Longarm was not exactly amazed. There is damned small sign of loyalty among criminals. They might talk about “honor among thieves,” but the truth of the matter is more “devil take the hindmost” than any sort of honor or decency. But then, hell, why would you expect decency out of criminals anyhow?
“Y’know, Herbie, you’re running it right close t’ the line seeing as how you still haven’t laid down that gun of yours.”
Hancock dropped his cane like the duck-head grip had of a sudden become burning hot.
“What the hell?” someone in the room asked of no one in particular. “That isn’t a gun, is it?”
Longarm was not paying attention at the moment, however, and did not bother to answer. His concentration remained on Herbert Hancock and Clementine Bonner.
The two of them seemed right determined to be the first one to spit out the answers that might help lead to a moderation of their eventual prison sentences.
At virtually the same moment they each spat out the name Longarm wanted. And then glared at each other in obvious fury.
Longarm ignored that too.
He motioned Hancock to move back away from the cane, then went forward and swiftly frisked the man for the second time that morning to make sure there were no weapons that he didn’t know about.
When he was done with that he bent and retrieved the fallen malacca.
“That can’t be …”
“Sure can,” Longarm said. And after a moment he added with some satisfaction, “Not only can be, it is.”
He turned and showed the others what he’d found.
The rubber tip of the cane slipped easily off to disclose the muzzle of a slender rifle barrel.
The heavy grip that was so cunningly shaped to look like a mallard-head grip for an ordinary walking stick was in fact a deceptively simple—and beautifully concealed—single-shot action. A twist and tug on the head cocked the mechanism and dropped a spring-loaded trigger into view. A pair of grooves cut as if by accidental scrape into the wood that sheathed the barrel would no doubt serve as rudimentary sights. Rudimentary, perhaps, but very effective in the hands of someone as thoroughly familiar with his weapon as Herbert Hancock obviously was.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Jesse whispered. Then he quickly added, “Beggin’ your pardon, Miz Burdick.”
“Jesse, I agree with you,” she told him, “although I shouldn’t put it in quite those words.”
“Yes’m.”
“How in the world did you figure that out, Marshal?” Howard Burdick wanted to know.
“Once I had this slug here in hand it wasn’t all that hard. I mean, we all heard the shots. They were sharp and tinny. Sounded for all the world to all of us like a .22 pistol. Which it couldn’t have been. I figured that much when I saw how far away the shooter was from me when he fired outside just a little while ago. I never heard of anybody that could shoot that good with a .22 pistol. Then when I got hold of this little slug an’ took a good look at it—well, see for yourself.” He handed it to George, who looked it over, nodded, and passed it on to the next man.
“The thing is flattened out some but the back end is intact. That isn’t no .22. I’d guess a .32, prob’ly a rimfire like they chamber those little Smiths and the Ivor Johnson breaktops and some other revolvers for. This, o’ course, is out of some gunsmith’s custom shop. Only fires one round at a time, though, and can’t be quick or easy to reload. By the way, Herbie, now that I think about it, you carry the spare cartridges in your tobacco pouch, don’t you?”
“How did you deduce that?”
“It just come to me while we were talking here. When I looked you over this morning you had the pouch in your pocket. But no pipe that I recall, an’ I haven’t seen you smoke. So I figure that must be where you hide your ammunition for this ducky li’l shooting stick here.”
Hancock sighed and tossed the pouch to Longarm. There was no tobacco in it. Just cotton wadding wrapped around a handful of loose .32 rimfire cartridges and four empty shell casings. Hancock was a careful assassin, and obviously hadn’t wanted to point any fingers at himself by leaving unusual brass cases lying about.
“That was another thing I worked out after a spell,” Longarm said. “We all swore we heard a .22 pistol. But then it occurred to me that the report from a short-barreled .22 would be about the same as the noise from a longer-barreled but slightly bigger-size cartridge. I never quite decided if I’d find a .32 or a .38, but I figured it pretty nigh had to be one or the other.”
“Clever,” Burdick said.
“Yeah, just cute as a basket full o’ kittens,” Longarm said dryly, looking square into Herbert Hancock’s eyes while he did so.
“What now?” Burdick asked.
“Now we wait for the mud t’ dry or the ground to freeze, an’ I take my prisoners in for booking an’ arraignment. After that it’ll be up to the U.S. attorney what happens to them.” He grunted and, again looking directly at Hancock first and then at Clementine Bonner, said, “If they don’t give me trouble on the way back, that is. If they do, the United States government will pay the burial expenses. That’s the decent thing t’ do, after all.”
He thought Hancock turned a mite pale at that. Clementine, of course, had already considered it. And come to her own conclusions.
“Herbie, old fellow, I got more cuffs with me, but they’re all in my bag and that’s atop Jesse’s coach up the way a piece. D’you think I can trust you to stay put until I can get you safe in irons? Or would you rather take a chance on the alternative?”
“I can … be quite still, I assure you. You will get no trouble from me. No excuses.”
“That’s kinda a shame, Herbie. If you want t’ change your mind, go ahead. Feel free.” He smiled pleasantly— well, more or less—and lightly stroked the wooden grips on the butt of his .44 Colt.
