The sounds of the stream lay like a constant undertone all through the little valley.
Longarm suspected Talking Water had been pretty when the gold here was first discovered. Now, of course, it was drab and ugly, and would have been even worse to the eye had it not been for the clean, white blanket of snow that hid most of the frozen mud from view.
Since the coming of the mines and the miners, every stick of wood within sight had been cut down and used, whether for construction or tunnel shoring or simply for firewood. Now only dirt and stone and the leavings of careless humankind would be visible once the snow melted. It was a damned shame in a way, Longarm thought, but necessary. The price of progress. But a damned shame nonetheless.
Longarm accepted his things from the now-friendly shotgun guard, who had long since recovered from his hangover.
“Any suggestions on where a fellow could take a room?” Longarm asked.
“That one is easy to answer, mister. Only one place in town as rents rooms. There’s a boardinghouse upcreek a quarter mile or so. Four bits including two meals. But you got to share your bed, an’ everybody sleeps in the one big room sorta like a barracks.”
Longarm made a face. Apart from personally despising any such arrangement, he knew it would present a problem if—when—he had a prisoner to oversee through the night. Some measure of privacy was needed, or at least of control, if he was going to keep Cyrus Berman’s pals, if any, from posing a threat.
“There’s one other possibility,” the messenger added when he saw Longarm’s disappointment.
“Yes, friend?”
“Me and Jesse have cots in the tack room inside the stage line barn over there. If you can make do with a pallet laid on the floor, you’re welcome to stay with us. No charge.”
“That’s mighty nice o’ you.”
“Don’t think nothing of it.”
“Well, I do. And I thank you.”
The shotgun guard seemed shyly pleased that his invitation had been accepted. Longarm suspected the man would be even more pleased with the gift of a bottle this evening by way of a real thank-you. Longarm reminded himself to bring one along with him when he came to bed later.
“I’m going that way anyhow. Be glad to take your things with me,” the guard offered.
“Then that’s another thing I’ve to thank you for.”
The guard jumped down to the ground and took Longarm’s bag and saddle. “We won’t bolt the door, so come in any time you’ve a mind to.”
“Thanks.” Longarm touched the brim of his flat-crowned Stetson and turned away. When he did so he opened the second and third buttons from the bottom on his coat. Not that he was expecting any trouble at the moment. But a man never knows when he might want to get at his belly gun in a hurry. Hell, if there was warning ahead of time, the gun wouldn’t likely be necessary in the first place.
He found a cafe and stopped in to warm himself with coffee and a huge breakfast, and while he was waiting for the meal to be served, dug through his pockets for the envelope Billy Vail had given him back in Denver.
The man who’d written to say Cy Berman was here, and that he could point Berman out, had signed his letter “A. Brownlee.” The return address was “General Delivery, Talking Water, W.T.” Soon he was done eating, Longarm figured, he would look up this A. Brownlee person. And then Cyrus Berman first thing after.
Chapter 6
Longarm laid a quarter on the table to cover the cost of his meal, then stood, pausing for another moment to take one last, satisfying swallow of hot coffee before bundling up in readiness for the cold outside.
He heard the front door open, and when he turned in that direction saw the slim form of a very shapely young woman who was engaged in fussily arranging her cloak on the coat rack beside the entry. She had dark auburn hair drawn back in a tight bun. A little closer to the floor she had a different sort of tight bun, small and rounded and mighty shapely. Longarm took a moment to enjoy the view, then put his hat on and strode forward.
The woman turned just as he passed her. Longarm’s attention was directed very carefully toward the door lest he give offense.
But he could not help catching the movement out of the corner of his eye when with a gasp the lady’s hand flew to her throat as if in alarm.
He stopped. Looked. And his eyes widened as the look turned into a stare. “Custis!”
“Madelyn? Maddy? Is it really …?”
“Is it really …?” she echoed almost in unison with his words.
Both stared a moment longer. And then Maddy Williams shook her head. “No. Please, no.” Blindly she whirled and grabbed her cloak off the rack. She did not even take time to swing it over her shoulders before she bolted out into the swirling snowstorm.
Longarm did not want to make her afraid that he was following, so he took his time about trimming and lighting a cheroot. Only then did he step out into the bitter cold and go on his way.
“You took your by-God time about showing up here. The stage came in near two hours ago.”
“Yes, and now it’s gone again. In case you’re interested, Berman wasn’t on it. I watched t’ make sure,” Longarm answered.
“How the hell would you know that? I’m the one can point him out.”
“I’d know,” Longarm said. He felt no compulsion to give this sloppy, slovenly, sorry excuse for a human any explanations. But he would indeed know Cy Berman if or when he saw the man.
