Longarm stood up and said, “I’m going upstairs and taking a drink of my good whiskey. Knock on my door when you’re ready to go.”
Hawkins nodded. “I’m going to wait for dessert. Then I’ll be ready to go.”
Longarm raised his hand in a motion to both Sims and Hawkins and then walked out of the dining room and took the stairs up to his room in the back of the house. He let himself in and closed the door behind him. It was a spacious room with a bed on each side. There was a big window at the back, and he walked over to it and stood looking at the countryside that fell away from the town. It was beautiful country, all right. Rolling plains, grassy and gentle, except for the hillocks and hummocks and little crags and buttes that gave the countryside its name. It was rocky ground, but it was amazingly fertile. Cattle and horses both did well on the grass it grew. He expected that it was the profusion of water that made the country so valuable. It was a shame, he thought, that with plenty of it for all, there had to be such a squabble over what there was, that too few wanted too much.
But then, Hawkins had commented on that very matter. At breakfast that morning, he had advised Longarm that he was overlooking the main cause of the trouble. He had said, “Greed, Marshal. Just plain, old, simple greed. It has been in man since time immemorial, and you ain’t going to get it out this trip or a thousand trips or a million trips or even a million times around the world. The Barretts are greedy and the Myerses are greedy and most of the rest of them are greedy, too. You’re feeling sorry for those homesteaders, but its money to marbles that they’d be acting the same if the situation were vice versa.”
Longarm poured himself out a tumbler of whiskey and sat on the bed sipping at it, thinking about his situation. Almost from the moment he had set foot in the town, he had gone along by guess and by golly. Never really having a plan, never really thinking the matter through. Well, it had worked in the past, and all he could do was hope that it would work in the future. He knew that he might have made a mistake by challenging the Myerses and the Barretts. He should have gone out to both of their places and tried to have a reasonable talk with both parties before slamming their men around and ordering them to meet him. But then, Longarm didn’t know if that would have done much good. People such as these generally mistook fairness for weakness, and they would have been more than happy to have run over him roughshod. No, taken all around, he’d probably made as good a start as he could. Now the only part that was missing was to get the homesteaders’ view and where they stood, what they wanted, how much trouble they were going to be, and how much trouble it would be to make them put their guns down.
He had not unpacked his valise, so he took the opportunity to take his two clean shirts out and lay them on the opposite bed along with a clean pair of jeans. Besides the extra whiskey, there was also his spare revolver, a mate to the .44 caliber that he regularly carried. The only difference between the two guns was that the second .44, even though it was of an equal barrel length, had extra grooved filling in it that made the gun more effective at longer ranges, though neither one was very good at distances over ten yards. His derringer was in his valise. Normally, he carried it inside the big concave silver buckle that he wore on his gun belt. It fastened inside with steel clips that would keep it in place in spite of the roughest tumbling and usage. He broke it open to make sure it was loaded with the two .38 caliber shells it carried, then clicked it shut and slipped it inside the big buckle. It had saved his life many, many times and was as much a part of his equipment as anything else that he carried.
Finally, he poured himself another glass of whiskey and was drinking it down when he heard the knock on the door. He yelled, “Come in!”
The door swung open and Mr. Hawkins stood there. He had donned a well-worn frock coat and was wearing it without a tie. He had on a black, narrow-brimmed cattleman’s hat that Longarm associated with short horners up in the Midwest.
Hawkins said, “Now, I reckon you want to go and see how the poor and downtrodden are living.”
Longarm said, “Care for a drink of whiskey? I’ve got a good bottle of it here.”
Hawkins, whom Longarm guessed to be anywhere between thirty and sixty, said, “No, I drank my part. I’m leaving it to the other fellow. Besides that, I understand it won’t hurt you if you leave it in the bottle.”
Longarm gave a disgusted snort. He said, “That’s all I need for company—a reformed drunk.”
Hawkins said, “We better get moving if we’re going to get anything done this afternoon. You’ve got to go listen to Tom Hunter’s woes, and I’ve got to measure a span of mules for a harness. Have you ever tried to do that?”
Longarm was checking his revolver. He said, “No, I can’t say that I have, Mr. Hawkins.”
“It’s bad enough that I’d rather go hear Tom Hunter talk. That would damned near break my heart, so you can imagine what it’s like to measure mules for harnesses. They don’t like it and I don’t like it, but it’s got to be done because the damned fool who won’t quit his homestead and go to where he can make a living has got to be able to plow. Right quick, too. In fact, plowing time is right near past. If I ever knew a man who needed a new set of harnesses, it’s this fellow I’m going to see. Probably have to sell it to him on credit, too.”
Longarm looked at Hawkins curiously. He said, “Mr. Hawkins, I’ve got the feeling that you’re not near the old grump that you’d like folks to believe.”
“Let’s get one thing straight here, Marshal. I may not be old, but I damned sure can claim to be a grump.”
They rode away about a half hour later, heading east over the rolling prairie. The air was sunshiny and warm and it was a pleasure to let the horses into a slow lope and feel the breeze rushing past their bodies. Hawkins was riding a surprisingly good bay mare that covered the ground easily and smoothly. The horse trader part of Longarm rose up in his gorge and he began to eye the animal with a view toward some sort of trade. The Marshal Service didn’t pay well enough to suit his taste, so he supplemented it with poker and horse trading. He quickly found out that Hawkins was attached to the mare that he called Betsy and wasn’t about to part with her.
They rode about four miles, and then Hawkins pulled up his mount. He pointed off to the south. He said, “There’s a spread down there right toward that stand of willows that’s along the creek—one of the best locations around here. That’s why the Barretts are intent on running Tom Hunter off. He’s got a pretty good side and limestone house. He ought to be around there working. He never leaves the place. I’ve got to cut up north from here. I’ll see you back at the boardinghouse tonight.” With that, Hawkins put his spurs to the bay mare and was soon riding away.
Longarm made sure his badge was visible and then put the gelding into a lope. After a half mile, he could see the top of the house and then after a moment, the whole place came into view. It was a neat, well set up operation with a good-sized home that must have contained four rooms. There were several outbuildings and several well- built corrals. Perhaps two or three hundred yards beyond the cluster of buildings, Longarm could see a creek lined with willows.
He slowed his horse to a walk as he approached the house. In such a place and in such circumstances, a man, especially a stranger, couldn’t be too careful. When he was within fifty yards of the house, he began to sing out, calling, “Hello the house!” in a loud voice. He repeated the phrase several times and then brought his horse to a halt a good fifteen yards short of the stone and masonry residence. He sat and waited.
