throat.
“Where’s the best place to get a drink around here, old son?” asked Longarm.
“Well, the closest place is the Paris Saloon, just down the street,” the desk clerk said.
“I asked for the best place, not the closest.”
“Why, the Paris is just fine, mister. You won’t find colder beer or better whiskey in Albuquerque.”
Longarm wondered just how much the proprietor of the Paris Saloon paid the clerk to steer customers his way. Probably not much, maybe just a free drink now and then. But the question had served its purpose, so Longarm didn’t argue. He just nodded, said, “Thanks,” and left the hotel lobby.
The street outside still had quite a bit of traffic on it despite the late hour. Wagons and buggies rolled along on the paving stones, riders guided their mounts between the vehicles, and pedestrians strolled on the boardwalks. Albuquerque was a bustling place, located as it was not only on the Rio Grande River but also at the intersection of two major trails, one running north and south, the other east and west. The city was ringed with snow-capped mountains on three sides, giving it a picturesque appearance, but the basin in which it lay trapped the heat and made the coolness of the surrounding peaks that much more appealing by contrast. Longarm had been to Albuquerque many times before and liked the town. He wasn’t on a sight-seeing trip tonight, however. He turned to his right, spotted Jim Harrelson loitering underneath a street lamp about four blocks away, and started toward him.
The other deputy must have seen Longarm too, because he resumed his walk along the street. All four of the lawmen were on the trail of Nowlan, one of them sticking close, the other three coming along behind at a distance so they would be less likely to be noticed. A man as cunning as Nowlan might have somebody watching his back.
Nowlan had to be pretty smart, or he wouldn’t have been able to avoid capture for as long as he had, Longarm thought. But nearly every crook slipped up sooner or later, and when they did, Longarm or some other star-packer was usually waiting to slap the cuffs on them—or ventilate them, if need be.
Longarm hoped it wouldn’t come to that tonight, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it did. The counterfeiting gang wasn’t likely to come along peaceable-like. Not with a pile of phony money at stake, not to mention the engraving plates, which were even more valuable.
Longarm’s strong white teeth clenched on the cheroot as he walked along the street, trailing Harrelson. He caught glimpses of the deputy in the derby hat and checked suit as Harrelson moved in and out of the light coming through the windows of the buildings he passed. Harrelson paused at a corner, then turned right, out of Longarm’s sight.
When Longarm reached the same corner, he turned too, and walked a little faster. He couldn’t see Harrelson up ahead. Within a couple of blocks, the street and the boardwalk were a lot darker. Now that he was away from the saloon, and restaurants, Longarm saw that most of the businesses along here were already closed for the night. He knew he wasn’t far from the railroad yards. Large, darkened warehouses began bulking up out of the night around him.
A hand came out of the shadows and touched his arm. Longarm reacted instinctively, pivoting sharply and reaching across his body to snag the walnut grips of the Colt .44 in the cross-draw rig on his left hip. The gun came out smoothly, with the faintest whisper of steel on leather, and Longarm’s finger was tense and ready on the trigger.
“Hold it, Long!” a familiar voice whispered urgently from the darkness of a recessed doorway. “It’s just us, damn it!”
Longarm took a deep breath and tried not to growl in exasperation. “Blast it, Harrelson,” he breathed. “Do you know how close I came to shooting you?”
“Too close. Sorry about that, Long. I just didn’t want you blundering in on Nowlan and warning him that we’re on to him.”
Longarm holstered the .44 and said, “Where is he?”
One of the other men with Harrelson said, “He went into that warehouse right up yonder. I reckon that’s where the gang’s meetin’.” The man stuck out his hand in the gloom. “I’m Bud Seeley.”
“Custis Long,” said Longarm as he shook hands with the man. It looked like there were going to be introductions after all. “Glad to meet you.” He turned to the third man. “You’d be Truelove.”
“Yeah, and I don’t want to hear any comments about it,” the man said in a surly voice.
“Don’t reckon I blame you,” Longarm said mildly. “Would you rather I call you Horace?”
“Can we get on with this?” Harrelson asked before Truelove could answer Longarm’s question. “I’m itching to get my hands on Nowlan.”
“Sure. How do you want to do this?” asked Seeley.
Harrelson glanced at Longarm. This was Harrelson’s bailiwick, and since all four men were deputy marshals, he should have been in charge. But all of them knew Longarm’s reputation as the big skookum he-wolf from Billy Vail’s office, and they were willing to defer to him, although it might be grudgingly.
Longarm took the cheroot out of his mouth and said quietly to Harrelson, “You know the ground better than any of the rest of us, Jim. What do you say?”
Harrelson seemed relieved that Longarm wasn’t going to try to boss the operation. He said, “There’s only one back door out of that place. I figured we’d put one man back there and three in front, and then we’ll all come in at the same time.”
“They’re bound to have some guards out,” Truelove said. “What about them?”
“Well, I reckon we’ll have to spot ‘em and put ‘em out of commission.”
Longarm knew that was going to be more difficult than it sounded, but it didn’t necessarily make the plan a bad one.
Seeley rubbed his jaw in thought, then nodded. “I guess we can do that,” he said. “Who takes the back?”
