“I c’n do without ‘em if you want to take them along t’ show the major.”
Amos nodded and stood. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stick around a while longer and back you against this Matthews fellow?”
Longarm chuckled, “What is it you Rangers like t’ claim? One Ranger, one mob. Isn’t that it?”
Amos nodded. “Something like that, yes.”
“Then maybe one deputy marshal can limp along after one ex-con.”
Amos extended his hand. “Come by Austin when you’re done, Longarm. The major will at least want a deposition from you, I’m sure. We’ll have to let him decide if he needs courtroom testimony from you. If it comes to that.”
“If it does I expect I’ll be wherever a subpoena tells me t’ be.”
“Good luck to you.”
“And t’ you, my friend.”
Amos left, and Longarm called Baines into the office. He needed directions to a place called Avondale. And before that he supposed he should visit Janie Sproul. With luck she might still have a picture of her first husband. If not, then a description would just have to do.
Chapter 41
The place smelled like shit. Chicken shit, actually. Avondale was swarming with chickens. Chickens in pens. Chickens in coops. Chickens under-damn-foot. There were chickens, and chicken shit, in every direction. And the smell of all those chickens was enough to make a man swear off ham and eggs for the remainder of his natural life.
The locals, what few of them there were, quite naturally seemed immune to the stink. But then, they would be so accustomed to it that they probably no longer smelled it on any conscious level.
Longarm wished he was so fortunate. He wrinkled his nose and ducked low to clear the doorway of a shack— but then every structure he could see in Avondale was a shack or no better than one—that had a crude sign tacked over the door announcing something in a weird-looking writing that Longarm couldn’t recall ever seeing before and, in smaller and even more crudely written letters, the lone English word—or so he assumed—“booz.”
There were three men inside: a bartender and two customers. All three looked like they might have come out of the same mold. Short, stockily built, round red cheeks, huge mustaches and shocks of wildly unruly hair. All wore overalls and faded red union suits. There didn’t seem to be a shoe or a boot among them. Which he considered one hell of a handicap considering all the chicken shit decorating the ground outside. Come to think of it, there was a good amount of the stuff on the floor of the place too, no doubt dragged in by years of visits from shitty customers.
The bartender looked at him and asked a question in a language Longarm didn’t even recognize, much less understand. What had Janie said—Hungarian?
“Any o’ you boys speak English?”
No one responded.
Shit! he thought.
He pulled out his wallet—always a good way to attract some interest in a cheap dump like this—and flipped it open to display his badge. The reaction was immediate.
The bartender developed both a frightened look and an ability to comprehend English. And the two customers muttered their apologies and made a hasty departure.
“Sorry about scarin’ off all your trade,” Longarm apologized. Hell, he meant it. He hadn’t come here to cause any hurt to anybody. Well, not anybody local anyhow.
“Nothing, sir, I have done nothing, I tell you true.” The poor saloonkeeper looked like he was going to add a dump of his own to the shit already on the floor. “I obey all law, sir, every one, yes.”
The poor sap pulled a cigar box out from under the counter, opened it, and extended it to Longarm.
Damn thing held a couple lousy bucks in very small change. Likely it was all he’d taken in for days past.
“Mister, I didn’t come here to rob you.”
“No rob. I give. Good citizen, yes. You take. Please.” He looked ready to cry. “Take. Please. Don’ hurt … you know.” He motioned vaguely toward the back of the shanty. Maybe he had some family back there, Longarm figured. The man acted like he thought any lawman, cop, or public official who came in was apt to steal his money, burn his place down, who the hell knew what else.
It was a reaction Longarm had seen before in immigrants from certain unbeloved Old Country pasts. And one that quite frankly sickened him whenever he saw it anew. Folks should always have the right to expect protection from the people given positions of civil authority.
But apparently it wasn’t always exactly that way in all parts of the world. Blessings, Longarm thought then as he had before. Some of us forget to count them.
It took him a couple of minutes to convince the man that Longarm hadn’t come there to rob or intimidate or otherwise to harm him. “I’m looking for a fella name of Buddy Matthews. Herbert Matthews, actually.” He pulled out the fading daguerreotype Janie’d dug up for him and showed it to the saloonkeeper. “This picture is awful old, but you might recognize him anyway.”
“Yes, sure. Mr. Buddy. He come in. Drink some. Spend a little money. Never happy though. I never see him smile, not one time.”
“You do know him though.”
“Yes, sure. Nice fella, Mr. Buddy.” The bartender bared his teeth behind a curtain of mustache hairs.
