“I expect that the marshal and his deputy haven’t heard of that one,” the guard said, jumping down as their stage ground to a crunching halt. “Not that they wouldn’t try something like that if they’d thought of it—but they’re both too damned dumb.”
“Yeah, and Ford Oakley would kill ‘em for sure if they ever let him go,” the driver added. “The fact of the matter is, what most people in Gold Mountain believe is that the marshal and his deputy are counting on getting that reward money and then leaving for parts unknown.”
“That’s not going to happen till I get Ford Oakley to Denver,” Longarm assured them as he also jumped down from the top of the stagecoach. He opened the door and grabbed his bags out of the coach.
“Mr. Richmond, it’s time to rise and shine,” Longarm announced.
The drummer had succumbed to the combined effects of the heat, the rocking motion of the coach, and his whiskey. He was snorting heavily, mouth hanging open, lips quivering with every labored breath.
“Just leave him be,” the driver suggested. “Mr. Richmond always arrives in this kind of shape. He’ll sleep right here in the coach until sundown, and then he’ll revive and crawl off to one of the whorehouses. Once there, he’ll sample the goods and then try to sell them workin’ women some goods.”
The driver grunted. “Have you noticed the brand of whiskey he drinks?”
“No.”
“It’s called Old Gut Rumbler, and even the Paiute Indians won’t touch it because some of ‘em have been poisoned to death.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse than bad. They make it out of things that would turn your stomach,” the shotgun guard said. “Richmond might wear nice clothes, but the inside of his body has got to look like a shit-hole.”
“Well,” Longarm said, looking up and down the busy street, “that’s his business. I’ve got my own business to take care of and it starts at the marshal’s office.”
“I sure wish you weren’t planning on taking the next stage back to Elko on our run,” the driver lamented. “We’re holding over tomorrow and leaving early the next morning.”
“I’ll be on that run and so will Ford Oakley,” Longarm told them, “but don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll have Oakley under control.”
“And what,” the shotgun guard asked, “if he gets out of control?”
Longarm tapped the hammer of his pistol, a double-action .44-40 Colt which he wore high on his left side, butt forward so that he could use it in a cross-draw. “If Ford gets out of control, then I’ll just draw this here piece of iron and give him a firm tap on the noggin.” Longarm winked. “That generally settles ‘em all down right quick.”
The stagecoach driver relaxed and actually chuckled. “I’d give a week’s pay to see Ford Oakley get his skull cracked open. I’ve seen Ford pistol-whip a few men and I’ll tell you that he’s none too gentle about it. One of ‘em never regained his senses and hasn’t but half a mind to this day. He was a right fine fellow before that happened.”
“You’d be talking about Paul Smith,” the guard said. “Yep, Paul made the mistake of fallin’ in love with a girl that Ford had his eye on. Molly Bean is the prettiest filly in town, but she never gave Ford Oakley the time of day. Now that Paul is only half in this world, Molly hates Ford Oakley more than anyone else in Gold Mountain.”
“Even vowed to go to Denver and see him swing,” the driver said. “And she’s fiery enough to do it!”
“She sounds,” Longarm said, “as if she’s got plenty of reason to hate Oakley, but hatred generally poisons people. I hope, after Oakley swings, that Miss Bean is satisfied and will get on with her life.”
“She’s got money, good looks, and brains,” the guard said. “But she’s pure poison to men. All men.”
“That ain’t true,” the driver declared. “Miss Bean likes old men. I even seen her passin’ out candy to ‘em a few times.”
“The only reason she likes old men,” Ray argued, “is because she knows they ain’t out to screw her.”
Longarm had heard enough of this drivel. “Well, gents,” he said, “I’ll be seeing you the day after tomorrow, bright and early.”
The two stagecoach employees exchanged worried glances, but neither of them dared to make another objection, and Longarm left them to mutter and fret. He sauntered down the street with his Winchester in his left hand and his bag in his right hand. Both men and women gave him a second look. Longarm was worthy of a second glance because he cut such a fine figure. He wore a snuff-brown Stetson with the crown telescoped flat on top, a brown tweed suit and a vest, a blue gray shirt with a shoestring tie, and low-heeled boots of cordovan leather. Tall and athletic, Longarm moved with easy grace. His brown hair matched both his mustache and deeply tanned face. Men stepped out of his path, and Longarm seemed not even to notice them as he came to Marshal Wheeler’s tiny office and threw open the door.
“Howdy,” he said, taking in the old marshal, his dandified deputy, and the big, hulking man pacing back and forth in the cell at the rear of the room.
“Who the Hell are you?” Deputy Trout demanded, jumping to his feet.
“I’m United States Deputy Marshal Custis Long.” Longarm dropped his bags and leaned his rifle up against the wall. “And right here,” he added, digging into his pockets, “is a letter from my regional office authorizing me to take custody of your prisoner and deliver him to Denver where he is to stand trial for murder and robbery.”
“Hot damn!” Trout exclaimed, jumping forward to snatch the letter of authorization from Longarm’s hands. “The federal marshal has finally arrived!”
“I hope you have our reward money,” Marshal Wheeler said, coming to his feet.
“Wheeler, you’ve been in this business long enough to realize that reward money isn’t paid until I deliver the prisoner to the authorities who issued the reward.”
“That’s pure bullshit!” the deputy exclaimed.
