mid-thirties. Except for a slight paunch, he was well set up in the shoulders and had a bull neck and big fists. He had his hat off, and Longarm could see that he was starting to bald in the front. Longarm’s badge was still concealed in his left front pocket. The man looked up as Longarm entered. He didn’t say anything, just watched Longarm as he crossed the office.
There was another desk in the office, but it wasn’t occupied. Longarm didn’t know if it was for another deputy or the town marshal.
“I’m looking for Sheriff Nevins,” Longarm said.
The man gave Longarm an open appraising look. “Yeah, what for?”
“Are you Sheriff Nevins?”
“Who’s asking?”
The man’s attitude was starting to irritate Longarm the least bit. He said, “I reckon you must not be Sheriff Nevins because if you were, you’d be proud to admit it, being the sheriff of this here county.”
The burly man bristled slightly. “What the hell do you mean by that remark, fellow?”
Longarm was standing before the man at his desk. He repeated, “Are you Sheriff Nevins?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“I’m looking for someone I have reason to believe was here a few days back. His name is Ross Henderson. He was a United States deputy marshal, and I’m pretty certain he had a conversation with you.”
The burly man had a big face, but small pig-like eyes. His eyes narrowed. He shook his head. “No, I ain’t seen nobody by that name.”
“It ain’t so much the name I’m talking about, Sheriff, as the title. You heard me when I said United States deputy marshal, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I heard it. What’s it supposed to mean to me?”
Longarm said, “Are you going to tell me he didn’t come see you?”
“Listen, fellow, I don’t know who you are or what the hell you think you’re playing at, but you’re playing at it with the wrong man. Now, I’d advise you to turn your little cornbread ass around and get the hell out of here before I get angry and slam you in one of them cells I’ve got back there.”
Longarm leaned forward on the desk. He did it to bring his face closer to the sheriff’s, but he did it also to see if there was a drawer half open with a revolver ready to hand. The drawers were closed. The only weapon the sheriff was carrying was in the holster on his side.
Longarm said, “I’m going to try and be as polite about this for as long as you let me. After that, I’m afraid me and you are going to have to get serious. I’m going to ask you one more time and this time, you better understand that things might not go the way you expect them to if you give me the wrong answer. Now, what did you tell U.S. Deputy Marshal Ross Henderson and which way did you send him?”
The sheriff suddenly stood up. “All right, you sonofabitch,” he said. “Turn around and put your hands in the air. You’re under arrest.”
Before he could pull the gun his hand was reaching for, Longarm had whipped out his own and stuck it right between the man’s eyes. He said, “Let that gun down easy on the desk. It’s in your hand, but if it gets anywhere near to pointing toward me, you’re going to have the back of your head missing. You understand me, hombre?”
The sheriff suddenly went pale. He said, “You can’t do this. I’m the sheriff. Are you crazy? You can’t walk in here and pull this.”
Longarm said, “Walk on around that desk now and set that pistol down as you go. Just keep walking on around real slow. Don’t get loose from the end of my revolver. I want it right where it is, right between your eyes.”
As the sheriff came around the end of the desk, Longarm suddenly stepped behind him and shoved him forward with his left hand. He said, “Now, you were talking about somebody going back to one of them cells. Let’s see who that somebody is. Walk on over to that door and get that key and open it. You and I are going to go back there and see what we can find. I better damned sure not find any young United States deputy marshals.”
The sheriff was still bristling. He said, “You’re in a hell of a lot of trouble, mister.”
Using the barrel of his revolver, Longarm tapped the sheriff on his balding head, just hard enough to split the skin but not hard enough to knock him down. “Does that tell you anything about who might be in trouble?”
The sheriff let out a yowl and threw his hand up to his wounded head.
Longarm chopped him across the wrist. “Get that damned hand down and get over to that door.”
Reluctantly, sullenly, the sheriff walked toward the door that led back to the cells. There was a loop of keys hanging on a nail by the side. He reached out, took the keys, and fitted one into the lock of the door. As he did, Longarm’s attention was drawn to a line of wanted posters. With some amusement, he noticed that his was among them. It did not improve his temper.
The sheriff swung the door open, but didn’t enter. Longarm said, “Get in there.” He punched the man in the back with the barrel of his revolver. “Just in case you forgot, this ain’t a broom handle I’m holding here.”
They stepped into the dim cool interior of the cell block. There was a surprising number of cells for such a small town—six, three on each side. In one, a small ragged Mexican was sleeping on a cot. Other than that, Longarm could see the cells were empty. He reached back and pulled the entrance door closed behind him. He said to the sheriff, “Now, march on back to that last cell on the left and unlock it. Swing the door open and you swing on in.”
“Fellow, I don’t know who you are, but you must be crazy. You don’t see no U.S. deputy marshal in here, do you?”
Longarm said, “Oh, I don’t know. There might be one in here, you never know. Let’s look real close.”
“You’re crazy, you sonofabitch.”
