Was that why the lady was so pissed off when Longarm told her he was leaving? Had she been expecting her husband’s return today? If so, Billy Vail had gone and ruined it all by taking Longarm away before all the players were assembled.
Too bad.
Longarm nodded a cheery good-bye to the doorman—no point in insulting the fellow with a dime tip when it was gold sovereigns he had in mind—and went outside.
Once the hotel doors were securely closed behind him he began laughing out loud. The silly bitch and her walrusbreath lord of a husband indeed.
Longarm was going to have to do something nice for Henry, he decided. Something by way of a thank-you.
Then, turning his coat collar up against the bitter wind and the snow the wind carried with it, he hunched his shoulders and made his way in the direction of Colfax Avenue and the chill mausoleum that he knew the empty Federal Building would be on a dreary Sunday afternoon in February.
“I’m sorry to drag you down here like this,” Billy Vail said.
“Don’t be. I didn’t mind in the least,” Longarm told him cheerfully. And, as it turned out, honestly.”
Billy gave him a frankly skeptical look, then decided to accept the statement at face value. “The reason I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow, Longarm, is that we have a tip that Cy Berman has been spotted in a town called Talking Water up in Wyoming Territory.”
“Never heard of it,” Longarm said.
“That’s understandable. The people who live there hadn’t heard of it until last year or so.”
“Gold camp?”
“Uh-huh. Shirttail sort of place, I suspect. If things hold true to form it should last another season or two and then fade away. Not that you have to care about that, of course. What that does affect, however, is the status of law in that part of the territory. Talking Water has no town marshal, or at least not that I can ascertain. The town, not incorporated, is in Ross County. The sheriff of Ross County is a gent named Andrew Thomas Dillmore. Do you know him?”
“No, should I?”
“Not particularly, but I was hoping.”
“Go ahead an’ spit it out, Billy. Our boy Cyrus Berman has been spotted in this half-baked gold camp and there is local law available but Berman ain’t in custody. So what’s the story? Why do I have to rush up there an’ put the cuffs on him when this … what’d you say his name is?”
“Dillmore, Andrew Thomas.”
“Right. Sheriff Dillmore. Why hasn’t Dillmore put Berman in the pokey where the sonuvabitch belongs?” Cy Berman, as every deputy U.S. marshal west of St. Louis damned well knew, was high on the want list of the Attorney General and of every swinging dick beneath him. It was bad enough that Berman made a fat living by robbing mail cars. What was worse was that the bastard had shot down three postal inspectors and a U.S. deputy marshal, a man named Squires from Seattle who Longarm never met but nonetheless felt for. Berman was quick to shoot and had neither mercy nor remorse. There wasn’t a federal officer anywhere who didn’t want this one put away.
And now to have some local shit-for-brains refuse to wrap him up? Longarm was already getting pissed just thinking about it.
“I’ve sent two wires to the man since this tip came in,” Billy said. “And the tipster, by the way, said he had already tried to get Dillmore to arrest Berman but was refused. I received one reply from Dillmore. All it said was, and I quote to you the full text of the message: ‘No cause to arrest.’”
“No cause?” Longarm came halfway out of his chair in protest. “The sonuvabitch has-“
“Dammit, Long, you don’t have to convince me. Tell it to this Dillmore person.”
“Damn right I’ll tell him. I’ll put him in iron as quick as Berman if that’s what it takes, Billy. You should know that right up front. If that sonuvabitch Berman resists he’ll get a .44 in his teeth as a persuader. And if Dillmore wants to take sides it’s his tough luck.”
“Do whatever you have to, Long. If there is any heat from the territorial authorities in Cheyenne, the United States attorney here is prepared to back you up. We’ve already discussed that. Which is not to say that you are being given license to run wild, Custis. But you do whatever is necessary. We’ll stand behind you.”
“All right, Boss. Thanks.”
The office door opened and Henry came in without waiting to be invited. He was in shirtsleeves and his hair was wet from melting snow. His cheeks were flushed a bright, blotchy red from the cold outdoors.
“Do you have it?” Vail asked.
“Right here.” Henry flashed an envelope.
“A newly signed federal warrant authorizing the arrest of one Cyrus Berman,” Billy explained to Longarm. “We don’t want to give some lawyer a jurisdictional loophole, so Henry tracked down Judge Franklin and got him to issue the warrant for you to serve. The latest one outstanding was issued almost a year ago in Arkansas, and all we have on it is the process order. I wanted you to have an original in hand just to make sure this Dillmore person or some paidoff local justice of the peace can’t balk at the service.”
“And I’ve already worked out your itinerary for travel, Longarm,” Henry volunteered. “You take the six-fifteen northbound this evening, connect with the Union Pacific tonight, and catch a late westbound to Bitter Creek, Wyoming. From there you take a feeder stagecoach line. Something called the Wind River Route, whatever that is. It will take you north to Ross County. Don’t worry about a ticket. The coach line is a contract mail carrier so they’ll honor your badge as a travel pass. As for Talking Water itself”—Henry frowned—“I can’t help you there. It isn’t on any of the maps I could find here. Still, it has a telegraph line, so it can’t be too hard to locate once you get close to it.”
“I’ll find it.”
