the chilly arms of the snowstorm, the barman turned, suddenly friendly. The fellow came up with a fresh bottle of rye, seal still unbroken, and served up both a smile—well, a showing of teeth that Longarm was pretty sure was supposed to be a smile—and half a water tumbler of what proved to be an exceptionally fine rye whiskey.
“What’s this …?” Before Longarm could complete the question the bartender was nodding in the direction of the table where the nice-looking lady sat nursing her cookies and tea. She motioned for Longarm to come over. He noticed that the invitation apparently did not seem to include his actually joining her at the table. But she did want him to come stand closer. What the hell. He took his drink—it was the best whiskey he’d had in months or maybe longer—and wandered over there. “Ma’am.” He nodded.
“I haven’t thanked you properly,” she said.
Longarm looked at his glass and grinned. “Mighty good way to say thank you to my mind, ma’am.”
“Good.” She smiled. “My name is Amanda Forsyth. And you are?”
“Custis Long, Miss Forsyth. Of Denver.”
The smile flashed again. “Oh yes. The deputy United States marshal who’s staying at the Jennison Arms.”
“I see you stay well informed, Miss Forsyth.”
“Forewarned, sir, is forearmed. And for the record, it is Mrs. Forsyth, not Miss.”
“My apologies for the error, ma’am.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Marshal Long? A tumble with one of my doxies, perhaps? Pick any girl in the place. No charge.”
“You’re very generous, Mrs. Forsyth.”
“Not at all, Marshal. Merely appreciative.”
“Thanks, but I’m content with this for the time being.” He took a small sip from the hefty slug that had been poured for him.
“If you change your mind …”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks.”
Amanda Forsyth shrugged and turned her attention back to her cookies and tea.
Longarm turned to go, but was stopped by a young cowboy who wore a six-gun tied low on his leg in the best of fast-draw fashion. The youngster tapped Longarm on the elbow, and Longarm hoped the boy wasn’t some half- drunk idiot wanting to make a reputation by gunning down a lawman.
“Yeah?”
“You’re the deputy they call Longarm, aren’t you, sir?”
Sir. Not many said sir when they were wanting to pick a fight. But then, there could be a first time for damn near anything, Longarm supposed.
“My friends call me Longarm, that’s true enough,” Longarm admitted.
“My buddies and me, Mr. Longarm, we’d be real tickled if you’d sit in and play a few hands of poker with us. Low stakes is all we can afford, though. If you don’t have anything better to do, sir.” The cowboy grinned. “We’d be real honored if you would join us, sir.”
Making a gunman’s reputation? Not hardly. Longarm felt purely ashamed of himself. “Why, I’d be pleased to sit in for a few hands, son. Now tell me about yourself if you wouldn’t mind, and let me meet those friends of yours too.”
The youngster led the way through the busy tables at the Old Heidelberg. The boys—it turned out there were four of them—all liked to play simple draw poker. And were in serious need of instruction as to the finer points of the game, instruction which Longarm was pleased to provide. At their expense, of course.
Billy Madlock, Jason Tyler, Ronnie Gordon, and Carl Benson were young, happy-go-lucky, and easy to get along with. All four worked for a cow and calf outfit north of Kittstown. All four, naturally enough, were out of work for the winter. That was the usual pattern among the type. They had work from the first grass of spring through the fall’s final gather and shipment of the calf crop. After that, they lived off whatever money they’d managed to save—which didn’t generally amount to a hell of a lot—and whatever few dollars they could pick up here and there in town. Which mostly meant they lived free and easy during the summer months and hand-to-mouth the rest of the time. If it bothered this bunch, they sure managed to avoid showing it. Longarm found them to be good, if a mite enthusiastic, company.
“Tell us about your most famous cases,” they pressed him.
“Who’re you here to arrest this trip, sir?”
“Do you need four extra deputies to cover your back, Longarm? We’d work cheap. Ow, quit kicking me, Ronnie. Longarm knows I didn’t mean that. Hey, we’d work for nothing, you know that? It’d be a kick to tell the boys come summer that we helped the real live Longarm on a case.”
“So who are you here to arrest, sir? I mean, I know it’s supposed to be a secret and all. But you can tell us. We won’t repeat it anywhere. Honest.”
They seemed purely disappointed when Longarm insisted that he was only in town because of the Union Pacific weather layover.
“You aren’t funning us about that, are you? We’d help you, Marshal. Truly we would, and proud to do it.”
“Thanks, but I really don’t have a case here. Just a stopover until the tracks are clear.”
Jason and Carl sighed with disappointment, and Billy looked so sad he reminded Longarm of a red tick pup that had its mother’s teat taken away. “Sorry, fellows, but I can’t make up something that isn’t so just for your amusement.”
“No, sir, I suppose not. And I reckon I’ll see your bet, sir, and raise you three cents.”
