So probably there was no harm done if the rest of the crowd knew about it too.
Still, Longarm was one who liked to keep his own counsel and not give out any information without a good and specific reason.
Longarm made a point of sitting beside Tyler Overton during breakfast. After all, if everyone knew about the shootings they would also know that Overton had been Longarm’s first suspect as the assassin. Better to avoid forcing any labels onto the lawyer by making a show of friendship with him now.
What the onlookers wouldn’t be able to tell, of course, was that Overton was still Longarm’s primary suspect for being the nighttime shooter.
But a clever one.
Where in hell had he—or, okay, who-the-hell-ever—hidden that pistol?
It hadn’t been on his person. Longarm would swear to that. Hadn’t been on him or any of the other men who’d been in that hay shed.
And the damn thing almost certainly hadn’t been hidden anywhere in there either.
Longarm had practically examined the hay stems one by one in that whole huge stack. And even though there hadn’t been time enough for anyone to shoot, cross the room, and then get back to his bed before the others stirred and started striking matches, Longarm had gone so far as to pry up the lid of each and every grain barrel and feel around inside them too.
The gun wasn’t anyplace. That he could find. Except, dammit, everything has to be someplace.
If a gun existed—and a gun for sure did exist—then it naturally had to be somewhere. If only Longarm could find it.
“The boys have been telling us about the excitement over there last night and your search for the weapon. We’ll go out after breakfast,” Burdick offered, “and move all that hay out of the room. I can close off a couple stalls in the barn and move it in there. Take everything out to the bare walls and floor. Could be your man buried it or something like that. If we take all the hay out and sweep the floor, we’ll be able to see if anyone dug a hole or found a crack in the wall boards or the like.”
“That’s mighty nice o’ you, Howard. It’s a lot o’ work, I know.”
“It’s important,” Burdick said. “The line will do it gladly. Any volunteers to help?” he added in a slightly louder voice.
“George and me,” Jesse offered. “We’ll pitch in.” He looked around. “So will Roy and Charlie.” This appeared to come as something of a surprise to the crew of the northbound coach, but they did not seem inclined to argue the point with the take-charge driver of the other coach.
“Anyone else?” Burdick asked.
Leonard Groble fidgeted a little but stopped short of speaking up. The cowhand looked away, an expression of mild embarrassment on his face and a hint of flush creeping into his earlobes. All the rest of the gents put on frozen expressions and acted like the suggestion couldn’t possibly have anything to do with them.
Longarm was disappointed. When this subject came up he had hoped that the shooter would be quick to jump in with an offer to help, acting on the theory that he couldn’t be thought guilty if he was so eager to assist.
It looked like the sonuvabitch was too smart to identify himself that easy. Dammit.
As it turned out, though, the only men willing to help with the work were coach line employees. And all of them had been sleeping elsewhere when the shootings occurred. If Longarm wanted a break here he was going to have to find it elsewhere.
“Is that it?” Burdick asked. “All right then, boys. We’ll head over to the barn straightaway when we’re finished with our coffee.”
“Mighty kind o’ you,” Longarm told them. And meant it. Inwardly, of course, he was grumbling that the shooter hadn’t tripped himself up.
But then a man can’t have everything. And under the circumstances, Longarm figured he should be pleased that he’d had an opportunity this morning just to wake up. That right there was a good enough start to any day, he figured. Especially when there was someone around who wanted to make contrary arrangements.
“Two … no, make that three … more o’ those fine flannelcakes,” Longarm said, “an’ I’ll be right with you.” He gave Jean Burdick a smile of appreciation and reached for the platter of light, fluffy cakes and the crockery jug of corn syrup to sluice over them.
Chapter 31
“Marshal.” The voice was a barely heard whisper.
“Hub? What?” He looked around. But could not figure out at first who it was who had spoken. The only person close by was the mystery woman in the blue gown and heavy veil. And she was looking away, not seeming to pay the least bit of attention to him.
“Not so loudly, please,” the voice said.
He looked in both directions and concluded that, all right, it pretty much had to be the woman in blue who was doing the whispering. But what …?
“Do not look at me, please. I must speak with you, Marshal. The information I have to give is vital, yes?”
“I, uh, yeah I reckon we can talk, ma’am.”
“Please, Marshal. Softly. No one must overhear. No one must suspect I talk with you.” There was, Longarm thought, a faint hint of accent in her voice. Something Slavic maybe. But he was not sure of that. Hell, he could barely hear her at all, much less figure her out from her speech.
“How d’ you figure us t’ talk if …”
