Beard went down like a pole-axed shoat. It was probably as complete and clean a drop as Longarm ever did see.
“Hey!” someone in the crowd complained. “That wasn’t fair.”
The cry was taken up by others, a good half of the men crowded into the saloon bitching aloud now that there would be no blood spilled.
“You lied,” another voice called out.
“Yeah, I sure as hell did, didn’t I?” Longarm agreed calmly as he first relieved Beard of the burden of his Remington revolver, then dragged the limp body aside a few feet so he could prop Beard up against the bar.
“Will he be all right?” the bartender leaned over and asked.
“Should be. I think it’s safe t’ assume that he has a pretty hard head.” Longarm frisked Beard while he had the chance but found no other weapons on him. Well, he hadn’t expected any.
“You really weren’t fair to him, you know.”
Longarm looked at Morris the barman and shrugged, feeling not the least lick of guilt for refusing to kill a man. “Guns ain’t fair t’ begin with, friend, an’ the only object in a death scrap is t’ win. Which maybe now Mister Beard will live long enough t’ learn. An’ that reminds me. Anybody here able t’ back up his claim that he’s killed eight men because I got to tell you I don’t think he’s ever before faced a grown man with a gun in his hand.”
No one spoke. Finally a smallish fellow wearing bib overalls pushed toward the front edge of the crowd and said, “I don’t know anything about that, but I can tell you that Will practices with that gun of his about every day. He spends hours and hours down in the gully that runs between our places, down there drawing and shooting, drawing and shooting. I’ve watched him, marshal, and I’ve never seen anything as quick as Will is with that gun of his. He’s quicker than any snake I ever seen strike, and that’s the truth.”
By now Beard was commencing to stir as he came back to consciousness. Longarm hoped the fellow was listening.
“Quick noises or even quick an’ accurate shooting ain’t enough when it comes to the real thing,” Longarm said. “An’ for that there’s no such thing as practice. The thing is different when the other fellow intends to shoot back. A man not only has to be good with his gun he has to have it in him to take the life of another human soul. Has to be willing to send a ball o’ hot metal inta the flesh of another man an’ take that man’s life away from him. Not many can do that. Not near so many as believe they can.”
“And Will Beard?”
“I hope he never finds out. Anyway, he won’t learn it from me. Not today he won’t.”
“You gonna arrest him, marshal?”
“Naw, no point. I sure as hell could o’ course. Half a dozen charges I could lay against him, but I got better things t’ do than haul him twenty-some miles north. As it is he’s gonna be woozy and hurting for the next couple days after a blow like the one I just gave him. Somebody … you there that’s his neighbor maybe … somebody drag him home an’ dump him into his bed. He got a wife or somebody t’ tend him? No? Well then he’ll just have to tough it out until he can walk without his knees turning t’ rubber and his skull feeling like it’s fixing to split apart. I’ll let the rest of it be for now.”
Most of the men in the place still looked disappointed. But no one seemed inclined to volunteer as a replacement in the jousting lists with a United States deputy marshal.
Longarm looked about but did not see Jerry, the Capitals’ equipment boy. Didn’t see the beer he’d left on the bar either. There wasn’t time enough for a fresh one. Not right now. He needed to find Jerry and have a word with him, make sure the boy understood that it wasn’t to be nosed around about “pitcher” Chet Short’s true identity.
After that, well, it was coming on toward lunch-time. Longarm figured to eat with the team and then find himself a good place where he could lie in wait for that gang of robbers in case this was his lucky day—and their bad one—and they tried to hit the Sorrel Branch post office safe.
Chapter 37
“Look, Jerry, I, uh, I enjoy your company an’ appreciate your interest, but I got work to do.” The clubfooted kid had been hanging around all big eyed and full of questions ever since the incident at the saloon. Longarm supposed he should be flattered and maybe he would have time enough to think so later, but for right now he was more interested in setting up an ambush for the robbery gang. And the only contribution young Jerry could possibly make would be to get in the way.
“Sure thing, marshal. I mean … Chet.” The kid grinned and winked conspiratorially, sharing that momentous secret with the tall man who turned out to be so much more than he’d seemed.
“Just mind you don’t let slip to anybody who I am, Jerry. Remember what you promised.”
“I won’t forget nothing that important, marshal. I won’t even mention it to Mr. McWhortle.”
Longarm wondered if he should reinforce that promise when it came to Nat Lewis, who was his only real suspect so far, then decided that to single out any one team member would only excite Jerry’s curiosity all the further. Better to let things stand as they were than to add fuel to the kid’s already blazing imagination.
“I’m counting on you, son.”
“And if I can he’p you in any way.”
“You have my word on it, Jerry. I’ll come to you if and when I need any help with this investigation.”
The boy beamed with childish pride. Childish. Jerry was probably seventeen or even older but he acted like a child in many ways and seemed, emotionally and perhaps mentally, younger than his age would indicate. Longarm felt sorry for him.
And immediately put him out of mind once Jerry backed away, assurances of secrecy pouring out of him as he did so, and went off down the street in the direction of the field where the ball game would soon be under way.
