“Then just sit tight,” Longarm ordered, jumping down to inspect the rear wagon hub, which was now hanging just a few inches above the ground.
“Mister?” Longarm turned to see the big miner who’d grabbed the bit. He still had hold of the horse and he was as drunk as a lord. “Yeah?” Longarm said.
“Too bad about your damn wheel, ain’t it!” The man started laughing, and so did his friends.
Longarm was out of patience. “Mister, let go of that animal and step back before you get hurt.”
The drunk’s lantern jaw sagged as his brain worked on Longarm’s stern command. Slowly, his jaw closed and his lips formed a sneer. He shoved the lead animal’s head roughly aside and put his hands on his hips. “I don’t believe that I like the tone of your voice, stranger.”
Longarm ignored the man for another moment as he inspected the damage. The hub had not struck the road and looked to be fine. The wheel, however, had two shattered spokes and was beyond repair.
“Damn,” he muttered, trying to ignore the whores and the other gawking fools who were still tittering and making sport of his misfortune.
“Where’s the nearest blacksmith?” he asked, looking up at a plump, grinning woman with huge breasts and a horsefly-sized mole on her upper lip.
She showed yellow teeth and giggled. “Clear to the far end of the street, mister! What you gonna do, carry the butt end of that junky old wagon? Or maybe you’re going to just set up shop right here and peddle your medicine.”
Longarm ignored her questions and reached into his pockets. He spied a tall, skinny kid of about fourteen. He was dirty and had shifty eyes, but he was the only kid in sight, so Longarm marched up to him and said, “Here’s two bits. I want you to roll what’s left of my wheel down to the blacksmith shop. When you get there, tell him we need a new one right away and to bring it down and fit it on.”
The kid barked a high, nasal laugh. “Mister, two bits doesn’t buy shit in this town! Why, I wouldn’t walk across this street for less’n a damned dollar.”
Longarm yearned to reach out and grab the worthless pup by the collar and shake hell out of him. He considered dragging out his badge and using his authority, but rejected the idea. What he really wanted to do was to have the wheel fixed and be on his way without anyone realizing he had Ford Oakley handcuffed and on his way to a hangman’s noose back in Colorado.
“Hey, you,” the big miner who had grabbed his horse by the bit said. “I think you’re just a dumb shit that ain’t got any manners and don’t know shit!”
The crowd hooted and laughed, all of them vocal with agreement. Longarm ground his teeth, took a deep breath, and found a dollar in his pocket. “Here,” he said to the kid. “Go get me a blacksmith and a wheel and I’ll give you another dollar.”
“Ain’t no big thing,” the kid said, removing his cap and running his fingers through his stringy brown hair. “The way I see things, this ain’t no big thing at all.”
The crowd liked the kid’s brass, but Longarm didn’t. Instead of handing the kid the dollar, he grabbed his shirtfront and took two running steps to the nearest horse-watering trough. He squeezed the back of the kid’s neck, driving his head under water. The kid began to buck and fight, but he was a weakling and Longarm had no trouble holding his head under water until the boy really started becoming frantic.
“Let go of him!” the drunk shouted, charging forward.
Longarm’s hand flashed to his gun, and it came up quicker than the blink of an eye and leveled on the big man. “This boy needs a lesson in manners and so do you. Want a dunking like him … or would you rather have a bullet?”
The miner skidded to a halt, and before he could decide what he was going to do next in order to preserve his dignity, Longarm yanked the kid up and shook him dry.
“Well, kid, are you ready to find that blacksmith, or do you want to study the bottom of that water trough a little longer?” Longarm asked.
“I’ll… I’ll get him!” the kid gasped, eyes huge and dilated, face white as foam.
Longarm propelled him up the street yelling, “And be damn quick about it!”
He still held the gun in his fist when he turned to confront the big miner. “Now, make up your mind. Do you really want to get hurt or would you rather just wander back into the saloon and have another drink?”
The question seemed to catch the big miner by surprise. He rubbed his face and then he slowly shook his head, eyes focused on the gun in Longarm’s big fist. “I ain’t armed,” he finally muttered. “But I am thirsty.”
“You should never insult a man who is armed,” Longarm said. “That’s pretty damned stupid.”
“Who the hell are you anyway!” a big woman in a flowered dress and wearing a yellow crocheted shawl demanded.
“He’s a gawddammed federal marshal!” Ford Oakley shouted from inside the wagon.
“Shut up!” Deputy Trout hollered. “Just shut up!”
“Dammit, I ain’t going to shut up!” Oakley could be heard to yell. “Help, someone! It’s Ford Oakley! You people know me and-“
Oakley’s cry for assistance ended with a thud and a low grunt.
“Jaysus!” the woman cried, grabbing the back door of the wagon and flinging it open before Longarm could intervene. “They got Ford!”
Longarm shoved the woman away from his wagon. He glanced inside to see that Deputy Trout had one of the shotguns loaded. He’d apparently used it over Oakley’s skull because the killer was slumped across a box of supplies and was definitely unconscious.
