by Tabor Evans
“Then all hell broke loose, I suppose.”
“That’s right. One of the brothers went for his gun, and knowing I couldn’t beat him, I kicked out with my boot and knocked the man over backward in his chair, then drew my gun and killed the one still sitting at the table. Both women screamed, and one stepped in front of me so I couldn’t get a clear shot to kill the one who was on the floor. He slithered out the back door, and by the time I was able to get there he was gone.”
“Couldn’t you have reached him in the back alley or wherever he went?”
“No, it was dark and I was worried that he was hiding and would kill me the minute I stepped outside. So I made sure that the one was dead and then I left the saloon and went back to the livery. Windy was waiting, and when I told him what had happened he said that all hell was going to break loose when the one that got away connected with his family living just across the border in Mexico.”
“So,” Delia said, “in a way, things suddenly became much worse.”
“Yes, they did,” Longarm agreed. “I had sort of stirred up a hornet’s nest, and when the people of Monument found out what happened they nearly went into a panic.”
“If they let just two banditos take over Monument maybe they didn’t deserve to have a town.”
“Well, you have to understand that Monument, New Mexico, wasn’t much of a town at all. There were just a half dozen businesses and most of them depended on Mexicans who came peaceably across the nearby border to buy goods. So there were a lot of complications, but everyone knew that the Otero family was going to come to collect a body and that when they did they would be out for blood.”
Delia was writing fast. “Sounds to me that even someone like you was in pretty far over your head.”
“I was. I had to ride ten miles to find a telegraph office and I sent telegrams off to both Denver and Santa Fe explaining what I’d done and what I thought was going to happen. I don’t often have to ask for help, but I did that time.”
“Did help reach you?”
“No. And I was pretty sure that it wouldn’t come in time so I stood out in the street and fired off my gun a few times and called for any man with a backbone to step out to talk. Windy was the first one to come join me but then some of the others who had buildings that they didn’t want to be torched came out to see what I had to say.”
Longarm’s throat was getting dry so he took the bottle from Delia’s hand and took a swallow. “How you feeling?”
“It hurts but the whiskey helps. I’ll be ready to get out of here and get back on that train tomorrow. But finish your story about what happened in Monument, New Mexico.”
“Sure. I stood in the street and told Windy and the others that it was clear the Otero family would return later in the day and that I could either leave them . . . or they could stand with me and fight. Really, Delia, I gave them little choice.”
“So they found some backbone and stood with you?”
“That’s right. And as luck would have it, a pair of Texas Rangers rode into town saying they’d heard of the fix we were in and had come running to help. They were good, lean fighting men, and they helped me position the townspeople and prepare them for an attack.”
“When did the Otero men show up?”
“About sundown. There were nine, all armed to the teeth with bandoliers of bullets draped over their shoulders. Some even had swords and they were pretty fierce-looking. Windy, the rangers, and I stood in the middle of the street and faced them with at least a dozen townsmen hiding on rooftops and around corners of buildings. When I told the Mexicans to turn around and leave, they demanded the body of Jose Otero and I said two of them could dismount and recover the body, but then they had to leave and never return.”
“What did they say to that?”
“The one who had gotten away from me the night before in the saloon cursed me and maybe he was still drunk because damned if he didn’t go for his gun. Someone on a rooftop shot him off his horse. Three more tried to grab their guns and fight and they all died in a volley of bullets, some of which were mine and some of them belonged to Windy and the two Texas Rangers. The point is, four of the Otero family died in seconds with more bullet holes in them than a hunk of Swiss cheese. Those who were smart wheeled their horses around and raced, but some of the people of Monument weren’t about to let them get away and maybe return someday when neither myself or the Texas Rangers were around.”
“It sounds like it became a slaughter.”
“I’m afraid that is exactly what it became. The townspeople, many of whom had been robbed, beaten, and insulted for days shot them all down as they rode up the street and by the time they were out in the clear not one Otero was still in the saddle.”
“My gawd!” Delia whispered. “I never heard of that fight!”
“It’s a true story. But those battles along the border happen all the time and this just happened to be one of the bloodiest.”
“Did you stay long in Monument?”
“No. I rode up to Santa Fe and made a report that never became public. And I never went back to that town, but I heard a year or so ago that it was doing pretty well and that Mexicans and Americans alike never spoke of the Otero family again. I’m sure that the family had been a scourge on both sides of the border for years and no one was missing them at all.”
Delia finished with the notes. “I’ll put this into one of my stories and change the location to the Arizona border and all the names will be different.”
“I’m counting on you to do that,” Longarm said. “And right now I need a good description of this fella that stabbed you.”
“He is pretty ordinary-looking. About five feet ten inches tall, sandy-brown hair, bearded, and he has a scar on his chin.”
“How was he dressed?”
“When I knew him in Santa Fe he was a dandy. But after he went downhill, he became slovenly. It happened so fast out there that I barely had a chance to see him. I just had a glance before I felt this terrible pain and fainted. But I think he was dressed like a working man, heavy brown pants, wool coat, and dirty boots.”
“That description isn’t going to help me much.”
“Are you going out to look for him now?”
“That’s my intention.”
Delia reached out. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I’ll lock the door and leave you my pistol. If I can find him tonight and either kill or arrest him for attempted murder, we’ll both be a lot happier.”
“Be careful. He is a very determined and clever man.”
“Are you sure that you can’t remember anything more to help me spot him if he’s drinking in a saloon or eating?”
Delia’s brow furrowed with concentration. “One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Frank Roman always favored very powerful cologne. It was called . . . Wild Sage.”
“I’ve used it . . . sparingly.”
“Well John practically drenched himself in the stuff and I recall smelling it when he stabbed me.”
Longarm shook his head. “I can’t just go around smelling men in saloons, Delia.”
“I understand. But if you get near him, you’ll smell it. Also, he likes cigars and the bigger and blacker the better.”
“I’ll watch for a man with a scar on his chin and a stogie in his mouth and who smells like Wild Sage.”
“That’s right. If you find all three, it will be Frank Roman.”
Chapter 9
Longarm stood just inside the door of the hotel and peered out into the street. There were just two or three saloons in Elko and the Stag Saloon seemed to be the most popular. The other two saloons were only a few doors away and much quieter.
When he thought about Frank Roman, Longarm conjured up the image of a tortured soul, a person who had been a successful dime noveli
st and probably regarded himself as at least a minor celebrity in Santa Fe. Then along had come this beautiful, conniving woman named Delia Wilson, the daughter of the governor of Colorado, seeking his valuable insight on how to write dime novels. How flattering that must have been and when Delia had poured on the praise and charm, poor Frank Roman became putty in her hands. He’d fallen in love with Delia and probably even imagined she might marry an older and not especially attractive man because she admired his intellect and creativity.
For whatever reason Frank Roman had fallen for Delia and given her his most precious secrets . . . his best story ideas, and she had taken them and left the poor dime novelist feeling used, forsaken, and foolish. No wonder he had been so consumed by hatred that he had gone to Denver and then followed her on a train to this small Nevada cow and railroad town. And at the very first opportunity when Longarm had not been at Delia’s side he’d attacked her with a knife. Frank Roman must have thought that he’d dealt her a fatal blow, but now he would be sure to know that Delia was alive and resting in a hotel with another man who happened to be a United States marshal.
Longarm paused a few more moments, asking himself what he would do if he had been grievously wronged and made to look like a lovesick idiot. He would never have tried to kill Delia, but he would surely have felt she deserved the worst possible tragedies in life.
Had Roman gotten on the train yesterday and fled town? He might even have taken the eastbound back to Denver and returned to Santa Fe to either drink himself to death or perhaps try to resurrect his ruined literary career. Yes, that was a possibility and it was the one that Longarm hoped for. But more than likely, a man with that much hatred would attack Delia again and again until she was dead and he felt vindicated and that justice by his hand had been served.
So, Longarm thought, Frank Roman was either still in Elko waiting to strike again before the westbound train left for Reno tomorrow, or he had already left and was waiting for them in Reno.
It was time to step out into the dim streets of Elko and enter the saloons and try to find the bitter and dangerous man. Once found, he would arrest Frank Roman, but he would write a note to the judge asking for leniency and understanding.
Longarm stepped out onto the boardwalk and paused in the shadows. When his eyes were adjusted to the poor light he moved silently down the boardwalk to the nearest saloon and slipped inside and studied the occupants. The bartender gave Longarm just a passing glance before filling a mug of beer for one of the patrons standing at the bar. There were only seven or eight other customers hunched over their drinks, all of them obviously cowboys or the owners of small businesses.
“Come have a drink,” the bartender called. “Beer or whiskey?”
“Neither,” Longarm said, backing out the door and heading up the street.
The Last Chance Saloon was a little busier and again Longarm stepped inside but did not move toward the bar or the other customers. He could see every customer clearly and none of them matched the description that he’d been given of Frank Roman. The bartender didn’t notice him and Longarm backed out without a word and headed toward the Stag Saloon.
This saloon was crowded and far larger and fancier than its competitors. The bar was at least thirty feet long and ornately carved out of glistening oak wood. There were at ten tables where men sat drinking and playing cards and a piano player was pounding out a tune at the back of the building while several saloon girls danced with cowboys, railroad workers, and business owners. Nobody was drunk and nobody was being loud or unruly. Longarm had been in this saloon several times and knew that the owner ran honest card games and didn’t water down the beer or whiskey.
“Beer?” the one of two bartenders wearing clean white aprons asked when Longarm sidled up to the bar, pulling the brim of his hat low over his eyes.
“Sure.”
The bartender poured Longarm a tall mug of beer and deftly whipped off its foamy top. “Be ten cents.”
Longarm paid the man and nodded in appreciation. The beer was good and he sipped it while his eyes roamed over the faces in the room. It didn’t take him long to spot a man that matched the description that had been given him by Delia. Frank Roman was smoking a big cigar at one of the tables with three other men playing poker. There was a half-empty pitcher of beer on the table and the players were using dollar bills and coins instead of poker chips. From the look of the piles at each player’s left hand, Longarm could see that Frank Roman was doing quite well. He might have lost his ability to write dime novels, but he was obviously still sharp enough to be an excellent poker player.
“Aren’t you that marshal from Denver?” the bartender asked, coming back to join Longarm. “I think I’ve seen you in here before. I believe your name is Marshal Custis Long.”
Longarm was annoyed. The last thing he needed was for Frank Roman to spot him before he could subdue the former writer. He put his back to the room, lowered his head, and hissed, “I’m about to arrest one of your customers for that stabbing that took place.”
“You mean someone in here stuck that pretty woman earlier today? That was a terrible and dastardly thing to do! Is she going to recover?”
“Miss Wilson is doing fine, but unless you keep your voice down and let me do my job without blowing my identity, there could be a shooting right here in the saloon.”
Finally, the bartender understood. He was a short, round man in his fifties with a gray beard and mustache. “Marshal,” he said in a low voice, “we don’t want any wild shoot-outs. Why, the mirror behind our bar is worth a thousand dollars and is irreplaceable. Which man are you after?”
Longarm didn’t even turn his head around. “The one on that table playing cards and wearing a brown coat and derby. He’s smoking a big cigar.”
The bartender nodded slightly. “Okay, I see him. Anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah. Go over there and pretend to accidently slip and then fall across the table.”
“What!”
“Knock everything to the floor. Money, beer, and cards. When the players start collecting it say you’re sorry and will give them a free pitcher of beer. Then hurry back and tell me if my man is packing a six gun on his hip or if you see any other weapon.”
“But those boys will be madder than hell at me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Longarm insisted. “As soon as you come back and tell me how he’s armed, I’ll walk over while they’re picking up their cash and cards and make the arrest. It’s the best chance we have of avoiding gunfire.”
The bartender didn’t like the plan, but under Longarm’s steely gaze he decided against an argument. “All right. I sure hope this works, and I wish you could just go over there and get the drop on him.”
“I’m certain that Frank Roman knows what I look like and would go for a gun before I could grab him,” Longarm explained. “This way, when he’s down on the floor grabbing his poker winnings he won’t see me coming.”
The reluctant bartender nodded and left after folding a white bar towel across his forearm. Longarm watched him weave his way through the crowd taking drink orders and passing comments and smiles. When he reached the table where Frank Roman was sitting, the bartender slowly turned as if to speak to someone then pretended to lose his balance and crash into the table, spilling cards, money, and drinks across the floor.
Frank Roman and the others shouted in anger at the bartender, who threw up his hands indicating that he was sorry about the accident. When the players dropped to the floor and began to collect their money, Longarm went into action. He hurried across the room and drew his pistol, crouched low, and stuck the barrel into Frank Roman’s beard.
“You’re under arrest. Don’t make me kill you.”
Roman froze, then his eyes lifted to meet Longarm’s steady gaze. “I failed to kill the bitch, didn’t I.”
It wasn’t a question but instead an admission of
failure.
“That’s right. On your feet.”
“Not until I collect my winnings, Marshal Long.”
“Where you’re going you won’t need them. Stand up!”
But Frank Roman didn’t obey the command but instead reached into his pocket, pulled out a derringer, and tried to shoot Longarm in the foot.
“Shit!” Longarm growled, pulling the trigger of his Colt revolver and sending a bullet downward into the man’s back.
The former dime novelist collapsed on the floor. Longarm tore the derringer from his hand and then turned Roman over on his back. “Why the hell did you go and do that!”
Roman’s eyes fluttered. His lips moved as he struggled to speak through a bloody froth. Longarm gently leaned low placing his ear close in an attempt to hear Frank Roman’s dying words.
“That bitch will ruin you, too, Marshal. I’ll see you in a paradise especially reserved for lovesick . . . lovesick fools!”
Longarm dropped the man’s derringer into his own pocket. He looked around the saloon where everyone stood frozen.
“This man is the one that stabbed the woman out on the sidewalk earlier today. His name was Frank Roman and not so long ago he was a popular dime novelist.”
“I’ve read his books. He was good,” a man nearby offered.
“I’ve read ’em, too,” a cowboy said quietly as he removed his Stetson. “There are at least a dozen Roman dime novels in our bunkhouse. Is that really Mr. Frank Roman?”
“Yes,” Longarm said.
“Why’d he go and stab that woman?” the cowboy asked, looking genuinely sad and perplexed.
“Long, tragic story,” Longarm replied. “You men collect the man’s poker winnings and add a little of your own to give Frank Roman a decent and respectful burial.”
“He was a damned good writer,” the cowboy said, more to himself than to anyone around him. “He created this cowboy character named Lightning Jack who was a great hero and . . .”
Longarm didn’t want to hear any more about Frank Roman or his dime novel heroes. He had done what had to be done here, but as he stared down at Roman’s body and the blood pool that was surrounding it, Longarm suddenly felt disgust and bitter regret.