“Explain that incognito thing I’m doing to him later,” Longarm told Jess. “Right now, I just want to flop down in my private car and take a long nap.”
“Arnold, Mr. Long has been assigned compartment five,” Jess said to his underling.
“I doubt he’ll even fit in that one,” the porter said. “You know how small it is.”
Longarm groaned. Things were not getting off to the good start that he’d anticipated. Still, the conductor was right, it was only one day. The Denver Pacific wasn’t nearly as well financed as the Union Pacific, and perhaps he shouldn’t have expected luxury on this very short northern run to Cheyenne.
But a few minutes later when Arnold opened the door to his private compartment, Longarm was appalled. “Why, you couldn’t stuff a kid and a chipmunk in this place!”
“I’m sorry,” Arnold said. “I told Jess that you were far too big a man for this sleeping compartment.”
“Take me to the parlor car,” Longarm ordered.
“You’ll like that a lot better.” Arnold promised.
Longarm followed Arnold up the aisle and into the parlor car reserved for firstclass passengers only.
“This is more like it,” he growled, flopping down in a plush wine-colored seat beside a window that was actually clean enough to see through. “How about a glass of champagne before we get under way?”
“Very good,” Arnold said, disappearing into the dining car.
Longarm leaned back and sighed. He could nap just fine in this big, soft seat and just watch the world drift by. He twisted a little to get more comfortable, and realized that he was still wearing his big .44-40 Colt Model T revolver. If the princess and Mrs. Addie suddenly appeared, they’d see that big gun and it might scare them off.
“Be right back!” Longarm called out to Arnold as he returned to his tiny compartment, where his bags were waiting.
He stepped inside the cramped little cubicle, removed his six-gun, and put it into his sturdy leather handcase. Then, he made sure that his vest-pocket derringer was in good firing order. The weapon was unique and had proven its value time and time again. It was attached by a gold chain to his Ingersoll watch, which rested in his other vest pocket. The derringer was a neat little .44-caliber with twin barrels. It was not very accurate, but then accuracy was irrelevant in the confines of a railroad car or when closely confronting an enemy in a saloon.
The derringer had never failed Longarm, and he’d used it many times to catch opponents off guard when they thought he was merely reaching for his pocket watch to learn the time of day. Satisfied that the derringer was loaded and ready for action in the unlikely event it would suddenly be needed, Longarm studied himself in a small mirror. He looked so impressive that he wondered if he actually should have pursued money and power instead of the excitement and the satisfaction that were the rewards of men in his dangerous profession.
“Perhaps,” he told himself, “I’ll find a new line of endeavor one of these days and make some real money.”
But even as he said this, Longarm knew that he wasn’t serious. He loved being a lawman and he was very, very good at it, just as Billy Vail had told him yesterday.
Longarm cast aside his foolish thoughts of wealth and business. He couldn’t stand finance and he had no head for figures. No, Longarm decided, unless he married money or discovered it buried deep in a mine shaft, he was probably going to be a poor workingman the rest of his life.
Longarm straightened his tie, combed his hair with his fingers, and headed back to the parlor car. He was somewhat disappointed, however, to see that an older woman with her hair in a severe bun had chosen his empty seat. No matter, there were plenty of others by the windows.
Longarm took a seat as far away from the woman as he could get, guessing that this might be the obstreperous Mrs. Addie whom the conductor had warned him about. The porter brought him a glass of champagne, and Longarm wondered if he was supposed to tip the man or if this kind of sterling service was figured into the price of the firstclass fare.
“I say, sir, I overheard the conductor telling his porter that you are a United States marshal. Is this actually true? Are you really a federal marshal of the Old West?”
Longarm turned around to face the woman. He was annoyed that even this woman knew his true identity.
“Before I answer that, are you Mrs. Addie?”
“I am.”
She was a sharp-featured woman, with an aquiline nose, very pale and powdered complexion, and perfect white teeth. The diamonds in her earrings were no doubt worth more than Longarm’s accumulated pension. The woman surprised him greatly when she left her seat and came over to join him.
She extended a gloved hand and shook his hand firmly, saying, “My name is Mrs. Lucille Buckmeister Addie, and may I ask yours, Marshal?”
“Custis Long. And the marshal part was supposed to be a secret.”
The woman, whom Longarm judged to be in her sixties, raised her brows in surprise. “It was?”
“Yes,” he said, “it was. But I guess that there’s no such thing as a secret on this train, is there, Arnold?”
The porter, who had been hovering close by, looked at Longarm with the innocence of a small child. “Were you addressing me, sir?”
“Of course I was!”
“Don’t be nasty with the poor man,” Addie said. “I’m sure that he is paid wretchedly by this miserable little railroad and has never been educated.”
Arnold didn’t like that comment, but he was too well trained to protest. “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Addie?”
“Champagne,” she said airily.
