Longarm had known Berman years ago. They’d once, if briefly, worked together punching cows on an outfit in the sand hills of Nebraska. That was before Berman became a murderer and before Custis Long came to be known as Longarm. Back then Cy Berman had only been a petty thief and a would-be gunman. Custis had caught him at the thieving part of his profession, pilfering another hand’s bedroll, and had called him on it. Berman had thought about trying Long. That much had been plain in the ugly look in Berman’s eyes. But the man hadn’t had the nerve to stand belly to belly and eye to eye. Shoot or crawl, those had been the choices. Berman had crawled. Rolled his bed and sloped out of there without so much as finding the foreman to draw his final pay. Longarm hadn’t seen the bastard since.
But he would know Berman when he did see him. There was no question about that.
All of that was personal, though, and nothing he would care to explain for the satisfaction of a man like Adrian Brownlee.
“You sure he wasn’t on that stage?”
“I said it once. Don’t ask me again.”
“No call for you to be tetchy.”
Longarm had gone from the cafe back to the stage office, where a new crew and fresh mules were due to take the coach on the turnaround. The stage line operated two coaches on the Bitter Creek to Talking Water run, giving them a daily schedule in each direction. The same driver and guard who had brought Longarm north today would stop over in Talking Water tonight and take the southbound route tomorrow, driving past the coach that should be preparing to pull out of Bitter Creek at just about the same time this one was leaving Talking Water. The two would pass sometime during the night, but likely the drivers and guards would be the only ones awake enough to realize it. Longarm hadn’t ever seen the southbound when they’d passed it some hours earlier.
He’d been pleased to learn there was such frequent service, though, because it meant he would not have to be stuck here waiting to take Berman out.
Even after learning about the schedule, however, he had been concerned that the storm might delay travel. The friendly guard, George Magler, had assured him there would be no problem. “There’s only a few places subject to serious drift, an’ we got the snowsheds finished in those spots. You seen ‘em when we was coming in, didn’t you?”
“I seen ‘em,” Longarm had acknowledged.
“I never yet seen snow on the flat so deep these mules can’t pull through it. And I got a shovel to use if we run into a windrow or something like that. But we’ll get through, all right. We never been late with a mail delivery yet, summer nor winter neither one.”
“That’s an impressive record.”
“One we ain’t gonna lose neither. Trust us. We’ll make ‘er through on time.”
So Longarm had waited and watched while the southbound passengers boarded, then looked up the postmaster for directions to Adrian Brownlee’s shallow-scratch gold mine. If one wanted to dignify such a tiny hole in the ground by that name. After getting a good look at Brownlee, Longarm suspected the man was more interested in drinking up the little gold he found than in wasting time and energy searching for more of the yellow metal. Longarm suspected that a pair of twelve-year-old boys with hand trowels and an oak bucket could dig a better hole over one summer’s weekend than Brownlee had dug here in however much time he’d had his claim.
Still, Longarm hadn’t come here to criticize A. Brownlee but to enlist the man’s assistance. And that was a thing he had best keep in mind.
He rearranged his expression to something more friendly and said, “I hope you know how much we appreciate your, uh, public spirit and cooperation.”
“it ain’t your thanks that I want, Deputy. It’s the seven hundred dollars in rewards that’s posted for Berman. That’s right, ain’t it? Seven hundred?”
“Actually I think it’s eight hundred fifty, but I suppose I could be wrong about that.”
Brownlee smiled for the first time since he’d climbed out of his prospect hole.
“That’s what drew your interest in this?” Longarm asked. “The rewards?”
“Sure, what else? I don’t give a shit about Berman in particular. It’s nothing personal with me, see. What I do, I go to post offices now an’ then an’ study them wanted flyers. Pays off too. I made fifty dollars once back in Kentucky an’ three hundred off a fella over in Idaho. This Berman, he’ll be my best catch ever.”
“I see.”
“Nothing wrong with it, is there?”
“No, of course not. Like I told you, Mr. Brownlee, me and the marshal, we appreciate all the help we can get from, uh, citizens.”
“Just see you appreciate it eight hundred fifty dollars worth.”
“Quick as Berman is in custody I’ll wire for your authorizations. After that I’m not responsible. But I’ll do right by you.”
Brownlee scowled. “You ain’t said nothing about your split of the rewards.”
“No split. Federal officers aren’t allowed.”
“I’ve heard that. I’ve also knowed fellows that’ve had to pay shares to deputy marshals.”
“Not working out of the Denver district, I bet.”
“I wouldn’t know about that shit.”
“I would.”
“So anyhow, you wanta go see your boy Berman?”
“That’s what I came all this way to do, Mr. Brownlee. It surely is.”
