley asked, “What can I do for you, mister?”
“Name’s Custis Long. I’m a deputy United States marshal out of Denver, and this is a federal prisoner I have with me. I was wondering if I might take advantage of your hospitality and put him in your lockup for a spell. He needs a doctor to look at him too.”
“A federal badge, eh?” Burley said, clearly a little annoyed at the interruption but interested and impressed in spite of himself.
“That’s right. I’ve got my bona fides right here.” Longarm reached under his coat and took from an inner pocket the small leather folder which contained his badge and identification papers. He handed them to Burley, having to lean over in the saddle to do so because of the man’s short stature. Burley studied the badge for a moment, and as he did Thorp was also examining it over his shoulder.
“Looks like you’re the genuine article, Marshal Long,” Burley said as he handed the folder back to Longarm. “You can leave your prisoner in my jail for as long as you like. I don’t get too many customers in Cottonwood Springs. Not likely we’ll run out of room. I’ll send word for Doc Carson to come down there, if that’s all right.”
“Much obliged.”
“Who have you got there?”
“His name’s Mitch Rainey,” Longarm said. “He and his partner have been holding up stages hereabouts.”
Burley let out a low whistle. “You caught up to Rainey and Lloyd?” He sounded impressed.
