dollar for good barley to malt. But it seemed just as certain the stockmen up this way would be hard pressed to compete on the Eastern market with big outfits such as the Hashknife or Jingle Bob that shipped far more stock at a time from their more conveniently located spreads.
But he listened anyway, just to be polite, and the barkeep confided that one fair-sized outfit had been buying out the smaller ones with a view to the closer Denver market.
Lowering his voice as he pointed his chin at Deputy Rothstein, the barkeep said, “Lots of well-to-do folks of the Hebrew persuasion living in West Denver these days. They only eat beef butchered by some sort of Judas priest, and he’ll only take prime stock, alive on the hoof, so’s he can inspect ‘em good before he gives them a bath and cuts their throats with an extra-clean blade. So old Jed Nolan over at the card table there with Nate Rothstein has contracted with that Judas priest in Denver for regular shipments of fat yearlings, a dozen or so head at a time.”
Longarm asked casually, “By rail?” and lost interest as soon as the local man verified this suspicion. There was no way in thunder a cow thief could shove stolen stock through the town yards and aboard one or two cattle cars without someone as suspicious as old Granny Boggs taking note of the brands. In any case, stealing cows wasn’t a federal offense unless you moved them (dead or alive) across a state line. So it was none of his beeswax whether, say, the Double Seven had its own proper bills of sale on every head it sold within the state of Colorado.
He was Sorry he’d ordered a scuttle instead of the smaller pint-sized schooner of draft. For the barkeep seemed intent on bending his ear on such a slow night, and he didn’t want to let his annoyance show, as it would if he ran off and left his bigger glass half filled.
He was saved from having to gulp more suds than he wanted when the darkness outside was rent by a fusillade of rapid gunfire. He made it four to six shots as Deputy Rothstein sprang up from the card table, met Longarm’s eyes, and cried, “Are you with me?”
Longarm allowed he was hardly against a fellow lawman as he tore out through the swinging doors after Rothstein, drawing his own side arm on the run.
As they ran, Longarm saw a long rectangle of lamp light spilling out across the plank walk and dusty street from the gaping door of the town constable’s office and jailhouse. So he wasn’t surprised to see Rothstein dash inside. But as he joined him near the rear of the front office, he was Surprised as hell to see Constable Amos Payne facedown on the floor, his own gun in hand, with a neat little hole in the back of his vest and a big puddle of blood still spreading from under his mighty still form.
As Rothstein dropped to one knee by his boss, Longarm quietly told him “He’s dead. You get so’s you can tell. Who’s that other cuss I see still twitching yonder?”
Rothstein glanced at the other downed man, sprawled on his side on the far side of the doorway to the cell block, and replied, “That’s Tim Keen, our night man here. You say they got him too?”
Longarm muttered, “Not quite,” as he strode around the fallen Payne and hunkered down by the twitching and gasping kid called Tim Keen. As he did so, Longarm could see into the patent cells, and there lay Bunny McNee, spread eagled on the cement as she stared up wide-eyed at nothing much.
Longarm marveled, “Jesus H. Christ, somebody just staged the last act of Hamlet here with real bullets! Keep an eye on the front door, pard. I suspect they got what they came for. But you never know!”
Gently shaking the junior deputy on the floor by one shoulder, the confounded Longarm asked, “How many of lem were there, Tim?”
Young Keen blew bloody bubbles as he mouthed what might have been: “One dirty son … drop on me … never hadda …” Then he just blew silently popping bubbles and stopped breathing forever.
Longarm told Rothstein, “Looks like somebody you all know came in. Our female prisoner was the target, unless she got hit in the cross fire as the killer was trying to free her.”
They both rose to move closer to the cell as Longarm continued. “Whatever his intent, the killer got Keen to let him come back here to visit Miss Bunny. He wasn’t expecting old Amos to step in on ‘em as he was doing his dirty. Like ourselves, Amos might have heard the gunfire from outside and … Nope, that won’t work. It was all over too sudden. So what if he had the drop on Tim Keen, Amos came in, and all hell busted loose when the killer got excited?”
By this time Rothstein had unlocked the door of Bunny McNee’s cell. So they stepped inside to hunker down for a better look at her body. Longarm gingerly opened the front of her gunsmoke-stained male workshirt, whistled at the small blue hole between her cupcake tits, and decided, “Dead aim. Point-blank. Looks like the deed was done with a .45 short with intentions of silencing her. Tim Keen yon der was shot by the same sort of weapon. Unfortunately it’s as common as clay. There ought to be a way to tell which sort of gun fired which brand of slug, but as yet there ain’t, so we’re looking for a sneaky son of a bitch of any description packing a .45-28 made by Colt, Remington, S&W, or hell, Starr.”
By this time others were crowding in out front. Longarm yelled for everyone to stay back, and muttered to Rothstein, “The bastard could be anyone in town. Including one of this bunch.”
That inspired Rothstein to chase everyone but some town officials clear outside as Longarm knelt to gingerly turn the dead constable on one side. He could see at a glance old Amos had been shot in the back. Unlike the other two bodies, Payne’s had been hit by a more Powerful round that had blown out the front of his chest.
As that dentist who rode herd for the county coroner joined him over Payne, Longarm said, “Looks as if there might have been two Of lem. I got a dying statement from Tim Keen yonder, and he said he saw only one. How do you like one of ‘em acting as a sneaky partner for the one these two dead lawmen likely knew? Say that the visible visitor threw down on the prisoner and young Keen, but old Amos got his own gun out before the confederate blasted him from behind.”
The dentist paced the floor with his eyes closed and decided, “Works as well that way for me. Amos was a tough old cuss. Shot in the back, he still managed to turn and head for the front door as both rascals ran out without closing it.”
A townsman in the crowd who’d been listening called out, “There’s what looks like a bullet gouge high over this door latch, Doc!”
So Longarm and the dentist strode over to have a look. The dentist decided, “Fresh splinters and a streak of lead add up to a bullet to me. I told you old Amos was tough! He got off a round from his own gun with his very last breath!”
Rothstein, joining them, said, “They both did. I just looked at Tim’s drawn gun too. Must have been one hell of a shootout while it lasted. Do you suppose one or more of the bastards could have been wounded in the fray?”
