mules. The mules began to bray as soon as they saw the medicine wagon and Longarm’s four-horse team. About five acres of land had been plowed and planted with corn, but the homesteader’s water well must have gone dry, or else the soil was too poor and rocky, because the corn wasn’t growing worth a damn. To Longarm’s way of thinking, this part of Nevada was too high, cold, and dry to farm. If anything, it was good for little more than to eke out a living raising sheep and cattle.
An old, weather-worn wagon with a busted axle told Longarm that things were indeed tough here. Longarm thought maybe he could make a swap and trade the damned troublesome wagon for a couple of saddles. He could keep a better eye on Ford Oakley that way and just take his chances with anyone they might meet on these isolated mountain roads.
The big problem was that there were three dead outlaws in the back of the medicine wagon as well as poor Deputy Trout’s riddled body to consider. Longarm had no desire to haul four dead men clear over these mountains, and yet, with his wounds and the troubles he’d faced so far, he wasn’t really feeling up to that much burying.
“Hello the cabin!” he shouted, reining in the team. “Can I step down and water these horses!”
A voice answered, “Cost you a dollar!”
“Everything in this damn country is higher than a hog’s back,” Longarm muttered. “All right, I’ll pay!”
Longarm saw movement through the lone window of the cabin. The door pushed open on leather hinges, and then Longarm saw the barrel of an old flintlock rifle poke around the corner of the doorjamb. Longarm’s hand moved toward his own six-gun, and he held his breath as a medium-sized man with a scraggly blond beard cautiously emerged. The Ruby Mountain homesteader was in his early twenties, handsome enough but thin and worn-looking, with tattered clothes and bare feet.
“Mornin’,” Longarm called in greeting as he started to climb down. “Hold up, mister!” the homesteader warned, raising his old flintlock in a threatening manner. “Before your feet touch my ground, I want to see that dollar!”
Longarm sat back down. “You’ll never see it unless you put that rifle down.”
The man nervously bit his lower lip. He looked worried and unsure, but he lowered his rifle a few inches. “Who are you, a medicine peddler? I ain’t gonna buy nothin’. I’m cash poor. That’s why I need that dollar.”
“Put the rifle down. I have a dollar.”
The man lowered his rifle even more, but he did not put it down. Longarm, however, was satisfied and dug into his pockets. He pulled out a wad of crumpled bills and selected a dollar, then returned the rest of his money to his pocket.
“Here you go,” he said, extending the greenback like a carrot to a famished donkey.
The young homesteader hurried forward, eyes glued on the money. When he grabbed for it, Longarm snatched his flintlock away and jumped down.
“Hey!” the young man exclaimed, retreating a few steps and raising his hands. “I need my rifle back!”
Longarm removed the percussion cap and then he handed the flintlock back. “I didn’t realize that anybody even still used those old relics.”
“It shoots straight sometimes,” the man said. “And it’s cheaper to use than if I had to buy bullets.”
“I suppose so,” Longarm said.
“You don’t act like no medicine peddler, mister,” the man said, looking even more worried as he cradled his now-useless rifle out between them.
“I’m not. I’m a federal marshal.”
The homesteader’s jaw sagged. “Naw!”
“It’s true,” Longarm said, dipping into his coat pocket and producing his badge. “Here, see for yourself.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” the young man exclaimed with amazement. “You are a federal marshal. What the Hell are you doin’ ridin’ around here in an old medicine wagon?”
“It’s a long story. But right now, my biggest problem is that I’ve got a horse about to throw a loose shoe. Can you tack it on tight?”
“Yeah, sure.” The young man couldn’t hide a grin. “But Marshal, it’ll cost you another dollar.”
“Just for tacking down a shoe?”
“It has to be done right. Nails cost money. I might even have to replace the shoe. I’m a good blacksmith and, Marshal, I swear that you’ll lame a horse up quick in this rocky country if he throws a shoe.”
“Another dollar, huh?”
“A man has to make a livin’, Marshal,” the young man explained. “The thing of it is, I got a poor crop of corn here and I might not have enough money to buy food for the winter. You, on the other hand, probably get a regular paycheck.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, then,” the young man said, making it sound entirely logical, “you can see how I need that extra dollar far worse’n you.”
“I expect that is true,” Longarm said, giving the young man the second dollar. “I’m no farmer, but even I can tell that this land is worthless for planting crops.”
“I had a few head of cattle and sheep but the wolves, mountain lions, and grizzlies got every last damn one of ‘em,” the young man said, his smile dying.”
“That’s why you need a better rifle.”
“I expect so.” He patted the rifle. “This old flintlock, which I got for only three dollars, makes a Hell of a bang when I put in a double load of powder. I tell you, it sure scares off a bear, a mountain lion, or a coyote, but after a while, they come right back and kill my livestock.”
