“Crossbred,” she said. “Mustang and thoroughbred. They’re the best kind of horse I’ve ever owned. The mare I’ll be riding is your gelding’s sister.”
“They are a fine match.”
“Maybe we could be too,” Megan said, tossing the offhanded comment at him with a grin so bold that it made Longarm’s throat go a little dry.
Megan had packed two big saddlebags with food and tied grain behind their cantles. She’d filled two big canteens, and just before they left, Bill came out to give them each Winchesters to put into their saddle boots.
“There’s a long story behind them rifles,” he said, “but I reckon that you’ve not got the time I need for the telling. The important thing, Marshal, is that they are oiled, loaded, and shoot straight. Megan, by the way, is probably a better rifle shot than you are.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Longarm said, climbing into the saddle.
“Just take care of each other,” Bill said, almost pleading. “If I don’t see you back here to board that eastbound within ten days to two weeks, I’ll come looking for you both. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” Longarm said, extending his hand to the former lawman.
They shook, though Bill’s grip was no longer strong.
“You be sure and eat everything that Mrs. Appleton puts on your plate,” Megan said. “You know you need to put on some weight and how much she likes it when you empty your plate.”
“I’m going to try and find out how much she likes some other things I intend to do,” Bill said with a lascivious grin.
“Father!”
The old reprobate cackled a laugh, and then Longarm and Megan reined south. As soon as they were out on the road, Megan touched her heels to her mare’s flanks and set the animal into a high lope. Longarm would have preferred to have walked a few miles just to get the stiffness out of his body and warm up the horses, but his animal seemed more than eager to gallop.
Up ahead, Megan was riding like a Comanche Indian. Like she had been born in the saddle. She had long, shapely legs and a firm, round little bottom that rocked back and forth in the saddle in a most attractive and eye- catching way. Because of that enticing view, Longarm held his gelding back so he could let his imagination run wild.
And so, despite the early hour and Wild Bill’s ominous threats, Longarm couldn’t help but smile as they began to gallop toward the Washoe Valley and Carson City just beyond.
Named after Kit Carson and founded in 1858, Carson City had become the state’s capital back in 1864. With its impressive silver dome, big granite courthouse, and legislative offices, the town enjoyed a refinement and civility that was entirely lacking in most Western communities. Carson City had never enjoyed the status of a boom town, like Reno when the Union Pacific had come through or when gold had been discovered at Virginia City or Gold Hill. Instead, Carson City had always been content to retain a quiet dignity befitting its role as the seat of Nevada politics. Its wide streets were tree-lined and very inviting to strollers even on the warmest days of summer. Its saloons and the impressive Ormsby House, where the politicians stayed and dined during the annual legislative sessions, were almost sedate by frontier standards, and no one was allowed inside without a clean shirt and shoes. Longarm liked Carson City when he wanted to relax and catch up on his sleep. “Megan?”
“Yeah?”
“We could stop here for the night,” he said, removing his black Stetson to wipe sweat from his brow. “It’s starting to get pretty hot.”
“Don’t be silly,” Megan said. “It’s only a little past noon. We’ve got another seven hours of daylight.”
“Just thinking of your horses,” Longarm lied. “We don’t want to wear them down to a nubbin.”
“We won’t,” she said. “We’ll take it slower on down to Topaz Lake at the state line.”
Longarm had ridden a stagecoach into Bodie a good many years earlier and, if recollection served him correctly, there was quite a long ways yet to go in order to reach Topaz Lake. It would be a lot more, he thought, than a slow afternoon ride through searing summer heat.
“How much farther is that?”
“Oh,” Megan hedged, seeming to read his concern, “we ought to be there by nightfall, if we move along steadily. We can trot more and gallop less.”
Longarm didn’t like the trot. In fact, he hated the trot. He was a good, but not a fine or graceful rider like Megan, and quite frankly, he was a little out of shape for this grueling journey on horseback. Lately Longarm had been traveling overland by train or, when necessity demanded, by stagecoach. Even a buckboard would be preferable at the moment, he figured.
He was still thinking this several hours later as the temperature topped a hundred degrees and they trotted through the sleepy town of Genoa, the oldest settlement in Nevada. Originally founded by the Mormons, it had reluctantly been abandoned by those hardy people when they were called back to Salt Lake City by their leader, Brigham Young. It was no idle fable that said the departing Mormons, made bitter when they were unable to sell their fine and productive farms for more than a few cents on the dollar, had put a curse on Genoa and the surrounding Carson Valley. They’d cursed it with wind, rain, and snow. And sure enough, every time Longarm had ridden through this part of the country a stiff wind was blowing, and just about as often the weather was foul.
“Megan, these horses are starting to get played out,” Longarm said.
“Ha! The way I see it, the only one who is getting played out is you, Marshal Long.”
He grinned sheepishly because it was the truth. The horses, though tired and sweaty, were in superb shape, and Megan looked as fresh as cool apple cider.
It was a very long, very hot, tiring afternoon ride, and by the time they neared the California border, Longarm wasn’t grinning about anything. He was saddle-sore and ill-tempered. “There’s grass and water here at the lake and this is as far as I’m riding today,” he announced in a firm tone of voice.
