there could put him on the trail of Wolf Ritter, and more than one suggested he’d been sent on a wild goose chase. Had anyone but the late Horst Heger ever seen anyone in these parts who answered to the description on those wanted flyers?
It was a good question. All bets were off if the real Wolf Ritter didn’t fit his official description. Such things happened. Witnesses gave conflicting accounts or just guessed at details they didn’t really remember. There was still some argument as to whether Henry McCarty, alias Billy the Kid, was right-handed or left-handed. So what was a few inches either way, or a saber scar on the right or left cheek, to an owlhoot rider wanted for everything but the blue ribbon at the county fair?
Longarm had returned that cordovan cow pony, and said he was sorry as all hell. But he still had some horseflesh to reshuffle, Iona MacSorley had issued a standing invitation, and that paint would still be out at the Lazy B. So he went back to that carriage house, found Helga didn’t live there anymore, and saddled old Rocket, telling her, “Seeing I’ve been left in the lurch by one maiden fair and invited to sup with another, we’d best see about getting you on home.”
He stopped by Morgenstern’s smithy to pick up that gelding as long as he was at it. It was better than even money he was through in Sappa Crossing. It made more sense to ask some more around Cedar Bend.
“You just want to get laid,” he warned himself as he considered how much good old Dad Jergens and pretty Olive Red Dog likely knew about the sons of bitches he was after. It made little sense for Werner Sattler to run for a nearby town where he was known, or for Wolf Ritter to try and blend in with native Americans, red or white. The renegade had only come to this broad land because there was a whole lot of it to run off across.
Longarm didn’t see how one lawman was supposed to track at least a couple of crooks who had all that damned grass to ride across. But it happened that way at times. He didn’t know where Frank, Jesse, or The Kid were planning to spend the coming night either.
He rode into the Lazy B dooryard late that afternoon. Iona MacSorley came out on her veranda to declare it would soon be supper time. Then she yelled until the ramrod, Martin Link, came running to see what she wanted.
She told him to take care of the two ponies, of course. So Longarm felt obliged to say, “I know the way to your stable, Miss Iona. Why don’t you both let me worry about these brutes and then I’ll wash up out back and join you?”
The pretty but pouty Iona said, “Marty’s going to do as I say because he knows I mean what I say, Custis.”
So Longarm dismounted and handed the reins to the foreman as he murmured, “I work for the same sort of boss. Only he ain’t as pretty.”
Link laughed indulgently and muttered, “Go on inside with her before she turns you into a toad. I’ll have O’Donnel handle this chore.”
Longarm nodded and followed what seemed a wise suggestion. Once in the house, Longarm found the imperious young gal and her baronial father seated by that big fireplace, as if to admire the cold hearth and all those swords and daggers over it. Iona said they’d all get their supper within the hour as old MacSorley poured him a dram of malt whiskey from a cut-glass decanter and sat down on the same sofa.
He’d poured one for himself and seemed to want to clink glasses. So Longarm let him, and assumed “Air du shlainte!” meant something a tad nicer than it sounded in that old country. It was hard to tell High Dutch or Highland Scotch apart when you spoke neither lingo. They both had those throat-clearing sounds you never heard in plain American.
It wouldn’t have been polite to tell his host he sounded like a furriner of any sort. So he said the whiskey was good, and admired the cutlery around that shield above the mantel.
Martin Link came back inside as old MacSorley began to lecture Longarm on the warlike display. From the way Link and even the old man’s daughter rolled their eyes, it was easy to see old MacSorley had given the same lecture before.
It was less tedious to a guest who’d never heard about targes, sgean dubhs, and claymores before. Sgean dubhs were those small but wicked daggers Scotchmen stuck in their socks. MacSorley said it was a point of honor to never draw from your sock unless you meant to kill somebody. The basket-hilted broadswords on either side of that round studded targe were what Scotchmen waved to make a point that might or might not be settled peacefully. When Longarm said he’d been led to believe those straight sabers were claymores, the older man pointed at the one old-time sword with a far longer blade and a hilt made for a man’s two hands, saying that that was the true claymore or great sword of the Isles. He said mainland clansmen who spoke almost as much English as their Sasunnack enemies called their broadswords their claymores out of ignorance, or while showing off. He added that the correct Hebredian for any sort of sword was “Claidheamh. Longarm wasn’t rude enough to say he didn’t care.
Trooper O’Donnel came in to announce he’d unsaddled Rocket and draped Longarm’s saddle over a rail to dry while he visited.
Longarm set his glass aside and rose to thank O’Donnel with a shake, adding, “Have a cheroot on me. We were just now talking about old country ways. Do you talk any of that Irish Gaelic, Trooper?”
As Longarm reached for that cheroot O’Donnel replied, “I used to know a few words. But my people spoke mostly English and I grew up on this side of the water.”
Longarm got out the cheroot, saying, “Do tell? I didn’t know the Irish Famine and Great Migration was that far back. But you’d know Irish history better than me. I’ve been smoking this brand a spell and it ain’t all that bad. Haben Sie Streich helzer?”
Trooper O’Donnel was too slick to reply in High Dutch, but he did nod before he’d had time to think, and then he was staring down the cold unwinking eye of a .44-40 as Longarm quietly said, “Don’t neither of you squareheads move a thing but your hands. I want ‘em all up!”
MacSorley and his daughter were staring goggle-eyed as Longarm explained, “That wasn’t exactly Gaelic I threw by surprise just now. I asked him casual, in his true native tongue, whether he had the matches to go with that smoke. Now would one of you be so kind as to relieve these two Dutchmen of their six-guns whilst I cover them?”
But before either could move, a familiar voice told Longarm from behind, “I have a better idea, Longarm. Drop your gun before I blow you in two with this ten-gauge!”
Longarm didn’t have to wonder what that was sticking in his back so firmly. As he tossed his .44-40 on the sofa
