notions to shove you out of the way. Farmers rightly got sore as hell when they saw beef cattle out in the middle of their barley crop, and cattle men could get surly when a homesteader tied up a quarter section of range, and Lord only knows how much water needed in a thirsty land, long enough to fail and maybe take some cow outfit with him.
The peculiarly pure American feud between sheep and cattle outfits made no sense to riders from, say, Australia or even Mexico, where sheep, goats, and cows grazed side by side. But that worked best when the same outfit owned all the stock involved. There were some few American outfits who ran mixed herds. But as in the case of the farms that didn’t grow anything but wheat, cotton, tobacco, or whatever, the American stock producer felt more comfortable growing a single cash crop, be it cows, sheep, hogs, or hell, poultry. So he hired like-minded hands who’d share his distaste for anything grazing where his own swell stock had been grazing first.
So as he and Waco rode along, Longarm was just as glad to see the Flint Hills offered few temptations to anything but cows, although back in the Shining Times of the Kansa he suspected the pronghorn and other browsers had kept down the encroaching brush a bit better.
He never said that, when and if he ever had his own cattle spread, he’d run a few goats or even sheep along with his cows to tidy things up in the draws. Waco had barely gotten over his north range Stetson.
A hard morning’s ride got longer when you started out so late in the morning. So it was more like three in the afternoon when, having eaten some canned beans and tomato preserves while their ponies grazed bareback in a watered draw halfway between the two towns, the now-friendlier former foes rode into the crossroads settlement of Minnipeta Junction thirsty as hell.
To his own credit, Waco didn’t have to be reminded that his pony’s needs came first. They left the two jaded mounts at the livery near the one bank, and crossed over to the nearest saloon to wash the trail dust off their teeth with some lager draft. Waco insisted the drinks were on him, if Longarm would lend him a little pocket jingle until the end of the month.
Longarm raised a brow, but did so with a game smile. As their eyes adjusted to the sudden shade, Longarm noticed a furtive figure slip past them, trying too hard not to notice them for Longarm to believe they hadn’t been noticed. So he quietly moved himself and Waco further down the bar, getting his back to a rear wall so he could keep an easy eye on the bat-wing doors.
But the next one who came in from the glare outside was his old cell mate Silent Knight, who came over with a grin to exclaim, “We thought that was you two ducking in here just now. Old Lash is in the barbershop across the way. He’ll be joining us directly, if only to find out why you two lovebirds just rid in together. Did I get your story turned the wrong way in my head last night, Buck?”
Longarm chuckled and replied, “We’ve decided not to fight no more. It’s too expensive. Did you just see a slithery young cuss, dressed cow, sidewind out of those same swinging doors a few minutes before you came through ‘em the other way, Silent?”
Silent Knight turned to stare pensively toward the street as he said, “Might have seen somebody leaving as I was crossing over. I never paid him no mind, albeit now that you mention it, he was sort of slithery. I just thought he was walking that way because he’d started drinking too early in the day. Is he somebody we ought to worry about, Buck?”
Longarm shrugged and said it seemed unlikely. He was wrong, though.
For up near the bank the one who’d slithered out of the saloon was talking to another shifty-eyed innocent who’d slithered out of the barbershop. Both had watched Longarm and Waco ride in and put their ponies away in the nearby livery. For they’d been chosen as lookouts with just such events in mind.
The one who’d been in the saloon and seen Longarm at closer range said, “It could be that long drink of water that we were posted here to watch out for. He didn’t look as if he just got out of no hospital. But the height, the build, mustache, Colorado hat, and .44-40 in that cross-draw rig add up to what could be the one and original Longarm!”
But the one from the barbershop said, “There’s heaps of tall tanned men with similar habits. Meanwhile, even if he wasn’t still in that hospital, he’d hardly ride into town with a local badman. I just heard some other riders from these parts identify them as good old boys they knew from sharing a jail cell with. Does that sound like a deputy U.S. marshal? The one getting his hair cut couldn’t see him as well. The one who just tore across to join him says his name’s Buck Crawford, and they both agrees he enjoys saloon brawls.”
The one who’d just left Longarm in another saloon decided, “Reckon it’s just some cuss who sort of fits the same description. I still say we ought to tell the boss lady, though.”
Chapter 7
By the second time it was Longarm’s turn to spring for a round, it seemed safe to assume the barkeep and most of the regulars there had accepted him as good old Buck Crawford who knew some of the wilder hands off surrounding spreads.
So once the shadows outside began to stretch eastwards, Longarm allowed he had to start planning for the coming night, and nobody argued when he left for the livery.
Once there, he got his borrowed saddle and possibles from the tack room and toted them over to the two-story hotel across from the bank. They hired him a corner room with cross-ventilation and their up-to-date flush crapper just down the hall. So he was set to sneak back out in the tricky light on the nearly deserted streets of supper time.
A visiting lawman was supposed to pay a courtesy call on the town law lest dreadful accidents happen or simply feel left out and pissed off. He figured he could trust Undersheriff Pat Brennan, who’d sent Billy Vail that tip about missing badmen and Miss Medusa Le Mat in the first place. He just didn’t want too many locals to notice good old Buck Crawford, who drank with at least three local toughs, that close to their neighborhood peace officers.
But nobody seemed to be paying him any mind as he pussyfooted the short way to the county branch offices near the Methodist churchyard. He still made sure nobody was watching as he slipped inside and told a portly old gent at the desk who he was, adding, “I’d be much obliged if we could keep that sort of private. By sheer shithouse luck I just rode in aboard a Flint Hills brand in the company of a Flint Hills rider with his own rep as a local pain in the ass.”
The old-timer said, “Heard Waco McCord was in town with somebody even bigger. You’ve no idea how much you just cheered me up. But our undersheriff is out on a manslaughter case right now, and I just can’t say when she’ll be back, Deputy Long.”
Longarm started to ask who’d slaughtered whom, then blinked and said, “I must have wax in my ears. I could swear I just heard you refer to Undersheriff Pat Brennan as a she!”
