Longarm nodded soberly and replied, “I thank you for your words of cheer. They told me Porky Shaw was the boss wrangler out to the Diamond B. I take it this Fox Bancroft is the ramrod?”
His informant shook his head. “Owner. In town to attend the hearing and decide whether you or old Porky was in the wrong, to hear Fox declare it.”
Longarm grimaced and muttered, “I sure wish folks wouldn’t declare such things. They tend to paint themselves into a corner no matter how things turn out, and they never sent me here on any fool fox hunt!”
Chapter 11
Billy Vail’s night letter, wired cheap when the telegraph traffic got slack in the wee small hours, said old Billy was mighty chagrined about Dancing Dave doing that rope dance before he could sing. Then he opined a federal investigation of local vigilante activity could get as tedious as bailing brine against a rising tide unless the local law was willing to level with outsiders.
Longarm wired back the reasons why he had to attend that coroner’s hearing after dinner, and added he’d try for the evening southbound if his investigation seemed ended with the death of Porky Shaw. He felt his boss would settle for a leader of the lynch mob shot fair and square. Billy Vail’s notions of justice were Old Testament. He only demanded an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, and since Dancing Dave had been a disgusting cuss in his own right, old Porky Shaw’s fat dead ass likely balanced the scales of that blindfolded statue in Judge Dickerson’s courtroom.
Longarm walked north from the Western Union to the sprawling lumberyard and hardware outlet of the informative Remington Ramsay, who turned out to be a blond giant in his forties with his stomach still flat from hefting nail kegs and two-by-fours around. Old Ramsay got even friendlier when Longarm said he’d read that book about the Ramsay family intermarrying with all those interesting folks before they got around to founding Pawnee Junction.
The hardware mogul bragged less than his privately printed book, and graciously allowed that the U.S. Army, the railroad, and the first herds up to greener grazing had helped him some.
Longarm said he was in the market for a nice sheet of pressed ceiling tin, a couple of rolls of wallpaper—plain yellow, and in that same floral pattern, if they had it—along with some finishing nails, wallpaper paste, and such.
Ramsay nodded, but asked if Longarm had the tools he’d need to use all that stuff, adding, “You ought to make sure you have some paint for the ceiling metal too. Sounds like you’ve cut yourself a big slice of redecorating. Not that it’s any of my business.”
Longarm said, “It ain’t no secret. I’ve been boarding with that Widow MacUlric, and last night somebody shot her place up trying to get at me. I figure the least I can do is put things back the way I found ‘em when I first moved in.”
Ramsay said he’d heard the gunplay the night before, and congratulated Longarm on his brush with Porky Shaw, saying, “Somebody was sure to shoot such a pain in the ass, and I’m glad it was a lawman from other parts. We have enough steam simmering around here without a blood feud over a tub of lard.”
Longarm cocked a brow and asked, “Do tell? From your book I just read I’d gained the impression all the white folks in these part were just one big happy family.”
Ramsay shrugged and said, “I wrote that brief history over a year ago. Why don’t I run over to that boardinghouse with you and have a look at what needs to be done before I sell you the wrong stuff to do it with? I’m a general contractor as well as a merchant and, I hope you won’t take this wrong, it’s often cheaper in the long run to pay a professional than to do it yourself.”
Longarm started to say he’d always been handy enough with tools and simple repairs. Then he wondered why he’d want to say anything like that when he had a local historian gassing away at him like the hostess of a church social.
Longarm allowed he valued the opinion of a professional hardware man and house fixer. So Ramsay called one of his lumberyard helpers over to say he’d be out for a while and to just sell stuff but not sign any papers on his own.
Longarm was afoot that morning. But Ramsay had his buckboard hitched up out back. So they rode the short distance in style, if one found Missouri mules stylish.
They found the Widow MacUlric alone with her broom and dust mop at mid-morning. It turned out she and the hardware man knew one another on a business basis. He’d sold her that orange-flower wallpaper way back when, and allowed he could order the same pattern for her if she was dead set on it. He agreed with Longarm that it would be easier to replace the bullet-riddled ceiling tin than attempt to make it look like new.
As she led them upstairs, Mavis MacUlric asked how long it would take Ramsay to get her the same pattern she and her late Martin had picked out in their golden yesterday when it had still looked as if they’d chosen the best location in town.
Ramsay said, “I remember the two of you starting out to pioneer as purveyors of room and board, Miss Mavis. Mr. MacUlric was a man who kept his word and paid his bills on time. Might you be of Scotch descent as well?”
She brushed a strand of hair from her brow and replied, “He was. My people were Pennsylvania Dutch. What has that to do with wallpaper?”
The man who sold the stuff by the gross said, “They keep changing the pattern. Some ladies seem to admire new wallpaper patterns as the time to paper over draws nigh. I’m sure I can get you this particular pattern if you’ll give me time to write back and forth to more than one wholesale supplier I do business with. On the other hand, I have stock on hand right now that should give the same general effect.”
She stared wistfully at the ugly bullet gouge through her familiar orange, spinach, and mustard pattern. Longarm was about to suggest the same colors with a different design, or a similar design with different colors, might not be too bad, when the beefy blond hardware man stepped over to the wall and knelt to run thoughtful fingers along the torn edges, assuring her as if she was a little kid whose heart had been set on a particular play- pretty, “I suppose we could fill it in and smooth it over, then watercolor over to hide the gap.”
“Oh, could you?” the young widow gasped hopefully. Then she beat Longarm to the punch by asking, “Wouldn’t hiring such an artist cost an awful lot?”
Ramsay smiled like an older boy showing little kids how to bait a hook as he modestly replied, “I’ve always been handy with a paintbrush, ma’am. It’s not as if you need the services of a Rembrandt or even Currier and Ives here. It should be easy to match and feather in the background color. Then it’s just a matter of daubing orange and
