Well, now it had gone and happened anyway.
Officially, that is.
There was no way Longarm was going to tell Ira Parminter, Billy Vail, or anyone else about this, of course.
Officially, the only logical explanation for the shooting was as a response to his probing out at the Travis cabin.
And it could damn well stay that way, no matter what the mayor of Kittstown might prefer.
“Sorry, Mr. Mayor. I, uh, I’ve written out Marshal Vail’s address here, and already left word with the telegraph operator that you may need him shortly. He was fixing to close up and go home early, but I told him you might want him first. If you decide not to get a wire off to the marshal, sir, you might wanta tell that telegrapher so he can lock up.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Parminter mumbled.
“Nothing needs to be said now, sir.”
“This could be a disaster for Kittstown.”
“Not if the menfolk get together and vote the women down, sir.”
“But if they do that …”
Longarm shrugged. “I’ve always believed a man should stand up and be seen, whether others agree with him or not. But then that’s only my opinion, sir, and I don’t have to live here. You and the men of Kittstown will have to work out your votes and your problems for your own selves, I expect. Now if you’ll excuse me, sir …”
Longarm pulled his hat and gloves back on and headed for the door. He paused there for a moment. “Thank you for the button, sir. Good-bye now.”
Chapter 17
Stupid, miserable, sonuvabitching, stinking, damned SNOW! Longarm was tired of it. Days and days it’d been blowing now and no end in sight. He was tired of it, dammit. He’d had enough of it. He … he stopped practically in mid-stride, unmindful of the cold wind that was stinging his eyes and making his nose drool cold snot into his mustache. He grinned and snapped his fingers.
Nancy’s friend Dawn. He knew where she was. Or anyway, where she pretty much had to be right now.
Norma Brantley had gone and told him where to find her. It was just that neither she nor Longarm had noticed it at the time.
Longarm turned back the way he’d just come and angled across the street. He tried to whistle a light, gay tune. Unfortunately, his lips were so cold he couldn’t get them to shape the notes he wanted, and he ended up repeating the same weak tone over and over again.
“Marshal.” The woman greeted him with a pleasant enough nod.
“Ma’am.” He made a small bow and swept the fur hat off. And hoped the gesture was not ruined by icicles of frozen snot or anything of such an unsightly nature.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Forsyth.”
The boss lady of the Old Heidelberg motioned with an upraised finger, and seconds later there was a glass of most excellent rye whiskey on the table in front of Longarm. He tasted it, smiled, and thanked her.
“My pleasure,” she said. “Now, sir … what is it that you require?”
“I believe you took on a new employee yesterday,” he said. “Calls herself Dawn, I think. Or anyhow, that’s the name she used over at, uh, the other place where she used to work.”
“You have excellent sources of information, Marshal.”
“No better than yours, I think.” The truth, of course, was simple enough. Yesterday the girl had quit Norma Brantley. And according to Brantley, Kittstown would not likely welcome one of Brantley’s girls in any other, more innocent capacity. If she intended to stay here it would have to be as a whore. And did she intend to stay here? Since it was yesterday when she quit, her intentions really didn’t matter; in the continuing snowstorm she had no choice but to stay. Hence there was only one other place where she could be, and that was here at the Old Heidelberg.
“Dawn will continue to use that name here.” Amanda Forsyth shrugged. “So many of the gents already know her by that name, don’t you see.”
“Sure. No sense in confusing anyone.”
“Exactly.”
“I’d like to have a few minutes of conversation with this Dawn girl.”
“Of course, Marshal. She is … never mind, I need to pass by that way anyway. I’ll show you where to find her.”
Longarm polished off the rye—it was much too good to waste—and followed Mrs. Forsyth upstairs.
“This way, Marshal.” The lady—she was an almighty fine figure of a woman—tapped lightly on a door that had no numbers or other distinguishing marks on it. “Dawn? Open up, dear.”
The girl who answered her employer’s summons was not much older than Nancy had been. Dawn, or whatever her true name was, was tall and slender, with black hair drawn back in a severe bun. With the bun and a pair of silver-framed spectacles, she had something of a schoolmistress look about her. Almost prim. Almost proper. Almost. The effect was somewhat hampered by the threadbare kimono that she held gathered in one hand at her waist, her shoulders, legs, and swelling breasts bare for all the world to see. “Yes, ma’am?”
“This gentleman is a United States deputy marshal, Dawn. He wants to talk to you. I expect you to answer
