the most part. For him, it was a bad sign. Most cowhands carried their revolvers in big holsters so they wouldn’t lose them as their horses rumbled around on rough ground where they might take an upset. They weren’t meant to be drawn quickly or for self-protection, but were mainly for shooting the stray rattlesnake or coyote or wolf or to fire in the face of stampeding cattle. But these men were all wearing guns like they knew how to use them.
He walked up to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Standing at the short end of the L-shaped bar, he carefully looked each man over, making sure to let each man know he was doing it. When the bartender brought his drink, Longarm said in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the saloon, “Is there any of the Barretts’ men or the Myerses’ men in here?”
The bartender paused as he poured Longarm a drink. He set the bottle down and stepped back. Then he looked carefully around the room for a moment until his eyes came back to Longarm and concentrated on the badge. The bartender was a middle-aged, plump man with muttonchop whiskers. He reached up and scratched his jaw. He said, “Just who is it that’s wanting to know?”
Longarm said in a hard voice, “A United States deputy marshal would be wanting to know, that’s who.”
The barkeep took another slow moment to look around. By now, the full attention of the bar was focused on the corner where Longarm was standing. He said, “And what would a United States deputy marshal be wanting with folks from the Barrett or the Myers outfits?”
Longarm said, still in a hard, even voice, “I don’t believe that would be any of your damned business, neighbor, but if it were your business, I’d answer by saying that I’d care to have a word with them right now.”
The two men down at the free lunch counter glanced at each other. Longarm saw them hold a few whispered words. They put their plates down and started stepping in his direction. Longarm straightened slightly, but kept the corner of the bar to where it would protect his left side. They walked toward him purposefully. They were young, he reckoned, not much more than twenty-one or twenty-two. The one in the lead was a hawk-faced young man with thin lips and well set up shoulders. He was slightly in the lead, but when the two stopped, they were standing side by side. The one with the hawk face said, “Now, who might you be?”
Longarm looked at the man for a long moment and then glanced at the other, letting them both feel the full weight of his eyes. He said, “I might be anybody, but it happens that my name is United States Deputy Marshal Long. Either one of you work for the Myers or the Barrett outfits?”
“How come you to be wantin’ to know?”
“Well, if it’s any of your business, it’s because I’m wanting to talk to them. Now, I can go out to their places one at a time and talk to them, or they both can come in here and see me at the same time because I’m going to tell them both the same thing. And since it’s easier on me for them to come here, I figured I’d send word to them. Do you two slouches work for either outfit?”
The hawk-faced man said, “You don’t mind takin’ a little somethin’ on yourself, do ya, mister?”
“It ain’t mister, cowboy, it’s marshal. You understand? Marshal Long. Don’t let me hear you say it any different.”
The man suddenly turned his head and spat on the floor. He said, “Maybe we can save you some trouble. Maybe we can just take you out on the street and get you straight on this matter right now.”
Longarm said, “I don’t want to start at the bottom, boy. Didn’t you understand me?”
The hawk-faced man swore an oath, and Longarm saw his right arm begin to move. In an instant, Longarm had his big .44 caliber revolver in his hand. He made a sweeping, slapping motion with it, catching the first cowboy on the side of the face and then continued on with the sweep, hitting the second one flush in the temple with the barrel of the gun. The second one dropped, but the first man staggered. Longarm raised the gun over his head and whacked the cowboy over the top of his head with the barrel. He dropped, joining his friend on the floor of the barroom.
Longarm never bothered to glance down. Instead, his eyes swept the saloon, holding his revolver at the ready. He said, “Better not nobody move or they’ll be going down in a different way after which they won’t be getting up. Got that understood?” Still without looking around, he said to the barkeeper, “Get on around here and wake these two sleeping beauties up. I want to talk to them.”
He risked a glance down at the two cowboys where they lay on the floor. The hawk-faced man had caught the brunt of the blow on his cheekbone and the corner of his eye and his nose. He was bleeding, and Longarm could already see the eye swelling shut. The other was not cut so bad, but the barrel of Longarm’s gun had caught him in a tender place in the temple. It had knocked him out. The hawk-faced man was already beginning to stir.
Longarm was impressed that the blow he had given the first man over the top of the head hadn’t knocked him out. It was a testimony to either the quality of the man’s hat or the hardness of his head that on top of the sweeping, glancing lick, the second blow hadn’t rendered him unconscious.
The bartender came around with a pitcher of water and poured it carefully on the faces of the two young men. They both came up, snorting and shaking their heads. As they came to consciousness, Longarm quickly bent down and relieved them of their side arms. He set them on the bar beside him and waited as the two young men stood up, shaking the water off their faces and the cobwebs out of their heads. Finally, the hawk-faced man got his eyes focused enough to stare at Longarm. He said, “You son of a bitch. What do you mean, whacking me like-“
He got no farther. Longarm hit him with a short, hard, driving punch full in the face. The blow knocked the man down as if he had been chopped over the head with a wagon tongue. Longarm immediately switched his eyes to the second cowboy. He said, “You want some?”
Involuntarily, the young man took a step backward and reached for his holster. He looked down. Longarm picked up the man’s revolver from the top of the bar and said, “Looking for this?”
The young man said, croaking, “That’s my gun. What are you doing with it?”
Longarm said, “Probably keeping you boys from getting yourselves killed. Now, when you boys get ready to talk to me, I’ll be ready to listen, but I can tell you right now, neither one of you is going to win a fight, so you might as well get that out of your mind right now.”
He reached down for the young man that he had just knocked down and, with a careless hand, gathered him up by the front of his shirt and jerked him to his feet. “Now, I’m going to ask you one more time. Either one of you boys work for the Myerses or the Barretts?”
The hawk-faced young man, whose face was now beginning to show the effects of the battering, shook his head to clear it. He said, “Who the hell are you, mister? What is all this about?”
