banished that line of thinking. Mrs. Spinner, he finally decided, was well above the station of some ride-and-shoot pistolero like Austin Davis, and he would never allow a lady of her accomplishments to come anywhere near a rounder like the junior deputy marshal. He was confident, though, that if she did happen to meet the man, she wouldn’t be fooled by his flashin-the-pan looks or his sassy mouth.
He stretched in the seat, sticking out his long legs and extending his arms over his head. It was a most uncommon long ride. And then, once in San Antonio, there was still the business of getting down to Laredo, which was another two hundred miles. Longarm had not brought a horse with him, but there was a military installation at San Antonio, several in fact, and he could requisition whatever mounts he needed from the cavalry.
The train kept rumbling along. The afternoon had worn down and dusk wasn’t far off. Longarm got out one of his two-for-a-nickle cigars, bit the end off, and lit it up with a big kitchen match that he struck with his thick thumbnail. When it was drawing good, he took a swig of whiskey to sweeten his mouth and then leaned back and blew out clouds of smoke, most of it whipping out the open window by his side. He’d be glad to get off the train and he didn’t care who knew it. He wanted a steak and a bath and a good bed. People said he was crazy, but he would rather sit a horse for twelve hours than ride a train for the same amount. Riding a horse was a whole hell of a lot less tiring as far as Longarm was concerned, but he couldn’t get anybody to agree with him. Some folks claimed they liked to ride on trains. He considered that just plain silly.
It got dark and he ate a few more of the biscuit sandwiches and had another drink or two of whiskey. A candy butcher came through the coaches selling various things to eat and smokes and soda pop. Longarm bought a bottle of strawberry fizz and found it went very well with his corn whiskey, though not at the same time.
He didn’t know a great deal about the job that lay ahead, but that was all right. It seemed there was a customs inspector in Laredo, an official with the United States Customs Service, who had been allowing cattle from Mexico to cross the border without staying in quarantine for the prescribed number of days. The result had been considerable trouble for the South Texas ranchers through whose ranges these herds of illegal Mexican cattle passed. The problem was that Mexican cattlemen did not dip their stock to rid them of the ticks and fleas and lice that could cause half a dozen plagues in clean, American stock. For that reason they were supposed to be held on the border for ninety days to make sure they weren’t suffering from some disease, primarily Mexican tick fever, before they were allowed to cross onto United States soil. But holding cattle in corrals, large herds of cattle, was an expensive business. There was no grass for them to graze off, so they had to be fed hay and grain and feed, and for a herd of any size that could run into a considerable amount of money. Also, standing around like that, the cattle tended to become sore-footed and get on the prod with each other, which meant fights, which meant dead cattle. But the worst thing about the quarantine, for the man who was buying cheap Mexican steers with an eye toward bringing it into the U.S. and turning a profit, was that, just as the quarantine was intended to discover, the cattle might get sick and all of them up and die. When that happened, the U.S. speculator lost all the money he’d spent on the cattle, all he’d spent gathering them and driving them to the border, and all the money he’d spent feeding them before they got sick. The best way around all that trouble was to bribe a customs official to fake your quarantine and give you papers that would let you through in a hurry and legally. The problem was that most inspectors wouldn’t take a bribe because it was too easy to get caught. Smuggling a thousand head of steers across the border was a lot harder than dealing in any other kind of contraband, like gold or weapons.
Of course many herds were taken across “wet,” meaning they were driven across the Rio Grande at a secluded spot along the border. The problem here was that the owner had no papers to prove he’d crossed the cattle legally through quarantine, and he was subject to being stopped by any range inspector and having his herd taken away from him. Also, it was very difficult to sell “wet” cattle, since the buyer knew he was not only buying cattle but trouble.
But according to Billy Vail, Austin Davis had gotten the goods on an official at the customs station in Laredo who had apparently found a way to take bribes without getting caught. The cattlemen who had been having their herds infected had appealed to the Customs Service first and hadn’t gotten any satisfaction. Customs had claimed that their investigations showed all their people to be in the clear. After that, the ranchers had turned to the Marshal Service, and Austin Davis was sent to look into the matter. He’d apparently found enough going on to warrant a full scale investigation. And that, as Billy Vail had said to Longarm, “is what is going to put you in Laredo.”
Billy had been about to give his deputy some of the details, but Longarm had waved him away, saying, “Naw. Save that for Davis. Them few little facts is about all he’s going to get to tell me, and I’d hate to deprive him of the chance of swelling around and feeling important.”
Billy Vail had looked a little worried. “Now, Longarm,” he’d said, “we ain’t ever had no killing between our marshals. You ain’t fixing to break that string, are you?”
Longarm leaned back fretfully in the coach seat and yawned. He stared at the blackness out the window, relieved only here and there by a pinpoint of light. Would the damn train, he wondered, ever get to San Antonio? Hell, as bored as he was, he was even beginning to look forward to seeing Austin Davis.
Chapter 2
To Longarm’s great surprise Austin Davis was there to meet him when the train finally pulled in to San Antonio a little before eleven at night. He was waiting on the passenger platform and he came forward as soon as he spied Longarm. He said, putting out his hand, “Hell, Grammaw was slow but she was old. Where the hell you been, Marshal.”
Longarm had to put his saddle down to shake Davis’s hand. He had his saddlebags in the other hand with a small valise hung off his thumb. It was awkward, but if Davis wanted to shake hands instead of getting part of the load, Longarm wasn’t going to complain. He hadn’t made the trip expecting any fun. “How are you, Austin,” he said, “Still wearing that border hat, I see.”
Davis was wearing a black, flat-crowned, stiff-brimmed hat favored by the kind of men who hung around the border for their health. He was also wearing a soft black leather vest with silver conchos for buttons. Davis shook hands and then touched the brim of his hat. “Hell,” he explained, “I got to stay in the role. I’m supposed to be a border desperado dealing in illegal cattle. Supposed to be a bad man.”
Longarm picked up his saddle and slung it over his shoulder. His thumb was about to break off holding the small valise the way he had it. “it suits you,” he told the junior deputy.
“What, the hat?”
“Naw, acting like a desperado. I ain’t so sure but what you ain’t. But if you don’t get this valise off my thumb, you’re going to be a bad man in pain.”
Austin Davis jumped around and took the valise, relieving the pressure on Longarm’s thumb. “Well, hell, why didn’t you say you needed some help? Last time I helped you without you asking, you like to have taken my head off.”
Longarm just gave him a glance. “I want a steak and a bath and a bed,” he said.
