outside during the night, either to go to the outhouse or to smoke. Which I must ask you to do outside, if you please, gents. Not that the mules give a damn, but the company would be very unhappy if that hay were to catch fire. For that matter, not all of you would likely appreciate it either. So for the safety of all I will ask the smokers among you to step outside. Any questions?”
There were none, and after a moment Burdick nodded and picked up his lantern. “In that case, gentlemen, please be so good as to follow me.”
The actual barn was in the center of what amounted to a livestock complex. Corrals extended out behind the centrally located barn, and on either side of that center structure were wing-like extensions where hay was stored —a fine grade of bright timothy, Longarm noted, and not merely locally mowed wild hay—as well as rat-proof barrels of grain.
The grain barrels were ranked along the front walls of the forage shelters, while the expensive high-quality hay had been tightly packed inside the protection of the roofs. At this time of year hay had been drawn from both sides of the storage areas, leaving open floor space where beds could be made.
“Feel free to pull hay down and use it to sleep on. Or under if you like. We’ll fork it back in place when you leave. Just remember not to smoke in here and if you need to take a piss, please go outside to do that. Don’t piss in the hay, gentlemen, because if it doesn’t come a freeze by tomorrow night you could be sleeping in here again. Or for several days to come. If you, um, see what I mean.”
A caution like that should have been unnecessary, but unfortunately, as Longarm knew from long experience, there were men whose laziness would lead them to do the damnedest things. Including pissing out of second-story windows rather than bothering to go downstairs to take their leak. If left to their own devices, it was entirely possible that one or more of the men right here in this bunch might choose to piss on his neighbor’s bedding rather than go to the trouble of pulling cold rubber boots on and going out into the night.
“Good night, gentlemen. If you need anything”—Burdick paused for a moment and grinned—“ask me about it in the morning.”
Again the stage line passengers and crewmen rewarded their host with a chuckle as Howard Burdick took the lantern—Longarm suspected Burdick was more concerned with the likelihood of fire than he was about needing that lantern inside the station building—and went back to join the womenfolk in the stove-heated comfort of the main building.
The male passengers stumbled and grunted their way around, dividing without plan or pattern to make beds for themselves in the two separate hay storage areas.
And, inevitably, lighting their way with bright-flaring matches while they did so, never mind Howard Burdick’s fears about the possibility of fire.
They were one damned weary bunch, though, and it was not long at all until all that could be heard inside the barn was the sound of loud snoring and the occasional stamp of a mule’s hoof.
Longarm himself was at least as tired as anyone else, and made no attempt to stay awake and listen to the symphony his fellow passengers were putting on with their night music.
Chapter 26
Longarm thought his bladder was gonna bust. They said if a man couldn’t sleep the night through without taking a piss it was a sure sign of old age. Well then, count him old and crotchety because he damn sure had to go. Bad. Of course it might have as much to do with all the coffee he’d had with supper as it did with age.
Whatever the reason, though, it was a nuisance. He was comfortable as a beetle in a cow pie, and really did not want to stir out of the cocoon of sweet timothy he’d fashioned for himself next to the line of grain barrels at the front of the hay shed.
He was almost tempted to ignore Howard Burdick’s good advice and just let fly. Like behind the barrels. Except wouldn’t that be a disgusting thing to do. Pity, though. He really did not want to be bothered getting up and going outside.
On the other hand, the darkest cloud can have a silver lining. And in addition to taking a leak he had a real yen for a smoke. Howard Burdick didn’t carry any of the excellent cheroots that Longarm favored, and all Longarm’s spares were up the road a piece, in his bag still on top of the mud-stranded Concord. But Burdick did have a box of fairly decent cigars that he sold to travelers, and Longarm had put some of those in his pocket after dinner. So if he had to get up and leave the comfort of this hay nest, he might as well get some pleasure out of it.
He felt around in the dark for his vest and coat and pulled them on before he rose. Not just out of habit either. It might not be cold enough to turn the sloppy mud into ice, but it was plenty cold enough to be a bother to a man in shirtsleeves if he was dumb enough to stand around outdoors.
Longarm buckled his gunbelt on too—pure habit that was coupled with a reluctance to leave his gun out of his own sight but within the reach of strangers, never mind that all those strangers were peacefully asleep and no threat to him anyhow—and made his way silently to the open doorway. A hint of starlight, not so much light as it was a slight lessening of the darkness, let him find the row of gum boots left there. He stepped into a pair, the rubber cold and clammy on his bare feet, and went outside.
The night air was fresh and clean in his lungs after the sharp, ammoniac atmosphere inside the barn. He walked around to the side of the barn to piss, not bothering to go all the way around to the shitters, then leaned against the barn wall and pulled out one of the pale, slim panetelas he’d gotten from Howard.
He bit off the small twist at the pointed end of the cigar and mouthed the wrapper leaf for a moment. There was no hint of sweetness to the tobacco. A definite good sign of quality. Cigar makers try to mask poor grades of tobacco leaf by adding syrups, molasses, honey, rum, brandy, or whatever else they can think of that might disguise the harshness of the smoke produced by burning a lousy leaf.
This tobacco might not be the very best-quality leaf, but at least it was good enough that the maker was letting it stand on its own.
Longarm fired up his cigar and drew the smoke deep into his lungs, enjoying the flavor thoroughly. He was still standing there savoring the night and the smoke and the sprinkling of stars that were bright overhead when inside the barn he heard a sharp crackle of unexpected sound.
The sound was, he thought, suspiciously like that of a .22 pistol being fired. He hoped no one had been hurt in there.
Chapter 27
