Besides, United States Marshal Billy Vail and the rest of the bunch back in Denver were no doubt finding themselves unable to proceed with the business of law enforcement without the presence of Deputy Marshal Custis Long. Yeah, he didn’t doubt that for an instant. Better he should set their minds at ease and assure them he would be along as soon as God and the Union Pacific Railroad made further travel possible.
He stood and stretched, rising to his full height of six feet and then some. He wasn’t especially impressed by what the others in the Jennison Arms lobby would be seeing when they looked his way. But he wasn’t exactly disappointed to realize that viewers of the female persuasion generally seemed to approve of what they found in him.
The tall deputy known to his friends as Longarm was a lean, brown man. He had dark brown hair—which at the moment could use some trimming—and a huge sweep of matching brown mustache. His features were more rugged than handsome, with weather wrinkles at the corners of eyes and mouth and a permanent deep tan from spending hours and days in the saddle.
He wore black stovepipe boots, corduroy trousers, and a brown leather vest over a checked flannel shirt. A watch chain crossed his flat belly, and slightly below it was a double-action Colt revolver set in a cross-draw holster.
He shivered in anticipation of what was to come, since the hotel lobby was overly warm from a combination of well-stoked stoves and the presence of an overabundance of warm bodies, then went upstairs to his room to retrieve his coat, gloves, and newly purchased fur hat.
Outside, the roar and tumult of windblown snow was unabated, and a thick rime of frost continued to turn the front wall of his room dead white over the bright pattern printed onto the wallpaper.
Helluva lovely day. You bet.
Longarm went downstairs and ventured out into the cold, having to do some fairly serious pushing just to get the front door open against the insistent thrust of the wind. Behind him he could sense a stir and grumble as people in the lobby were treated to a blast of frigid air.
He let the door slap closed, and bent over to force his way onto the street. Visibility was poor, but not quite impossible. He found his way to the U.P. depot and the telegraph office adjacent to it.
“Afternoon, friend. I’m glad to find you at work today,” he told the telegrapher.
“You wouldn’t find me here if I had any say about it.” The man frowned. “This was supposed to be my day off, but the boss sent word he’s sick and couldn’t make it in. Huh! I know the sickness he’s got. Same damn one I’d have if I was the boss and could order some poor working stiff to go out in the cold so’s I wouldn’t have to. But that isn’t your worry, is it. So what can I do for you? The standard message that the railroad will pay for?”
“That should be good enough, I suppose.”
“Just give me your name and the address you want the wire sent to. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Thanks.” Longarm wrote it down for him.
“If it isn’t my pleasure exactly, then it’s at least my job.” The telegrapher smiled. “No problem, uh … He peered at the paper Longarm handed him. “Marshal. You’re really a U.S. marshal?”
“Just a deputy.”
“Huh. That’s all right. And mighty nice of you not to blame me for keeping you here.”
“Oh, I would, believe me, if I thought this storm was your fault.”
“Well, I appreciate your attitude, Marshal. It isn’t one that all the rail passengers share.”
“Been getting a hard time from some of them?” Longarm asked.
“You know how people can be. Pretty unreasonable, some of them.”
“So I’ve heard tell,” Longarm said. “Do I owe you anything for that wire, neighbor?”
“No, sir, not a thing. This first message the railroad will pay for. Any more and the charges are up to you. Which is something not everybody seems to understand today.
“I see. Say, could I ask for your advice?”
“Stock market, politics, or questions of the heart? I have answers for all of those. And worth every penny you’d pay for them.”
Longarm laughed. “Free, I take it.”
“Sure, what else?”
“My question isn’t so difficult. I was wondering where I might find a bottle of good rye whiskey to take back to my room. A hedge against the future, if you see what I mean.”
The telegrapher smiled and nodded. He picked up a pencil and began drawing a rough sketch. “Look here now. You can’t miss it.”
The words struck fear deep into Longarm’s heart. “You can’t miss it” is one of those phrases that often presages disaster.
Still and all …
The Old Heidelberg tavern was doing a bang-up business considering—or perhaps because of—the weather. The place was pretty well packed with customers, some of whom Longarm recognized from the train. There was also a sizable local crowd, identifiable by their rougher clothing and calmer demeanor.
The place was dark and humid, with sawdust on the floor and a wet-dog smell as snow melted off dozens of woolen coats in the heat given off by a pair of large, glowing potbelly stoves.
Longarm made his way to a vacant spot along the bar, and was quickly greeted by one of the two bartenders on duty at the moment.
