would be awkward to bring into play in these close quarters but lethal when used. The Colt was more selective. Either way he would have to snatch the grate off in order to shoot down at anyone trying to break open the safe. And since one hand would be needed to pull the grate aside, perhaps he would be better off using the revolver. Careful to do it in silence, he laid the shotgun gently down and slid the big double action Colt out of his holster. Now all he needed was for the robbers
…
“Marshal?” Longarm blinked. Who the hell?
“Mr. Short?” the same voice called again, a little louder this time. “Where are you, sir?” There was a sound like a cupboard being opened and closed again. “Marshal Crockett said for me t’ come tell you there’s nothing doing, sir. Ball game’s over and everybody is on their way back. Those two boys you was warned about was out at the ball field along with everybody else, Boone says. Miz Joy sent a girl to tell him. They was out there drinking beer and eating peanuts and yelling like hell for that Texas team t’ win, sir. Uh, wherever you are.”
The local deputy was wandering around inside the post office while he spoke, directing his words to the counters and cabinets and into a broom closet so small it would barely hold a mop. Obviously the boy—Longarm thought his name was Tommy, Timmy, something like that—hadn’t been told precisely where to find the visiting fireman, only that he was to go find the federal man and deliver the message.
Longarm sighed. Dammit, if a man was gonna have to be this miserable he at least should have the satisfaction of it paying off. Too late for that, of course. “Hey! You down there.”
“Yes, sir?” The young deputy stared toward the ceiling in response to Longarm moving about now.
“Move that trash bin, will you? I don’t want to come down on it when I drop.” Longarm pulled aside the planks that covered the access hole to the attic, held Crockett’s shotgun down for the deputy to take, and lowered himself until he was hanging by his hands, then bent his knees a little and dropped the remaining way to the floor. And to breathable air. Hot as it was inside the closed building it was still a hell of a lot more comfortable at floor level than it had been in that cursed attic.
“Give Marshal Crockett my thanks, son,” Longarm said.
“Ain’t you coming back to the jail with me? Boone said something about you being expected for dinner.”
“No, but tell him thanks. Me, I got work to do.”
Feeling considerably let down, Longarm let himself out of the post office and made his way through a happy, moving crowd back in the direction of the ball field to rejoin the team.
Chapter 32
Douglas McWhortle snarled and snapped and otherwise expressed his contempt while he led Longarm well clear of the other ball players, then once they were out of hearing asked in a calm and pleasant tone of voice, “Did you do any good today?”
“Not hardly,” Longarm complained, going on to explain the high hopes involving two good suspects who failed to show up. At which point the Capitals manager laughed, causing Longarm’s eyebrows to kite upward.
“Your two suspects wouldn’t have been named Joey Mascarelli and Jim Baxter, would they?”
“The first names are for sure the right ones,” Longarm conceded, “but how the hell would you’ve known a thing like that?”
McWhortle chuckled and explained, “Those boys weren’t in town to ‘make a hit’ like those girls thought. They were here to do some hitting. They came out while we were warming up for the game today and claimed they should have a try-out. Said they were the best batsmen ever to come out of … well, out of whatever one-horse township they come from. Said once we saw them bat we’d be pawing the ground ready to sign them up to a professional contract.”
“Shit,” Longarm mumbled. He glanced over toward the ball club but didn’t see any strangers, so he asked the logical question.
“Of course they didn’t make the team,” McWhortle told him, “though we gave them a chance to show us what they could do. After all, Jason needed to get warmed up anyway. The first kid showed he could hit a fastball down the middle well enough, so Jason gave him a shave.”
When Longarm continued to look blank, obviously not knowing what the hell the manager meant by that, McWhortle explained. “He threw one at the kid’s jaw. Would have put a permanent dent in the left side of the boy’s face if he hadn’t ducked in time. Which nearly everyone does, by the way. But after that the kid was so gun-shy he wouldn’t stand within a bat’s length of the plate and never so much as touched the horsehide fastball and wasn’t so scared of chin music, but I doubt he’d ever seen a curve ball before. For sure he’d never tried to hit a professional quality curve. Once Jason started pitching those that boy was done hitting. So I thanked them for their interest and sent them back home. Wherever that is.”
“I’d’ve been happier if they was the robbers instead of some farm boys wanting to run off and be famous,” Longarm admitted.
“Next time,” McWhortle said hopefully.
“Yeah.”
“Got your things together?” the manager asked. “We leave on the westbound in forty-five minutes. Of course you’re still under suspension, but if you ask real nice and agree to pay a fine by forfeiting one game’s pay then I might let you back in the batting order this next game.”
“Let’s leave the suspension as it is,” Longarm said. I’ll sulk off away from the team and try again to set up a trap for our boys if they show in … where are we going anyhow?”
“Town called Sorrel Branch.”
“You do pick the big ones, don’t you?”
“I do pick the ones so bored they pay for us to stop,” McWhortle returned. Then, putting on a thoroughly pissed off expression, he commenced to rant and yell about pitcher Short’s shortcomings.
A moment later the equipment boy Jerry showed up at Longarm’s elbow to inquire about Longarm’s gear, and Longarm realized that he and McWhortle were both back to playacting.
Longarm wiped the sweat off his neck and went about preparing to take another rattletrap train ride to
