“What’s it take to be a federal marshal?”
Longarm gave him a sardonic grin. “Why? You thinking of applying?”
“I might. What does it take?”
Longarm thought for a moment. He said slowly, “Well, first of all you got to get yourself in a frame of mind where you ain’t surprised by how mean and lowdown people can be, what meanness they can get up to. After that, you got to like to be hungry, thirsty, lonely, shot at, shot at and hit, and do all that for poor pay and no thanks. But the last part is the hardest. You got to make yourself believe you are actually doing some good, changing things.” He gave Davis a look. “Sometimes that is real hard to believe.”
“You think this town will change now?”
“Sure. For a little while. Until somebody else comes along with a way to make some quick money. I got to go.”
Davis got up and came around the table and put out his hand. They shook, and Davis said, “I was just kidding about you being an easy poker player. You ain’t. You are one of the toughest I ever run into.”
Longarm gave him a crooked smile. He said, “There is one other quality you got to have to be a marshal. You got to be able to tell bullshit a mile off. I’ll see you, Austin.” He walked out of the saloon, giving a little wave as he went through the batwing doors. Right then all he wanted was to go back to Colorado and a few of the comforts even a deputy marshal was allowed to have.
But as he walked toward his horse he had the strangest feeling that he’d be seeing Austin Davis waiting for him in Denver, chomping at the bit to become a federal marshal. The thought made him smile. Here you took a man for a fairly smart fellow, and he turned out to be a damned idiot after all. Longarm looked around as he got to his horse and mounted. He’d done a pretty good job and he knew it. Old Billy Vail might piss and moan about him not cleaning the streets before he left, but he was happy with himself. He began to whistle. It wasn’t very tuneful, but it was a whistle.
