Ira Parminter was there, and a good many other shopkeepers. Longarm recognized a surprising number of the people who’d turned out in the face of the cold and the blowing snow to fight this threat to the community. Longarm saw Jim Jennison Junior, and the bartender from the Old Heidelberg, and two of the young poker-playing cowboys who liked to hang out there.
Parminter recognized Longarm too, and came running over to him. “There shouldn’t have been any way a fire could start in there,” he shouted over the combined noises of wind and flame. “Some fool must have been in there trying to keep warm and let his fire get out of hand. Isn’t that illegal?”
“I know for a certain-sure fact that the start of this fire was illegal, Mr. Mayor,” Longarm agreed.
“In that case, Marshal, I want to invite you to assume jurisdiction and take charge of the investigation. Whoever started this has to be taught a lesson.”
“Glad to oblige,” Longarm said. “I’ll wire my boss in Denver soon as I find the telegraph office open.”
Parminter blushed. It was hard to tell for sure since his face was already red and chapped from the wind. But Longarm was pretty sure the man was blushing. He damn sure seemed uncomfortable about something. Then he blurted out, “In your wire you can, well, tell Marshal Vail to, uh, ignore the message I sent him a little while ago.”
“I’ll do that,” Longarm said. He was careful to refrain from asking for particulars about what was contained in that message. But then he didn’t have to. The general tone of it was plainly seen in the mayor’s embarrassment. The details didn’t much matter at this point.
“It looks like you folks have things under control here,” Longarm said. “Reckon I’ll make that visit to the telegraph office. Then see what I can do about putting your arsonist under arrest.”
Longarm did not say anything out loud for Parminter to overhear, but the truth was that he was glad he could bring George in on a charge of arson. No sense in adding anything about assault on a federal officer since that would only muddy the waters when it came to Longarm’s shaky claims to jurisdiction in the murder case.
And he damn well was not going to give up on that one. Not until some-damn-body was behind bars where he properly belonged. Not until that girl was back with her family, whoever and wherever they were. Longarm was jolly well adamant on that subject.
Chapter 29
“I don’t know what the sonuvabitch’s proper name is. George something-or-other.” Longarm described the loudmouth, and the clerk manning the Jennison Arms desk nodded.
“That would be Mr. Mabry,” the fellow said, “from, if I remember correctly, Ohio. A salesman, I believe.”
“Do you happen to know if Mr. Mabry is in?” Longarm asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m quite sure that he is.”
“Room number?” Longarm got his directions and took the stairs two at a time to get there. Cocksucker, he was thinking. Try to commit murder, burn down maybe half a town, and now here he was lollygagging in his hotel room like there was nary a thing to be concerned with in the whole damn world. Well, it was time good old George commenced to concern himself with a few things.
Longarm found the room all right, and stopped outside it. No sense taking chances, he decided. George had proved more slippery than Longarm realized back in that barn a little while ago. Longarm didn’t want him sneaking out the window, and there was no one Longarm could count on to cover that escape route. Whatever was done here, Longarm was going to have to do it all. Well, so be it.
He drew his Colt and held it ready. He took a deep breath and set himself for a surprise entrance. Then he reared back and kicked the door. Hard. The sole of his boot landed smack beside the knob and the area where the bolt would be placed.
Wood splintered and flew, and the door burst open with a crash.
Longarm, gun leveled and ready to fire, followed the broken door into the room, taking a whack on his shoulder as the door hit the inside wall and rebounded on its hinges. Longarm did not so much as notice.
“Federal officer! Don’t move!” he barked.
He needn’t have bothered. No one inside seemed inclined to go anywhere.
There were two beds in the cheap room. Each of them was occupied. George Mabry lay in one, bedclothes tucked up high under his chin. His smaller partner, the man who seemed to accompany him most everywhere Mabry went, lay in the other. Both men were in nightshirts. Each appeared to be flushed with high fevers.
“Jesus Christ. You again,” Mabry moaned. “What do you want this time?”
“You, asshole. You’re under arrest for arson.”
“You’re kidding me. Aren’t you? No, I see that you are not. I haven’t done anything. I swear I haven’t. Tony? Tell him Tony. Tell him I haven’t … arson, you say? Why would I do that? Where?”
“You know damn good and well what you did and why.”
“Would you tell me when I’m supposed to have burned whatever you say I burned, Long?”
“You admit that you know who I am now.”
“Of course I do. I asked about you yesterday after that incident in the saloon. You embarrassed me. As soon as I’m able to go out again, let me tell you, I intend to file a complaint with your employer.”
“I’ll write down his name and address for you. But in the meantime, Mabry, you’re under arrest for arson. I might want to add attempted murder to that later on. And probably assault on a federal officer.” Mabry groaned.
“Get up. I’m taking you to jail, Harry. And believe me, it will be a pleasure.”
“I can’t get up. Jesus. Leave me be, will you?”
